Nopalgarth

by Jack Vance

Farr jumped into a shaft and took a car for Long Beach. The man who followed him in Long Beach was the slender man in the gray suit who had first attracted his attention at Signal Hill. He seemed unperturbed when Farr recognized him, shrugging rather insolently, as if to say, 'What do you expect?'

  Signal Hill. Back again, only a mile or two away. Maybe it might be a good idea after all to drop in on Penche.

  No!

  Farr sat down at an arcade cafe in full view of the shadow and ordered a sandwich. The man in the natty gray suit took a table nearby and provided himself with iced tea. Farr wished he could beat the truth out of the well-groomed face. Inadvisable; he would end up in jail. Was Penche responsible for this persecution? Farr reluctantly rejected the idea. Penche's man had arrived at the Imperador desk while Farr was leaving. The evasion had been decisive there.

  Who then? Omon Bozhd?

  Farr sat stock-still, then laughed—a loud, clear, sharp bark of a laugh. People looked at him in surprise. The gray man gave him a glance of cautious appraisal. Farr continued to chuckle, a nervous release. Once he thought about it, it was so clear, so simple.

  He looked up at the ceiling of the arcade, imagining the sky beyond. Somewhere, five or ten miles overhead, hung an air-boat. In the air-boat sat an Iszic, with a sensitive viewer and a radio. Everywhere that Farr went, the radiant in his right shoulder sent up a signal. On the viewer-screen Farr was as surreptitious as a lighthouse.

  He went to the stereo-screen and called Kirdy.

  Kirdy was vastly interested. "I've heard of that stuff. Apparently it works."

  "Yes," said Farr, "it works. How can I shield it?"

  "Just a minute." Five minutes passed. Kirdy came back to the screen. "Stay where you are, I'll send a man down with a shield."

  The messenger presently arrived. Farr went into the men's room and wrapped a pad of woven metal around his shoulder and chest.

  "Now," said Farr grimly. "Now we'll see."

  The slim man in the gray suit followed him nonchalantly to the tube shaft. Farr dialed to Santa Monica.

  He rose to the surface at the Ocean Avenue station, walked northeast along Wilshire Boulevard, and back toward Beverly Hills. He was alone. He made all the tests he could think of. No one followed him. Farr grinned in satisfaction, picturing the annoyed Iszic at the viewer-screen.

  He came to the Capricorn Club—a large, rather disreputable-looking saloon, with a pleasant old-fashioned odor of sawdust, wax and beer. He turned in, went directly to the stereo-screen, and called the Hotel Imperador. Yes, there was a message for him. The clerk played back the tape, and for the second time Farr looked into Penche's massive sardonic face. The harsh deep voice was conciliatory; the words had been carefully chosen and rehearsed. "I'd like to see you at your earliest convenience, Mr. Farr. We both realize the need for discretion. I'm sure your visit will result in profit for both of us. I will be waiting for your call."

  The stereo faded; the clerk appeared. "Shall I cancel or file, Mr. Farr?"

  "Cancel," said Farr. He left the booth and went to the far end of the bar. The bartender made the traditional inquiry, "What's yours, brother?"

  Farr ordered. "Vienna Stadtbrau."

  The bartender turned, spun a tall oak wheel twined with hop vines, gay with labels. A hundred and twenty positions controlled a hundred and twenty storage-tubes. He pushed the bumper and a dark flask slipped out of the dispenser, The bartender squeezed the flask into a stein and set it before Farr. Farr took a deep swallow, relaxed, and rubbed his forehead.

  He was puzzled. Something very odd was going on no question about it. Penche seemed reasonable enough. Perhaps, after all, it might be a good idea—wearily Farr put the thought away. Amazing how many guises the compulsion found to clothe itself. It was difficult to guard against all of them. Unless he vetoed out of hand any course of action that included a visit to Penche. A measure of uncompromising rigor, a counter-compulsion that set shackles on his freedom of action. It was a mess. How could a man think clearly when he could not distinguish between an idiotic subconscious urge and common sense?

  Farr ordered more beer. The bartender, a sturdy apple-cheeked little man with pop-eyes and a fine mustache, obliged. Farr returned to his thinking. It was an interesting psychological problem, one that Farr might have relished in different circumstances. Right now it was too close to home. He tried to reason with the compulsion. What do I gain by seeing Penche? Penche had hinted of profit. He clearly thought that Farr had something he wanted.

