Nopalgarth

by Jack Vance

  "Why?" he asked. "Why did all this happen?"

  Bengston made no answer.

  "I've got to know," said Farr. "Why?"

  Still no answer.

  Farr swallowed his pride. "Why?" he asked humbly, "won't you please tell me?"

  Paul Bengston shrugged, laughed foolishly.

  Farr pled with him. "Is it something I know? Something I've seen? Something I own?"

  An emotion close to hysteria seemed to grip Bengston. He said, "I just don't like the way your hair is combed." And he laughed till the tears came.

  Kirdy said grimly, "I haven't got any better from him."

  "What could be his motive?" asked Farr plaintively. "His reason? Why would the Anderviews want to kill me?"

  "If I find out I'll let you know," said Kirdy. "Meanwhile—where can I get in touch with you?"

  Farr considered. There was something he had to do… It would come to him, but in the meantime! "I'm going to Los Angeles. I'll be at the Imperador Hotel."

  "Fool," said Bengston under his breath.

  Farr took a half-step forward. "Easy, Mr. Farr," said Kirdy.

  Farr turned away.

  "I'll let you know," said Kirdy.

  Farr looked at Dorristy. Dorristy said, "Never mind. Don't bother to apologize."

  X

  WHEN FARR returned to the lounge, the other passengers had debarked and were passing through the immigration office. Farr hurriedly followed them out, almost in claustrophobic panic. The SS Andrei Simic, the magnificent bird of space, enclosed him like a clamp, a coffin; he could wait no longer to leave, to stand on the soil of Earth.

  It was almost morning. The wind off the Mojave blew in his face, aromatic with sage and desert dust, the stars glinted, paling in the east. At the top of the ramp, Farr automatically looked up and searched out Aurigae. There: Capella, there—the faintest of glitters— Xi Aurigae beside which swung Iszm. Farr walked down the ramp and planted his foot on the ground. He was back on Earth. The impact seemed to jar an idea into his head. Of course, he thought, with a feeling of relief, the natural thing to do, the obvious man to see: K. Penche.

  Tomorrow. First to the Hotel Imperador. A bath in a hundred gallons of hot water. A hundred gallons of Scotch for a nightcap. Then bed.

  Omon Bozhd approached. "It has been a pleasure knowing you, Farr Sainh. A word of advice: use vast caution. I suspect that you are still in great danger." He bowed, then walked away. Farr stood looking after him. He felt no disposition to scoff off the warning.

  He passed immigration quickly and dispatched his luggage to the Imperador. By-passing the line of heli-cabs, he stepped down the shaft to the public tube. The disk appeared under his feet (always a thrill in the shaft, always the thought: suppose the disk doesn't come? Just this once?).

  The disk slowed to a stop. Farr paid his fare, summoned a one-man car to the dock, jumped in, dialed his destination, and relaxed into the seat. He could not marshal his thoughts. Visions seeped through his mind: the regions of space, Iszm, Jhespiano, the many-podded houses. He sailed in the Lhaiz to Tjiere atoll. He felt the terror of the raid on the fields of Zhde Patasz, the fall down the root into the dungeon, the confinement with the Thord—and later, the terrible experience on Zhde Patasz's experimental islet… The visions passed, they were a memory, far away, farther than the light years to Iszm.

  The hum of the car soothed him. His eyes grew heavy; he started to doze.

  He pulled himself awake, blinking. Shadowy, phantasmagorical, this whole affair. But it was real. Farr forced himself into a sober frame of mind. But his mind refused to reason, to plan. The stimuli had lost their sting. Here in the tube, the sane normal underground tube, murder seemed impossible…

  One man on Earth could help him: K. Penche, Earth agent for the Iszic houses, the man to whom Omon Bozhd brought bad news.

  The car vibrated, jerked, and shunted off the main tube toward the ocean. It twisted twice more, threading the maze of local tubes, and coasted finally to a stop.

  The door snapped open and an uniformed attendant assisted him to the deck. He registered at a stereoscreen booth; an elevator lofted him two hundred feet to the surface, then another five hundred feet to his room level. He was shown into a long chamber, finished in pleasant tones of olive green, straw, russet and white. One wall was sheer glass looking over Santa Monica, Beverly Hills and the ocean. Farr sighed in contentment. Iszic houses in many ways were remarkable, but never would they supersede the Hotel Imperador.

