Nopalgarth

by Jack Vance

  Joe said, "All right then. What's on your mind?"

  Hableyat tapped the table with his fingernail. "These are complex times, complex times. You see," he added confidentially, "Kyril is becoming overpopulated with Druids."

  Joe frowned. "Overpopulated? With two million Druids?"

  Hableyat laughed. "Five billion Laity are unable to provide a dignified existence for more. You must understand that these poor wretches have no interest in producing. Their single aspiration is to pass through life as expeditiously as possible so as to take their place as a leaf on the Tree.

  "The Druids are caught in a dilemma. To increase production they must either educate and industrialize-thus admitting to the Laity that life offers pleasures other than rapt contemplation —or they must find other sources of wealth and production. To this end the Druids have decided to operate a bank of industries on Ballenkarch. So we Mangs and our highly industrialized world become involved. We see in the Druid plan a threat to our own well being."

  Joe asked with an air of tired patience, "How does this involve me?"

  "My job as emissary-at-large," said Hableyat, "is to promote the interests of my world. To this end I require a great deal of information. When you arrived here a month ago you were investigated. You were traced back as far as a planet of the distant sun Thuban. Before that, your trail eludes us."

  Joe said with incredulous anger, "But you know my home world! I told you the first time I saw you. Earth. And you said that you had spoken to another Earthman, Harry Creath."

  Hableyat nodded briskly. "Exactly. But it has occurred to me that 'Earth' as a place of origin offers a handy anonymity." He peered at Joe slyly. "Both for you and Harry Creath."

  Joe took a deep breath. "You know more of Harry Creath than you let me believe."

  Hableyat appeared surprised that Joe should consider this fact exceptional. "Of course. It is necessary for me to know many things. Now this 'Earth' you speak of— is its identity actually more than verbal?" And he eyed Joe inquisitively.

  "I assure you it is," said Joe, heavily sarcastic. "You people are so far out along this little wisp of stars that you've forgotten the rest of the universe."

  Hableyat nodded, drummed his fingers on the table. "Interesting, interesting. This brings a rather new emphasis to light."

  Joe said impatiently, "I'm not aware of any emphasis, either old or new. My business, such as it is, is personal. I have no interest in your enterprises and least of all do I want to become involved."

  There was a harsh pounding at the door. Hableyat rose to his feet with a grunt of satisfaction. This was what he had been awaiting, Joe thought.

  "I repeat," said Hableyat, "that you have no choice. You are involved in spite of any wish to the contrary. Do you want to live?"

  "Of course I want to live." Joe half-rose to his feet as the pounding was resumed.

  "Then agree to whatever I say—no matter how farfetched it may seem to you. Do you understand?"

  "Yes," said Joe with resignation.

  Hableyat spoke a sharp word. The two warriors bounded to their feet like mechanical men, "Open the door."

  The door slid back. The Thearch stood in the opening, his face wrathful. Behind him stood a half dozen Druids in robes of different colors—Ecclesiarchs, Sub-Thearchs, Presbytes, Hierophants.

  Hableyat was transformed. His overt characteristics became intensified. His benignity softened to obsequiousness; his bland ease of manner become a polished unction. He trotted forward as if the Thearch's visit afforded him tremendous pride and delight.

  The Thearch towered in the doorway, glaring up and down the room. His eyes passed over the two warriors, came to rest on Joe.

  He raised a hand, pointed portentously. "There's the man! A murderous blackguard! Lay hold, we'll see the end of him before the hour's out."

  The Druids swept forward in a swift rustle of robes. Joe reached for his weapon. But the two Mang warriors, moving so deftly and easily that they seemed not to have moved at all, blocked the doorway. A hot-eyed Druid in a brown-and-green robe reached to thrust them aside.

  There was a twinkle of blue light, a crackle, a startled exclamation and the Druid leapt back, trembling in indignation. "He's charged with static!"

  Hableyat bustled forward, all dismay and alarm. "Your Worship, what is happening?"

  The Thearch's expression was vastly contemptuous. "Stand aside, Mang, call off your electrified go-devils. I'll have that man."

