The World-Thinker and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

  Banks looked up suddenly; the intercom buzzer. He pressed the key.

  “Mr. Seth R. Framus is here, Mr. Banks,” came Lorraine’s voice.

  “Ask him to have a seat, please,” said Banks. “I’ll be with him in just one minute.”

  Lorraine, who had, “Please go right in, Mr. Framus,” formed on her lips, was startled. Mr. Framus himself looked a little surprised; nevertheless he took a seat with good grace, tapping at his knee with a folded newspaper.

  Banks returned to the manuscript.

  Sometimes it is very quiet [he read] but only when the Ego can dodge behind these viscous milky pillars I have mentioned. It is easily possible to become lost here, in a very mundane manner. What could be more ludicrous, more tragic? A prisoner of self, so to speak!

  Banks called through the intercom to Lorraine, “Get me the Smithsonian Institution.”

  “Yes, Mr. Banks,” said Lorraine, glancing to see if Seth R. Framus had heard. He had, and the tempo at which he tapped his knee with the newspaper increased.

  Banks leafed on through the pages.

  Naturally this never halted me. I steeled myself; I composed my nerves, my stomach. I continued. And here, as a footnote, may I mention that it is quite possible to come and go, returning with several of the red devices, many of them still warm.

  The telephone startled Banks. He answered with a trace of irritation: “Yes, Lorraine?”

  “The Smithsonian Institution, Mr. Banks.”

  “Oh…Hello? I’d like to speak to someone in the Department of Archives. Er—perhaps Mr. McIlwaine?”

  “Just a minute,” replied a female voice, “I’ll give you Mr. Crispin.”

  Mr. Crispin came on the line; Banks introduced himself. Mr. Crispin inquired how he could be of service.

  “I’d like to speak to Angus McIlwaine,” said Banks.

  Crispin asked in a puzzled voice, “McIlwaine? In what department?”

  “Archives, I believe.”

  “That’s odd…Of course we have a number of special projects going on—research teams and the like.”

  “Could you possibly make a check for me?”

  “Well, certainly, Mr. Banks, if it’s necessary.”

  “Will you do that please, and call me back collect? Or perhaps I can just hold the line.”

  “It’ll take five or ten minutes.”

  “That’s perfectly all right.”

  Banks turned the key on the intercom. “Keep an ear on the line, Lorraine, let me know when Crispin gets back on.”

  Lorraine glanced sideways at Seth R. Framus, whose mouth was showing taut lines of petulance. “Very well, Mr. Banks.”

  Seth R. Framus spoke in a polite voice, “What’s Mr. Banks got on with Smithsonian, if I may ask?”

  Lorraine said helplessly, “I’m really not sure, Mr. Framus…I guess it’s something pretty important; he gave me orders to show you right in.”

  “Mumph.” Mr. Framus opened his newspaper.

  Banks was now skimming the final pages: “And now—the inescapable conclusion. It is very simple; it can be seen that we are all victims of a gruesome joke—”

  He turned to the last page: “To demonstrate for yourself—”

  Lorraine buzzed him on the intercom. “Mr. Crispin is back on the line; and I think Mr. Framus is in a hurry, Mr. Banks.”

  “I’ll be right with Mr. Framus,” said Banks. “Ask him to be good enough to wait just a moment.” He spoke into the telephone: “Hello, Mr. Crispin?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Banks; we just don’t have an Angus McIlwaine with us.”

  Banks thoughtfully scratched his head. “There’s the possibility he’s using a pseudonym.”

  “In that case, I assume that he wishes to preserve his anonymity,” Crispin responded politely.

  “Tell me this: suppose I wrote to Angus McIlwaine, care of Archives, Smithsonian Institution. Who would get the letter?”

  Crispin laughed. “No one, Mr. Banks! You’d get it back! Because we just don’t have any McIlwaines. Unless, of course, whoever it is has made special arrangements…Now just a minute; maybe I know your man. That is, if it’s really a pseudonym.”

  “Fine. Will you connect me?”

  “Well, Mr. Banks, I think I’d better check first…Perhaps—Well, after all, perhaps he wants to retain his anonymity.”

