The Narrow Land

by Jack Vance

  Off careened the spaceboat, dodging through the forest of glittering black spines, now hundreds of miles tall, swerving a thousand miles to escape the great slug falling inexorably to the surface of Markavvel. As the ship darted free into space, Lanarck looked back to see the slug sprawled across half a hemisphere. It writhed, impaled on the tall black spikes.

  Lanarck drove the spaceboat at full speed toward the landmark star. Blue and luminous it shone, the only steadfast object in the heavens. All else poured in turbulent streams through black space: motes eddying in a pool of ink.

  Lanarck looked briefly toward Jiro, and spoke. "Just when I decided that nothing else could surprise me, Isabel May died, while you, Jiro the Gahadionite, are alive." "I am Isabel May. You knew already." "I knew, yes, because it was the only possibility." He put his hand against the hull. The impersonal metallic feel had altered to a warm vitality. "Now, if we escape from this mess, it'll be a miracle."

  Changes came quickly. The controls atrophied; the ports grew dull and opaque, like cartilage. Engines and fittings became voluted organs; the walls were pink moist flesh, pulsing regularly. From outside came a sound like the snapping of pinions; about their feet swirled dark liquid. Lanarck, pale, shook his head. Isabel pressed close to him. "We're in the stomach of-something." Isabel made no answer.

  A sound like a cork popped from a bottle, a gush of gray light. Lanarck had guided the spaceboat aright; it had continued into the sane universe and its own destruction.

  The two Earth creatures found themselves stumbling on the floor of Laoome's dwelling. At first they could not comprehend their deliverance; safety seemed but another shifting of scenes. Lanarck regained his equilibrium. He helped Isabel to feet; together they surveyed Laoome, who was still in midst of his spasm. Rippling tremors ran along his hide, the saucer eyes were blank and glazed.

  "Let's go!" whispered Isabel.

  Lanarck silently took her arm; they stepped out on the glaring wind-whipped plain. There stood the two spaceboats just as before. Lanarck guided Isabel to his craft, opened the port and motioned her inside. "I'm going back for one moment." .

  Lanarck locked the power-arm. "Just to guard against any new surprises."

  Isabel said nothing.

  Walking around to the spaceboat in which Isabel May had arrived, Lanarck similarly locked the mechanism. Then he crossed to the white concrete structure.

  Isabel listened, but the moaning of the wind drowned all other sounds. The chatter of a needle-beam? She could not be sure.

  Lanarck emerged from the building. He climbed into boat and slammed the port. They sat in silence as the thrust tubes warmed, nor did they speak as he threw over the power-arm and the boat slanted off into the sky.

  Not until they were far off in space did either of themspeak. Lanarck looked toward Isabel. "How did you know Laoome?"

  "Through my father. Twenty years ago he did Laoome some trifling favor-killed a lizard which had been annoyi Laoome, or something of the sort."

  "And that's why Laoome shielded you from me by creating the dream Isabel?"

  "Yes. He told me you were coming down looking for me. He arranged that you should meet a purported Isabel May that I might assess you without your knowledge."

  "Why don't you look more like the photograph?"

  "I was furious; I'd been crying; I was practically gnashing my teeth. I certainly hope I don't look like that"

  "How about your hair?"

  "It's bleached."

  "Did the other Isabel know your identity?"

  "I don't think so. No, I know she didn't. Laoome equip her with my brain and all its memories. She actually was I."

  Lanarck nodded. Here was the source of the inklings recognition. He said thoughtfully: "She was very perceptive. She said that you and I were, well, attracted to each other. I Wonder if she was right"

  "I wonder."

  'There will be time to consider the subject... . One last point: the documents, with the over-ride."

  Isabel laughed cheerfully. "There aren't any documents."

  "No documents?"

  "None. Do you care to search me?"

  "Where are the documents?"

  "Document, in the singular. A slip of paper. I tore it up."

  "What was on the paper?"

  "The over-ride. I'm the only person alive who knows it. Don't you think I should keep the secret to myself?"

