by Jack Vance
“True. But I hope to make changes. Perhaps you can advise me.
Gaing nodded. “I can indeed. The skills are like any other. They must be learned, then practiced, until they become second nature. However, you are in luck. The skills can be taught and there is a qualified instructor at hand. I refer to myself. At one time I thought to make a career with the IPCC, but events interfered. If you want to know the truth, they ejected me, on grounds which were almost trivial. They claimed that I was unconventional and obeyed orders only when it suited me.”
“Preposterous,” muttered Jaro.
“I also had occasion to contend with probably the most vicious race extant in the Gaean Reach, or—as in this case—Beyond. I learned and I survived. Today I am slow and lubberly compared to myself of twenty years ago, but my mind is still adroit and what I know you shall learn, if you are so motivated.”
Jaro said in a voice thin and reedy by reason of emotion, “I am motivated, and I wish to learn so badly that I am sick in the stomach.”
Gaing smiled. “I know your persistence. As soon as you are able to walk, we shall start. Meanwhile, read.” He laid a parcel of books on the bedside table. “Start with the compendium.”
Jaro delayed several days before informing the Faths of his plans. There seemed no gentle way of breaking the news. Jaro said, “I’ve decided to undertake lessons in self-defense. I hope that you’ll approve.”
Althea raised her eyebrows in pained surprise. “Have you really thought the situation through?”
“Of course.”
“It’s not the way of conciliation! It’s the same thing as equipping yourself with an arsenal of weapons, and surely someone will be hurt! Is it worth putting yourself into this position?”
“Ha hah,” said Jaro. “What of the position I’m in now?”
Hilyer, eyes narrowed thoughtfully, said, “I’m not sure I know what you mean by ‘self-defense.’ ”
“It’s simple enough. If I am attacked again, I want to be able to protect myself.”
“That sounds reasonable, on the face of it. But aren’t these tactics a form of bellicosity, and don’t they seriously injure your opponent?”
“No more than necessary, or so I should hope.”
Althea cried out, “That’s a vain hope, when someone lies crippled on the ground.”
Hilyer asked, “Where will you learn such skills?”
“I think you have met Mr. Gaing Neitzbeck, who works with me at the terminal?”
“I remember him well,” said Hilyer with a sniff.
Althea said, “He doesn’t seem a very cultured person.”
Jaro laughed. “Don’t let his appearance fool you. He’s intelligent and well informed. More than that he is competent. At one time he served with the IPCC and can teach me whatever I need to know.”
Hilyer was silent for a moment, then blurted, “Perhaps this is the wrong time to make careful ethical distinctions. You have been hurt. Make no mistake; I am as angry as you! But I want to take revenge through the designated channels of social accommodation. These are proper and permitted; in short, they are civilized.
I don’t want you to do violent deeds, as if you were a space vagabond or a pirate of the Beyond.”
Jaro said stonily, “I was attacked. I could not respond. I lay helpless on the ground. I would be wrong to let it happen again.”
Hilyer made a small gesture of defeat, and turned away.
Nine
1
Upon returning home from the hospital, Jaro continued to study the manuals which Gaing had brought him, and in due course undertook some of the exercises, gradually extending himself as his strength returned.
“At the start go slow and easy,” Gaing told him. “Work no more than ten minutes on any one exercise; otherwise your nerves go slack. Confine yourself to about six routines every session. Try first for accuracy, then speed. Do not become bored and ease up. Each routine is the basis of a combination, and must be practiced until it becomes reflexive. There is a long pull ahead of you; don’t lose heart.”
“I’m not complaining,” said Jaro. “In fact, I don’t know how best to thank you.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Still, I wonder why you spend so much time with me. I am grateful. Is there any explanation? If so, what?”
“The questions are reasonable,” said Gaing. “I can’t give you any single answer. At the moment I have nothing better to do. You badly need the training, and it would be a shame to waste good raw material. Then, self-interest is involved. I’d like to think that I am laying up credit for the future. Someday you might be able to return the favor. Also, in all the Gaean Reach I count only two friends. You are one of them.”
“Who is the other?”
“You know him. His name is Tawn Maihac.”
