The World-Thinker and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

  ******

  From The Trog Story, August 1, by Harlan B. Temple:

  “Something horrible is going on under the surface of the earth. Trogs are staggering forth with raw stumps for arms, with great wounds…”

  ******

  From The Trog Story, August 8, by Harlan B. Temple:

  “Operation Exodus got underway today. One thousand trogs departed the Kreuzertal bound for their new home near Cabinda, at the mouth of the Congo River. Trucks and buses took them to Innsbruck, where they will board special trains to Venice and Trieste. Here ships supplied by the U.S. Maritime Commission will take them to their new home.

  “As one thousand trogs departed Trog City, twenty thousand pushed up from their underground homeland, and camp officials are privately expressing concern over conditions. Trog City has expanded double, triple, ten times over the original estimates. The machinery of supply, sanitation and housing is breaking down. From now on, any attempts to remedy the situation are at best stopgaps, like adhesive tape on a rotten hose, when what is needed is a new hose or, rather, a four-inch pipe.

  “Even to maintain equilibrium, thirty thousand trogs per day will have to be siphoned out of the Kreuzertal camps, an obvious impossibility under present budgets and efforts…”

  ******

  From Newsweek, August 14:

  Camp Hope, in the bush near Cabinda, last week took on the semblance of the Guadalcanal army base during World War II. There was the old familiar sense of massive confusion, the grind of bulldozers, sweating white, beet-red, brown and black skins, the raw earth dumped against primeval vegetation, bugs, salt tablets, Atabrine…

  ******

  From the U.P. wire:

  Cabinda, Belgian Congo, August 20 (UP): The first contingent of trogs landed last night under shelter of dark, and marched to temporary quarters, under the command of specially trained group captains.

  Liaison officers state that the trogs are overjoyed at the prospect of a permanent home, and show an eagerness to get to work. According to present plans, they will till collective farms, and continuously clear the jungle for additional settlers.

  On the other side of the ledger, it is rumored that the native tribesmen are showing unrest. Agitators, said to be Communist-inspired, are preying on the superstitious fears of a people themselves not far removed from savagery…

  ******

  Headline in the New York Times, August 22:

  CONGO WARRIORS RUN AMOK AT CAMP HOPE

  KILL 800 TROG SETTLERS IN SINGLE HOUR

  Military Law Established

  Belgian Governor Protests

  Says Congo Unsuitable

  ******

  From the U.P. Wire:

  Trieste, August 23 (UP): Three shiploads of trogs bound for Trogland in the Congo today marked a record number of embarkations. The total number of trogs to sail from European ports now stands at 24,965…

  Cabinda, August 23 (UP): The warlike Matemba Confederation is practically in a state of revolt against further trog immigration, while Resident-General Bernard Cassou professes grave pessimism over eventualities.

  Mont Blanc, August 24 (UP): Ten trogs today took up experimental residence in a ski-hut to see how well trogs can cope with the rigors of cold weather.

  Announcement of this experiment goes to confirm a rumor that Denmark has offered Greenland to the trogs if it is found that they are able to survive Arctic conditions.

  Cabinda, August 28 (UP): The Congo, home of witch-doctors, tribal dances, cannibalism and Tarzan, seethes with native unrest. Sullen anger smolders in the villages, riots are frequent and dozens of native workmen at Camp Hope have been killed or hospitalized.

  Needless to say, the trogs, whose advent precipitated the crisis, are segregated far apart from contact with the natives, to avoid a repetition of the bloodbath of August 22…

  Cabinda, August 29 (UP): Resident-General Bernard Cassou today refused to allow debarkation of trogs from four ships standing off Cabinda roadstead.

  Mont Blanc, September 2 (UP): The veil of secrecy at the experimental trog home was lifted a significant crack this morning, when the bodies of two trogs were taken down to Chamonix via the ski-lift…

  ******

  From The Trog Story, September 10, by Harlan B. Temple:

  “It is one a.m.; I’ve just come down from Camp No. 4. The trog columns have dwindled to a straggle of old, crippled, diseased. The stench is frightful…But why go on? Frankly, I’m heartsick. I wish I had never taken on this assignment. It’s doing something terrible to my soul; my hair is literally turning gray. I pause a moment, the noise of my typewriter stops, I listen to the vast murmur through the Kreuzertal; despondency, futility, despair come at me in a wave. Most of us here at Trog City, I think, feel the same.

  “There are now five or six million trogs in the camp; no one knows the exact count; no one even cares. The situation has passed that point. The flow has dwindled, one merciful dispensation—in fact, at Camp No. 4 you can hear the rumble of the lava rising into the trog caverns.

  “Morale is going from bad to worse here at Trog City. Every day a dozen of the unpaid volunteers throw up their hands, and go home. I can’t say as I blame them. Lord knows they’ve given the best they have, and no one backs them up. Everywhere in the world it’s the same story, with everyone pointing at someone else. It’s enough to make a man sick. In fact it has. I’m sick—desperately sick.

