by Jack Vance
Marune Alastor 933
Jack Vance
Jack Vance
Marune Alastor 933
MIRK
The last of Marune's suns, Cirse, sank behind Whispering Ridge. The sky flared and dimmed; darkness fell. Mirk had come to Scharrode.
Throughout the realm, lights were extinguished and doors bolted as the prudent sought safety. Others donned the cloak and boots of nightwalkers and slipped through the darkness seeking an unshuttered window and the woman waiting behind it. For mirk did strange things to the minds and bodies of the sober folk of Scharrode.
In the castle of Benbuphar Strang, the Kaiark Efraim felt the primal pull of darkness - and was drawn despite himself to the passage that led to Sthelany's door.
Her invitation had been clear.
Alastor Cluster, a node of thirty thousand live stars, uncounted dead hulks, and vast quantities of interstellar detritus, clung to the inner rim of the galaxy with the Unfortunate Waste before, the Nonestic Gulf beyond and the Gaean Reach a sparkling haze to the side. For the spacetraveler, no matter which his angle of approach, a remarkable spectacle was presented: constellations blazing white, blue, and red; curtains of luminous stuff, broken here, obscured there, by black storms of dust; starstreams wandering in and out; whorls and spatters of phosphorescent gas.
Should Alastor Cluster be considered a segment of the Gaean Reach? The folk of the Cluster, some four or five trillion of them on more than three thousand worlds, seldom reflected upon the matter, and indeed considered themselves neither Gaean nor Alastrid. The, typical inhabitant, when asked as to his origin, might perhaps cite his native world or, more usually, his local district, as if this place were so extraordinary, so special and widely famed that its reputation hung on every tongue of the galaxy.
Parochialism dissolved before the glory of the Connatic, who ruled Alastor Cluster from his palace on the world Numenes. The current Connatic, Oman Ursht, sixteenth of the Idite dynasty, often pondered the quirk of fate which had appointed him to his singular condition, only to smile at his own irrationality: no matter who occupied the position, that person would frame for himself the same marveling question.
The inhabited planets of the Cluster had little in common except their lack of uniformity. They were large and small, dank and dry, benign and perilous, populous and empty: no two alike. Some manifested tall mountains, blue seas, bright skies; on others clouds hung forever above the moors, and no variety existed except the alternation of night and day. Such a world, in fact, was Bruse-Tansel, Alastor 1142, with a population of two hundred thousand, settled for the most part in the neighborhood of Lake Vain, where they worked principally at the dyeing of fabrics. Four spaceports served Bruse-Tansel, the most important being that facility located at Carfaunge.
Chapter 1
The Respectable Mergan had achieved his post, Superintendent at the Carfaunge Spaceport, largely because the position demanded a tolerance for unalterable routine. Mergan not only tolerated routine; he depended upon it. He would have opposed the cessation of such nuisances as the morning rains, the glass lizards with their squeaks and clicks, the walking slimes which daily invaded the area, because then he would have been required to change established procedure.
On the morning of a day he would later identify as tenth Mariel Gaean1 he arrived as usual at his office. Almost before he had settled behind his desk, the night porter appeared with a blank faced young man in a nondescript gray suit. Mergan uttered a wordless grumble; he had no taste for problems, at any time, least of all before he had composed himself for the day. The situation at the very least promised a disruption of routine. At last he muttered: "Well, Dinster, what do you have here?"
Dinster, in a piping over-loud voice, called out, "Sorry to bother you, sir, but what shall we do with this gentleman? He seems to be ill."
"Find him a doctor," growled Mergan. "Don't bring him here. I can't help him."
"It's not that kind of illness, sir. More mental, if you get my meaning."
"Your meaning escapes me," said Mergan. "Why not just tell me what's wrong?"
Dinster politely indicated his charge. "When I came on duty he was sitting in the waiting room and he's been there since. He hardly speaks; he doesn't know his name, nor anything about himself."
