Araminta Station

by Jack Vance

  Glawen asked: “But what is the meaning of all this?”

  “Nobody knows for sure. The Yips just simper and smirk, and look off into space with their eyes crossed. The guns were presents from tourists, for being nice. So they say. That means that tourists visiting Yipton were provided Yip girls during their stay and paid off in guns. It’s quite possible. We’ll squeeze down on that right away; there’ll be no more guns taken out to Yipton.

  “The Yips won’t tell us anything of their plans. But next week is Parilia. On Ort the ferry was to bring in a new gang of Yips, perhaps with more weapons. Everyone wonders if, say, Tzein or Ing night, when folk are standing around in their costumes, drunk and careless, if there might not have been a sudden screaming attack and a fine massacre, with the Yips pouring into Araminta by the thousands. Then they fly south to Throy and blow Stroma into the fiord, and it’s all over; the hay is in the barn, and Deucas is thereafter known as Yipland, with Titus Pompo the Oomphaw of Cadwal. But” - and here Scharde held up his finger - “Sessily decided she wanted butterfly wings and Chilke is a man who won’t be denied and so Parilia will proceed as usual, and very few folk will know how near they were to something else.”

  “What will happen next?”

  “That will be decided after Parilia. Right now all Yips except domestics are confined to the compound. Chilke wants to send them out to Rosalia with indenture to pay their fares. It seems that Namour is already keeping a business like that in operation.”

  “It sounds like a sensible idea.”

  “Decisions like that come from Stroma, where nothing is simple. It seems now that there’s a faction, the Freedom, Peace and Mother-Love Society, or some such title, that won’t allow anything done which might hurt the Oomphaw’s feelings. Well, we’ll see. Incidentally, good news for you!”

  Glawen looked up in apprehension. “Oh? What?”

  “You’ve been assigned some important official duties over Parilia.”

  Glawen’s heart sank. “I’m to guard Yips at the compound.”

  “Quite right! That’s good thinking! Additionally, you’ll have a most prestigious post. The new Conservator is named Egon Tamm. He will be residing at Clattuc House over Parilia, until the old Conservator moves out of Riverview House. He will bring his family, which includes two children: Milo, a boy about your age, and Wayness, a girl somewhat younger. They are pleasant intelligent young people, very well mannered. You have been selected to take them in charge and do your best to keep them amused during Parilia. Why were you chosen? Be ready for a compliment. Because you too are considered pleasant, intelligent and well-mannered.”

  Glawen sat limply back in his chair. “I’d rather have fewer compliments and more free time.”

  “Put all such thoughts aside.”

  “My social life is ruined.”

  “A Clattuc is not only reckless and brave; he is resourceful and bides his time. At least, that’s how the tradition goes.”

  “If I must, I must,” growled Glawen. “When does this activity start?”

  “As soon as they arrive from Stroma. They are probably modest and conventional; do not get them drunk so that they make themselves public spectacles; the Conservator would not like it and he would form a poor opinion of you.”

  “All very well,” muttered Glawen. “But suppose they are the unruly ones: who will protect me?”

  Scharde laughed. “A Clattuc is a gentleman under all circumstances.”

  * * *

  Chapter II

  * * *

  Chapter II, Part 1

  On Verd morning the satyr Latuun jumped upon an abutment near the lyceum, jerked his knotted brown arms, stamped goatish legs, then blew a skirling flourish on his pipes, to signify the beginning of Parilia. Jumping down into Wansey Way, then blowing a melody of reedy phrases and rasping ground tones, he led a parade up Wansey Way, kicking out his hairy legs, leaping, stamping, strutting like a young animal. Costumed celebrants followed close behind, jigging and cavorting to the urgent music of Latuun’s pipes, along with a score of decorated wagons, mechanical monsters, gorgeous ladies and stately gentlemen in sumptuous carriages. Musicians accompanied the procession, marching or riding on wagons; a phalanx of eight Bold Lions in costumes of tawny fur reared, charged and pounced on pretty girls along the way. Lines of gleeful children: small Pierrots and Punchinellos ran back and forth throwing handfuls of flower petals, darting sometimes under the rearing legs of Latuun himself. And who might be this satyr under his leering mask? Latuun’s identity was supposed to be a profound secret, but clearly, Latuun and the man who represented him were quite comfortable with each other’s personalities, and it was generally suspected that Latuun was none other than that gallant scapegrace Namour.

