The Jack Vance Treasury

by Jack Vance

  Cugel drew a deep breath, took to his heels. Bubach Angh shouted an order to halt, but Cugel paid no heed. Across the barrens he raced, with the punitive committee in pursuit.

  Cugel laughed gleefully. He was long of limb, sound of wind; the peasants were stumpy, knot-muscled, phlegmatic. He could easily run two miles to their one. He paused, and turned to wave farewell. To his dismay two legs from the walking boat detached themselves and leapt after him. Cugel ran for his life. In vain. The legs came bounding past, one on either side. They swung around, kicked him to a halt.

  Cugel sullenly walked back, the legs hopping behind. Just before he reached the outskirts of Smolod he reached under the patch and pulled loose the magic cusp. As the punitive committee bore down on him, he held it aloft. “Stand back—or I break the cusp to fragments!”

  “Hold! Hold!” called Bubach Angh. “This must not be! Come, give me the cusp and accept your just deserts.”

  “Nothing has yet been decided,” Cugel reminded him. “The Chief Elder has ruled for no one.”

  The girl rose from her seat in the boat. “I will rule; I am Derwe Coreme, of the House of Domber. Give me the violet glass, whatever it is.”

  “By no means,” said Cugel. “Take the cusp from Bubach Angh.”

  “Never!” exclaimed the squire from Grodz.

  “What? You both have a cusp and both want two? What are these precious objects? You wear them as eyes? Give them to me.”

  Cugel drew his sword. “I prefer to run, but I fight if I must.”

  “I cannot run,” said Bubach Angh. “I prefer to fight.” He pulled the cusp from his own eye. “Now then, vagabond, prepare to die.”

  “A moment,” said Derwe Coreme. From one of the legs of the boat thin arms reached to seize the wrists of both Cugel and Bubach Angh. The cusps fell to earth; that of Cugel was caught and conveyed to Derwe Coreme; that of Bubach Angh struck a stone and shivered to fragments. He howled in anguish, leapt upon Cugel, who gave ground before the attack.

  Bubach Angh knew nothing of swordplay; he hacked and slashed as if he were cleaning fish. The fury of his attack, however, was unsettling and Cugel was hard put to defend himself. In addition to Bubach Angh’s sallies and slashes, Firx was deploring the loss of the cusp.

  Derwe Coreme had lost interest in the affair. The boat started off across the barrens, moving faster and ever faster. Cugel slashed out with his sword, leapt back, leapt back once more, and for the second time fled across the barrens, and the folk of Smolod and Grodz shouted curses after him.

  The boat-car jogged along at a leisurely rate. Lungs throbbing, Cugel gained upon it, and with a great bound leapt up, caught the downy gunwale, pulled himself astride.

  It was as he expected. Derwe Coreme had looked through the cusp and lay back in a daze. The violet cusp reposed in her lap.

  Cugel seized it then for a moment stared down into the exquisite face and wondered if he dared more. Firx thought not. Already Derwe Coreme was sighing and moving her head.

  Cugel leapt from the boat, and only just in time. Had she seen him? He ran to a clump of reeds which grew by a pond, flung himself in the water. From here he saw the walking-boat halt while Derwe Coreme rose to her feet. She felt through the pink down for the cusp, then she looked all around the countryside. But the blood-red light of the low sun was in her eyes when she looked toward Cugel, and she saw only the reeds and the reflection of sun on water.

  Angry and sullen as never before, she set the boat into motion. It walked, then cantered, then loped to the south.

  Cugel emerged from the water, inspected the magic cusp, tucked it into his pouch, looked back toward Smolod. He started to walk south, then paused. He took the cusp from his pocket, closed his left eye, held the cusp to his right. There rose the palaces, tier on tier, tower above tower, the gardens hanging down the terraces…Cugel would have stared a long time but Firx became restive.

  Cugel returned the cusp to his pouch and once again set his face to the south, for the long journey back to Almery.

