by Jack Vance
Jaro grinned. “I’m glad at least to hear the news from you.”
Hartung started to turn away, then paused. “You are starting Lyceum, I think you said?”
“In about a month.”
“If you like, I’ll find part-time work for you, whenever it fits your schedule.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Hartung.”
Seven
1
Jaro’s first two years at Lyceum passed in relative tranquility. He opted for a basic curriculum, emphasizing the sciences, mathematics and technics. During his first year he also undertook three electives, which he hoped might please the Faths: Elements of Harmony; A Historical Survey of Music, and instruction in the playing of the suanola. This was an instrument based upon the ancient concertina, with a pump supplying the air flow and toggled keys controlling both upper and lower registers. The Faths considered the suanola a trivial, or even vulgar, instrument but refrained from criticism, so as not to demean Jaro’s efforts to please them. Jaro, however knew his limitations: he was accurate but over-meticulous in his phrasing and lacked the wild, slightly discordant, passion which distinguished musicians from practitioners. His skills were adequate to playing with a small orchestra, the Arcadian Mountebanks, where he wore the costume of a Gitanque sheepherder. The group played casually at parties, picnics, fiestas and riverboat excursions.
The Faths, in general, approved of Jaro’s schedule, which was challenging; they could almost hope that he verged toward the Institute and the College of Aesthetic Philosophy. This hope was diminished when Jaro, by dint of early rising, was able to work at the spaceport terminal four hours each weekend morning.
As Jaro had expected neither Hilyer nor Althea was pleased. Hilyer adopted his most pedantic manner: “The time you waste in that shop could be put to more constructive use.”
“I’ll be learning how to repair and perhaps operate a spaceship,” said Jaro mildly. “Don’t you think that’s useful knowledge?”
“No. Not really. It’s a job for specialists. Space is the void between civilized environments. Space is not a destination in itself. Any romance you apply to this sort of work is factitious.”
Jaro grinned. “Don’t worry; if I can’t keep up with my schoolwork, I’ll let the job drop.”
Hilyer knew that Jaro would do all that was required without apparent effort. Still, he was not defeated. “From what you tell me, they are fobbing off the most menial jobs upon you: sorting out bits of this and that, cleaning up slops, running errands for a surly mechanic.”
“Unfortunately this is true,” said Jaro. “Still, someone must do these jobs. Since I’m new, I do them. Also, Gaing’s not so bad when you get to know him. He likes me well enough; when he sees me now he grunts instead of pretending I don’t exist. Meanwhile, little by little, I’m learning what makes a spaceship fly.”
“I still don’t understand it,” said Hilyer peevishly. “What good is that sort of knowledge to someone with your prospects! Nor can you be attracted by the wages, which are not excessive. You don’t even spend your allowance, according to your mother, but scuttle it away in a jam jar.”
“True! But I want to earn money for a special purpose.”
“What purpose is this?” demanded Hilyer coldly, though he already knew.
Jaro nevertheless answered politely. “I want to learn the truth about myself It’s a mystery which I can’t get out of my mind, and I won’t rest until I unravel it. But I won’t ask you to finance what might be a wild goose chase. I’ll try to earn money of my own.”
Hilyer made an impatient gesture. “For the present you must ignore this mystery; a degree at the Institute is prerequisite to a secure life. Without it, you are a will-o’-the-wisp or a vagabond.”
Jaro remained silent and Hilyer continued, his voice stern: “I strongly urge that you postpone this quest—which in any event is likely to be futile. First things must come first. Your mother and I will help you without stint to gain a proper education—but we will resist any other course as being against your better interests.”
Althea came into the room. Neither Hilyer nor Jaro wished to pursue the subject and it was dropped.
2
For Jaro the first three years at Lyceum slipped by so smoothly that, later, when he cast his mind back, they merged indistinguishably, one with the other. They were the last of the halcyon times, and never again would life be so tranquil.
Still, the years were not without event; there were a hundred gradual changes. Jaro grew several inches, to become an erect square-shouldered youth, moderately muscular, though lacking in bulk through chest, flanks, arms and legs, quiet and self-contained in manner. When girls gathered to discuss their affairs, they generally agreed that Jaro was handsome, in an austere way, like the fairy barons of romantic legend. How distressing and sad that he was a nimp!
