by Jack Vance
“I can’t really believe this,” said Glawen. “Kirdy had nothing in his mind but confusion.”
“My dear fellow, how can you be so dense? Kirdy’s hatred for you might have caused his confusion, but it was not the other way around! He has detested you since you were children!”
Glawen looked off across the room and down through the years. Floreste, in this case, was telling him the brutal truth. “It’s a feeling I’ve had at the back of my mind - but I always kept it repressed, down and out of sight. Kirdy was considered a fine upright fellow; it was wrong to think such things of Kirdy – even when they could hardly be disguised. But - I can’t understand why. He had no reason to hate me.”
Floreste sat looking at his flower. “After he called Pogan’s Point it spilled out of him like vomit. He held nothing back. It seems that all his life, you took everything he wanted: without effort or strain. He was mad for Sessily Veder; he craved her so badly it made him sick to look at her. She avoided him as if he were deformed, but she went gladly to you. You won school honors and Bureau B rank, and all without apparent effort. At Yipton he tried his best to implicate you but the Oomps wouldn’t listen and placed him under arrest. He told me that thereafter he hated you so much that whenever he saw you his knees went weak.”
“It makes me a bit sick to hear of it.”
“It is sickening stuff. At last you left him alone at Fexelburg, and with great gladness Kirdy knew that the time had come. The telephone call to Pogan’s Point was his moment to even the score. In all candor, I was appalled by so much ferocity.”
Glawen sighed. “All this is interesting, in a horrid way, but not what I wanted to know.”
“And what was that?”
“Where is my father?”
“Now? I am not sure that I know.”
“But he is alive?”
Floreste blinked, irritated that he had revealed even a glimmer of information. “If my suppositions are correct: it is possible.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“What do you offer in return? My life and freedom?”
“I can’t do that. I have power only over your money.”
Floreste, wincing, poured himself wine. “That is an idea not to be contemplated.”
“Tell me what you know. If I am able to find my father, your money will be safe from me.”
“Obviously, I cannot trust you.”
“Of course you can trust me! I would give all your money and my money and everything else to bring my father home! Why should you not trust me? It is your only chance!”
“I will consider the matter. When is my trial?”
“You have refused defending counsel, so there is no reason for delay. The trial will take place two days from now. When will you have an answer for me?”
“See me after the trial,” said Floreste, pouring out the last of the wine.
* * *
Chapter IX, Part 4
The Court of High Justice sat in the Moot Hall of the Old Agency: a wide circular chamber under a high dome of green and blue glass, with rosewood panels and a floor laid in a checker of gray marble streaked with green and dense white quartz. To one side the court conducted its business; to the other, a semicircular three-tiered gallery allowed the entire population of Araminta Station, if it so chose, to observe proceedings
At the stroke of noon the three High Judges entered the hall and took their places: Dame Melba Veder, Rowan Clattuc and the Conservator Egon Tamm, who presided at the trial. The judges seated themselves and the Nunciator called out: “Attention, all! The court is now in session! Let the gentleman under accusation be brought to his place of judgment!”
Stumbling and looking angrily over his shoulder as if to discover who had pushed him forward, Floreste entered the chamber.
“The accused may take his place in the dock,” called the Nunciator. “Bailiff, be good enough to escort Sir Floreste to his place.”
“This way, sir.”
“Don’t hurry me!” snapped Floreste. “Nothing will start until I arrive; you may be sure of that.”
“Yes, sir. This is your place.”
Floreste at last was properly seated. The Nunciator uttered a sonorous command: “Sir, you are here to answer grave charges! Raise your right hand on high and state your name, so that all present shall know who sits in the dock.”
Floreste showed the Nunciator a sneer of pure contempt. “Are you serious? I am well-known! Call out your own name and let us inquire into your crimes. It will suit me just as well, and it may prove amusing.”
Egon Tamm spoke gravely: “The formalities seem to impede our work, and we shall forgo them, if Sir Floreste will agree.”
