by Jack Vance
“So now what will you do?”
Jean said, “Father, take us out to the oil well.”
“Don’t call it an oil well yet,” said Art. “It’s dry as last week’s biscuits. Around Orange City they call it ‘Marsile’s Folly’. But if I strike—”
Hugh made an unverbalized rumble of disgust.
“—if I strike there’ll be lots of sick people around here. Because I quietly bought up mineral rights everywhere in sight. C’mon then, let’s go. Coming, Hugh?”
“No. I’m working on my sermons.”
They drove east from Orange City. The dark green foliage of the citrus groves came to an abrupt halt, with dun hills and the parched vegetation of the desert beyond.
They turned off at a side road, wound between balls of dry tumbleweed and gray-brown boulders, then suddenly came on another dark-green orange grove. Art stopped the car, pointed. “See that tank and the windmill? That’s where the dowser told me to get my water. I got enough to irrigate that whole grove. Now look—” he started forward “—just around this little hill…” There was the derrick, the drill-rig, the drill crew in sweat-stained shirts and hard hats. Art called to the foreman. “I don’t see no gusher, Chet.”
“We’re down to shale again, Art. Better going than the schist. But not a whiff of oil. You know what I think?”
“Yeah. I know what you think. You think I’m pouring money down a gopher hole. Maybe I am. I got another four thousand dollars to blow. When that’s gone—we quit.”
“Four thousand won’t take us much farther. Specially if we hit any more of that schist, or that black trap.”
“Well, keep biting at her, and when she blows, cap her quick; I don’t want to lose a gallon.”
Chet grinned. “All the oil you’ll get out of that hole won’t come to more’n a gallon.”
IV
They returned to Orange City.
Jean said grimly, “I know we’re going to argue with Hugh the whole time we’re here. Darn it, Dad, he’s a fascist! Where did he ever learn such things? Not from you!”
Art sighed. “I guess it’s just Hugh. He’s got a good mind, but—well, maybe it’s his funny looks that he couldn’t apply himself normally. And now he’s found a place where his looks help him out…And it don’t do no good arguing with him, because he doesn’t listen.”
“I’ll try to behave myself.”
But at dinner the argument started. Hugh insisted on knowing what field of investigation Don proposed to enter. Don told him, matter-of-factly. “I plan to study para-psychological phenomena—psionic research, some people call it.”
Hugh frowned his great eyebrow-buckling frown. “I’m not sure as I understand. Does this mean you study black-magic, witchcraft, the occult?”
“In a certain sense, yes.”
“It’s all charlatanry!” said Hugh in vast disgust.
Don nodded. “Ninety-five percent of it is, unfortunately…It’s the remaining five percent I’m interested in. Especially the so-called spiritualistic phenomena.”
Hugh leaned forward. “Surely you consider that sort of study irreverent? Are the souls of the dead any concern of man?”
“I don’t recognize any limitation to human knowledge, Hugh. If souls exist, they’re made of some sort of substance. Perhaps not molecules—but something. I’m curious what that something is.”
Hugh shook his head. “And how do you go about investigating the after-life?”
“The same way you investigate anything else. Isolate facts, check, reject. If there is life after death, it exists. Somewhere. If something exists somewhere, it can be examined, measured, perhaps even seen or visited—providing we find the proper tools.”
“It’s sacrilege,” croaked Hugh.
Don laughed. “Calm down, Hugh. Let’s talk without getting excited. You asked me what I was interested in, I’m telling you…If it’s any comfort to you, I’m not at all sure there is an after-life.”
Hugh glared from his cavernous eye-sockets. “Are you admitting to atheism?”
“If you want to put it that way,” said Don. “I don’t see why you make it out a bad word.”
“An atheist and a communist!”
“Atheist yes, communist no. The ideas are at opposite poles. Atheism is the assertion of human self-reliance, dignity and individuality; communism is the denial of those ideas.”
“You are forever damned,” said Hugh in a hushed sibilant voice.
