Night Lamp

by Jack Vance

“Oh—probably as much as fifteen thousand, though you’d have to act quickly before the bottom falls out of the market.”

  Odd how eager Forby Mildoon’s eyes had become, thought Jaro.

  “For just the house? And I keep the acreage?”

  Mildoon’s face expressed shock and injured dignity. “Of course not! I’m quoting for house and acreage together.”

  Jaro laughed. “There’s five hundred acres of beautiful forest and meadow out there!”

  Mildoon made an incredulous sound. “Five hundred acres of stone and muck is closer to the truth! It’s a breeding ground for stimps and leeches: sheer sodden wasteland.”

  “The price is far too low,” said Jaro. “Not nearly enough for my purposes.”

  Mildoon’s glossy bonhomie began to wear thin and his voice sharpened. “Just what, then, is your figure?”

  “Oh—I don’t know. I haven’t given the matter any thought. I’d probably want something closer to thirty-five or forty thousand, or more.”

  “What!” Mildoon was scandalized. “I can’t raise that kind of money! We must be realistic; these are the stern facts of life. If I gave you as much as twenty, or even nineteen thousand, my family would lock me away in a padded cell!”

  “Your family is a ferocious tribe,” said Jaro. “As I recall, you are related to Dame Vinzie Bynnoc.”

  “Well—yes. She is truly a grand old lady, and an inspiration to everyone! But back to Merriehew—”

  “All taken with all, I am not yet ready to sell.”

  Mildoon ruminated, rubbing his chin. “Let me see. I suppose I could noodle a bit here and doodle a bit there and take this rundown old place, and the acreage, off your hands for seventeen or eighteen thousand. Call it kindly benevolence, if you like.”

  “Rundown or not, the house is where I can live, until I decide what to do with myself. In the meantime, the market may improve, or someone may make me a better offer.”

  Mildoon became instantly alert. “Have you had other offers?”

  “Not yet.”

  Mildoon squinted thoughtfully up at the ceiling. “Needless to say, my time is worth money, and I can’t chase acorns up and down Katzvold Road. If you’ll close the deal now, I’ll go as high as twenty thousand. The price is good for about five minutes, then it drops again.”

  Jaro looked him over curiously. “I gather that you are buying for your own interests?”

  “Only as a wild speculation, which I don’t know how to justify.”

  Jaro laughed. “Don’t worry an instant about your recklessness. I don’t plan to sell.”

  Mildoon inquired plaintively, “Why are you asking so unreasonable a sum?”

  “I want to finance some extensive space travel.”

  Mildoon pulled at his chin. “I will pay five thousand sols for a three-year option. This may be your wisest move! If you like, I’ll write out the document here and now and place five thousand sols in your hand! Doesn’t that sound like an attractive deal?”

  Jaro smilingly shook his head. “It’s worse than ever. Why do you want the property so badly? Because of Lumilar Vistas?”

  Forby Mildoon blinked rapidly. “Where did you hear of Lumilar Vistas?”

  “Simple enough. Clois Hutsenreiter sold Yellowbird Ranch to Fidol Combine, which sold out to Lumilar Vistas, to your great disadvantage, so I am told.”

  “ ‘Told’? By whom?”

  “By my father. He saw a notice to this effect in the newspaper.”

  “Stuff and nonsense! Sheer bullypup!”

  Jaro shrugged. “Maybe yes, maybe no. I don’t care one way or the other.”

  Forby Mildoon jumped to his feet and with minimal civility departed Merriehew.

  3

  Halfway through the afternoon Jaro received a telephone call from Skirl Hutsenreiter. He asked, “Where are you? I’ve been trying to call you for days.”

  “I’ve been staying at the Clam Muffin Club.” Her voice, thought Jaro, seemed flat and dispirited.

  “You should have called before! I’ve been worried about you!”

  Skirl’s voice remained cool and impersonal. “I’ve been busy with a hundred details. The house is sequestered, of course. The bankers locked me out, which is why I’m at the club.”

  “For how long?”