  Farr took his bath, floating in hot water faintly scented with lime. Rhythmical fingers of cooler water jetted and surged, massaging his legs, back, ribs, shoulders… He almost fell asleep. The bottom of the tub elevated, angled gently to vertical, and set him on his feet. Blasts of air removed his wetness; sunlamp radiation gave him a quick pleasant scorch.

  He came out of the bath to find a tall Scotch-and-soda waiting for him—not a hundred gallons, but enough. He stood at the window, sipping, enjoying the sense of utter fatigue.

  The sun came up; golden light washed in like a tide across the vast reaches of the world-city. Somewhere out there, in the luxury district that had once been Signal Hill, dwelt K. Penche. Farr felt an instant of puzzlement. Strange, he thought, how Penche represented the solution to everything. Well, he'd know whether that was right or not when he saw the man.

  Farr polarized the window and light died from the room. He set the wall clock to call him at noon, sank into bed, and fell asleep.

  The window depolarized, and daylight entered the room. Farr awoke, sat up in bed, and reached for a menu. He ticked off coffee, grapefruit, bacon, eggs. Then he jumped out of bed and went to the window. The world's largest city spread as far as he could see, white spires melting into the tawny haze, everywhere a trembling and vibration of commerce and life.

  The wall extruded a table set with his breakfast. Farr turned away from the window, seated himself, ate and watched news on the stereoscreen. For a minute he forgot his troubles. After his long absence, he had lost the continuity of the news. Events which he might have overlooked a year ago suddenly seemed interesting. He felt a cheerful flush. It was good to be home on Earth.

  The news-screen voice said, "Now for some flashes from outer space. It has just been learned that aboard the Sed Ball Packet Andrei Simic two passengers, ostensibly missionaries returning from service in the Mottram Group…"

  Farr watched, his breakfast forgotten, the cheerful glow fading.

  The voice recounted the affair. The screen modeled the Andrei Simic: first the exterior, then a cutaway, with an arrow directing attention to "the death cabin." How pleasant and unconcerned was this commentator! How remote and incidental he made the affair seem!

  "… the two victims and the murderer have all been identified as members of the notorious Heavy Weather crime-syndicate. Apparently they had visited Iszm, third planet of Xi Aurigae, in an attempt to smuggle out a female house."

  The voice spoke on. Simulacra of the Anderviews and Paul Bengston appeared.

  Farr clicked off the screen and pushed the table back into the wall. Rising to his feet, he went to look out over the city. It was urgent. He must see Penche.

  From the Size 2 cupboard he selected underwear, a suit of pale blue fiber, fresh sandals. As he dressed he planned out his day. First, of course, Penche… Farr frowned and paused in the buckling of his sandals. What should he tell Penche? Come to think of it, why would Penche worry about his troubles? What could Penche do? His monopoly stemmed from the Iszic; he would hardly risk antagonizing them.

  Farr took a deep breath and shrugged aside these annoying speculations. It was illogical, but quite definitely the right place to go. He was sure of this; he felt it in his bones.

  He finished dressing, went to the stereoscreen, and dialed the office of K. Penche. Penche's symbol appeared—a conventionalized Iszic house, with vertical bars of heavy type, reading K. Penche—Houses. Farr had not touched the scanning button, and his own image did not cross to Penche'
s office, an act of instinctive caution.

  A female voice said, "K. Penche Enterprises."

  "This is—" Farr hesitated and withheld his name. "Connect me to Mr. Penche."

  "Who is speaking?"

  "My name is confidential."

  "What is your business, please?"

  "Confidential."

  "I'll connect you to Mr. Penche's secretary."

  The secretary's image appeared—a young woman of languid charm. Farr repeated his request. The secretary looked at the screen. "Send over your image, please."

  "No," said Farr. "Connect me with Mr. Penche—I'll talk directly to him."

  "I'm afraid that's impossible," said the secretary. "Quite contrary to our office procedure."

  "Tell Mr. Penche that I have just arrived from Iszm on the Andrei Sitnic."

