by Jack Vance
“I doubt if I will be invited,” said Reith.
The orchestra embarked upon another selection, a series of passionate phrases, taken up by each instrument at varying instants, to terminate in a wild sustained quaver. By some cross sensoral stimulus, Reith thought of the monument in the circular park. “The music bears some connection with your ritual of expiation?”
Helsse smiled distantly. “I have heard it said that the spirit of Pathetic Communion permeates the Yao psyche.”
“Interesting.” Reith waited. Helsse had not brought him here to discuss music.
“I trust that the events of this afternoon caused you no inconvenience?” asked Helsse.
“None whatever, other than irritation.”
“You did not expect the boon?”
“I knew nothing of it. I expected ordinary courtesy, certainly. My reception by Lord Cizante, in retrospect, seems remarkable.”
Helsse nodded sagely. “He is a remarkable man. But now he finds himself in an awkward position. Immediately upon your departure the cavalier Dordolio presented himself to denounce you as an interloper, and to demand the boon for himself. To be quite candid, such a proceeding, on Dordolio’s terms, would embarrass Lord Cizante, when one takes all into consideration. You perhaps would not be aware that Blue Jade and Gold-Carnelian are rival houses. Lord Cizante suspects that Dordolio would use the boon to humiliate Blue Jade, with what consequences no one can foresee.”
Reith asked: “Exactly what was the boon promised by Cizante?”
“Emotion overcame his reserve,” said Helsse. “He declared: ‘Whoever returns me my daughter or so much as brings me news, let him ask and I will fulfill as best I can.’ Strong language, as you see, uttered only for the ears of Blue Jade, but the news circulated.”
“It appears,” said Reith, “that I do Cizante a favor by accepting his bounty.”
“This is what we wish to ascertain,” said Helsse carefully. “Dordolio has made a number of scurrilous statements in regard to you. He declares you a superstitious barbarian intent on reviving the ‘cult.’ If you demanded that Lord Cizante convert his palace into a temple and himself join the ‘cult,’ he might well prefer Dordolio’s terms.”
“Even though I appeared first on the scene?”
“Dordolio claims trickery, and is violently angry. But all this to the side, what might you demand of Lord Cizante, in light of the circumstances?”
Reith considered. Unfortunately, he could not afford the prideful luxury of refusal. “I’m not sure. I could use some unprejudiced advice, but I don’t know where to find it.”
“Try me,” suggested Helsse.
“You are hardly unprejudiced.”
“Much more than you might think.”
Reith studied the pale handsome face, the still black eyes. A puzzling man was Helsse, the more so for his impersonality, neither cordial nor cold. He spoke with ostensible candor but permitted no inadvertent or unconscious signals to advertise the state of his inner self.
The orchestra had dispersed. To the platform came a somewhat obese man in a long maroon robe. Behind him sat a woman with long black hair plucking a lute. The man produced an ululating wail: half-words which Reith was unable to comprehend. “Another traditional melody?” he inquired.
Helsse shrugged. “A special mode of singing. It is not altogether without value. If everyone belabored themselves thusly, there would be far less awaile.’
Reith listened. “Judge me harshly, all,” moaned the singer. “I have performed a terrible crime; it is because of my despair.”
“Offhand,” said Reith, “it seems absurd to discuss my best advantage over Lord Cizante with Cizante’s aide.”
“Ah, but your best advantage is not necessarily Lord Cizante’s disadvantage,” said Helsse. “With Dordolio the case is different.”
“Lord Cizante showed me no great courtesy,” mused Reith. “I am not anxious to do him a favor. On the other hand, I do not care to assist Dordolio, who calls me a superstitious barbarian.”
“Lord Cizante was perhaps shocked by your news,” suggested Helsse. “As for Dordolio’s charge, it is obviously inaccurate and need no longer be considered.”
Reith grinned. “Dordolio has known me a month; can you dispute him on the basis of such short acquaintance?”
If he had hoped to discomfit Helsse, he was unsuccessful. Helsse’s smile was bland. “I am usually correct in my appraisals.”
