Nopalgarth

by Jack Vance

  The two Ballenkarts swung around in amazement. With a stern face Hableyat said, "Go, get your master. We will suffer this indignity no longer."

  The Ballenkarts blinked, slightly crestfallen to find their authority questioned. Erru Kametin, eyes snapping, said, "What are you saying, Hableyat? Are you trying to compromise us in the eyes of the Prince?"

  Hableyat said, "He must learn that we Mangs prize our dignities. We will not stir from this ground until he advances to greet us in the manner of a courteous host."

  Erru Kametin laughed scornfully. "Stay then." He flung his scarlet cloak about him, turned, proceeded toward the Residence. The Ballenkarts conferred and one accompanied the Mangs. The other eyed Hableyat with truculent eyes. "Wait until the Prince hears of this!"

  The rest had rounded a corner. Hableyat leisurely drew his hand from his cloak, discharged a tube at the guard. The guard's eyes became milky, he tumbled to the ground.

  "He's merely stunned," said Hableyat to Joe, who had turned protestingly. To the Druids, "Hurry."

  Lifting their robes they ran to a nearby bank of soft dirt. One dug a hole with a stick, the other opened the altar, tenderly lifted out the miniature Tree. A small pot surrounded its roots.

  Joe heard Elfane gasp. "You two—"

  "Silence," rapped Hableyat. "Attend your own concerns if you are wise. These are Arch-Thearchs, both of them."

  "Manaolo—a dupe!"

  Into the hole went the roots. Soil was patted firm. The Druids closed the altar, dusted off their hands, and once more became empty-faced monks. And the Son of the Tree stood firm in the ground of Ballenkarch, bathing in the hot yellow light. Unless one looked closely, it was merely another young shrub.

  "Now," said Hableyat placidly, "we continue to the Residence."

  Elfane glared at Hableyat and the Druids, her eyes flaming with rage and humiliation. "All this time you've been laughing at me!"

  "No, no, Priestess," said Hableyat. "Calmness, I implore you. You'll need all your wits when you face the Prince. Believe me, you served a very useful function."

  Elfane turned blindly as if to run off toward the sea but Joe caught hold of her. For a moment she stared into his eyes, her muscles like wire. Then she relaxed, grew limp. "Very well, I'll go in."

  They continued, meeting halfway a squad of six soldiers evidently sent out to escort them in. No one heeded the numb form of the guard.

  At the portal they were subjected to a search, quick but so detailed and thorough as to evoke angry protests from the Druids and an outraged yelp from Elfane. The arsenal so discovered was surprising—hand-conics from each of the Druids, Hableyat's stun-tube and a collapsible dagger, Joe's gun, a little polished tube Elfane carried in her sleeve.

  The corporal stood back, gestured. "You are permitted to enter the Residence. See that you observe the accepted forms of respect."

  Passing through an antechamber painted with grotesque half-demoniac animals they entered a large hall.

  The ceiling beams were great timbers, hand-hewn and notched into a formalized pattern, the walls were surfaced with woven rattan. At either side banks of green and red plants lined the wall and the floor was covered by a soft rug of fiber woven and dyed in a striking pattern of scarlet, black and green.

  Opposite the entrance was a dais, flanked by two heavy balustrades of rust-red wood, and a wide throne-like seat of the same russet wood. At the moment the throne was empty.

  Twenty or thirty men stood about the room—large, sun-tanned, some with bristling mustaches—awkward and ill at ease as if unused to a roof over their heads. All wore red knee-length breeches. Some wore blouses of various colors while others were bare-chested with capes of black fur slung back from their shoulders. All bore short heavy sabers in their belts and all eyed the newcomers without friendliness.

  Joe looked from face to face. Harry Creath would not be far from Vail-Alan, the center of activity. But he was not in the hall.

  Beside the dais in a group stood the Redbranch Mangs. Erru Kametin spoke in a harsh staccato to the woman. The two proctors listened silently, half-turned away.

  A house-marshal with a long brass clarion stepped into the room, blew a brilliant fanfare. Joe smiled faintly. Like a musical comedy—warriors in bright uniforms, pageantry, pomp, punctilio…

  The fanfare again—tantara-tantivy —shrill, exciting.

  "The Prince of Vail-Alan! Ruler Preemptor across the face of Ballenkarch!"

