by Jack Vance
“I have a friend with a great deal of experience,” said Jaro. “He explained that the Institute is like a fancy aviary for tame birds. No one flies very far afield. The biggest bird sits on the highest perch. Everyone below must keep a wary eye cocked upward.”
Walter Imbald rose to his feet. “I am happy to have met you. If and when you are graduated from the Institute, please call on me again.”
Jaro took his leave and returned to Merriehew. The visit to Walter Imbald had been disheartening. Imbald, while perfectly correct in his conduct, had projected a mood of cold disapproval and even something close to dislike, as if Jaro, in defying the wishes of the Faths, had thereby revealed himself to be an ingrate and a vagabond.
Jaro sat brooding, his mind flitting from one set of ideas to another. He noticed, with a twinge of regret, that already his feelings toward the Faths were altering, and becoming abstract; in fact, he could not avoid a low-key resentment for their attempts to coerce him into a structured style of life, where he could never be comfortable.
Perhaps they had loved him not so much for himself but as the ideal exemplar of all their philosophical ideas, and if Jaro failed to conform to this ideal image, then he must more or less subtly be punished. Still, he would not allow peevishness to distort his thinking.
What of Merriehew? Gilfong Rute had confidently situated his wonderful Levyan Zarda across the Merriehew acreage; the act seemed more than a little arrogant in its assumptions. Perhaps Rute foresaw no difficulties in dealing with an inexperienced young student. Perhaps a few thousand sols more or less, to be paid out to this student, was a negligible item in the full tally of Rute’s putative expenses. Perhaps there would be attempts to awe him, or employ agents of intimidation. In any event, there was no point in considering renovating, or even so much as a new coat of paint, until the issues had been clarified. And what of the most disturbing development of all, which was Tawn Maihac?
Jaro telephoned Gaing at the space terminal. “Jaro here.”
“Yes, Jaro?”
“Have you had any news of Maihac?”
“Nothing more than what you already know.”
Jaro spoke again of Gilfong Rute and his need for Merriehew and its acreage for the Levyan Zarda development. “Rute seems very confident he can take up Merriehew whenever he finds it convenient.”
Gaing thought for a moment, then asked, “Do you have a will?”
“No.”
“I suggest that you make a will, now if not sooner. If you were to die tonight, Maihac would inherit, but Rute does not know this. He probably thinks that you would die intestate and that there would be no near relative, whereupon he would find means to acquire the property. So make a will at once, and let everyone know that a will exists. This is cheap insurance.”
In a subdued tone Jaro asked, “Do you really believe that Rute would have me killed to get hold of Merriehew?”
“Of course. Such things happen.”
Jaro wasted no time placing a call to Walter Imbald.
“Walter Imbald here.”
“This is Jaro Fath.”
“Ah, Jaro. What is the problem?”
“No problem, except that I want to make a will at once, this very afternoon.”
“That is possible. Is it a complicated will?”
“No, quite simple.” Jaro described the terms of the will. “If you will draw up the document, I’ll come to your office and sign it immediately.”
Imbald showed no surprise. “The will can be ready in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be there.”
Jaro took himself to Imbald’s office and signed the document which Imbald had ready for him. Imbald at last permitted some of his curiosity to show. “These legatees: Tawn Maihac, Gaing Neitzbeck—who are they? I know the identity of Skirl Hutsenreiter, of course.”
“Maihac is my father; Gaing Neitzbeck is a friend, as is Skirl.”
“And why the haste?”
“Gaing Neitzbeck advised it, when he found that Gilfong Rute might want to acquire Merriehew for a big development.”
“Ah yes! I understand his thinking. I agree. The will is a good idea.”
6
Jaro drove the Fath’s old runabout back along Katzvold Road, arriving at Merriehew House just as the sun sank behind the low hills to the west. He entered the house and stood for a moment in the hall. He felt restless and irresolute. Too many things had happened, or were about to happen or might happen; there was imminence in the air, and Jaro felt uneasy. He decided that he was hungry and went into the kitchen. He consulted the larder, wondering what to feed himself. Soup might be nice, along with bread and cheese, and a salad. He brought a carton from the pantry, then halted, listening. The sound of light footsteps running across the porch. A moment later the chime sounded. Jaro went to the door and opened it, to find Lyssel Bynnoc smiling up at him. Jaro stared, nonplussed; of all the persons he knew, here was the one he least expected.
