Nopalgarth

by Jack Vance

  Priestess Elfane said in a low voice, "Lord Smith, I wish to speak to you."

  "Certainly."

  "Will you come to my room?"

  Joe looked over his shoulder. "Won't your husband be annoyed?"

  "Husband?" She managed to inject an enormous weight of contempt and angry disgust into her voice. "The relationship is purely nominal." She stopped, looked away, apparently regretting her words. Then she continued in a cool voice, "I wish to speak to you." She turned away, marched for her cabin.

  Joe chuckled quietly. The vixen knew no other world than that in her own brain, had no conception that wills could exist in opposition to hers. Amusing now —but what a devil when she grew older! It occurred to Joe that it would be a pleasant experience to be lost with her on an uninhabited planet—taming her willfulness, opening up her consciousness.

  He leisurely followed to her cabin. She sat on the bunk. He took a seat on the bench. "Well?"

  "You say your home is the planet Earth-the mythical Earth. Is that true?"

  "Yes, it's true."

  "Where is Earth?"

  "In toward the Center, perhaps a thousand light-years."

  "What is Earth like?" She leaned forward, elbow on her knee, chin on her hand, watching him with interested eyes.

  Joe, suddenly flustered, shrugged. "You ask a question I can't answer in a word. Earth is a world of great age. Everywhere are ancient buildings, ancient cities, traditions. In Egypt stand the Great Pyramids, built by the first civilized men. In England a circle of chipped stones, Stonehenge, are replicas of a race almost as old. In the caves of France and Spain, far underground, are drawings of animals, scratched by men hardly removed from the beasts they hunted."

  She drew a deep breath. "But your cities, your civilization—are they different from ours?"

  Joe put on a judicious expression. "Naturally they are different. No two planets are alike. Ours is an old stable culture—mellowed, kindly. Our races have merged— I am the result of their mingling. In these outer regions men have been blocked off and separated and have specialized once again. You Druids, who are very close to us physically, correspond to the ancient Caucasian race of the Mediterranean branch."

  "But do you have no Great God—no Tree of Life?"

  "At present," said Joe, "there is no organized religion on Earth. We are free to express our joy at being alive in any way which pleases us. Some revere a cosmic creator—others merely acknowledge the physical laws controlling the universe to almost the same result. The worship of fetishes, anthropoid, animal or vegetable—like your Tree—has long been extinct."

  She sat up sharply. "You—you deride our sacred institution."

  "Sorry."

  She rose to her feet, then sat down, swallowing her wrath. "You interest me in many ways," she said sullenly, as if justifying her forbearance to herself. "I have the peculiar feeling that you are known to me."

  Joe, on a half-sadistic impulse, said, "I was your father's chauffeur. Yesterday you and your—husband were planning to kill me."

  She froze into unblinking rigidity, staring, mouth half-open. Then she relaxed, shuddered, shrank back. "You—are you—"

  But Joe had caught sight of something behind her on a night-shelf over her bunk—a potted plant, almost identical with the one he had left on Kyril.

  She saw the direction of his gaze. Her mouth came shut. She gasped, "You know then!" It was almost a whisper. "Kill me, destroy me, I am tired of life!"

  She rose to her feet, arms out defenselessly. Joe arose, moved a step toward her. It was like a dream, a time past the edge of reason, without logic, cause, effect. Her eyes widened, not in fear now. He put his hands on her shoulders. She was warm and slender, pulsing like a bird.

  She pulled away, sat back on her bed. "I don't understand," she said in a husky voice. "I understand nothing."

  "Tell me," said Joe in a voice almost as husky. "What is this Manaolo to you? Is he your lover?"

  She said nothing; then at last gave her head a little shake. "No, he is nothing. He has been sent to Ballenkarch on a mission. I decided I wanted release from the rituals. I wanted adventure, and cared nothing for consequence. But Manaolo frightens me. He came to me yesterday—but I was afraid."

  Joe felt a wonderful yeastiness around his heart. The image of Margaret appeared, mouth puckered accusingly. Joe sighed regretfully. The mood changed. Elfane's face was once more that of a young Druid Priestess.

  "What is your business, Smith?" she asked coolly. "Are you a spy?"

  "No, I'm not a spy."