  A blond man, slight beside the Ballenkarts, stepped briskly up on the dais, seated himself on the throne. He had a round bony face with lines of humor around his mouth, nervous twitching hands, an air of gay intelligence, reckless impatience. From the crowd came a hoarse "Aaaaah" of reverence. Joe nodded slowly without surprise. Who else? Harry Creath flicked his eyes around the room. They rested on Joe, passed, swung back. For a minute he stared in amazement.

  "Joe Smith! What in Heaven's name are you doing out here?"

  This was the moment he had come a thousand light years for. And now Joe's mind refused to function correctly. He stuttered the words he had rehearsed for two years, through toil, danger, boredom —the words which expressed the two-year obsession—"I came out to get you."

  He had said them, he was vindicated. The compulsion which was almost auto-suggestion had been allayed. But the words had been spoken and Harry's mobile face expressed astonishment. "Out here? All the way— to get me?"

  "That's right."

  "Get me to do what?" Harry leaned back and his wide mouth broke into a grin.

  "Well—you left some unfinished business on Earth."

  "None that I know of. You'd have to talk long and fast to get me in motion." He turned to a tall guard with a face like a rock. "Have these people been searched for weapons?"

  "Yes, Prince."

  Harry turned back to Joe with a grimace of jocular apology. "There's too many people interested in me. I can't ignore the obvious risks. Now, you were saying— you want me to go back to Earth. Why?"

  Why? Joe asked himself the question. Why? Because Margaret thought herself in love with Harry and Joe thought she was in love with a dream. Because Joe thought that if Margaret could know Harry for a month, rather than for two days, if she could see him in day-to-day living, if she could recognize that love was not a series of lifts and thrills like a roller-coaster ride—that marriage was not a breathless round of escapades.

  In short, if Margaret's pretty frivolous head could be rattled loose from its nonsense—then there would be room in it for Joe. Was that it? It had seemed easy, flung out to Mars for Harry only to find Harry had departed for Io. And from Io to Pluto, the Jumping-off Place. And then the compulsion began to take hold, the doggedness. Out from Pluto, on and on and on. Then Kyril, then Junction, now Ballenkarch.

  Joe blushed, intensely aware of Elfane at his back, watching him with bright-eyed speculation. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again. Why?

  Eyes were on him, eyes from all over the room. Curious eyes, cold uninterested eyes, hostile eyes, searching eyes—Hableyat's placid, Elfane's probing, Harry Creath's mocking eyes. And into Joe's confused mind one hard fact emerged—he would be displaying himself as the most consummate ass in the history of the universe if he told the truth.

  "Something to do with Margaret?" asked Harry mercilessly. "She send you out here?"

  Joe saw Margaret as if in a vision, inspecting the two of them derisively. His eyes swung to Elfane. A hellion, obstinate, intolerant, too intense and full of life for her own good. But sincere and decent.

  "Margaret?" Joe laughed. "No. Nothing to do with Margaret. In fact I've changed my mind. Keep to hell away from Earth."

  Harry relaxed slightly. "If it had to do with Margaret-why, you're rather outdated." He craned his neck. "Where the devil is she? Margaret!"

  "Margaret?" muttered Joe.

  She stepped up on the dais beside Harry. "Hello, Joe" —as if she'd taken leave of him yesterday afternoon— "what a nice surprise."

&n
bsp; She was laughing inside, very quietly. Joe, grinned also, grimly. Very well, he'd take his medicine. He met their eyes, said, "Congratulations." It occurred to him that Margaret was in sheer fact living the life she claimed she wanted to lead—excitement, intrigue, adventure. And it seemed to agree with her.

  XII

  Harry had been speaking to him. Joe suddenly became aware of his voice. "—You see, Joe, this is a wonderful thing we're doing out here, a wonderful world. It's busting open with high-grade ore, timber, organic produce, manpower. I've got a picture in my mind, Joe—Utopia.

  "There's a good bunch of lads behind me, and we're working together. They're a little rough yet but they see this world the way I see it and they're willing to take a chance on me. To begin with, of course, I had to knock a few heads together but they know who's boss now and we're getting on fine." Harry looked fondly over the crowd of Ballenkarts, any one of whom could have strangled him with one hand.

