The Faceless Man aka The Anome

by Jack Vance

  In my advertisements I promised remarkable information; this I will provide—immediately." He held up the notice. The illustrious Anome himself has demonstrated an interest in my remarks. Listen to his advice!" Etzwane read the notice in a studiously solemn voice; when he looked up, he saw that he had indeed interested his audience; they gazed at him in wonder. Ifness, so Etzwane saw, studied the crowd with care. He carried an inconspicuous camera and took many pictures.

  Etzwane frowned at the document. I am pleased that the Anome considers my ideas significant, especially since his other informants have misled him. 'A minor and transitory' nuisance? The Anome should take the head of the man who so deceived him. The Roguskhoi threaten everyone who now hears me. They are not 'a tribe of disreputable folk'—as the Anome innocently believes. They are ruthless, well-armed warriors, and they are sexual maniacs as well. Do you know their habit? They do not copulate normally; instead they seed a woman with a dozen imps which are born while she sleeps, and never again can she bear a human child—though she can bear another dozen imps. Every woman alive in Garwiy now may conceivably mother a brood or two of Roguskhoi imps.

  The Hwan Wildlands swarm with Roguskhoi. In the cantons bordering the Hwan it is an accepted fact that the Roguskhoi have been sent from Palasedra.

  The situation is remarkable, is it not? Reputable folk have implored the Anome to destroy these terrible creatures. He refuses; in fact, he takes their heads. Why? Ask yourself. Why does the Faceless Man, our protector, scoff at this peril?"

  Vibrations jarred at the back of Etzwane's neck: the explosive circuit. The Faceless Man was angry. Etzwane swung around to maximize the vibrations. They ceased before he could make a fix as to their direction. He clenched his left hand: the signal to Ifness.

  Ifness nodded and studied the crowd with even more intense interest than before.

  Etzwane spoke on: "Why does the Faceless Man deprecate so imminent a threat? Why does he write a document urging me to 'discretion?' Friends, I ask a question; I .do not answer it. Is the Faceless Man—"

  The vibrations struck again. Etzwane swung around but again could not decide upon the source of the pulses. He looked straight at the cold-eyed man in green, who stared back at him, gravely intent.

  The directional antenna, at least with respect to the killer pulses, was a failure. It was pointless to provoke the Faceless Man to a state where he might use a weapon less subtle. Etzwane modified the tone of his discourse. "The question I wish to ask is this: has the Faceless Man become old? Has he lost his zest? Should he perhaps pass on his responsibilities to a man with more energy and decision?"

  Etzwane looked around the group to see who responded to the question. Here he was disappointed; the folk in the audience all looked around as well, more interested in the others than themselves. (They knew their own ideas; how did the others feel? )

  Etzwane spoke on in a voice of spurious docility. He held up the magenta-bordered notice. "In deference to the Anome, I will reveal no more secrets. I may say that I am not alone in my concern; I speak for a group of persons dedicated to the safety of Shant. I go now to make my report. In a week I will speak again, when I hope to recruit others into this group."

  Etzwane jumped down from the rostrum and to avoid idle questions set off at a brisk pace in the direction from which he had come. As he walked, he touched the switch in his torc to activate the echo circuit. From the shelter of the foliage he looked back. The Aesthete in green strolled after him without haste. Behind the Aesthete, no less casual, came Ifness. Etzwane turned, hurried on. A vibration struck against the right side of his neck: someone had sent out a questing radiation.

  Etzwane went directly to the blue tile cottage north of Garwiy.

  As he passed along Elemyra Way, east of the Corporation Plaza, his torc vibrated a second time, again as he entered the Avenue of the Thasarene Directors, again as he turned down the hedge-shaded lane. Once within the cottage Etzwane slipped out of the clumsy black cloak, unclasped the torc and set it on the table. Leaving the cottage by the back door, he went to where he could survey the road.

  Half an hour passed. Along the lane came a man in a hooded dark green cloak. His eyes were very keen; he looked constantly right and left and occasionally down at an object he held in his hand. At the gap in the hedge he stopped short, the instrument in his hand resonating to the pulse echoed from Etzwane's torc inside the cot-age.