“Suppose that I were to make a set of apparently wild assertions: that Tschai was flat, that the tenets of the ‘cult’ were correct, that men could live underwater-what would become of your opinion?”
Helsse considered soberly. “Each case is different. If you told me Tschai was flat, I would certainly revise my judgment. If you argued the creed of the ‘cult,’ I would suspend a decision and listen to your remarks, for here is a matter of opinion and no evidence exists, at least to my knowledge. If you insisted that men could live underwater I might be inclined to accept the statement as a working premise. After all, the Pnume submerge, as do the Wankh; why not men, perhaps with special equipment?”
“Tschai is not flat,” said Reith. “Men are able to live underwater for short periods using artificial gills. I know nothing of the ‘cult’ or its doctrines.”
Helsse sipped from his goblet of essence. The singer had departed; a dance troupe now came forth: men in black leggings and sleeves, nude from upper thigh to rib cage. Reith stared in fascination for a moment or two, then looked away.
“Traditional dances,” explained Helsse, “relating to Pathetic Communion. This is ‘Precursory Movement of the Ministrants toward the Expiator.“ ‘
“The ‘ministrants’ are torturers?”
“They are those who provide latitude for absolute expiation. Many become popular heroes because of their passionate techniques.” Helsse rose to his feet. “Come. You have implied at least a mild interest in the ‘cult.’ As it happens, I know the location of their meeting place, which is not far from here. If you are interested, I will take you there.”
“If the visit is not contrary to the laws of Cath.”
“No fear of that. Cath has no laws, only customs, which seems to suit the Yao well enough.”
“Peculiar,” said Reith. “Killing is not proscribed?”
“It offends custom, at least under certain circumstances. However, the professional assassins of the Guild and the Service Company work without public reproach. In general the folk of Cath do what they see fit and suffer more or less opprobrium. So you may visit the ‘cult’ and incur, at the worse, invective.”
Reith rose to his feet. “Very well; lead the way.”
They walked across the Oval, through a winding alley into a dim avenue. The eccentric silhouettes of the houses opposite leaned across the sky, where Az and Braz both ranged. Helsse rapped at a door displaying a pale blue phosphor. The two men waited in silence. The door opened a crack; a long-nosed face peered forth.
“Visitors,” said Helsse. “May we come in?”
“You are associates? I must inform you that here is the district center for the Society of Yearning Refluxives.”
“We are not associates. This gentleman is an outlander who wishes to learn something of the ‘cult.“ ‘
“He is welcome and yourself as well, since you seem to have no concern for ‘place.’ ”
“None whatever.”
“Which marks you either the highest of the high or the lowest of the low. Enter then. We have little entertainment to offer-convictions, a few theories, fewer facts.” The Refluxive swept aside a curtain. “Enter.”
Helsse and Reith stepped into a large low room. To one side, forlorn in so much vacant space, two men and two women sat drinking tea from iron pots.
The Refluxive made a half-obsequious, half-sardonic gesture. “Here we are; stare yourself full at the dreadful ‘cult.’ Have you ever seen anything less obstreperous?”
“The ‘cult,“ ‘ said Helsse, somewhat
sententiously, “is despised not for the look of its meeting halls, but for its provocative assumptions.”
“ ‘Assumptions’ bah!” declared the Refluxive in a voice of peevish complaint. “The others persecute us but we are the chosen in knowledge.”
Reith asked: “What, precisely, do you know?”
“We know that men are strangers to Tschai.”
“How can you know this?” demanded Helsse. “Human history fades into murk.”
“It is an intuitive Truth. We are equally certain that someday the Human Magi will call their seed back Home! And then what joy! Home is a world of bounty, with air that rejoices in the lungs, like the sweetest Iphthal wine! On Home are golden mountains crowned with opals and forests of dreams! Death is a strange accident, not a fate; all men wander with joy and peace for company, with delicious viands everywhere for the eating!”
“A delightful vision,” said Helsse, “but do you not consider it somewhat conjectural? Or more properly, institutional dogma?”