  "Then why do you go to Ballenkarch? Only spies and agents go to Ballenkarch. Druids and Mangs or their hirelings."

  "It is business of a personal nature." Looking at her he reflected that this vivid Priestess Elfane had gaily suggested killing him only yesterday.

  She noticed his scrutiny, tilted her head in a whimsical harlequin grimace —the trick of a girl aware of her appeal, a flirtatious trick. Joe laughed —stopped, listened. There had been a scraping sound against the wall. Elfane followed his gaze.

  "That's my cabin!" Joe rose to his feet, opened the door, bounded down the balcony, threw open the door to his cabin. Erru Ex Amma, the young Mang officer, stood facing him, a wide mirthless grin on his face, showing pointed yellow teeth. He held a gun which was directed at Joe's middle.

  "Back up!" he ordered. "Back!"

  Joe slowly retreated out on the balcony. He looked over into the saloon. The four Mangs were at their game. One of the civilians glanced up, muttered to the others and they all turned their heads, looked up. Joe caught the flash of four citron-yellow faces. Then they were back to their game.

  "Into the she-Druid's cabin," said Ex Amma. "Quick!" He moved his gun, still smiling the wide smile that was like a fox showing its fangs.

  Joe slowly backed into Elfane's cabin, eyes flicking back and forth between the gun and the Mang's face.

  Elfane gasped, sighed in terror. The Mang saw the pot with the bit of plant sprouting from it. "Ahhhh!"

  He turned to Joe. "Back against the wall." He gave his gun a little forward motion, grimaced with anticipation and Joe knew he was about to die.

  The door behind slid open; there was a hiss. The Mang stiffened, bent backward in an agonized arc, threw up his head, his jaw strained in a soundless scream. He fell to the deck.

  Hableyat stood in the doorway, smiling primly. "I'm very sorry that there should have been this disturbance."

  VI

  HABLEYAT'S EYES went to the plant on the shelf. He shook his head, clicked his tongue, turned a reproachful gaze on Joe. "My dear fellow, you have been instrumental in ruining a very careful plan."

  "If you had asked me," said Joe, "if I wanted to donate my life to the success of your schemes I could have saved you a lot of grief."

  Hableyat bleated his laugh without moving a muscle of his face. "You are charming. I am happy that you are still with us. But now I fear there is to be a quarrel."

  The three Mangs were marching in belligerent single-file along the balcony, the old officer, Erru Kametin, in the lead, followed by the two civilians. Erru Kametin came to a stiff halt, bristling like an angry cur. "Lord Hableyat, this is sheer outrage. You have interfered with an officer of the Reach in his duty."

  " 'Interfered'?" protested Hableyat. "I have killed him. As to his 'duty'—since when has a rakehelly Redbranch tag-at-heels been ranked with a member of the Ampianu General?"

  "We have our orders direct from Magnerru Ippolito. You have no slightest supercession—"

  "Magnerru Ippolito, if you recall," said Hableyat smoothly, "is responsible to the Lathbon, who sits with the Blue-water on the General."

  "A pack of white-blooded cravens!" shouted the officer. "You and the rest of the Bluewaters!"

  The Mang woman on the main deck, who had been straining to glimpse the events on the balcony, screamed. Then came Manaolo's metallic voice. "Miserable dingy dogs!"

  He bounded up to the balcony, lithe and strong, tre
mendous in his fury. With one hand he seized the shoulder of one civilian, hurled him to the catwalk, did the same for the other. He lifted Erru Kametin, tossed him bodily over the balcony. Dropping slowly in the half-gravity Erru Kametin landed with a grunt. Manaolo turned to Hableyat, who held out a protesting hand. "A moment, Ecclesiarch, please use no force on my poor corpulence."

  The wild face showed no flicker of emotion. The crouch of his body was answer to Hableyat's words.

  Joe drew in his breath, stepped forward, threw a left jab, a hard right and Manaolo sprawled to the deck, where he lay looking at Joe with dead-black eyes.

  "Sorry," lied Joe. "But Hableyat just saved my life and Elfane's. Give him time to talk anyway."

  Manaolo jumped to his feet, without a word entered Elfane's cabin, shut and locked the door. Hableyat turned, stared quizzically at Joe. "We have returned each other compliments."

