by Jack Vance
Cugel pretended not to notice and dug with energy. Before long he encountered the cases which Weamish had secreted to the side of his own grave.
Pretending to rest, Cugel surveyed the landscape. Gookin crouched as before. Cugel returned to his work.
One of the cases had been broken open, presumably by Weamish, and all its contents removed except for a small parcel of twenty low-value ‘specials’, left behind perhaps by oversight. Cugel tucked the parcel into his pouch, then covered over the case, just as Gookin came hopping across the sward. “Cugel, you have overstayed your time! You must learn precision!”
Cugel responded with dignity. “You will notice that I am digging my grave.”
“No matter! Yelleg and Malser are in need of their tea.”
“All in good time,” said Cugel. He climbed from the grave and went to the gardener’s shed where he found Yelleg and Malser standing hunched and numb. Yelleg cried out: “Tea is one of the few free perquisites rendered by Twango! All day we grope through the freezing slime, anticipating the moment when we may drink tea and warm our shriveled skin at the fire!”
Malser chimed in: “There is neither tea nor fire! Weamish was more assiduous!”
“Be calm!” said Cugel. “I still have not mastered the routine.”
Cugel set the fire alight and brewed tea; Yelleg and Malser grumbled further but Cugel promised better service in the future and the divers were appeased. They warmed themselves and drank tea, then once more ran down to the pond and plunged into the slime.
Shortly before sunset Gookin summoned Cugel to the pantry. He indicated a tray upon which rested a silver goblet. “This is Twango’s tonic which you must serve to him every day at this time.”
“What?” cried Cugel. “Is there no end to my duties?”
Gookin responded only with a croak of indifference. Cugel snatched up the tray and carried it to the workroom. He found Twango sorting scales: inspecting each in turn through a lens, then placing it into one of several boxes, his hands encased in soft leather gloves.
Cugel put down the tray. “Twango, a word with you!”
Twango, with lens to his eye, said: “At the moment, Cugel, I am occupied, as you can see.”
“I serve this tonic under protest! Once again I cite the terms of our agreement, by which I became ‘supervisor of operations’ at Flutic. This post does not include the offices of valet, scullion, porter, dogs-body and general roustabout. Had I known the looseness of your categories —”
Twango made an impatient gesture. “Silence, Cugel! Your peevishness grates on the nerves.”
“Still, what of our agreement?”
“Your position has been reclassified. The pay remains the same, so you have no cause for dissatisfaction.” Twango drank the tonic. “Let us hear no more on the subject. I might also mention that Weamish customarily donned a white coat before serving the tonic. We thought it a nice touch.”
Twango went back to his work, referring on occasion to the pages of a large leather-bound book hinged with brass and reinforced with brass filigree. Cugel watched sourly from the side. Presently he asked: “What will you do when the scales run out?”
“I need not concern myself for some time to come,” said Twango primly.
“What is that book?”
“It is a work of scholarship and my basic reference: Haruviot’s Intimate Anatomy of Several Overworld Personages. I use it to identify the scales; it is invaluable in this regard.”
“Interesting!” said Cugel. “How many sorts do you find?”
“I cannot specify exactly.” Twango indicated a group of unsorted scales. “These gray-green ‘ordinaries’ are typical of the dorsal areas; the pinks and vermilions are from under the torso. Each has its distinctive chime.” Twango held a choice gray-green ‘ordinary’ to his ear and tapped it with a small metal bar. He listened with eyes half-closed. “The pitch is perfect! It is a pleasure to handle scales such as this.”
“Then why do you wear gloves?”
“Aha! Much that we do confuses the layman! Remember, we deal with stuff of the overworld! When wet it is mild, but when dry, it often irks the skin.”
Twango looked to his diagram and selected one of the ‘specials’. “Hold out your hand … Come, Cugel, do not cringe! You will not suddenly become an overworld imp, I assure you of this!”
Cugel gingerly extended his hand. Twango touched the ‘special’ to his palm. Cugel felt a puckering of the skin and a stinging as if at the abrasive suck of a lamprey. With alacrity he jerked back his hand.
