by Jack Vance
“Why not?” said Glawen.
“Spoken like a true Clattuc! Why not indeed? But you must come as if paying a formal visit, or Mother would politely ask you to call another day, in order to give Julian a free hand with me.”
“A formal visit?”
“It’s a common custom in Stroma, and considered a compliment to the hostess.”
“I need no invitation?”
“Not for a formal call. Best of all, she is obliged to be agreeable.” Wayness turned a quick look over her shoulder. “But you must conduct yourself by the proper etiquette.”
“That goes without saying. I may be a Clattuc but I do not dip my chin in the soup.”
Wayness made an impatient gesture. “Listen carefully! You must wear a hat, if only your sailing cap.”
“I understand. Proceed.”
“Pick a nice bouquet of flowers, then come to the front door at Riverview House.”
“And then?”
“Listen carefully! Every detail is important! Sound the chime, and stand close by the door. If Mother appears, you must step forward into the doorway, proffer the flowers and say: ‘Dame Cora, from my house to yours comes this blessing of flowers.’ Say no more, no less. Etiquette requires that Mother take the flowers and make a formal acknowledgment. No matter what she says, pay no heed, even if it is something like ‘Thank you, Glawen; today we are all sick.’ Just pretend you did not hear. Step forward and hand her your cap. She must now say: ‘What a great pleasure! How long will we enjoy your company?’ You will say: ‘Today only!’ And that is the whole of it. You have used the proper ritual and you are now a welcome guest, on a level with Julian.”
“What if someone else answers the door?”
“Then you must step forward into the doorway, but not into the house - just so that the door cannot be closed - and say: ‘I bring a token for Dame Cora Tamm.’ Then wait until Mother appears, and proceed as before. Can you remember all this?”
“I’m afraid I’ll feel embarrassed.”
“Julian Bohost would perform the ritual with total aplomb and excite Mother’s admiration.”
“I’m not embarrassed after all,” said Glawen. “I’ll be there as soon as possible.”
“Today should be interesting,” said Wayness.
Glawen changed into garments he thought suitable for the occasion, pulled a soft cap slantwise over his forehead and left the chambers. From the House gardener he obtained a bouquet of beautiful pink jonquils, then took himself at best speed south, down the Beach Road, to Riverview House.
He halted before the massive front door, where he discovered that his heart seemed to be beating faster than usual. He muttered under his breath: “Am I really such a coward after all? Dame Cora is a gracious lady! I have no real cause for fear.”
He settled his jacket, arranged the bouquet, marched forward and sounded the chime.
Moments passed, one after the other. The door opened, to reveal Dame Cora herself, stately in a gown of soft dark blue weave, enlivened by stripes of rose red. She looked at Glawen in mild surprise, which became startlement as he stepped forward into the doorway and thrust the bouquet into her hands. “Dame Cora, from my house to yours comes this blessing of flowers!”
Dame Cora at last found her tongue. “The flowers are beautiful, Glawen, and I am pleased to find that you are familiar with the old courtesies, even if you don’t quite understand all their implications.” She went on, rather lamely: “I fear that both Milo and Wayness are occupied today. But you’ll see them soon at school. I will tell them that you called.”
Glawen grimly stepped forward, so that Dame Cora was forced to sway back. He took off his cap and pushed it into her limp fingers. “Indeed, Glawen, this is a great surprise and a great pleasure. How long may we expect to enjoy your company?”
“Today only, sad to say.”
Dame Cora closed the door with a hint of unnecessary emphasis.
Glawen took occasion to look about the room, which was pleasantly dim. Age-darkened wainscoting covered the walls; on the floor a heavy rug displayed patterns worked in odd combinations of black, black-red, sour green and blue-green, with accents of dark orange, white and red. Across the room a line of glass-fronted cabinets displayed oddments and curios collected across eras of time and light-years of space.
Dame Cora, turning from the door, stood irresolute a moment, chewing on an invisible bit of thread. Then she said crisply: “Naturally, Glawen, we are always happy to see you, but -”
Glawen bowed. “No more need be said, Dame Cora. I am happy to be here.”