  The secretary turned and spoke into a mesh. After a second her face melted and the screen filled with the face of K. Penche. It was a massive, powerful face, like a piece of heavy machinery. The eyes burned from deep rectangular sockets, bars of muscles clamped his mouth. The eyebrows rose in a sardonic arch; the expression was neither pleasant nor unpleasant.

  "Who's speaking?" asked K. Penche.

  Words rose up through Farr's brain like bubbles from the bottom of a dark vat. They were words he had never intended to say. "I've come from Iszm; I've got it." Farr heard himself in amazement. The words came again. "I've come from Iszm…" He clamped his teeth and refused to vocalize. The syllables bounced back from the barrier.

  "Who is this? Where are you?"

  Farr reached over, turned off the screen, and sank weakly back into his chair. What was going on? He had nothing for Penche. "Nothing" meant a female house, naturally. Farr might be naive but not to that degree. He had no house, seed, seedling or sapling.

  Why did he want to see Penche? Pent-up common sense broke through to the top of his mind. Penche couldn't help him… A voice from another part of his brain said, Penche knows the ropes, he'll give you good advice… Well, yes, thought Farr weakly. This might be true enough.

  Farr relaxed. Yes, of course—that was his motive.

  But, on the other hand, Penche was a businessman dependent on the Iszic. If Farr were to go to anyone it should be to the police, to the Special Squad.

  He sat back rubbing his chin. Of course, it wouldn't hurt to see the man, maybe get it off his chest.

  Farr jumped to his feet in disgust. It was unreasonable. Why should he see Penche? Give him just one good reason… There was no reason whatever. He came to a definite decision: he would have nothing to do with Penche.

  He left the room, descended to the main lobby of the Imperador, and crossed to the desk to cash a bank coupon. The coupon was screened to the bank; there would be a wait of a few seconds. Farr tapped his fingers on the counter impatiently. Beside him a burly frog-faced man argued with the clerk. He wanted to deliver a message to a guest, but the clerk was skeptical. The burly man began to bite off his words in anger; the clerk stood behind his glass bulwark, prim, fastidious, shaking his head. Serene in the strength given him by rules and regulations, he took pleasure in thwarting the large man.

  "If you don't know his name, how do you knew he's at the Imperador?"

  "I know he's here," said the man. "It's important that he get this message."

  "It sounds very odd," mused the clerk. "You don't know what he looks like, you don't know his name… You might easily deliver your message to the wrong party."

  "That's my look-out!"

  The clerk smilingly shook his head. "Apparently all you know is that he arrived at five this morning. We have several guests who came in at that time."

  Farr was counting his money; the conversation impinged on his consciousness. He loitered, adjusting the bills in his wallet.

  "This man came in from space. He was just off the Andrei Simic. Now do you know who I mean?"

  Farr moved away quietly. He knew quite clearly what had happened. Penche had been expecting the call; it was important to him. He had traced the connection to the Imperador, and had sent a man over to contact him. In a far corner of the room he watched the large man lurch away from the desk in rage. Farr knew he would try elsewhere. One of the bell-boys or a steward would get him his information for a fee.

  Farr started out the door and turned to look back. A nondescript middle-aged woman was walking toward him. He happened to meet her eyes, she looked aside, faltered the smallest trifle in her step. Farr had already been keyed to suspicion, or he might not have noticed. The woman walked quickly past him, stepped on the exit-band, and was carried through the Imperador orchid garden and out upon Sunset Boulevard.

  Farr followed, watching her melt into the crowds. He crossed to a traffic umbrella and took the lift to the helicab deck. A cab stood empty beside the shelter. Farr jumped in and picked a destination at random. "Laguna Beach."

  The cab rose into the southbound level. Farr watched from the rear port. A cab bobbed up a hundred yards astern, followed.

  Farr called to the driver, "Turn off to Riverside." The cab behind turned.

  Farr told his driver, "Put me down right here."

  "South Gate?" asked the driver, as if Farr were not in his right mind.

  "South Gate." Not too far from Penche's office and display yard on Signal Hill, thought Farr. Coincidence.

  The cab dropped him to the surface. Farr watched the pursuing cab descend. He felt no great concern. Evading a pursuer was a matter of utmost simplicity, a technique known to every child who watched the stereos.