  “Would you be good enough to find if Angus McIlwaine is his pseudonym; and if so, have him call me collect?”

  “Yes. I can do that, Mr. Banks.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  Banks hesitated by the intercom. He really should see Mr. Framus…but there wasn’t much left to the manuscript; he might as well skim through it…McIlwaine, whoever he was, was ripe for the booby-hatch—but he had a flair; a compelling urgent style. Banks had read a little—a very little—of abnormal psychology; he knew that hallucinations generated a frightening reality. McIlwaine doubtless had a dose of everything in the book…Well, thought Banks, just for ducks, let’s see how he recommends unmasking this “grisly joke on humanity”; let’s check the directions for exploring Masquerayne…

  To demonstrate the whole shoddy terrible trick is the task of few minutes—simple and certain. If you are daring—let us say, reckless—if you would tear the silken tissue that binds your eyes, do then as I say.

  First, obtain the following: a basin or carafe of clear water; six tumblers; six pins; a steel knitting needle; a four-foot square of dull black cardboard—

  Lorraine called in through the intercom. “Mr. Banks, Mr. Framus says—”

  “Ask him to wait,” said Banks rapidly. “Take a list, Lorraine. I want a quart of water in a glass jug—six glasses—a steel knitting needle—a sheet of black cardboard; get this from Art, dull, not gloss—a piece of white chalk—a can of ether—”

  “Did you say ether, Mr. Banks?”

  “Yes, I said ether.”

  Lorraine made a hasty notation; Banks continued down the list of his needs. “I need some red oil and some yellow oil. Get these from Art too. A dozen new nails; big ones. A bottle of perfume good and strong. And a pound of rice. Got that?”

  “A pound of rice, yes sir.”

  “What in thunder does he want with all that junk?” growled Framus.

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” said Lorraine a little breathlessly. “Will you excuse me, Mr. Framus? I’ve got to get this stuff.”

  She ran out of the room. Framus half-rose to his feet, undecided whether to stay or whether to stalk from the office. He slowly settled back, now slapping his knee with measured resonant blows. Fifteen more minutes!

  In the inner office, Banks came to the final sentence.

  Following these instructions will take you past the barriers of Sight, Direction, Confusion, and the Fallacy of Pain. You will find twin channels—advisedly I call them arteries—and either one will bring you safely inside the Cordon, and here you can watch the progressions, these events that fill you with disgust at the thought of returning, but from which you recoil in worse disgust.

  That was all. The finish.

  Lorraine came in with the equipment. A boy from the Art Department assisted her.

  “Mr. Banks,” said Lorraine, “maybe I shouldn’t mention this, but Mr. Framus is acting awful impatient.”

  “I’ll see him in just a minute,” muttered Banks. “One minute.”

  Lorraine returned to the outer office. Looking over her shoulder on the way out the door, she saw Banks pouring water into each of the glasses.

  Fifteen minutes were up. Seth R. Framus rose to his feet. “I’m sorry, Miss—I simply can’t wait any longer.”

  “Mr. Banks said he’d only be a minute, Mr. Framus,” said Lorraine anxiously. “I think it’s some kind of demonstration…”

  Framus said with quiet force, “I’ll wait exactly one more minute.” He took his place, and sat gripping the paper.

  The minute passed.

  “There’s a funny smell in here,” said Seth R. Framus. />
  Lorraine sniffed the air, and looked embarrassed. “It must be something on the wind—from the river…”

  “What’s that noise?” asked Framus, staring at Banks’ door.

  “I don’t know,” said Lorraine. “It doesn’t sound like Mr. Banks.”

  “Whatever it is,” said Framus, “I can’t wait.” He clapped his hat on his head. “Mr. Banks can call me when he’s free.”

  He left the office.

  Lorraine sat listening to the sounds from Banks’ office: a gurgling of water, mingled with a hissing, frying sound. Then came Banks’ voice, subdued and muffled; then a vague roaring sound, as if someone momentarily had opened the door into the engine room of a ship.

