The Jack Vance Treasury

by Jack Vance

  With a tight mouth Prime inquired, “Who is this paragon of altruism, kindliness, sympathy and generosity?”

  The lunatic wandered close, fell on his hands and knees, crawled whimpering to the wall. He pressed his face to the cool stone, stared blankly up at Prime. His mouth hung loose, his chin was wet, his eyes rolled apparently free of each other.

  The Chief Elder smiled in great compassion; he stroked the mad creature’s head. “This is he. Here is the man we select.”

  The old Galactic Prime sat silent, mouth compressed, eyes burning like far volcanoes.

  At his feet the new Prime, Lord of Two Billion Suns, found a dead leaf, put it into his mouth, and began to chew.

  Afterword to “The New Prime”

  Science fiction in the far to medium distant past concerned itself with scientific processes, or the consequences of some scientific quirk. Often the writers were pretty much ahead of the scientists. They “invented” any number of things which today are showing up around us. As of today, “science” is so vast in scope that no writer—unless he makes it his full-time job—can keep up.

  Unless he confines himself to generalities, the producing writer can make terrible blunders if he tries to deal too intimately with “modern science.” For instance, if I were to write a story where the gimmick was the behavior of “quarks” or the various kinds of “charm”—I’d just be using jargon. It’s not much fun doing that. That is just one aspect—point A. Point B is that many stories of the 40’s and 50’s, some of my own included, often used little known or misunderstood facts of science to provide the denouement of the story. I remember once using superconductivity in this manner. This isn’t a very firm foundation for a story. Readers today are not so interested in these tricks. They’re amusing, but they certainly can’t provide the basis for an extended work. What a reader wants is to discover a situation with which he can identify. So in this case, that old-type science fiction story—the idea story—falls flat.

  —Jack Vance 1977

  The Secret

  Sunbeams slanted through chinks in the wall of the hut; from the lagoon came shouts and splashing of the village children. Rona ta Inga at last opened his eyes. He had slept far past his usual hour of arising, far into the morning. He stretched his legs, cupped hands behind his head, stared absently up at the ceiling of thatch. In actuality he had awakened at the usual hour, to drift off again into a dreaming doze—a habit to which lately he had become prone. Only lately. Inga frowned and sat up with a jerk. What did this mean? Was it a sign? Perhaps he should inquire from Takti Tai…But it was all so ridiculous. He had slept late for the most ordinary of reasons: he enjoyed lazing and drowsing and dreaming.

  On the mat beside him were crumpled flowers, where Mai Mio had lain. Inga gathered the blossoms and laid them on the shelf which held his scant possessions. An enchanting creature, this Mai Mio. She laughed no more and no less than other girls; her eyes were like other eyes, her mouth like all mouths; but her quaint and charming mannerisms made her absolutely unique: the single Mai Mio in all the universe. Inga had loved many maidens. All in some way were singular, but Mai Mio was a creature delightfully, exquisitely apart from the others. There was considerable difference in their ages. Mai Mio only recently had become a woman—even now from a distance she might be mistaken for a boy—while Inga was older by at least five or six seasons. He was not quite sure. It mattered little in any event. It mattered very little, he told himself again, quite emphatically. This was his village, his island; he had no desire to leave. Ever!

  The children came up the beach from the lagoon. Two or three darted under his hut, swinging on one of the poles, chanting nonsense-words. The hut trembled; the outcry jarred upon Inga’s nerves. He shouted in irritation. The children became instantly silent, in awe and astonishment, and trotted away looking over their shoulders.

  Inga frowned; for the second time this morning he felt dissatisfied with himself. He would gain an unenviable reputation if he kept on in such a fashion. What had come over him? He was the same Inga that he was yesterday…Except for the fact that a day had elapsed and he was a day older.

  He went out on the porch before his hut, stretched in the sunlight. To right and left were forty or fifty other such huts as his own, with intervening trees; ahead lay the lagoon blue and sparkling in the sunlight. Inga jumped to the ground, walked to the lagoon, swam, dived far down among the glittering pebbles and ocean growths which covered the lagoon floor. Emerging he felt relaxed and at peace—once more himself: Rona ta Inga, as he had always been, and always would be!