  “But you don’t read The Trog Story to hear me gripe. You want factual reporting. Very well, here it is. Big news today was that movement of trogs out of the camp to Trieste has been held up pending clarification of the Congo situation. Otherwise, everything’s the same here—hunger, smell, careless trogs dying of sunburn…”

  ******

  Headline in the New York Times, September 20:

  TROG QUOTA PROBLEM RETURNED TO

  STUDY GROUP FOR ADJUSTMENT

  ******

  From the U.P. Wire:

  Cabinda, September 25 (UP): Eight ships, loaded with 9,462 trog refugees, still wait at anchor, as native chieftains reiterated their opposition to trog immigration…

  Trog City, October 8 (UP): The trog migration is at its end. Yesterday for the first time no new trogs came up from below, leaving the estimated population of Trog City at six million.

  New York, October 13 (UP): Deadlock still grips the Trog Resettlement Committee, with the original positions, for the most part, unchanged. Densely populated countries claim they have no room and no jobs; the underdeveloped states insist that they have not enough money to feed their own mouths. The U.S., with both room and money, already has serious minority headaches and doesn’t want new ones…

  Chamonix, France, October 18 (UP): The Trog Experimental Station closed its doors yesterday, with one survivor of the original ten trogs riding the ski-lift back down the slopes of Mont Blanc.

  Dr. Sven Emeldson, director of the station, released the following statement: “Our work proves that the trogs, even if provided shelter adequate for a European, cannot stand the rigors of the North; they seem especially sensitive to pulmonary ailments…”

  New York, October 26 (UP): After weeks of acrimony, a revised set of trog immigration quotas was released for action by the U.N. Assembly. Typical figures are: USA 31%, USSR 16%, Canada 8%, Australia 8%, France 6%, Mexico 6%.

  New York, October 30 (UP): The USSR adamantly rejects the principle of U.N. checking of the trog resettlement areas inside the USSR…

  New York, October 31 (UP): Senator Bullrod of Mississippi today promised to talk till his “lungs came out at the elbows” before he would allow the Trog Resettlement Bill to come to a vote before the Senate. An informal check revealed insufficient strength to impose cloture…

  St. Arlberg, Austria, November 5 (UP): First snow of the season fell last night…

  Trog City, November 10 (UP): Last night, frost lay a sparkling sheath across the valley…

  Trog City, November 15 (UP): Trog sufferers from influenza
have been isolated in a special section…

  Buenos Aires, November 23 (UP): Dictator Peron today flatly refused to meet the Argentine quota of relief supplies to Trog City until some definite commitment has been made by the U.N…

  Trog City, December 2 (UP): Influenza following the snow and rain of the last week has made a new onslaught on the trogs; camp authorities are desperately trying to cope with the epidemic…

  Trog City, December 8 (UP): Two crematoriums, fired by fuel oil, are roaring full time in an effort to keep ahead of the mounting influenza casualties…

  ******

  From The Trog Story, December 13, by Harlan B. Temple:

  “This is it…”

  ******

  From the U.P. Wire:

  Los Angeles, December 14 (UP): The Christmas buying rush got under way early this year, in spite of unseasonably bad weather…

  Trog City, December 15 (UP): A desperate appeal for penicillin, sulfa, blankets, kerosene heaters, and trained personnel was sounded today by Camp Commandant Howard Kerkovits. He admitted that disease among the trogs was completely out of control, beyond all human power to cope with…

  ******

  From The Trog Story, December 23, by Harlan B. Temple:

  “I don’t know why I should be sitting here writing this, because—since there are no more trogs—there is no more trog story.”

  Noise

  I

  Captain Hess placed a notebook on the desk and hauled a chair up under his sturdy buttocks. Pointing to the notebook, he said, “That’s the property of your man Evans. He left it aboard the ship.”

  Galispell asked in faint surprise, “There was nothing else? No letter?”

  “No, sir, not a thing. That notebook was all he had when we picked him up.”

  Galispell rubbed his fingers along the scarred fibers of the cover. “Understandable, I suppose.” He flipped back the cover. “Hmmmm.”

  Hess said tentatively, “What’s been your opinion of Evans? Rather a strange chap?”

  “Howard Evans? No, not at all. He’s been a very valuable man to us.” He considered Captain Hess reflectively. “Exactly how do you mean ‘strange’?”

  Hess frowned, searching for the precise picture of Evans’ behavior. “I guess you might say erratic, or maybe emotional.”

  Galispell was genuinely startled. “Howard Evans?”

  Hess’ eyes went to the notebook. “I took the liberty of looking through his log, and—well—” “And you got the impression he was—strange.”

  Hess flushed stubbornly. “Maybe everything he writes is true. But I’ve been poking into odd corners of space all my life and I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Peculiar situation,” said Galispell in a neutral voice. He looked thoughtfully at the notebook.

  II

  Journal of Howard Charles Evans

  I commence this journal without pessimism but certainly without optimism. I feel as if I have already died once. My time in the lifeboat was at least a foretaste of death. I flew on and on through the dark, and a coffin could be only slightly more cramped. The stars were above, below, ahead, astern. I have no clock, and I can put no duration to my drifting. It was more than a week, it was less than a year.

