Night Lamp

by Jack Vance

  ‘UP THE LEDGES! UP!

  DON’T BE A NASTY PUP!

  BUMBLE DE BUMBLE! HOOT HOOT HOOT

  AND A TWEAK IN THE PUNGLE

  FOR SCHMELTZERS.’

  There! Doesn’t that sound like fun? No? Why not?”

  “It’s a bit noisy,” said Jaro.

  Dame Wirtz sniffed. “It’s ever so jolly, swinging along in formation! The secret password is ‘comporture.’ ”

  “Then what happens?”

  “It’s a surprise!”

  “Hm. What kind of surprise?”

  Dame Wirtz smiled bravely. “A bit of this, a bit of that.”

  Jaro shook his head. “Only an idiot would want to find out.”

  Dame Wirtz pretended not to hear. “A wonderful magic stuff is comporture, and your stringbooks make it all so easy. You record favors you have done for others against the favors you have received: the so-called ‘Outs’ and ‘Ins.’ Their ratio is your social buoyancy, and you must keep a careful balance sheet. This will help you with your strivings, and you’ll be up the Persimmons in a trice! Just like Lyssel Bynnoc, who stormed up through the League like a spanked baboon. Her father is a Squared Circle. That lubricates many a tight corner and Lyssel is quite a charming creature, but the fact remains that she’s a striver and has comporture in her bones.” Dame Wirtz giggled. “It is said that in frosty weather when Lyssel breathes, instead of steam she blows two plumes of comporture from her nostrils.”

  Jaro raised his eyebrows. “Surely that can’t be true!”

  “Probably not, but it only goes to demonstrate the temper of her striving.”

  Jaro was aware of saucy golden-haired Lyssel Bynnoc, though she had never so much as looked in his direction. Lyssel was already flirting with older boys of upscale clubs and had no time to waste on nimps. Jaro asked: “What about Skirlet Hutsenreiter?”

  “Aha! Skirlet was born a Clam Muffin and already commands the full scope of prestige, above all the other aristocracy of Gallingale! Skirlet need never fret about status, and she might not in any case, since she does everything with great éclat.” Dame Wirtz looked away. “Well, well, we can’t all be Clam Muffins like dear little Skirlet, and now we must see about enrolling you in the Junior Service League. Naturally, you’ll start in the Buddykins Ward.”

  Jaro hung back. “I have no time for such things!”

  Dame Wirtz gave an incredulous caw. “That is absurd! You are almost as bright as Skirlet; she rolls through her schoolwork as if it were a dish of ripe cheese, and then she has time for every caprice that enters her mind. How do you spend your spare time?”

  “I study manuals of space mechanics.”

  Dame Wirtz threw her arms into the air. “My dear boy, you mustn’t waste your time with fantasy!”

  Jaro made his escape as gracefully as possible.

  About this time Skirlet was transferred into Jaro’s class, and whether they liked it or not, the quality of their work was constantly compared. It soon became evident that Jaro surpassed Skirlet in basic science, mathematics and technical mechanics; also he was rather more deft at draughting, where his hand was fluid and accurate. Skirlet excelled in language, rhetoric, and musical symbolism. They did equally well in Gaean history, the geography of Old Earth, anthropology and biological science.

  Skirlet was surprised to find herself inferior to anyone, in anything, to any degree whatever. For several days her conduct was subdued. In anyone other than a Clam Muffin, it might have been said that she sulked. At last she shrugged. The circumstances, though bitter, were real. Had Jaro been a misshapen freak, or a bizarre genius, she would have accepted the situation with no more than an uninterested jerk of the chin. But Jaro was quite normal, clean, nice looking, something of a loner, and even more indifferent to her than she to him—or so it seemed. Too bad he was a nimp, and so could not be taken seriously. She wondered what would become of him. Then, thinking about her own case, she gave a sardonic little grimace. What, indeed, would become of Skirlet Hutsenreiter?

  Skirlet at last accepted the presence of Jaro philosophically. After all, it was an excellent thing to be born a Hutsenreiter and a Clam Muffin! Unfair? Not necessarily. Things were the way they were; why make changes?