During the recess following Jaro’s third year he was allowed to work full time at the terminal machine shop. One day he undertook an especially complicated job. Things went right for him and he finished in what he considered good time. He tested the mechanism with meters and field gauges; all seemed well and he signed the worksheet. Turning, he found Gaing standing nearby, his corded face unreadable. Jaro could only hope that he had performed the procedures properly. Gaing glanced at Jaro’s worksheet, then spoke, using a soft husky voice Jaro had not heard before. “That’s a nice bit of work you’ve done, lad. You did it nice; you did it fast, and you did it right.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Jaro.
Gaing went on: “From now on you may regard yourself as ‘assistant mechanic,’ and there will be a corresponding increase in your salary.” He reached up to a shelf and brought down a gnarled jug formed of lavender-gray stonemelt. He pulled away the stopper and poured dollops of amber liquid into a pair of squat stoneware cups. “The occasion calls for a taste of the Old Particular, which you may be sure is not offered around freely.” He pushed one of the cups toward Jaro. “Let us salute your new status!”
Jaro eyed the sultry liquid dubiously. The sharing of Old Particular had the force of a ritual, so he understood, and he must play his part properly. He turned to face Gaing. Joining valor to stoicism, he raised the cup and said: “Your good health, sir.”
Gaing lifted his own cup, nodded and drank from it. Standing stiffly, Jaro lowered the draught to his mouth, swallowed a goodly portion. Now then! Fortitude and calm! He must neither strangle nor cough; he must show only polite gratification.
The liquid finally reached his stomach, where it subsided. Jaro slowly exhaled. He knew that a comment was expected of him. But first things first, as Hilyer would say. He raised his squat cup and in a single gulp drank what was left of the Old Particular. He blinked and put down the cup and tried to speak with decision: “I am not an experienced judge, but I would think this to be of superior quality. My instinct, at least, tells me as much.”
“This instinct has served you well!” intoned Gaing. “You have discovered an important truth, and your candor is refreshing. One can learn much of a fellow by heeding the way he drinks his drop. Folk speak of what is closest to their hearts, and the variety is as endless as the Gaean race itself! I have heard grief and bereavement; also, songs of joy, sometimes in the same quarter-hour. Some men speak of their pedigree and the grandeur that is rightfully theirs; others confide secrets. Some talk of beautiful women, while others recall a kindly mother.” Gaing raised the jug and looked inquiringly at Jaro. “Would you care for another half gill? No? Perhaps you are right, since we have work to do. Tomorrow, incidentally, we will be giving the black Scarab yonder its final checkout.” He referred to a sleek black spaceyacht, somewhat more compact than the Pharsang, but still an imposing vehicle.
Jaro could hardly find his voice. “Just you and me?”
“Correct! This job has now been assigned to us. It is time that you should start learning the checkout procedures.”
Jaro returned to Merriehew in happy excitement. His new level of empl
oyment represented a large increase in status; he could now legitimately speak of himself as a spaceship mechanic, and presently he would learn to operate as well as repair a spaceship.
3
Three weeks later, at the end of his shift, Jaro walked along the line of dormant spaceyachts. As he approached the Pharsang Glitterway, he came upon Lyssel Bynnoc waiting restlessly beside the ship, while a pair of elderly gentlemen examined a map which they had spread out upon the starboard sponson. The older and more vigorous of the two dominated the discussion. He uttered terse stipulations, jabbed at the map with a stiff forefinger, while the other’s comments went ignored.
Both gentlemen wore expensive garments and carried themselves with the assurance of high comporture. The eldest was tall, spare, with a long pale face, a mane of white hair and a pointed white goatee. His manner was crisp, and serene. The second gentleman was portly and sleek, with a powdered pink complexion and dog-brown eyes.