  Then a murmur, then quiet.

  The telephone rang. “Mr. Banks’ office,” said Lorraine.

  Mr. Crispin spoke. “Hello, please put Mr. Banks on the line. I’ve got the man he was looking for.”

  Lorraine buzzed Mr. Banks.

  “Hello, Mr. Banks?” a voice from Crispin’s end, the deepest, most melancholy voice Lorraine had ever heard.

  “He’s not on the line yet,” said Lorraine.

  “Tell him it’s Angus McIlwaine Hunter speaking.”

  “I will, Mr. Hunter, as soon as he comes on.” She buzzed again. “He doesn’t answer…I guess he’s stepped out for a minute.”

  “Well, it’s not too important. I wonder if he’s read my manuscript.”

  “I believe so, Mr. Hunter. He seemed fascinated with it.”

  “Good. Will you tell him that the last two pages will be along tomorrow? I foolishly omitted them, and they’re very important to the article—crucial, if I may say so…In the nature of an antidote…”

  “I’ll tell him, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  Lorraine once more buzzed Mr. Banks’ office, then went to the door, knocked, looked in. The stuff Mr. Banks had ordered was scattered around in an awful mess. Mr. Banks was gone. Probably stepped out for a cup of coffee.

  Lorraine went back to her desk, and sat waiting for Mr. Banks to return. After a while she brought out a file and began to work on her nails.

  The House Lords

  I

  The two men, with not a word spoken, had become very disturbed. Caffridge, the host, rose to his feet, took quick steps back and forth across the room. He went to the window, looked into the sky toward the distant star BGD 1169. The guest, Richard Emerson, was affected to an even greater degree. He sat back in his chair, face white, mouth loose, eyes wide and glistening.

  Nothing had been said and there was nothing visible to explain their emotion. They sat in an ordinary suburban living room, notable only for a profusion of curios, oddities and trinkets hanging on the walls, filling shelves, suspended from the ceiling.

  At a scratching sound, Caffridge turned from the window. He called sharply: “Sarvis!”

  The black and white cat, sharpening its claws on a carved column of exotic wood, laid its ears back, but continued to scratch.

  “You rascal!” Caffridge picked up the cat, hustled him outside through the cat’s special door. He returned to Emerson. “We seem to be thinking the same thought.”

  Emerson was gripping the arms of his chair. “How did I miss it before?” he muttered.

  “It’s a strange business,” said Caffridge. “I don’t know what we should do.”

  “It’s out of my hands now, thank heaven!” said Emerson in a hollow voice. And after a moment he added, “I won’t be going back into space. Not for many years.”

  Caffridge picked up the small white box which contained Emerson’s report. “Do you want to come along with me?”

  Emerson shook his head. “I’ve nothing more to say. I don’t want to see that again.” He nodded toward the box.

  “Very well,” said Caffridge gloomily. “I’ll show this to the Board tonight. After that—”

  Emerson smiled, weary and skeptical. “After that?”

  “Hanged if I can see what can be done. Or even what ought to be done. I suppose I’d better take it to someone in the government.”

  Sarvis the cat returned through its special door and sat quietly while Caffridge and Emerson considered their problem.

  II

  The Astrographical Society functioned as a non-profit organization, devoted to ex-terrestrial research and exploration. The dues paid in by a million active members were augmented by revenue from special patents and grants, licenses and counseling fees, with the result that over the years the Society had become very wealthy. A dozen spaceships carried the blue and green Astrographical chevron to remote places; the monthly publication was studied by school-children and savants alike; the Astrographical Museum housed a wonderful melange of objects gathered across the universe.

  In a specially equipped cupola on the roof of the museum the Board of Directors met once a month, to transact business and to watch and hear vitaliscope reports from research teams. Theodore Caffridge, Chairman of the Board, arriving at the meeting, dropped the box containing Team Commander Richard Emerson’s report into the vitaliscope mechanism. He stood silently, a tall somber figure, waiting while conversation around the table died.

  “Gentlemen,” said Caffridge in a dull monotone, “I have already examined this report. It is the strangest matter of my experience. I am seriously disturbed, and I may remark that Commander Emerson shares my feeling.”