Mergan inspected the young man with some faint awakening of interest. "Hello, sir," he barked. "What's the trouble?"
The young man shifted his gaze from the window to Mergan, but offered no response. Mergan gradually allowed himself to become perplexed. Why had the young man's gold-brown hair been hacked short, as if by swift savage strokes of a scissors? And the garments: clearly a size too large for the spare frame!
"Speak!" commanded Mergan. "Can you hear? Tell me your name!"
The young man put on a thoughtful expression but remained silent.
"A vagabond of same sort," Mergan declared. "He probably wandered up from the dye-works. Send him off again down the road."
Dinster shook his head. "This lad's no vagabond. Look at his hands."
Mergan reluctantly followed Dinster's suggestion. The hands were strong and well kept and showed evidence neither of toil nor submersion in dye. The man's features were firm and even; the poise of his head suggested status. Mergan, who preferred to ignore the circumstances of his own birth, felt an uncomfortable tingle of deference and corresponding resentment. Again he barked at the young man: "Who are you? What is your name?"
"I don't know." The voice was slow and labored, and colored with an accent Mergan failed to recognize.
"Where is your home?"
"I don't know."
Mergan became unreasonably sarcastic. "Do you know anything?"
Dinster ventured an opinion. "Looks to me, sir, as if he came aboard one of yesterday's ships."
Mergan asked the young man: "What ship did you arrive on? Do you have friends here?"
The young man fixed him with a brooding dark-gray gaze, and Mergan became uncomfortable. He turned to Dinster. "Does he carry papers? Or money?"
Dinster muttered to the young man: "Excuse me, sir." Gingerly he groped through the pockets of the rumpled gray suit. "I can't find anything here, sir."
"What about ticket stubs, or vouchers, or tokens?"
"Nothing at all, sir."
"It's what they call amnesia," said Mergan. He picked up a pamphlet and glanced down a list: "Six ships in, yesterday. He might have arrived on any of them."
Mergan touched a button. A voice said: "Prosidine, arrival gate."
Mergan described the amnesiac. "Do you know anything about him? He arrived sometime yesterday."
"Yesterday was more than busy; I didn't take time to notice anything."
"Make inquiries of your people and notify me."
Mergan thought a moment, then called the Carfaunge hospital. He was connected to the Director of Admissions, who listened patiently enough, but made no constructive proposals. "We have no facilities here for such cases. He has no money, you say? Definitely not, then."
"What shall I do with him? He can't stay here!"
"Consult the police; they'll know what to do."
Mergan called the police, and presently an official arrived in a police van, and the amnesiac was led away.
At the Hall of Inquiry, Detective Squil attempted interrogation, without success. The police doctor experimented with hypnotism, and finally threw up his hands.
"A most stubborn condition; I have seen three previous cases, but nothing like this."
"What causes it?"
"Autosuggestion, occasioned by emotional stress. This is most usual. But here" - he waved toward the uncomprehending amnesiac - "my instruments show no psychic charge of any kind. He has no emotions, and I have no leverage."
/> Detective Squil, a reasonable man, asked: "What can he do to help himself? He is obviously no ruffian."
"He should take himself to the Connatic's Hospital on Numenes."
Detective Squil laughed. "All very well. Who pays his fare?"
"The superintendent at the spaceport should be able to arrange passage, or so I should think."
Squil made a dubious sound but turned to his telephone. As he expected, the Respectable Mergan, having transferred responsibility to the police, wanted no further part of the situation. "The regulations are most explicit," said Mergan.
"I certainly cannot do as you suggest."
"We can't keep him here at the station."
"He appears able-bodied; let him earn his fare, which after all is not exorbitant."
"Easier said than done, what with his disability."
"What generally happens to indigents?"
"You know as well as I do; they're sent out to Gaswin. But this man is mentally ill; he's not an indigent."