  Stealthy as a thief, the man looked up and down the lane, peered along the path at the cottage; slipping quickly through the gap, he took shelter behind a lime tree. Here stood Etzwane, who sprang forward. The man was enormously strong; Etzwane clung with feet and one arm and with the other slapped the man on the side of the neck with the needle-sack Ifness had supplied.

  Almost at once the man's activity lessened; a moment later he fell to his hands and knees.

  Ifness appeared; the two carried the limp body into the cottage. Ifness, instantly setting to work, removed the man's torc. Etzwane switched off the echo circuit of his own torc.

  Ifness gave an exclamation of dissatisfaction and drew forth a tube of black explosive, which he regarded with vast displeasure.

  The man had regained consciousness to find his arms and wrists bound. You are not the Faceless Man, after all," said Ifness.

  "I never claimed to be," said the captive in a cool voice.

  "Who are you, then?"

  "I am the Aesthete Garstang: a Director of the Corporation."

  "It seems that you serve the Faceless Man."

  "As do all of us."

  "You more than the rest, to judge by your conduct, and by this control box." From the table Ifness picked up the instrument he had taken from Garstang's cloak: a metal box, three inches wide, an inch deep, four inches long. From the top of the case protruded a set of studs, each a different color. The ten squares of a read-out below displayed the colors of Etzwane's torc.

  Below the read-out, on one hand, was a yellow switch, the yellow of death. On the other was a red switch, the red of invisibility—in this case the red of the invisible person being sought.

  Ifness set the box on the table. "How do you explain this?"

  "It explains itself."

  The yellow button?" Ifness raised his eyebrows.

  "Destroy."

  "The red button?"

  "Find."

  "And your exact status?"

  "I am what you already know me to be: a Benevolence of the Faceless Man."

  "When are you expected to make your report?"

  "In an hour or so." Garstang's answers came easily, in a voice without intonation.

  "You report in person?"

  Garstang gave a chilly laugh. "Hardly. I report into an electric voice-wire; I receive my instructions by postal delivery or through the same voice-wire."

  "How many Benevolences are employed?"

  "Another besides myself, so I have been told."

  The two Benevolences and the Faceless Man carry boxes such as this?"

  "I don't know what the others carry."

  Etzwane asked, The Faceless Man and two Benevolences—only three persons—police all Shant?"

  Garstang gave a disinterested shrug. The Faceless Man could do the job alone, had he a mind."

  For a moment there was silence. Ifness and Etzwane studied their captive, who returned the inspection with eyebrows raised in debonair unconcern. Etzwane asked, "Why won't the Face- less Man move against the Roguskhoi?"

  "I have no more knowledge than you."

  Etzwane said in a brittle voice, "For a man so near to death, you are very easy."

  Garstang seemed surprised. "I see no cause to fear death."

  "You tried to take my life. Why should I not take yours?"

  Garstang gave him a stare of disdainful puzzlement. "I did not try to take your life. I had no such orders."

  Ifness held up his hand urgently to still Etzwane's angry retort. "What in fact were your orders?"

  "I was to attend the meeting in
Pandamon Park; I was to note the speaker's code and follow him to his place of residence; I was there to gather information."

  "But you were not instructed to take the speaker's head?"

  Garstang started to reply, then turned shrewd, quick glances first toward Etzwane, then Ifness. A change seemed to come over his face. "Why do you ask?"

  "Someone attempted to take my head," said Etzwane. "If it wasn't you, it was the Faceless Man."

  Garstang shrugged, calculated. That may well be. But it has nothing to do with me."

  "Perhaps not," said Ifness politely. "But now there is no more time for conversation. We must prepare to meet whomever comes to find you. Please turn your back."

  Garstang slowly rose to his feet. "What do you plan to do?"

  "I will anesthetize you. In a short time, if all goes well, you will be released."

  In response Garstang flung himself sideways. He raised his leg in a grotesque prancing gait. "Look out!" screamed Etzwane. "He wears a leg-gun!"

  Fire! Glare I Explosion through the cuffs of Garstang's elegant trousers: the tinkle of broken glass; then the thud of Garstang's dead body falling to the floor. Ifness, who had crouched, snatched and fired his hand-gun, stood looking down at the corpse. Etzwane had never seen him so agitated. "I have soiled myself," hissed Ifness. "I have killed what I swore to preserve."