“I agree to anything which will expedite this farce. I have already been adjudged guilty and condemned. I accept this, and I will deny nothing; it would only mean confusion and aggravation for everyone. As for my forthcoming death, what of that? I have long suffered that incurable disease known as life. So now I meet my end with neither regrets nor shame. Yes! I acknowledge my mistakes, but if I explained them I would seem to make excuses, so I will keep a dignified tongue in my head. But I will say this much: my motives were those of grandeur! I rode like a god on dreams of glory! And now these visions will dwindle and wither and lapse into dust. My going is a great tragedy for all of us. Look upon me well, you folk of Araminta! You shall not see my like again!”
Floreste turned to the judges. “So far as I am concerned, the trial is over. Make your dreary utterance, and also I would suggest a sentence of six months at hard labor for the Nunciator, on sheer suspicion, since everything about him suggests venality.”
“Three days hence, at sundown, you shall be terminated,” said Egon Tamm. “As for the Nunciator, this time he shall escape with a warning.”
Floreste rose to his feet and started to leave the dock. The Conservator called him back: “One moment, sir! We must deal with peripheral matters, where your testimony may be needed.”
With poor grace Floreste resumed his seat. The Nunciator called: “Namour Clattuc! Approach the bench!”
Namour came slowly forward, showing a face of smiling bewilderment. “Did I hear correctly? You called me?”
Egon Tamm said: “Quite right, sir. We have a few questions to ask of you. You are well-acquainted with both Floreste and Titus Pompo. Did you know of the Thurben Island excursions?”
Namour considered carefully before speaking. Then he said: “I had only an inkling that something was going on. I asked no questions, for fear that I might learn more than I wanted to know. To set the record straight: I am not well-acquainted with Titus Pompo.”
Egon Tamm asked Floreste: “Does this accord with your own recollection?”
“Closely enough.”
“That will be all, Namour. You may step down.”
Namour returned to his seat, still smiling his soft vague smile.
The Nunciator called out: “Drusilla co-Laverty Clattuc! Please step forward!”
Drusilla; sitting between Arles and Spanchetta, rose uncertainly to her feet. “Do you mean me?”
“Was your name called?”
“Oh, yes! That was my name.”
“Then why should I not mean you?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Come forward, if you please.”
Drusilla twitched her rather unsuitable black and persimmon-pink gown to its best advantage, then sauntered across the chamber to the chair reserved for witnesses.
“Please be seated,” said the bailiff. “You understand that you must answer all questions truthfully and in full detail?”
“Of course!” Drusilla, seating herself, gave Floreste a gay fluttering little wave of the fingers. Floreste, watching somberly, made no response. “I’m sure I don’t know what I can tell you,” said Drusilla. “I know nothing of this affair.”
Egon Tamm asked: “You were not aware of the Thurben Island excursions?”
“I knew something was going on, and I sus
pected that it might be just a bit naughty - but naturally I had nothing to do with it.”
“You were the representative of Ogmo Enterprises, were you not?”
Drusilla made a flippant gesture. “Oh, that! I just carried around advertising material and dropped it off here and there.”
The judge Dame Melba Veder asked sharply: “You did not actively solicit custom for the enterprise?”
Drusilla blinked. “I’m not sure that I understand what you mean.”
Floreste spoke in a dreary voice: “Don’t badger the poor creature. She knew nothing.”
Dame Melba paid him no heed. “You were on terms of intimate friendship with Namour. Did you not discuss Ogmo Enterprises and the excursions with him?”
“Not really. He looked at a brochure once or twice, and just laughed and threw it aside, and that was all there was to it.”
“What of your husband, Arles?”
“About the same.”
“That is all.”
Egon Tamm said: “You may step down.”
With patent relief and a cheerful smile for Floreste, Drusilla rejoined Arles and Spanchetta. Bodwyn Wook now approached the bench and spoke in a low voice to Egon Tamm, who in turn conferred with his colleagues. Bodwyn Wook went to the side and waited.