  Cried Hableyat, "But Worship, Worship —you dismay me. Can it be that I've taken a criminal into my service?"

  "Your service?"

  "Surely your Worship is aware that in order to pursue a realistic policy my government employs a number of unofficial observers?"

  "Cutthroat spies!" roared the Thearch.

  Hableyat rubbed his chin. "If such is the case, your Worship, I am disillusioned, since the Druid spies on Mangtse are uniformly self-effacing. Just what is my servant accused of?"

  The Thearch thrust his head forward, said with soft fervor, "I'll tell you what he's done—he's killed one of your own men—a Mang! There's yellow blood all over the floor of my daughter's chamber. Where there's blood, there's death."

  "Your Worship!" exclaimed Hableyat. "This is serious news! Who is it that is dead?"

  "How do I know? Enough that there's a man killed and that this—"

  "But your Worship! This man has been in my company all day. Your news is alarming. It means that a representative of my government has been attacked. I fear that there will be tumult in the Lathbon. Where did you notice this blood? In the chamber of your daughter, the Priestess? Where is she? Perhaps she can shed some light on the matter."

  "I don't know where she is." He turned, pointed a finger. "Alamaina—find the Priestess Elfane. I wish to speak to her." Then to Hableyat, "Do I understand that you are taking this blackguard spy under your protection?"

  Hableyat said courteously, "Our security officers have been solicitous in guarding the safety of the Druids representing your Worship on Mangtse."

  The Thearch turned on his heel, strode off through the hooded forms of his Druids.

  Joe said, "So now I'm a Mang spy."

  "What would you have?" inquired Hableyat.

  Joe returned to his seat. "For some reason I can't imagine you are determined to attach me to your staff."

  Hableyat made a gesture of deprecation.

  Joe stared at him a moment. "You murder your own men, you strike down the Thearch in his daughter's sitting-room—and somehow I find myself held to account for it. It's not possible that you planned it that way?"

  "Now, now, now," murmured Hableyat.

  Joe asked politely, "May I presume upon your courtesy further?"

  "Certainly. By all means." Hableyat waited attentively.

  Joe said boldly, without any real expectation of Hableyat's assent, "Take me to the Terminal. Put me on the packet to Ballenkarch which leaves today."

  Hableyat, raising his eyebrows sagely, nodded. "A very reasonable request—and one which I would be unkind to deny. Are you ready to leave at once?"

  "Yes," said Joe dryly, "I am."

  "And you have sufficient funds?"

  "I have five thousand stiples given me by the Priestess Elfane and Manaolo."

  "Hah! I see. They were anxious then to be on their way."

  "I received that impression."

  Hableyat looked up sharply. "There is suppressed emotion in your voice."

  "The Druid Manaolo arouses a great deal of aversion in me."

  "Hah!" said Hableyat with a sly wink. "And the Priestess arouses a great deal of the opposite? Oh, you youngsters! If only I had my youth back how I would enjoy myself!"

  Joe said in precise tones, "My future plans involve neither Manaolo nor Elfane."

  "Only the future can tell," intoned Hableyat. "Now then—to the Terminal."

  IV

  THERE WAS no signal which Joe could perceive but in three minutes, during which Hable
yat sat silently hunched in a chair, a heavy well-appointed air-car swung alongside the plat. Joe went cautiously to the window, looked along the side of the Palace. The sun was low. Shadows from the various balconies, landing stages, carved work, ran obliquely along the stone, creating a confusion of shape in which almost anything might be hidden.

  Below were the garage and his cubicle. Nothing there of value—the few hundred stiples he had saved from his salary as chauffeur he dismissed. Beyond rose the Tree, a monstrous mass his eye could not encompass at one glance. To see edge to edge he had to turn his head from right to left. The shape was uncertain from this close distance of a mile or so. A number of slow-swinging members laden with foliage overhung the Palace.

  Hableyat joined him at the window. "It grows and grows. Some day it will grow beyond its strength or the strength of the ground. It will buckle and fall in the most terrible sound yet heard on the planet. And the crash will be the crack of doom for the Druids."

