by Jack Vance
“Yes sir—the Meadow View Tumble. Shadow Valley Tumble is further up the valley, behind the inn.”
Magnus Ridolph turned to enter the inn. His eyes met those of a man in a severe black suit—a short man with a dumpy face that looked as if it had been compressed in a vise. Ridolph recognized the countenance of Julius See. “Well, well, this is a surprise indeed,” said Magnus.
See nodded grimly. “Quite a coincidence…”
“After the unhappy collapse of Outer Empire Realty and Investment I feared—indeed, I dreaded—that I should never see you again.” And Magnus Ridolph watched Julius See with mild blue eyes blank as a lizard’s.
“No such luck,” said See. “As a matter of fact I run this place. Er, may I speak to you a moment inside?”
“Certainly, by all means.”
Ridolph followed his host through the well-appointed lobby into an office. A thin-faced man with thin red hair and squirrel teeth rose quickly to his feet. “You’ll remember my partner, Bruce Holpers,” said See with no expression in his voice.
“Of course,” said Ridolph. “I am flattered that you honor me with your personal attention.”
See cut the air with his hand—a small petulant gesture. “Forget the smart talk, Ridolph…What’s your game?”
Magnus Ridolph laughed easily. “Gentlemen, gentlemen—”
“Gentlemen my foot! Let’s get down to brass tacks. If you’ve got any ideas left over from that Outer Empire deal, put them away.”
“I assure you—”
“I’ve heard stories about you, Ridolph, and what I brought you in to tell you was that we’re running a nice quiet place here, and we don’t want any disturbance.”
“Of course not,” agreed Ridolph.
“Maybe you came for a little clean fun, betting on these native chipmunks; maybe you came on a party that we won’t like.”
Ridolph held out his hands guilelessly. “I can hardly say I’m flattered. I appear at your inn, an accredited guest; instantly you take me aside and admonish me.”
“Ridolph,” said See, “you have a funny reputation, and a normal sharpshooter never knows what side you’re working on.”
“Enough of this,” said Magnus sternly. “Open the door, or I shall institute a strong protest.”
“Look,” said See ominously, “we own this hotel. If we don’t like your looks, you’ll camp out and rustle your own grub until the next packet—which is a week away.”
Magnus Ridolph said coldly, “You will become liable to extensive damages if you seek to carry out your threat; in fact, I defy you, put me out if you dare!”
The lanky red-haired Holpers laid a nervous hand on See’s arm. “He’s right, Julie. We can’t refuse service or the Control yanks our charter.”
“If he misbehaves or performs any mischief, we can put him out.”
“You have evidence, then, that I am a source of annoyance?”
See stood back, hands behind him. “Call this little talk a warning, Ridolph. You’ve just had your warning.”
Returning to the lobby, Magnus Ridolph ordered his luggage sent to his room, and inquired the whereabouts of the Commonwealth Control officer.
“He’s established on the edge of Black Bog, sir; you’ll have to take an air-car unless you care for an all-night hike.”
“You may order out an air-car,” said Magnus Ridolph.
Seated in the well-upholstered tonneau, Ridolph watched Shadow Valley Inn dwindle below. The sun, Pi Sagittarius, which had already set, once more came into view as the car rose to clear Basalt Mountain, then sank in a welter of purples, greens and reds—a phoenix dying in its many-colored blood. Kokod twilight fell across the planet.
Below passed a wonderfully various landscape: lakes and parks, meadows, cliffs, crags, sweeping hillside slopes, river valleys. Here and there Ridolph sensed shapes in the fading light—the hive-like tumbles. As evening deepened into dove-colored night, the tumbles flickered with dancing orange sparks of illumination.
The air-car slanted down, slid under a copse of trees shaped like feather-dusters. Magnus Ridolph alighted, stepped around to the pilot’s compartment.
“Who is the Control officer?”
“His name is Clark, sir, Everley Clark.”
Magnus Ridolph nodded. “I’ll be no more than twenty minutes. Will you wait, please?”
“Yes, sir. Very well, sir.”
