by Jack Vance
“Well?” demanded O.Z. Garr peremptorily. “What, then?”
“Then—it is all the same. They are committed to the destruction of the human race. My speculation alters nothing.”
Hagedorn turned to Xanten. “All this should assist you in your inquiries.”
“I was about to suggest that Claghorn assist me, if he is so inclined,” said Xanten.
“As you like,” said Claghorn, “though in my opinion the information, no matter what, is irrelevant. Our single concern should be a means to repel them and to save our lives.”
“And—except the force of ‘panthers’ you mentioned at our previous session—you can conceive of no subtle weapon?” asked Hagedorn wistfully. “A device to set up electrical resonances in their brains, or something similar?”
“Not feasible,” said Claghorn. “Certain organs in the creatures’ brains function as overload switches. Though it is true that during this time they might not be able to communicate.” After a moment’s reflection he added thoughtfully, “Who knows? A.G. Bernal and Uegus are theoreticians with a profound knowledge of such projections. Perhaps they might construct such a device, or several, against a possible need.”
Hagedorn nodded dubiously, and looked toward Uegus. “Is this possible?”
Uegus frowned. “‘Construct’? I can certainly design such an instrument. But the components—where? Scattered through the storerooms helter-skelter, some functioning, others not. To achieve anything meaningful I must become no better than an apprentice, a Mek.” He became incensed, and his voice hardened. “I find it hard to believe that I should be forced to point out this fact. Do you hold me and my talents then of such small worth?”
Hagedorn hastened to reassure him. “Of course not! I for one would never think of impugning your dignity.”
“Never!” agreed Claghorn. “Nevertheless, during this present emergency, we will find indignities imposed upon us by events, unless now we impose them upon ourselves.”
“Very well,” said Uegus, a humorless smile trembling at his lips. “You shall come with me to the storeroom. I will point out the components to be brought forth and assembled, you shall perform the toil. What do you say to that?”
“I say yes, gladly, if it will be of real utility. However, I can hardly perform the labor for a dozen different theoreticians. Will any others serve beside myself?”
No one responded. Silence was absolute, as if every gentleman present held his breath.
Hagedorn started to speak, but Claghorn interrupted. “Pardon, Hagedorn, but here, finally, we are stuck upon a basic principle, and it must be settled now.”
Hagedorn looked desperately around the council. “Has anyone relevant comment?”
“Claghorn must do as his innate nature compels,” declared O.Z. Garr in the silkiest of voices. “I cannot dictate to him. As for myself, I can never demean my status as a gentleman of Hagedorn. This creed is as natural to me as drawing breath; if ever it is compromised I become a travesty of a gentleman, a grotesque mask of myself. This is Castle Hagedorn, and we represent the culmination of human civilization. Any compromise therefore becomes degradation; any expedient diminution of our standards becomes dishonor. I have heard the word ‘emergency’ used. What a deplorable sentiment! To dignify the rat-like snappings and gnashings of such as the Meks with the word ‘emergency’ is to my mind unworthy of a gentleman of Hagedorn!”
A murmur of approval went around the council table.
Claghorn leaned far back in his seat, chin on his chest, as if in relaxation. His clear green eyes went from face to face, then returned to O.Z. Garr whom he studied with dispassionate interest. “Obviously you direct your words to me,” he said, “and I appreciate their malice. But this is a small matter.” He looked away from O.Z. Garr, to stare up at the massive diamond and emerald chandelier.“More important is the fact that the council as a whole, in spite of my earnest persuasion, seems to endorse your viewpoint. I can urge, expostulate, insinuate no longer, and I will now leave Castle Hagedorn. I find the atmosphere stifling. I trust that you survive the attack of the Meks, though I doubt that you will. They are a clever, resourceful race, untroubled by qualms or preconceptions, and we have long underestimated their quality.”
Claghorn rose from his seat, inserted the ivory tablet into its socket. “I bid you all farewell.”
Hagedorn hastily jumped to his feet and held forth his arms imploringly. “Do not depart in anger, Claghorn! Reconsider! We need your wisdom, your expertise!”