  "In another twenty years," said Harry, "you won't believe your eyes. What we're going to do to the planet! It's marvelous, I tell you, Joe. Excuse me now, for a few minutes. There's affairs of state." He settled himself into his chair, looked from Mangs to Druids.

  "We might as well talk it over now. I see it's all fresh and ripe in your minds. There's my old friend Hableyat." He winked at Joe. "Foxy Grandpa. What's the occasion, Hableyat?"

  Hableyat strutted forward. "Your Excellency, I find myself in a peculiar position. I have not communicated with my home government and I am not sure as to the extent of my authority."

  Harry said to a guard. "Find the Magnerru." To Hableyat, "Magnerru Ippolito is fresh from Mangtse and he claims to speak with the voice of your Ampianu General."

  From an archway to the side a Mang approached—a sturdy square-faced Mang with the brightest of black eyes, a lemon-yellow skin, bright orange lips. He wore a scarlet robe embroidered with a border of purple and green squares, a cubical black hat.

  Erru Kametin and the other Mangs of his party bowed deeply, saluting with outflung arms. Hableyat nodded respectfully, a fixed smile on his plump lips.

  "Magnerru," said Prince Harry, "Hableyat wants to know the extent of his freedom to make policy."

  "None," rasped the Magnerru. "None whatever. Hableyat and the Bluewaters have been discredited in the Ampianu, the Lathbon sits with the Redbranch. Hableyat speaks with no voice but his own and it will soon be stilled."

  Harry nodded. "Then it will be wise to hear, before his demise, what his views are."

  "My Lord," said Hableyat, his face still frozen in its jovial mask, "my words are trivial. I prefer to hear the enunciations of the Magnerru and of the two Arch-Thearchs we have with us. My Lord, I may state that the highest of Kyril face you—Arch-Thearchs Oporeto Implan and Gameanza. They will ably present their views."

  "My modest residence is thick with celebrities," said Harry.

  Gameanza stepped forward with a glittering glance for the Magnerru. "Prince Harry, I consider the present atmosphere unsuited to discussion of policy. Whenever the Prince desires—the sooner the better—I will communicate to him the trend of Druid policy together with my views in regard to the political and ethical situation."

  The Magnerru said, "Talk to the dry-mouthed slug. Listen to his efforts to fix the slave system on Ballenkarch. Then send him back to his fetid gray world in the hold of a cattle ship."

  Gameanza stiffened. His skin seemed to become brittle. He said to Harry in a sharp brassy voice, "I am at your pleasure."

  Harry rose to his feet. "Very well, we'll retire for half an hour and discuss your proposals." He raised a hand to the Magnerru. "You'll have the same privilege, so be patient. Talk over old times with Hableyat. I understand he formerly occupied your position."

  Arch-Thearch Gameanza followed him as he jumped from the dais and left the hall and after moved the Arch-Thearch Oporeto Implan. Margaret waved a casual hand to Joe. "See you later." She slipped away through another door.

  Joe found a bench to the side of the room, wearily seated himself. Before him like a posed tableau stood the rigid Mangs, the exquisite wisp of flesh that was Elfane, Hableyat—suddenly gone vague and helpless— the Ballenkarts in their gorgeous costumes, troubled, confused, unused to the bickering of sharp wits, glancing uneasily at each other over heavy shoulders, muttering.

  Elfane turned her head, gazed around the room. She saw Joe, hesitated, then crossed the floor, seated herself beside him. After a moment she said haughtily, "You're laughing at me —mocking me."

  "I wasn't aware of it."

  "You've found the man you were seeking," she said with eyebrows arched. "Why don't you do something?"

  Joe shrugged. "I've changed my mind."

  "Because that yellow-haired woman —Margaret—is here?"

  "Partly."

  "You never mentioned her to me."

  "I had no idea you'd be interested."

  Elfane looked stonily across the audience hall. Joe said, "Do you know why I changed my mind?"

  She shook her head. "No. I don't."

  "It's because of you."

  Elfane turned back with glowing eyes. "So it was the blonde woman who brought you out here."

  Joe sighed. "Every man can be a damn fool once in his life. At least once…"

  She was not appeased. "Now, I suppose, if I sent you to look for someone you wouldn't go? That she meant more to you than I do?"

  Joe groaned. "Oh Lord! In the first place you've never given me any reason to think that you—oh, hell!"

  "I offered to let you be my lover."

