by Jack Vance
The idea pulled him in different directions, and he felt a sour amusement for his own inconsistencies. No matter how brief the time, he wanted to share the pleasures of high comporture, while avoiding the hardships of clambering, toehold by vertiginous toehold, up the ledges. It was, he thought, an unreasonable and faintly discreditable yearning, though he could not ignore its existence. Practically, he should reconcile himself to staying at home, at the risk of denying himself a romantic memory. Jaro continued to feel troubled, no matter which direction he leaned.
A week before Dombrillion the graduating class gathered at a traditional afternoon assembly, for the purpose of socializing, photographing each other, signing yearbooks, making plans for the summer, and generally engaging in sad-sweet reminiscences for events of an era already lost.
Attendance was compulsory. Jaro dressed neatly, ordered his black mat of hair, and appeared at the assembly. The forecourt had been gaily decorated for the occasion with streamers, bunting, free-flight torpedo balloons, and the blazons of thirty clubs. To right and left long tables offered tarts, pastries, sparkling wine and fruit punch.
Jaro signed the register, surveyed the forecourt, then went off to the side and sat on a bench. He would remain for a period, then he would leave as unobtrusively as he had come.
Such were Jaro’s plans, subject to the changes dictated by events. As he watched the coming and going of his classmates, he became mildly puzzled. None were exactly as he remembered them. A transforming influence had been at work: age. He had not seen them for a year. No doubt they would observe changes in him as well, should they give him more than a cursory glance. But no one seemed to notice him, where he sat brooding and alone. Could the disgrace of his humiliation still cling to him? One way or the other, it made no difference. Jaro allowed a faint smile to twist his lips, though not a cheerful smile.
He sat back and watched the students moving about the forecourt. He saw neither Kosh, nor Aimer, nor Lonas, nor Hanafer. Lyssel came into view. She had been lost among a group of girls gathered across the court. They moved and swirled apart and she appeared, light-footed, almost dancing with mirth and excitement. She wore a charming dark green frock with a short pleated skirt and green knee-length stockings. Jaro could not control a twinge of emotion. It was neither lust nor yearning to possess—at least, not altogether—but, rather, a sad disquiet. Lyssel represented youth and life and frivolity, and all those phases of existence which for one reason or another had been denied him. With all her flaws she was immensely appealing.
Jaro watched her. She had not seen him, and clearly her mind was anywhere but on Jaro Fath, the odd nimp who wanted to be known as Jaro the spaceman. In Lyssel’s case there had been few changes. She was still gay, flamboyant, radiant with that verve which made men young and old want to hold her tight and immerse themselves in her magic.
Lyssel thought of something important: food and drink! She 33 detached herself from her friends and ran to the buffet, to make a selection from among the delicacies on display.
Jaro jumped to his feet and sauntered across the forecourt. When Lyssel reached for a brochette, her elbow struck an object which she saw to be a human arm. Looking over her shoulder, she became instantly still. Then, with graceful deliberation she put the brochette on her plate and spoke to the empty air: “I believe that I am in the presence of the reclusive Jaro Fath.”
A voice responded: “I’m Jaro, right enough, but I’m not reclusive.”
Lyssel looked around. “So it is Jaro, for a fact! And you are reclusive indeed! I haven’t seen you for months!”
Jaro laughed. “It’s you whom I haven’t seen for months. Are you reclusive?”
“Of course not!” Lyssel selected a pickled tree crab from a platter of assorted sea fruit. “I have been striving and studying and tumbling around the Cycle of Seasons, as convention dictates. Meanwhile, you have shrouded yourself in mystery.”
“My life has been anything but mysterious,” said Jaro. “I’ve been doing all my classwork at home and working all my spare time at the terminal.”
“Really? Then you haven’t disappeared because of that Black Angel affair?”
“Not directly.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“It’s too complicated to explain.”
Lyssel shrugged. She loaded her plate and took a goblet of wine; Jaro did the same and the two went to sit on a nearby bench.
