by Jack Vance
Glawen arrived at his place, with Scharde close behind. A pair of footmen pulled back their chairs and slid them forward after Glawen and Scharde had seated themselves. The company resumed its previous occupation; all was as before, and Glawen was ignored: an almost insulting indifference, in Glawen’s view. The dinner, after all, was in celebration of his personal birthday. He turned a haughty glance around the table, but no one noticed. Perhaps some grotesque and splendid vulgarity might be in order, after all.
Glawen put the idea aside; it had no real temptation for him, and his father would be embarrassed. He studied the company: his uncles, aunts and cousins of high and low degree, together with a single great-grandparent. All were arrayed in fine garments and stylish ornaments, and seemed to take pleasure in the act. The ladies wore gowns of rich fabric and feather-weave, and many displayed their jewels: alexandrites, emeralds, rubies, and carbuncles, topaz and purple tourmaline from sites about Deucas,8 sphanctonites from dead stars, and Maidhouse crystals, found at a single site in all the expanse of the Gaean Reach.
The gentlemen wore coats and tight trousers of soft twill in contrasting colors: often dark buff and blue, or maroon and cedar green, or black and deep mustard ocher. Among the young gallants, white shoes were all the rage, and the more dashing clasped the left side of their scalps with silver mesh from which lifted clusters of silver prongs, to striking effect. Among this latter group was Arles, who sat six places around the table from Glawen, with Spanchetta beside him.
There could be no question as to Spanchetta’s intense and pungent vitality. Not the least of her attributes was the remarkable mass of raven-black curls, barely disciplined, which surmounted her head and swayed perilously as she looked this way and that. The placement of her glittering black eyes, close by the bridge of her nose, accentuated the expanse of her marmoreal cheeks. Today she wore a magenta gown, cut low to display the white pillar of her neck and a good deal of what depended below. Spanchetta had darted a single glance toward Glawen which assimilated every detail of his appearance; then, with a faint sniff, she looked away and paid him no further heed.
Next beside Spanchetta sat Millis, her mild and diffident husband, distinguished principally by his drooping ash-blond mustache. He was now concerned with the problem of drinking wine without wetting his mustache.
Fratano stood at the side table reserved to retired Clattucs, making polite conversation with his father, Damian, a long-retired Past Master, now well over ninety years old. Resemblance between the two was striking; both were gaunt, pallid, high of forehead, long of nose, upper lip and chin.
The table was almost full. Only Garsten and Jalulia, Glawen’s grandparents, were not yet present. The footmen poured wine for Glawen and Scharde, Green Zoquel and Rimbaudia, both Clattuc wines, and prizewinners at last year’s Parilia. Glawen essayed a goodly gulp of the Zoquel, which caused Scharde surprise and mild alarm. “The wine is strong! Much more and you’ll be snoring on the table with your hair in the soup!”
“I’ll be careful.” Glawen shifted his position and tugged at his new coat, which felt stiff and tight, while the new trousers not only constricted his shanks, but rode high in the crotch, causing him acute discomfort. Such, he told himself was the price one paid for the enjoyment of high style, and little could be done about it. He forced himself to sit quietly, hands in his lap. Arles bent down his head and turned him a pursy grin. No matter if Housemaster Fratano fixed his SI at 50. Glawen swore that he would betray emotion by not so much as a twitch.
Minutes went by at a slow march. Fratano continued to chat with Damian. Garsten and Jalulia still had not arrived. Glawen sighed. Would dinner never be served? He looked around the table. Never had his senses seemed so alert, nor his perceptions so keen! He studied the faces of his kin. All were strangers. Remarkable! It was as if a curtain had slipped, revealing, if only for an instant, truths not intended for his knowing. . . Glawen sighed and raised his eyes to the ceiling. An odd but useless notion. Foolishness, of course. He essayed another sip of wine. Scharde made no comment.
Voices rose and fell, or lapsed momentarily into silence, as if everyone had decided to use the same instant to formulate his next words. The time was middle afternoon; light from Syrene slanted through tall windows, reflecting from high ceilings and white walls, playing across the tablecloth, glinting on the glass and silver.
