by Jack Vance
“Sir Mathor naturally inhabits the historic Borph estate out of Halcyon, across the Mirling. Sir Lonas, so I understand, is his boon companion and aide, and shares his residence.”
“And how do we go to the Borph estate?”
“It is simple enough. You fly the Mirling to Halcyon, hire a cab and ride thirty miles or so along the shore. The flyer leaves every half hour, so if you make the connection, the trip will require about an hour and a half, or two hours at the most. It is probably too late to attempt the trip today.”
“That is my opinion also,” said Glawen. “Now; one final word. We want to find Sir Mathor at home when we call, and if he knew we were coming he might make himself unavailable. You have no plans to call Sir Mathor, thinking to do him a favor?”
Sirrah Kyrbs smiled grimly. “I intend to isolate myself as far as possible from this business.”
“That is prudent.”
“I will go so far as to advise you. You will need a hat, against the rays of Blaise, and because it is proper outdoor wear. You will find a selection of hats in your room. The broad-brimmed white skimmer is appropriate for daytime journeys.”
“Thank you, both for the advice and the information.”
* * *
Chapter VII, Part 3
Glawen and Kirdy passed the remainder of the afternoon in idle pursuits. They wandered through the shops along the Parade, watched the activity at the hotel swimming pool, inspected the periodicals in the reading room and late in the afternoon retired to the saloon-lounge for a sundowner. An hour later they went up to their rooms to change clothes for dinner: a convention rigorously enforced at the Hotel Rolinda.
Glawen found proper garments laid out for him, the hotel valet having looked through his luggage to discover nothing suitable. Glawen surveyed the garments: trousers of glossy black woven floss, a dark saffron blouse, a deep scarlet coat with black facings, short in front, swallow-tailed in back, a two-inch black headband with a pair of modish ornaments of fine silver wire trembling above, like insect antennae.
When Glawen had dressed, he stood an indecisive moment, then abruptly left the room and descended to the lobby. He seated himself where he could watch the ever-fascinating movement of the other guests, and composed himself to wait.
Twenty minutes passed before Kirdy appeared, looking uncomfortable and somewhat gauche in the formal garments, as if they were a size too small. His mouth was compressed, presumably by reason of annoyance at Glawen’s failure to consult Kirdy in regard to his movements.
Glawen made no comment. He rose to his feet and in stiff silence the two crossed the vast expanses of the lobby and went out into the garden restaurant.
Tonight they were seated at a table ten yards deep into the foliage, in illusory but convincing and totally pleasant isolation. A blue-green luminosity pervaded the area, apparently deriving from the foliage itself. Glawen theorized that a fluorescent substance had been mingled with the vegetable saps and serums, then stimulated to luminosity by radiation from a high source.
Glawen and Kirdy sat on intricately patterned brown, black and white cushions in fan-backed chairs of woven rattan, of a style originated thousands of years before in the ancient Orient of Old Earth, and the rattan squeaked and creaked to their movements. A cloth of black, brown and white covered the table; the implements were carved from wood. Red orchids dangled overhead; to the side a cluster of white lobelia blooms glowed with an ivory-white light. Music, of that style known as Old Gitanesque, barely audible, waxed and waned as if carried by a breeze from a site of distant revelry.
Kirdy found the restaurant and its appurtenances impressive. “Competent brains have been at work! They have created a romantic and dramatic ambience! All tinsel, fakery and nonsense, of course - but well-done!”
“That’s how it seems to me,” said Glawen, wondering what this new aspect of Kirdy might signify, if anything. “But it’s genuine fakery, and not imitation.”
“Exactly so!” declared Kirdy in a large rich voice. “Through human dedication the place is transformed from a mishmash to a thing in itself! I will go so far as to call it a true work of art, since it answers all the critical questions. It is artificial, and uses natural elements to transcend Nature - which is the very definition of art. Do you agree?”
“I see no reason to disagree,” said Glawen. This particular version of Kirdy seemed rather like that pompous, philosophical Kirdy of five years before. “Of course, I’ve heard other definitions. Everyone seems to have a definition or two tucked away for occasions such as this.”