Lyssel turned to look at Jaro, and never had her wide blue eyes seemed more innocent. “Isn’t it a shame how everyone likes to think the worst of someone else?”
Jaro agreed. “It is a shame.”
“They say that after you were taught your piddles and squeaks you were too embarrassed to appear in public, and that’s why you’ve been hiding all this time.”
“Wrong,” said Jaro. “Still, they can say it again, for all I care.”
Lyssel compressed her lips against a grin. “But, surely, the beating must have caused you some concern?”
“Well, yes,” Jaro admitted. “It’s hard to stay civil, when things aren’t going just right.”
Lyssel nodded wisely. “I wonder why you showed yourself today?”
“It’s compulsory. Also, I wanted to pick up my yearbook.”
“How so? You belong to none of the clubs and that is what the yearbook is all about; it reminds us of our striving.”
Jaro shrugged. “Someday, when I am wandering among the outer constellations, I’ll look through the yearbook and wonder how far these hopeful faces have striven up the ledges.”
Lyssel grimaced. “What an eery thought! You make me feel all squirmish.”
“Sorry.”
Lyssel became vexed. “You are the most extraordinary person I know! I look in your face and I find only a mask of mysteries!”
Jaro raised his eyebrows. “The same could be said of you, with all your secrets.”
Lyssel decided to treat the remark with hauteur. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Then listen! I will ask a simple question, which you cannot misunderstand. Will you answer?”
“Maybe. What is the question?”
“You wanted me to do something for you. What was it?”
Lyssel laughed. “It was something trivial, and now I remember what you wanted me to do in return.”
“Oh! Something trivial as well?”
Lyssel showed him one of her most eccentric grimaces. “You wanted to seduce me and make me your clandestine lover. Is that trivial?”
Jaro smilingly shook his head. “And you agreed?”
“As I recall, we never came to any decision.”
“So—what was it you wanted of me?”
Lyssel shrugged. “It was long ago.”
“And the need no longer exists?”
Lyssel pursed her lips. “I didn’t say that. You might still be able to help me.”
“Under the same conditions as before?”
Lyssel, still in her frivolous mode, said, “Nothing has changed. I couldn’t tell you anything or do anything unless I were sure of you, which I’m not.”
Jaro held out his hand. “Notice! The fingers no longer shake!”
Lyssel gave him her empty plate. “Get me another goblet of wine, if you please. While you’re gone, I’ll try to think.”
Jaro took the plates to the buffet and returned with two fresh goblets of wine. “So: what have you decided?”
“I’m still thinking.” Lyssel took the wine and then, as if by impulse, leaned toward Jaro and kissed his cheek. “Thank you. You are sympathetic; I’ve decided that I like you.” Jaro carefully concealed his surprise. What swift new idea had come over Lyssel, so that suddenly she seemed soft and warm and intimate? In what direction was she now trying to lead him?
“All else aside, I’m still surprised to see you here,” said Lyssel.
“The occasion isn’t that dramatic,” said Jaro.
“Are you planning to attend Dombrillion?”
&
nbsp; “Probably not. What of you? Are you going with Hanafer?”
“No, and I’ve made this clear to him. He is furious, especially since I’ll probably go with Purley Walkenfuss, whom he considers his great rival, and who is already a Tin Chicken.”
On daring inspiration Jaro suggested, “Perhaps you’d consider going with me.”
Lyssel laughed incredulously. “Do you want to cause Hanafer a heart attack? He still hates you; it’s an obsession. If he found us together at the Dombrillion, I don’t know what he’d do.”
“Then you won’t go with me?”
