by Jack Vance
Luke rapped again, and now from within came a shuffle of movement. The door slid back, a pale placid eye looked forth. A rather weak voice inquired, “Yes sir?”
Luke attempted a manner of easy authority. “You’re Dodkin the custodian?”
“Yes, sir, I’m Dodkin.”
“Open up, please, I’d like to come in.”
The pale eye blinked in mild wonder. “This is only the staging room, sir. There’s nothing here to see. The storage complexes are around to the front; if you’ll go back to the junction—”
Luke broke into the flow of words. “I’ve just come down from Files; it’s you I want to see.”
The pale eye blinked once more; the door slid open. Luke entered the long narrow concrete-floored staging room. Conduits dropped from the ceiling by the thousands, bent, twisted and looped, entered the wall, each conduit labeled with a dangling metal tag. At one end of the room was a grimy cot where Dodkin apparently slept; at the other end was a long black desk: the monitoring machine? Dodkin himself was small and stooped, but moved nimbly in spite of his evident age. His white hair was stained but well brushed; his gaze, weak and watery, was without guile, and fixed on Luke with an astronomer’s detachment. He opened his mouth, and words quavered forth in spate, with Luke vainly seeking to interrupt.
“Not often do visitors come from above. Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing wrong.”
“They should tell me if aught isn’t correct, or perhaps there’s been new policies of which I haven’t been notified.”
“Nothing like that, Mr. Dodkin. I’m just a visitor—”
“I don’t move out as much as I used to, but last week I—”
Luke pretended to listen while Dodkin maundered on in obbligato to Luke’s bitter thoughts. The continuity of directives leading from Fedor Miskitman to Lavester Limon to Judiath Ripp, by-passing Parris deVicker to Sewell Sepp and the Chairman of the Board, then returning down the classifications, down the levels through the Policy Evaluation Board, the Bureau of Abstracts, the File Clerk’s Office—the continuity had finally ended; the thread he had traced with such forlorn hope seemed about to lose itself. Well, Luke told himself, he had accepted Miskitman’s challenge; he had failed, and now was faced with his original choice. Submit, carry the wretched shovel back and forth to the warehouse, or defy the order, throw down his shovel, assert himself as a free-willed man, and be declassified, to become a junior executive like old Dodkin—who, sucking and wheezing, still rambled on in compulsive loquacity.
“…something incorrect, I’d never know, because who ever tells me? From year end to year end I’m quiet down here and there’s no one to relieve me, and I only get to the up-side rarely, once a fortnight or so, but then once you’ve seen the sky, does it ever change? And the sun, the marvel of it, but once you’ve seen a marvel—”
Luke drew a deep breath. “I’m investigating an item of information which reached the File Clerk’s Office. I wonder if you can help me.”
Dodkin blinked his pale eyes. “What item is this, sir? Naturally I’ll be glad to help in any way, even though—”
“The item dealt with economy in the use of metals and metal tools.”
Dodkin nodded. “I remember the item perfectly.”
It was Luke’s turn to stare. “You remember this item?”
“Certainly. It was, if I may say so, one of my little interpolations. A personal observation which I included among the other material.”
“Would you be kind enough to explain?”
Dodkin would be only too pleased to explain. “Last week I had occasion to visit an old friend over by Claxton Abbey, a fine Conformist, well adapted and cooperative, even if, alas, like myself, a junior executive. Of course, I mean no disrespect to good Davy Evans, like myself about ready for the pension—though little enough they allow nowadays…”
“The interpolation?”
“Yes, indeed. On my way home along the man-belt—on Sublevel 32, as I recall—I saw a workman of some sort—perhaps an electrical technician—toss several tools into a crevice on his way off-shift. I thought, now there’s a slovenly act—disgraceful! Suppose the man forgot where he had hidden his tools? They’d be lost! Our reserves of raw metallic ore are very low—that’s common knowledge—and every year the ocean water becomes weaker and more dilute. That man had no regard for the future of Organization. We should cherish our natural resources, do you not agree, sir?”