Wayness entered the room. “Who is it, Mother?” She had changed from her dark green blouse and now wore a dusky-pale frock almost the same color as her skin; in the dimness her eyes seemed large and luminous. “Glawen? How nice to see you!”
Dame Cora said: “Glawen has presented himself as a guest, despite the inconveniences which our other guests may impose upon him.”
Wayness came forward. “You need not worry about Glawen; he is flexible and not at all diffident. In any case, either Milo or I will see to his comfort.”
“That is the point,” said Dame Cora. “Both you and Milo will be needed with Julian. I am afraid that Glawen may feel quite out of things.”
“Nonsense, Mother! Glawen will fit very nicely. If not, Milo can take Julian for a long walk, while Glawen and I entertain each other.”
Glawen said graciously: “That will suit me very well, if worse comes to worst! Please do not worry on my account.”
Dame Cora bowed. “I will leave you with Wayness. Remember, my dear, you must not chatter so incessantly with your school chum that you neglect poor Julian.” She turned to Glawen: “Julian is one of our most respected young thinkers. He is highly artistic and very progressive! I am sure that you will like him immensely; in fact, he and Wayness are making serious plans for the future.”
“That is exciting news!” said Glawen. “I must congratulate the gentleman.”
Wayness laughed. “It would be extremely premature. Julian would think I had set my cap for him, which is far from the case; in fact, our ‘serious plans’ are only for an excursion to Mad Mountain Lodge later this year.”
Dame Cora said coldly: “Truly, Wayness, you are far too frivolous; Glawen will make embarrassing assumptions about your character.” She nodded to Glawen and departed the room, leaving behind a heavy silence.
Glawen turned to Wayness. He bent forward to kiss her, but she drew back. “Glawen! Have you lost your mind? Mother might come back at any instant! And then you’d hear some talk about frivolity! Let’s go to the parlor! It’s far more cheerful.” She led the way along a passage and into a wide airy parlor. Windows overlooked a placid expanse of lagoon. Three green rugs lay upon the bleached wooden floor; couches and chairs were upholstered in green and blue fabrics.
Wayness took Glawen to a couch; he seated himself at one end, and Wayness settled herself at the other. Glawen watched her sidelong, wondering if he would ever understand the workings of her mind. He asked: “Where are your guests?”
Wayness tilted her head to listen. “Julian and Milo are in the library studying charts of the Mad Mountain district. Sunje lounges with one hip on the table hoping that someone will notice her intellect. The two Wardens are raking Father over the coals. It’s an annual ritual which the Conservator must tolerate with good grace. Warden Algin Ballinder is Sunje’s father; Warden Clytie Vergence is Julian’s aunt. Dame Etrune Ballinder, who is Sunje’s mother, is gossiping with Mother in the upstairs sitting room. They take turns, each telling grim little tales of her daughter’s vice and folly, while the other makes horrified noises. It is good catharsis and I approve; Mother will be quite nice to me for three or four days. Finally, in the parlor, sitting with full punctilio at one end of the couch, and for the moment behaving himself well, is the mettlesome Glawen Clattuc of Clattuc House.”
“Who is happy to be here, even though he can’t quite understand the reason for his prese
nce.”
Wayness showed a trace of vexation. “Must everything have a reason attached to it, like a label?”
“In this case, the possibilities are so tantalizing that I can’t help but speculate.”
Wayness looked off across the room. In a soft voice she recited lines from an antique poem: “‘Never put questions to the wet dark sea; you might learn the drowning of your most darling argosies.’ So sang the mad poet Navarth.”
The words hung in the air. At last Glawen said: “Tell me something of your guests.”
“They come in all sizes and shapes. Julian and Warden Vergence are flagrant LPFers. Warden Ballinder is no less definitely a Chartist. Dame Ballinder doesn’t care, so long as everyone is polite. Sunje, with Julian nearby, calls herself a New Humanist, which means whatever she says it means. And that is the lot.”
“I look forward to meeting them, especially Julian. Your mother is sure that we will like each other immensely.”