2
During the same week Jaro returned to school. His hair had not grown out evenly. He brushed it back as well as possible, but still could not subdue tufts or conceal pallid spots where the hair had been slow in growing back.
No matter, he told himself and went to his classes oblivious to the stares of the other students. In a day or two their attention would shift, and they would no longer notice him. In the meantime, he must accept the notoriety with detachment.
Jaro took his lunch in the cafeteria, then went out to sit on a bench at the side of the forecourt. Lyssel appeared and, after seeming not to notice him, changed her mind and came to look him over. “Hm,” she said. “They did a fine job on you.”
“They were thorough,” Jaro agreed.
Lyssel studied him carefully. “You seem quite debonair! It’s baffling! Aren’t you upset?”
“Such things happen. It’s best to be philosophical.”
“Don’t you understand? They made an example of you.” Lyssel’s voice was light and amused. “They took all your pride and now you are shamed.”[11]
Jaro shrugged. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Lyssel was aggrieved. “It affects me as well. My plans are now a muddle.” She turned him a crafty sidelong look. “Unless you are still willing to help me, as you promised.”
Jaro looked at her in disbelief. “What are you saying? I made no promises. You must be thinking of someone else.”
Lyssel said angrily: “You told me that you were fascinated and hypnotized! You showed me how your hands shook with emotion. That was you, Jaro Fath, so don’t deny it.”
Jaro nodded sadly. “I remember something of the sort. But the past is gone and done with.”
Lyssel’s face had become frozen, so that she no longer looked pretty. “Then you won’t help me?”
“Probably not, even if I knew what you wanted.”
Lyssel appraised Jaro as if she had never seen him before. Then her mouth became contorted and words seemed to erupt from her throat. “You are unique, Jaro Fath! You strut around school smirking and bland, as if you were nursing coy little secrets. You are like a whipped dog, smiling and cringing and curling its lip to beg for tolerance.”
Jaro grimaced and sat erect on the bench. He said, “I expect that someday I’ll find all this amusing.” Lyssel seemed not to hear. Her voice rose in pitch. “You gain no sympathy, showing yourself like this; in fact, no one can understand why you’re here! You’d be wise to pick up your books and leave.”
“That would be sheer folly! My next class starts in ten minutes; I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
Lyssel said scornfully, “You don’t care who sees you? You don’t care what anyone thinks?”
“Something like that.”
Hanafer Glackenshaw came out on the forecourt. He stood a moment in a majestic posture, shoulders thrown back, legs apart, arms clasped behind his back, tight golden curls glinting in the sunlight. He turned his head slowly, first to the right then to the left, allowing everyone a view of his noble profile. He saw Lyssel and Jaro and his brow clouded. He crossed the forecourt, his stride slow and portentous. Halting, he stared down at Jaro. “I see you
are back and busy as a bee.”
Jaro said nothing. After a meaningful glance toward Lyssel, Hanafer said, “Rumor has it that you’d been warned against grazing in forbidden pastures, where you hadn’t been invited.”
“Rumor is correct,” said Jaro. “That’s what happened.”
Hanafer jerked his head toward Lyssel. “Yet here you are, back again, snooping and sniffing around places where nimps aren’t welcome. Do you get my meaning?”
Lyssel spoke. “Hanafer, please don’t be unpleasant. Jaro means nothing wrong.”
“Bah!” said Hanafer. “He means nothing whatever. He smiles meekly; he licks his lips; he is not even annoyed. If he values my good opinion, he’ll do his socializing with the other nimps.”
Lyssel spoke with disgust. “Hanafer, you are really offensive!”
“Pah! What difference does it make? He doesn’t care.”
“Wrong,” said Jaro. “I am annoyed, but I don’t want to waste it just now. There’s no hurry.”
“You talk foolishness, and you’re probably mad. Well, that’s quite all right; be as mad as you like, just as long as you don’t come schmeltzing, because it won’t be tolerated.”
A bell sounded. Hanafer took Lyssel’s arm, but she jerked away and ran off across the forecourt, with Hanafer marching glumly behind.
Jaro watched them go, then picked up his books and went off to his own class.
