Nopalgarth

by Jack Vance

  Hableyafs eyes widened. "Message? Military secret? What are these? No, my dear fellow, to the best of my knowledge the pot is merely an honest pot and the plant an honest plant."

  "Why the excitement then? And why try to stick me with a ringer?"

  Hableyat said musingly, "Sometimes in affairs of planetary scope it becomes necessary to sacrifice the convenience of one person for the eventual benefit of many. You were to carry the plant to decoy my pistol-flourishing compatriots from that conveyed by the Druids."

  "I don't get it," said Joe. "Aren't you both working for the same government?"

  "Oh indeed," said Hableyat. "Our aims are identical— the glorification and prosperity of our beloved planet. No one is more dedicated than myself. But there is a rather odd cleavage in the Mang system, separating the Redbranch Militars from the Bluewater Commercials. They exist like two souls in one body, two husbands married to the same wife.

  "Both love Mangtse. Both use their peculiar means for displaying this love. To some extent they cooperate but only as is expedient. They are ultimately responsible only to the Lathbon and, a step lower, to the Ampianu General, in which body both seat members. In many ways the arrangement works well—sometimes two approaches to a problem are valuable.

  "In general the Redbranch is direct and forceful. They believe that the best way to end our difficulties with the Druids is to seize the planet in a military operation. We Bluewaters point out that many men would be killed, much material detroyed and, if by some miracle we finally overcame the religion-crazed hordes of the Laity, we would have destroyed whatever usefulness Kyril might have for us.

  "You see," he nodded wisely at Joe, "with a productive peasantry Kyril can produce the raw materials and handcrafts for our Mang industries. We form a natural couple but the current Druid policy is a disturbing factor. An industrialized Ballenkarch ruled by the Druids would upset the balance. Now the Redbranches want to destroy the Druids. We Bluewaters hope to influence a gradual metamorphosis toward an economy on Kyril channeled into production instead of into the Tree."

  "And how do you propose to work that out?" Hableyat wagged a solemn finger. "In the strictest confidence, my dear fellow—by letting the Druids proceed undisturbed with their intrigues."

  Joe frowned, touched his nose absently. "But—this flowerpot—how does it enter the picture?"

  "That," said Hableyat, "is what the poor single-minded Druids conceive to be the most cogent instrument of their plan. I hope it will be one of the instruments of their defeat. So I mean to see that the pot reaches Ballenkarch if I must kill twenty of my fellow Mangs in the process."

  "If you're telling the truth, which I doubt—"

  "But my dear fellow, why should I lie to you?"

  "—I commence to understand some of this madhouse."

  Junction—a many-sided polyhedron one mile in diameter, swimming in a diffused luminescence. A dozen spaceships suckled up close like leeches and nearby space was thick with firefly flecks of light—men and women in airsuits, drifting through the void, venturing off ten, twenty, thirty miles, feeling the majesty of deep space.

  There seemed to be no formalities connected with landing—a matter which surprised Joe, who had become accustomed to elaborate checking and rechecking, indexes, reserve numbers, inspections, quarantine, passes, visas, reviews, signatures and counter -signatures. The Belsaurion nosed up to a vacant port, clamped itself to the seal with mesonic glue-fields and so came to rest. The hypnots in the hold lay undisturbed. The Beland captain once again called a meeting of the passengers. "We are now at Junction, and will remain thirty-two hours while we take on mail and freight. Now some of you have been here before. I need not caution you to discretion.

  "For those who visit Junction for the first time I will state that it lies in no planet's jurisdiction, that its law is at the whim of the owner and his comptroller, that their main interest is in extracting money from your pockets through pleasures and pastimes of various natures.

  "Thus I urge you, beware of the gambling cages. I say to you women—do not enter the Perfume Park alone for that is a signal that you wish a paid escort. The men who patronize Tier Three will find it expensive and perhaps dangerous. There have been cases of murder for robbery reported. A man engrossed with a girl is an easy target for a knife. Again films have been made of persons engaged in questionable acts, and these have been used for blackmail.