  So much for space, the lifeboat, the stars. There are not too many pages in this journal. I will need them all to chronicle my life on this world which, rising up under me, gave me life.

  There is much to tell and many ways in the telling. There is myself, my own response to this rather dramatic situation. But lacking the knack for tracing the contours and contortions of my psyche, I will try to detail events as objectively as possible.

  I landed the lifeboat on as favorable a spot as I had opportunity to select. I tested the atmosphere, temperature, pressure and biology; then I ventured outside. I rigged an antenna and despatched my first SOS.

  Shelter is no problem; the lifeboat serves me as a bed, and, if necessary, a refuge. From sheer boredom later on I may fell a few of these trees and build a house. But I will wait; there is no urgency.

  A stream of pure water trickles past the lifeboat; I have abundant concentrated food. As soon as the hydroponic tanks begin to produce there will be fresh fruits and vegetables and yeast proteins—

  Survival seems no particular problem.

  The sun is a ball of dark crimson, and casts hardly more light than the full moon of Earth. The lifeboat rests on a meadow of thick black-green creeper, very pleasant underfoot. A hundred yards distant in the direction I shall call south lies a lake of inky water, and the meadow slopes smoothly down to the water’s edge. Tall sprays of rather pallid vegetation—I had best use the word ‘trees’—bound the meadow on either side.

  Behind is a hillside, which possibly continues into a range of mountains; I can’t be sure. This dim red light makes vision uncertain after the first few hundred feet.

  The total effect is one of haunted desolation and peace. I would enjoy the beauty of the situation if it were not for the uncertainties of the future.

  The breeze drifts across the lake, smelling pleasantly fragrant, and it carries a whisper of sound from off the waves.

  I have assembled the hydroponic tanks and set out cultures of yeast. I shall never starve nor die of thirst. The lake is smooth and inviting; perhaps in time I will build a little boat. The water is warm, but I dare not swim. What could be more terrible than to be seized from below and dragged under?

  There is probably no basis for my misgivings. I have seen no animal life of any kind: no birds, fish, insects, crustacea. The world is one of absolute quiet, except for the whispering breeze.

  The scarlet sun hangs in the sky, remaining in place during many of my sleeps. I see it is slowly westering; after this long day how long and how monotonous will be the night!

  I have sent off four SOS sequences; somewhere a monitor station must catch them.

  A machete is my only weapon, and I have been reluctant to venture far from the lifeboat. Today (if I may use the word) I took my courage in my hands and started around the lake. The trees are rather like birches, tall and supple. I think the bark and leaves would shine a clear silver in light other than this wine-colored gloom. Along the lakeshore they stand in a line, almost as if long ago they had been planted by a wandering gardener. The tall branches sway in the breeze, glinting scarlet with purple overtones, a strange and wonderful picture which I am alone to see.

  I have heard it said that enjoyment of beauty is magnified in the presence of others: that a mysterious rapport comes into play to reveal subtleties which a single mind is unable to grasp. Certainly as I walked along the avenue of trees with the lake and the scarlet sun behind, I would have been grateful for companionship—but I believe that something of peace, the sense of walking in an ancient abandoned garden, would be lost.

  The lake is shaped like an hour-glass; at the narrow waist I could look across and see the squat shape of the lifeboat. I sat down under a bush, which continually nodded red and black flowers in front of me.

  Mist fibrils drifted across the lake and the wind made low musical sounds.

  I rose to my feet, continued around the lake.

  I passed through forests and glades and came once more to my lifeboat.

  I went to tend my hydroponic tanks, and I think the yeast had been disturbed, prodded at curiously.

  The dark red sun is sinking. Every day—it must be clear that I use ‘day’ as the interval between my sleeps—finds it lower in the sky. Night is almost upon me, long night. How shall I spend my time in the dark?

  I have no gauge other than my mind, but the breeze seems colder. It brings long mournful chords to my ears, very sad, very sweet. Mist-wraiths go fleeting across the meadow.

  Wan stars already show themselves, nameless ghost-lamps without significance.

  I have been considering the slope behind my meadow; tomorrow I think I will make the ascent.

  I have plotted the position of every article I possess. I will be
gone some hours; and—if a visitor meddles with my goods, I will know his presence for certain.

  The sun is low, the air pinches at my cheeks. I must hurry if I wish to return while light still shows me the landscape. I picture myself lost; I see myself wandering the face of this world, groping for my precious lifeboat, my tanks, my meadow.

  Anxiety, curiosity, obstinacy all spurring me, I set off up the slope at a half-trot.

  Becoming winded almost at once, I slowed my pace. The turf of the lakeshore had disappeared; I was walking on bare rock and lichen. Below me the meadow became a patch, my lifeboat a gleaming spindle. I watched for a moment. Nothing stirred anywhere in my range of vision.

  I continued up the slope and finally breasted the ridge. A vast rolling valley fell off below me. Far away a range of great mountains stood into the dark sky. The wine-colored light slanting in from the west lit the prominences, the frontal sallies and bluffs, left the valleys in gloom: an alternate sequence of red and black beginning far in the west, continuing past, far to the east.