by Jack Vance
“What goes on?” asked Burke. “What’s all this about?”
“You’ll know soon enough,” said Gibbons hoarsely. Burke saw that he was staggering with fatigue, that his eyes were red-rimmed. “I’ve got to bring you to the house. That’s all I do. From then on it’s up to you.”
Burke looked up the driveway toward the house. “What’s up to me?”
Gibbons patted him nervously on the shoulder. “It’s all right; you’ll just be—”
“I’m not moving until I know who’s there,” said Burke.
Gibbons glanced furtively over his shoulder. “It’s a man from another planet,” he blurted through wet lips. “Mars maybe; I don’t know for sure. He made me telephone somebody he could talk to, and I got hold of you.”
Burke stared toward the front of the house. Behind a window, veiled by curtains, he glimpsed a tall square-shouldered shape. It never occurred to him to doubt Gibbons. He laughed uncertainly. “This is rather a shock.”
“You’re telling me,” said Gibbons.
Burke’s knees were stiff and weak; he felt an enormous reluctance to move. In a hollow voice he asked, “How do you know he’s from another planet?”
“He told me,” said Gibbons. “I believed him. Wait till you see him yourself.”
Burke drew a deep breath. “Very well. Let’s go. Does he speak English?”
Gibbons smiled in feeble amusement. “Out of a box. He has a box on his stomach and the box talks.”
They approached the house. Gibbons pushed the door open, motioned Burke to enter. Burke stepped forward, stopped short in the hall.
The creature who waited was a man, but he had arrived at his estate by a different route from that traveled by Burke’s forebears. He stood four inches taller than Burke, with a skin rough and gray as elephant hide. His head was narrow and long, his eyes blank and blind-looking, like cabochons of beer-colored quartz. A bony crest rose from his scalp, studded with three bony knobs. Striking down from his brow the crest became a nose, thin as a scimitar. The chest was deep and narrow, the arms and legs corded and ropy with sinew.
Burke’s faculties, numbed by the sheer drama of the situation, slowly returned. Studying the man, he sensed a harsh fierce intelligence, and became uneasily conscious of dislike and distrust—feelings which he strove to suppress. It was inevitable, he thought, that creatures of different planets must find each other uncomfortable and strange. Trying to compensate he spoke with a heartiness that rang false even to his own ears. “My name is Paul Burke. I understand that you know our language.”
“We have studied your planet for many years.” The voice came in discrete and distinct words from an apparatus hanging over the alien’s chest: a muffled unnatural voice accompanied by hisses, buzzings, clicks and rattles, produced by vibrating plates along the creature’s thorax. A translation machine, thought Burke, which presumably retranslated English words into the clicks and rattles of the stranger’s speech. “We have wished to visit you before but it is dangerous for us.”
” ‘Dangerous’?” Burke was puzzled. “I can’t understand why; we’re not barbarians. Which is your home planet?”
“It is far away from your solar system. I do not know your astronomy. I can not name it. We call our planet Ixax. I am Pttdu Apiptix.” The box seemed to find difficulty with l’s and r’s, pronouncing them with a rasping and rattling of the glottal mechanism. “You are one of your world’s scientists?”
“I am a physicist and mathematician,” said Burke, “although now I hold an administrative position.”
“Good.” Pttdu Apiptix held up his hand, turned the palm toward Sam Gibbons who stood nervously at the back of the room. The small squat instrument he held chattered, shivering the air as a hammer-blow splinters ice. Gibbons croaked, fell to the floor in a strange round heap, as if all his bones had vanished.
Burke sucked in his breath, aghast. “Here, here!” he stammered. “What are you doing?”
“This man must not talk to others,” said Apiptix. “My mission is important.”
“Your mission be damned!” roared Burke. “You’ve violated our laws! This isn’t—”
Pttdu Apiptix cut him short. “Killing is sometimes a necessity. You must alter your way of thinking, because I plan that you help me. If you refuse, I will kill you and find another.”
Burke’s voice refused to make itself heard. At last he said hoarsely, “What do you want me to do?”
“We are going to Ixax. There you will know.”