Lyssel sat sipping wine, and looking off across the forecourt. Jaro waited, wondering as to the thousand small pieces she was fitting together to form a decision. Slowly she turned her head and appraised Jaro. “I can’t go with you to Dombrillion. There would be a great scandal which I can’t afford, just when I’m trying to slide up into the Human Ingrates.” Her voice trailed off. She jumped to her feet, and turned to face Jaro, who had also risen. “Something has occurred to me. It may well be for the best. Tonight my cousin Dorsen plays at a recital. I’m obliged to be on hand. You can escort me, if you like. You’ll be able to meet some of my family, including my Uncle Forby. You’ll like him; he’s Kahulibah and of no small consequence. After the recital, I think my grandmother is planning a supper in honor of Dorsen.”
“I don’t like the sound of this very much,” said Jaro.
Lyssel tilted her head and smiled her most winsome smile. “Jaro! I can’t go with you to Dombrillion, but you can escort me to the recital, which will be ever so much nicer.” She touched his shoulder and leaned toward him. “You’ll see! I’ll make it so!”
“How?”
Lyssel spoke in a soft voice. “Really, Jaro! Need you ask?”
“Hm. What time shall I pick you up, and where do you live?”
Lyssel hesitated. “We must be careful not to offend my grandmother; she’s a woman of very exact principles. I’ll tell her you’re a musician and we’ll meet at the conservatory; it’s at the back of Pingaree Park, beside the Vax Memorial.”
Jaro decided that the time had come to gauge the force and direction of Lyssel’s intentions. He hesitated, calculating how best to proceed. Lyssel misunderstood the quality of his hesitation. She spoke in a tumble of half-muffled words. “I should mention that the recital is an Institute function. No one can call you a nimp, or a schmeltzer; still, you will be occupying my social level, and meeting my admirable family, all of whom are persons of both gentility and comporture. I hope that you are pleased with the prospect.”
Jaro’s jaw dropped, then he laughed. “You have it exactly wrong. I’d prefer if you left both your family and your comporture at home. I want to take you out to Mountain Lake Lodge where we could eat fried fish, drink Blue Ruin and spend as much time in bed as possible.”
“Jaro!” cried Lyssel. “This is absolute fantasy! I’m committed to the recital!”
“No problem,” said Jaro. “After the recital we will make our excuses and go off by ourselves. Do you agree?”
Lyssel grimaced. “My Uncle Forby might very specially want you to join us for the supper.”
Jaro shook his head. “That’s not sensible! I don’t know your Uncle Forby. Now tell me; I must know! Is it yes or no?”
Lyssel sighed, threw back her head so that her tawny locks fell back over her shoulders, and gave him a look of mournful reproach. “Do you so urgently need to involve us in intimacy that you are willing to ignore the risks of scandal?”
Jaro paused to reflect, then said: “Not unless you too are willing.”
Lyssel was taken aback. She chewed her lip. “I hardly know what to say.”
“The risks can be minimized, almost to nothing,” said Jaro. “There are worse ways of spending an evening, as I suppose you realize.”
“That is not a flattering line to take, Jaro. Can’t you express yourself in more glamorous terms?”
“I can recite some cold facts.”
“Oh? So what are these facts?”
“I want none of your family, none of your Uncle Forby, none of your cousin’s music, nor your grandmother’s supper. It’s you whom I want.”
“Jaro, you are absolutely primordial, like one of our brutish ancestors who lived in a cave. What if I say no?”
“Then I say no to the recital, since I don’t want to meet your relatives.”
Lyssel sighed. “Well, let me think. I suppose I can avoid the supper, on one pretext or another.”
Jaro now understood that she earnestly and anxiously wanted him to meet Forby Mildoon, for reasons obscure. This was an interesting idea and he wondered at its import. Would she allow him to make love to her in order to fulfill this purpose? She might or might not be chaste, or semi-chaste, but she was definitely a teaser and he need waste no qualms on her behalf; Lyssel would do what was most entertaining for Lyssel. All in all, it was an amusing game. “So what is it to be? Yes? No?”
Lyssel nodded, but Jaro suspected that already Lyssel was formulating hedges and qualifications in case of need.