Egon Tamm addressed the chamber: “The Superintendent of Bureau B has brought another matter to our attention, which might as well be dealt with now. Sir Floreste, the affair does not concern you, and you may retire.”
Floreste rose to his feet and looking neither right nor left, marched from the chamber. Egon Tamm said: “I now ask that Bodwyn Wook acquaint us with the details of the case he has brought to our attention.”
Bodwyn Wook came forward. “This matter concerns a particularly nasty little fraud, perpetrated, apparently, from motives of sheer malice. I refer to the Agency status of Captain Glawen Clattuc. Several months ago, and well before his critical birthday, his index was 22. Then Artwain Clattuc retired and Erl Clattuc was killed in a landslide at Cape Journal. Glawen’s index became 20.
“Shortly afterward, Glawen’s father, Scharde Clattuc, flew out on a routine patrol and never returned. We searched carefully but at last were forced to give Scharde up for lost.
“Now, then: what happens next? Curious events! Two weeks before Glawen’s birthday a ship comes down from space, bringing Arles, Drusilla and their son, Gorton! A great surprise indeed, and bad news for Glawen! He is superseded by Gorton and his index rises to 21.
“At any time the Clattuc House Election Committee - chaired, incidentally, by Spanchetta - could meet and declare a presumption of death for Scharde. If this happens before Glawen’s birthday, as would seem reasonable and proper, Glawen’s index becomes 20, and in effect he assumes his father’s place in Clattuc House. Spanchetta, despite angry protests from others of the committee, delays until two weeks after Glawen’s birthday, when Glawen has become a collateral. Scharde is pronounced dead, leaving a vacant slot, and who is nominated to become the new Clattuc? Namour! Is it not superb?”
Spanchetta could contain herself no longer. She jumped to her feet. “I protest these vile slanders with all the vehemence at my command! I am totally amazed that the High Judges allow this mad little baboon to strut up and down their court, making a mockery of all dignity and vilifying decent folk! I demand an explanation!”
Egon Tamm said soberly: “Superintendent, you have heard Dame Spanchetta’s request. Can you amplify your case?”
“I want no amplification!” cried Spanchetta. “I want a full apology and a retraction of all these infamous charges.”
“I have not yet brought charges,” said Bodwyn Wook. “As for apologies, the record of your conduct speaks for itself. Do you want me to apologize for citing your record?”
“I have done nothing illegal! The Election Board meets whenever I deem that circumstances warrant. You can prove neither illegality nor malice. As for Gorton, he rightfully superseded Glawen; again, that is the process of the law.”
“Aha!” said Bodwyn Wook. “There we differ. Over the last few days we have looked very carefully into the case of Gorton. In the first place we find that he was born barely six months after the formal wedding of Arles and Drusilla.”
“That is sheer taradiddle! Arles and Drusilla were informally married somewhat earlier at Soumjiana. And even if they were not married: what of that? Arles acknowledges the child as his own.”
“All very well, but the law expressly denies status to adopted children.”
“What are you saying? Gorton was not adopted by Arles, or anyone else!”
“Just so,” said Bodwyn Wook. “As I say, we have gone into the case very thoroughly. First, by one means or another, we obtained material which afforded us the genetic patterns of Arles, Drusilla and Gorton respectively. This particular research was performed by eminent experts, who can give evidence if such evidence is needed.”
“This is all bluster and puff” declared Spanchetta, her voice rich and scornful. “Deal with facts, if you please!”
“The evidence proved that Gorton was the son of Drusilla; there is no doubt as to this. Regarding the other half of the parentage, there is no such clarity, although typical Clattuc gene clusters are found.”
“Your test tubes are telling you what I have already made clear! Is it not enough? Now will you leave us in peace?”
“Patience, Spanchetta! Listen intently, and you will hear more! We go back in time several years, to when, with truly reckless audacity, Arles attempted rape upon the person of Wayness Tamm, the Conservator’s daughter. He was unsuccessful, and captured. I will let the High Judge describe the punishment meted out to Arles.”