At last Garsten and Jalulia entered the room. They paused behind Glawen, and Garsten touched his shoulder. “Today: the great occasion, eh? I remember my own sixteenth; how long ago it seems now! But I still remember the tension! Even though I was born A-b-c, I was still in dread of being sent off across the Reach, into some dark cold hinterland. But the Mad Dog9 coughed up a 19, and I was in, and lucky for you, eh? Otherwise you’d be hunkered down over a plate of beans on some cold far world while the leeches hopped around the mud and the natives howled, and gargoyle hawks ravaged your flocks.”
Jalulia chided him: “What nonsense you talk! If you had actually failed and had been turned out, we would never have met and Glawen would not be here now.”
“All to the same effect! Well, we can only hope that the Mad Dog plays you fair.”
“I hope so too,” said Glawen.
Garsten and Jalulia went to their places; Fratano stepped down to his own chair. He looked at a slip of paper beside his service plate, read, then turned to inspect the faces around the table. “Ah, Glawen, there you are. Today you come into the proud estate of provisional! The opportunities of life are now open to you! I am sure that through diligence and duty you will, at the very least, arrive at the condition of noble and self-reliant manhood, no matter whether your life is to be lived here, as an agent of the Conservancy, or elsewhere, in what might prove an equally rewarding career!”
Glawen listened, feeling the attention of all eyes.
Fratano proceeded. “I will today utter no lengthy peroration; should you feel the need of instruction or wise counsel, you need only apply to me, and it shall be forthcoming. Such is my obligation to every Clattuc of the House, from low to high.
“Now, then: to definite matters. I see no reason to prolong the suspense. I have here the official statement of your SI.” Fratano tilted the paper, threw back his head and looked down his nose at the inscription. “Here, as yielded by impersonal and accurate processes of calculation, is your SI. I announce the number to be” - he raised his head and gazed around the attentive faces - “24.”
Eyes blinked, then swung to fix upon Glawen. From Spanchetta came a startled cry, which she quickly stifled. Arles stared first at Glawen, then turned to gaze numbly at his mother, who sat hunched forward, scowling down into her wine.
Glawen was now expected to utter a few remarks. He rose to his feet and bowed politely toward Fratano. His voice quavered so slightly that no one noticed but Scharde. “Thank you, sir, for your good wishes. I will truly do my best to become both a good agent of the Conservator and a credit to Clattuc House.”
Fratano asked: “And where will you work, or have you chosen?”
“I have already been accepted into Bureau B.”
“A sound choice! We need careful and vigilant patrols if we are to keep Marmion Land10 clear of the Yips.”
The Yip footmen smiled somewhat self-consciously at Fratano’s remarks, but otherwise showed no reaction.
Glawen sat down to a spatter of applause, and footmen began to serve the supper. Conversation once more became general, and all declared that never for an instant had they believed the wild rumor in regard to Glawen, which was on the face of it absurd. Furtive glances were turned toward Spanchetta, who sat like a stone, until suddenly, as if at a signal, she became animated, even ebullient, and conducted four conversations at once.
Now that Glawen was no longer to be considered a pariah, his Great-aunt Clotilde, a tall breezy woman of middle age, condescended to speak with him. She keenly enjoyed the game of epaing, and considered herself knowledgeable in regard to the game’s tactical intricacies; she
now conveyed to Glawen a number of her opinions.
With Scharde’s advice in mind, Glawen carefully suppressed all evidence of independent thought, and later Clotilde remarked upon Glawen’s intelligence to her cronies.
The Supper culminated with a festive pudding of iced custard and fruit. The company drank a ritual, if rather perfunctory, toast to Glawen, then Fratano rose to his feet, and the Supper was at an end.
A number of folk, as they left the room, paused to wish Glawen good luck. Arles sauntered across the room. “A good number!” he stated. “A very fair number, considering everything. I’d placed it a bit higher, as you know, but I’m glad to see that all turned out favorably. Although you don’t want to be overconfident! 24 is by no means a free pass.”
