by Jack Vance
“Sunder was pleased when I told him of my discovery. He made his plans with care, since the three were wary. He captured them with my help and conveyed them to the summer home overlooking the shore where Tombas had built her magic palace.
“Obeying Sunder’s instructions, I took myself into the kitchen and set about preparing our dinner. Sunder led the three down to the beach and I went on with my work.
“In an hour Sunder returned, smiling. As we sat over soup, I asked what had happened. He explained without diffidence. The tide was now at low ebb. He had buried them in the sand up to their necks, facing out to sea, and left them to watch the incoming tide. But they would derive small pleasure from their own deaths and might not even drown, as the sand crabs would find them at once.
“As we ate, we spoke of the future. He told me candidly that he had become accustomed to me, and that I had come to represent the daughter he had seen vanish into the murk of her own imagining. He wanted me to live in his house; meanwhile, I could continue at Aeolian Academy. Or, should I be so inclined, I could become his assistant, and he would train me in the techniques of an effectuator, and this is what happened. I took extra courses at Aeolian Academy, and they gave me an early certificate. I helped Sunder in his work, and—far more importantly—I took the place of poor dead Tombas, who had killed herself by some means that was still beyond our understanding.
“Sunder taught me as much about effectuating as I could assimilate. He emphasized that in the main, the work consisted of gathering information and fitting it together, though at times it could be dangerous. He put regular sums into my bank account until it reached five thousand sols, which he said should cover most contingencies, if he were not around to deal with them himself.
“Four months ago Sunder was sent on a mission to the world Morbihan, in the back region of Aquila, where he was killed by bandits.
“His younger brother Nessel inherited the house and told me that I must leave, the sooner the better. He confiscated my bank account claiming that five thousand sols was far too much. He allowed me a thousand sols, which he said must suffice.
“I departed the Sunder house with very little more than my clothes. I discovered that I was homesick, and so here I am: once more a Clam Muffin but otherwise destitute, since my father as usual is surviving by miracles of juggling invisible bank accounts. In a week he’ll be off to Dimplewater on Ushant, to a conclave of xenologists, or something of the sort. How he proposes to finance the junket I can’t begin to guess.”
“So, you’ll have Sassoon Ayry to yourself while he’s gone?”
Skirl laughed. “It’s the same as before. He wants to close the house, to save maintenance costs.”
“So what will you do?”
“I intend to become an effectuator.” Skirl spoke defiantly, as if she expected either amusement or a challenge.
Jaro formed his reply with care. “Do you mean, right away, or sometime in the future?”
“Right away. Don’t look so blank. I worked with Myrl Sunder. I learned a great deal.”
“The work is dangerous.”
“I know. Still, Sunder was killed not because he was an effectuator, but because he was mistaken for a rich tourist.”
Jaro frowned up into the green and blue parasol. “Before you can even get started, you’ll need to know Gaean law, police procedure, forensic science, criminal psychology, the arts of disguise, the use of weapons and technical equipment. Most of all, you’ll need capital for working expenses.”
“I understand all this.” Skirl rose to her feet. “I am going to the library. I want to find how to qualify for an effectuator’s license. I have probationary papers issued at Glist, and they may be valid here.”
The two left the café, and paused in the street. Jaro said tentatively: “When the Faths leave for Ushant, I’ll be alone at Merriehew. If you like, you can move in with me. There is plenty of room, and you can have as much privacy as you wish.”
Skirl seemed to ponder. Jaro went on. “When the rain comes down during the evening and the wind blows through the trees, it’s very pleasant to sit before the fireplace, dining late and listening to the storm.”
Skirl pursed her lips and looked aside. She said at last, “I can’t think of any reason to do so.”
“Nor I, really.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“It was an act of daring folly.”
Skirl shrugged. “If I get bored—or cold, or wet, or hungry I might look in.”
5
The Faths would travel to Ushant aboard the great passenger packet Francil Ambar. Having made many such excursions, they both were packed and organized the day before their departure, and so were able to spend a quiet evening with Jaro.
Hilyer spoke of the Great Conclave at Dimplewater. “To be honest, up to a month ago, I knew very little regarding Ushant—only that it was a soft, kind world, hospitable to tourists, with a highly civilized population. The tourist brochures use the words ‘delectable’ and ‘paradise-in-being.’ Last week I went to the library and discovered a great deal more.” Hilyer settled back in his chair and told Jaro what he had learned.
“Ushant has been located and explored since five thousand years ago, and from the first has been considered a world congenial to human settlement, with magnificent flora and an almost total absence of noxious fauna. Where the River Leis joined the River Ling, the combined waters had flooded a vast plain of hummocks, dips and hillocks, to create a region of innumerable small islands. The original settlers built their airy palaces upon these islands, in gardens of bargeoaks, nenuphars, sparkle-tufts, cedars, deodars and flowering dendrons. In time the area became fabulous Dimplewater, City of the Thousand Bridges.