  "Lastly let no desire for excitement or thrill take you down to the Arena —because you may easily be forced into the ring and set to fighting an expert warrior. Once you pay admission you put yourself at the choice of whoever is victor at the moment. It is astonishing how many casual visitors, whether under the influence of drugs, alcohol, lust for excitement or sheer bravado, dare the Arena. A good number of them are killed or seriously injured. "Enough for the warnings. I do not wish to alarm you. There are a number of legitimate pleasures you may indulge in. The Nineteen Gardens are the talk of the Universe. In the Celestium you may dine on food of your planet, hear your native music. The shops along the Esplanade sell anything you may desire at very reasonable prices.

  "So with this warning I put you on your own. Thirty-two hours from now we leave for Ballenkarch."

  He withdrew. There was a general shuffling of feet. Joe noticed that Manaolo followed Elfane to her cabin. The two Druid missionaries returned to their portable altar, apparently with no intention of going ashore. The Mang officer, Erru Kametin, marched off with the young widow at his heels and after them went the two Mangs in civilian dress.

  The gaunt bald old woman moved not an inch from her chair but sat staring across the floor. The Cils, giggling, stepping high, rushed from the ship. Hableyat stopped before Joe, plump arms clasped behind his back. "Well, my friend, are you going ashore?"

  "Yes," said Joe. "I think I probably will. I'm waiting to see what the Priestess and Manaolo will do."

  Hableyat teetered on his heels. "Steer clear of that chap is my best advice. He's a vicious example of megalomania—conditioned, I may add, to its most exquisite pitch by his environment. Manaolo considers himself divine and ordained—actually, literally —to a degree neither of us can imagine. Manaolo knows no right or wrong. He knows pro and con Manaolo."

  The door to cabin 13 opened. Manaolo and Elfane stepped out on the balcony. Manaolo, in the lead, carried a small parcel. He wore a chased cuirass of gold and bright metal and a long green cloak, embroidered with yellow leaves, was flung back from his shoulders.

  Looking to neither right nor left he strode down the stairs, across the cabin, out the port.

  Elfane halted on reaching the saloon deck, looked after him, shook her head —a motion eloquent of annoyance. She turned, crossed the saloon to Joe and Hableyat.

  Hableyat made a respectful inclination of the head, which Elfane acknowledged coolly. She said to Joe, "I want you to conduct me ashore."

  "Is that an invitation or an order?"

  Elfane raised her eyebrows quizzically. "It means I want you to take me ashore."

  "Very well," said Joe, rising to his feet. "I'll be glad to."

  Hableyat sighed. "If only I were young and handsome—"

  Joe snorted. "Handsome?"

  "—no lovely young lady would need to ask me twice."

  Elfane said in a tight voice, "I think it's only fair to mention that Manaolo promised to kill you if he finds you talking to me."

  There was silence. Then Joe said in a voice that sounded strange in his own ears, "So the very first thing, you come over and ask me to take you ashore."

  "Are you frightened?"

  "I'm not brave."

  She turned sharply, started for the port. Hableyat said curiously, "Why did you do that?"

  Joe snorted angrily. "She's a troublemaker. She has a ridiculous notion that I'll risk some crazy Druid shooting me down like a dog merely for the privilege of walking her around." He watched her leave the ship, slim as a birch in her dark blue cape. "She's right," said Joe. "I am just t
hat kind of damn fool."

  He started off after her on the run. Hableyat watched them go off together, smiled sadly, rubbed his hands together. Then unbuckling the robe from around his paunch, he sat back on the couch once again, dreamily followed the devotions of the two Druids at their altar.

  VIII

  They were walking down a corridor lined with small shops. "Look," said Joe, "are you a Druid Priestess, about as likely to lop the life out of a commoner as not—or are you a nice kid out on a date?"

  Elfane tossed her head, tried to look dignified and worldly. "I am a very important person and one day I will be the Suppliant for the entire Shire of Kelminester. A small shire, true, but the guidance of three million souls to the Tree will be in my hands."

  Joe gave her a disgusted look. "Won't they do just as well without you?"

  She laughed, relaxed for an instant to become a gay dark-haired girl. "Oh—probably. But I'm forced to keep up appearances."

  "The trouble is that after awhile you'll start believing all that stuff."