Magnus Ridolph glanced sharply at the man: a suggestion of insolence behind the formal courtesy?…He strode to the frame building. The upper half of the door hung wide; cheerful yellow light poured out into the Kokod night. Within, Magnus Ridolph glimpsed a tall pink man in neat tan gabardines. Something in the man’s physiognomy struck a chord of memory; where had he seen this round pink face before? He rapped smartly on the door; the man turned his head and rather glumly arose. Magnus Ridolph saw the man to be he of the mnemiphot presentation on Kokod, the man who had interviewed the warrior, Sam 192.
Everley Clark came to the door. “Yes? What can I do for you?”
“I had hoped for the privilege of a few words with you,” replied Magnus Ridolph.
Clark blew out his cheeks, fumbled with the door fastenings. “By all means,” he said hollowly. “Come in, sir.” He motioned Magnus Ridolph to a chair. “Won’t you sit down? My name is Everley Clark.”
“I am Magnus Ridolph.”
Clark evinced no flicker of recognition, responding with only a blank stare of inquiry.
Ridolph continued a trifle frostily. “I assume that our conversation can be considered confidential?”
“Entirely, sir. By all means.” Clark showed a degree of animation, went to the fireplace, stood warming his hands at an imaginary blaze.
Ridolph chose his words for their maximum weight. “I have been employed by an important organization which I am not at liberty to name. The members of this organization—who I may say exert a not negligible political influence—feel that Control’s management of Kokod business has been grossly inefficient and incorrect.”
“Indeed!” Clark’s official affability vanished as if a pink spotlight had been turned off.
Magnus Ridolph continued soberly. “In view of these charges, I thought it my duty to confer with you and learn your opinions.”
Clark said grimly. “What do you mean—‘charges’?”
“First, it is claimed that the gambling operations at Shadow Valley Inn are—if not illegal—explicitly, shamelessly and flagrantly unmoral.”
“Well?” said Clark bitterly. “What do you expect me to do? Run out waving a Bible? I can’t interfere with tourist morals. They can play merry hell, run around naked, beat their dogs, forge checks—as long as they leave the natives alone, they’re out of my jurisdiction.”
Magnus Ridolph nodded sagely. “I see your position clearly. But a second and more serious allegation is that in allowing the Kokod wars to continue day in and day out, Control condones and tacitly encourages a type of brutality which would not be allowed on any other world of the Commonwealth.”
Clark seated himself, sighed deeply. “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, you sound for all the world like one of the form letters I get every day from women’s clubs, religious institutes and anti-vivisectionist societies.” He shook his round pink face with sober emphasis. “Mr. Ridolph, you just don’t know the facts. You come up here in a lather of indignation, you shoot off your mouth and sit back with a pleased expression—good deed for the day. Well, it’s not right! Do you think I enjoy seeing these little creatures tearing each other apart? Of course not—although I admit I’ve become used to it. When Kokod was first visited, we tried to stop the wars. The natives considered us damn fools, and went on fighting. We enforced peace, by threatening to cut down the steles. This meant something to them; they gave up the wars. And you never saw a sadder set of creatures in your life. They sat around in the dirt; they contracted a kind of roup and died by the droves. None of them cared enough to drag the corpses away. Four tumbles we
re wiped out; Cloud Crag, Yellow Bush, Sunset Ridge and Vinegrass. You can see them today, colonies thousands of years old, destroyed in a few months. And all this time the Tumble-matrons were producing young. No one had the spirit to feed them, and they starved or ran whimpering around the planet like naked little rats.”
“Ahem,” said Magnus Ridolph. “A pity.”
“Fred Exman was adjutant here then. On his own authority he ordered the ban removed, told them to fight till they were blue in the face. The wars began half an hour later, and the natives have been happy and healthy ever since.”
“If what you say is true,” Magnus Ridolph remarked mildly, “I have fallen into the common fault of wishing to impose my personal tenor of living upon creatures constitutionally disposed to another.”
Clark said emphatically, “I don’t like to see those sadistic bounders at the hotel capitalizing on the wars, but what can I do about it? And the tourists are no better: morbid unhealthy jackals, enjoying the sight of death…”
Magnus Ridolph suggested cautiously, “Then it would be safe to say that, as a private individual, you would not be averse to a cessation of the gambling at Shadow Valley Inn?”