  Joe said, "I'd like to know what's going on. No, I don't either—I want to mind my own business. I have my own troubles. I wish you'd keep yours to yourself."

  Hableyat shook his head slowly as if in puzzled admiration. "For one of your professed intent you hurl yourself into the thick of things. But if you'll come to my cabin I have an excellent aquavit which will form the basis of a pleasant relaxation."

  "Poison?" inquired Joe.

  Hableyat shook his head gravely. "Merely excellent brandy."

  The captain of the vessel called a meeting of the passengers. He was a large heavy man with dead-white hair, a flat-white face, liquid-green eyes, a thin pink mouth. He wore the Beland skin-tight garment of dark-green with glass epaulets and a scarlet ruff above each elbow.

  The passengers sat in the deep couches—the two civilian Mangs; the woman, red-eyed from crying, Erru Kametin, Hableyat, serene and easy in a loose robe of a dull white stuff with Joe next to him. Beside Joe sat the gaunt bald woman in the black gown and she had a sickly-sweet odor about her that was neither floral nor animal. Then came the Cils, then the two Druids, placid and secure, then Elfane and last, Manaolo. He wore a striking garment of light-green sateen with gold striping along the legs. A light flat morion perched jauntily on his dark curls.

  The captain spoke ponderously. "I am aware that a tension exists between the worlds of Kyril and Mangtse. But this ship is the property of Beland, and we are resolved to remain dispassionate and neutral.

  "There was a killing this morning. So far as I have been able to gather Erru Ex Amma was discovered searching the cabin of Lord Smith and, when apprehended, forced Smith into the cabin of the Priestess Alnietho"—using the name Elfane had signed to the passenger list—"where he threatened to kill them both. Lord Hableyat, in a praiseworthy effort to avoid an interplanetary incident, appeared and killed his countryman Erru Ex Amma.

  "The other Mangs, protesting, were engaged violently by Ecclesiarch Manaolo, who also began to attack Lord Hableyat. Lord Smith, anxious lest Manaolo, in his ignorance of the true state of affairs, injure Lord Hableyat, struck Manaolo with his fist. I believe, in essence, that is the gist of the affair."

  He paused. No one spoke. Hableyat sat twiddling his forefingers around each other with his plump lower lips hanging loose. Joe was aware of Elfane sitting stiff and silent and he felt a slow look from Manaolo drift over him—his face, shoulders, legs.

  The captain continued. "To the best of my belief, the culprit in this case, Erru Ex Amma, has been punished by death. The rest of you are guilty of nothing more than hot tempers. But I do not propose to countenance further incidents. On any such occasion the participants will be hypnotized and webbed into their hammocks for the duration of the voyage.

  "It is Beland tradition that our ships are neutral ground and our livelihood stems from this reputation. I will not see it challenged. Quarrels, personal or interplanetary, must wait till you are away from my authority." He bowed heavily. "Thank you for your attention."

  The Mangs immediately arose, the woman departing for her cabin to weep, the three men to their game with the colored bars, Hableyat to the promenade. The gaunt woman sat without movement, staring at the spot where the captain had stood. The Cils wandered to the ship's library. The Druid missionaries converged on Manaolo.

  Elfane arose, stretched her slim young arms, looked quickly toward Joe, then to Manaolo's broad back. She made up her mind, crossed the room to Joe, settled on the couch beside him. "Tell me, Lord Smith—what did Hableyat talk to you about when he took you to his room?"

  Joe moved uneasily in his seat. "Priestess—I can't be a tale-bearer between Druids and Mangs. In this particular case we spoke of nothing very important. He asked me about my life on Earth, he was interested in the man I've come out here seeking. I described a number of the planets I've stopped at. We drank a good deal of brandy, and that was about all there was to it."

  Elfane bit her lip impatiently. "I cannot understand why Hableyat protected us from the young Mang… What does he gain? He is as completely Mang as the other. He would die rather than allow the Druids to take sovereignty over Ballenkarch."

  Joe said, "You and Manaolo are certainly not en route to take over sovereignty of Ballenkarch?"

  She gave him a wide-eyed stare, then drummed her fingers on her leg. Joe smiled to himself. In anyone else the assumptions of unlimited authority would be a matter of serious irritation. In Elfane—Joe, charmed and bewitched, dismissed it as an intriguing mannerism. He laughed.