  So began the final three days and nights of revelry, pomp, feasting, along with amorous titillation and giddy dalliance. On Verd and Milden evenings Floreste’s Mummers would present one of their little interludes, which Floreste called Quirks, and on Smollen night a more extended Phantasmagoria. Then: the climactic Grand Masque, until midnight when the bittersweet music of the pavane brought an end to Parilia, amid unmasking and tears of emotion, sometimes for the sheer tragic glory of life, and the wonder attendant upon its coming and going.

  Such was Parilia, in the form now conventionalized after a thousand years of celebration.

  * * *

  Chapter II, Part 2

  Glawen’s plans for Parilia were disrupted by a pair of unrelated circumstances, both surprises, both irksome: the discovery of the Yip arsenal and the arrival of the new Conservator and his family at Clattuc House.

  As a result of the first case, Glawen found himself, in his capacity as a Bureau B cadet, assigned to a three-hour nightly patrol of the fence surrounding the Yip compound. The patrol was intended to counter the possibility that the Yips, drawing upon other caches of weapons, might still attempt a violent episode: in Glawen’s opinion, an extremely farfetched hypothesis.

  Scharde emphatically endorsed Glawen’s thesis. “You are exactly right! The chances of a sudden Yip attack are remote indeed: probably, on any given day, not more than one in ten thousand. This means that twenty or twenty-five years might pass before we are surprised and murdered by raging grinning Yips!”

  Glawen grumbled: “Now you’re making fun of me. I’ll be patrolling with Kirdy Wook, which makes it worse.”

  “Oh? I thought that you liked Kirdy.”

  “I have nothing against him except that he’s a bore.”

  The Yips reacted to the surveillance with what seemed no more than amused bewilderment - but seasoned Yip-watchers thought to sense bitter disappointment beneath the usual affability.

  Not everyone admitted even the slight possibility of a bloody Yip rampage. Namour, cool and sardonic, commented: “I’m glad I’m not in charge around here. If I laid down decisions like this, I’d be laughed out of my job.”

  Chilke chanced to hear the remark. “You’re not surprised by that pile of loot out yonder?”

  “Of course I’m surprised.”

  “Who do you think they expected to shoot with those guns? Tourists?”

  Namour shrugged. “I stopped trying to understand the Yips long ago. But I know this: not one of them could organize so much as a frog fight without falling out of a tree.”

  “Maybe someone is helping them plan.”

  “Maybe. But I’d surely like to see some pieces of hard evidence before I turned the station topsy-turvy.”

  Kirdy Wook, senior to Glawen, had been put in charge of the patrol. Kirdy, a large fair young man with rather heavy features and round china-blue eyes, begrudged every instant of the three-hour patrol. “The emergency is over, if it existed in the first place,” he declared in curt, positive tones. “So why are we trundling back and forth in the dark?”

  “I know why I’m here,” said Glawen. “Because Bodwyn Wook gave the orders.”

  Kirdy grunted. “I’m certainly not here of my own accord. It’s carrying caution t
oo far! Just possibly the Yips might have run riot and cut a throat or two, but anything more I find unreasonable.”

  “More? What more do you want?”

  Kirdy uttered a peevish curse. “Must I explain everything in words of one syllable or less? The Yips have never done it before, have they?”

  “That’s why we’re here talking about it.”

  “I don’t quite pick that up,” said Kirdy.

  “If the Yips had killed our grandmothers we would never have been born.”

  “Bah,” grunted Kirdy. “There’s no talking with you when you’re in this kind of silly mood.”

  Glawen was reminded of one of Uther Offaw’s remarks in connection with Kirdy: “No mystery: Kirdy is simply old before his time.” Arles had replied somewhat dubiously: “I’m not so sure! He’s a most ardent Mummer, and a roaring Bold Lion!”

