Araminta Station

by Jack Vance

  Glawen looked at Arles’ plump white hands. “My fingernails are cleaner than yours are right now.”

  Arles scowled and thrust his hands in his pocket. “Conditions are different; keep that in mind! If I should speak to you, answer ‘Yes, sir’ or ‘No, sir.’ That’s proper conduct. If you have doubts about your table manners, just watch me.”

  “Thank you, but I will probably be able to muddle through the meal.”

  “As you wish.” Arles turned on his heel and stalked from the dock.

  Glawen stood looking after him, seething with irritation. Arles passed between the pair of heroic statues which flanked the entrance to the Clattuc formal garden, and was lost to view. Glawen pondered. Between 29 and 31? After five years as a provisional, his SI might have declined to 25. That meant collateral status and out of Clattuc House: away from his father, away from all the niceties of life, away from the prestige and perquisites of full Agency!

  Glawen looked off across the water. Just such a grim event had altered the lives of thousands before him, but the full tragedy of the situation had never touched him before.

  And what of the girls, whose good opinion he valued? There was Erlin Offaw, already embarked on what promised to be a long career of breaking hearts, and Ticia Wook, blond, fragile, fragrant and graceful as a gillyflower, but, like all Wooks, remote and proud.7 Then there was Sessily Veder, who had been conspicuously amiable the last few times he had encountered her. If he were ranked with an SI of 30, his future was blasted and none of them would look twice at him again.

  Glawen left the boathouse and followed Arles back up the slope to Clattuc House: a thin, somber dark-haired figure inconsequential in the scope of the landscape, though highly important to himself and to his father, Scharde.

  Entering the house, Glawen went up to his chambers at the eastern end of the second-floor gallery. To his great relief, he found Scharde at home.

  Scharde instantly sensed Glawen’s perturbation. “You’re getting the shakes early.”

  Glawen said: “Arles told me that he knew my SI, that it was between 29 and 31.”

  Scharde raised his eyebrows. “31? Even 29? How is that possible? You’d be out with the collaterals before you even started!”

  “I know.”

  “I’d pay no heed to Arles. He just hoped to put you in a turmoil, and he seems to have succeeded.”

  “He says he heard it from Spanchetta! And he said something about my not having any lineage!”

  “Oh?” Scharde considered. “Did he, now? What did he mean by that?”

  “I don’t know. I told him that he could not possibly know my SI, and he said: why not; that my lineage was a matter of record, or - more accurately - my lack of lineage.”

  “Ha,” muttered Scharde. “Now I begin to see. I just wonder. . .” His voice dwindled away. He went to stare out the window. “There is indeed the flavor of Spanchetta in this business.”

  “Could she change my number?”

  “That’s an interesting question. She works at Bureau A and has access to the computer. Still, she’d never dare fiddle with machinery; that’s a capital crime. Whatever she has done, if anything, is bound to be legal.”

  Glawen shook his head in puzzlement. “Why should she want to do such a thing? What difference does my number make to her?”

  “We don’t know yet whether or not anything has been done. If so, Spanchetta may or may not be responsible. If so again, the answer is simple. She forgets and forgives nothing. I’ll tell you a story you’ve probably never heard before.

  “Long ago she made up her mind to marry me, and she actually schemed with the House Mistress and Dame Lilian the Chatelaine so that they all began to take the match seriously, even without so much as consulting me. One evening, we were playing epaing. Spanchetta was on the court, shouting and cursing and making flamboyant signals, and calling fouls where none existed and gray balls when they were pink, and yelling in outrage when someone dropped in a lob. Wilmor Veder called over to me: ‘Well, then, Scharde, looks like your marriage will be quite an adventure.’

  “I said: ‘I’m not getting married; where did you hear that?’

  “‘It’s all over! Everybody is talking about it.’

  “‘I wish someone would let me in on the secret. Who is the lucky woman?’

  “‘Spanchetta, of course! I heard it from Carlotte.’

  “‘Carlotte is talking doodle: I’m not marrying Spanchetta! Not today, not tomorrow, not last year, not at the second coming of Pulius Feistersnap. In short, never, and not even then! Does that set matters straight?’