“I agree, naturally. But—”
“In any event, I returned here and added a memorandum to that effect into the material which goes up to the Assistant File Clerk. I thought that perhaps he’d be impressed and say a word to someone with influence—perhaps the Head File Clerk. In any event, there’s the tale of my interpolation. Naturally I attempted to give it weight by citing the inevitable diminution of our natural resources.”
“I see,” said Luke. “And do you frequently include interpolations into the day’s information?”
“Occasionally,” said Dodkin, “and sometimes, I’m glad to say, people more important than I share my views. Only three weeks ago I was delayed several minutes on my way between Claxton Abbey and Kittsville on Sublevel 30. I made a note of it, and last week I noticed that construction has commenced on a new eight-lane man-belt between the two points, a really magnificent and modern undertaking. A month ago I noticed a shameless group of girls daubed like savages with cosmetic. What a waste! I told myself, what vanity and folly! I hinted as much in a little message to the Under-File Clerk. I seem to be just one of the many with these views, for two days later a general order discouraging these petty vanities was issued by the Secretary of Education.”
“Interesting,” Luke muttered. “Interesting indeed. How do you include these ‘interpolations’ into the information?”
Dodkin hobbled nimbly to the monitoring machine, beckoned. “The output from the tanks comes through here. I print a bit on the typewriter and tuck it in where the Under-Clerk will see it.”
“Admirable,” sighed Luke. “A man with your intelligence should have ranked higher in the Status List.”
Dodkin shook his placid old head. “I don’t have the ambition nor the ability. I’m fit for just this simple job, and only barely. I’d take my pension tomorrow, only the Chief File Clerk asked me to stay on a bit until he could find a man to take my place. No one seems to like the quiet down here.”
“Perhaps you’ll have your pension sooner than you think,” said Luke.
Luke strolled along the glossy tube, ringed with alternate pale and dark refractions like a bull’s-eye. Ahead was motion, the glint of metal, the mutter of voices. The entire crew of Tunnel Gang No. 3 stood idle and restless.
Fedor Miskitman waved his arm with uncharacteristic vehemence. “Grogatch! At your post! You’ve held up the entire crew!” His heavy face was suffused with pink. “Four minutes already we’re behind schedule.”
Luke strolled closer.
“Hurry!” bellowed Miskitman. “What do you think this is, a blasted promenade?”
If anything Luke slackened his pace. Fedor Miskitman lowered his big bull-head, staring balefully. Luke halted in front of him.
“Where’s your shovel?” Fedor Miskitman asked.
“I don’t know,” said Luke. “I’m here on the job. It’s up to you to provide tools.”
Fedor Miskitman stared unbelievingly. “Didn’t you take it to the warehouse?”
“Yes,” said Luke. “I took it there. If you want it, go get it.”
Fedor Miskitman opened his mouth. He roared, “Get off the job!”
“Just as you like,” said Luke. “You’re the foreman.”
“Don’t come back!” bellowed Miskitman. “I’ll report you before the day is out. You won’t gain status from me, I tell you that!”
“‘Status’?” Luke laughed. “Go ahead. Cut me down to junior executive. Do you think I care? No. And I’ll tell you why. There’s going to be a change or two made. When things s
eem different to you, think of me.”
Luke Grogatch, Junior Executive, said good-by to the retiring custodian of the staging chamber. “Don’t thank me, not at all,” said Luke. “I’m here by my own doing. In fact—well, never mind all that. Go up-side, sit in the sun, enjoy the air.”
Finally Dodkin, in mingled joy and sorrow, hobbled for the last time down the musty passageway to the chattering man-belt.
Luke was alone in the staging chamber. Around his ears hummed the near-inaudible rush of information. From behind the wall came the sense of a million relays clicking, twitching, meshing; of cylinders and trace-tubes and memory-lanes whirring with activity. At the monitoring machine the output streamed forth on a reel of yellow tape. Nearby rested the typewriter.
Luke seated himself. His first interpolation…what should it be? Freedom for the Nonconformists? Tunnel-gang foremen to carry tools for the entire crew? A higher expense account for junior executives?