“Indeed? What is yours?”
“For the moment it slips my mind. Baron Bodissey uses ‘art’ as a synonym for ‘claptrap’ - but I may be quoting him out of context. He’d probably endorse your notion of the restaurant as an art form. For a fact, I don’t see why it doesn’t qualify.”
Kirdy had lost interest in the idea. He gave his head that now-familiar shake of wistful recollection. “When I was a Mummer I never guessed that places like this existed. Floreste knew, but he kept us Mummers in the dark.”
Ha, thought Glawen. Kirdy’s analytical phase had been superseded by what Glawen thought of as “the autobiographer.”
“We hardly knew which planet we were on,” mused Kirdy. “The hotels always smelled strangely, of indecisive antiseptic, and were either too hot or too cold. The food was always bad – although here on Natrice, we’d sometimes play a party at one of the Patrune houses and they always fed us fine delicacies. Ah! Those were good feasts!” Kirdy grinned at the recollection. “At places like Mirlview House, things were far different. We’d be served fried porridge with boiled greens, or steamed dogfish with curds, or pickled squash and tripes. At least no one was tempted to overeat – not even Arles, who spent all his pocket money on sweets. Still, we had merry times.” Kirdy looked at Glawen in speculation. “You never were a Mummer: I wonder why.”
“I have none of the right skills.”
“No more did I, or Arles. Floreste made us into Primordials and Ogres and Thunder-demons, where no great skill was required. Yes, those were good times! No doubt it’s much the same now. Different faces, different voices, but the same larks and laughter.” Kirdy’s expression became remote and soft. “Of course I couldn’t perform worth a whisker anymore.”
Kirdy continued with his memories until Glawen became bored and changed the subject. “Tomorrow should be an important day.”
“I hope we learn more than we did today.”
“Today wasn’t a total loss. We discovered another actor in the drama.”
“Oh? Who is that?
“A young off-world woman who buys tickets to Cadwal in blocks of six.”
“You should call her an ‘actress’ in the drama, not an ‘actor.’”
“I want to know her name; her gender can wait. Who can she be? Perhaps Sir Mathor will know.”
Kirdy grunted. “Sir Mathor won’t tell you whether it’s day or night – that’s my guess. IPCC means nothing to the Patrunes; they make their own law.”
“We shall see,” said Glawen.
In the morning Glawen dressed with care, using his own garments rather than the casual local wear furnished by the hotel.
Kirdy knocked on the door; Glawen admitted him. Kirdy had dressed in the local garments and looked at Glawen in perplexity. “I can rely on you always for perversity! Will you kindly explain why you act this way?”
“Are you referring to my clothes? Perversity has nothing to do with it.”
“Do you plan to explain?”
“Certainly. The Patrunes have no great opinion of the locals; we’ll get more serious attention if we approach Sir Mathor in our own clothes.”
Kirdy blinked and reflected. “Do you know, I think you are right. Give me two minutes, and I’ll change.”
“Very well,” said Glawen. “This time only I’ll wait for you. But hurry.”
Immediately after breakfast, Glawen and Kirdy rode the omnibus to the airport. They board
ed a flyer and were whisked off over the Mirling, to land at Halcyon after a flight of half an hour.
The time was now midmorning. A milky overcast swathed the sky; Blaise, a great blue pearl, seemed to swim with films of prismatic light: orchid, rose, pale green.
At the exit from the Halcyon airport Glawen and Kirdy found a cab rank where vehicles controlled by internal computer systems were on hand for those persons requiring transportation.
A placard provided instructions:
1. Select a vehicle. Board this vehicle and be seated.
2. The control mechanism will request that you state your destination. Respond in this fashion: “The residence of such and such a person” or “The offices of such and such an enterprise.” Usually this will suffice.
3. A fee will be quoted; drop coins into the proper slots. Pay for waiting time in advance. The vehicle will refund any surplus.
