by Jack Vance
Maihac was suitably impressed, and complimented Althea upon her arrangements. The dinner proceeded, and in the end Althea felt that it had been tolerably successful, even though Hilyer, in connection with the devilled landfish in pastry shells, had found the pastry too tough and the sauce too sharp, while the soufflé, so he pointed out, had gone limp.
Althea dealt politely with Hilyer’s comments, and she was pleased with Maihac’s behavior. He had attended Hilyer’s sometimes rather pompous opinions, and he had said nothing of space or spaceships, to Jaro’s disappointment.
After the group had moved to the sitting room, Maihac brought out his froghorn, perhaps the most bizarre item of his collection, since it comprised three dissimilar instruments in one. The horn started with a rectangular brass mouthpiece, fitted to a plench-box sprouting four valves. The valves controlled four tubes which first wound around, then entered, the central brass globe: the so-called “mixing pot.” From the side opposite the mouthpiece came a tube which flared out into a flat rectangular sound bell. The four valves were controlled by the fingers of the left hand, to produce the notes of an exact if irrational scale, each tone an unctuous disreputable gurgle. Above the mouthpiece, a second tube clipped to the nostrils became a screedle flute, fingered by the right hand to play intervals with no obvious relationship to the tones of the horn. The right foot pumped air into a bladder which was controlled by movements of the left knee to produce a heavy diapason of something over an octave. Clearly, to play the froghorn with mastery would require endless hours of practice: even years or decades.
Maihac told the Faths: “I can play the froghorn, but am I playing it well? You will never know, since good sounds much like bad, so far as I can tell.”
“I’m sure that you play splendidly,” said Althea. “But don’t keep us dangling! Play something frivolous and delightful!”
“Very well,” said Maihac. “I will play ‘The Bad Ladies of Antarbus,’ which is the only tune I know.”
Maihac took up the instrument, adjusted its straps and buckles, and blew a few introductory glissandos. The noseflute produced a shrill warble. Tones from the big-bellied horn seemed to gurgle up through syrup, to produce a sound so raucously indecent as to make both Hilyer and Althea wince. The air-bladder droned and moaned along a delicate if rather dreary set of intervals.
Maihac explained the salient features of the instrument. “The great virtuosos of the froghorn presumably played with total control over the halftones, the hoots, gurgles, thumps and squealing. Well, here I go: ‘The Bad Ladies of Antarbus.’ ” Jaro, listening carefully, heard: “Teedle-deedle-eedle teedle a-boigle oigle a-boigle moan moan da-boigle-oigle moan teedle-eedle moan teedle-eedle-eedle a-boigle a-boigle-oigle moan moan teedle-eedle teedle da-boigle.”
“That’s the best I can do,” said Maihac. “What did you think?”
“Very pretty,” said Hilyer. “With a bit more practice, you’d have us all compulsively dancing.”
“One must be careful with froghorns,” said Maihac. “They are said to be built by devils.” He pointed to symbols carved on the flare of the brass horn. “Notice these marks? They read: ‘Suanez has done this thing.’ ‘Suanez’ is a devil. According to the shopkeeper, each horn is impregnated with a secret song. If the human musician chances to play part of this song, he is trapped and must continue playing until he drops dead.”
“The same song?” Jaro asked.
“Yes; no variations allowed.”
Hilyer put a sardonic question: “It was the shopkeeper who authenticated the provenance of the horn?”
“He did indeed, and when I asked for documentation, he gave me a picture of the devil Suanez, then added a surcharge of twenty sols to the price of the horn. He knew I wanted the horn; I could either haggle another two hours or pay the twenty sols—which I did. These shopkeepers are all irredemptible rascals.”
Hilyer chuckled. “We have learned this backward and forward, up and down, on our own account.”
Althea said, “When I found my copper candelabra I had an experience much like your own. It happened during our first off-world field trip, which was truly a saga in itself!”
“Now then,” said Hilyer smiling. “We must not wax overdramatic! Mr. Maihac after all is surely accustomed to exotic places.”