3
Two months later the term ended. During the winter recess Hilyer and Althea went off on a short expedition to the Baneek Isles of the world Lakhme Verde, in order to record and document the so-called “Tymanghese” orchestras, which produced a music of tinkling waterbells, sound-spangles, quavering gongs controlled by a flexible reverberatory rhythm: a music which some compared to the surge and retreat of silver surf, others to “daydreams in the mind of Pasiphae the goddess of music.” On Lakhme Verde each village supported one or more orchestras, and almost everyone either crafted or played one of the exquisitely flexible instruments.
The music had long been intractable to the analysis of musicologists, and the Faths were determined to apply certain new theories upon the gorgeous textures of a sound which not even the musicians of the isles claimed to understand completely.
Jaro, meanwhile, worked to the limit of his energies, training himself in the techniques demonstrated to him by Gaing. He was impatient and constantly demanded new routines, new moves, new tactics. Gaing refused to yield until Jaro had perfected every phase of the old material. “You are advancing fast enough. I don’t want you to burn yourself out.”
“No chance of that,” said Jaro. “I feel that this is what I was made for; I can’t get enough of it; I won’t stop until I learn it all.”
“You won’t do that, for sure,” said Gaing. “Some of the systems are thousands of years old, and everyone thinks he has quicker and better moves than the old masters. I used to think that myself. I was probably wrong.”
“So—how far have I come?”
“You’ve done well. So far we’ve been keeping to relatively basic material—no acrobatics, no exotic combinations.”
“When do we start those?”
“When you develop the musculature and the body. By the time I’m done with you—or even before—your assurance index should be quite high. Meanwhile, we shall proceed methodically. After all, there is no hurry.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Jaro. “This will be my last term at the Lyceum. After that, I don’t know what will happen. The Faths won’t tell me where they found me until I graduate from the Institute.”
Gaing asked, “Don’t they keep journals which describe their expeditions?”
“I think so, but they’ve put them away, out of my reach. They say they’ll tell me everything once I get my degree, but I don’t care to wait so long.”
Gaing shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Let’s get back to the drill. That’s definite and real.”
The spring term at the Lyceum began. Jaro’s academic record was such that he was placed in a special classification, and allowed wide latitude in the scheduling and conduct of his courses. Jaro chose to study at home, reporting to his instructors weekly via the screenwriter. He was thereby freed to concentrate upon the ever more taxing exercises prescribed by Gaing. He began to notice changes in his body. His shoulders and chest deepened; his flanks, thighs, and haunches became hard as leather; his forearms, wrists and hands seemed belted over with sinew and the bones themselves had become dense and heavy. He had started to learn complicated combinations and exotic exercises, which could seriously injure an opponent unless controlled. Gaing insisted on speed, accuracy and balance above all else; as always, Jaro was not allowed to proceed into new routines until the old material had become as automatic as walking.
One day Gaing told Jaro: “You are now well into the third level of proficiency, which is solid achievement. Other levels are still ahead, and the field branches out into a hundred specialities, which are not relevant at the moment. I refer to horrifying sounds, illusions, powders and mists, photic adjuncts, miniature weapons, and the like; there is no end to the field. At the moment, it’s best that you continue with the fundamentals. You still have far to go, although you need no longer consider yourself a tyro. Increase your index of assurance, if you like.”
Jaro only grinned and continued his exercises.
On the same day Hilyer brought home an item of news which he had gleaned at the Office of Land Registry. As he sat down to his afternoon tea, he imparted the information to Althea and Jaro.
“You’ll recall that the old Yellowbird Ranch to our south at one time belonged to Clois Hutsenreiter?”
“Of course,” said Althea.
“Just so. A few years ago he sold the property to a syndicate, the Fidol Combine—for rather a low price, as I remember. Today, I happened to be in the land office, and out of curiosity I looked up Fidol in the registry. I found that most of Fidol is owned by Gilfong Rute, who is an eccentric millionaire and a Val Verde. Twenty percent of Fidol is held by Forby Mildoon, a real estate developer, or something of the sort. This is the same Forby Mildoon who tried to sell us the Catterline House. It all gave me pause to wonder. I asked a few questions and learned that Rute is a flamboyant type, with a penchant for imaginative investments, both on Gallingale and off-world.”