  Afterword to “The Overworld”

  I was one of those precocious, highly intelligent kids, old beyond my years. I had lots of brothers and sisters, but I was isolated from them in a certain kind of way. I just read and read and read. One of the things I read was the old Weird Tales magazine, which published Clark Ashton Smith. He was one of the generative geniuses of fantasy…Smith is a little clumsy at times, but at least his prose is always readable.

  When I wrote my first fantasies, I was no longer aware of Smith—it had sunk so far into my subconscious. But when it was pointed out to me, I could very readily see the influence.

  —Jack Vance 1983

  The Men Return

  The Relict came furtively down the crag, a shambling gaunt creature with tortured eyes. He moved in a series of quick dashes using panels of dark air for concealment, running behind each passing shadow, at times crawling on all fours, head low to the ground. Arriving at the final low outcrop of rock, he haltedand peered across the plain.

  Far away rose low hills, blurring into the sky, which was mottled and sallow like poor milk-glass. The intervening plain spread like rotten velvet, black-green and wrinkled, streaked with ocher and rust. A fountain of liquid rock jetted high in the air, branched out into black coral. In the middle distance a family of gray objects evolved with a sense of purposeful destiny: spheres melted into pyramids, became domes, tufts of white spires, sky-piercing poles; then, as a final tour de force, tesseracts.

  The Relict cared nothing for this; he needed food and out on the plain were plants. They would suffice in lieu of anything better. They grew in the ground, or sometimes on a floating lump of water, or surrounding a core of hard black gas. There were dank black flaps of leaf, clumps of haggard thorn, pale green bulbs, stalks with leaves and contorted flowers. There were no recognizable species, and the Relict had no means of knowing if the leaves and tendrils he had eaten yesterday would poison him today.

  He tested the surface of the plain with his foot. The glassy surface (though it likewise seemed a construction of red and gray-green pyramids) accepted his weight, then suddenly sucked at his leg. In a frenzy he tore himself free, jumped back, squatted on the temporarily solid rock.

  Hunger rasped at his stomach. He must eat. He contemplated the plain. Not too far away a pair of Organisms played—sliding, diving, dancing, striking flamboyant poses. Should they approach he would try to kill one of them. They resembled men, and so should make a good meal.

  He waited. A long time? A short time? It might have been either; duration had neither quantitative nor qualitative reality. The sun had vanished, and there was no standard cycle or recurrence. ‘Time’ was a word blank of meaning.

  Matters had not always been so. The Relict retained a few tattered recollections of the old days, before system and logic had been rendered obsolete. Man had dominated Earth by virtue of a single assumption: that an effect could be traced to a cause, itself the effect of a previous cause.

  Manipulation of this basic law yielded rich results; there seemed no need for any other tool or instrumentality. Man congratulated himself on his generalized structure. He could live on desert, on plain or ice, in forest or in city; Nature had not shaped him to a special environment.

  He was unaware of his vulnerability. Logic was the special environment; the brain was the special tool.

  Then came the terrible hour when Earth swam into a pocket of non-causality, and all the ordered tensions of cause-effect dissolved. The special tool was useless; it had no purchase on reality. From the two billions of men, only a few survived—the mad. They were now the Organisms, lords of the era, their discords so exactly equivalent to the vagaries of the land as to constitute a peculiar wild wisdom. Or perhaps the disorganized matter of the world, loose from the old organization, was peculiarly sensitive to psycho-kinesis.

  A handful of others, the Relicts, managed to exist, but only through a delicate set of circumstances. They were the ones most str
ongly charged with the old causal dynamic. It persisted sufficiently to control the metabolism of their bodies, but could extend no further. They were fast dying out, for sanity provided no leverage against the environment. Sometimes their own minds sputtered and jangled, and they would go raving and leaping out across the plain.

  The Organisms observed with neither surprise nor curiosity; how could surprise exist? The mad Relict might pause by an Organism, and try to duplicate the creature’s existence. The Organism ate a mouthful of plant; so did the Relict. The Organism rubbed his feet with crushed water; so did the Relict. Presently the Relict would die of poison or rent bowels or skin lesions, while the Organism relaxed in the dank black grass. Or the Organism might seek to eat the Relict; and the Relict would run off in terror, unable to abide any part of the world—running, bounding, breasting the thick air; eyes wide, mouth open, calling and gasping until finally he foundered in a pool of black iron or blundered into a vacuum pocket, to bat around like a fly in a bottle.