4. You may issue the following orders: “Go faster.” “Go slower.” “Stop.” “Change destination to such-and-such a place.” Other directions are unnecessary. Vehicle will proceed at what it calculates to be the most appropriate speed along the most expeditious route. Please do not abuse the equipment.
“That seems simple enough,” said Glawen. He selected a low-slung two-seater protected from the Blaiselight by a bubble of dark green glass. Kirdy, however, hung back and frowned down at the vehicle. “This is not wise.”
Glawen looked at him in wonder. “Why not?”
“These cars cannot be trusted. They are guided by brains taken from cadavers. That is what we learned from unimpeachable sources when we were Mummers. Nor were the brains necessarily the freshest.”
Glawen gave an incredulous laugh. “Where did you hear that?”
“I had it on good authority; I forget just where. Perhaps Arles, who is seldom fooled.”
“In this case, he must have been joking. These are obviously guided by simple computers.”
“Are you sure of your facts?”
“Of course.”
Kirdy still hung back. In exasperation Glawen asked: “Now what is the trouble?”
“In the first place, that car is too small. The seats are cramped. I feel that we should hire a proper cab with a proper driver, who will do exactly as we wish. These vehicles are impervious to human desires; they do as they think best, even if it means tipping us into the sea.”
“I’m not worried,” said Glawen. “If it starts to misbehave, we merely need say ‘Stop!’ Here is a four-seater; you can have two seats to yourself. Either get aboard or wait here for me, just as you like.”
Kirdy muttered under his breath and gingerly climbed aboard the four-seater. “This is an absurd system. Everything is absurd. The whole Gaean Reach is topsy-turvy, including you, with your weird ideas and codfish grin.”
Glawen’s smile, which he had thought to be friendly and affable, froze on his face. He boarded the vehicle. A voice issued from a mesh on the front panel: “Welcome, sirs and ladies!”
“You see!” said Kirdy in a voice of vindication. “That thing doesn’t even know what sort of people we are!”
The voice said: “Two persons are aboard. Are there more to come?”
“No.” said Glawen.
“What is your destination?”
“The residence of Sir Mathor Borph, about thirty miles east along the shore road.”
“The exact distance is 29.68 miles,” said the voice. “One-way fare is three sols. Round-trip fare is five sols. One or the other fee is now payable. Waiting time is one sol per hour. You may deposit as much money as you wish. A refund of the excess will be made.”
Kirdy muttered: “Instruct the thing to drive carefully.”
The vehicle asked: “Are you ready to depart? If so, say ‘Ready.’”
“Ready.”
The vehicle slid out into the road and made several turnings. “It never understood our directions!” said Kirdy in disgust. “It is clearly confused.”
“I think not,” said Glawen. “It is taking us to the shore highway by the best route.”
A moment later the car swung out upon a broad avenue paralleling the coast and immediately accelerated to a speed which caused Kirdy to protest.
Glawen paid him no heed and gradually Kirdy relaxed, although there were still aspects to the mission which he could not approve. “Sir Mathor does not know that we are coming. It is considered rude to call without an appointment.”
“We are Bureau B agents; we don’t need to be polite.”
“Nonetheless we should have notified Sir Mathor in advance; after all, he is a Patrune. Then, if he did not want to see us, he could have told us not to come.”
“I want to see him regardless of his wishes. I came to Natrice for that purpose.”
“He may be very terse - even rude.”
“To a Clattuc and a Wook? Not likely.”
“He may not know of our pedigree.”
“If necessary, you may inform him, but in a kindly manner, so as not to hurt his feelings.”
“Bah,” growled Kirdy. “I never know when you are serious.”
“That would seem to indicate good mental health. This trip may be sound therapy after all.”
Kirdy had no comment to make. The two rode in silence through a landscape of mixed tropical vegetation, cultivated groves, areas of rampant jungle with trees standing three hundred feet tall, overshadowed by giant dendrons holding parasols of maroon foliage another two hundred feet higher. At intervals gaps in the foliage allowed glimpses of the Mirling, lavender-blue under the hazy Blaiselight. Occasional side roads led seaward to the estates of one or another Patrune, each guarded by a high wall.