Burke remonstrated gently, as if addressing a maniac. “I can’t possibly go to your planet. I have my job to look after. I suggest that you come with me to Washington—” He stopped short, embarrassed by the other’s sardonic patience.
“I care nothing for your convenience, or your work,” said Apiptix.
On the verge of hysterical anger Burke trembled, leaned forward. Pttdu Apiptix displayed his weapon. “Do not be influenced by your emotional urges.” He twisted his face in a wincing grimace —the only change of facial expression Burke had noticed. “Come with me, if you wish to live.” He backed away, toward the rear of the house.
Burke followed on stiff legs. They went out a rear door into the back yard, where Gibbons had built himself a swimming pool and a tiled barbecue area.
“We will wait here,” said Apiptix. He stood motionless, watching Burke with the blank stolidity of an insect. Five minutes passed. Burke could not speak for a weakness of rage and apprehension. A dozen times he leaned forward on the brink of plunging at the Xaxan and taking his chances; a dozen times he saw the instrument in the harsh gray hand and drew back.
Out of the sky dropped a blunt metal cylinder the size of a large automobile. A section fell open. “Enter,” said Apiptix.
For the last time Burke weighed his chances. They were non-existent. He stumbled into the car. Apiptix followed. The section closed. There was an instant sensation of swift motion.
Burke spoke, holding his voice steady with great effort. “Where are you taking me?”
“To Ixax.”
“What for?”
“So that you will learn what is expected of you. I understand your anger. I realize that you are not pleased. Nevertheless you must grasp the idea that your life is changed.” Apiptix put away his weapon. “It is useless for you to—”
Burke could not control his rage. He flung himself at the Xaxan, who held him off with a rigid arm. From somewhere came a mind-cracking blaze of purple light, and Burke lost consciousness.
IV
BURKE AWOKE in an unfamiliar place, in a dark chamber smelling of damp rock. He could see nothing. Under him was what seemed to be a resilient mat; exploring with his fingers he found a hard cold floor a few inches below.
He rose on his elbow. There was no sound to be heard: an absolute silence.
Burke felt his face, tested the length of his beard. There was bristle at least a quarter-inch long. A week had passed.
Someone was approaching. How did he know? There had been no sound; only an oppressive sense of evil, almost as palpable as a physical stench.
The walls glowed with sudden luminosity, revealing a long narrow chamber, with a graceful vaulted ceiling. Burke raised himself on the pad, arms trembling, legs and knees flaccid.
Pttdu Apiptix, or someone closely resembling him, appeared in the doorway. Burke, tight in the chest from tension, giddy from hunger, staggered to his feet.
“Where am I?” His voice rasped huskily in his throat.
“We are on Ixax,” spoke the box on Apiptix’s chest.
Burke could think of nothing to say; in any event his throat had choked up.
“Come,” said the Xaxan.
“No.” Burke’s knees slackened from under him; he sank back on the mat.
Pttdu Apiptix disappeared into the corridor. Presently he returned with two other Xaxans who rolled a metal cabinet. They seized Burke, thrust a tube down his throat, pumped warm liquid into his stomach. Then, without ceremony, they wi
thdrew the tube, departed.
Apiptix stood silently, and several minutes passed. Burke lay supine, watching from under his eyelids. Pttdu Apiptix was weirdly magnificent, demoniac and murderous though he might be. A glossy black shell like the carapace of a beetle hung down his back; on his head he wore a striated metal helmet with six baleful spikes raising from the crest. Burke shivered weakly and closed his eyes, feeling unpleasantly weak and helpless in the presence of so much evil strength.
Another five minutes passed, while the vitality slowly seeped back through Burke’s body. He stirred, opened his eyes, said fretfully, “I suppose now you’ll tell me why you’ve brought me here.”
“When you are ready,” said Pttdu Apiptix, “we will go to the surface. You will learn what is required of you.”
“What you require and what you’ll get are two different things,” growled Burke. Feigning lassitude, he leaned back on the mat.
Pttdu Apiptix turned, departed, and Burke cursed himself for his own perversity: what did he achieve lying down here in the dark? Nothing but boredom and uncertainty.
An hour later Pttdu Apiptix returned. “Are you ready?”