  “‘It sounds definite to me. Now you need only convince Spanchetta, who is standing right behind you.’

  “I looked around and there stood Spanchetta breathing flame. Everybody laughed and Spanchetta tried to murder me with her epaing bat, which made everyone laugh even more.

  “So then, just for spite, she married poor Millis, and also took up with Namour. But she never forgave me.

  “About a year later, I married your mother at Sarsenopolis on Alphecca Nine. When we returned to Araminta Station, there were unpleasant incidents, many of them. Marya ignored them; so did I. Then you were born, and Spanchetta dislikes you in triplicate: because of me and your mother and because you are everything Arles is not. And now it just might be that she has found an opportunity to express herself.”

  “It’s hard to believe.”

  “Spanchetta is a strange woman. You wait here; I want to make some inquiries.”

  * * *

  Chapter I, Part 2

  Scharde went directly to the Bureau A offices in the New Agency where, in his capacity as Commander of Police, he was able to make his investigation without hindrance.

  Time was short; in two hours the House Supper, as inexorable in its regularity as the motion of Lorca around Sing, would begin. Scharde returned to Clattuc House and took himself to the pleasant high-ceilinged apartments occupied by Housemaster Fratano.

  As Scharde entered the reception hall, he met Spanchetta coming from the inner parlor. Both stopped short, each thinking that here was the person he least wanted to see. Spanchetta spoke sharply: “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask the same of you,” said Scharde. “But, as a matter of fact, I have Agency business to take up with Fratano.”

  “The time is late. Fratano is dressing.” Spanchetta looked Scharde up and down. “Are you coming to the Supper in that outfit? But why should I ask? You are notoriously lax where propriety is concerned.”

  Scharde gave a rueful laugh. “I neither admit nor deny, but never fear! I’ll be on hand when the soup is served! Now I have business with Fratano; please excuse me.”

  Spanchetta grudgingly moved aside. “Fratano is occupied with his own dressing and won’t wish to be bothered. I’ll take in your message, if you like.”

  “I must see to this matter myself.” Scharde stepped in front of Spanchetta, holding his breath against the warm and heavy scent, half perfume, half female fecundity, which she exuded. He entered Fratano’s private parlor and carefully closed the door, almost in Spanchetta’s face.

  Fratano, wearing a loose lounge robe, sat in an easy chair with one long pallid foot propped on a cushioned stool, while a Yip maidservant massaged his lower leg. He looked up with a questioning frown. “Well, then, Scharde, what is it now? Can’t you come at a more convenient time?”

  “The time will never be more convenient, as you will learn. Send the girl away; our conversation must be private.”

  Fratano made a peevish clicking sound with his tongue. “Is it so vital as all that? Paz is not interested in our talk.”

  “Possibly not, but I have noticed that Namour knows everything about everybody. Need I say more? Girl, take yourself from the room, and close the door as you leave.”

  After a glance at Fratano, the maid rose. She took up her pot of ointment and with a cool half-smile for Scharde, left the room.

  “So, now!” growled Frata
no. “What is of such importance that it interferes with my massage?”

  “Today is Glawen’s sixteenth birthday, and he becomes a provisional.”

  Fratano blinked, suddenly thoughtful. “What of it?”

  “Have you been notified of his official SI?”

  “Yes, so I have.” Fratano coughed and cleared his throat. “Again - what of that?”

  “Spanchetta brought it to you?”

  “That is inconsequential, one way or the other. It has to arrive from Bureau A by some means. Usually Dame Leuta brings it over. Today it was Spanchetta. The SI is the same.”

  “Has Spanchetta ever handed it in before?”

  “No. Now tell me, once and for all, what are you up to?”

  “I think you know. You’ve looked at the number?”

  “Of course! Why not?”

  “And what is the number?”

  Fratano tried to draw himself up. “I can’t tell you that! The SIs are confidential!”

  “Not if Bureau B decides to concern itself.”‘

  Fratano pulled himself up in his chair. “Why should Bureau B interfere in House business? I insist on knowing what you are getting at!”