  Etzwane gave a snort of disgust. "Here you sob over this dead murderer; but on other occasions, when you might have saved someone, you looked aside."

  Ifness turned him a yellow-eyed glare, then, after a moment, spoke in a calm and even voice. The deed is done. What impelled him to act so desperately? He was helpless." For a moment he stood musing. "Many mysteries remain," he muttered. "Much is obscure." He made a peremptory gesture. "Search the body, drag it to the back shed. I must modify his torc."

  An hour later Ifness stood back. "In addition to the 'explode' and 'echo' circuits, I discover a simple vibrator signal as well. I have installed an alarm to inform us when someone seeks Garstang. This time should not be far distant." He went to the door. The suns had rolled behind the Ushkadel; the soft dusk of Garwiy, suffused with a million colored glooms, settled over the land. "Before us now is a problem in tactics," said Ifness. "First, what have we achieved? A great deal, it seems to me. Garstang has convincingly denied all attempts to take your head, hence we may reasonably put the onus for these acts upon the Faceless Man. We may affirm, therefore, that he came to Pandamon Park and into the range of my camera. If we chose, we might attempt to identify and investigate each of the two hundred persons present—a tedious prospect, however.

  "Secondly: What can we next expect of the Faceless Man? He awaits Garstang's report. In view of his failure to take the 'anonymous adventurer's' head, he will be curious, to say the least. Lacking news, he will become first annoyed, then concerned. I would guess that Garstang's report was due an hour ago; we can expect a signal to Garstang's torc in the near future. Garstang, of course, will not respond. The Faceless Man must then either send forth another Benevolence or go himself to find Garstang, using the locator-pulses.

  "We have, in fact, a situation analogous to that of this morning. Instead of the 'anonymous adventurer' and his threatened sedition, we now have Garstang's torc to stimulate our quail into motion."

  Etzwane gave a grudging acquiescence. "I suppose that this is reasonable enough."

  Garstang's torc emitted a thin, clear sound, eerily disturbing the silence, followed by four staccato chirping noises.

  Ifness gave a fateful nod. "There: the signal for Garstang to report at once. Time we were moving. The cottage gives us no advantage." He dropped Garstang's torc into a soft black case, then after reflecting a moment added a handful of his exquisite tools.

  "If we don't hurry, we'll have the Discriminators around our ears," grumbled Etzwane.

  "Yes, we must hurry. Switch off the echo circuit in your torc if you have not already done so."

  "I have done so, long since."

  The two departed the cottage and walked toward Garwiy's complicated skyline. Beyond, along the Ushkadel, a thousand palaces glittered and sparkled. Trudging through the dark with Ifness, Etzwane felt like a ghost walking with another ghost; they were two creatures on an eerie errand, estranged from all other folk of Shant "Where are we going?"

  Ifness said mildly, To a public house, a tavern, something of the sort. We will put Garstang's torc in a secluded spot and watch to see who goes to investigate."

  Etzwane could find no fault with the idea. Fontenay's is yonder, along the river. Frolitz and the troupe will be there."

  "As good as any. You, at least, will be provided the camouflage of your instrument."

  Chapter 11

  Music came through the open door of Fontenay's. Etzwane recognized the fluid lower register of Frolitz's wood-horn, the graceful touch of Fordyce's khitan, Mielke's grave bass tones; he felt a deprivation so great that tears came to his eyes. His previous life, so miserly and pinched, with every florin into his lock-box, now .seemed sweet indeed!

  They entered and stood in the shadows. Ifness surveyed the premises. "What is that door?" "It leads to Fontenay's private quarters." "What about the hall yonder?" "It leads to the stairs and a back door." "And what about that door behind Frolitz?" "It leads into a storeroom where the musicians leave their instruments."

  "It should serve. Take Garstang's torc, go into the storeroom for your instrument, and hang the torc somewhere near the door. Then when you come forth—" From within the black bag Garstang's torc produced the whine of the locator circuit. "Someone soon will be here. When you come forth, take a place near the storeroom door. I will sit in this corner. If you notice anything significant, look toward me, then turn your left ear toward what you notice. Do this several times, in case I do not see you the first time, as I will be busy otherwise. . . . Again, where is the rear entrance?"

  "Down the hall, past the stairs and to the right." Ifness nodded. "You are now a musician, a part of the troupe. Don't forget the torc."