“From the beginning, the folk who came to live on Ushant were a special sort: ‘well-educated, strongly individualistic, with an aversion for the swarms and clots of humanity which had once pressed in on them—pulsing, breathing, smelling of humid flesh, raucous with noise, vile as their own swarms of pet animals,’ as Ian Warblen, one of the early settlers, put it.
“Today the folk are intensely sophisticated and sensitive to all the aesthetic nuances. They collect beautiful objects and make them part of their living experience. Still, their most distinctive trait is an extreme autonomy, which prompts them to live alone.
“This privacy is modified, from time to time. They belong to yacht clubs and enjoy regattas on the central lagoon; they constantly attend seminars upon arcane subjects; they take their children out into the backlands on camping trips. Occasionally they will participate, either as hosts or guests, at intimate dinner parties, where no more than five persons are present. These will usually be folk who share a mutual interest, the more esoteric the better. At such events the cuisine is superb and the etiquette ritually exact. Off-worlders are seldom invited; when this is the case, their solecisms give rise to wry comments.
“Love affairs are both intense and highly romantic though of short duration. Children are nurtured in crèches with little parental attention.
“As individuals, the folk of Dimplewater are polite, though the off-worlder often finds them a bit cool. Their most distinctive trait is not at all obvious. This is the fact that each lives psychologically alone, as if he himself were an island.
“Very odd,” said Jaro. “It seems something of an affectation.”
Hilyer shrugged. “It is more serious than mere social panache. Everyone is rich; everyone is proud; no one feels a need for social support, so each person lives his life and celebrates his tamsour alone.”
“ ‘Tamsour’?” Jaro was again puzzled. “What is ‘tamsour’?”
Hilyer leaned back in his chair, looked toward the ceiling and spoke in the ponderous voice he reserved for important topics. “If I could answer that question, I’d rank as the foremost xenologist of the Gaean Reach. It is an idea which baffles off-worlders, tourists and sociologists alike. Still, I can describe ‘tamsour’ and some of its effects. It seems to mean the t
otality of one’s life, condensed into a single drop of essence, a single profound symbol, a single moment of total enlightenment. But these are words and tamsour can’t be put into words.”
“It sounds like a spasm of hysterical revelation,” said Jaro.
“To a certain extent. But the tamsour has extraordinary power, so that society at large acts like a mass of radioactive material. At random intervals one of its components becomes unaccountably overstressed and explodes in a great gout of energy. This person always provides a dramatic peroration; it is expected of him and he seldom disappoints. Tamsour is the theme; and the substance is usually personal aggrandizement, sometimes a bit of self-pity, but never apologies for past misdeeds, real or imaginary.”
Hilyer took up a cartridge from the table. “I have here the record of one such peroration.” Hilyer dropped the cartridge into his sound reproducer. “You will hear a man speaking to an attentive audience. The man is abnormally excited; he is overstressed and beyond reason. Presently he self-destructs, as dramatically and poetically as possible. The episode arouses wide critical interest and is discussed in murmurs of knowledgeable analysis.”
“Odd.”
“Ha!” said Hilyer. “You haven’t heard the worst of it. Sometimes the death-seeker gathers quantities of beautiful goods: rugs, porcelains, rare wood filigrees, bibelots, ancient curious. Often he heartlessly confiscates such precious objects from his friends and neighbors, taking care to seize their most treasured possessions. He heaps these priceless objects around a central pylon and sets them ablaze, dancing a jig on a high platform, singing out his own requiem. Listen: this is the declamation.”
Hilyer touched a button on his instrument. A sonorous voice cried out: “Here I stand, the darling of time, the king of light, the soul of love, the blissful, precious and beloved core of all being! I am the preeminent one, who was destined for great things! I knew it; everyone knew it; it was self-evident. Now, where is the golden promise? I cry out against injustice; it is rampant in the cosmos and at last it has tricked me, so that I see no choice except to end the entire sorry mess. But if I die not in victory, at least I stand resplendent in the glory of my tamsour! If the cosmos thinks to play this tragic joke upon me, the cosmos shall suffer more than I, since I go out in a suffusion of beauty! This smoke I breathe, it is like incense; I am intoxicated with the beauty of my going! Let the cosmos beware! The future is blank, but I shall glory in my sunset colors of death! I will be famed for my great tamsour! Now behold: I soar from my place on high; I fly in utter brave and parabolic elegance to the end of all!”
The voice ended. Another voice said without emphasis: “The gentleman Varvis Malapan has just plunged a hundred feet to his death, and so has consummated his tamsour. He is no more. The cosmos he ruled has disappeared, and is less than a void. It is gone, beyond memory.”
Hilyer retrieved the sound cartridge. “An occasion like this is uncommon. Perhaps one person in a hundred feels strongly enough about his tamsour to so dedicate his being.”
“I find it a bit eery,” said Jaro.
6
Jaro accompanied the Faths to the space terminal and saw them aboard the majestic Francil Ambar, then waited while the ports slid shut and warning lights shone from the start-off pods. The great shape rose into the air. Jaro, standing by the rail of the observation terrace, watched until the ship was lost to sight behind high clouds. For another five minutes he stood by the rail, gazing aimlessly across the field, into the sky and over the forest beyond; then turned and went to the machine shop.