“Assuredly you do,” said Claghorn. “But even more, you need to act upon the advice I have already extended. Until then, we have no common ground, and any further interchange is futile and tiresome.” He made a brief, all-inclusive salute and departed the chamber.
Hagedorn slowly resumed his seat. The others made uneasy motions, coughed, looked up at the chandelier, studied their ivory tablets. O.Z. Garr muttered something to B.F. Wyas who sat beside him, who nodded solemnly. Hagedorn spoke in a subdued voice: “We will miss the presence of Claghorn, his penetrating if unorthodox insights…We have accomplished little. Uegus, perhaps you will give thought to the projector under discussion. Xanten, you were to question the captive Mek. O.Z. Garr, you undoubtedly will see to the repair of the energy cannon…Aside from these small matters, it appears that we have evolved no general plan of action, to help either ourselves or Janeil.”
Marune spoke. “What of the other castles? Are they still extant? We have had no news. I suggest that we send Birds to each castle, to learn their condition.”
Hagedorn nodded. “Yes, this is a wise motion. Perhaps you will see to this, Marune?”
“I will do so.”
“Good. We will now adjourn.”
2
The Birds dispatched by Marune of Aure, one by one returned. Their reports were similar:
“Sea Island is deserted. Marble columns are tumbled along the beach. Pearl Dome is collapsed. Corpses float in the Water Garden.”
“Maraval reeks of death. Gentlemen, Peasants, Phanes—all dead. Alas! Even the Birds have departed!”
“Delora: a ros ros ros! A dismal scene! No sign of life!”
“Alume is desolate. The great wooden door is smashed. The Green Flame is extinguished.”
“There is nothing at Halcyon. The Peasants were driven into a pit.”
“Tuang: silence.”
“Morninglight: death.”
Chapter VI
1
Three days later, Xanten constrained six Birds to a lift chair, directed them first on a wide sweep around the castle, then south to Far Valley.
The Birds aired their usual complaints, then bounded down the deck in great ungainly hops which threatened to throw Xanten immediately to the pavement. At last gaining the air, they flew up in a spiral; Castle Hagedorn became an intricate miniature far below, each House marked by its unique cluster of turrets and eyries, its own eccentric roof line, its long streaming pennon.
The Birds performed the prescribed circle, skimming the crags and pines of North Ridge; then, setting wings aslant the upstream, they coasted away toward Far Valley.
Over the pleasant Hagedorn domain flew the Birds and Xanten: over orchards, fields, vineyards, Peasant villages. They crossed Lake Maude with its pavilions and docks, the meadows beyond where the Hagedorn cattle and sheep grazed, and presently came to Far Valley, at the limit of Hagedorn lands.
Xanten indicated where he wished to alight; the Birds, who would have preferred a site closer to the village where they could have watched all that transpired, grumbled and cried out in wrath and set Xanten down so roughly that had he not been alert the shock would have pitched him head over heels.
Xanten alighted without elegance but at least remained on his feet. “Await me here!” he ordered. “Do not stray; attempt no flamboyant tricks among the lift-straps. When I return I wish to see six quiet Birds, in neat formation, lift-straps untwisted and untangled. No bickering, mind you! No loud caterwauling, to attract
unfavorable comment! Let all be as I have ordered!”
The Birds sulked, stamped their feet, ducked aside their necks, made insulting comments just under the level of Xanten’s hearing. Xanten, turning them a final glare of admonition, walked down the lane which led to the village.
The vines were heavy with ripe blackberries and a number of the girls of the village filled baskets. Among them was the girl O.Z. Garr had thought to preempt for his personal use. As Xanten passed, he halted and performed a courteous salute. “We have met before, if my recollection is correct.”
The girl smiled, a half-rueful, half-whimsical smile. “Your recollection serves you well. We met at Hagedorn, where I was taken a captive. And later, when you conveyed me here, after dark, though I could not see your face.” She extended her basket. “Are you hungry? Will you eat?”