“I don’t think so,” said Don reasonably. “Of course I don’t know anything for sure. No one knows the basic answers. Why is everything? Why is anything? Why is the universe? These are tremendous questions. They aren’t answered by replying, ‘Because the Creator so willed.’ The same mystery applies to the Creator. And if there is a Creator, I’m sure he’s not angry when I use the brain and the curiosity he endowed me with. In other words,” said Don, smiling, “I’m trying to tell you that I’m not a dragon or a vampire. I’m a man honestly and decently puzzled about life, thought and the universe. I may never know the answers, but perhaps I’ll make a start at finding out.”
Hugh rose to his feet, nodded stiffly. “Good night.” He left the room.
Jean broke the silence. “Well, that’s that.”
“I’m sorry if I caused any family trouble,” said Don.
“Nonsense,” said Art. “I’ve always liked a good argument. Hugh’s got no call to get his feelings hurt. You didn’t call him names or tell him he was damned.”
“Hugh forgets that the constitution guarantees freedom of religion,” said Jean indignantly.
Art chuckled, looked at the posters on the wall. “If this Christian Crusade really takes hold, Hugh’ll change the constitution.”
“He shouldn’t use the word ‘Christian’,” Jean said indignantly. “Christianity stands for gentleness and kindness, and Hugh is a bigot.”
Art drew a deep breath. “I’m not proud of Hugh…I’m not proud of myself, because I raised him.”
“Hush Father, don’t be foolish. Let’s talk of more interesting things. Like how we’re going to spend our first million when Marsile No. 1 comes in.”
Art laughed. “You and Don can go about your ghost-hunting. Me, I’m going to buy some nice pasture-land and raise race-horses.”
A week passed, two weeks. Marsile No. 1 remained dry, and Art Marsile reached the end of his bank-roll. He returned to the house, grim and dusty. “Well, that’s it,” he said. “I paid off the rig. I blew what loose money I had and I’m not going into debt.”
Jean soothed him. “You’re perfectly right, Dad, and now we’ll forget all about it.”
Art looked around the living room. “Why the suitcases?”
“You know we planned to leave today.”
“You don’t need to go anywhere. Your home is here, as long as you like living here.”
“We do like it, but we’ve got to get to work. And we can’t commute to Los Angeles every day.”
“And how are you going to set about going to work?”
“First,” said Don, “I’ve got to raise money. I’ll apply for a Guggenheim Fellowship. I’ll make contacts at the Society for Psychical Research, and see if I can sell some ideas to the finance committee. Perhaps one of the universities will set up a study group, like the ESP section at Duke. There’s a number of possibilities.”
Art shook his head in gruff vexation. “If Marsile No. 1 came through, you wouldn’t have needed to worry.”
“I know, Art. I was pulling for it as hard as you were.”
They took their luggage to the car. Hugh came to the doorway, and stood watching. Jean kissed Art, waved to Hugh. “We’ll be out next weekend, Daddy. Now you forget Marsile No. 1 and get back to oranges.”
They drove to Los Angeles in a driving rainstorm, returned to their apartment in Westwood. Jean ran up the steps, opened the door; Don struggled up with the suitcases. He found Jean standing rigidly in the middle of the floor. “What’s the trouble?” he asked, putting
down the suitcases.
Jean made no answer. Don went to her. “What’s wrong, Jean?”
“Don,” she whispered, “something terrible’s happened. To Art.”
Don stared at her. “Surely not. We just left him, not an hour ago…”
Jean rushed to the telephone, called Orange City. The bell rang and rang. No one answered. Jean put down the receiver, stood up. Don put his arms around her.
“I feel it, Don,” she whispered. “I know something’s happened.”
Half an hour later the telephone rang. Hugh spoke in a harsh babble. “Jean? Is this you? Jean?”
“Hugh! Father—”
“He’s dead. A truck skidded into him—on the way out to that crazy oil well—”
“We’ll be right out, Hugh.”
Jean hung up listlessly. She turned. Don read the news in her face. She told him. He kissed her, patted her head. “I’m going to make you a cup of coffee.”
Jean came out in the kitchen with him. “Don.”
“Yes?”
“Let’s go see Ivalee.”
He stood looking at her, coffee-pot in his hand. “You’re sure you want to?”