“Tell me about it,” said Maihac. “I haven’t been everywhere: that’s for certain.”
Hilyer and Althea together told the tale, with many interpositions and interpolations. Shortly after their marriage they had gone off on a field trip to the world Plaise, in a small local swarm not far from the edge of the galaxy. Like many other worlds, Plaise had been located and settled during that first great explosion of humanity across what would ultimately become the Gaean Reach. The Faths had gone to Plaise on what they now knew to be a foolhardy mission: to record the so-called “Equinoctial Signs” of the Kindred Mountain folk. This feat had never before been attempted, much less accomplished, for a good reason: it was considered suicidal. The Faths, blithe as songbirds, arrived at Plaise spaceport and took lodgings at the resthouse at Sern, in the foothills of the Kindred Mountains. Here they learned of the difficulties which made their program impossible—namely, that they would be killed on sight.
Brash and foolish rather than courageous, the Faths ignored the warnings and contrived ruses to defeat each of the difficulties in turn. They rented a flitter and two nights before the equinox, flew down into the Kouhou Chasm and affixed thirty-two recording devices to stations along the vertical walls. By great good luck they evaded detection, whereupon the flitter would have been netted and dragged to the floor of the chasm, where the Faths would have been subjected to deeds too horrible to bear mentioning. “It makes my blood run cold whenever I think of it!” Althea shuddered. “We were young fools,” said Hilyer. “We thought that if we were caught we could simply say that we were Thanet Institute faculty, and they would make no further complaint.”
The night of the equinox the mountain folk performed their ceremony. All night long pulses of sound reverberated up and down the chasm. On the next day the folk performed their penitential rite, and the cries so elicited rose like sad-sweet warbling.
The Faths meanwhile laid low in Stern, passing themselves off as agronomists. While they waited, Althea had gone to rummage through a ramshackle old shop, where oddments of this and that were offered for sale. In a casual pile she noted a pair of massive copper candelabra, from which she hastily averted her eyes and went to examine what seemed to be a dented old pot. “A valuable piece,” the shopkeeper told her. “That is genuine aluminum.”
“I’m not really interested,” said Althea. “I already have a pot.”
“Just so. Perhaps you like those old candle-holders? Very valuable: pure copper!”
“I don’t think so,” said Althea. “I already have a pair of candelabra, as well.”
“Very handy if one of them broke,” argued the shopkeeper. “It is not good to be without light.”
“True,” said Althea. “What do you want for the dirty old things?”
“Not much. About five hundred sols.”
Althea merely turned him a scornful look, and went to study a stone plaque, highly polished and intricately carved with glyphs. “What is this thing?”
“It is very old. I can’t read it. They say it tells the ten human secrets: very important, I should think.”
“Not unless you can read this odd script.”
“Better than nothing.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred sols.”
“Surely you’re joking!” cried Althea indignantly. “Do you take me for a fool?”
“Well, seventy sols then. A great bargain: seven sols per secret!”
“Bah. Those secrets are old and useless, even if I could read them. My price is five sols.”
“Aiee! Must I give valuables to every crazy woman that walks into the shop?” Althea haggled long and devoutly, but the shopkeeper held to a price of forty sols
.
“The price is reprehensible!” stormed Althea. “I’ll pay it only if you include some extra pieces of lesser value: let us say, this rug and, well, why not? those candelabra.”
Again the shopkeeper showed distress. He patted the rug which was woven in stripes of black, russet and russet-gold. “This is a fecundity rug. It is woven from the pubic hairs of virgins! The candlesticks are six thousand years old, from the cave of the first Hermit King Jon Solander. I value the three items at a thousand sols!”
“I will pay forty sols for all.”
The shopkeeper handed Althea a scimitar and bared his throat. “Kill me first before you dishonor me with such robbery!”
In the end, somewhat dazed, Althea walked from the shop, carrying candelabra, plaque and rug, after having paid a price which Hilyer later reckoned to be about double what she should have paid. Nevertheless, Althea was happy with her acquisitions.