Lyssel spoke, with a gay lilt: “May I come in, Sir Orphan?”
Jaro hesitated, looking her up and down. He stepped aside, and Lyssel, turning him a saucy side-glance, moved past him into the house. She was using her most beguiling mannerisms, which suggested to Jaro that she had some practical purpose in view.
Jaro thoughtfully closed the door and turned to look after her. Today she wore dusky-white pantaloons, tight at the hips, loose at the ankles and a pink blouse. Her hair was gathered into a tuft, tied with a pink ribbon.
Jaro asked formally: “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
Lyssel gave her hand a jaunty wave. “Oh—a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Also a dollop of curiosity, to see how you are managing your very own, very private, life.” Jaro studied her, as if she were a strange being from a far world. Lyssel protested, laughingly: “Jaro! Why do you look at me like that? Am I so startling? Or am I too plain for your taste?”
Jaro shook his head in bemusement. “Really, Lyssel! What do you expect? The last time I saw you was months ago. You gave me the leper treatment and were extremely supercilious. So now you come frolicking into my house, blithe as a tumble-bug, and I can only guess at your intentions.”
Lyssel grimaced, pursing her lips, wrinkling her nose. “Jaro! I’m surprised at you!”
“Oh? How so?”
“I’ve always considered you debonair, but now you glower at me and keep me standing in the cold hall. Wouldn’t it be nicer if you escorted me into the parlor, where I see a fire in the fireplace?”
“Oh, very well. Come along.” Jaro allowed Lyssel to precede him, and she at once went to warm herself at the fire.
“It’s a bit bleak in here,” said Jaro. “I’ve removed most of the old furniture. I’ll bring in some new pieces, if I stay on.”
“So—you’ve decided to live here? Or will you sell?”
“Nothing is certain yet.”
“My advice would be to sell—probably to my Uncle Forby. He’d give you far and away the best price.”
“He’s made me an offer already.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I told him no.”
Lyssel looked for a moment into the fire, then turned to face him. She put her hand on his shoulder. “I’m puzzled, Jaro.”
“About what?”
“You’ve changed! Something harsh and grim has come over you. Whatever happened to the Jaro who was so sweet and wistful, and who always seemed to be thinking dreamy romantic thoughts? I found that Jaro most sympathetic.”
“And that is what you came to tell me?”
“Of course not!” Lyssel gave her head an indignant toss, which sent her tuft of golden curls flying. “May I make a personal comment?”
“As you like.”
“You have become far too sardonic. Why are you laughing?”
“It was just a stray thought—not too funny, really.”
Lyssel relaxed, her suspicions lulled. “Whatever the case, I’m glad I came.” She looked around
the room. “Poor Jaro! You must be lonely. But then, you were always something of a solitary person. Even just a bit unusual.”
“Perhaps so.”
“I think that you should sell this dreary old bat-trap for what you can get, and move into a smart little apartment near the Institute.”
Jaro shook his head. “This place isn’t so bad—and it’s free.”
“It lacks panache.”
“Forby Mildoon doesn’t seem to mind. He’s desperate to buy, with or without panache. In any case, I won’t be starting at the Institute.”
Lyssel came a step closer. She looked up, her blue eyes searching his face, seeking trust and hope. “At one time I thought you were attracted to me, remember?”
“Of course I remember. I still am.”
“You told me that you wanted to gather me up and carry me off to bed.”
“I remember that, too. It seemed a good idea at the time.”
Lyssel feigned dismay. “Have I changed so much for the worse?”
“No, but now I’m afraid of Dame Vinzie.”
“Pooh! She’s just a funny old pussycat. Right now she’s probably in the kitchen playing Snap with the cook.”