“Not at all,” said Everley Clark. “As a private citizen, I’ve always thought that Julius See, Bruce Holpers and their guests represented mankind at its worst.”
“One more detail,” said Magnus Ridolph. “I believe you speak and understand the Kokod language?”
“After a fashion—yes.” Clark grimaced in apprehension. “You realize I can’t compromise Control officially?”
“I understand that very well.”
“Just what do you plan, then?”
“I’ll know better after I witness one or two of these campaigns.”
III
Soft chimes roused Magnus Ridolph; he opened his eyes into the violet gloom of a Kokod dawn. “Yes?”
The hotel circuit said, “Five o’clock, Mr. Ridolph. The first party for today’s battle leaves in one hour.”
“Thank you.” Ridolph swung his bony legs over the edge of the air-cushion, sat a reflective moment. He gained his feet, gingerly performed a set of calisthenic exercises.
In the bathroom he rinsed his mouth with tooth-cleanser, rubbed depilatory on his cheeks, splashed his face with cold water, applied tonic to his trim white beard.
Returning to the bedroom, he selected a quiet gray and blue outfit, with a rather dashing cap.
His room opened upon a terrace facing the mountainside; as he strolled forth, the two women whom he had encountered in the charabanc the day previously came past. Magnus Ridolph bowed, but the women passed without even a side glance.
“Cut me dead, by thunder,” said Magnus Ridolph to himself. “Well, well.” And he adjusted his cap to an even more rakish angle.
In the lobby a placard announced the event of the day:
IVORY DUNE TUMBLE
vs.
EASTERN SHIELD TUMBLE
at Muscadine Meadow
All bets must be placed with the attendant.
Odds against Ivory Dune:
8:13
Odds against Eastern Shield:
5:4
In the last hundred battles Ivory Dune has won 41 engagements, Eastern Shield has won 59.
Excursions leave as follows:
For deployment:
6 A.M.
For onslaught:
7 A.M.
For battle proper:
8 A.M.
It is necessary that no interference be performed in the vicinity of the battle. Any guest infringing on this rule will be barred from further wagering. There will be no exceptions.
At a booth nearby, two personable young women were issuing betting vouchers. Magnus Ridolph passed quietly into the restaurant, where he breakfasted lightly on fruit juice, rolls and coffee, finishing in ample time to secure a place with the first excursion.
The observation vehicle was of that peculiar variety used in conveying a large number of people across a rough terrain. The car proper was suspended by a pair of cables from a kite-copter which flew five hundred feet overhead. The operator, seated in the nose of the car, worked pitch and attack by remote control, and so could skim quietly five feet over the ground, hover over waterfalls, ridges, ponds, other areas of scenic beauty with neither noise nor the thrash of driven air to disturb the passengers.
Muscadine Meadow was no small distance away; the operator lofted the ship rather abruptly over Basalt Mountain, then slid on a long slant into the northeast. Pi Sagittarius rolled up into the sky like a melon, and the grays, greens, reds, purples of the Kokod countryside shone up from below, rich as Circassian tapestry.
“We are near the Eastern Shield,” the attendant announced in a mellifluous baritone. “The tumble is a trifle to the right, beside that bold face of granite whence it derives its name. If you look closely you will observe the Eastern Shield armies already on the march.”
Bending forward studiously, Magnus Ridolph noticed a brown and yellow column winding across the mountainside. To their rear he saw first the tall stele, rising two hundred feet, spraying over at the top into a fountain of pink, black and light green foliage; then below, the conical tumble.
The car sank slowly, drifted over a wooded patch of broken ground, halted ten feet above a smooth green meadow.
“This is the Muscadine,” announced the guide. “At the far end you can see Muscadine Tumble and Stele, currently warring against Opal Grotto, odds 9 to 7 both ways…If you will observe along the line of bamboo trees you will see the green caps of the Ivory Dune warriors. We can only guess their strategy, but they seem to be preparing a rather intricate offensive pattern—”
A woman’s voice said peevishly, “Can’t you take the car up higher so we can see everything?”