Althea asked, “Why should he want the Yellowbird land? It’s just wild country, much like our own, only not as pretty.”
“There are always rumors, but they never come to much. I’ve heard talk of a luxury development on the property, where only Sempiternals would be allowed. Rute wants to be a Sempiternal, but none of the three clubs will take him. He’s too unconventional for the Clam Muffins, and too domineering for the Tattermen. The Quantorsi have applications across three generations. Apparently he hopes to snoozle his way into the Sempiternals by means of the exclusive development.”
“That sounds strange to me,” said Althea. “How could he become a Sempiternal if none of the three will accept him?”
Hilyer shrugged. “Osmosis, or something of the sort. In short, I don’t have a clue, and it’s probably all a mare’s nest.”
Jaro said suddenly: “Forby Mildoon? He is Lyssel Bynnoc’s uncle. Rute has a beautiful yacht at the spaceport which he never uses; Lyssel told me that Forby Mildoon wants to buy it, but Rute quotes him all manner of fancy prices.”
“Evidently he doesn’t really want to sell,” said Hilyer.
Jaro went off to his schoolwork, while Hilyer and Althea looked in their reference works to learn something of the world Ushant, where during the summer break they would attend a Grand Conclave of Aesthetic Philosophers. Over dinner they asked Jaro if he cared to accompany them. “Ushant is a fascinating world in itself,” declared Althea. “The folk are said to support a philosophy which elevates awareness to its maximum sensitivity. The tactics of consciousness in themselves becomes a creative art.”
Hilyer added: “Don’t forget, that if you study fo
r a degree in aesthetic philosophy as we advise, the Conclave should be of great help to you.”
“If nothing else, you’ll make valuable contacts,” said Althea.
Hilyer nodded sage agreement. “We’ll be mingling intimately with authorities in many fields: anthropologists of all kinds, aesthetic analysts, cultural philosophers, savants of comparative art and parallel development, symbologists such as ourselves, and even Dean Hutsenreiter will be on hand. It should be an inspiring occasion.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Jaro. “At the moment I’m so busy I can focus only on schoolwork and my exercises.”
“Hmf,” said Hilyer. “How long do you intend to keep up these exercises?”
Althea said with a sniff: “Until he can maim some poor innocent person with a single touch of the finger.”
Jaro laughed. “I can do that now. Who do you want maimed?”
“Please be serious,” said Hilyer. “Certainly there must be a term in view.”
“I agree,” said Jaro. “But at the moment I’m just halfway into the subject, and the more I learn the more I want to know.”
Hilyer used his most sardonic voice. “I hope you’ll have some of that remarkable zest left for your work at the Institute.”
4
The fall semester ended. There was a two week break, then Jaro entered his final semester at the Lyceum.
Time passed swiftly. The most important social event of the year, the Dombrillion, a grand ball for the graduating class, would take place a week before commencement. The Dombrillion, an official school function, disregarded social difference, so that in theory everyone, from the lowliest nimp to the strivers clambering the high ledges might mingle in good fellowship; in practice, each club made plans for its own tables and ordained a special costume for its members.
The romantic overtones of the occasion, began to color Jaro’s imagination. He could not avoid wistful pangs at the thought of the parties and festivities from which he was excluded. It was by his own choice, he told himself If he truly so desired, he could attend the Grand Masque, without difficulty. For an escort, the girls of the Outsiders Club were ready to hand, and afforded a wide latitude of choice. These girls were a heterogeneous lot and included nimps, off-worlders, provincials, dropouts from halfway up the strivings, a miscellaneity, which included misfits, anarchists, religious zealots and semi-sociopaths. Many of these girls were quite charming; others were capable of unpredictable conduct. Some moped, wept, cursed or danced with great bounding leaps. Some made obscene gestures, and wore their hair in varnished horns tipped with incandescent bulbs. One girl had arrived at a formal ball wearing only the coils of a two-headed snake. Another, having taken excessive drink, had sung roaring sea chanties with the orchestra, though the orchestra at the time had been playing a sedate passicaglia. Still others were irrepressible madcaps. In the end Jaro thought it best to seek an escort elsewhere, should he, in fact, decide to attend the Dombrillion.