  She said nothing for a moment. Then, mischievously, "Why are you looking about so attentively? Is this corridor so interesting then?"

  "I'm watching for that devil Manaolo," said Joe. "It would be just like him to be lurking in one of these shadows and step out and stab me."

  Elfane shook her head. "Manaolo has gone down to Tier Three. He has tried to make me his lover every night of the voyage but I have no desire for him. This morning he threatened that unless I yielded he would debauch himself along the Tier. I told him by all means to do so and then perhaps his virility would not be so ardently directed against me. He left in a huff."

  "Manaolo always seems to be in a state of offended dignity."

  "He is a man with a very exalted rank," said Elfane. "Now let us go down here. I wish to—"

  Joe took her arm, swung her around, gazed into her startled eyes, her nose an inch from his.

  "Look here, young lady. I'm not trying to assert my virility but I'm not trotting here and there after you, carrying your bundles like a chauffeur."

  He knew it was the wrong word.

  "Chauffeur, ha! Then—"

  "If you don't like my company," said Joe, "now's the time to leave."

  After a moment she said, "What's your name beside Smith?"

  "Call me Joe."

  "Joe—you're a very remarkable man. Very strange. You puzzle me, Joe."

  "If you want to come with me—a chauffeur, a mechanic, a civil engineer, a moss-planter, a bartender, a tennis instructor, a freight docker, a dozen other things —we're going down to the Nineteen Gardens and see if they sell Earth-style beer."

  The Nineteen Gardens occupied a slice through the middle of the construction—nineteen wedge-shaped sections surrounding a central platform which served as a restaurant.

  They found a vacant table and, to Joe's surprise, beer in frosted quart beakers was set before them without comment.

  "If it pleases your Divinity," said Elfane meekly.

  Joe grinned sheepishly. "You don't need to carry it that far. It must be a Druid trait, an avalanche one way, another way, all the way. Well, what did you want?"

  "Nothing." She turned in her seat, looked out across the gardens. At this point Joe realized that willy-nilly, for good or bad, he was wildly enamored. Margaret? He sighed. She was far away, a thousand light-years.

  He looked across the gardens, nineteen of them, flora of nineteen different planets, each with its distinctive color timbres—black, gray and white of Kelce—oranges, yellows, hot lime green of Zarjus—the soft pastel pink, green, blue and yellow blossoms which grew on the quiet little planets of Jonapah—green in a hundred rich tones, gay red, sky blue—Joe started, half-rose to his feet.

  "What's the matter?" asked Elfane.

  "That garden there—those are Earth plants or I'm a ring-tailed monkey." He jumped up, went to the rail and she followed. "Geraniums, honeysuckle, petunias, zinnia, roses, Italian cypress, poplars, weeping willows. And a lawn. And hibiscus…" He looked at the descriptive plaque. "Planet Gea. Location uncertain."

  They returned to the table. "You act as if you're homesick," said Elfane in an injured voice.

  Joe smiled. "I am—very homesick. Tell me something about Ballenkarch."

  She tasted the beer, looked at it in surprise, screwed up her face.

  "Nobody likes beer when they first drink it," said Joe.

  "Well—I don't know too much about Ballenkarch. Up to a few years ago it was completely savage. No ships stopped there because the autochthones were cannibals. Then the present prince united all of the smaller continent into a nation. It happened overnight. Many people were killed.

  "But now there is no more murder and ships can land in comparative safety. The Prince has decided to industrialize and he's imported much machinery from Beland, Mangtse, and Grabo across the stream. Little by little he's extending his rule over the main continent— winning over the chiefs, hypnotizing them or killing them.

  "Now you must understand the Ballenkarts have no religion whatever and we Druids hope to tie their new industrial power to us through the medium of a common faith. Then we will no longer depend on Mangtse for manufactured goods. The Mangs naturally don't care for the idea and so they are…" Her eyes widened. She reached across, grasped his arm. "Manaolo! Oh Joe, I hope he doesn't see us."

  Joe's mantle of caution ripped. Humility is impossible when the object of your love is fearing for your safety.