"I can't argue that, because I don't know. At least I've pointed out a course of action."
"What is the fare to Numenes?"
"Third class by Prydania Line: two hundred and twelve ozols."
Squil terminated the call. He swung about to face the amnesiac. "Do you understand what I say to you?"
The answer came in a clear voice. "Yes."
"You are ill. You have lost your memory. Do you realize this?"
There was a pause of ten seconds. Squil wondered if any response were forthcoming. Then, haltingly: "You have told me so."
"We will send you to a place where you can work and earn money. Do you know how to work?"
"No."
"Well, anyway, you need money: two hundred and twelve ozols. On Gaswin Moor you will earn three and a half ozols a day. In two or three months you will have earned enough money to take you to the Connatic's Hospital on Numenes, where you will be cured of your illness. Do you understand all this?"
The amnesiac reflected a moment, but made no response.
Squil rose to his feet. "Gaswin will be a good place for you, and perhaps your memory will return." He dubiously considered the amnesiac's bland brown hair, which for mysterious reasons, someone had rudely cut short. "Do you have an enemy? Is there someone who does not like you?"
"I don't know. I can't remember any such person."
"What is your name?" shouted Squil, hoping to surprise that part of the brain which was withholding information.
The amnesiac's gray eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't know."
"Well, we have to find a name for you. Do you play hussade?"
"No."
"Think of that! A strong agile fellow like yourself! Still, we'll call you Pardero, after the great strike forward of the Schaide Thunderstones. So now, when someone calls out 'Pardero' you must respond. Is this understood?"
"Yes."
"Very well, and now you'll be an your way to Gaswin. The sooner you begin your work, the sooner you'll arrive on Numenes. I'll speak with the director; he's a good chap and he'll see to your welfare."
Pardero, as his name now would be, sat uncertainly.
Squil took pity on him. "It won't be so bad. Agreed, there are tough nuts at the work camp, but do you know how to handle them? You must be just a bit tougher than they are. Still, don't attract the attention of the disciplinary officer.
You seem a decent fellow; I'll put in a word for you, and keep an eye on your progress. One bit of advice - no, two. First: never try to cheat on your work quota. The officials know all the tricks; they can smell out the sluggards as a kribbat smells out carrion. Second, do not gamble! Do you know what the word
'gamble' means?"
"No."
"It means to risk your money on games or wagers. Never be tempted or inveigled!
Leave your money in the camp account! I advise you to form no friendships! Aside from yourself, there is only riff-raff at the camp. I wish you well. If you find trouble, call for Detective Squil. Can you remember that name?"
"Detective Squil."
"Good." Squil led the amnesiac out to a dock and put him aboard the daily transport to Gaswin. "A final word of advice! Confide in no one! Your name is Pardero; aside from this, keep your problems to yourself! Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Good luck!"
The transport flew low under the overcast, close above the mottled black and purple moors, and presently landed beside a cluster of concrete buildings: the Gaswin Work Camp.
At the personnel office Pardero underwent entry formalities, facilitated by Squil's notification to the camp director. He was assigned a cubicle in a dormitory block, fitted with work boots and gloves, and issued a copy of camp regulations, which he studied without comprehension. On the next morning he was detailed into a work party and sent out to harvest pods from colucoid creeper, the source of a peculiarly rich red dye.
Pardero gathered his quota without difficulty. Among the taciturn group of indigents his deficiency went unnoticed.
He ate his evening meal in silence, ignoring the presence of his fellows, who at last had begun to sense that all was not well with Pardero.
The sun sank behind the clouds; a dismal twilight fell across the moors. Pardero sat to the side of the recreation hall, watching a comic melodrama on the holovision screen. He listened intently to the dialogue; each word seemed to find an instantly receptive niche inside his brain with a semantic concept ready at hand. His vocabulary grew and the range of his mental processes expanded.