Jaro turned away to place another log on the fire. Lyssel watched him intently, then went to sit on the couch. She patted the space beside her. “Sit, Jaro. Be nice to me.”
Jaro obeyed. Lyssel leaned against him. “Kiss me, Jaro. You want to, don’t you?”
Jaro obligingly kissed her, and Lyssel, sighing, pressed even closer, and Jaro was hard-put to maintain the chilly-minded detachment which, so he had resolved, must guide his conduct.
Lyssel looked up into his face with a melting blue gaze. “You’ll do as I ask, won’t you?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Jaro! Don’t be difficult! Kiss me again.”
Jaro kissed her, then asked: “What would you like me to do next?”
Lyssel sighed. “I don’t know. I’ve never felt like this before. You could do anything you wanted with me.”
“That’s a good idea. I’ll do it; in fact, we’ll do it together.” Jaro started to unbutton her blouse. She looked down and watched him. One button—two buttons—three buttons! One of her breasts appeared through the opening. Jaro bent to kiss it, then started on the other buttons. Lyssel restrained him. “First, Jaro, I want you to agree to help me; then you can do what you like.”
“Help you how?”
Lyssel looked into the fire. In a soft musing voice she said, “Today a wonderful scheme came to my mind, and it’s something I want more than anything else there is: more than being taken up into the Quantorsi, more than a grand house on Lesmond Hill. But I need you to help. It would also be to your benefit, since it would bring you a very handsome price for Merriehew.”
“That sounds too good to be true.”
“But it’s quite real and within reach! All we need is cooperation between us.”
“In what way?”
Lyssel looked mysteriously right and left, as if she feared eavesdroppers. “I’ll tell you a great secret. It involves Gilfong Rute and a company called Lumilar Vistas. They plan a large, very lavish, very expensive, development. It is called Levyan Zarda. Rute might want to use a part of Merriehew, but it would need expert dealing to extract top price from him, and for this job Forby Mildoon is very well equipped. Part of the deal—in fact, this would be Uncle Forby’s commission—would include Rute’s spaceyacht, which he never uses. It is a splendid ship, a Fortunato Glitterway, and it’s like new. If Uncle Forby is able to secure the Pharsang, he will take me on a long cruise: down through the Pandora Chromatics, and the Polymarks and perhaps even down to Xanthenoros. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
“Very wonderful. How do I fit into these plans? Am I invited on the cruise?”
Lyssel thought for a moment. The idea, so it seemed, had not previously entered her mind. As he watched, Jaro’s erotic fervor began to diminish. Lyssel made a small gesture, as if to dismiss a triviality. “I can’t speak for Uncle Forby, and of course it will be his yacht. But that’s a long way off.” She nuzzled him. “Must we talk of such things now? You need only assure me of your faith.”
“Yes, but these side issues are important. For instance, would your mother and grandmother be joining the cruise?”
Lyssel frowned. “Really, Jaro! You ask the most extraordinary questions! They might very well join the cruise.”
“Would they approve of you and me sharing a cabin?”
Lyssel blew a vexed little puff of air from between her compressed lips. “The situation would be most awkward! I don’t know how it could be arranged, unless you shipped aboard as crew, and perhaps we could meet secretly, though Uncle Forby might not approve. No matter what else, you’ll surely get a generous price for Merriehew—probably more than the place is worth.”
“Let’s discuss that another time. Right now we have better things to do.” He unfastened the fourth and fifth buttons.
“No, Jaro!” cried Lyssel, pulling her blouse together. “We must be definite before we go another inch.”
“I don’t understand your plans; they are too complicated. For now, let’s put them aside.”
“The plan is simple.” From her pocket she brought a folded paper, a coin and a stylus. “You don’t need to think at all. Just take this sol, and sign your name to the paper. Everything will be nicely arranged and we can relax.”
“What am I signing?”
“Nothing of consequence. Just what we have been discussing. No need to fret; just sign.”