  “A week or so, I suppose. Everyone is being nice to me, since now I’m officially a homeless orphan. I don’t know how long the mood will last.”

  “What about money?”

  “I’ve been trying to find some—which reminds me of why I called you. My father’s lawyer is Flaude Reveless. He showed me a clause in the Yellowbird sales contract between my father and Fidol Combine. Father was conceded a small percentage of any further sale of the property, if it occurred during the next five years subsequent to the sale. Fidol sold to Lumilar Vistas and activated the clause, which Mr Reveless noticed; otherwise the clause would have been ignored and, indeed, Lumilar pretended that the clause was invalid because my father was dead. I said that I wasn’t dead and I wanted to collect the money before the bank found out about it, so Mr. Reveless and I went to the Lumilar offices to straighten things out. While Mr. Reveless explained matters to Gilfong Rute, I wandered around the Lumilar offices, and finally looked into the architect’s studio. On the walls hung drawings and sketches of Mr. Rute’s latest scheme: a very large and very luxurious development to be known as Levyan Zarda. There would be a magnificent club, with facilities of every kind, as well as about fifty private secluded manor houses. The rest of the property was designated ‘Outdoor Sport,’ ‘Swimming’ and ‘Wilderness.’ As I studied the charts I became aware of a most surprising situation: Levyan Zarda was situated on a block of properties which I recognized to be Yellowbird Ranch, Merriehew and the lands north of Merriehew to the river.”

  “This is remarkable news,” said Jaro. “It explains a great deal.”

  “Yes,” said Skirl. “I thought that you would be interested. In any event the architect discovered me in his office and became fearfully cross. He said that the drawings were confidential and that if Mr. Rute discovered me snooping about his private affairs, where he had already spent half a million sols, he would take definite steps to ensure my discretion. It sounded menacing. I told him not to worry, that I had seen nothing of interest, and I went into the outer offices to wait.

  “After a few minutes Mr. Reveless appeared. He told me that Gilfong Rute had grumbled a bit, but in the end had issued a warrant for the amount due. The next step was to place the money without delay into another bank, secure from the loan officers at my father’s bank, which we did. As a consequence, I have salvaged about twelve hundred sols from the estate. There is another four hundred sols in a small trust fund my father forgot to loot, and Mr. Reveless says that this is also at my disposal. The bank is going to allow me my clothes and a few personal possessions. What next? I don’t know, except that I’ll be starting my career as an effectuator, whether I’m licensed or not. What about you?”

  “I’ll be going back to work at the terminal; in fact, I’m seeing Gaing Neitzbeck tonight at the Blue Moon Inn.”

  “I thought that the Faths left you well off.”

  “So they did. I have a monthly income of five hundred sols from the investments, but I can’t touch the principal until I am forty years old. I still can’t finance space travel, even if I knew where to go. That could be your first job as an effectuator: discover where the Faths found me.”

  “I’ll think about it. It shouldn’t be too hard.”

  “So you say. I’ve been looking high and low. When can I see you?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t telephone me at the Clam Muffins; they won’t take your call.”

  “Just as you like,” said Jaro coldly. “In any event, thanks for the information regarding Lumilar and Levyan Zarda.”

  “Yes; I hope you will find it useful. Now I must go.” The line went dead. Jaro turned away, frowning and dissatisfied. The call had provided him much to think about; o
therwise, it had not been gratifying. Skirl seemed more remote than ever. What was he to make of the entrancing, if perverse, little creature?

  4

  As dusk settled into evening, Jaro met Gaing at the Blue Moon Inn, a combination saloon and restaurant at the edge of the woods, halfway between Thanet and the space terminal. The Blue Moon was the closest approach to a true spaceman’s saloon as might be found in the rather prim purlieus of Thanet. The patrons for a fact included genuine spacemen from the terminal, attracted by the cosmopolitan cuisine and the easy atmosphere. Also on hand were stylish young couples of middle status, hoping to discover intrigue, hints of exotic vice, the heady flavor of illicit adventure.