  He sat back in his seat, watched Manaolo come striding onto the terrace like a Demonland hero.. A beige-skinned woman, wearing orange pantaloons, pointed slippers of blue cloth and a blue cloth cap, hung on his arm. In his other arm he carried the parcel he had taken off the ship. In the flicker of his dead eyes he saw Elfane and Joe, changed his course without expression, sauntered across the floor, casually drawing a stiletto from his belt.

  "This is it," muttered Joe. "This is it!" He rose to his feet.

  Diners, drinkers, scattered. Manaolo stopped a yard distant, the ghost of a smile on his dark face. He set the parcel on the table, then easily stepped forward, thrust. It was done with an almost naive simplicity as if he expected Joe to stand still to be stabbed. Joe threw the beer into his face, hit his wrist with the beaker and the stiletto tinkled to the ground.

  "Now," said Joe, "I'm going to beat you within an inch of your life."

  Manaolo lay on the ground. Joe, panting, straddled him. The bandage across his nose had broken. Blood flowed down his face, down his chin. Manaolo's hand fell on the stiletto. With a subdued grunt he swung. Joe gripped the arm, guided it past him into Manaolo's shoulder.

  Manaolo grunted once more, plucked the blade loose. Joe seized it away, stuck it through Manaolo's ear into the wooden floor, pounded it deep with blows of his fist, jumped to his feet, stood looking down.

  Manaolo flopped like a fish, lay still, exhausted. An impassive litter crew came through the crowd, removed the stiletto, loaded him on the litter, bore him away. The beige-skinned woman ran along beside him. Manaolo spoke to her. She turned, ran to the table, took the parcel, ran back to where the attendants were loading Manaolo into a wheeled vehicle, placed the parcel on his chest.

  Joe sank back into his chair, took Elfane's beer, drank deeply.

  "Joe," she whispered. "Are you —hurt?"

  "I'm black and blue all over," said Joe. "Manaolo's a rough boy. If you hadn't been here I would have ducked him. But," he said with a blood-smeared grin, "I couldn't let you see me ducking my rival."

  "Rival?" she looked puzzled. "Rival?"

  "For you."

  "Oh!" in a colorless tone.

  "Now don't say 'I'm the Royal Druid God-almighty Priestess'!"

  She looked up startled. "I wasn't thinking of that. I was thinking that Manaolo never was—your rival."

  Joe said, "I've got to clean up and get some new clothes. Would you like to come with me or—"

  "No," said Elfane, still in the colorless voice. "I'll
stay here awhile. I want to—to think."

  Thirty-one hours. The Belsaurion was due to take off. The passengers trickled back on board to be checked in by the purser.

  Thirty-one and a half hours. "Where's Manaolo?" Elfane asked the purser. "Has he come aboard?"

  "No, Worship."

  Elfane chewed her lip, clenched her hands. "I'd better check at the hospital. You won't go off without me?"

  "No, Worship, certainly not."

  Joe followed her to a telephone. "Hospital," she said to the mechanical voice. Then, "I want to inquire about Ecclesiarch Manaolo, who was brought in yesterday. Has he been discharged?… Very well but hurry. His ship is waiting to take off…" She turned a side comment to Joe. "They've gone to check at his room."

  A moment passed; then she bent to the ear-phone. "What! No!"

  "What's the trouble?"

  "He's dead. He's been murdered."

  The captain agreed to hold the ship until Elfane returned from the hospital. She ran to the elevator with Joe at her heels. In the hospital she was led to a lank Beland nurse with white hair wound into a severe bun.

  "Are you his wife?" asked the nurse. "If so will you please make the arrangements for the body."

  "I'm not his wife. I don't care what you do with the body. Tell me, what became of the parcel he brought in here with him?"

  "There's no parcel in his room. I remember he brought one in with him—but it's not there now." Joe asked, "What visitors did he have?"

  "I'm not sure. I could find out, I suppose." Manaolo's last visitors were three Mangs, who had signed unfamiliar names to the register. The corridor attendant had noticed that one of them, an elderly man with a rigid military posture, had emerged from the room carrying a parcel.

  Elfane leaned against Joe's shoulder. "That was the pot with the plant in it." He put his arms around her, patted her dark head. "And now the Mangs have it," she said hopelessly.