“I know.”
Scharde took Glawen’s arm and the two returned to their chambers, where Glawen instantly rushed into his bedroom and changed into ordinary clothes.
He returned to the parlor to find Scharde at the window, brooding across the landscape. Scharde turned and pointed to a chair. “Sit. We have important matters to discuss.”
Glawen slowly seated himself, wondering what was afoot. Scharde brought out a bottle of the light fresh wine known as Quiritavo and poured a pair of goblets half full. He noticed Glawen’s expression and grinned. “Relax! There are no dreadful secrets to be shared with you on your sixteenth birthday – just some precautions: practical planning, so to speak.”
“In regard to Spanchetta?”
“Quite right. She has been humiliated and everyone is laughing at her. She is seething with fury and padding back and forth like some awful beast in a cage.”
Glawen said thoughtfully: “If Arles is wise, he will slip down to the Lions’ Lair and hide under the table.”
“And if he is very wise indeed, he will never mention that due to his loose tongue we were able to catch her out in her tricks.”
“Isn’t what she did illegal?”
“In principle: yes. But if we brought charges, she would simply assert that she had made a mistake, and it would be hard to prove otherwise. To Spanchetta, it’s already water under the bridge, and unless I miss my guess, she’ll be scheming and plotting in new directions.”
“That is insanity!”
“Insanity or not, be warned and be careful, but don’t let her become an obsession. The world can’t stop because of Spanchetta. You’ve now got lyceum to think about, which will be more than enough to keep you busy, especially with Bureau B’s supplementary work.”
“When will I start going out on patrols?”
“That’s a long way off. First there’s the matter of your flying permit, then your special training. Of course, if some emergency comes up anything can happen.”
“By emergency, you mean the Yips.”
“I don’t see how to avoid it. Every day there are more Yips with no place to go but Yipton.”
“Then you really think there will be trouble.”
Scharde considered before responding. “It’s not inevitable, if proper decisions are made and made soon. Already the Yip Oomphaw is starting to act oddly, as if he knows something we don’t.”
“Is that possible? What could he know?”
“Probably nothing, unless he’s been talking with the Fairness and Peace people at Stroma.”
“I’ve never heard of them.”
“They are a political faction among the Naturalists. We have, essentially, two options: to capitulate and abandon the Conserve, or to maintain order by whatever means is necessary.”
“That doesn’t seem a hard choice to make.”
“Not at Bureau B. We believe that sooner or later the Yips must be vacated from Lutwen Atoll and be resettled off-world. In terms of the Charter, no other solution is possible.” Scharde gave his head a gloomy shake. “The hard facts are that our opinions have little force. We are agents of the Society at Stroma. It’s the Society’s problem and they must make the decisions.”
“Then they should do so, or so it seems to me.”
“Ah, but it’s not so simple. Nothing ever is. At Stroma the Society is split down the middle. One faction supports the Charter, while the opposition rejects any actions which might lead to bloodshed. The present Conservator identifies with the second group: the Party of Fairness and Peace, they call themselves. But he is retiring and a new Conservator is moving into Riverview House.”
“And what party is he?”
“I don’t know,” said Scharde. “He’ll be here for Parilia, and then we’ll know more about him.”
Parilia, a three-day festival in praise of the wines of Araminta, was celebrated each autumn and considered the high point of the year.
Glawen said: “It would seem that the Yips would want to be resettled, rather than living in what amounts to a warren at Yipton.”
“Naturally! But they want to settle Marmion Province.”
Glawen made a disconsolate sound. “Everyone at Stroma must know that if the Yips were allowed into the Marmion littoral, they’d swarm over all of Deucas.”
“Tell that to the Fairness and Peace people at Stroma, not me. I already believe you.”
* * *
Chapter I, Part 4
The long summer came to an end. Master Floreste’s troupe of Mummers returned from a successful off-world tour, the profits of which would help fulfill Floreste’s great dream: a magnificent new Orpheum for the glorification of the performing arts. Glawen celebrated his sixteenth birthday and immediately started flight training under the supervision of the airport manager: one Eustace Chilke, a native of Old Earth.