  Lanarck reflected a moment. "I'd like to know. That kind of knowledge is always useful."

  "Where is the hundred million dollars you promised me?"

  "It's back on Earth. When we get there you can use the over-ride."

  Isabel laughed. "You're a most practical man. What happened to Laoome?"

  "Laoome is dead."

  "How?"

  "I destroyed him. I thought of what we just went through, his dream-creatures-were they real? They seemed real to me and to themselves. Is a person responsible for what happens during a nightmare? I don't know. I obeyed my instincts, or conscience, whatever it's called, and killed him."

  Isabel May took his hand. "My instincts tell me that I can trust you. The over-ride is a couplet:

  "Tom, Tom, the piper's son Stole a pig and away he run."

  Lanarck reported to Cardale. "I am happy to inform you that the affair is satisfactorily concluded." Cardale regarded him skeptically. "What do you mean by that?"

  "The over-ride is safe." "Indeed? Safe where?"

  "I thought it best to consult with you before carrying the over-ride on my person."

  "That is perhaps over-discreet. What of Isabel May? Is she in custody?"

  "In order to get the over-ride I had to make broad but reasonable concessions, including a full pardon, retraction of all charges against her, and official apologies as well as retributive payments for false arrest and general damages. She wants an official document, certifying these concessions. If you will prepare the document, I will transmit it, and the affair will be terminated."

  Cardale said in a cool voice: "Who authorized you to make such far-reaching concessions?"

  Lanarck spoke indifferently. "Do you want the over-ride?"

  "Of course."

  "Then do as I suggest."

  "You're even more arrogant than Detering led me to expect."

  "The results speak for themselves, sir."

  "How do I know that she won't use the over-ride?"

  "You can now call it up and change it, so I'm given to understand."

  "How do I know that she hasn't used it already, to the hilt?"

  "I mentioned compensatory payments. The adjustment has been made."

  Cardale ran his fingers through his hair. "How much damages?"

  "The amount is of no great consequence. If Isabel May had chosen to make intemperate demands, they would only partially balance the damage she has suffered."

  "So you say." Cardale could not decide whether to bluster, to threaten, or to throw his hands in the air. At last he leaned back in his chair. "I'll have the document ready tomorrow and you can bring in the over-ride."

  "Very well, Mr. Cardale."

  "I'd still like to know, unofficially, if you like, just how much she took in settlement."

  "We requisitioned a hundred and one million, seven hundred and sixty-two dollars into a set of personal accounts."

  Cardale stared. "I thought you said that she'd made an intemperate settlement!"

  "It seemed as easy to ask for a large sum as a small."

  "No doubt even easier. It's a strange figure. Why seven hundred and sixty-two dollars?"

  "That, sir, is money owing to me for which the bursar refuses to issue a voucher. It represents expenses in a previous case: bribes, liquor and the services of a prostitute, if you want the details."

  "And why the million extra?"

  "That represents a contingency fund for my own convenience, so that I won't be harassed in the future. In a quiet and modest sense it also reflects my annoyance with the bursar."

  Lanarck ros
e to his feet. "I'll see you tomorrow"

  "a|t the same time, sir."

  "Until tomorrow, Lanarck."

  Green Magic

  Howard Fair, looking over the relics of his great uncle Gerald Mclntyre, found a large ledger entitled:

  WORKBOOK & JOURNAL Open at Peril!

  Fair read the journal with interest, although his own work went far beyond ideas treated only gingerly by Gerald Mclntyre.

  "The existence of disciplines concentric fo the elementary magics must now be admitted without further controversy,' wrote Mclntyre. "Guided by a set of analogies from the white and black magics (to be detailed in due course), I have! delineated the basic extension of purple magic, as well as its corollary, Dynamic Nomism."

  Fair read on, remarking the careful charts, the projections and expansions, the transportations and transformations by which Gerald Mclntyre had conceived his systemology. So swiftly had the technical arts advanced that Mclntyre's expositions, highly controversial sixty years before, now seemed pedantic and overly rigorous.