  One afternoon, halfway through the term, Skirlet sat in a group and heard Jaro’s name mentioned by a certain Hanafer Glackenshaw. Hanafer was a large boisterous youth with rich blond curls and emphatic overlarge features. Hanafer considered himself decisive and masterful: a maker and shaper of enterprises. He liked to stand with head thrown back, the better to display his prideful high-bridged nose. He felt himself gifted with great inherent comporture, and perhaps it was so; he had thrust and wheedled and shouldered his way up the ledges, surmounting the Persimmons, up past the Spalpeens and into the Human Ingrates. Now the time had come to re-establish his social buoyancy and make new entries into his stringbooks.

  Hanafer was captain of the Langolen School roverball team, which found itself in need of several strong agile forwards ready for a mix-up. A loose-limbed tomboy of a girl named Tatninka indicated Jaro, at the other side of the yard: “Why not him? He looks strong and healthy.”

  Hanafer glanced toward Jaro and snorted. “You don’t know what you’re saying! That’s Jaro Fath, and he’s a nimp. Further, his mother is Professor Fath at the Institute and she’s a pacifist, and won’t allow him to wrestle, or box, or compete in any violent sport. So: he’s not only a nimp, but a total and absolute moop.”

  Skirlet, on the periphery of the group, heard the remarks. She glanced toward Jaro; by chance their eyes met. For an instant there was communication between them; then Jaro looked away. Skirlet was unreasonably annoyed. Did he not realize that she was Skirlet Hutsenreiter, autonomous and free, who tolerated neither criticism nor judgment, and went where she chose?

  It was Tatninka, rather than Skirlet, who bore the news to Jaro. “Did you hear what Hanafer called you?”

  “No.”

  “He said you were a moop!”

  “Oh? What’s that? Nothing good, I suspect.”

  Tatninka giggled. “I forgot; you’re really off in the clouds, aren’t you? Well, then!” She recited a definition she had heard Hanafer use only the week before: “If you come upon a very timid nimp who wets the bed and wouldn’t say ‘peep’ to a pussycat—you have found a moop.”

  Jaro sighed. “Very well; now I know.”

  “Hmf. You’re not even angry,” said Tatninka in disgust.

  Jaro reflected. “Hanafer can be carried off by a big bird, for all I care. Otherwise, there is no return message.”

  Tatninka spoke with annoyance, “Really, Jaro, you should not act with such insouciance when you can’t show an itch of status, nor so much as a place to scratch it.”

  “Sorry,” murmured Jaro. Tatninka turned and marched off to join her friends. Jaro walked home to Merriehew.

  Althea met him in the downstairs hall. She kissed his cheek, then stood back and inspected him. “What is wrong?”

  Jaro knew better than to dissemble. “It’s nothing serious,” he growled. “Just some of Hanafer Glackenshaw’s talk.”

  “What kind of talk,” demanded Althea, instantly brittle.

  “Oh just names: ‘nimp’ and ‘moop.’ ”

  Althea compressed her lips. “That is not acceptable conduct, and I shall have a word with his mother.”

  “No!” cried Jaro in a panic. “I don’t care what Hanafer thinks! If you complain to his mother, everyone will laugh at me!”

  Althea knew that he was right. “Then you’ll just have to take Hanafer aside and explain in a nice way that you mean him no harm and that he has no reason to call you names.”

  Jaro nodded. “I may do just that—after punching his head to attract his attention.”

  Althea uttered a cry of indignation. She went to a couch and pulled Jaro down beside her. He became stiff and uncomfortable, and wished that he had guarded his tongue, for now he must listen while Althea explained the tenets of
her ethical philosophy. “Jaro, my dear, there is no mystery about violence. It is the reflexive act of brutes, boors and moral defectives. I am surprised that you use such words even as a joke!”

  Jaro moved restlessly and opened his mouth to speak, but Althea seemed not to notice. “As you know, your father and I think of ourselves as crusaders for universal amity. We are contemptuous of violence, and we expect you to live by the same creed.”

  “That is why Hanafer calls me a ‘moop.’ ”

  Althea spoke serenely, “He will stop as soon as he sees how wrong he is. You must make this clear. Peace and happiness are never passive; they are flowers in a garden which must constantly be worked.”

  Jaro jumped to his feet. “I don’t have time to work in Hanafer’s garden; I have other things on my mind.”

  Althea stared at him, all thoughts of Hanafer dismissed, and Jaro saw that he had made another mistake. Althea asked, “What ‘other things’ are these?”