  Squatting on his porch he breakfasted on fruit and cold baked fish from last night’s feast and considered the day ahead. There was no urgency, no duty to fulfil, no need to satisfy. He could join the party of young bucks now on their way into the forest, hoping to snare fowl. He could fashion a brooch of carved shell and goana-nut for Mai Mio. He could lounge and gossip; he could fish. Or he could visit his best friend Takti Tai, who was building a boat. Inga rose to his feet. He would fish. He walked along the beach to his canoe, checked equipment, pushed off, paddled across the lagoon to the opening in the reef. The winds blew to the west as always. Leaving the lagoon Inga turned a swift glance downwind—an almost furtive glance—then bent his neck into the wind and paddled east.

  Within the hour he had caught six fine fish, and drifted back along the reef to the lagoon entrance. Everyone was swimming when he returned. Maidens, young men, children. Mai Mio paddled to the canoe, hooked her arms over the gunwales, grinned up at him, water glistening on her cheeks. “Rona ta Inga! did you catch fish? Or am I bad luck?”

  “See for yourself.”

  She looked. “Five—no, six! All fat silver-fins! I am good luck! May I sleep often in your hut?”

  “So long as I catch fish the following day.”

  She dropped back into the water, splashed him, sank out of sight. Through the undulating surface Inga could see her slender brown form skimming off across the bottom. He beached the canoe, wrapped the fish in big sipi-leaves and stored them in a cool cistern, then ran down to the lagoon to join the swimming.

  Later he and Mai Mio sat in the shade; she plaiting a decorative cord of coloured bark which later she would weave into a basket; he leaning back, looking across the water. Artlessly Mai Mio chattered—of the new song Ama ta Lalau had composed, of the odd fish she had seen while swimming underwater, of the change which had come over Takti Tai since he had started building his boat.

  Inga made an absent-minded sound, but said nothing.

  “We have formed a band,” Mai Mio confided. “There are six of us: Ipa, Tuiti, Hali sai Iano, Zoma, Oiu Ngo and myself. We have pledged never to leave the island. Never, never, never. There is too much joy here. Never will we sail west—never. Whatever the secret, we do not wish to know.”

  Inga smiled, a rather wistful smile. “There is much wisdom in the pledge you have made.”

  She stroked his arm. “Why do you not join us in our pledge? True, we are six girls—but a pledge is a pledge.”

  “True.”

  “Do you want to sail west?”

  “No.”

  Mai Mio excitedly rose to her knees. “I will call together the band, and all of us, all together: we will recite the pledge again, never will we leave our island! And to think, you are the oldest of all the village!”

  “Takti Tai is older,” said Inga.

  “But Takti Tai is building his boat! He hardly counts any more!”

  “Vai Ona is as old as I. Almost as old.”

  “Do you know something? Whenever Vai Ona goes out to fish, he always looks to the west. He wonders.”

  “Everyone wonders.”

  “Not I!” Mai Mio jumped to her feet. “Not I—not any of the band. Never, never, never—never will we leave the island! We have pledged ourselves!” She reached down, patted Inga’s cheek, ran off to where a group of her friends were sharing a basket of fruit.

  Inga sat quietly for five minutes. T
hen he made an impatient gesture, rose and walked along the shore to the platform where Takti Tai worked on his boat. This was a catamaran with a broad deck, a shelter of woven withe thatched with sipi-leaf, a stout mast. In silence Inga helped Takti Tai shape the mast, scraping a tall well-seasoned pasiao-tui sapling with sharp shells. Inga presently paused, laid aside the shell. He said, “Long ago there were four of us. You, me, Akara and Zan. Remember?”

  Takti Tai continued to scrape. “Of course I remember.”

  “One night we sat on the beach around a fire—the four of us. Remember?”

  Takti Tai nodded.

  “We pledged never to leave the island. We swore never to weaken, we spilled blood to seal the pact. Never would we sail west.”

  “I remember.”

  “Now you sail,” said Inga. “I will be the last of the group.”

  Takti Tai paused in his scraping, looked at Inga, as if he would speak, then bent once more over the mast. Inga presently returned up the beach to his hut, where squatting on the porch he carved at the brooch for Mai Mio.