  "Why do you laugh?" she asked suspiciously.

  "You remind me of a kitten dressed up in doll's clothes —very proud of itself."

  She flushed, her eyes sparkled. "So—you laugh at me!"

  After an instant of contemplation Joe asked, "Don't you ever laugh at yourself?"

  "No. Of course not."

  "Try it some time." He arose to his feet, went to the gymnasium.

  VII

  JOE WORKED UP a sweat in an obstacle treadmill, jumped out, sat panting on the bench. Manaolo came slowly into the gymnasium, looked up and down the floor, then slowly back to Joe. Joe thought, Here comes trouble.

  Manaolo glanced back over his shoulder, then turned, crossed the room in three strides. He stood looking down at Joe. His face was not a man's face but a glimpse into a fantasy of the underworld. He said, "You touched me with your hands."

  "Touched you, hell!" said Joe. "I knocked you A over T."

  Manaolo's mouth, tender enough to be a woman's but also hard and muscular, sunk at the corners. He writhed his shoulders, leaned forward, kicked. Joe bent double in silent agony, clasping his lower adomen. Manaolo stepped lightly back, kicked under Joe's jaw.

  Joe slid slowly, laxly to the deck. Manaolo bent swiftly, a little metal device glittering in his hands. Joe raised his arm feebly—Manaolo kicked it aside. He hooked the metal instrument in Joe's nostrils, jerked. Two little hooked knives sliced the cartilage. A cloud of powder seared the flesh.

  Manaolo jumped back, the corners of his mouth pushed in deeper. He turned on his heel, swung jauntily out of the room.

  The ship's doctor said, "There—it's not too bad. You'll have the two scars for awhile but they shouldn't be too noticeable."

  Joe examined his reflection in the mirror—his bruised chin, the plastered nose. "Well—I've still got a nose."

  "You've still got a nose," the doctor agreed woodenly. "Lucky I got you in time. I've had some experience with that powder. It's a hormone promoting the growth of skin. If it hadn't been removed, the splits would be permanent and you'd have three flaps on your face."

  "You understand," said Joe, "this was an accident. I wouldn't want to trouble the captain with any report and I hope you won't."

  The doctor shrugged, turned, put away his equipment. "Strange accident."

  Joe returned to the saloon. The Cils were learning the game with the colored bars, chatting gaily with the Mangs. The Druid missionaries, heads together, were performing some intricate ritual at their portable altar. Hableyat was spread comfortably on a couch, examining his fingernails with every evidence
of satisfaction. The door from Elfane's cabin opened, Manaolo stepped out, swung easily along the balcony, down the steps. He gave Joe an expressionless glance, turned up toward the promenade.

  Joe settled beside Hableyat, felt his nose tenderly. "It's still there."

  Hableyat nodded composedly. "It will be as good as new in a week or two. These Beland medics are apt, very apt. Now on Kyril, where doctors are nonexistent, the man of the Laity would apply a poultice of some vile material and the wound would never heal.

  "You will notice a large number of the Laity with tri-cleft noses. Next to killing it is a favorite Druid punishment." He surveyed Joe from under half-closed lids. "You seem to be rather less exercised than would be permissible under the circumstances."

  "I'm not pleased."

  "Let me cite you a facet of Druid psychology," said Hableyat. "In Manaolo's mind the infliction of the wound terminated the matter. It was the final decisive act in the quarrel between you two. On Kyril the Druids act without fear of retaliation in the name of the Tree. It gives them a peculiar sense of infallibility. Now, I mention this merely to point out that Manaolo will be surprised and outraged if you pursue the matter farther."

  Joe shrugged.

  Hableyat said in a querulous voice, "You say nothing, you make no threats, you voice no anger."

  Joe smiled a rather thin smile. "I haven't had time for much but amazement. Give me time."

  Hableyat nodded.

  "Ah, I see. You were shocked by the attack."

  "Very much so."

  Hableyat nodded again, a series of wise little jerks that set his dewlaps quivering. "Let us change the subject then. Now your description of the European pre-Christian Druids interests me."

  "Tell me something," said Joe. "What is that pot that all the fuss is about? Some kind of message or formula or military secret?"