  “Just things.”

  For perhaps half a second Althea wavered, then decided not to pursue the matter. She reached out and hugged him. “Whatever the case, you can always discuss it with me. We can straighten things out and I’ll never urge you to do anything harmful or wrong! Do you believe me, Jaro?”

  “Oh yes. I believe you.”

  Althea relaxed. “I’m glad you’re so sensible! Now then, go make yourself look nice; Mr. Maihac is coming for dinner. As I recall, you and he get along well together.”

  Jaro gave a guarded response. “Yes; well enough.” As a matter of fact he liked Tawn Maihac very much, which caused him to wonder about his parents, since Maihac was not typical of their usual set of acquaintances. Maihac was an off-worlder who had evidently traveled far and wide across the Gaean Reach and had known many odd adventures. He had made an immediate impression upon Jaro though, from the Fath’s point of view, for all the wrong reasons. Maihac was neither a pacifist nor a savant nor yet the exemplar of an avant-garde art form.

  Tawn Maihac’s adventures had not left him unscathed. His face displayed a broken nose and his neck was marked by a scar. Otherwise, Maihac lacked conspicuous characteristics, and on first acquaintance seemed placid and mild. He was younger than Hilyer; lean and strong, with a weathered dark skin and a black mat of hair. Althea thought him almost handsome, since his features were well shaped. Hilyer, who was more critical, found these same features graceless and hard, perhaps by reason of the broken nose, which suggested violence.

  Hilyer took little pleasure in Maihac’s company, suspecting that Maihac might have been a spaceman, which brought him no credit in Hilyer’s eyes. Spacemen were customarily recruited from the ne’er-do-wells and vagabonds at the fringes of society. As a class, their values and patterns of behavior were incompatible with Hilyer’s own, and those which he wished to sponsor in Jaro.

  From the first Hilyer had felt deeply suspicious of Maihac. When Althea scoffed, Hilyer claimed darkly that his instincts were never wrong. He felt that Maihac, if not a blackguard, had much to hide, to which Althea said: “Oh piffle. Everyone has something to hide.”

  Hilyer started to declare, “Not I!” in a decisive voice, then thought of one or two shrouded episodes in his past and merely gave a noncommittal grunt.

  During the next few days he took the trouble to make discreet inquiries, then went triumphantly to Althea with his findings. “It’s about as I thought,” said Hilyer. “Our friend is using a false name. He is actually someone named ‘Gaing Neitzbeck,’ who for reasons of his own is using the name ‘Tawn Maihac’ ”

  “This is incredible!” declared Althea. “How do you know?”

  “Just a bit of detective work, and an iota of inductive reasoning,” said Hilyer. “I glanced over his application for admission at the Institute. I took note of his stated date of arrival at Thanet spaceport, along with the ship on which he arrived, which was the Alice Wray of the Elder Line. When I looked over the list of arrivals aboard the Alice Wray upon the cited date, there was no ‘Tawn Maihac,’ but only a ‘Gaing Neitzbeck,’ who gave his occupation as ‘spaceman.’ I searched the list of arrivals for the entire year and I found no ‘Tawn Maihac’ The conclusion is inescapable.”

  Althea stammered, “But why should he do such a thing?”

  “I could form a dozen hypotheses,” said Hilyer. “He might be trying to dodge creditors or avoid an importunate wife, or wives. One thing is clear, however: when folk use false names, they are concealing themselves from someone.” Hilyer quoted one of Baron Bodissey’s choicest maxims: “ ‘Honest folk do not wear masks when they enter a bank.’ ”

  “I suppose not,” said Althea doubtfully. “What a shame! I did so like Tawn Maihac, or whatever his name.”

  On the evening of the next day, Hilyer noticed an air of suppressed excitement, or mirth, or some such emotion in Althea. He ignored the signals, aware that she could not hold her news to herself for very long. He was right. As she served their usual goblet of Taladerra Fino, she burst out: “You’ll never guess!”

  “Guess what?”

  “I’ve solved the mystery!”

  “I wasn’t aware of any mystery,” said Hilyer stiffly.

  “Of course you are!” said Althea teasingly. “You’re aware of a hundred mysteries! This one concerns Tawn Maihac.”