  It could only be a female house.

  Farr had no female house, therefore —it was as simple as that—he would gain nothing by going to Penche.

  But Farr was dissatisfied. The syllogism was too pat; he suspected that he had oversimplified. The Iszic were also involved. They must also believe that he had a female house. Since they had attempted to follow him, they were ignorant of where he would deliver this hypothetical house.

  Penche naturally would not want them to know. If the Iszic learned of Penche's involvement, breaking the franchise was the least they would do. They might well kill him.

  K. Penche was playing for high stakes. On the one hand he could grow his own houses. They would cost him twenty or thirty dollars apiece. He could sell as many as he liked at two thousand. He would become the richest man in the universe, the richest man in the history of the Earth. The moguls of ancient India, the Victorian tycoons, the oil-barons, the Pan-Eurasion syndics: they would dwindle to paupers in comparison.

  That was on the one hand. On the other—Penche at the very least would lose his monopoly. Recalling Penche's face the cartilaginous bar of his mouth, the prow of his nose, the eyes liked smoked glass in front of a furnace, Farr instinctively knew Penche's position.

  It would be an interesting struggle. Penche probably discounted the subtle Iszic brain, the fanatic zeal with which they defended their property. The Iszic possibly underestimated Penche's massive wealth and Earth's technical genius. It was the situation of the ancient paradox: the irresistible force and the immovable object. And I, thought Farr, am in the middle. Unless I extricate myself, I will very likely be crushed… He took a thoughtful pull at his beer. If I knew more accurately what was happening, how I happened to become involved, why they picked on me, I'd know which way to jump. Yet—what power I wield! Or so it seems.

  Farr ordered another beer. On sudden thought he looked up sharply and glanced around the bar. No one appeared to be watching him. Farr took the container and went to a table in a dark corner.

  The affair—at least his personal participation in it had stemmed from the Thord raid on Tjiere. Farr had aroused Iszic suspicion; they had imprisoned him. He had been alone with a surviving Thord. The Iszic had released hypnotic gas through a root-tubule. The Thord and Farr had been stupefied.

  The Iszic had certainly searched him unit by unit, inside and out, mind and body. If he were guilty of complicity, they would know it. If he had seed or seedling on his person, they would know it.

  What had they actually done?

  They had released him; they had facilitated, in fact they had prompted, his return to Earth. He was a decoy, a bait.

  Aboard the Andrei Sitnic—what of all that? Suppose the Anderviews were Penche's agents. Suppose they had apprehended the danger that Farr represented and sought to kill him? What about Paul Bengston? His function might have been to spy on the first two. He had killed the Anderviews either to protect Penche's interests, or cut himself a larger slice of the profits. He had failed. He was now in custody of the Special Squad.

  The whole thing added up to a tentative, speculative, but apparently logical conclusion: K. Penche had organized the raid on Tjiere. It was Penche's metal mole that the wasp-ship had destroyed eleven hundred feet underground. The raid had nearly been successful. The Iszic must have writhed in terror. They would trace the source, the organization of the raid, without qualm or restraint. A few deaths meant nothing. Money meant nothing. Aile Farr meant nothing.

  A
nd small cold chills played up Farr's back.

  A pretty blonde girl in gray sheen-skin paused beside his table. "Hi, Cholly." She tossed her hair roguishly over her shoulder. "You look lonesome." And she dropped into a seat beside him.

  Farr's thoughts had taken him into nervous territory; the girl startled him. He stared at her without moving a muscle, five seconds—ten seconds.

  She forced an uneasy laugh and moved in her chair. "You look like you got the cares of the world on your head."

  Farr put his beer gently to the table. "I'm trying to pick a horse."

  "Out of the air?" Pushing a cigarette in her mouth, she archly moved her lips toward him. "Give me a light."

  Farr lit the cigarette, studying her from behind his eyelids, weighing her, probing for the false note, the nontypical reaction. He had not noticed her come in; he had seen her promoting drinks nowhere else around the bar.

  "I could be talked into taking a drink," she said carelessly.

  "After I buy you a drink—then what?"

  She looked away, refusing to meet his eyes. "I guess— I guess that's up to you."