  Jaro and Gaing found a table in the shadows, where they were served tankards of beer and platters of pepper steak. Tonight Gaing was even more taciturn than usual, as if he were preoccupied with private concerns. Jaro was puzzled. Gaing’s temperament was seldom other than impassive.

  While they devoured their dinner Jaro told Gaing of Forby Mildoon’s visit to Merriehew House. “When he made his first offer, he was casual and seemed to care little whether I accepted or not. Gradually he became nervous, and finally he cried out in sheer misery that he lacked the money to meet my price; then he wanted an option. I began to wonder about his urgency. Then I thought of Gilfong Rute, and wondered no longer. I even felt sorry for Lyssel Bynnoc who took me to meet her uncle Forby Mildoon at the Conservatory. Poor Lyssel! Forby Mildoon never arrived; it was the day Rute had dumped him from Lumilar Vistas and the Levyan Zarda project. This morning he thought to steal a march on Gilfong Rute—but failed.”

  “Tragic,” said Gaing. “Very sad.”

  “This afternoon it all came clear. Skirl discovered that Gilfong Rute needs to spread his project across Merriehew. His plans are extremely secret. Mildoon would like nothing better than to whipsaw Gilfong Rute into a large settlement.”

  “Sweet revenge, indeed!” said Gaing. “Now you need only wait until Rute appears with an offer, and you can name your own price.”

  “The same thought has occurred to me.”

  Gaing pushed away the empty platter and called for more beer. Jaro watched him carefully, wondering what might be gnawing at his mind.

  Gaing turned half the contents of the tankard down his throat, then scowled off across the room. Jaro silently waited. Gaing swung back to stare fixedly at Jaro, who began to feel a quiver of uneasy guilt. He searched his mind, but could recall no recent mistakes.

  Gaing spoke. “I have something to tell you; I don’t know where to start.”

  Jaro became more alarmed than ever. “Is it my work? Have I done something wrong?”

  “No, nothing like that.” Gaing tilted his tankard again and set it down with a thump. He growled: “It’s something you know nothing about.”

  “That’s a relief, or so I suppose. Tell me what it is.”

  “Very well.” Gaing signaled for more beer, which arrived immediately. Gaing drank and set down the tankard. “You’ll remember that Tawn Maihac brought you to the machine shop.”

  “I remember, of course.”

  “He introduced you to Trio Hartung and to me. You became my apprentice.”

  “I remember that too. How could I forget?”

  “The arrangement was not accidental. Maihac and I are old shipmates. We found that you had been brought here by the Faths. We expected that the man who killed your mother might come here to kill you. His name is Asrubal. We waited and watched, but Asrubal did not come, and you are still alive. We consider this a success.”

  “Yes; it is nice,” said Jaro. “I like being alive. Why should Asrubal want to kill me?”

  “Asrubal would not kill you outright. First he would question you with great care. He wants to find some documents and he thinks you know where they are hidden.”

  “Ridiculous! I know nothing of the sort. I don’t remember anything.”

  “Asrubal probably realizes this, which is why you have led a placid life.”

  “It doesn’t seem placid to me. But why should you and Maihac worry so strenuously about keeping me alive.”

  “No mystery! I worry because I do not want to train another apprentice. Maihac worries because he is your father.”

  “My father!” Jaro, after an instant, was not as astounded as he felt he should be. “Why didn’t he tell me himself?”

  “Because of the Faths. You were part of the family and everyone was happy; the truth would have brought the Faths much distress and grief. Now they are gone, and there is no reason why you should not learn the truth.”

  “So why did Maihac leave Gallingale?”

  “Many reasons. I’ll let him tell you himself; he’ll be back very shortly.”

  “And when he comes back to Thanet—what happens next?”

  Gaing shrugged. “I suspect he has plans of a sort, but what they are I have no idea.” He rose to his feet. “Now I’m going home, because I do not want to talk anymore.”

  5

  By noon of the next day Jaro had finished his house-cleaning. Out the door had gone threadbare old rugs, sagging furniture, a great deal of accumulated detritus from attic and cellar. Finally, little of the Faths’ remained to haunt the house save for Althea’s candlesticks, which Jaro knew he could never discard.