  “I suppose you are referring to Gaing Neitzbeck, and, truly, Althea, I’m not interested in the man’s peccadillos, or whatever has caused him to deceive us.”

  “Very well! I promise: no peccadillos! What happened was this: I went to the telephone and put in a call for Gaing Neitzbeck. I reached him at his place of work, the machine shop at the space terminal. His face appeared on the screen; it was definitely not Tawn Maihac. I told him that I was calling from the Institute in regard to Tawn Maihac’s application, in which he stated that he had arrived at Thanet aboard the Alice Wray.”

  “Well what of it?” said Neitzbeck.

  “He arrived on the same day as you did?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Then why does not his name appear on the terminal records?”

  Gaing Neitzbeck laughed. “Maihac was at one time an IPCC officer. He is now inactive, but that means nothing. When he arrives at a spaceport, he merely shows his card and walks through the gate. I could do the same, but I forgot to carry my card.”

  Althea leaned back in her chair and drank from her goblet of wine.

  Hilyer put on a rather sour expression. “It was of no great moment. No need for stirring up a tempest in a teapot. The fellow is as he is; that’s enough for me.”

  “Then you’ll be nice to him? He’s always quite well-behaved.”

  Hilyer agreed somewhat glumly that Maihac’s conduct could not be faulted. Maihac was quiet and correct; his clothes were more conservative than Hilyer’s own. He spoke little of his past, except to remark that he had taken up residence at Thanet in order to top off his previously deferred education. Althea had met him at the Institute, where Maihac was a student in one of her advanced graduate courses. He and the Faths had discovered a mutual fascination with peculiar musical instruments. Maihac during his wanderings had acquired a number of these unique artifices, including a froghorn, a pair of tangletones, a wishdreams, a wonderful tudelpipe—four feet long, inlaid with a hundred silver dancing demons; a full set of Blori needlegongs. They caught Althea’s attention and before long Tawn Maihac had become a regular visitor at Merriehew.

  On this particular occasion Hilyer had not known that Maihac would be a dinner guest until his own return from the Institute. He was further irritated when he took note of what seemed to be special preparations. “I see you are using your Basingstoke candlesticks. Tonight is evidently a signal occasion.”

  “Of course not!” declared Althea. “I have these beautiful articles and they should be put to use. Call it ‘creative impulse,’ if you like. But these are not the Basingstokes.”

  “Certainly they are! I remember the transaction distinctly! They cost us a small fort
une!”

  “Not these—and I can prove it.” Althea lifted one of the candelabra and studied the label on the underside of the base. “The label reads: ‘Rijjalooma Farm.’ These come from that farm on Rijjalooma Ridge; don’t you remember? It’s where you were attacked by that peculiar hedgehog-like thing.”

  “Yes,” growled Hilyer. “I remember very well. It was absolutely unwarranted and I should have sued that farm woman for irresponsibility.”

  “Well, no matter. She let me have the candelabra at quite a decent price, so your suffering was not in vain. And here we are, enjoying the recollection at our dinner!”

  Hilyer muttered something about his hope that Althea’s “creative impulse” did not extend to the cuisine. Here Hilyer alluded to the anomalous dishes which had resulted from Althea’s previous attempts at experimental or avant-garde cooking.

  Althea turned away, smiling to herself. Hilyer, so it seemed, was a bit jealous of their rather fascinating guest. “By the way!” she said. “Mr. Maihac is bringing his silly froghorn. He may even try to play it, which should be great fun!”

  “Ha hm,” Hilyer growled. “So Maihac, among his other talents, is also a skilled musician!”

  Althea laughed. “That remains to be seen. He won’t prove it on the froghorn.”

  Jaro had come to realize that during Maihac’s visits the topic in which he was most interested: namely, the lore of spacemanship, was not considered appropriate and would be discouraged. Since the Faths intended an academic career for Jaro in the School of Aesthetic Philosophy, they gingerly encouraged Jaro’s interest in Maihac’s odd instruments, while pretending to ignore the picturesque methods by which they had been obtained.

  Tonight, as Hilyer had noted, Althea had set a beautiful table. From her collection she had chosen a pair of massive candelabra forged from rude bars of blue-black cobalt alloy, to complement a service of old faience, glazed a dim moonlight blue, in whose depths submarine flowers seemed to float.