Wordlessly Burke raised himself to his feet, followed the black-shrouded figure along the passage, into an elevator. They stood close together, and Burke wondered at the contraction of his flesh. The Xaxan was representative of the universal type man: why the revulsion? Because of the Xaxan’s ruthlessness? Reason enough, thought Burke; still…
The Xaxan spoke, interrupting Burke’s train of thought. “Perhaps you ask yourself why we live below the surface?”
“I’m asking myself about many things.”
“A war drove us underground—a war such as your planet has never known.”
“This war is still going on?”
“On Ixax the war is ended; we have purged the Chitumih. We can walk on the surface again.”
Emotion? Burke wondered. Was intelligence without emotion conceivable? A Xaxan’s emotions were not necessarily commensurable with his own, of course; still they must share certain viewpoints, certain aspects of intelligent existence, such as the urge to survive, satisfaction in achievement, curiosity and puzzlement…
The elevator halted. The Xaxan stepped out, set off down the corridor. Burke followed reluctantly, sorting through a dozen wild and impractical stratagems. Somehow, in some way, he must exert himself. Pttdu Apiptix planned nothing good for him; action of any sort was preferable to this meek compliance. He must find a weapon —fight, run away, escape, hide —something, anything!
Apiptix wheeled around, gestured abruptly. “Come,” intoned his voice-box. Burke advanced slowly. Act! He chuckled sardonically, relaxing. Act, how? So far they had offered him no harm, still … A sound brought him up short: a terrible staccato rattle. Burke needed no help to understand; the language of pain was universal.
Burke’s knees wobbled. He put his hand to the wall. The rattle broke, vibrated, buzzed weakly away.
The Xaxan eyed him dispassionately. “Come,” spoke the voice-box.
“What was that?” whispered Burke.
“You will see.”
“I won’t come any farther.”
“Come, or you will be carried.”
Burke hesitated. The Xaxan moved toward him; Burke lurched forward in anger.
A metal door rolled aside; a chill sour wind sang through the gap. They emerged upon the dreariest landscape of Burke’s experience. Mountains like crocodile teeth rimmed the horizon; the sky was wadded with black and gray clouds, from which hung funereal smears of rain. The plain below was crusted with ruins. Corroded girders poked at the sky like dry insect legs; walls had fallen into tumbles of black brick and liver-brown tile; the sections still standing were blotched with fungus in sullen colors. In all the sad scene there was nothing fresh, nothing alive, no sense of change or better things to come; only decay and futility. Burke could not restrain a pang of compassion for the Xaxans. No matter what their transgressions … He turned back to the single erect building, that from which he and Pttdu Apiptix, stared at the dark shapes within the pen. Men? Xaxans?
The box on the chest of Pttdu Apiptix answered his unspoken query. “Those are the remnant of the Chitumih. There are no more. Only the Tauptu remain.”
Burke walked slowly toward the pathetic huddle, pressing into the bitter gusts of wind. He came to the mesh, looked through. The Chitumih returned his inspection, seeming to feel him with their eyes, rather than look at him. They were a miserable tattered group, the skin rough and taut over their framework of bone. In racial type they appeared identical to the Tauptu, but here the similarity ended. Even in the shame and squalor of the pen their spirit burnt clear. The ancient tale, thought Burke: barbarism triumphant over civilization. He glared at Apiptix, whom he saw to be a vicious creature, barren of decency. Sudden fury surprised and overwhelmed Burke. He became light-headed and staggered forward, swinging his fists. The Chitumih buzzed soft encouragement, but to no avail. A pair of nearby Tauptu stepped forward. Burke was seized, pulled away from the pen, pressed against the wall of the building, held until he ceased struggling and went limp and panting.
Apiptix spoke through his voice-box, as if Burke’s futile assault had never occurred. “Those are the Chitumih; they are few and soon will be eliminated.”
Through the rock-melt walls came another terrified vibration.
“Torture the Chitumih—and let the others listen?”
“Nothing is done without reason. Come, you shall see.”
“I’ve seen enough.” Burke peered wildly around the horizon. He saw no succor and no place to run, only wet ruins, black mountains, rain, corrosion, crumble… .