  Jaro sat down to decide what to do next. He was interrupted by a call from the Faths’ lawyer, Walter Imbald. After making polite inquiries as to how Jaro was coping with his new position in life, Imbald said, “I have on hand a letter and a parcel which Hilyer and Althea Fath intended that I should deliver to you, under certain circumstances. Do you care to call at my office?”

  “I’ll be there at once,” said Jaro.

  Imbald maintained a modest office halfway along the Flammarion Prospect. A female clerk of uncertain age and severe disposition announced Jaro to Imbald, then took him into the inner office. Imbald rose politely, and Jaro saw a middle-aged gentleman, slight of physique, keen of feature and sharp of eye. Strands of mouse-brown hair had been marshalled sternly back across his scalp. His emblem denoted membership in the obscure and dull Titulary’s Club, while a small black and green button indicated association with the more lively Brummagems. His comporture therefore would be limited, not at all fashionable but sedate, solid and consequential: a ledge or two short of the Squared Circles, much less the Lemurians or the Val Verde. Imbald greeted Jaro without effusiveness, and indicated a chair. “Please be seated.” He resumed his own place. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been waiting for you to call.”

  “Sorry,” said Jaro. “I’ve been busy sorting myself out. Everything has come at me in a rush.”

  Imbald nodded briskly. “As you must know, the Faths bequeathed everything to you, without qualification. Their assets are conservatively invested, providing you a very handsome income. The principal, I might add, cannot be adjusted or tampered with until you are forty years old, and presumably at an age of discretion. This stipulation was inserted at my earnest importunity. In any case, the Faths contrived to make you a very fortunate young man.”

  Jaro said stiffly, “I am properly grateful, though I would much prefer to have them back.”

  “They were fine people,” said Imbald, without any fire of conviction. “What, may I ask, are your plans for the house and property?”

  “I’m in no hurry to make up my mind.”

  Imbald pursed his lips judiciously. “Just so. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call on me. But now to our principal business. About three months ago the Faths put a letter and a parcel into my custody. I will give you the letter now.”

  Imbald opened a drawer of his desk and brought out a long brown envelope which he handed to Jaro. “I do not know the contents of this letter. I assume that it pertains to the parcel which was also put into my care.”

  Jaro read the letter.

  “Dear Jaro: This is written as a hedge against a set of highly unlikely circumstances: which is to say, the sudden death of both of us. I
f you read this letter—the Pates forfend!—it means that these unlikely and sorrowful circumstances have cataclysmically come to pass, and we therefore mourn (along with you, so we hope) the passing of our lives. We are now talking to you from beyond the vale! A strange thought, as I sit here writing this! But, as you know, we try to be both logical and providential. It is foolish to leave anything to chance, when this element can be eliminated. So—if you read this, the event we all deplore has occurred, and we are dead! Nor, on a less awful scale, will you have finished your curriculum at the Institute. We recognize that you are susceptible to impulses which might propel you out upon a wild crusade in search of your origins, before you take your degree. We believe this to be inadvisable, and hope to make a rational sequence of events easier and hence preferable to you.

  “Be assured! We sympathize with your anguish, and we are reluctant to be the agents of your frustration, but we are convinced that it is in your best interests that you gain that education which will establish for you a solid and respected place in society. It is an excellent thing to have earned a degree at the Institute!

  “So, to this end, we have placed the information which is yours by right in a trust account, which will be opened to you the day after you are graduated from the Institute with representative honors.

  “Naturally we hope that you will never read this letter. On the day following your matriculation you will be mystified by the little ceremony we make of its burning.

  “Your loving foster parents, Hilyer and Althea Fath.”

  Jaro looked at the lawyer. “I do not intend to continue at the Institute.”

  “Then you will never receive the parcel placed in the trust account.”

  “Is there no way to bypass these provisions? Neither Hilyer nor Althea Fath fully understood the urgency which presses on me.”

  The lawyer inspected Jaro curiously. “If I may ask a personal question, why not obey the wishes of your foster parents? They seem reasonable enough, and there are many worse fates than a career at the Institute.”