When the program was over he sat brooding, at last aware of his condition. He went to look into the mirror over the washbasin; the face which looked back at him was at once strange and familiar: a somber face with a good expanse of forehead, prominent cheekbones, hollow cheeks, dark gray eyes, a ragged thatch of dark gold hair.
A certain burly rogue named Woane attempted a jocularity. "Look yonder at Pardero! He stands like a man admiring a beautiful work of art!"
Pardero studied the mirror. Who was the man whose eyes stared so intently into his own?
Woane's hoarse murmur came from across the room. "Now he admires his haircut."
The remark amused Woane's friends. Pardero turned his head this way and that, wondering as to the motive behind the assault on his hair. Somewhere, it would seem, he had enemies. He turned slowly away from the mirror and resumed his seat at the side of the room.
The last traces of light left the sky; night had come to Gaswin Camp.
Something jerked deep at the bottom of Pardero's consciousness: a compulsion totally beyond his comprehension. He jumped to his feet. Woane looked around half-truculently, but Pardero's glance slid past him. Woane nevertheless saw or felt something sufficiently eery that his jaw dropped a trifle, and he muttered to his friends. All watched as Pardero crossed to the door and went out into the night.
Pardero stood on the porch. Floodlights cast a wan glow across the compound, now empty and desolate, inhabited only by the wind from the moors. Pardero stepped off the porch into the shadows. With no purpose he walked around the edge of the compound and out upon the moor; the camp became an illuminated island behind him.
Under the overcast, darkness was complete. Pardero felt an enlargement of the soul, an intoxication of power; as if he were an elemental born of the darkness, knowing no fear... He stopped short. His legs felt hard and strong; his hands tingled with competence. Gaswin Camp lay a half-mile behind him, the single visible object. Pardero took a deep throbbing breath, and again examined his consciousness, half-hoping, half-fearful of what he might find.
Nothing. Recollection extended to the Carfaunge spaceport. Events before were like voices remembered from a dream. Why was he here at Gaswin? To earn money.
How long must he remain? He had forgotten, or perhaps the words had not registered. Pardero began to feel a suffocating agitation, a claustrophobia of the intellect. He lay down on the moor, beat his forehead, cried out in frustration.
Time pas
sed. Pardero rose to his knees, gained his feet and slowly returned to the camp.
A week later Pardero learned of the camp doctor and his function. The next morning, during sick call, he presented himself to the dispensary. A dozen men sat on the benches while the doctor, a young man fresh from medical school, summoned them forward, one at a time. The complaints, real, imaginary, or contrived, were usually related to the work: backache, allergic reaction, congestion of the lungs, an infected lychbug sting. The doctor, young in years but already old in guile, sorted out the real from the fictitious, prescribing remedies for the first and irritant salves or vile-flavored medicines for the second.
Pardero was signaled to the desk and the doctor looked him up and down. "What's wrong with you?"
"I can't remember anything."
"Indeed." The doctor leaned back in his chair. "What is your name?"
"I don't know. Here at the camp they call me Pardero. Can you help me?"
"Probably not. Go back to the bench and let me finish up the sick call; it'll be just a few minutes."
The doctor dealt with his remaining patients and returned to Pardero. "Tell me haw far back you remember."
"I arrived at Carfaunge. I remember a spaceship. I remember the depot - but nothing before."
"Nothing whatever?"
"Nothing."
"Do you remember things you like, or dislike? Are you afraid of anything?"
"No."
"Amnesia typically derives from a subconscious intent to block out intolerable memories."
Pardero gave his head a dubious shake. "I don't think this is likely."
The doctor, both intrigued and bemused, uttered an uneasy half-embarrassed laugh. "Since you can't remember the circumstances, you aren't in a position to judge."
"I suppose that's true... Could something be wrong with my brain?"
"You mean physical damage? Do you have headaches or head pains? Any sensation of numbness or pressure?"
"No."
"Well, it's hardly likely a tumor would cause general amnesia in any event...
