by Jack Vance
Doneis raised his sparse eyebrows. “We need neither money nor further personnel, unless you can supply five dozen intensively trained persons of superlative intelligence. Problems of discipline arose at first; we are not accustomed to working together. Matters are now somewhat better. We pursue what may be a promising line of inquiry. Are you interested in the details?”
“Of course!”
“There is a long-known class of materials,” said Doneis, “which emerges from the retort as an extremely dense white material of waxy and somewhat fibrous texture. We call these materials the halcoids. They show a most curious propensity. When a surge of electricity passes through them, they alter to a translucent crystalline solid, with an appreciable increment in size. In the case of Halcoid Four, this increment is almost one-sixth. Not a great deal, one might think, but the change occurs instantly, and with irresistible force; indeed, if Halcoid Four is not altered under pressure, it accelerates its surface to such an extent that in effect it explodes. One of our number has recently produced Halcoid Four with its fibers parallel, and this we call Halcoid Four-One. Upon an electrical impulse Four-One expands longitudinally only, the terminal surfaces moving at a remarkable speed, which at mid-point we reckon to be about one-half light-velocity. It has been proposed that projectiles be formed of Halcoid Four-One. We are now performing tests, but I can announce not even presumptive results.”
Etzwane was impressed by the exposition. “What other lines do you pursue?”
“We produce arrows with dexax heads, exploded by contact; these are complicated and uncertain. We are striving to perfect this weapon, as it would prove effective at middle ranges. I can give you little more news; we have essentially only settled ourselves to our work. The ancients projected light strong enough to burn away vision, but these skills are lost; our power-pods, while durable, provide only small surges.”
Etzwane displayed the energy-pistol which he had obtained from Ifness. “Here is a weapon from Earth. Can you learn anything useful from it?”
Doneis scrutinized the weapon. “The workmanship is beyond our capabilities. I doubt if we could learn more than the fact of our own deterioration. Of course, we have no metals of rare and various kinds, though we do fine work with our glasses and crystals.” He somewhat reluctantly returned the pistol to Etzwane. “As to another matter: military communication. Here there is no lack of capability; we are skilled in the controlled pulsing of electrical currents; we manufacture coded torcs by the thousands. But the problems are still critical. To manufacture military equipment we must commandeer the facilities and skilled workmen currently manufacturing torcs. If we simply skim the torc factories of their best, then we risk producing faulty torcs, with possibly tragic consequence.”
“Is there sufficiency of torcs in storage?”
“Never; this is impractical. We use the codes of recent fatalities in the new torcs, to minimize the complexity of the code. If we did not do this, the codes might extend to nine, ten or even eleven colors: a great and obvious nuisance.”
Etzwane puzzled over the problem. “Is there no other less urgent industry from which workers might be diverted?”
“None whatever.”
“We have a single recourse,” said Etzwane. “Torcs are of no value to dead people. Produce the radios. The young people must wait for their torcs until the Roguskhoi are destroyed.”
“This is my own reading of the matter,” agreed Doneis.
“One last matter,” said Etzwane. “Aun Sharah has become Chief of Material Procurement for all Shant. Whatever your needs, you must now consult him.”
Doneis had departed. Etzwane leaned back on the divan to think. Suppose the war lasted ten years; suppose for ten years pubescent children were denied their torcs. They would then be almost his own age before they encountered adult responsibilities. Would they willingly give over their unbridled freedom? Or would a whole generation of hooligans be loosed upon the complicated structure of Shant? … Etzwane pressed the button to summon Thiruble Archenway … He pressed again. Into the room came the girl who had prepared the bouquet. “Where is Archenway?”
“He has stepped out for his afternoon wine. He will shortly return. Incidentally,” she added in a demure voice, “a distinguished gentleman sits in the hall, and it might be that he has come to speak to the Chief Discriminator. Archenway left no instructions.”
“Be good enough to show him in. Your name is what?”
“I am Dashan of the house of Szandales, a clerk in Archenway’s office.”