  "Whereas benign creatures: angels, white sprites, merri-hews, sandestins-are typical of the white cycle; whereas demons, magners, trolls and warlocks are evinced by black magic; so do the purple and green cycles sponsor their own particulars, but these are neither good nor evil, bearing, rather, the same relation to the black and white provinces that these latter do to our own basic realm." Fair reread the passage. The "green cycle"? Had Gerald Mclntyre wandered into regions overlooked by modern workers?

  He reviewed the journal in the light of this suspicion, and discovered additional hints and references. Especially provocative was a bit of scribbled marginalia: "More concerning my latest researches I may not state, having been promised an infinite reward for this forbearance."

  The passage was dated a day before Gerald Mclntyre's death, which had occurred on March 21, 1898, the first day of spring. Mclntyre had enjoyed very little of his infinite reward," whatever had been its nature... . Fair returned to a consideration of the journal, which, in a sentence or two, had opened a chink on an entire new panorama. Mclntyre provided no further illumination, and Fair set out to make a fuller investigation.

  His first steps were routine. He performed two divinations, searched the standard indexes, concordances, handbooks and formularies, evoked a demon whom he had previously found knowledgeable: all without success. He found no direct reference to cycles beyond the purple; the demon refused even to speculate.

  Fair was by no means discouraged; if anything, the intensity of his interest increased. He reread the journal, with particular care to the justification for purple magic, reasoning that Mclntyre, groping for a lore beyond the purple, might well have used the methods which had yielded results before. Applying stains and ultraviolet light to the pages, Fair made legible a number of notes Mclntyre had jotted down, then erased.

  Fair was immensely stimulated. The notes assured him that he was on the right track, and further indicated a number of blind alleys which Fair profited by avoiding. He applied himself so successfully that before the week was out he had evoked a sprite of the green cycle.

  It appeared in the semblance of a man with green glass eyes and a thatch of young eucalyptus leaves in the place of hair. It greeted Fair with cool courtesy, would not seat itself, and ignored Fair's proffer of coffee.

  After wandering around the apartment inspecting Fair's books and curios with an air of negligent amusement, it agreed to respond to Fair's questions.

  Fair asked permission to use his tape-recorder, which the sprite allowed, and Fair set the apparatus in motion. (When subsequently he replayed the interview, no sound could be heard.)

  "What realms of magic lie beyond the green?" asked Fair.

  "I can't give you an exact answer," replied the sprite, "because I don't know. There are at least two more, corresponding to the colors we call rawn and pallow, and very likely others."

  Fair arranged the microphone where it would directly intercept the voice of the sprite.

  "What," he asked, "is the green cycle like? What is physical semblance?"

  The sprite paused to consider. Glistening mother-of-pearl films wandered across its face, reflecting the tinge of its' thoughts. "I'm rather severely restricted by your use of word 'physical.' And 'semblance' involves a subjective interpretation, which changes with the rise and fall of the seconds.

  "By all means," Fair said hastily, "describe it in your words."

  "Well-we have four different regions, two of which floresce from the basic skeleton of the universe, and subsede the others. The first of these is compressed and ishthiated, but is notable for its wide pools of mottle which we sometimes use for deranging stations. We've transplated mosses from Earth's Devonian and a few ice-fires from Perdition. They climb among the rods which we call devil-hair-he went on for several minutes but the meaning almost entirely escaped Fair. And it seemed as if the question by which he had hoped to break the ice might run away with the the entire interview. He introduced another idea.

  "Can we freely manipulate the physical extensions Earth?"

  The sprite seemed amused. "You refer, so I assume, to the various aspects of space, tune, mass, energy, thought and recollections."

  "Exactly."

  The sprite -raised its green corn-silk eyebrows. "I might sensibly ask can you break an egg by striking it with a club. The response is on a similar level of seriousness."

  Fair had expected a certain amount of condescension and impatience, and was not abashed. "How may I learn that techniques?"