“Possibly so,” declared the stubborn Refluxive. “Still, dogma is not necessarily falsehood. These are revealed truths, and behold: the revealed image of Home!” He pointed to a world globe three feet in diameter hanging at eye-level.
Reith went to inspect the globe, tilting his head this way and that, trying to identify outline of sea and shore, finding here a haunting familiarity, there utter disparity. Helsse came to stand beside him. “What does it look like to you?” His voice was light and careless.
“Nothing in particular.”
Helsse gave a soft grunt of mingled relief and perhaps disappointment, or so it seemed to Reith.
One of the women lifted her obese body from the bench and came forward. “Why not join the Society?” she wheedled. “We need new faces, new blood, to augment the vast new tide. Won’t you help us make contact with Home?”
Reith laughed. “Is there a practical method?”
“To be sure! Telepathy! Indeed, we have no other recourse.”
“Why not a spaceship?”
The woman seemed bewildered, and looked sharply to see if Reith was serious. “Where could we lay our hands on a spaceship?”
“They are nowhere to be bought? Even a small one?”
“I have never heard of such a case.”
“Nor I,” was Helsse’s dry comment.
“Where would we fare?” demanded the woman, half truculently. “Home is situated in the constellation Clari, but space is vast; we would drift forever.”
“The problems are large,” Reith agreed. “Still, assuming that your premise is correct—”
“ ‘Assume’? ‘Premise’?” demanded the fat woman in a shocked voice. ‘Revelation,’ rather.”
“Possibly so. But mysticism is not a practical approach to space travel. Let us suppose that by one means or another, you find yourself in command of a spaceship, then you might very easily verify the basis of your belief. Simply fly into the constellation Clari, halting at appropriate intervals to monitor the area for radio signals. Sooner or later, if the world Home exists, a suitable instrument will detect the signals.”
“Interesting,” said Helsse. “You assume that such a world, if it exists, is sufficiently advanced to propagate these signals?”
Reith shrugged. “Since we’re assuming the world, why not assume the signals?”
Helsse had nothing to say. The Refluxive declared, “Ingenious but superficial! How, for instance, would we obtain a spaceship?”
“With sufficient funds and technical competence you could build a small vessel.”
“To begin with,” said the Refluxive, “we have no such funds.”
“The least of the difficulties, or so I would think,” murmured Helsse.
“The second possibility is to buy a small boat from one of the spacefaring peoples: the Dirdir, the Wankh, or perhaps even the Blue Chasch.”
“Again a question of sequins,” said the Refluxive. “How much would a spaceboat cost?”
Reith looked at Helsse, who pursed his lips. “Half a million sequins, should anyone be willing to sell, which I doubt.”
“The third possibility is the most direct,” said Reith. “Confiscation, pure and simple.”
“Confiscation? From whom? Though members of the ‘cult’ we are not yet lunatics.”
The fat woman gave a sniff of disapproval. “The man is a wild romantic.”
The Refluxive said gently, “We would gladly accept you as an associate, but you must discover orthodox methodology. Classes in thought control and projective telepathy are offered twice a week, on Ilsday and Azday. If you care to attend—”
“I’m afraid that this is impossible,” said Reith. “But your program is interesting and I hope it brings fruitful returns.”
Helsse made a courteous sign; the two departed.
They walked along the quiet avenue in silence. Then Helsse inquired: “What is your opinion now?”
“The situation speaks for itself,” said Reith.
“You are convinced then that their doctrine is implausible?”
“I would not go quite so far. Scientists have undoubtedly found biological links between Pnume, Phung, night-hounds, and other indigenous creatures. Blue Chasch, Green Chasch, and Old Chasch are similarly related, as are all the races of man. But Pnume, Wankh, Chasch, Dirdir, and Man are biologically distinct. What does this suggest to you?”
“I agree that the circumstances are puzzling. Have you any explanation?”
“I feel that more facts are needed. Perhaps the Refluxives will become adept telepathists, and surprise us all.”
Helsse walked along in silence. They turned a corner. Reith pulled Helsse to a halt. “Quiet!” He waited.