Luke rose to his feet and scratched his chin. Power…to be subtly applied. How should he use it? To secure rich perquisites for himself? Yes, of course, this he would accomplish, by devious means. And then—what? Luke thought of the billions of men and women living and working in the Organization. He looked at the typewriter. He could shape their lives, change their thoughts, disorganize the Organization. Was this wise? Or right? Or even amusing?
Luke sighed. In his mind’s eye he saw himself standing on a high terrace overlooking the city. Luke Grogatch, Chairman of the Board. Not impossible, quite feasible. A little at a time, the correct interpolations…Luke Grogatch, Chairman of the Board. Yes. This for a starter. But it was necessary to move cautiously, with great delicacy…
Luke seated himself at the typewriter and began to pick out his first interpolation.
The Moon Moth
The houseboat had been built to the most exacting standards of Sirenese craftsmanship, which is to say, as close to the absolute as human eye could detect. The planking of waxy dark wood showed no joints, the fastenings were platinum rivets countersunk and polished flat. In style, the boat was massive, broad-beamed, steady as the shore itself, without ponderosity or slackness of line. The bow bulged like a swan’s breast, the stem rising high, then crooking forward to support an iron lantern. The doors were carved from slabs of a mottled black-green wood; the windows were many-sectioned, paned with squares of mica, stained rose, blue, pale green and violet. The bow was given to service facilities and quarters for the slaves; amidships were a pair of sleeping cabins, a dining saloon and a parlor saloon, opening upon an observation deck at the stern.
Such was Edwer Thissell’s houseboat, but ownership brought him neither pleasure nor pride. The houseboat had become shabby. The carpeting had lost its pile; the carved screens were chipped; the iron lantern at the bow sagged with rust. Seventy years ago the first owner, on accepting the boat, had honored the builder and had been likewise honored; the transaction (for the process represented a great deal more than simple giving and taking) had augmented the prestige of both. That time was far gone; the houseboat now commanded no prestige whatever. Edwer Thissell, resident on Sirene only three months, recognized the lack but could do nothing about it: this particular houseboat was the best he could get. He sat on the rear deck practising the ganga, a zither-like instrument not much larger than his hand. A hundred yards inshore, surf defined a strip of white beach; beyond rose jungle, with the silhouette of craggy black hills against the sky. Mireille shone hazy and white overhead, as if through a tangle of spider-web; the face of the ocean pooled and puddled with mother-of-pearl luster. The scene had become as familiar, though not as boring, as the ganga, at which he had worked two hours, twanging out the Sirenese scales, forming chords, traversing simple progressions. Now he put down the ganga for the zachinko, this a small sound-box studded with keys, played with the right hand. Pressure on the keys forced air through reeds in the keys themselves, producing a concertina-like tone. Thissell ran off a dozen quick scales, making very few mistakes. Of the six instruments he had set himself to learn, the zachinko had proved the least refractory (with the exception, of course, of the hymerkin, that clacking, slapping, clattering device of wood and stone used exclusively with the slaves).
Thissell practised another ten minutes, then put aside the zachinko. He flexed his arms, wrung his aching fingers. Every waking moment since his arrival had been given to the instruments: the hymerkin, the ganga, the zachinko, the kiv, the strapan, the gomapard. He had practised scales in nineteen keys and four modes, chords without number, intervals never imagined on the Home Planets. Trills, arpeggios, slurs, click-stops and nasalization; damping and augmentation of overtones; vibratos and wolf-tones; concavities and convexities. He practised with a dogged, deadly diligence, in which his original concept of music as a source of pleasure had long become lost. Looking over the instruments Thissell resisted an urge to fling all six into the Titanic.
He rose to his feet, went forward through the parlor saloon, the dining-saloon, along a corridor past the galley and came out on the fore-deck. He bent over the rail, peered down into the underwater pens where Toby and Rex, the slaves, were harnessing the dray-fish for the weekly trip to Fan, eight miles north. The youngest fish, either playful or captious, ducked and plunged. Its streaming black muzzle broke water, and Thissell, looking into its face felt a peculiar qualm: the fish wore no mask!
Thissell laughed uneasily, fingering his own mask, the Moon Moth. No question about it, he was becoming acclimated to Sirene! A significant stage had been reached when the naked face of a fish caused him shock!