On the next day they took the flitter aloft and flew high above Kouhou. The area was deserted; the mountain folk had trooped to Pol Pond for their ablution rite. The Faths hastily retrieved their recording devices, returned to Plaise spaceport and departed by the first appropriate packet. The results of their reckless mission were highly satisfactory; they had recorded an amazing sequence of sounds: surges of—what? Melody? Dynamic projection? Soulforce made audible? No one could find a proper place in the taxonomy of music where the Kouhou Chants—as they came to be known—could be filed.
“We’d never go off on such a hare-brained venture again,” Althea told Maihac. “Still, if nothing else, it started me collecting candelabra. But now—enough of me and my ridiculous hobby. Play us another tune on the froghorn.”
“Not tonight,” said Maihac. “I am snuffling around the noseflute. It is a matter of embouchure at the nose-piece. It takes years to develop a really good nasal embouchure. If I ever achieved it well and truly, I would have the look of a vampire bat.” Maihac packed the instrument away in its case.
“Next time you must bring your four-twanger,” said Althea. “That is a far gentler instrument.”
“True! I risk neither Suanez the devil, nor a sore nose.”
“Still, you should work up a repertory on the froghorn. If you played weekly concerts at the Centrum, you’d attract no end of attention and command quite a decent fee, or so I should think.”
Hilyer chuckled. “If you are yearning for fame and comporture, there is your chance. The Scythians would sign you into their membership before you could say ‘knife’; they love to flaunt eccentricity.”
“I’ll consider your suggestion,” said Maihac politely. “However, I no longer look to the froghorn as a solution to my financial problems. In fact I’ve taken on a part-time job, at the spaceport machine shop. It pays me rather well, but after classes at the Institute, I’ll find little time for froghorn practice.”
Noting Jaro’s enthusiasm, Hilyer and Althea were restrained in their congratulations. Like Dame Wirtz, they felt that Jaro’s fascination with space might distract him from the academic career which they hoped he would pursue.
A month passed. The term at Langolen School approached the spring recess. Jaro’s work, meanwhile, had suddenly deteriorated, as if Jaro had been afflicted by a fit of absentmindedness. Dame Wirtz suspected that Jaro had been allowing his imagination to rove too freely among the far worlds, and one morning, just after his first class period, took him into her private office.
Jaro admitted the shortcomings and undertook to do better.
Dame Wirtz said that was all very well—but not enough. “Your work has been excellent, and we have all been proud of you. So now—why this sudden lethargy? You just can’t drop everything and go off to chase butterflies! Surely you agree?”
“Yes, of course! But—”
Dame Wirtz refused to listen. “You must put aside your daydreams, and attend to your future.”
Jaro despairingly tried to deny the imputations of sloth. “Even if I explained, you still would not understand!”
“Try me!”
Jaro muttered: “I don’t care a fig for comporture. As soon as I can, I’ll be gone into space.”
Dame Wirtz began to wonder. “All very well, but why the frantic urgency?”
“I have a good reason.”
As soon as Jaro had spoken he knew that he had gone too far. Dame Wirtz pounced.
“Indeed. And what is this reason?”
Jaro spoke in a numb monotone: “There is something important I must do, to save my own sanity.”
“Indeed,” said Dame Wirtz again. “And what must be done?”
“I don’t know just yet.”
“I see. Where will you go to do what needs to be done, and what will you do?”
“I don’t know that either.”
Dame Wirtz carefully controlled her voice. “Then why go to such lengths if you don’t know what you are doing?”
“I know well enough.”
“Tell me how you know, if you please.”
“Because of things I hear in my mind! Please don’t ask me anything more!”
“I want to get to the bottom of this. Are you telling me that you hear instructions when you dream at night?”
“You have it all wrong! They are not instructions, and I don’t hear them during dreams, and not always at night. Now please, may I go?”
“Yes, Jaro—after I find out what is going on. This is not at all normal! You hear voices which give you directions?”
“They don’t give me directions. There is just one voice and it frightens me.”
Dame Wirtz sighed. “Very well, Jaro. You may go.”