  Uther Offaw shrugged. “He’s probably just a bit shy.”

  Kirdy now grumbled: “I wonder how long they’ll keep this patrol going.”

  “Until after Parilia, at least, so my father says.”

  Kirdy made a mental calculation. “So then on Smollen we’ll have the late evening duty! Do you know what that means? We’ll miss the Phantasmagoria and the Masque!”

  In dismay Glawen realized that Kirdy was exactly right, and that he would not see Sessily in her butterfly costume. Despondently he said: “There’s nothing we can do about it. So we might as well like it.”

  Kirdy grunted. “I notice that the bigwigs aren’t out here in the dark walking patrol - just the cadets and junior officers.”

  “That’s in the elemental nature of things. I’m not clever, but I know at least that much.”

  “I know it too, but I don’t like it . . . Well, just another twenty minutes; then we can go home and sleep.”

  The next morning was the start of Parilia week. Over breakfast Scharde notified Glawen that today the new Conservator would be arriving at Clattuc House. “So wash well behind your ears and practice saying: ‘Yes, Lady Wayness,’ and ‘Quite right, Sir Milo.’”

  Glawen looked up in shock, then realized that Scharde was joking. “Just the same, I wish I knew what to expect. Are they odd, or peculiar? Should I talk about the ecology of Cadwal? Or avoid the subject? Will I be required to dance with the girl?”

  Scharde grinned. “Of course! Where is your gallantry? Would you rather dance with the boy?”

  “Hmmf. I won’t know for sure until after I see the girl.”

  Scharde threw his arms into the air. “Upon this note I retire from the field!”

  After breakfast Glawen telephoned Veder House and told Sessily of his various misfortunes.

  Sessily was properly sympathetic. “You must patrol with Kirdy? What a bore!”

  “I’m afraid so! Even though the fellow means well. But he’s only the tip of the iceberg. According to the schedule, we’ll be patrolling Smollen evening during the Mummers spectacle, and I won’t see you in your wings!”

  “Ha! Maybe that’s just as well, since I’m not sure that the joints will last out the performance.”

  “That’s not all. Today my unknown guests arrive from Stroma, and I must keep them well-fed and jolly all during Parilia.”

  “That sounds rather exciting!”

  “‘Exciting’ is not the word I would use. I expect a pair of hearty red-cheeked Naturalists, very tall, with booming voices, smelling of fish and oiled leather and turpentine.”

  “Oh, come, now! The Naturalists I’ve seen were never like that.”

  “It’s just my luck to get such a pair.”

  “Feed them well on lots of plain wholesome food and take them for long runs up and down the beach. But I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you fear. What are their names?”

  “Milo and Wayness Tamm.”

  “They might be entertaining and clever, so that you enjoy their company. I wouldn’t give up hope just yet.”

  “Hmmf,” said Glawen. “You show great courage in the face of my forthcoming agonies.”

  “I have problems of my own. Floreste has been absolutely vexing. He makes all kinds of demands on me and every ten minutes changes the program. Now I’m to play two nights in the trio and I don’t know the tunes, and out of sheer caprice he’s just rearranged all the routines for Milden night. In this case, I’m thankful. Floreste plans a short comic pastiche of six nymphs teasing Latuun the satyr, who of course will be Namour.”

  “I didn’t know that Namour had any interest in Mummery!”

  “He doesn’t really. He just likes to handle the nymphs, and his costume gives him scope for naughtiness. He’s been more familiar with me than I like and he’s even made some quiet suggestions. I told Floreste that I couldn’t play in the trio and be a nymph at the same time, so he excused me, and put Drusilla in my place.”

  “Who is Drusilla?”

  “Drusilla co-Laverty. She’s somewhat older than we are, and works in the hotel.”

  “Now I know who you mean. Isn’t she a trifle overblown for the part?”

  “I care not at all. I’m having enough trouble learning to use four butterfly wings in the proper rhythm. I’ve learned a great new respect for the insects who do it all so easily.”