  The Relicts now numbered very few. Finn, he who crouched on the rock overlooking the plain, lived with four others. Two of these were old men and soon would die. Finn likewise would die unless he found food.

  Out on the plain one of the Organisms, Alpha, sat down, caught a handful of air, a globe of blue liquid, a rock, kneaded them together, pulled the mixture like taffy, gave it a great heave. It uncoiled from his hand like rope. The Relict crouched low. No telling what deviltry would occur to the creature. He and all the rest of them—unpredictable! The Relict valued their flesh as food; but the Organisms would eat him if opportunity offered. In the competition he was at a great disadvantage. Their random acts baffled him. If, seeking to escape, he ran, the worst terror would begin. The direction he set his face was seldom the direction the varying frictions of the ground let him move. But the Organisms were as random and uncommitted as the environment, and the double set of disorders sometimes compounded, sometimes canceled each other. In the latter case the Organism might catch him…It was inexplicable. But then, what was not? The word ‘explanation’ had no meaning.

  They were moving toward him; had they seen him? He flattened himself against the sullen yellow rock.

  The two Organisms paused not far away. He could hear their sounds, and crouched, sick from conflicting pangs of hunger and fear.

  Alpha sank to his knees, lay flat on his back, arms and legs flung out at random, addressing the sky in a series of musical cries, sibilants, guttural groans. It was a personal language he had only now improvised, but Beta understood him well.

  “A vision,” cried Alpha. “I see past the sky. I see knots, spinning circles. They tighten into hard points; they will never come undone.”

  Beta perched on a pyramid, glanced over his shoulder at the mottled sky.

  “An intuition,” chanted Alpha, “a picture out of the other time. It is hard, merciless, inflexible.”

  Beta poised on the pyramid, dove through the glassy surface, swam under Alpha, emerged, lay flat beside him.

  “Observe the Relict on the hillside. In his blood is the whole of the old race—the narrow men with minds like cracks. He has exuded the intuition. Clumsy thing—a blunderer," said Alpha.

  “They are all dead, all of them,” said Beta. “Although three or four remain.” (When past, present and future are no more than ideas left over from another era, like boats on a dry lake—then the completion of a process can never be defined.)

  Alpha said, “This is the vision. I see the Relicts swarming the Earth; then whisking off to nowhere, like gnats in the wind. This is behind us.”

  The Organisms lay quiet, considering the vision.

  A rock, or perhaps a meteor, fell from the sky, struck into the surface of the pond. It left a circular hole which slowly closed. From another part of the pool a gout of fluid splashed into the air, floated away.

  Alpha spoke: “Again—the intuition comes strong! There will be lights in the sky.”

  The fever died in him. He hooked a finger into the air, hoisted himself to his feet.

  Beta lay quiet. Slugs, ants, flies, beetles were crawling on him, boring, breeding. Alpha knew that Beta could arise, shake off the insects, stride off. But Beta seemed to prefer passivity. That was well enough. He could produce another Beta should he choose, or a dozen of him. Sometimes the world swarmed with Organisms, all sorts, all colors, tall as steeples, short and squat as flower-pots. Sometimes they hid quietly in deep caves, and sometimes the tentative substance of Earth would shift, and perhaps one, or perhaps thirty, would be shut in the subterranean cocoon, and all would sit gravely waiting, until such time as the ground would open and they could peer blinking and pallid out into the light.

  “I feel a lack,” said Alpha. “I will eat the Relict.” He set forth, and sheer chance brought him near to the ledge of yellow rock. Finn the Relict sprang to his feet in panic.

  Alpha tried to communicate so that Finn might pause while Alpha ate. But Finn had no grasp for the many-valued overtones of Alpha’s voice. He seized a rock, hurled it at Alpha. The rock puffed into a cloud of dust, blew back into the Relict’s face.