  "In the usual manner: through diligent study." "Ah, indeed-but where could I study? Who would teach me?"

  The sprite made an easy gesture, and whorls of smoke trailed from his fingers to spin through the air. I could arrange the matter, but since I bear you no particular animosity, I'll do nothing of the sort. And now, I must gone."

  "Where do you go?" Fair asked in wonder and longing. "May I go with you?"

  The sprite, swirling a drape of bright green dust over its shoulders, shook his head. "You would be less than comfortable."

  "Other men have explored the worlds of magic!"

  "True: your uncle Gerald Mclntyre, for instance."

  "My uncle Gerald learned green magic?"

  To the limit of his capabilities. He found no pleasure in learning. You would do well to profit by his experience and modify your ambitions." The sprite turned and walked away.

  Fair watched it depart. The sprite receded in space and direction, but never reached the wall of Fair's room. At a distance which might have been fifty yards, the sprite glanced back, as if to make sure that Fair was not following, then 'Stepped off at another angle and disappeared.

  Fair's first impulse was to take heed and limit his explorations. He was an adept in white magic, and had mastered the black art - occasionally he evoked a demon to liven a social gathering which otherwise threatened to become dull -but he had by no means illuminated every mystery of purple magic, which is the realm of Incarnate Symbols.

  Howard Fair might have turned away from the green cycle except for three factors.

  First was his physical appearance. He stood rather under medium height, with a swarthy face, sparse black hair, a gnarled nose, a small heavy mouth. He felt no great sensitivity about his appearance, but realized that it might be improved. In his mind's eye he pictured the personified ideal of himself: he was taller by six inches, his nose thin and keen, his skin cleared of its muddy undertone. A striking figure, but still recognizable as Howard Fair. He wanted the love of women, but he wanted it without the interposition of his craft. Many times he had brought beautiful girls to his bed, lips wet and eyes shining; but purple magic had seduced them rather than Howard Fair, and he took limited satisfaction in such conquests.

  Here was the first factor which drew Howard Fan back to the green lore; the second was his yearning for extended, perhaps eternal, life; the third was simple thirst for knowledge.

  The fact of Gerald Mclntyre's dea
th, or dissolution, or disappearance-whatever had happened to him-was naturally a matter of concern. If he had won to a goal so precious, why had he died so quickly? Was the "infinite reward" miraculous, so exquisite, that the mind failed under its session? (If such was the case, the reward was hardly a reward.)

  Fair could not restrain himself, and by degrees returned to a study of green magic. Rather than again invoke the sprite, whose air of indulgent contempt he had found exasperating he decided to seek knowledge by an indirect method, employing the most advanced concepts of technical and cabalistil science.

  He obtained a portable television transmitter which he loaded into his panel truck along with a receiver. On a Monday night in early May he drove to an abandoned graveyard far out in the wooded hills, and, there by the laight of the wandering moon, he buried the television camera in graveyard clay until only the television camera protruded from the soil.

  With a sharp alder twig he scratched on the ground a monstrous outline. The television lens served for one eye, a beer bottle pushed neck-first into the soil the other.

  During the middle hours, while the moon died behind wisps of pale cloud, he carved a word on the dark forehead then recited the activating incantation.

  The ground rumbled and moaned, the golem heaved up to blot out the stars.

  The glass eyes stared down at Fair, secure in his pentagon. "Speak!" called out Fair. "Enteresthes, Akmai Adonai! Bidemigir, Elohim, pa rahulli! Enteresthes, HVOI. Speak!"

  "Return me to earth, return my clay to the quiet clay from whence you roused me."

  "First you must serve."

  The golem stumbled forward to crush Fair, but was halted by the pang of protective magic.

  "Serve you I will, if serve you I must."

  Fair stepped boldly forth from the pentagon, strung forty yards of green ribbon down the road in the" shape of a narrow V. "Go forth into the realm of green magic," he told the monster. "The ribbons reach forty miles, walk to the end, turn about, return, and then fall back, return to the earth from which you rose."