“Certainly, if you wish, Mrs. Chaim.”
Five hundred feet above, copter blades slashed the air; the car wafted up like thistledown.
The guide continued, “The Eastern Shield warriors can be seen coming over the hill…It seems as if they surmise the Ivory Dune strategy and will attempt to attack the flank…There!” His voice rose animatedly. “By the bronze tree! The scouts have made a brush…Eastern Shield lures the Ivory Dune scouts into ambush…They’re gone. Apparently today’s code is 4, or possibly 36, allowing all weapons to be used freely, without restriction.”
An old man with a nose like a raspberry said, “Put us down, driver. From up here we might as well be back at the inn.”
“Certainly, Mr. Pilby.”
The car sank low. Mrs. Chaim sniffed and glared.
The meadow rose from below; the car grounded gently on glossy dark green creepers. The guide said, “Anyone who wishes may go further on foot. For safety’s sake, do not approach the battle more closely than three hundred feet; in any event the inn assumes no responsibility of any sort whatever.”
“Hurry,” said Mr. Pilby sharply. “The onslaught will be over before we’re in place.”
The guide good-naturedly shook his head. “They’re still sparring for position, Mr. Pilby. They’ll be dodging and feinting half an hour yet; that’s the basis of their strategy—neither side wants to fight until they’re assured of the best possible advantage.” He opened the door. With Pilby in the lead, several dozen of the spectators stepped down on Muscadine Meadow, among them Magnus Ridolph, Mrs. Chaim and her peacock-shaped friend whom she addressed as “Mrs. Borgage”.
“Careful, ladies and gentlemen,” called the guide, “Not too close to the battle.”
“I’ve got my money on Eastern Shield,” said Mrs. Borgage with heavy archness. “I’m going to make sure there’s no funny business.”
Magnus Ridolph inspected the scene of battle. “I’m afraid you are doomed to disappointment, Mrs. Borgage. In my opinion, Ivory Dune has selected the stronger position; if they hold on their right flank, give a trifle at the center, and catch the Eastern Shield forces on two sides when they close in, there should be small doubt as to th
e outcome of today’s encounter.”
“It must be wonderful to be so penetrating,” said Mrs. Borgage in a sarcastic undertone to Mrs. Chaim.
Mr. Pilby said, “I don’t think you see the battleground in its entire perspective, sir. The Eastern Shield merely needs to come in around that line of trees to catch the whole rear of the Ivory Dune line—”
“But by so doing,” Magnus Ridolph pointed out, “they leave their rear unguarded; clearly Ivory Dune has the advantage of maneuver.”
To the rear a second excursion boat landed. The doors opened, there was a hurrying group of people. “Has anything happened yet?” “Who’s winning?”
“The situation is fluid,” declared Pilby.
“Look, they’re closing in!” came the cry. “It’s the onslaught!”
Now rose the piping of Kokod war hymns: from Ivory Dune throats the chant sacred and long-beloved at Ivory Dune Tumble, and countering, the traditional paean of the Eastern Shield.
Down the hill came the Eastern Shield warriors, half-bent forward.
A thud and clatter—battle. The shock of small bodies, the dry whisper of knife against lance, the hoarse orders of leg-leaders and squadronites.
Forward and backward, green and black mingled with orange and white. Small bodies were hacked apart, dryly dismembered; small black eyes went dead and dim; a hundred souls raced all together, pell-mell, for the Tumble Beyond the Sky.
Forward and backward moved the standard-bearers—those who carried the sapling from the sacred stele, whose capture would mean defeat for one and victory for the other.
On the trip back to the inn, Mrs. Chaim and Mrs. Borgage sat glum and solitary while Mr. Pilby glowered from the window.
Magnus Ridolph said affably to Pilby, “In a sense, an amateur strategist, such as myself, finds these battles a trifle tedious. He needs no more than a glance at the situation, and his training indicates the logical outcome. Naturally none of us are infallible, but given equal forces and equal leadership, we can only assume that the forces in the better position will win.”