But Jaro, aghast at what he had let slip, lingered and tried to convince Dame Wirtz that nothing really serious was going on, and that, truly, he had everything under control, so that she was to ignore what he had told her.
Dame Wirtz smiled and patted his shoulder, and said that she must give the matter thought. Jaro slowly turned and went his way.
Althea was busy in her office at the Institute. The communicator on her desk sounded a chime. Glancing at the display, she recognized the nested blue and red rectangles of the Parnassian Club. A tap on the desk brought the face of Idora Wirtz to the screen.
“I’m sorry to call you, but something has come up which I think you should know.”
Althea was instantly alarmed. “Is Jaro all right?”
“Yes. Are you alone? May I speak freely?”
“I am alone. I suppose Hanafer Glackenshaw has been acting badly again?”
“As to that, I can’t say. In any event Jaro simply ignores him.”
Althea’s voice rose in pitch. “What else could he do? Call the Glackenshaw boy a bad name in return? Attack him with his fists? Kill the boy, perhaps? We have taught Jaro to avoid rough and competitive games, which encourage bellicosity and which in fact are small wars!”
“Just so,” said Dame Wirtz. “But that’s not why I called. I fear that Jaro is suffering nervous problems, which may well be serious.”
“Oh come now!” cried Althea. “I can’t believe this!”
“It is true, I’m sorry to say. He hears inner voices which give him directions—probably to go out into space to perform some adventurous deed. I extracted this information only with difficulty.”
Althea was silent. For a fact Jaro had recently made some very odd remarks. She asked, “What exactly has he told you?”
Dame Wirtz reported what she had heard. When she finished, Althea thanked her. “I hope you will say nothing of this to anyone else.”
“Of course not! But we must set things right with poor Jaro!”
“I will see to it at once.”
Althea called Hilyer and repeated what she had learned from Idora Wirtz. At first Hilyer was inclined to skepticism, until Althea insisted that she herself had heard similar statements, and that there was no question but what Jaro needed professional help. Hilyer at last agreed that he would make relevant inquiries, and the screen went blank.
/> Half an hour later Hilyer returned to the screen. “Health Services speaks well of a group called FWG Associates at Buntoon House in Celece District. I called, and we are to go out immediately for an interview with their Dr. Fiorio. I take it that you can getaway?”
“Of course!”
4
Mel Swope, Director of the Institute Health Services, had informed Hilyer in regard to FWG Associates. The senior staff consisted of three notable practitioners: Doctors Fiorio, Windle and Gissing. Their reputations were good; they were said to be solidly based in orthodox science, but willing to consider innovative procedures, if need arose. Away from Buntoon House, all three enjoyed high social status, and their clubs were havens of high comporture. Dr. Fiorio was with the Val Verde; Dr. Windle, the Palindrome. Dr. Gissing belonged to several clubs, the most notable being the Lemurians, who were considered both daring and unpredictable. In their physical characteristics, the three were dissimilar. Dr. Fiorio was portly, punctilious and pink as a well-scrubbed baby. Dr. Windle, the oldest of the group, seemed all lank arms, sharp elbows and bony shanks. The yellowish dome above his forehead nurtured several brown moles and a few wisps of nondescript hair.
In contrast. Dr. Gissing was airy, mercurial, slight of physique, with a fine fluff of white hair. He had been described in a trade journal as “much like a dainty little garden dryad, who may often be found hiding among the pansies, or laving his pretty feet in the birdbath.” The same trade journal had described FWG Associates as “a most peculiar synergism, stronger in every way than the sum of the separate parts.”
Hilyer and Althea arrived at Buntoon House within the hour. They discovered an impressive structure of pink stone, black iron and glass, in the shade of seven langal trees.
The Faths entered the structure and were conducted into the office of Dr. Fiorio. He rose to his feet: a large man, wearing a crisp white jacket. He inspected his visitors with amiable blue eyes. “The Professors Hilyer and Althea Fath? Dr. Fiorio here.” He indicated chairs. “If you will be so good.”
The Faths seated themselves. Hilyer spoke. “As you know, we have come on behalf of our son.”