“Arles wore a mask and hood, which concealed his identity,” said Egon Tamm. “For this reason we presumed that he intended rape only, and not rape with murder, and so we spared him his life.
“However, to ensure that Arles might never again attempt a similar deed, he was subjected to a surgical process which rendered him sterile and almost totally incapable of tumescence. The procedure was permanent and irreversible. Gorton is not the child of Arles.”
Spanchetta emitted a strange wailing cry of outrage. “Not true, not true, not true!”
“It is true,” said Egon Tamm.
Bodwyn Wook pointed to Drusilla. “Stand up.”
Drusilla reluctantly rose to her feet.
Bodwyn Wook asked: “Who is Gorton’s father?”
Drusilla hesitated, looked right and left, licked her lips, then said in a sulky voice: “Namour.”
“Arles knew this?”
“Of course! How could he not know?”
“Did Spanchetta understand any of this?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. Ask her yourself.”
“You may sit down.” Bodwyn Wook looked at Arles. “Well, then: what do you have to say for yourself?”
“At the moment, nothing.”
“Did your mother know that Gorton was not your child?”
Arles glanced sidewise toward Spanchetta, who sat slumped, her great pile of brown curls askew. “I guess not,” he growled.
Glawen, sitting to the side beside Bodwyn Wook, rose to his feet. “If the Court pleases, I have a question I want to put to Arles.”‘
“Ask your question.”
Glawen turned to Arles. “What have you done with my mail?”
“We did what was proper and right!” declared Arles in a blustering voice. “You weren’t on hand, and neither was Scharde, and no one knew where you were, so we sent it back to where it came from, marked ‘Address unknown.’”
Glawen turned away. He told Egon Tamm: “That is all, sir.”
Egon Tamm nodded, a faint grim smile on his hard features. He conferred with his colleagues, then spoke: “Our judgment is as follows: Glawen Clattuc is awarded his rightful status. The Court regrets that he was subjected to what Superintendent Wook has accurately called a malicious fraud. Arles and Drusilla are stripped of all status, an
d may not even consider themselves collaterals. They must instantly depart from Clattuc House, this very day. The chambers must be restored as quickly as possible to their exact previous condition, to the total satisfaction of Captain Clattuc. ‘As quickly as possible’ means just that: work must begin at once and proceed night and day, regardless of cost. If Arles and Drusilla lack the necessary funds, Dame Spanchetta must bear the expense, and make whatever arrangements for repayment she deems suitable with Arles.
“Further, Arles and Drusilla are sentenced to eighty-five days of hard labor at the Cape Journal Labor Camp. The Court hopes that the experience will prove salutary. It is a minimal sentence, and they should consider themselves lucky.”
From Drusilla came a wail of pure dismay. Arles stared silently at the floor.
Egon Tamm continued. “The Court cannot escape the suspicion that Dame Spanchetta knew considerably more of the matter than the evidence indicates. This is only common sense. Still, we cannot act on suspicion alone, and Dame Spanchetta will not, on this occasion, join Arles and Drusilla at Cape Journal. We have no jurisdiction over the internal government of Clattuc House, but we suggest that Dame Spanchetta is an unsuitable chairman for the Election Board, or for any other committee of importance. We recommend that the Clattuc House Elders take executive action along these lines.
“If there is no more business for the Court, we will stand adjourned.”
* * *
Chapter IX, Part 5
During the afternoon of the following day Glawen visited the jail once again. Entering the cell, he found Floreste sitting at the table, hunched over a book bound in elegant pink leather. Floreste turned Glawen a look of displeasure. “What do you want now?”
“What I wanted before.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you. I have little time to waste and I must make my arrangements.” Floreste returned to his book and appeared to dismiss Glawen from his mind. Glawen crossed the room and seated himself on the chair across the table from Floreste.