  Farr followed the white arrow to the underground shaft and stepped in. The disk caught him and bumped to a gentle halt. Farr called over a car and jumped in. The underground was almost made to order for shaking off a shadow. He dialed a destination, then tried to relax into the seat.

  The car accelerated, hummed, decelerated, halted. The door snapped open. Farr jumped out and rode the lift to the surface. He froze in his tracks. What was he doing here? This was Signal Hill—once spiked with oil derricks—now lost under billows of exotic greenery: ten million trees, bushes, shrubs, merging around mansions and palaces. There were pools and waterfalls and carefully informal banks of flowers: scarlet hibiscus, blazing yellow banneret, sapphire gardenia. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon were as nothing. Bel-Air was frowzy in contrast and Topanga: was for the parvenus.

  K. Penche owned twenty acres on the summit of Signal Hill. He had cleared off his land, ignoring protests and court orders, winning lawsuits. Signal Hill now was crowned by Iszic tree houses: sixteen varieties in four basic types—the only models Penche was allowed to sell.

  Farr walked slowly along the shaded arcade that once had been Atlantic Avenue. Interesting, he thought, that coincidence should bring him here. Well, he was this close, perhaps it might be a good idea to see Penche…

  No! said Farr stubbornly. He had made the decision, no irrational compulsion was going to make him change his mind. An odd matter, that in all the vast reaches of Greater Los Angeles, he should wind up almost at K. Penche's door. Too odd, it went beyond mere chance. His subconscious must be at work.

  He glanced behind him. No one could possibly be following, but he watched for a moment or two as hundreds of people, old and young, of all shapes, sizes and colors passed. By a subtle evaluation he fixed on a slender man in a gray suit; he struck a false note. Farr reversed his direction, threaded the maze of open-air shops and booths under the arcade, ducked into a palm-shaded cafeteria, and stepped out of sight behind a wall of leaves.

  A minute passed. The man in the gray suit came briskly past. Farr stepped out and stared hard into the well-groomed, well-pomaded countenance. "Are you looking for me, mister?"

  "Why no," said the man in the gray suit. "I've never seen you before in my life."

  "I hope I don't see you again," said Farr. He left the cafeteria, stalked to the nearest underground station, dropped down the shaft, and jumped into a car. After a minute's thought he dialed Altadena. The car hummed off
. No easy relaxation now; Farr sat on the edge of his seat. How had they located him? Through the tube? Incredible.

  To make doubly sure, he canceled Altadena and dialed Pomona.

  Five minutes later he wandered with apparent casualness along Valley Boulevard. In another five minutes he located the shadow, a young workman with a vacant face. Am I crazy? Farr asked himself, am I developing a persecution complex? He put the shadow to a rigorous test, strolling around blocks as if looking for a particular house. The young workman ambled along behind him.

  Farr went into a restaurant and called the Special Squad on the stereo-screen. He asked for and was connected with Detective-Inspector Kirdy.

  Kirdy greeted him politely, and positively denied that he had assigned men to follow Farr. He appeared keenly interested. "Wait just a shake," he said. "I'll check the other departments."

  Three or four minutes passed. Farr saw the blank young man enter the restaurant take an unobtrusive seat, and order coffee.

  Kirdy returned. "We're innocent around here. Perhaps it's a private agency."

  Farr looked annoyed. "Isn't there anything I can do about it?"

  "Are you being molested in any way?"

  "No."

  "We really can't do anything. Drop into a tube, shake 'em off."

  "I've taken the tube twice—they're still after me."

  Kirdy looked puzzled. "I wish they'd tell me how. We don't try to follow suspects any more; they brush us off too easily."

  "I'll try once more," said Farr. "Then there'll be fireworks."

  He marched out of the restaurant. The young workman downed his coffee and came quickly after.

  Farr dropped down a tube. He waited, but the young workman did not follow. So much for that. He called over a car and looked around. The young workman was nowhere near. No one was near. Farr, jumping in, dialed for Ventura. The car sped off. There was no conceivable way it could be traced or followed through the tubes.

  In Ventura his shadow was an attractive young housewife who seemed out for an afternoon's shopping.