“Yes.”
“All right.”
“Right now.”
Don put down the coffee-pot. “I’ll telephone to make sure she’s not busy.” He went to the phone, made the call. “It’s all right. Let’s go.”
Half an hour later they rang the bell of a neat white house in Long Beach. Ivalee Trembath opened the door, a slender woman of forty-five with steady gray eyes and silky white hair. She greeted them quietly, with simple friendliness, led them into the living room. If she noticed Jean’s drawn face and over-bright eyes, she made no comment. Don said, “How do you feel, Iva?”
Ivalee looked from Don to Jean, then seated herself slowly in an arm-chair. “Sit down.” Don and Jean seated themselves. “Do you want to speak to Molly?”
“Yes, please.”
Ivalee lowered her head, looked at her hands. She began to breathe in long slow breaths. “Molly. Molly. Are you there?” There was silence. Outside a car whirred past over the wet macadam. “Molly?” Ivalee’s head sank, her shoulders sagged.
“Hello, Iva,” said a clear bright voice from Ivalee’s mouth. “Hello, folks.”
“Hello, Molly,” said Don. “How are you?”
“Fine as rain. I see you got a little rain down below too. We sure could have used it in 1906. What a sight that was, dear old Frisco! Reeking up in flames like rags in a bonfire. Well, well. I’ve seen lots in my day.” Molly’s voice faded a little; there was a murmur, then another voice said harshly, “Come, come, enough of this nonsense! We’re not having any more of this peeking and prying.”
Ivalee Trembath whimpered like a sleeping puppy, rocked back and forth in the chair.
“Who are you?” asked Don, calmly.
A torrent of words in a foreign language pelted from Ivalee’s mouth—hard, harsh gutturals that carried the sting of abuse.
Molly said good-naturedly, “Oh, get away, Ladislav…Silly creature—he’s one of the bad ones. Always horsin’ around.”
Jean said in a husky whisper, “Is my father there?”
“Sure, he’s here.”
“Can he speak?” said Don.
Molly’s voice was doubtful. “He’ll try. He’s not strong…”
A second voice interrupted, a low gravel voice that rasped in Ivalee’s throat; for a second or two both voices were speaking at once.
“Hello, Jean. Hello, Don.” The voice was distant.
“Art?” asked Don. “Are you there?”
“Yes.” The voice was stronger. “Can’t quite get the hang of talking through a lady. Well, I’m over here safe and sound, in spite of Hugh’s predictions…Now don’t you folks grieve. It’s a little lonesome, but I’m fine and I’ll be happy.”
Jean was crying quietly. “It was so sudden…”
“That’s the best way there is. Now don’t cry, because you make me feel bad.”
“It’s so strange to be talking to you like this.”
Art’s dry laugh sounded in Ivalee’s throat. “It’s strange for me too.”
“What’s it like, Art?” asked Don.
“Hard to say. It’s kinda hazy just now. It’s something like home in a way.”
His voice faded, as if it were coming from a radio tuned to a distant station. Molly’s voice came bright and cheerful. “He’s tired, dear. He’s not used to life up here yet. But he’s fine now, and we’ll look after him. He wants to talk to you again.”
The voice changed in Ivalee’s throat, becoming not Art’s voice, but using Art’s clipped intonations. “Say, down there. You know where we was digging?”
“Marsile No. 1?”
“Yeah. Well, we stopped too soon. I just kinda pushed my head down and took a look. Don’t quit, Don. Keep going, because it’s there.”
“How far, Art?”
“Hard to say; things is a little confused. I’ve got to go. I’ll be talking to you again sometime. Say hello to Hugh…”
Molly’s voice returned. “Well, that’s all folks,” she said brassily. “He’s a nice man.”
Don asked, “Molly—can I visit this land where you are?”
“Sure,” said Molly. “When you die.” And she chuckled. “Of course, we call it passing over.”
“Can I visit your country while I’m alive, here on Earth?” he asked.
Molly’s voice faded, waxed and waned as if winds were blowing. “I don’t know, Donald. People like Iva visit us—but they always go back…I see that Ivalee’s tired…So I’ll be off about my business. Good-bye…”
“Good-bye,” said Don.