Xanten took several berries. In the course of the conversation he learned that the girl’s name was Glys Meadowsweet, that her parents were not known to her, but were presumably gentlefolk of Castle Hagedorn who had exceeded their birth tally. Xanten examined her even more carefully than before but could see resemblance to none of the Hagedorn families. “You might derive from Castle Delora. If there is any family resemblance I can detect, it is to the Cosanzas of Delora—a family noted for the beauty of its ladies.”
“You are not married?” she asked artlessly.
“No,” said Xanten, and indeed he had dissolved his relationship with Araminta only the day before. “What of you?”
She shook her head. “I would never be gathering blackberries otherwise; it is work reserved for maidens…Why do you come to Far Valley?”
“For two reasons. The first to see you.” Xanten heard himself say this with surprise. But it was true, he realized with another small shock of surprise. “I have never spoken with you properly and I have always wondered if you were as charming and gay as you are beautiful.”
The girl shrugged and Xanten could not be sure whether she were pleased or not, compliments from gentlemen sometimes setting the stage for a sorry aftermath. “Well, no matter. I came also to speak to Claghorn.”
“He is yonder,” she said in a voice toneless, even cool, and pointed. “He occupies that cottage.” She returned to her blackberry picking. Xanten bowed and proceeded to the cottage the girl had indicated.
Claghorn, wearing loose knee-length breeches of gray homespun, worked with an axe chopping faggots into stove-lengths. At the sight of Xanten he halted his toil, leaned on the axe and mopped his forehead. “Ah, Xanten. I am pleased to see you. How are the folk of Castle Hagedorn?”
“As before. There is little to report, even had I come to bring you news.”
“Indeed, indeed?” Claghorn leaned on the axe handle, surveying Xanten with a bright green gaze.
“At our last meeting,” went on Xanten, “I agreed to question the captive Mek. After doing so I am distressed that you were not at hand to assist, so that you might have resolved certain ambiguities in the responses.”
“Speak on,” said Claghorn. “Perhaps I shall be able to do so now.”
“After the council meeting I descended immediately to the storeroom where the Mek was confined. It lacked nutriment; I gave it syrup and a pail of water, which it sipped sparingly, then evinced a desire for minced clams. I summoned kitchen help and sent them for this commodity and the Mek ingested several pints. As I have indicated, it was an unusual Mek, standing as tall as myself and lacking a syrup sac. I conveyed it to a different chamber, a storeroom for brown plush furniture, and ordered it to a seat.
“I looked at the Mek and it looked at me. The quills which I removed were growing back; probably it could at least receive from Meks elsewhere. It seemed a superior beast, showing neither obsequiousness nor respect, and answered my questions without hesitation.
“First I remarked: ‘The gentlefolk of the castles are astounded by the revolt of the Meks. We had assumed that your life was satisfactory. Were we wrong?’
“‘Evidently.’ I am sure that this was the word signaled, though never had I suspected the Meks of dryness or wit of any sort.
“‘Very well then,’ I said. ‘In what manner?’
“‘Surely it is obvious,’ he said. ‘We no longer wished to toil at your behest. We wished to conduct our lives by our own traditional standards.’
“The response surprised me. I was unaware that the Meks possessed standards of any kind, much less traditional standards.”
Claghorn nodded. “I have been similarly surprised by the scope of the Mek mentality.”
“I reproached the Mek: ‘Why kill? Why destroy our lives in order to augment your own?’ As soon as I had put the question I realized that it had been unhappily phrased. The Mek, I believe, realized the same; however, in reply he signaled something very rapidly which I believe was: ‘We knew we must act with decisiveness. Your own protocol made this necessary. We might have returned to Etamin Nine, but we prefer this world Earth, and will make it our own, with our own great slipways, tubs and basking ramps.’
“This seemed clear enough, but I sensed an adumbration extending yet beyond. I said, ‘Comprehensible. But why kill, why destroy? You might have taken yourself to a different region. We could not have molested you.’
“‘Infeasible, by your own thinking. A world is too small for two competing races. You intended to send us back to dismal Etamin Nine.’
“‘Ridiculous!’ I said. ‘Fantasy, absurdity. Do you take me for a mooncalf?’