Twango chuckled and returned the scale to its position. “For this reason I wear gloves when I handle dry scales.”
Cugel frowned down at the table. “Are all so acrid?”
“You were stung by a ‘Turret Frontal Lapidative’, which is quite active. These ‘Juncture Spikes’ are somewhat easier. The ‘Pectoral Skybreak Spatterlight’, so I suspect, will prove to be the most active of all, as it controlled Sadlark’s entire web of forces. The ‘ordinaries’ are mild, except upon long contact.”
“Amazing how these forces persist across the aeons!”
“What is ‘time’ in the overworld? The word may not even enter the parlance. And speaking of time, Weamish customarily devoted this period to diving for scales; often he worked long hours into the night. His example is truly inspiring! Through fortitude, persistence and sheer grit, he paid off his account!”
“My methods are different,” said Cugel. “The results may well be the same. Perhaps in times to come you will mention the name ‘Cugel’ to inspire your staff.”
“I suppose that it is not impossible.”
Cugel went out into the back garden. The sun had set; in the twilight the pond lay black and lusterless. Cugel went to work with a fervor which might have impressed even Weamish. Down to the shore of the pond he dragged the old iron trough, then brought down several coils of rope.
Daylight had departed, save only for a streak of metallic eggplant along the ocean’s horizon. Cugel considered the pond, where at this time Weamish was wont to dive, guided by the flicker of a single candle on the shore.
Cugel gave his head a sardonic shake and sauntered back to the manse.
Early in the morning Cugel returned to the pond. He knotted together several coils of rope to create a single length, which he tied from a stunted juniper on one side of the pond to a bull-thorn bush on the other, so that the rope stretched across the center of the pond.
Cugel brought a bucket and a large wooden tub to the shore. He launched the trough upon the pond, loaded tub and bucket into his makeshift scow, climbed aboard, and then, tugging on the rope, pulled himself out to the middle.
Yelleg and Malser, arriving on the scene, stopped short to stare. Cugel also noted the red and blue caps of Gark and Gookin where they lurked behind a bank of heliotrope.
Cugel dropped the bucket deep into the pond, pulled it up and poured the contents into the tub. Six times he filled and emptied the bucket, then pulled the scow back to shore.
He carried a bucket full of slime to the stream and, using a large sieve, screened the stuff in the bucket.
To Cugel’s amazement, when the water flushed away the slime, two scales remained in the sieve: an ‘ordinary’ and a second scale of remarkable size, with elaborate radiating patterns and a dull red node at the center.
A flicker of movement, a darting little arm: Cugel snatched at the fine new scale, but too late! Gookin started to bound away. Cugel jumped out like a great cat and bore Gookin to the ground. He seized the scale, kicked Gookin’s meager haunches, to project him ten feet through the air. Alighting, Gookin jumped to his feet, brandished his fist, chattered a set of shrill curses. Cugel retaliated with a heavy clod. Gookin dodged, then turned and ran at full speed toward the manse.
Cugel reflected a moment, then scooped a hole in the mold beside a dark blue mitre-bush and buried his fine new scale. The ‘ordinary’ he tucked into his pouch, then went to fetch another bucket of slime
from the scow.
Five minutes later, with stately tread, Twango came across the garden. He halted to watch as Cugel sieved a bucketful of slime.
“An ingenious arrangement,” said Twango. “Quite clever — though you might have asked permission before sequestering my goods to your private use.”
Cugel said coldly: “My first concern is to gather scales, for our mutual benefit.”
“Hmmf … Gookin tells me that already you have recovered a notable ‘special’.”
“A ‘special’? It is no more than an ‘ordinary’.” Cugel brought the scale from his pouch.
With pursed lips Twango inspected the scale. “Gookin was quite circumstantial in his report.”
“Gookin is that individual for whom the word ‘mendacity’ was coined. He is simply not to be trusted. Now please excuse me, as I wish to return to work. My time is valuable.”
Twango stood dubiously aside and watched as Cugel sieved a third bucket-load of slime. “It is very strange about Gookin. How could he imagine the ‘Spatterlight’ in such vivid detail?”