  He glanced carefully up and down the face of the Palace. "Now walk swiftly. Once you are in the car you are safe from any hidden marksmen."

  Again Joe searched the shadows. Then gingerly he stepped out on the plat. It seemed very wide, very empty. He crossed to the car with a naked tingling under his skin. He stepped through the door and the car swayed under him. Hableyat bounced in beside him.

  "Very well, Juliam," said Hableyat to the driver, a very old Mang, sad-eyed, wrinkled of face, his hair gone brindle-brown with age. "We'll be off—to the Terminal. Stage Four, I believe. The Belsaurion for Junction and Ballenkarch."

  Juliam trod on the elevator pedal. The car swung up and away. The Palace dwindled below and they rose beside the dun trunk of the Tree, up under the first umbrella of fronds.

  The air of Kyril was usually filled with a smoky haze but today the slanting sun shone crisply through a perfectly clear atmosphere. The city Divinal, such as it was —a heterogeneity of palaces, administrative offices, temples, a few low warehouses—huddled among the roots of the Tree and quickly gave way to a gently rolling plain thronged with farms and villages.

  Roads converged in all directions toward the Tree and along these roads walked the drab men and women of the Laity—making their pilgrimage to the Tree. Joe had watched them once or twice as they entered the Ordinal Cleft, a gap between two great arched roots. Tiny figures like ants, they paused, turned to stare out across the gray land before continuing on into the Tree. Every day brought thousands from all corners of Kyril, old and young. Wan dark-eyed men, aflame for the peace of the Tree.

  They crossed a flat plain covered with small black capsules. To one side a mass of naked men performed calisthenics—jumping, twisting in perfect time. Hableyat said, "There you see the Druid space-navy." Joe looked sharply to see if he were indulging in sarcasm, but the pudgy face was immobile.

  "They are well suited to the defense of Kyril, which is to say, the Tree. Naturally anyone wishing to defeat the Druids by violence would think to destroy the Tree, thus demolishing the morale of the natives. But in order to destroy the Tree a flotilla must approach relatively close to Kyril, say within a hundred thousand miles, for any accuracy of bombardment.

  "The Druids maintain a screen of these little boats a million miles out. They're crude but very fast and agile. Each is equipped with a warhead—in fact they are suicide boats and to date they are admitted to be an effective defense for the Tree."

  Joe sat a moment in silence. Then, "Are these boats made here? On Kyril?"

  "They are quite simple," said Hableyat with veiled contempt. "A shell, a drive, an oxygen tank. The Lay soldiers are not expected to demand or appreciate comfort. There's a vast number of these little boats. Why not? Labor is free. The idea of cost has no meaning for the Druids. I believe the control equipment is imported from Beland and likewise the firing release. Otherwise the boats are hand-made here on Kyril."

  The field full of beetle-boats slanted, faded astern. Ahead appeared the thirty-foot wall surrounding the Terminal. The long glass station stretched along one side of the rectangle. Along another was a line of palatial mansions—the consular offices of off-planets. Across the field, in the fourth of five bays, a medium-sized combination freight-passenger vessel rested and Joe saw that it was ready to take off. The cargo hatch had been battened, the loading trams swung back and only a gangplank connected the ship with the ground.

  Juliam set the car down in a parking area to the side of the station. Hableyat put a restraining hand on Joe's arm.

  "Perhaps—for your own safety—it might be wise if I arranged your passage. The Thearch might have planned some sort of trouble. One never knows where these unpredictable Druids are concerned." He hopped out of the car. "If you'll remain here then—out of sight—I'll return very shortly."

  "But the money for the passage—"

  "A trifle, a trifle," said Hableyat. "My government has more money than it knows how to spend. Allow me to invest two thousand stiples toward a fund of good will with our legendary Mother Earth."

  Joe relaxed dubiously into the seat. Two thousand stiples was two thousand stiples and it would help him on his way back to Earth. If Hableyat thought to hold him under obligation Hableyat was mistaken. He stirred in his seat. Better get out while the getting was good. Things like this did not happen without some unpleasant quid pro quo. He raised a hand toward the door and met Juliam's eye. Juliam shook his head.