  Etzwane took the torc, tucked it into his inside pocket. He sauntered up to Frolitz, who gave him an indifferent nod. Etzwane recalled that he had been parted from the troupe only a single day. It seemed as if a month had passed. He went into the storeroom, hung the torc on a peg near the door, and covered it with someone's old jacket. He found his khitan, his tringolet, and his beautiful silver-mounted wood-horn and brought them out to the musician's platform. Finding a chair, he seated himself only a yard from the door. Ifness still sat in the corner of the room; with his mild expression he might have been a merchant's clerk; no one would look at him twice. Etzwane, playing with the troupe, was merged even more completely into the environment. Etzwane smiled sourly. The stalking of the Faceless Man was not without its ludicrous aspects.

  With Etzwane present, Fordyce put aside his khitan and took up the bass clarion; Frolitz jerked his head in satisfaction.

  Etzwane played with only a quarter of his mind. His faculties seemed magnified, hypersensitized. Every sound in the room reached his ears: every tone and quaver of music, the tinkle of glasses, the thud of mugs, the laughter and conversation. And from the storeroom an almost petulant whine from Garstang's torc. Etzwane glanced toward the far corner of the room; catching Ifness's eye, he reached up his hand as if to tune the. khitan and gave a jerk of his thumb back toward the storeroom. Ifness nodded in comprehension.

  The music halted. Frolitz turned around. "We will play that old piece of Anatoly's; you, Etzwane—" Frolitz explained a variation on the harmony. The barmen brought up mugs of beer; the musicians refreshed themselves. Etzwane thought: here was a life worth living—easy, relaxed, not a worry in the world. Except for the Roguskhoi and the Faceless Man. He lifted his mug and drank. Frolitz gave a sign; the music started. Etzwane let his fingers move of themselves; his attention wandered around the room. Fontenay tonight did good business; all the tables were occupied. The mulberry glass bosses high in the dark blue glass wall admitted a glow
from the lights outside; over the bar hung a pair of soft white glow-bulbs. Etzwane looked everywhere, studying everyone: the folk coming through the door, Aljamo with fingers tapping the marimba-boards, the pretty girl who had come to sit at a nearby table, Frolitz now stroking a tipple, Ifness. Who among these people would know him now for the "anonymous adventurer" who had so disturbed the Faceless Man?

  Etzwane thought of his past life. He had known much melancholy; his only pleasure had come from music. His gaze wandered to the pretty girl he had noticed before: an Aesthete, from the Ushkadel, or so he assumed. She wore clothes of elegant simplicity: a gown of dark scarlet-rose, a fillet of silver with a pair of rock crystals dangling past her ear, a curious jeweled belt, slippers of rose satin and pink glass. She was dark-haired, with a clever, grave face; never had Etzwane seen anyone so captivating. She felt his gaze and looked at him. Etzwane looked away, but now he played to her with new concentration and intensity. Never had he played so richly, with such lilting phrases, such poignant chords. Frolitz gave him a half-sneering side-glance, as if wordlessly asking, "What's got into you?" The girl leaned to whisper to her escort, whom Etzwane had hardly noticed: a man of early middle-age, apparently also an Aesthete. Behind Etzwane the torc gave a thin whine, reminding him of his responsibilities.

  The Aesthete girl and her escort moved to a table directly in front of Etzwane, the escort glum-faced and bored.

  The music halted. The girl spoke to Etzwane. "You play very well."

  "Yes," said Etzwane with a modest smile. "I suppose I do." He looked toward Ifness, to find him frowning disapproval. Ifness had wished that particular table close by the storeroom left vacant. Etzwane again made the quick signal with his thumb toward the torc. Ifness. nodded distantly.

  Frolitz spoke over his shoulder: "The Merry-down." He jerked his head to give a beat; the music came forth, a rollicking quick-step, up and down, with unexpected halts and double beats. Etzwane's part was mainly a strong and urgent chord progression; he was able to watch the girl. She improved upon proximity. She gave off a subtle fragrance; her skin had a clean glow; she knew the uses of beauty as Etzwane knew the meaning of music. He thought with a sudden inner ferocity, "I want her; I must have her for my own." He looked at her, and his intent showed clear in his eyes. She raised her eyebrows and turned to speak to her escort.