  “I am investigating what may be a criminal conspiracy.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “When Spanchetta claims to know Glawen’s SI, and tells Arles, who crows about his knowledge to Glawen, that is already wrongdoing. If the Housemaster is involved, the question of criminal conspiracy arises.”

  Fratano gave a poignant cry. “What are you saying! I am guilty of nothing!”

  “Where is the SI?”

  Fratano pointed to a square of yellow paper on the side table. “The number is there. It is the official printout.”

  Scharde looked at the paper. “30? You saw this number?”

  “Yes, naturally.”

  “And you were going to read it off at the House Supper?”

  Fratano’s loose-jowled face sagged even lower. “As matter of fact, I thought the number rather high.”

  Scharde gave a scornful laugh. “High, you say? What, at a guess, should be Glawen’s SI?”

  “Well, I would have guessed 24 or thereabouts. Still –,” Fratano pointed to the yellow paper. “It is not my place to argue with the computer.”

  Scharde grinned: a crooked sinister grimace which for an instant showed the tips of his teeth. “Fratano, I have just come up from Bureau A. The computer is functioning with its usual accuracy. But it must depend upon the information fed into it. Do you agree?”

  “That is so; yes.”

  “This morning, as is my right, I examined the input to the computer - the information upon which it had based its judgment - and do you know, someone had altered the records? To such an effect that Glawen was declared illegitimate – a bastard.”

  Once more Fratano cleared his throat. “If the truth be known, rumors have been circulating to this effect for some time.”

  “I have heard none of them.”

  “It is said that your marriage to Marya was illegal and void, with the result that all issue was illegitimate.”

  “How could my marriage be illegal? I can show you the marriage certificate at any time. Now if you like.”

  “The marriage was void because Marya was already married, and had neglected to certify a legal divorce. Naturally, I paid no heed to such meretricious chatter. Still, if unfortunately it were true -”

  “Spanchetta told you all this? She is the source of the so-called rumor?”

  “The subject indeed came up in our conversation.”

  “And you accepted her statement, without so much as referring it to me?”

  “The facts speak for themselves!” bleated Fratano. “On her tourist entry she signs herself as ‘Madame’ Marya Chiasalvo.”

  Scharde nodded. “Bureau B can construct against you a clear case of either ‘criminal conspiracy’ or ‘felonious default of duty.’”

  Fratano’s jowl quivered and his eyes became large and moist. “My dear Scharde! You know me better than that!”

  “Then why did you accept, without protest, such an outrageous printout from Spanchetta? I admit to a sense of sheer outrage! You know Spanchetta and her spite! You have let yourself become her tool! So you must bear the consequences!”

  Fratano said miserably: “Spanchetta can be very convincing at times.”

  “Here are the facts, which you could have learned from me over the telephone. Marya’s family subscribed to a popular religion of Alphecca Nine known as the Quadriplar Revelation. Children enter the religion at the age of ten by dedicating themselves in a mock marriage with their patron saint. Marya’s patron saint was Chiasalvo, the Jewel of Kind Being. The marriage is a religious formality, which the patron saint renounces as part of the marriage ceremony. It is so certified on the marriage certificate, which you could have seen at any time the question arose. The marriage, despite Spanchetta’s vicious assertions, is as legal as your own. How she could dare introduce this distortion into the genealogical record is beyond my understanding.”

  “Bah!” muttered Fratano in a subdued voice. “Spanchetta and her intrigues will someday drive me crazy! Luckily, you were in time to catch out the mistake.”

  “Don’t use the word ‘mistake.’ There is malice at work here!”

  “Ah well, Spanchetta is a sensitive woman. At one time she had reason to believe . . . But no matter. This is a sorry mess. What shall we do?”

  “You can count and I can count. Here is the Clattuc roster.

  Glawen clearly should rank after Dexter and before Trine. That gives him an SI of 24. I suggest that you formalize this number by executive fiat, as is your privilege, and, in this case, your duty.”