“Bah!” said Cugel. “I cannot take time to reflect upon Gookin’s fantasies.”
“That is quite enough, Cugel! I am not interested in your views. In exactly seven minutes you are scheduled to sanitize the laundry.”
Halfway through the afternoon Master Soldinck, of the firm Soldinck and Mercantides, arrived at Flutic. Cugel conducted him to Twango’s work-room, then busied himself nearby while Soldinck and Twango discussed the missing scales.
As before, Soldinck asserted that the scales had never truly been given into his custody, and on these grounds demanded a full refund of his payment.
Twango indignantly rejected the proposal. “It is a perplexing affair,” he admitted. “In the future we shall use iron-clad formalities.”
“All very well, but at this moment I am concerned not with the future but with the past. Where are my missing scales?”
“I can only reiterate that you signed the receipt, made payment, and took them away in your wagon. This is indisputable! Weamish would so testify were he alive!”
“Weamish is dead and his testimony is worth nothing.”
“The facts remain. If you wish to make good your loss, then the classical recourse remains to you: raise the price to your ultimate customer. He must bear the brunt.”
“There, at least, is a constructive suggestion,” said Soldinck. “I will take it up with Mercantides. In the meantime, we will soon be shipping a mixed cargo south aboard the Galante, and we hope to include a parcel of scales. Can you assemble another order of four cases, within a day or so?”
Twango tapped his chin with a plump forefinger. “I will have to work overtime sorting and indexing; still, using all my reserves, I believe that I can put up an order of four cases within a day or two.”
“That will be satisfactory, and I will report as much to Mercantides.”
Two days later Cugel placed a hundred and ten scales, for the most part ‘ordinaries’, before Twango where he sat at his work table.
Twango stared in sheer amazement. “Where did you find these?”
“I seem to have plumbed the pocket from which Weamish took so many scales. These will no doubt balance my account.”
Twango frowned down at the scales. “A moment while I look over the records … Cugel, I find that you still owe fifty-three terces. You spent quite heavily in the refectory and I show extra charges upon which you perhaps failed to reckon.”
“Let me see the invoices … I can make nothing of these records.”
“Some were prepared by Gark and Gookin. They are perhaps a trifle indistinct.”
Cugel threw down the invoices in disgust. “I insist upon a careful, exact and legible account!”
Twango spoke through compressed lips. “Your attitude, Cugel, is both brash and cynical. I am not favorably impressed.”
“Let us change the subject,” said Cugel. “When next do you expect to see Master Soldinck?”
“Sometime in the near future. Why do you ask?”
“I am curious as to his commercial methods. For instance, what would he charge Iucounu for a truly notable ‘special’, such as the ‘Skybreak Spatterlight’?”
Twango said heavily: “I doubt if Master Soldinck would release this information. What, may I ask, is the basis for your interest?”
“No great matter. During one of our discussions, Weamish theorized that Soldinck might well prefer to buy expensive ‘specials’ direct from the diver, thus relieving you of considerable detail work.”
For a moment Twango moved his lips without being able to produce words. At last he said: “The idea is inept, in all its phases. Master Soldinck would reject any and all scales of such dubious antecedents. The single authorized dealer is myself, and my seal alone guarantees authenticity. Each scale must be accurately identified and correctly indexed.”
“And the invoices to your staff: they are also accurate and correctly indexed? Or, from sheer idle curiosity, shall I put the question to Master Soldinck?”
Twango angrily took up Cugel’s account once again. “Naturally, there may be small errors, in one or another direction. They tend to balance out in the end … Yes, I see an error here, where Gark misplaced a decimal point. I must counsel him to a greater precision. It is time you were serving tea to Yelleg and Malser. You must cure this slack behaviour! At Flutic we are brisk!”
Cugel sauntered out to the pond. The time was the middle afternoon of a day extraordinarily crisp, with peculiar black-purple clouds veiling the bloated red sun. A wind from the north creased the surface of the slime; Cugel shivered and pulled his cloak up around his neck.