  Farr asked her how much, in rather blunt terms. She blushed, still looking across the bar, suddenly flustered. "I guess you made a mistake… I guess I made a mistake… I thought you'd be good for a drink."

  Farr asked in an easy voice, "You work for the bar, on commission?"

  "Sure," she said, half-defiantly. "What about it? It's a nice way to pass the evening. Sometimes you meet a nice guy. Whatcha do to your head?" She leaned forward, looked. "Somebody hit you?"

  "If I told you how I got that scab," said Farr, "you'd call me a liar."

  "Go ahead, try me."

  "Some people were mad at me. They took me to a tree, pushed me inside. I fell down into a root, two or three hundred feet. On the way down I hit my head."

  The girl looked at him sidelong. Her mouth twisted into a wry grimace. "And at the bottom you saw little pink men carrying green lanterns. And a big white fluffy rabbit."

  "I told you," said Farr.

  She reached up toward his temple. "You've got a funny long gray hair."

  Farr moved his head back. "I'm going to keep it."

  "Suit yourself." She eyed him coldly. "Are you gonna spring, or do I gotta tell you the story of my life?"

  "Just a minute," said Farr. He rose to his feet and crossed the room to the bar. He motioned to the bartender. "That blonde at my table, see her?"

  The bartender looked. "What about her?"

  "She usually hang out here?"

  "Never saw her before in my life."

  "She doesn't work for you on commission?"

  "Brother, I just told you. I never seen her before in my life."

  "Thanks."

  Farr returned to the table. The girl was sullenly rapping her fingers on the table. Farr looked at her a long moment.

  "Well?" she growled.

  "Who are you working for?"

  "I told you."

  "Who sent you in here after me?"

  "Don't be silly." She started to rise. Farr caught her wrist.

  "Let go! I'll yell."

  "That's what I'm hoping," said Farr. "I'd like to see some police. Sit down—or I'll call them myself."

  She sank slowly back into the chair, then turned and flung herself against him, putting her face up and her arms around his neck. "I'm so lonesome. Really, I mean it. I got in from Seattle yesterday. I don't know a soul— now don't be so hard to get alone with. We can be nice to each other… can't we?"

  Farr grinned. "First we talk, then we can be nice."

  Something was hurting him, something at the back of his neck, where her hand touched. He blinked and grabbed her arm. She jumped up, tore herself loose, her eyes shining with glee. "Now what, now what'll you do?"

  Farr made a lurch for her; she danced back, her face mischievous. Farr's eyes were watering, his joints felt weak. He tottered to his feet, the table fell over. The bartender roared and vaulted the bar. Farr took two staggering steps for the girl, who was composedly walking away. The bartender confronted her.

  "Just a minute."

  Farr's ears were roaring. He heard the girl say primly, "You get out of my way. He's a drunk. He insulted me… said all kinds of nasty things."

  The bartender glared indecisively. "There's something fishy going on here."

  "Well—don't mix me up in it."

  Farr's knees unhinged; a dreadful lump came up his throat, into his mouth. He sank to the floor. He could sense motion, he felt rough hands, and heard the bartender's voice very loud, "What's the trouble, Jack? Cantcha hold it?"

  Farr's mind was off somewhere, tangled in a hedge of glass branches. A voice gurgled up his throat. "Call Penche… Call K. Penche!"

  "K. Penche," someone voiced softly. "The guy's nuts."

  "K. Penche," Farr mumbled. "He'll pay you… Call him, tell him—Farr…"

  XI

  AILE FARR was dying. He was sinking into a red and yellow chaos of shapes that reeled and pounded. When the movement stilled, when the shapes straightened and drew back, when the scarlets and golds blurred and deepened to black—Aile Farr would be dead.

  He saw death coming, drifting like twilight across the sundown of his dying… He felt a sudden sharpness, a discord. A bright green blot exploded across the sad reds and roses and golds…

  Aile Farr was alive once more.

  The doctor leaned back and put aside his hypodermic. "Pretty close shave," he told the patrolman.

  Farr's convulsions quieted, mercifully he lost consciousness.

  "Who is the guy?" asked the patrolman.

  The bartender looked skeptically down at Farr. "He said to call Penche."

  "Penche! K. Penche?"

  "That's what he said."