Apiptix made a sign; the two Tauptu led Burke back into the building. Burke resisted. He kicked, hung limp, thrashed his body back and forth to no avail; the Tauptu carried him without effort along a short wide corridor, into a chamber flooded with a green-white glare. Burke stood panting, the two Tauptu still beside him. Again he tried to struggle loose, but their fingers were like tongs.
“If you are able to control your aggressive impulses,” spoke the emotionless voice-box, “you will be released.”
Burke choked off a bitter flow of words. Struggle was useless, undignified. He straightened himself, nodded curtly. The Tauptu stood back.
Burke looked around the room. Half-hidden behind a bank of what appeared to be electrical circuitry he saw a flat frame of shining metal bars. Against the wall four Xaxans stood in fetters; Burke recognized them for Chitumih through some quality he could not define: an inner sense which assured him that the Chitumih were decent, kind, courageous, his natural allies against the Tauptu… . Apiptix came forward carrying what appeared to be a pair of lenseless spectacles.
“At the moment there is much that you do not understand,” Apiptix told him. “Conditions are different from those on Earth.”
Thank God for the difference, thought Burke.
Apiptix continued. “Here on Ixax there are two sorts of people: the Tauptu and the Chitumih. They are distinguished by the nopal.”
“ ‘Nopal’? What is the nopal?”
“You are about to learn. First, I wish to make an experiment, to test what might be called your psionic sensitivity.” He displayed the lenseless spectacles. “These instruments are constructed of a strange material, a substance unknown to you. Perhaps you would like to look through them.”
A pulse of aversion for all things Tauptu jerked him back. “No.”
Apiptix extended the spectacles. He seemed to be grimacing in humor, though no muscle of his corded gray face quivered. “I must insist.”
With an effort Burke controlled his fury, snatched the spectacles, fitted them to his eyes.
There appeared to be no visual change, no refractive effect whatever.
“Examine the Chitumih,” said Apiptix. “The lenses add—let us say—a new dimension to your vision.”
Burke examined the Chitumih. He stared, bent his head forward. Fo
r an instant he saw—what? What was it he had seen? He could not remember. He looked again, but the lenses blurred his vision. The Chitumih wavered; there was a black fuzzy blot, like a caterpillar, across the top half of their bodies. Peculiar! He looked at Pttdu Apiptix. He blinked in surprise. Here was the black blur as before—or something else? What was it? Incomprehensible! It served as background to the head of Apiptix —something complex and indefinable, something vastly menacing. He heard a strange sound, a grating guttural growl—“Gher, gher.” Where did it come from? He pulled off the glasses, looked wildly about him. The sound ceased.
Apiptix clicked and buzzed; the voice-box asked, “What did you see?”
Burke tried to remember exactly what he had seen. “Nothing I could identify,” he said finally, but his mind had gone blank. Strange … And it came to him to wonder, half-wildly, what on earth’s going on? And then he remembered; I’m not on Earth….
He asked aloud, “What was I supposed to see?”
The Xaxan’s reply was drowned in a staccato rattling yammer of pain. Burke clasped his hands to his head, and, beset by a strange drunken vertigo, swayed and tottered. The Chitumih were also affected; they drooped and two sank to their knees.
“What are you doing?” cried Burke hoarsely. “Why have you brought me here?” He could not look toward the machinery at the end of the chamber.
“For a very necessary reason. Come. You shall see.”
“No!” Burke plunged toward the door. He was caught and held. “I don’t want to see any more.”
“You must.”
The Xaxans swung Burke around, led him struggling across the room. Willy-nilly he was forced to look at the mechanism. A man lay spread-eagled face-down on the metal grill. Two cusps of complicated construction embraced his head; tight metal sleeves confined his arms, legs, torso. A film of cloth fragile as fog, transparent as cellophane, half floated above his head and upper shoulders. To Burke’s astonishment the victim was no Chitumih. He wore the garments of a Tauptu; on a table nearby rested a helmet similar to that of Apiptix, displaying four prongs. A fantastic paradox! Burke watched in bewilderment as the process —punishment, torment, exhibition, whatever it might be— continued.