“Good-bye,” said Jean, softly.
Ivalee Trembath raised her head; her eyes looked tired; the cheek muscles sagged around her mouth. “How was it?”
“It was tremendous,” said Don. “It couldn’t have been better.”
Ivalee looked at Jean, still softly crying. “What happened, Don?”
“Her father was killed tonight.”
“Oh. Too bad…Did you reach him?”
“Yes. He spoke. It was wonderful.”
Ivalee smiled faintly. “I’m glad when I can help.”
“Thank you ever so much,” said Jean.
Ivalee patted her shoulder. “You come to see me soon again…Do you still have the same plans?”
“Yes,” said Don. “The same, only more of them. We’ll start work as soon as we can.”
“Tell me about it next time,” said Ivalee. “You’re anxious to go now.”
“Yes,” said Jean. “But I’m glad we came. Good night.”
“Good night.”
V
Don and Jean drove along the Freeway, through swift bright-eyed shoals of automobiles; past phosphorescent tangles of neon-tubing, filling-stations a-twinkle with banners and rotating glimmering tapes, cafes, bars, creameries, hamburger-stands, used-car lots draped and festooned with electric light-bulbs—hundred thousand-watt effulgences along the street, like a row of monstrous incandescent jelly-fish. It was splendor familiar to Don and Jean, a vibrant agitation of light and color and life to be seen nowhere else in the world; in any event their minds were elsewhere.
Jean said, “I don’t know Ivalee as well as you do…I’m sure she’s honest.” She hesitated.
Don said, “She’s more than honest. She’s completely transparent. She’s the most guile-less person I know. This is the fifth time I’ve sat at a seance with her. It was far and away the clearest and most direct.”
“I wasn’t questioning her honesty,” said Jean. “But—do you think that was really Father?”
Don shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s possible that Ivalee unconsciously reads the minds of the people who visit her. That instead of spirits speaking through her mouth, she merely mirrors our own minds.”
“But about the oil well—he said there’s oil, to keep on drilling.”
“I
know. She wasn’t mirroring my mind. Privately I’ve been skeptical of Marsile No. 1. Dowsers aren’t infallible, no more than anyone else.”
Jean nodded. “I’ve never believed there’d be oil…But now father, or his spirit—whatever it is—says there’s oil. What shall we do?”
Don laughed grimly. “Drill, I guess—if you’re willing to risk it. If we can raise the money.”
“I’m willing to risk it…But there’s Hugh to be considered.”
“Had your father made a will?”
“Yes. The property is divided equally between Hugh and myself.”
“There may be difficulties…Speaking of Hugh—look at that.” He pointed to an enormous billboard glaring under the illumination of six floodlights.
This appeared in red and black, on a white background, in heavy portentous letters.
REAT NATIONAL GOSPEL REVIVAL
Fight Three Great Evils
with
Fighting Hugh Bronny
Join the Christian Crusade
Keep America
Clean, White and Christian
Fight Communism
Fight Atheism
Fight Blood Pollution
Massive Revival at the
Orange City Auditorium
Two weeks starting June 19
A picture depicted Hugh as a rock-jawed powerful giant, a hybrid of Abraham Lincoln, Uncle Sam and Paul Bunyan.
Don shook his head. “I never suspected Hugh had come so far!”
“He’s always been a worker…It’s rather revolting, isn’t it?”
Don nodded. “I suppose people must come to listen to him.”
“Evidently.”
They arrived at Orange City, and were immersed in the inevitable melancholy details attendant on Art Marsile’s death.
Art was cremated, his ashes buried in the orange grove, without funeral or formal ceremony, in accordance with his wishes. Hugh protested bitterly, until Art’s attorney and executor of the estate brought forth the will, and indicated a paragraph giving explicit instructions as to the disposal of his body.
As Jean had informed Don, the estate was to be divided between Jean and Hugh, “in any manner mutually agreeable to the legatees.” In the event that agreement could not be reached, the executor was instructed to sell the various properties of the estate at the highest possible figure and divide the proceeds between the legatees.