  Alpha moved closer, extended his long arms. The Relict kicked. His feet went out from under him and he slid out on the plain. Alpha ambled complacently behind him. Finn began to crawl away. Alpha moved off to the right—one direction was as good as another. He collided with Beta, and began to eat Beta instead of the Relict. The Relict hesitated; then approached, and joining Alpha, pushed chunks of pink flesh into his mouth.

  Alpha said to the Relict, “I was about to communicate an intuition to him whom we dine upon. I will speak to you.”

  Finn could not understand Alpha’s personal language. He ate as rapidly as possible.

  Alpha spoke on. “There will be lights in the sky. The great lights.”

  Finn rose to his feet and warily watching Alpha, seized Beta’s legs, began to pull him toward the hill. Alpha watched with quizzical unconcern.

  It was hard work for the spindly Relict. Sometimes Beta floated; sometimes he wafted off on the air; sometimes he adhered to the terrain. At last he sank into a knob of granite which froze around him. Finn tried to jerk Beta loose, and then to pry him up with a stick, without success.

  He ran back and forth in an agony of indecision. Beta began to collapse, wither, like a jellyfish on hot sand. The Relict abandoned the hulk. Too late, too late! Food going to waste! The world was a hideous place of frustration!

  Temporarily his belly was full. He started back up the crag, and presently found the camp, where the four other Relicts waited—two ancient males, two females. The females, Gisa and Reak, like Finn, had been out foraging. Gisa had brought in a slab of lichen; Reak a bit of nameless carrion.

  The old men, Boad and Tagart, sat quietly waiting either for food or for death.

  The women greeted Finn sullenly. “Where is the food you went forth to find?”

  “I had a whole carcass,” said Finn. “I could not carry it.”

  Boad had slyly stolen the slab of lichen and was cramming it into his mouth. It came alive, quivered and exuded a red ichor which was poison, and the old man died.

  “Now there is food,” said Finn. “Let us eat.”

  But the poison created a putrescence; the body seethed with blue foam, flowed away of its own energy.

  The women turned to look at the other old man, who said in a quavering voice, “Eat me if you must—but why not choose Reak, who is younger than I?”

  Reak, the younger of the women, gnawing on the bit of carrion, made no reply.

  Finn said hollowly, “Why do we worry ourselves? Food is ever more difficult, and we are the last of all men.”

  “No, no,” spoke Reak, “not the last. We saw others on the green mound.”

  “That was long ago,” said Gisa. “Now they are surely dead.”

  “Perhaps they have found a source of food,” suggested Reak.

  Finn rose to his feet, looked across the plain. “Who knows? Perhaps there
is a more pleasant land beyond the horizon.”

  “There is nothing anywhere but waste and evil creatures,” snapped Gisa.

  “What could be worse than here?” Finn argued calmly.

  No one could find grounds for disagreement.

  “Here is what I propose,” said Finn. “Notice this tall peak. Notice the layers of hard air. They bump into the peak, they bounce off, they float in and out and disappear past the edge of sight. Let us all climb this peak, and when a sufficiently large bank of air passes, we will throw ourselves on top, and allow it to carry us to the beautiful regions which may exist just out of sight.”

  There was argument. The old man Tagart protested his feebleness; the women derided the possibility of the bountiful regions Finn envisioned, but presently, grumbling and arguing, they began to clamber up the pinnacle.

  It took a long time; the obsidian was soft as jelly and Tagart several times professed himself at the limit of his endurance. But still they climbed, and at last reached the pinnacle. There was barely room to stand. They could see in all directions, far out over the landscape, till vision was lost in the watery gray.

  The women bickered and pointed in various directions, but there was small sign of happier territory. In one direction blue-green hills shivered like bladders full of oil. In another direction lay a streak of black—a gorge or a lake of clay. In another direction were blue-green hills—the same they had seen in the first direction; somehow there had been a shift. Below was the plain, gleaming like an iridescent beetle, here and there pocked with black velvet spots, overgrown with questionable vegetation.