“How long have you worked in this capacity?”
“Only three months.”
“Hereafter when I press the bell, you will answer. Thiruble Archenway is insufficiently alert.”
“I will do my best to help your Lordship, in every possible way.”
As she left the room she turned a quick backward glance over her shoulder, from which much or little might be assumed, depending upon the mood of the person who looked.
Dashan of Szandales tapped at the door, then looked demurely through. “The gentleman Mialambre:Octagon, High Arbiter of Wale.”
Etzwane jumped to his feet; into the room came Mialambre: a man short and sturdy, if somewhat narrow-chested, in an austere gown of gray and white. His lordly head supported a stiff brush of white hair; his gaze was intense and somewhat minatory; he did not seem a man of easy congeniality.
Dashan of Szandales waited expectantly in the doorway. Etzwane said, “Bring us refreshment, if you please.” To Mialambre:Octagon he said, “Please sit down; I did not expect you so soon; I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“You are the Chief Discriminator?” Mialambre’s voice was low and harsh; his gaze probed every aspect of Etzwane’s appearance.
“At the moment there is no Chief Discriminator. I am Gastel Etzwane, executive assistant to the Anome. When you talk to me, you are, in effect, face to face with the Anome.”
Mialambre’s gaze, if anything, became more intense. Perhaps from juridical habit, he made no effort to ease the conversation, but silently awaited Etzwane’s remarks.
“Yesterday the Anome read your observations in the Spectrum,” said Etzwane. “He was much impressed by the scope and clarity of your viewpoints.”
The door opened; Dashan wheeled in a table with a pot of tea, crisp cakes, candied sea fruit, a pale green flower in a blue vase. She spoke over her shoulder to Etzwane in a confiding voice: “Archenway is pale with rage.”
“I’ll speak to him later. Serve our distinguished visitor his needs, if you will.”
Dashan poured tea and quickly left the office.
“I will be candid,” said Etzwane. “A new Anome has assumed control of Shant.”
Mialambre gave a grim nod, as if certain speculations of his own had been validated. “How was the event brought about?”
“To be candid once again, coercion was used. A group of persons became alarmed by the passive policy of the old Anome. A change was made; we now undertake to defend the land.”
“Not an instant too soon. What do you want of me?”
“Advice, counsel and cooperation.”
Mialambre:Octagon compressed his lips. “I would wish to learn your doctrines before committing myself to such an association.”
“We have no particular point of view,” said Etzwane. “The war must bring changes and we want them to occur in the right direction. Conditions in Shker, Burazhesq, Dithibel, Cape might well be altered for the better.”
“There you tread on uncertain ground,” declared Mialambre. “The traditional basis of Shant is looseness of association. To enforce a central doctrine must alter this situation, and not necessarily for the better.”
“I understand this,” said Etzwane. “Problems are sure to arise; we need capable men to solve them.”
“Hmmf, how many such men have you recruited?”
Etzwane sipped his tea. “They do not yet outnumber the problems.”
Mialambre gave a grudging nod. “I c
an render a conditional acceptance. The work is challenging.”
“I am pleased to hear this,” said Etzwane. “My temporary headquarters is Fontenay’s Inn. I would like you to join me there, and we will confer at greater length.”
“Fontenay’s Inn?” Mialambre’s voice was more puzzled than disapproving. “Is that not a tavern by the riverbank?”
“It is.”
“As you wish.” Mialambre frowned. “I must now bring up a practical matter. In Wale my family, consisting of seven persons, subsists upon a jurist’s income, which is not high. To lay the subject bare, I need money to pay my debts, lest the sheriff put me into a state of indenture.”
“Your salary will be adequate,” said Etzwane. “We will discuss this tonight as well.”
Etzwane found Finnerack seated at a table in the central document chamber, listening to two Discriminators of high rank. Each vied for his ear; each indicated a separate array of documents. Finnerack listened with grim patience, and upon seeing Etzwane dismissed the two with a jerk of his hand; they departed with what dignity they could muster. Finnerack said, “Aun Sharah seems to have been flexible and undemanding. These two were his second and third in command. I will use them in the Department of Urban Discrimination.”