The vehicle presently veered from the highway into one of the side roads and halted under a portiere. “This is the specified destination. Do you wish to return at once?”
“No. Wait.”
“Waiting charges are one sol per hour, payable in advance. Excess payment will be refunded.”
Glawen pushed five sols into the receptacle.
“The car will await your orders for five hours. Please specify a code name to ensure your priority of use.”
“Spanchetta,” said Glawen.
“For five hours this vehicle is reserved to the use of Spanchetta,” intoned the car.
Kirdy looked at Glawen in disfavor. “Why did you give out that name?”
“It was the first name that entered my mind.”
“Hmmf,” sniffed Kirdy. “I hope that we will not be obliged to prove our identity.”
“I’m not worried. Now: listen carefully. These are your instructions. Do not intervene in the conversation unless I ask you a direct question. If I make an inaccurate statement, do not correct me, because I may have a purpose in mind. Show neither antagonism nor cordiality; maintain a proper detachment, even though we are showered with abuse. Do not admire any ladies who may be present. In general, behave like a genuine Wook of Wook House!”
“I am inclined to resent these instructions,” muttered Kirdy.
“I don’t mind in the slightest. Resent all you like, so long as you do as I ask.”
“I don’t know if I can keep them all straight. Behave like a Wook, shower no abuse, admire the ladies -”
“I’ll go over it again,” said Glawen. He repeated his instructions. “Is it all clear?”
“Naturally,” said Kirdy. “After all, I am not a sergeant at Bureau B for nothing.”
“Good.” Glawen went to the portal and pressed a button. A voice said: “Sirs, please state your names and your business.”
“We are Glawen Clattuc and Kirdy Wook, of Bureau B, at Araminta Station on Cadwal. We wish to consult Sir Mathor Borph on a matter of importance.”
“Are you expected?”
“No.”
“A moment, if you please. Your names will be announced.”
Three minutes passed. Kirdy began to fidget. “Clearly -”
The portal slid aside. A tall man of impressive muscular development, dar
k-skinned, with white hair and pale gray eyes, stood in the opening. He inspected the two visitors with dispassionate care. “You are natives of Cadwal?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“What is your purpose here?”
“Are you Sir Mathor?”
“I am Sir Lonas Medlyn.”
“Our business is primarily with Sir Mathor.”
“Are you business agents, or solicitors, or religious evangelists?”
“We are none of those.”
“Come, if you please.”
Sir Lonas moved off along a path paved with tablets of white shell-stone. Glawen and Kirdy followed: under flowering trees, across a pond by a low bridge and up to a cluster of wide low domes. A door slid aside; Sir Lonas ushered the two into a circular foyer, and signified that they were to wait. He disappeared through a portal. Glawen and Kirdy looked in awe about the foyer. A dozen nymphs carved in marble stood on pedestals around the periphery of the room; the alabaster floor was innocent of ornamentation. From the ceiling by a thread of silver wire hung a sphere of crystal two feet in diameter, of hypnotic clarity.
Sir Lonas returned. “You may come.” He led the two into a space wide past any quick or intuitive sensation of its scope. At the far end of the room glass panels looked out across a terrace to a swimming pool, shaded under a high flat shell of gray glass. Shining through this glass, the light of Blaise was refracted around the sea-blue central disk into concentric rings of color: carmine, bitter green, purple, dark blue, light acid blue, burnt orange, pink. A dozen folk of various ages splashed in the pool; as many more sat grouped in the shade of parasols.
Sir Lonas went out to speak to Sir Mathor: a man of early maturity, tall, with short gray-blond hair, regular features and good physique, who at once jumped to his feet and came into the great parlor. He halted a dozen feet from Glawen and Kirdy, to give each a measured inspection. Glawen thought to perceive a person confident, easy of disposition, somewhat self-indulgent but without obvious or ostentatious quirks of character. Sir Mathor, indeed, while handsome, alert and equipped with perfect social poise, seemed on the whole quite ordinary.