The surface of the pond broke; Yelleg emerged and with crooked arms pulled himself ashore, to stand in a crouch, dripping ooze. He examined his gleanings but found only pebbles, which he discarded in disgust. Malser, on his hands and knees, clambered ashore and joined Yelleg; the two of them ran to the rest hut, only to emerge a moment later in a fury. “Cugel! Where is our tea? The fire is cold ashes! Have you no mercy?”
Cugel strolled over to the hut, where both Yelleg and Malser advanced upon him in a threatening manner. Yelleg shook his massive fist in Cugel’s face. “You have been remiss for the last time! Today we propose to beat you and throw you into the pond!”
“One moment,” said Cugel. “Allow me to build a fire, as I myself am cold. Malser, start the tea, if you will.”
Speechless with rage, the two divers stood back while Cugel kindled a fire. “Now then,” said Cugel, “you will be happy to learn that I have dredged into a rich pocket of scales. I paid off my account and now Bilberd the gardener must serve the tea and build the fire.”
Yelleg asked between clenched teeth: “Are you then resigning your post?”
“Not altogether. I will continue, for at least a brief period, in an advisory capacity.”
“I am puzzled,” said Malser. “How is it that you find so many scales with such little effort?”
Cugel smiled and shrugged. “Ability, and not a little luck.”
“But mostly luck, eh? Just as Weamish had luck?”
“Ah, Weamish, poor fellow! He worked hard and long for his luck! Mine came more quickly. I have been fortunate!”
Yelleg spoke thoughtfully: “A curious succession of events! Four cases of scales disappear. Then Weamish pays off his account. Then Gark and Gookin come with their hooks and Weamish jumps from the roof. Next, honest hard-working Cugel pays off his account, though he dredges but an hour a day.”
“Curious indeed!” said Malser. “I wonder where the missing scales could be!”
“And I, no less!” said Yelleg.
Cugel spoke in mild rebuke: “Perhaps you two have time for wool-gathering, but I must troll for scales.”
Cugel went to his scow and sieved several buckets of slime. Yelleg and Malser decided to work no more, each having gleaned three scales. After dressing, they stood by the edge of the pond watching Cugel, muttering
together in low voices.
During the evening meal Yelleg and Malser continued their conversation, from time to time darting glances toward Cugel. Presently Yelleg struck his fist into the palm of his hand, as if he had been struck by a novel thought, which he immediately communicated to Malser. Then both nodded wisely and glanced again toward Cugel.
The next morning, while Cugel worked his sieve, Yelleg and Malser marched out into the back garden. Each carried a lily which he laid upon Weamish’s grave. Cugel watched intently from the side of his eye. Neither Malser nor Yelleg gave his own grave more than cursory attention: so little, in fact, that Malser, in backing away, fell into the excavation. Yelleg helped him up and the two went off about their work.
Cugel ran to the grave and peered down to the bottom. The dirt had broken away from the side wall and the corner of a case might possibly have been evident to a careful inspection.
Cugel pulled thoughtfully at his chin. The case was not conspicuous. Malser, mortified by his clumsy fall, in all probability had failed to notice it. This, at least, was a reasonable theory. Nevertheless, to move the scales might be judicious; he would do so at the first opportunity.
Taking the scow out upon the slime, Cugel filled the tub; then, returning to the shore, he sieved the muck, to discover a pair of ‘ordinaries’ in the sieve.
Twango summoned Cugel to the work-room. “Cugel, tomorrow we ship four cases of prime scales at precisely noon. Go to the carpenter shop and build four stout cases to proper specifications. Then clean the carrier, lubricate the wheels, and put it generally into tip-top shape; there must be no mishaps on this occasion.”
“Have no fear,” said Cugel. “We will do the job properly.”
At noon Soldinck, with his companions Rincz and Jornulk, halted their wagon before Flutic. Cugel gave them a polite welcome and ushered them into the work-room.
Twango, somewhat nettled by Soldinck’s scrutiny of floor, walls and ceiling, spoke crisply. “Gentlemen, on the table you will observe scales to the number of six hundred and twenty, both ‘ordinary’ and ‘special’, as specified on this invoice. We shall first inspect, verify and pack the ‘specials’.”