Through the portal came Hanafer with a group of his friends. Lyssel saw them and smiled sadly. “There’s a Daffy-Down-Dilly party tonight. Hanafer wanted me to attend. I refused, by reason of the recital. If he discovered that you had been my escort and that we had gone off afterward, he would be upset. But don’t worry; he won’t find out—at least, not from me.”
Jaro looked across the forecourt. “There he is now. Tell him as much as you like.”
Lyssel looked at him, startled. “You surely don’t want me to tell him!”
“I don’t mind. I might tell him myself”
Hanafer went to the registration table, then rejoined his friends. After a moment of badinage he moved off toward the buffet. Noticing Lyssel and Jaro, he stopped short. They stood in more intimate proximity than he thought either tasteful or appropriate. Hanafer’s golden eyebrows rose; his jaw thrust forward and he cried out: “Hoy there, schmeltzer! You don’t seem able to learn! You are grazing in the upper pastures again! Don’t you see the sign? It reads: ‘Gaks, moops, leps and schmeltzers: Keep out!’ So, cut your stick and hop off on the double, like the good little strankenpus you are. Quick now! Cut stick!”
Jaro said to Lyssel, “Hanafer at last has become intolerable.”
Lyssel uttered a nervous laugh. “Hanafer merely wants his own way. You had better go. Call me at home later.”
Jaro shook his head. “Althea Fath has explained how to deal with these situations. I must assure Hanafer that I mean no harm and explain the destructive force of anger. Hanafer will see his mistake and apologize.”
“Try if you like,” said Lyssel. “Here he comes.”
Hanafer stalked across the forecourt. He halted, spared Jaro a single sidelong glance, then took Lyssel’s arm. “Lyssie, let’s get away from here; I can’t stand the smell of schmeltzing. I think I’ve made this clear.”
Lyssel pulled her arm free. “Please, Hanafer! I get very tired of being yanked this way and that.”
“Sorry! But let’s settle down to a glass of wine and make our plans for Dombrillion.”
“Don’t waste your time,” said Jaro. “I’m taking Lyssel to Dombrillion.”
Hanafer’s face sagged in incomprehension. Jaro went on: “We also have plans tonight.”
“And what is happening tonight?” Hanafer spoke slowly in a nasal voice of maximum menace.
“It’s a recital at the conservatory, Hanafer, and beyond your mental capacity. Afterwards we’ll probably drive out somewhere for a midnight supper.”
Lyssel gave a choked laugh. “Wonderful! But don’t tease poor Hanafer; he’s quite angry enough.”
“Then you’re going with this ballygagger to the recital?”
“Truly, Hanafer, it’s none of your affair. I wish that for once you’d behave yourself.”
Hanafer clenched his fingers once, twice, then stalked away. Lyssel looked after him. She said softly, pensively: “
You’ve done something quite rash.”
“Oh? What?”
“You’ve started something that can’t be stopped.”
Hanafer had rejoined his comrades; the four stood muttering, occasionally glancing toward Jaro.
Lyssel shuddered. “They are like beasts, and they don’t mean you well. Aren’t you afraid?”
“Not at the moment. Where shall I meet you tonight? What should I wear?”
Lyssel dubiously gave instructions. “Suddenly I’m not so sure that this is a good idea. My mother is extremely genteel and not likely to be difficult. But my grandmother is imperious to such a degree that I’ve seen her despise a stately old Lemurian simply 39 because he took a cream tart from the tray instead of anchovy toast. As for your clothes, you will be safe in black with simple Belminster trousers. Wear nothing either green or spotted with orange. Be neat and polite, and remember that you are a musician.”
Jaro compressed his lips. “I feel as if I’ll be walking a tightrope.”
Lyssel came toward him. “No, Jaro! Tonight, tonight! I am excited! But all must go nicely, and you must get along well with Uncle Forby.”
“Very well,” said Jaro. “Tonight I shall demonstrate every aspect of high etiquette. I will eat anchovy toast and forego my new green cravat! For conversation, I’ll describe the suanola and maybe Tawn Maihac’s froghorn.”