  "Well—call him. All he can do is swear at you."

  The bartender went to the screen. The patrolman looked down at the doctor, still kneeling beside Farr.

  "What went wrong with the guy?"

  The doctor shrugged. "Hard to say. Some kind of female trouble. So many things you can slip into a man nowadays."

  "That raw place on his head…"

  The doctor glanced at Farr's scalp. "No. That's an old wound. He got it in the neck. This mark here."

  "Looks like she hit him with a slap-sack."

  The bartender returned. "Penche says he's on his way out."

  They all looked down at Farr with new respect.

  Two orderlies placed stretcher poles one on each side of Farr; metal ribbons were thrust beneath him, clamping over the opposing pole. They lifted him and carried him across the floor. The bartender trotted alongside. "Where you guys taking him? I got to tell Penche something."

  "He'll be at the Long Beach Emergency Hospital."

  Penche arrived three minutes after the ambulance had gone. He strode in and looked right and left. "Where is he?"

  "Are you Mr. Penche?" the bartender asked respectfully.

  "Sure he's Penche," said the patrolman.

  "Well, your friend was taken to the Long Beach Emergency Hospital."

  Penche turned to one of the men who had marched in behind him. "Find out what happened here," he said and left the bar.

  The orderlies arranged Farr on a table and cut off his shoes. In puzzlement they examined the band of metal wrapped around his right shoulder.

  "What's this thing?"

  "Whatever it is—it's got to come off."

  They unwound the woven metal, washed Farr with antiseptic gas, gave him several different injections, and moved him into a quiet room.

  Penche called the main office. "When can Mr. Farr be moved?"

  "Just a minute, Mr. Penche."

  Penche waited; the clerk made inquiries. "Well, he's out of danger now."

  "Can he be moved?"

  "He's still unconscious, but the doctor says he's okay."

  "Have the ambulance bring him to my house, please."

  "Very well, Mr. Penche. Er—are you assumi
ng responsibility for Mr. Farr's care?"

  "Yes," said Penche. "Bill me."

  Penche's house on Signal Hill was a Class AA Type 4 luxury model, a dwelling equivalent to an average custom-built Earth house of 30,000 dollars value. Penche sold Class AA houses in four varieties for 10,000 dollars—as many as he could obtain—as well as Class A, Class BB and Class B houses. The Iszic, of course, grew houses infinitely more elaborate for their own use—rich ancient growths with complex banks of interconnecting pods, walls shining with fluorescent colors, tubules emitting nectar and oil and brine, atmospheres charged with oxygen and complex beneficiants, phototropic and photophobic pods, pods holding carefully filtered and circulated bathing pools, pods exuding nuts and sugar crystals and succulent wafers. The Iszic exported none of these, and none of the three- and four-pod laborer's houses. They required as much handling and shipping space, but brought only a small fraction of the return.

  A billion Earthers still lived in sub-standard conditions. North Chinese still cut caves into the loess, Dravidians built mud huts, Americans and Europeans occupied decaying apartment-tenements. Penche thought the situation deplorable; a massive market lay untapped. Penche wanted to tap it.

  A practical difficulty intervened. These people could pay no thousands of dollars for Class AA, A, BB and B houses, even if Penche had them to sell. He needed three-, four-, and five-pod laborer's houses—which the Iszic refused to export.

  The problem had a classical solution: a raid on Iszm for a female tree. Properly fertilized, the female tree would yield a million seeds a year. About half these seeds would grow into female trees. In a few years Penche's income would expand from ten million a year to a hundred million, a thousand million, five thousand million.

  To most people the difference between ten million a year and a thousand million seems inconsequential. Penche, however, thought in units of a million. Money represented not that which could be bought, but energy, dynamic thrust, the stuff of persuasion and efficacy. He spent little money on himself, his personal life was rather austere. He lived in his Class AA demonstrator on Signal Hill when he might have owned a sky-island, drifting in orbit around Earth. He might have loaded his table with rare meats and fowl, precious conserves, the valued wines, curious liquors and fruits from the outer worlds. He could have staffed a harem with the houris of a Sultan's dream. But Penche ate steak and drank coffee and beer. He remained a bachelor, indulging himself socially only when the press of business allowed. Like certain gifted men who have no ear for music, Penche had only small taste for the accouterments of civilization.