  A youth came to sit beside him. Inga, who had no particular wish for companionship, continued with his carving. But the youth, absorbed in his own problems, failed to notice. “Advise me, Rona ta Inga. You are the oldest of the village and very sage.”

  Inga raised his eyebrows, then scowled, but said nothing.

  “I love Hali sai Iano, I long for her desperately, but she laughs at me and runs off to throw her arms about the neck of Hopu. What should I do?”

  “The situation is quite simple,” said Inga. “She prefers Hopu. You need merely select another girl. What of Talau Io? She is pretty and affectionate, and seems to like you.”

  The youth vented a sigh. “Very well. I will do as you suggest. After all, one girl is much like another.” He departed, unaware of the sardonic look Inga directed at his back. He asked himself, why do they come to me for advice? I am only two or three, or at most four or five, seasons their senior. It is as if they think me the fount and source of all sagacity!

  During the evening a baby was born. The mother was Omei Ni Io, who for almost a season had slept in Inga’s hut. Since it was a boy-child she named it Inga ta Omei. There was a naming ceremony at which Inga presided. The singing and dancing lasted until late, and if it were not for the fact that the child was his own, with his name, Inga would have crept off early to his hut. He had attended many naming ceremonies.

  A week later Takti Tai sailed west, and there was a ceremony of a different sort. Everyone came to the beach to touch the hull of the boat and bless it with water. Tears ran freely down all cheeks, including Takti Tai’s. For the last time he looked around the lagoon, into the faces of those he would be leaving. Then he turned, signaled; the young men pushed the boat away from the beach, then jumping into the water, towed it across the lagoon, guided it out into the ocean. Takti Tai cut brails, tightened halyards; the big square sail billowed in the wind. The boat surged west. Takti Tai stood on the platform, gave a final flourish of the hand, and those on the beach waved farewell. The boat moved out into the afternoon, and when the sun sank, it could be seen no more.

  During the evening meal the talk was quiet; everyone stared into the fire. Mai Mio finally jumped to her feet. “Not I,” she chanted. “Not I—ever, ever, ever!”

  “Nor I,” shouted Ama ta Lalau, who of all the youths was the most proficient musician. He reached for the guitar which he had carved from a black soa-gum trunk, struck chords, began to sing.

  Inga watched quietly. He was now the oldest on the island, and it seemed as if the others were treating him with a new respect. Ridiculous! What nonsense! So little older was he that it made no difference whatever! But he noticed that Mai Mio was laughingly attentive to Ama ta Lalau, who responded to the flirtation with great gallantry. Inga watched with a heavy feeling around the heart, and presently went off to his hut. That night, for the first time in weeks Mai Mio did not sleep beside him. No matter, Inga told himself: one girl is much like another.

  The following day he wandered up the beach to the platform where Takti Tai had built his boat. The area was clean and tidy, and tools were hung carefully in a nearby shed. In the forest beyond grew fine makara trees, from which the staunchest hulls were fashioned.

  Inga turned away. He took his canoe out to catch fish, and leaving the lagoon looked to the west. There was nothing to see but empty horizon, precisely like the horizon to east, to north and to south—except that the western horizon concealed the secret…The rest of the day he felt uneasy. During the evening meal he looked from face to face. None were the faces of his dear friends; they all had built their boats and had sailed. His friends had departed; his friends knew the secret.

  The next morning, without making a conscious decision, Inga sharpened the tools and felled two fine makara trees. He was not precisely building a boat—so he assured himself—but it did no harm for wood to season.