  * * *

  Chapter II, Part 3

  During the evening Glawen telephoned Sessily. “Glawen here.”

  “Oh! I’ve been wondering about you all day. What’s been going on?”

  Glawen thought that Sessily sounded tired and a trifle dispirited.

  He said: “Nothing much. Just my official duties.”

  “You sound suspiciously jaunty.”

  “That’s due to some marvelous good luck. I’ve been relieved from the patrol, so that I can give full attention to our visitors. Guess who has been assigned to fill the vacancy.”

  “Namour? Chilke? Floreste?”

  “Good guesses, but all wrong. The fortunate fellow is Arles. There was quite an uproar when Arles heard the news. He was in top form. Spanchetta also had some remarks to make.”

  “It sounds like a lively affair.”

  “But all for naught. Tonight Kirdy and Arles trudge through the dark, entertaining each other with Bold Lion stories.”

  “In Bold Lion costume, I suppose?”

  “No chance! What would the Yips think to see a pair of Bold Lions slinking around their fence?”

  “I suspect that they’d run to guard their womenfolk.”

  “Ha! In any event, Arles and Kirdy must turn out in regulation Bureau B gear.”

  “Well, that’s good news for you. By this time you’re on easy terms with your guests?”

  Glawen said cautiously: “We’re still a bit formal, although I’ve lost my fear of them.”

  “Wayness is not seven feet tall and does not smell of fish after all?”

  “That was just a joke. She is quite normal and has no perceptible odor.”

  “And she’s amazingly pretty? So that I seem just a tired old bundle of junk?”

  “What foolishness! You’re the prettiest bundle of junk I’ve ever seen!”

  “Glawen! Should I take that as a compliment? I can’t quite figure it out.”

  “I intended a compliment. What are you doing?”

  “Better to ask what should I be doing, which is practicing my parts. But tell me more about your guests. Are they lofty or difficult?”

  “Not at all! They’re quite agreeable, and very well-mannered.”

  “Hmmm. The Naturalists I’ve seen out at the lodges were all slightly peculiar, as if they thought differently from the way I did.”

  Glawen glanced over his shoulder toward the library table where Milo and Wayness stood turning the pages of off-world periodicals. “They don’t seem extra-peculiar, although I know what you mean.”

  “What do they look like?”

  Again Glawen chose his words carefully. “They are not what I would call bad-looking.”

  “Fascinating! Tell me more.”

  “They have black
hair which makes a remarkable contrast with their pale olive skin. Milo has quite a good physique.”

  “And Wayness: has she a good physique too?”

  “In a certain sense. She is slim, rather boyish, in fact. Milo is an inch taller than I am and is quite handsome, I should say, in an aristocratic way.”

  “Wayness is not aristocratic, then?”

  “They’re much the same in that respect. Both are very much in charge of themselves.”

  “What are they wearing?”

  “I haven’t noticed. One minute while I look.”

  “Hurry, because Mother is calling me for my fitting.”

  “Wayness is wearing a short gray skirt, black stockings which show her knees, a black jacket and a gray ribbon around her hair with two tassels, dark red and dark blue, hanging to the middle of her neck. Milo –”

  “Never mind about Milo. I’m sure he’s decently clad.”

  “Oh, quite. They’re still looking at fashion books . . . Now they’re laughing, why I don’t know.”

  “Here comes Squeaker, I mean Miranda, with urgent news from Mother. I must go.”

  Glawen turned away from the telephone. For a moment he studied his guests, then slowly approached the table. “I see that I’m not indispensable after all. you’re getting along nicely without me.”

  “Yes, with the help of these silly fashions,” said Milo. “Look this funny creature.”

  “Sad to say, it’s a lady and she’s in deadly earnest.”

  “Hm. Which reminds me: I was much impressed by the coiffure of your Aunt Spanchetta.”

  “We’re all quite proud of it. Unfortunately, after Spanchetta’s hair and the fashion books, there’s not much else of interest around here.” Glawen went to the sideboard, and poured wine into goblets. “This is our own Green Zoquel, which we Clattucs claim to be the wine which gave Parilia its start.”