The fish were finally harnessed; Toby and Rex climbed aboard, red bodies glistening, black cloth masks clinging to their faces. Ignoring Thissell they stowed the pen, hoisted anchor. The dray-fish strained, the harness tautened, the houseboat moved north.
Returning to the after-deck, Thissell took up the strapan—this a circular sound-box eight inches in diameter. Forty-six wires radiated from a central hub to the circumference where they connected to either a bell or a tinkle-bar. When plucked, the bells rang, the bars chimed; when strummed, the instrument gave off a twanging, jingling sound. When played with competence, the pleasantly acid dissonances produced an expressive effect; in an unskilled hand, the results were less felicitous, and might even approach random noise. The strapan was Thissell’s weakest instrument and he practised with concentration during the entire trip north.
In due course the houseboat approached the floating city. The dray-fish were curbed, the houseboat warped to a mooring. Along the dock a line of idlers weighed and gauged every aspect of the houseboat, the slaves and Thissell himself, according to Sirenese habit. Thissell, not yet accustomed to such penetrating inspection, found the scrutiny unsettling, all the more so for the immobility of the masks. Self-consciously adjusting his own Moon Moth, he climbed the ladder to the dock.
A slave rose from where he had been squatting, touched knuckles to the black cloth at his forehead, and sang on a three-tone phrase of interrogation: “The Moon Moth before me possibly expresses the identity of Ser Edwer Thissell?”
Thissell tapped the hymerkin which hung at his belt and sang: “I am Ser Thissell.”
“I have been honored by a trust,” sang the slave. “Three days from dawn to dusk I have waited on the dock; three nights from dusk to dawn I have crouched on a raft below this same dock listening to the feet of the Night-men. At last I behold the mask of Ser Thissell.”
Thissell evoked an impatient clatter from the hymerkin. “What is the nature of this trust?”
“I carry a message, Ser Thissell. It is intended for you.”
Thissell held out his left hand, playing the hymerkin with his right. “Give me the message.”
“Instantly, Ser Thissell.”
The message bore a heavy superscription:
EMERGENCY COMMUNICATION!
RUSH!
Thissell ripped open the envelope. The message was signed by Castel Cromartin, Chief Executive of the Interworl
d Policies Board, and after the formal salutation read:
ABSOLUTELY URGENT the following orders be executed! Aboard Carina Cruzeiro, destination Fan, date of arrival January 10 U.T., is notorious assassin, Haxo Angmark. Meet landing with adequate authority, effect detention and incarceration of this man. These instructions must be successfully implemented. Failure is unacceptable.
ATTENTION! Haxo Angmark is superlatively dangerous. Kill him without hesitation at any show of resistance.
Thissell considered the message with dismay. In coming to Fan as Consular Representative he had expected nothing like this; he felt neither inclination nor competence in the matter of dealing with dangerous assassins. Thoughtfully he rubbed the fuzzy gray cheek of his mask. The situation was not completely dark; Esteban Rolver, Director of the Space-Port, would doubtless cooperate, and perhaps furnish a platoon of slaves.
More hopefully, Thissell reread the message. January 10, Universal Time. He consulted a conversion calendar. Today, 40th in the Season of Bitter Nectar—Thissell ran his finger down the column, stopped. January 10. Today.
A distant rumble caught his attention. Dropping from the mist came a dull shape: the lighter returning from contact with the Carina Cruzeiro.
Thissell once more re-read the note, raised his head, studied the descending lighter. Aboard would be Haxo Angmark. In five minutes he would emerge upon the soil of Sirene. Landing formalities would detain him possibly twenty minutes. The landing field lay a mile and a half distant, joined to Fan by a winding path through the hills.
Thissell turned to the slave. “When did this message arrive?”
The slave leaned forward uncomprehendingly. Thissell reiterated his question, singing to the clack of the hymerkin: “This message: you have enjoyed the honor of its custody how long?”
The slave sang: “Long days have I waited on the wharf, retreating only to the raft at the onset of dusk. Now my vigil is rewarded; I behold Ser Thissell.”