Lyssel leaned against the Pharsang’s port sponson, tapping her fingers against the glossy black surface. She noticed the approach of a personable young man; here was a possible relief from boredom. She arranged herself in a posture of lazy indifference; not until the young man drew near did she turn her head and fix her melting blue gaze upon him. To her surprise she recognized Jaro, whom she remembered from Langolen School. The acquaintance had been distant, since Lyssel always had more prestigious fish to fry: earnest strivers such as Hanafer Glackenshaw, Alger Oals, Kosh Diffenbocker and others of the same up-ledge ilk. Great things were predicted for such as these, and some had already been seconded into the Squared Circle Junior Auxiliary. Lyssel herself had been then and was now an energetic striver, with secret techniques of her own, which had gained her the black and silver clip of the important Jinkers. She liked prestige, but she enjoyed the functioning of her natural instincts even more, and was pleased to see Jaro, though she remembered little about him.
Jaro’s reaction to Lyssel was more direct and similar to that of other healthy young males. He wanted to approach her, pay his respects and, after a minimum of polite preliminaries, carry her off to bed. Over the years, Lyssel had changed little. Fine dusty-golden hair flowed almost to her shoulders, the locks waving and swinging as she moved. Her eyes were round, innocent, and blue in a rather thin face, where a wide mouth continually jerked and altered to the butterfly flicker of her thoughts—smiling, pouting, pursing, twisting askew, sagging at the corners in comic remorse, or with teeth clenched over her lower lip, as if she were a child caught out in a naughty act. Her body was slight and flexible, and when she was excited it squirmed with the unruly energy of a small affectionate animal. Girls were wary of her and in her company felt like frumps. The boys, however, were fascinated and she was the topic of endless speculation. Was there fire behind the smoke? No one, so it seemed, had ever learned the truth, though many had given the problem their serious attention. She spoke with a gay lilt: “You’re Jaro, aren’t you?” Then she waited, as if expecting his sheepish grin of gladness at being noticed.
Jaro responded politely: “I’m Jaro. I’ve seen you at the Lyceum.”
Lyssel nodded, thinking that Jaro seemed just a bit pompous, or perhaps even dull. “What are you doing around here?”
“No mystery; I’m working at the machine shop.”
“Of course! I remember now! You’re the brave boy who wants to become a spaceman!”
Jaro detected the tinkle of mockery, which Lyssel sometimes used to relieve boredom, much as a kitten sharpens its claws on the best furniture. He gave a disinterested shrug. The gibe had caused no reaction; Lyssel became nettled. She blew out her cheeks and wrinkled her nose to imply, in a sophisticated way, that she found Jaro rather tiresome. But Jaro had been looking over her head toward the Pharsang, and failed to notice. Lyssel scowled. Jaro was a nimp, hence dull and sober. Sober? She eyed him narrowly, and asked, “Why are you smiling?”
Jaro looked at her innocently. She went on: “It’s not flattering to find you laughing at me.”
Jaro, now grinning openly, said, “If the truth be known, I was admiring the view.”
Lyssel’s delicate jaw relaxed so that her mouth sagged open. Mystified, she asked, “What view?”
“The Pharsang, with you standing in front. It’s like a page from an advertising brochure.”
Lyssel’s annoyance diminished. “So even a nimp can be gallant.”
Jaro raised his eyebrows, started to speak, checked himself, then asked, “Who are your friends?”
Lyssel glanced toward the two elderly gentlemen. “They’re persons of extremely high comporture: a Val Verde and a Kahulibah.” She looked to see if Jaro were impressed, but discovered only mild curiosity. She indicated the plump gentleman: “That’s my Uncle Forby Mildoon. The other, with the satanic goatee is Gilfong Rute. He owns the Pharsang, curse him!” Lyssel directed a disrespectful grimace against Rute’s back. Noticing Jaro’s startled expression, she explained, “He’s absolutely exasperating, and irrational, to boot.”
Jaro looked toward the gentleman in question. “He seems rational enough from here.”
Lyssel could not believe her ears. “You can’t be serious!”
“I’m just judging by the look of his backside,” Jaro admitted.
“That’s not the best way.”
“Well then: what does he do from the front that is irrational?”
“He has owned the Pharsang for five years and has taken her up into space only once. Does that sound sane?”
“He might be troubled with space sickness, or vertigo. Why do you care?”