“‘No,’ the creature insisted. ‘Two of Castle Hagedorn’s notables were seeking the highest post. One assured us that, if elected, this would become his life’s aim.’
“‘A grotesque misunderstanding,’ I told him. ‘One man, a lunatic, can not speak for all men!’
“‘No? One Mek speaks for all Meks. We think with one mind. Are not men of a like sort?’
“‘Each thinks for himself. The lunatic who assured you of this tomfoolery is an evil man. But at least matters are clear. We do not propose to send you to Etamin Nine. Will you withdraw from Janeil, take yourselves to a far land and leave us in peace?’
“‘No,’ he said. ‘Affairs have proceeded too far. We will now destroy all men. The truth of the statement is clear: one world is too small for two races.’
“‘Unluckily, then, I must kill you,’ I told him. ‘Such acts are not to my liking, but, with opportunity, you would kill as many gentlemen as possible!’ At this the creature sprang upon me, and I killed it with an easier mind than had it sat staring.
“Now, you know all. It seems that either you or O.Z. Garr stimulated the cataclysm. O.Z. Garr? Unlikely. Impossible. Hence, you, Claghorn, you! have this weight upon your soul!”
Claghorn frowned down at the axe. “Weight, yes. Guilt, no. Ingenuousness, yes; wickedness, no.”
Xanten stood back. “Claghorn, your coolness astounds me! Before, when rancorous folk like O.Z. Garr conceived you a lunatic—”
“Peace, Xanten!” exclaimed Claghorn. “This extravagant breast-beating becomes maladroit. What have I done wrong? My fault is that I tried too much. Failure is tragic, but a phthisic face hanging over the cup of the future is worse. I meant to become Hagedorn, I would have sent the slaves home. I failed, the slaves revolted. So do not speak another word. I am bored with the subject. You can not imagine how your bulging eyes and your concave spine oppress me.”
“Bored you may be,” cried Xanten. “You decry my eyes, my spine—but what of the thousands dead?”
“How long would they live in any event? Lives as cheap as fish in the sea. I suggest that you put by your reproaches and devote a similar energy to saving yourself. Do you realize that a means exists? You stare at me blankly. I assure you that what I say is true, but you will never learn the means from me.”
“Claghorn,” said Xanten, “I flew to this spot intending to blow your arrogant head from your body—” Claghorn, no longer heeding, had returned to his wood-chopping.
“Claghorn!” cried Xanten. �
��Attend me!”
“Xanten, take your outcries elsewhere, if you please. Remonstrate with your Birds.”
Xanten swung on his heel and marched back down the lane. The girls picking berries looked at him questioningly and moved aside. Xanten halted to look up and down the lane. Glys Meadowsweet was nowhere to be seen. In a new fury he continued. He stopped short. On a fallen tree a hundred feet from the Birds sat Glys Meadowsweet, examining a blade of grass as if it had been an astonishing artifact of the past. The Birds, for a marvel, had actually obeyed him and waited in a fair semblance of order.
Xanten looked up toward the heavens, kicked at the turf. He drew a deep breath and approached Glys Meadowsweet. He noted that she had tucked a flower into her long loose hair.
After a second or two she looked up and searched his face. “Why are you so angry?”
Xanten slapped his thigh, then seated himself beside her. “‘Angry’? No. I am out of my mind with frustration. Claghorn is as obstreperous as a sharp rock. He knows how Castle Hagedorn can be saved but he will not divulge his secret.”
Glys Meadowsweet laughed—an easy, merry sound, like nothing Xanten had ever heard at Castle Hagedorn. “‘Secret’? When even I know it?”
“It must be a secret,” said Xanten. “He will not tell me.”
“Listen. If you fear the Birds will hear, I will whisper.” She spoke a few words into his ear.
Perhaps the sweet breath befuddled Xanten’s mind. But the explicit essence of the revelation failed to strike home into his consciousness. He made a sound of sour amusement. “No secret there. Only what the prehistoric Scythians termed bathos. Dishonor to the gentlemen! Do we dance with the Peasants? Do we serve the Birds essences and discuss with them the sheen of our Phanes?”