Etzwane raised his eyebrows in surprise. Finnerack apparently had taken to himself the task of reorganizing the department, an activity which would seem to exceed his instructions. Finnerack went on to detail other of his evaluations. Etzwane listened with more interest for the working of Finnerack’s judgments than for the subject matter itself. Finnerack’s methods were direct to the point of naïveté and, as such, must work awe upon the subtle folk of Garwiy, who could only interpret simplicity as majesty, silence as craft. Etzwane became amused. The Discriminators were a typical Garwiy institution: complicated, subtle, arbitrary, a situation which Finnerack appeared to regard as a personal affront. Etzwane, a musician, almost envied Finnerack his brutal power.
Finnerack concluded his exposition. “Next you wanted to look over the roster.”
“Yes,” said Etzwane. “If I recognize someone, Aun Sharah’s candor becomes suspect.”
“It becomes worse than that,” said Finnerack. He picked up one of his lists. “If you like we can start now.”
None of the Discriminators presently at hand resembled the hawk-faced man Etzwane had glimpsed through the window of the diligence.
The suns had rolled low down the sky. Etzwane and Finnerack wandered across the Corporation Plaza to a café, where they drank verbena tea and watched the folk of Garwiy idle past; and none who saw these two young men — one slight, saturnine and dark, the other gaunt, with sun-scorched blond hair and eyes like polished turquoise — could know that the destiny of Shant lay between the two. Etzwane picked up the Spectrum from a nearby chair. An ocher-bordered panel caught his eye. He read with a heavy sensation:
From Marestiy by radio comes a report of an engagement between the newly organized militia and a band of Roguskhoi. The savage intruders, having wreaked an awful damage upon Canton Shkoriy, sent a foraging party north. At Gasmal Town on the border a troop of men denied them passage and ordered their retreat. The red brutes ignored the lawful injunction and a battle ensued. The Marestiy defenders discharged arrows and slung stones, many of which caused discomfort to the enemy, and infuriated them into what one observer described as “a stampede of furious red beasts”. Such intemperate conduct will never prevail against the mighty weapons being forged by the Anome; sensible of this the Marestiy militia adopted a flexible tactic. Final events and outcome are not yet known.
“The creatures are moving,” said Etzwane. “Even those who have fled toward the sea are not safe.”
Chapter VIII
In the plum-colored Garwiy evening Etzwane and Finnerack made their way under colored lights to Fontenay’s Inn. At a back table Frolitz and the troupe ate a supper of broad beans and cheese, which Etzwane and Finnerack joined.
Frolitz was in a sour mood. “Gastel Etzwane’s hands are tired and worn. Since his outside activities are more important than the welfare of the troupe, I will not require him to play an instrument. If he wishes, he may rattle the histels, or snap his fingers from time to time.”
Etzwane held his tongue. After the meal, when the troupe brought forth their instruments, Etzwane joined them on the stand. Frolitz struck a pose of astonishment. “What is this? The grand Gastel Etzwane favors us with his presence? We are profoundly grateful. Would you be so kind as to take up your wood-horn? Tonight I work the khitan.”
Etzwane blew in the familiar old mouth-cup, fingered the silver buttons of which he had once been so proud … Strange how differently he felt! The hands were his own; his fingers moved of their own accord up and down the buttons, but the vantage was higher, the perspectives were longer; and he played with an almost imperceptible elongation of tension at the beat.
At the intermission Frolitz came back to the troupe in a state of excitement. “Notice the man in the far corner — can you guess who sits there in silence, without his instrument? It is the druithine Dystar!” The troupe peered at the austere silhouette, each man wondering how his music had sounded in the mind of the great druithine. Frolitz said, “I asked what he did here; he said he had come at the will of the Anome. I asked, would he play music with the troupe? He said, yes, it would be his pleasure, that our work had brought the mood upon him. So now he joins us. Etzwane, to the gastaing; I play wood-horn.”