  "No, no, sir. Lord Hableyat will be back at once and his wishes were that you remain out of sight."

  In a spasm of defiance, Joe said, "Hableyat can wait."

  He jumped from the car and, ignoring Juliam's querulous voice, strode off toward the station. His anger cooled as he walked and in his green-white-and-black livery he felt conspicuous. Hableyat had a rude habit of being consistently right.

  A sign across the walk read, Costumes of all worlds. Change here. Arrive at your destination in a fitting garb.

  Joe stepped in. Through the glass window he would be able to see Hableyat if he left the station, returning to the car. The proprietor stood quietly at his command, a tall bony man of nameless race with a wide waxy face, wide guileless eyes of pale blue.

  "My Lord wishes?" he inquired in even tones which ignored the servant's livery which Joe was stripping off.

  "Get rid of these. Give me something suitable for Ballenkarch."

  The shop-keeper bowed. He ran a grave eye over Joe's form, turned to a rack, brought forward a set of garments which made Joe blink—red pantaloons, a tight blue sleeveless jacket, a voluminous white blouse. Joe said doubtfully, "That's not quite—it's not subdued, is it?"

  "It is a typical Ballenkarch costume, my Lord—typical, that is to say, among the more civilized clans. The savages wear skins and sacks." He twisted the garments to display front and back. "As it is, it denotes no particular rank. A vavasour hangs a sword at his left side. A grandee of the Vail Alan Court wears a chap-band of black in addition. The Ballenkarch costumes, Lord, are marked by a rather barbaric flamboyance."

  Joe said, "Give me a plain gray traveling suit. I'll change to Ballenkarch style when I arrive."

  "As you wish, Lord."

  The traveling suit was more to his liking. With deep satisfaction Joe zipped close the seams, snugged the ankles and wrists, belted the waist.

  "And what style morion, Lord?"

  Joe grimaced. Morions were comme il faut among the rank of Kyril. Laymen, louts, menials, were denied the affectation of a glistening complex morion. He pointed to a low shell of bright metal with a sweeping rake-shell brim. "That one if it will fit."

  The shopkeeper bent his form almost into an inverted U. "Yes, your Worship."

  Joe glanced at him sharply, then considered the morion he had selected —a glistening beautiful helmet, useful for nothing other than decorative headdress. It was rather like the one Ecclesiarch Manaolo had worn. He shrugged, jammed it on his head, transferred the contents of his pockets. Gun, money, wallet with identification papers. "How much do I owe yo
u?"

  "Two hundred stiples, your Worship."

  Joe gave him a pair of notes, stepped out on the arcade. As he walked it occurred to him that his step was firmer, that in fact he was swaggering. The change from livery into the gray suit and swashbuckling morion had altered the color of his psychology. Morale, confidence, will-to-win—they were completely intangible, yet so ultimately definite. Now to find Hableyat.

  There was Hableyat ahead of him, walking arm in arm with a Mang in green-blue-and-yellow uniform, speaking very earnestly, very expressively. Joe wished he were able to read lips. The two stopped at the ramp down to the field. The Mang officer bowed curtly, turned, marched back along the arcade. Hableyat ambled down the ramp, started across the field.

  It occurred to Joe that he would like to hear what Juliam said to Hableyat and Hableyat's comments on his absence. If he ran to the end of the arcade, jumped the wall, ran around behind the parking lot, he would be able to approach the car from the rear, probably unseen.

  Suiting action to thought he turned, raced the length of the terrace, heedless of startled glances. Lowering himself to the blue-green turf he dodged close to the wall, kept as many of the parked cars as possible between himself and the leisurely Hableyat. He reached the car, flung himself to his hands and knees unseen by Juliam, who had his eyes on Hableyat.

  Juliam slid back the door. Hableyat said cheerfully, "Now then, my friend, everything is—" He stopped. Then sharply to Juliam, "Where is he? Where has he gone?"

  "He left," said Juliam, "a little after you did."

  Hableyat muttered a pungent syllable. "The confounded unpredictability of the man! I gave him strict instructions to remain here."

  Juliam said, "I reminded him of your instructions. He ignored me."