  He paused. The Directors looked at him curiously. “Good Heavens, Caffridge,” spoke one, “you sound positively lugubrious.”

  Another attempted jocularity. “What’s the trouble? An invasion of Earth by robots?”

  “I wish it were as simple,” said Caffridge.

  “What, then?” “Come, Caffridge, don’t be mysterious!” “Let’s hear it, Theodore!”

  Caffridge smiled the faintest, most remote smile possible. “The report is here; you can see for yourselves.”

  He touched a switch; the walls of the room dissolved into gray mist; colors swirled and cleared. The Board of Directors became a cluster of invisible eyes and ears in the cabin of the spaceship Gaea. Their vantage point was the recording globe at the peak of Emerson’s helmet. They saw what he saw, heard what he heard.

  Emerson’s voice came from a speaker. “We are in orbit over Planet 2 of Star BGD 1169, in Argo Navis IV. We were attracted here by a series of pulses radiating in the c3 phase. These would seem to indicate a highly organized technical civilization, so naturally we stopped to investigate.”

  The images around the walls of the Directors’ Room shifted, as Emerson stepped up into the control pulpit. Through the observation port the Directors could see a world swinging below, in the full light of an invisible sun.

  Emerson detailed the physical characteristics of the world, which resembled those of Earth. “The atmosphere seems breathable; there is vegetation roughly comparable to our own.”

  Emerson approached the telescreen; again the images around the walls shifted. “The signals had led us to expect some sort of intelligent occupancy. We were not disappointed. The autochthones live, not in organized settlements, but in isolated dwellings. For lack of a better word, we’ve been calling them palaces.” Emerson adjusted a dial on the console; the view on the telescreen expanded enormously; the Directors were looking into a forest dense as a jungle. The view shifted across the treetops to a clearing about a mile in diameter. The ‘palace’ occupied the center of the clearing—a dozen tall walls, steep and high as cliffs, joining apparently at random. They were constructed of some shimmering metalloid substance, and open to the sky. No portals or apertures were visible.

  “That’s about all the detail I can pick up from this altitude,” came Emerson’s voice. “Notice the absence of roof, the apparent lack of interior furnishing. It hardly seems a dwelling. Notice also how the clearing is landscaped—like a formal garden.”

  He backed away from the telescreen; the Directors once more sat in the cabin of the Gaea. “We have been broadcastin
g international symbols on all bands,” said Emerson. “So far there has been no response. I think that we will set down in that clearing. There is an element of risk attached, but I believe that a race apparently so sophisticated will neither be surprised nor shocked by the appearance of a strange spaceship.”

  III

  The Gaea settled into the atmosphere of BGD 1169-2, and the hull shivered to the slur of the thin gas whipping past.

  Emerson spoke into the vitaliscope pickup, noting that the ship hovered above the area previously observed and was about to land.

  The bumpers struck solid ground; there was a momentary fluctuation as the stabilizers took hold, then a sense of anchorage. Automatic switches cut off impulsion; the half-heard whine died down the scale into silence. The crew stood at the observation posts, staring out over the clearing.

  At the center rose the ‘palace’—the tall planes of glistening metalloid. Even from this close view, no openings, no windows, doors, vents could be seen.

  The grounds surrounding the palace were carefully tended. Avenues of white-trunked trees held square black leaves large as trays turned up to the sun. There were irregular beds of black moss, feathery maroon ferns, fluffy pink and white growths like cotton candy. In the background rose the forest—a tangle of blue-green trees and broad-leaved shrubs, red, black, gray, and yellow.

  Inside the Gaea the crew stood by the ports, ready to depart at any sign of hostility.

  The palace remained quiet.

  Half an hour passed. A small shape appeared briefly outside the wall of the palace. Cope, the young third officer, saw it first and called to Emerson. “Look there!”

  Emerson focussed the telescopic bull’s eye. “It’s a child—a human child!”

  The crew came to stare. Intelligent life among the stars was a rarity; to find such life in the human mold was cause for astonishment.