“I care very much and so does my Uncle Forby! Mr. Rute promised to sell him the Pharsang at a very low price, but now he backs and fills, and quotes first one price, then another, all absurdly high.”
“It sounds as if he’s not ready to sell.”
Lyssel glowered toward Gilfong Rute. “If so, it’s most inconsiderate of him.”
“How so?”
“Because my Uncle Forby has promised to take me on a yearlong cruise as soon as he buys the Pharsang. But I’ll be old and wrinkled before that day comes!”
“Don’t fret,” said Jaro. “As soon as I get my own spaceyacht, I’ll take you out behind Wiggs’ Wisp for a year or maybe two.”
Lyssel haughtily raised her eyebrows. “You’d be required to bring my mother along as chaperone, and she might not want to go. She’s a High Bustamonte and is intolerant of the lower ledges. If she knew you were a nimp, she’d call you ‘schmeltzer’ and put you off the ship.”
“She’d put me off my own ship?”
“Yes, indeed, if she thought it correct.”
Jaro had nothing to say in the face of this assertion. Lyssel leaned back against the ship and studied her fingernails. She was becoming bored with Jaro. He was nice looking in a sanitary sort of way, but he lacked the flair and hell-for-leather panache which made certain other young men more exciting company. Jaro, she thought unkindly, was limp and timid, just like any other nimp.
Lyssel looked over her shoulder, wondering how her uncle Forby was faring in his attempt to influence Gilfong Rute. Not well, to judge by his sagging jowls.
Jaro asked, “What are they discussing?”
“Oh—just business,” said Lyssel airily. “Some sort of big construction development. If all goes well, and Mr. Rute invests, our problems are over. I’m supposed to help out by exerting my sweet blue-eyed innocence.”
Forby Mildoon rolled up the map; the two men entered the ship, with Lyssel following. At the entry she looked back with an expression of unreadable import, then disappeared within. Jaro shrugged and went his way.
Eight
1
Three days later both Hilyer and Althea were promoted to full professorships, with substantial increments of stipend. Their status was also augmented, to such an extent that they were elected into the Altroverts: an unconventional non-strivers club of intelligentsia, non-conformists, nimps in high places and other free-thinkers, and
even a few Lemurians.
The Faths pretended disinterest in their new status, but secretly they were delighted by the recognition, which they considered not only well deserved, but also long overdue. They even started to consider entertaining certain of their new associates at Merriehew House. “I haven’t really used my lovely candelabra in ages,” Althea sighed. “But also, Hilyer—please don’t grumble—there’s no denying that the old place needs to be smarted up both inside and out, and now we can afford it, there’s no further reason to put it off. Then when we invite folk, such as Professor Chabath and Dame Intricx over for the evening, we won’t be made to feel like vagabonds.”
“I don’t mind feeling like a vagabond,” said Hilyer, who had a tendency toward frugality. “If anyone cares to fix that interpretation upon my conduct—well, then, let them have at it!”
Althea was not deceived by her husband’s brave words. “Come now, Hilyer, I know that you enjoy dinner parties as much as I do, but you are just too stubborn to admit it.”
Hilyer laughed. “Yes and no. If you want the truth, I’m afraid of spending a great deal of money to no good purpose.”
“I don’t understand what you mean!”
“You remember that rumor twenty years ago, about new suburbs and expansions from town? Well, I heard a whisper of the same sort of talk yesterday and I believe that, sooner or later, it’s bound to happen.”
“But not for a hundred years!” protested Althea. “Thanet has already expanded eastward, over the hills and into Vervil. Why should it suddenly explode in this direction?”
“You may be right,” said Hilyer. “But if you’re wrong, then it’s to our interest to be out and away from the district before the congestion begins; and in this regard I had a casual offer for Merriehew house and grounds this morning.”
“Indeed! Who from?”
“From the same person as before: a real estate type named Forby Mildoon. He mentioned that he controlled several very nice homes in the Catterline district, and that if we could come up with ten thousand sols, along with what he called our old barn of a place, he’d let us have one of the houses. He pointed out that the houses were situated just over the hill from the Institute and hence very convenient.”