The lessons, the flyers and Eustace Chilke himself, with his tales of odd folk in remote places, for a time dominated Glawen’s life. Chilke, while barely past the first flush of youth, was already the veteran of a hundred picaresque adventures. He had traveled the Gaean Reach far and wide, at every level of the economic ladder: all of which had yielded him a working philosophy which he often shared with Glawen. “Poverty is acceptable because then there is no way but up. Rich people worry about losing their wealth, but I like this worry far more than the worry of scratching the wealth together in the first place. Also, people are nicer to you when they think you are rich - although they’ll often hit you over the head to find out where you hide your money.”
Chilke’s appearance, while not at all remarkable, combined an unobtrusive flamboyance with a droll corded face. His features were weather-beaten and somewhat irregular, under a coarse and tattered crop of short dust-colored hair. He stood at average stature, with a short neck and heavy shoulders which caused him to hunch slightly forward.
Chilke described himself as a farm boy from the Big Prairie. He spoke so feelingly of his old home, the neat little prairie towns and the wide windy landscapes that Glawen inquired if he ever planned to return.
“Indeed I do,” said Chilke. “But only after I’ve amassed a fortune. When I left they called me a vagabond and threw rocks after the car. I want to return in style, with a band playing and girls dancing ahead of me throwing rose petals in the street.” Chilke thought back over the years. “All taken with all, I suspect that the consensus was correct. Not that I was mean and vicious; I just took after Grandpa Swaner, on my mother’s side. The Chilkes never thought highly of the Swaners, who were felt to be Society folk from the city and hence worthless. Grandpa Swaner was also considered a vagabond. He liked to deal in junk: purple bric-a-brac, stuffed animals, old books and documents, petrified dinosaur droppings. He had a collection of glass eyes of which he was very proud. The Chilkes laughed and jeered, sometimes behind his back, sometimes not. He wasn’t troubled in the least, especially after he sold the glass eyes to a fervent collector for a princely sum. The Chilkes stopped laughing and began looking around for glass eyes of their own.
“Grandpa Swaner was a canny old bird, no question about it, and always turned a handsome profit on his deals. The Chilkes finally had to stop calling him names out of embarrassment. I was his favorite. He gave me
a beautiful Atlas of the Gaean Worlds for my birthday. It was an enormous book, two feet high by three feet wide and six inches thick, with Mercator maps of all the settled worlds. Whenever Grandpa Swaner came upon an item of interesting information regarding one of these worlds he’d paste it to the back of the map. When I was sixteen he took me to Tamar, Capella Nine, aboard a Gateway Line packet. It was the first time I’d been off-world and I was never the same again.
“Grandpa Swaner belonged to a dozen professional societies, including the Naturalist Society. I vaguely remember him telling me of a world at the end of Mircea’s Wisp which the Naturalists kept as a preserve for wild animals. I wondered if the animals appreciated what was being done for them, so that they would abstain from eating people like Grandpa Swaner. I was just an innocent kindly child. Strange to say, here I am now, still innocent and kindly, at Araminta Station.”
“How did you happen to come here?”
“That’s a peculiar story, and I haven’t sorted it out yet. There are two or three puzzling coincidences which are very hard to explain.”
“How so? I’m something of a vagabond myself, and I’m interested.”
Chilke was amused by the remark. “The story starts off sedately enough. I was working as a tour-bus operator out of Seven Cities, on John Preston’s World.” Chilke told how he became aware of “a big white-skinned lady wearing a tall black hat” who joined Chilke’s morning tour four days in succession. At last she engaged him in conversation, commenting favorably upon his amiable manner and sympathetic conduct. “It’s nothing special: just my stock-in-trade,” said Chilke modestly.
The lady introduced herself as Madame Zigonie, a widow from Rosalia, a world to the back of the Pegasus Rectangle. After a few minutes of conversation she suggested that Chilke join her for lunch: an invitation which Chilke saw no reason to refuse.