Wayness grinned. “Mother’s dream worlds are inhabited by charming people who always behave nicely. I am to marry, breed two dear quiet children and glow with pride whenever Julian issues a manifesto. Milo is destined to become a force for the good. He will be clean, honest, forthright and virtuous: he will never be rude to the Yips, much less fight them. Conservationism is a noble ideal, even though Mother is afraid of ugly beasts who growl and make bad smells. Perhaps they should be kept behind a fence.”
“And how does your father respond to these opinions?”
“Oh, Father has mastered the art of amiable vagueness. Perhaps he’ll say: ‘That is an interesting opinion, my dear. We must look to see how it accords with the Charter.’ And that’s all there is to the matter.” She lifted her head to listen. “Here come our guests from the library.”
A tall young woman came swinging jauntily into the room. She wore tight plum-colored trousers and a black jacket; her face was small and pale in a cap of straight black hair. Sparkling black eyes, arched eyebrows and a wide quizzical mouth caused her to seem knowing, mischievous and privy to all manner of exotic secrets. A tall spare young man, evidently Julian Bohost, sauntered behind her, talking over his shoulder to Milo. He was somewhat lanky and loose-jointed, with round blue eyes and a fine straight nose. An aureole of light brown curls surrounded his fresh fair face; his voice, tenor and resonant, carried easily across the room: “- when one considers the lay of the land, the mysteries multiply . . . Hullo! Who’s this?”
Milo, bringing up the rear, also stopped short at the sight of Glawen. “Well, well! Today the house overflows with celebrities! Shall I perform the introductions?”
“Please do,” said Wayness. “But try to be brisk; your introductions are often like eulogies at a funeral.”
“I shall do my best,” said Milo. “Here we have a female in purple pants, named Sunje Ballinder. Beside her, somewhat less eye-catching but equally influential, is Julian Bohost. Neither has a criminal record and both are ornaments of fashionable Stroma Society. Over here we discover the distinguished Glawen Clattuc of Clattuc House, already a high-ranking official of Bureau B.”
“I am honored to meet you both,” said Glawen.
“And I no less,” said Julian.
Sunje inspected Glawen sidelong. “Bureau B? What a fascinating line of work! As I understand it, you patrol the shores and guard the Conservancy from attack?”
“That is a fair statement,” said Glawen. “Although for a fact we have other duties as well.”
“Would you think me impertinent if I asked to see your gun?”
Glawen smiled politely. “You are at a misapprehension. We handle guns only when out on patrol.”
“Oh, what a shame! I have long wondered whether the patrollers truly filed notches for every Yip they had killed.”
Again Glawen smiled. “I’d be filing every minute of my spare time! My business is killing Yips, not keeping a head count, which never could be wholly exact. When I set fire to a crowded boatload, I can only estimate the casualties. In any event, it’s a useless statistic, since for every Yip I kill, two or three step forward. The sport has lost its zest.”
Milo asked: “Could you possibly take Sunje out on a patrol and let her shoot a few Yips of her own?”
“I don’t see why not.” Glawen turned to Sunje. “Mind you, I can’t guarantee any sport. Sometimes days or even weeks go by without a single honest shot.”
Julian looked at Sunje. “What do you say? Here’s your chance, if you’re ready for it.”
Sunje stalked across the room and flung herself into a chair. “I think you’re all rather vapid.”
Milo told Glawen: “Perhaps I should mention that Sunje endorses the program of the New Humanists, who are in turn the cutting edge of the Peefers.”
“LPFers, if you don’t mind.”
“These are terms and phrases from the nomenclature of Naturalist politics, Milo explained to Glawen. L, P and F stand for ‘Life,’ ‘Peace’ and ‘Freedom.’ Julian is an ardent member of the group.”
Glawen said: “With such a slogan, how dare anyone raise his voice in opposition?”
“It’s generally agreed that the slogan is the best part of the program,” said Milo.
Julian ignored Milo’s remark. “Against all sanity, opponents to the great LPF movement not only exist but flourish like noxious weeds.”
“These are evidently the ‘DWSers’: the advocates of ‘Death,’ ‘War’ and ‘Slavery.’ Am I right?” said Glawen.
“They are clever and devious!” said Julian. “Never would they flaunt their true colors so brazenly. Instead they call themselves Chartists and think to hold the high ground by waving funny old documents at us.”