Jaro turned her a quizzical side-glance and read the document:
I, Jaro Fath, in consideration of one sol, grant to Lyssel Bynnoc or her agent a five-year option to buy the property known as Merriehew, including its house and acreage, at a price to be negotiated, but which in no case shall be less than sixteen thousand sols, but may be as much as four thousand sols more, depending upon market conditions.
I append my signature.
Jaro, with eyebrows raised, turned Lyssel another side-glance, then carefully placed the paper on the fire, where it flared up and burned to a crisp. Lyssel pressed her hands to her mouth and gave a cry of consternation. Jaro said, “That’s out of the way! Let’s get on with our buttons.”
Lyssel jerked away. “You don’t care an ounce for me! You only want to do things to my body.” With trembling fingers she buttoned her blouse.
“I thought that’s what you had in mind when you came here,” said Jaro with unconvincing innocence.
Tears rolled from Lyssel’s eyes. “Why do you thwart me and hurt me so terribly?”
“Sorry,” said Jaro, grinning. “That isn’t what I had in mind.”
Lyssel glared at him, face pinched, eyes glittering. Before she could express herself further, the telephone across the room chimed. Jaro frowned toward the instrument. Who could it be? Jaro called out: “Speak!”
The face of a middle-aged gentleman, apparently of a mild and affable nature, appeared on the screen. “Mr. Jaro Fath, if you please?” The voice was cultured and rich.
“Jaro Fath here.”
“Mr. Fath, I am Abel Silking, of Lumilar Vistas.”
Jaro heard Lyssel gasp in agitation. “Jaro!” she cried in a husky half-whisper. “Do not speak with this man; it will ruin us!”
Abel Silking had been speaking. “I happen to be on Katzvold Road near Merriehew. I wonder if I might drop by for a few minutes, to discuss a matter of mutual interest?”
“Now?”
“If it is convenient for you.”
“No, no!” cried Lyssel in a furious undertone. “Don’t let him come here! He will spoil all our plans!”
Jaro hesitated, recalling Lyssel’s unbuttoned blouse and the unfinished business it represented. But much of his ardor had receded. Lyssel started to whimper: “Jaro! Think! Only think what it means! Think of us together!”
“You make too many conditions.”
“No conditions! Take me! Then
you’ll do what is needful from sheer joy.” Jaro winced. How cheaply they held him; how easily they thought to seduce him! It was humiliating. The last flicker of desire vanished.
Silking’s voice had been coming from the screen: “Mr. Fath? Are you there?”
“I’m here,” said Jaro. Lyssel sensed his purpose. She had been defeated. Her dreams were exploded; her glorious hopes in a twinkling had become nothing more than dismal memories, dry as dust. Jaro heard her run across the room, out the front door, along the porch and away. He turned back to the telephone. “Mr. Silking? You can come if you like. I don’t think you’ll gain anything, since I’m not ready to make any commitments—but I’ll listen to you at least.”
“I will be there shortly.” The screen went blank.
Five minutes later the door chime sounded. Jaro admitted Abel Silking, and conducted him into the sitting room. Once again he apologized for the spartan ambience of his household. Silking made an absentminded gesture, to signify his lack of interest in the condition of Jaro’s house. He wore a fine pearl-grey suit, almost a match for his glossy gray hair. His face lacked notable characteristics, being smooth, urbane, with a waxen skin, a small pale mouth under a gray wisp of mustache. Below the quizzical arch of his eyebrows his eyes were mild and attentive.
“Mr. Fath, first let me offer the sincere condolences of myself and of Lumilar Vistas.”
“Thank you,” said Jaro. While formidable. Silking seemed less shifty than Forby Mildoon.
“Nevertheless life goes on, and we must continue to swim with the flow of events which, for better or worse, cannot be avoided.”
“Here, you must speak for yourself,” said Jaro. “I’m in no hurry to jump into this current, or flow—whatever you call it. Splash about to your heart’s content, but don’t involve me.”
Abel Silking smiled a prim smile. He glanced around the room. “I deduce that you are planning either to renovate, or rent or sell.”
“My plans are very loose.”
“I understand that you are starting classes at the Institute?”
“I think not.”
“And what will you do with your property?”