“The Faths are gone,” he told Gaing. “I feel useless and dull. Perhaps I’m more dependent upon them than I like to think.”
Gaing poured him a cup of tea. “So what’s on your schedule?”
Jaro sipped the tea and seemed to derive energy from the bitter brew. “The usual: work, workouts with Bernal. I’m just starting to get the hang of what he calls the ‘low trapezoid.’ ”
“Learn well! The trick may save your life some day.”
Jaro flexed his arms. “I feel better already. Have you had your lunch?”
“Not yet.”
“Then let’s step over to Sad Henry’s; it’s my turn to buy.”
Over lunch Jaro told Gaing of Skirl and her problems. Gaing was impressed. “She sounds like a girl with spirit.”
“Worse than that; she’s a Clam Muffin.”
“You have Merriehew to yourself; why not invite her in to keep house for you?”
“The thought has occurred to me,” Jaro admitted. “It’s an impractical daydream at best. At worst, I’d be doing all the cooking and the washing-up as well.”
Gaing nodded soberly, but made no comment. Jaro went on. “I’m not sure how it would work out. She might distract me from what I really want to do, which is to find out where the Faths first came upon me.”
“That should not be too hard.”
“Hah! The Faths have carefully muddled their records: they know I’ll be searching, and I’ve looked everywhere I could think of already. One day I found a note from Hilyer: ‘Jaro, please don’t make a mess of the papers in this drawer. Sometimes you are not too neat.’ ”
“What did you do?”
“I started to write below the message: ‘There would be less mess if I knew where to look.’ But I decided that this was undignified, so I put the note back the way it was.”
“This reminds me,” said Gaing. “I have some news for you. Do you remember Tawn Maihac?”
“Of course! He left without saying goodbye; I was afraid that something bad had happened to him.”
Gaing, intending a winsome smile, showed Jaro a twisted leer. “You were more right than wrong.”
“What happened to him?”
“I’ll let him tell you himself. He’ll be back in Thanet before long.”
7
The Faths were gone. Jaro was alone at Merriehew. The house seemed full of whispers, and Jaro’s footsteps rang hollow through the empty rooms. At night when he lay in his bed, he sometimes thought to hear echoes of Hilyer’s stately periods, or a whisper of Althea’s gurgling laugh, but more often the mutters and grumbles and twitters came, so it seemed, from the house itself.
Jaro telephoned Sassoon Ayry. He heard only a recorded message to the effect that the house was closed for an indefinite period, but that important inquiries might be directed to the secretary of the Clam Muffin Committee. Jaro placed such a call and asked for Skirl’s address. As he had expected, the information was coldly denied him. Jaro gave his name and asked that Skirl Hutsenreiter be notified that he had called. The voice said that his request would be duly processed, which Jaro took to mean a quick trip to the wastebasket. However, halfway through the evening Skirl reached him at Merriehew. Her voice was chilly and she came directly to the point: why had he called?
Jaro explained that he wanted to make sure that all was well with her, and he hoped that she had found accommodations to her taste.
Skirl said that at the moment conditions were satisfactory; in fact she was occupying her old quarters at Sassoon Ayry.
Jaro expressed surprise. He thought the house had been closed.
Correct, said Skirl. She had entered by a secret route and planned to maintain a covert residence until her father returned. There were disadvantages; for instance, she dared not use the telephone, nor otherwise advertise her presence for fear of alerting the guard who patrolled the grounds, nor could she gracefully receive visitors.
Jaro asked what she had learned at the library. Nothing encouraging, said Skirl. In her opinion, the requirements for an effectuator’s license—even a beginner’s permit—were far too rigid. She was not nearly old enough; she had not taken a degree in criminal law, nor yet had she trained with the IPCC. The “General Instructions” also noted that a substantial working capital was of the greatest importance. She had also been discouraged by the statement: “A competent effectuator must be able to mix unobtrusively into any and every social milieu, from t
he most squalid back-country brothels to the salons of beautiful and cultured artists. Danger frequently is rife.”
Jaro tried to lift her spirits. “There are bound to be challenges, but you are well equipped to cope with them.”
“In a back-country brothel?” snapped Skirl. “I am a Clam Muffin, after all!”
Jaro said thoughtfully: “You must select your cases with care.”
“Sometimes that is not possible,” said Skirl. She continued to read from the “General Instructions”:
“The skillful effectuator is a special sort of person. He combines high intellectual capacity, a protean social presence, ruthless executive skills. He is clever, creative, expert in the use of weapons. He must be immune to pain and adaptable to any cuisine, no matter how bizarre it may seem initially. MOST IMPORTANT! He must have at his disposal a working fund which—’ ”
Skirl threw the “General Instructions” aside. “In effect they deny me my learner’s permit, which would serve me as well as a license. I still have the certificate Myrl Sunder gave me; it will suffice.”
“What about the financial reserves and a legal degree? If you studied a term or two at the Institute, you’d have better qualifications.”
“Yes, so it might be, but the prospect does not appeal to me.”