Milo said: “These documents are known as the Articles of the Naturalist Society and are otherwise known as the Charter. Julian, why do you not read them someday?”
Julian made a debonair gesture. “Far easier to argue from ignorance.”
“All this comes as a shock to me,” said Glawen. “At the Station we consider the Charter to be the First Law of the Universe. Anyone who thinks otherwise must be a Yip, a madman or the Devil himself.”
Wayness said: “Julian, which is it with you?”
Julian considered. “I have been called a bumptious young pest, a shrike and a doodle-wit, and today already the epithet ‘vapid’ has been used, but I am neither Yip, madman not Devil! When all is taken with all, I am no more than an earnest young fellow not greatly different from Milo.”
“Hold hard there!” exclaimed Milo. “I’m not entirely sure that Julian intends a compliment!”
“It must be a compliment!” said Wayness. “Julian would never identify himself with anything other than the finest and best, or at least the most stylish.”
Milo said reluctantly: “I agree to points of similarity. We both wear our shoes with the toes pointing forward. We both use proper table utensils, if only to keep from biting our fingers. But we do have differences. I am staid and methodical, while Julian spatters clever ideas in all directions like a dog scratching off fleas. Where he gets them I’m sure I don’t know.”
“I can offer a rather pitiful explanation,” said Julian. “When I was little, I read a great deal, night and day, and thereby absorbed the ideas of five hundred savants. Upon trying to assimilate this massive lump of squirming postulations, I suffered spasm after spasm of intellectual indigestion which -”
Wayness held up her hand. “I should mention that lunch will soon be served and if you are about to extend your metaphor into details of the consequent diarrhea, you might put some of us out of appetite. Poor Sunje already looks a bit clammy and ill.”
Julian bowed. “Your point is well-taken. I will moderate my language. Briefly, when an idea, clever or otherwise, enters my head, I wonder as to its source. Is this idea truly mine or am I simply regurgitating the notions of someone else? Therefore I often hesitate to put a wonderful concept forward as my own for fear that someone wiser and more erudite than myself will rec
ognize it and jeer at me for my plagiarism.”
“An interesting idea!” said Milo.
Glawen nodded. “I thought so too when first I came upon it a few days ago.”
“Eh?” said Julian. “What’s all this?”
“By chance I am able to verify your thesis, although I emphatically disclaim erudition superior to your own.”
Milo asked: “Exactly what are you telling us?”
“A day or so ago I had reason to check into the works of the philosopher Ronsel de Roust, which are part of Bjarnstra’s Pocket Guide to Five Hundred Notable Thinkers with Annotations of Their Thoughts. In the foreword Bjarnstra described difficulties similar to your own, using very similar if not identical terms. A coincidence, of course, but still illuminating.”
Milo said: “I believe we have a copy of Bjarnstra over yonder on the shelf.”
Sunje, sprawled in the chair like a great rag doll, uttered a raucous hoot of laughter. “I must find a copy of this useful book!”
“No problem,” said Wayness. “It seems to be everywhere.”
Milo asked: “One puzzle remains. Why, Glawen, were you interested in Ronsel de Roust?”
“Simple enough. Namour announced his favorite philosopher to be de Roust, so from idle curiosity I looked him up in Bjarnstra. There’s no more mystery than that, except perhaps for Namour’s own interest in de Roust.”
Julian asked: “And who might be this scholarly Namour?”
“He’s labor coordinator for the Station, and in fact a Clattuc collateral.”
Wayness said: “Whenever anything extraordinary happens, you can be sure that there’s a Clattuc involved.”
A set of soft musical tones sounded through the house. Wayness jumped to her feet. “Lunch is ready. Please be orderly and use your best manners.”
Lunch was served on a verandah in the shade of four fine marquisade trees, with the lagoon spreading away beyond. Dame Cora seated the group. “Egon, you will take your usual place, of course. Then - how shall we do this? - Sunje, there, then Milo, then Clytie, if you please, and Glawen. On this side, Wayness, to the right of your father. Next Julian – I’m sure you two will find much to discuss - then Etrune, please. Algin, you shall sit here, beside me. Now, then, in the interest of sweet peace and harmony, shall we invoke a rule against politics?”