  Fratano studied the roster. He counted with his long white finger. “Just possibly Trine might pick up a point or two by virtue of his mother’s aunt’s altitude among the Veders.”

  “The same applies to Glawen. Elsabetta, his grandmother’s older sister, is a high Wook, and he can also show Dame Waltrop of Diffin as input. And don’t forget, Trine is eight years younger than Glawen! He doesn’t need a 24 his age.”

  “True enough.” Fratano turned a cautious side glance toward Scharde. “And there will be no more talk of criminal conspiracy - which of course is only a bad joke in the first place?”

  Scharde gave a grim nod. “So be it.”

  “Very well. Common sense says 24 and we will assume that the computer meant to give us a 24.” Fratano took the yellow sheet and with a stylus marked through the ‘30’ and wrote ‘24’ in its place. “Now all is well and I must dress.”

  “At the door Scharde turned to speak over his shoulder. “I suggest that you lock the outer door after me. Otherwise you might have Spanchetta on your hands again.”

  Fratano gave a sour nod. “I can manage the affairs of my own apartment. Gunter? Gunter! Where the devil are you?”

  A footman entered the room. “Sir?”

  “Lock the door with double bolts after Sir Scharde departs. Admit no one, and bring me no messages; is this clear?”

  “Yes indeed, sir.”

  * * *

  Chapter I, Part 3

  As they stood ready to leave their chambers, Scharde subjected Glawen to a last inspection. His curt nod concealed far more pride than he cared to put into words. “For certain, no one will find fault with your appearance; you may rest easy on that account.”

  “Hmmf. Arles will disapprove of my shoes, at the very least.”

  Scharde chuckled. “Only Arles. No one else will look twice in your direction - unless you commit some awful vulgarity.”

  Glawen said with dignity: “I am not planning any vulgarity whatever. That is not my idea of a birthday celebration.”

  “Sound thinking! I suggest also that you say nothing unless you are directly addressed, and then reply with a platitude. Before long everyone will think you a brilliant conversationist.”

  “More likely, they’ll thi
nk me a surly brute,” growled Glawen. “Still, I will guard my tongue.”

  Once again Scharde showed his crooked half-smile. “Come; it is time we started down.”

  The two descended the staircase to the first floor and passed through the reception hall into the main gallery: a pair of erect figures, with similar austere features and mannerisms which suggested innate grace and strength under careful control. Scharde stood a head taller; his hair had become a coarse nondescript gray; wind and weather had darkened his skin to the color of old oak. Glawen was somewhat more fair, and more compact at chest and shoulder. Scharde’s mouth was taut and ironic; Glawen’s mouth, when he was relaxed or moody, took on a pensive droop at the corners, as if his mind were off among the clouds. Girls, when they looked at Glawen, as often they did, found that this droop, with its suggestion of sweet flights of fancy, tended to play strange tricks upon their hearts.

  The two proceeded to the dining room. At the portal they halted, and took stock of those already at their places. Most of the in-House Clattucs had arrived, and now lounged at their ease in the stiff-backed chairs, gossiping, laughing and sipping lively Bagnold from the Laverty winery, or, as often, the heavier and sweeter Pink Indescense, as formulated by the Wook oenologists. At stations around the walls stood Yip footmen, resplendent in the gray and orange Clattuc livery, their faces powdered white and their hair concealed by wigs of combed silver floss.

  Scharde pointed across the table. “You will sit there, next to your Great-aunt Clotilde. I will be at your other side. Lead the way.”

  Glawen set his coat, squared his shoulders and advanced into the dining room. The company on hand stilled its talk; flippant remarks hung in the air; chuckles and titters dwindled into silence; all heads turned to stare at the new arrivals.

  Looking neither right nor left, Glawen marched around the table, with Scharde coming behind. There were mutters and whispers; clearly rumors regarding Glawen’s SI and his imminent shock had already seeped around the table. Such an item of news, with its implications and scope for tragic drama, was too choice to be contained. All now awaited the moment when Fratano’s announcement would blast Glawen’s life and everyone covertly studied the victim-to-be. Scharde smiled his faint smile.