The shuffle of footsteps sounded; a dark shape rounded the corner. Reith seized the figure, spun it around, applied an arm and neck lock. Helsse made one or two tentative motions; Reith, trusting no one, kept him in his field of vision. “Make a light,” said Reith. “Let’s see whom we have. Or what.”
Helsse brought forth a glow-bulb, held it up. The captive squirmed, kicked, lurched; Reith tightened his grip and felt the snap of a bone, but the figure, sagging, toppled Reith off balance. From the unseen face came a hiss of triumph; it snatched itself free. Then, to a flicker of metal, it gave a gasp of pain.
Helsse held up his glow-bulb, disengaged his dagger from the back of the twitching shape, while Reith stood by, mouth twisted in disapproval. “You are quick with your blade.”
Helsse shrugged. “His kind carry stings.” He turned the body over with his foot; a small tinkle sounded as a glass sliver fell against the stone.
The two peered curiously into the white face, half-shrouded under the brim of an extravagantly wide black hat.
“He hats himself like a Pnumekin,” said Helsse, “and he is pale as a ghost.”
“Or a Wankhman,” said Reith.
“But I think he is something different from either; what, I could not say. Perhaps a hybrid, a mingling, which, so it is said, makes the best personnel for spy work.”
Reith dislodged the hat, to reveal a stark bald pate. The face was fine-boned, somewhat loosely-muscled; the nose was thin and limber and terminated in a lump. The eyes, half-open, seemed to be black. Bending close, Reith thought that the scalp had been shaven.
Helsse looked uneasily up and down the street. “Come, we must hurry away, before the patrol finds us and issues an information.”
“Not so fast,” said Reith. “No one is near. Hold the light; stand yonder, where you can see along the street.” Helsse reluctantly obeyed and Reith was able to watch him sidelong as he searched the corpse. The garments had a queer musky odor; Reith’s stomach jerked as he felt here and there. From an inner pocket of the cloak he took a clip of paper. At the belt hung a soft leather pouch, which he detached.
“Come!” hissed Helsse. “We must not be discovered, we would lose all ‘place.“ ‘
They proceeded back to the Oval and across to the Travelers’
Inn. In the arcade before the entrance they paused. “The evening was interesting,” said Reith. “I learned a great deal.”
“I wish I could say the same,” said Helsse. “What did you take from the dead man?”
Reith displayed the pouch, which contained a handful of sequins. He brought forth the clip of paper, and the two examined it in the light streaming out of the inn, to find rows of a peculiar writing: a series of rectangles, variously shaded and marked.
Helsse looked at Reith. “Do you recognize this script?”
“No.”
Helsse gave a short sharp bark of laughter. “It is Wankh.”
“Hm. What would be the significance of this?”
“Simply more mystery. Settra is a hive of intrigue. Spies are everywhere.”
“And spy devices? Microphones? Eye-cells?”
“It is safe to assume as much.”
“Then it would be safe to assume that the Refluxive’s hall is monitored… Perhaps I was too free with advice.”
“If the dead man were the monitor, your words are now lost. But allow me to take custody of the notes. I will have them translated; there is a colony of Lokhars nearby and some of them have a smattering of Wankh.”
“We will go together,” said Reith. “Will tomorrow suit you?”
“Well enough,” said Helsse glumly. He looked off across the Oval. “Finally then: what must I tell Lord Cizante as to the boon?”
“I don’t know,” said Reith. “I’ll have an answer tomorrow.”
“The situation may be clarified even sooner,” said Helsse. “Here is Dordolio.”
Reith swung around, to find Dordolio striding toward him, followed by two suave cavaliers. Dordolio was clearly in a fury. He halted a yard in front of Reith and, thrusting forth his head, blurted: “With your vicious tricks, you have ruined me! Have you no shame?” He took off his hat, hurled it into Reith’s face. Reith stepped aside, the hat went wheeling off into the Oval.
Dordolio shook his finger in Reith’s face; Reith backed away a step. “Your death is assured,” bellowed Dordolio. “But not by the honor of my sword! Low-caste assassins will drown you in cattle excrement! Twenty pariahs will drub your corpse! A cur will drag your head along the street by the tongue!”