  Joe eyed her with exasperation. "I'd like to…" He recalled that Kyril was not Earth, that Elfane was a Priestess, not a college girl.

  Elfane laughed. "I understand you very well, Joe. On Earth men are accustomed to having their own way and the women are auxiliary inhabitants. And don't forget, Joe, you've never told me anything—that you loved me."

  Joe growled, "I've been afraid to."

  "Try me."

  Joe tried and the happy knowledge came to him that, in spite of a thousand light-years and two extremes of culture, girls were girls. Priestesses or co-eds.

  Harry and the Arch-Druid Gameanza returned to the room and a set expression hung like a frame on the Druid's white face. Harry said to the Magnerru, "Perhaps you will be good enough to exchange a few words with me?"

  The Magnerru clapped his hands in repressed anger against his robe, followed Harry into the inner chambers. Evidently the informal approach found no responsive chord in him.

  Hableyat settled beside Joe. Elfane looked stonily to one side. Hableyat wore a worried expression. His yellow jowls hung flaccid, the eyelids drooped over his eyes.

  Joe said, "Cheer up, Hableyat, you're not dead yet."

  Hableyat shook his head. "The schemes of my entire life are toppling into fragments."

  Joe looked at him sharply. Was the gloom exaggerated, the sighs over-doleful? He said guardedly, "I have yet to learn your positive program."

  Hableyat shrugged. "I am a patriot. I wish to see my planet prosperous, waxing in wealth. I am a man imbued with the culture of my world; I can conceive of no better way of life, and I wish to see this culture expand, enriching itself with the cultures of other worlds, adapting the good, overcoming the bad."

  "In other words," said Joe. "You're as strenuous an imperialist as your military friends. Only your methods are different."

  "I'm afraid you have defined me," sighed Hableyat. "Furthermore I fear that in this era military imperialism is almost impossible—that cultural imperialism is the only practicable form. A planet cannot be successfully subjugated and occupied from another planet. It may be devastated, laid waste, but the logistics of conquest are practically insuperable. I fear that the adventures proposed by the Redbranch will exhaust Mang, ruin Ballenkarch and make the way easy for a Druid religious imperialism."

  Joe felt Elfane stiffen. "Why is that worse than Mang cultural imperialism?"

  "My dear Priestess,"
said Hableyat, "I could never argue cogently enough to convince you. I will say one word—that the Druids produce very little with a vast potentiality—that they live on the backs of a groaning mass—and that I hope the system is never extended to include me among the Laity."

  "Me, either," said Joe.

  Elfane jumped to her feet. "You're both vile!"

  Joe surprised himself by reaching, pulling her back beside him with a thud. She struggled a moment, then subsided.

  "Lesson number one in Earth culture," said Joe cheerfully. "It's bad manners to argue religion."

  A soldier burst into the chamber, panting, his face twisted in terror. "Horrible—out along the road… Where's the Prince? Get the Prince—a terrible growth!"

  Hableyat jumped to his feet, his face sharp alert. He ran nimbly out the door and after a second Joe said, "I'm going too."

  Elfane, without a word, followed.

  Joe had a flash impression of complete confusion. A milling mob of men circled an object he could not identify—a squat green-and-brown thing which seemed to writhe and heave.

  Hableyat burst through the circle, with Joe at his side and Elfane pressing at Joe's back. Joe looked in wonder. The Son of the Tree?

  It had grown, become complicated. No longer did it resemble the Kyril Tree. The Son had adapted itself to a new purpose—protection, growth, flexibility.

  It reminded Joe of a tremendous dandelion. A white fuzzy ball held itself twenty feet above the ground on a slender swaying stalk, surrounded by an inverted cone of flat green fronds. At the base of each front a green tendril, streaked and speckled with black, thrust itself out. Clasped in these tendrils were the bodies of three men.

  Hableyat squawked, "The thing's a devil," and clapped his hand to his pouch. But his weapon had been impounded by the Residence guards.

  A Ballenkarch chieftain, his pale face distorted, charged the Son, hacking with his saber. The fuzzy ball swayed toward him a trifle, the tendrils jerked back like the legs of an insect, then snapped in from all sides, wrapped the man close, pierced his flesh. He bawled, fell silent, stiffened. The tendrils flushed red, pulsed, and the Son grew taller.