Fordyce standing next to Etzwane muttered, “At last, you play beside your father. And still he does not know?”
“He does not know.” Etzwane took up the gastaing: an instrument of deeper tone than the khitan, with a plangent resonance which must remain under the control of the damping sleeve if the harmony were not to be overwhelmed. Unlike many musicians, Etzwane enjoyed the gastaing and the subtleties to be achieved by expert tilting and sliding of the sleeve.
The troupe took up their instruments and stood waiting on the bandstand: the conventional respect due a musician of Dystar’s quality. Frolitz left the stand, went to speak to Dystar; the two returned. Dystar bowed to the musicians, and his gaze rested a thoughtful instant on Etzwane. He took Frolitz’s khitan, struck a chord, bent the neck, tested the scratch-box. In accordance with his prerogatives, he started a tune, a pleasant melody, deceptively simple.
Frolitz and Mielke on the clarion played ground notes, careful to stay harmonically aside, with the guizol and gastaing striking unobtrusive accents … The music proceeded; the first tune came to an end: an exercise in which each participant explored the musical surroundings … Dystar relaxed his position and sipped from the beaker of wine which had been placed beside him. He nodded to Frolitz, who now in his turn blew a theme into the mouth-cup of his wood-horn — a gasping rasping sardonic statement foreign to the fluid clarity of the instrument, which Dystar emphasized with harsh slow strokes of the scratch-box, and the music was off and away: a polyphony melancholy and deliberate, in which every instrument of the troupe could clearly be heard. Dystar played calmly, his invention every instant opening new perspectives into the music … The melody broke and faltered, in a manner anticipated by all; Dystar struck out an astounding exercise, starting in the upper register, working down through a perplexing combination of chords, with only an occasional resonance of the gastaing for support; down through upper-middle and lower-middle registers, backwards and forwards, like a falling leaf; this way and that, into the lower tones, to finish with a guttural elbow at the scratch-box. On the wood-horn Frolitz blew a quaver a minor interval below, which dwindled and died into the resonance of the gastaing.
As convention demanded, Dystar now gave up his instrument and went to a table at the side of the room. The troupe sat quietly for a moment or two. Frolitz considered. With a malicious twitch of the lips he handed the khitan to Etzwane. “We now play something slow and quiet — what is that night piece of Old Morningshore? Zitrinilla … Third mode. Careful, all, with the breakoff from
the second strain. Etzwane: the time and the statement …”
Etzwane crooked the khitan, adjusted the scratch-box. The mischievous Frolitz, he well knew, had thrust him into a position from which any sensible man must recoil: the playing of khitan after one of Dystar’s most brilliant improvisations. Etzwane paused a moment to think his way through the tune. He struck a chord, and played the statement at a somewhat slower tempo than usual.
The tune proceeded, wistful and melancholy, and came to its end. Frolitz blew a phrase to signal a variation at a different rhythm. Etzwane found himself playing alone, the condition he had been hoping to avoid: he must now set himself up for measure against Dystar … He played slow chords quickly damped, creating a pattern of sound and silence, which became interesting to him, and which he restated in an inversion. Resisting the temptation to embellish, he played a spare stately music. The troupe supplied ground notes, which presently became a broad theme, swelling up like a wave over the khitan, then subsiding. Etzwane played a set of clanging disharmonic chords and a soft resolution; the music ended. Dystar rose to his feet and signaled all to his table. “Beyond question,” said Dystar, “here is the first troupe of Shant. All are strong, all use the sensitivity of strength. Gastel Etzwane plays as I at his age could only have hoped to play; he has known much experience of life.”
“He is an obstinate man,” said Frolitz. “With an important future as a Pink-Black-Azure-Deep Greener, he meddles instead with Aesthetes and eirmelraths and other matters which do not concern him. My counsel goes for nought.”
Etzwane said in a mild voice: “Frolitz refers to the war against the Roguskhoi, which occupies something of my attention.”