  Nevertheless the following day he trimmed the trees, cut the trunks to length, and the next day assembled all the young men to help carry the trunks to the platform. No one seemed surprised; everyone knew that Rona ta Inga was building his boat. Mai Mio had now frankly taken up with Ama ta Lalau and as Inga worked on his boat he watched them play in the water, not without a lump of bitterness in his throat. Yes, he told himself, it would be pleasure indeed to join his true friends—the youths and maidens he had known since he dropped his milk-name, whom he had sported with, who now were departed, and for whom he felt an aching loneliness. Diligently he hollowed the hulls, burning, scraping, chiseling. Then the platform was secured, the little shelter woven and thatched to protect him from rain. He scraped a mast from a flawless pasiao-tui sapling, stepped and stayed it. He gathered bast, wove a coarse but sturdy sail, hung it to stretch and season. Then he began to provision the boat. He gathered nutmeats, dried fruit, smoked fish wrapped in sipi-leaf. He filled blow-fish bladders with water. How long was the trip to the west? No one knew. Best not to go hungry, best to stock the boat well: once down the wind there was no turning back.

  One day he was ready. It was a day much like all the other days of his life. The sun shone warm and bright, the lagoon glittered and rippled up and down the beach in little gushes of play-surf. Rona ta Inga’s throat felt tense and stiff; he could hardly trust his voice. The young folk came to line the beach; all blessed the boat with water. Inga gazed into each face, then along the line of huts, the trees, the beaches, the scenes he loved with such intensity…Already they seemed remote. Tears were coursing his cheeks. He held up his hand, turned away. He felt the boat leave the beach, float free on the water. Swimmers thrust him out into the ocean. For the last time he turned to look back at the village, fighting a sudden maddening urge to jump from the boat, to swim back to the village. He hoisted the sail, the wind thrust deep into the hollow. Water surged under the hulls and he was coasting west, with the island astern.

  Up the blue swells, down into the long troughs, the wake gurgling, the bow rising and falling. The long afternoon waned and became golden; sunset burned and ebbed and became a halcyon dusk. The stars appeared, and Inga, sitting silently by his rudder, held the sail full to the wind. At midnight he lowered the sail and slept, the boat drifting quietly.

  In the morning he was completely alone, the horizons blank. He raised the sail and scudded west, and so passed the day, and the next, and others. And Inga became thankful that he had provisioned the boat with generosity. On the sixth day he seemed to notice that a chill had come into the wind; on the eighth day he sailed under a high overcast, the like of which he had never seen before. The ocean changed from blue to grey and presently took on a green tinge. Now the water was cold. The wind blew with great force, bellying his bast sail, and Inga huddled in the shelter to avoid the harsh spray. On the morning of the ninth day he thought to see a dim dark shape loom ahead, which at noon became a line of tall cliffs with surf beating against jagged rocks, roaring back and forth across coarse shingle. In mid-afternoon
he ran his boat up on one of the shingle beaches, jumped gingerly ashore. Shivering in the whooping gusts, he took stock of the situation. There was no living thing to be seen along the foreshore but three or four grey gulls. A hundred yards to his right lay a battered hulk of another boat, and beyond was a tangle of wood and fibre which might have been still another.

  Inga carried ashore what provisions remained, bundled them together, and by a faint trail climbed the cliffs. He came out on an expanse of rolling grey-green downs. Two or three miles inland rose a line of low hills, toward which the trail seemed to lead.

  Inga looked right and left; again there was no living creature in sight other than gulls. Shouldering his bundle he set forth along the trail.

  Nearing the hills he came upon a hut of turf and stone, beside a patch of cultivated soil. A man and a woman worked in the field. Inga peered closer. What manner of creatures were these? They resembled human beings; they had arms and legs and faces—but how seamed and seared and grey they were! How shrunken were their hands, how they bent and hobbled as they worked! He walked quickly by, and they did not appear to notice him.

  Now Inga hastened, as the end of the day was drawing on and the hills loomed before him. The trail led along a valley grown with gnarled oak and low purple-green shrubs, then slanted up the hillside through a stony gap, where the wind generated whistling musical sounds. From the gap Inga looked out over a flat valley. He saw copses of low trees, plots of tilled land, a group of huts. Slowly he walked down the trail. In a nearby field a man raised his head. Inga paused, thinking to recognize him. Was this not Oma ta Akara who had sailed west ten or twelve seasons back? It seemed impossible. This man was fat, the hair had almost departed his head, his cheeks hung loose at the jawline. No, this could not be lithe Oma ta Akara! Hurriedly Inga turned away, and presently entered the village. Before a nearby hut stood one whom he recognized with joy. “Takti Tai!”