The Anome

by Jack Vance

  “My conduct in Mirk Valley was that of a Palasedran?”

  Etzwane reflected upon Ifness’ actions. In no respect had Palasedran interests been advanced, or so it would seem. And the tools on the table: marvelous things! Of shining metal, of substances to which he could put no name — but not Palasedran. “If you are not Palasedran, what are you? Certainly no man of Shant.”

  Ifness leaned back on the couch, an expression of intense boredom on his face. “With churlish persistence you press for information I quite clearly do not wish to extend. Since your cooperation now becomes useful, I am forced to make certain disclosures. You have discerned that I am not a man of Shant. I am, in fact, an Earthman, a Fellow of the Historical Institute. Are you any the wiser?”

  Etzwane surveyed him with a fierce gaze. “Earth is a real place?”

  “Very real indeed.”

  “Why are you here on Shant?”

  Ifness spoke in a patient voice. “The folk who came to Durdane nine thousand years ago were secretive and eccentric; they marooned themselves and sank their space-ships in the Purple Ocean. On Earth Durdane is long forgotten — except by the Historical Institute. I am the latest in a succession of Fellows resident upon Durdane — and possibly the first to ignore the First Law of the Institute: Fellows may never interfere in the affairs of the worlds they study. We are organized as a fact-gathering association, and we so restrict ourselves. My conduct in regard to the Faceless Man is absolutely illicit; in the purview of the Institute I am a criminal.”

  “Why then did you concern yourself?” Etzwane demanded. “Because of the Roguskhoi raids?”

  “My motives need not concern you. Your interests, so far as they go, are concurrent with mine; I do not care to be more explicit.”

  Etzwane ran his hand through his hair and sank back down upon the couch, opposite that on which Ifness sat. “These are great surprises.” He warily studied Ifness. “Are there other Earthmen on Durdane?”

  Ifness replied in the negative. “The Historical Institute spreads its personnel thin.”

  “How do you move between here and Earth?”

  “Again, this is information I prefer to keep to myself.”

  Before Etzwane could make an irritated reply, his torc produced a sharp buzzing sound. Ifness jumped to his feet; in one long stride he was at the torc. The buzzing stopped, to leave a silence which had a weighty and sinister quality of its own. Somewhere, thought Etzwane, the Faceless Man had turned frowning away from his instruments.

  “Excellent!” Ifness declared. “The Faceless Man is interested in you. We will persuade him to reveal himself.”

  “All very well,” said Etzwane, “but how?”

  “A tactical exercise, which we will discuss presently. At the moment I wish to resume the business which your presence in the Plaza interrupted … I was about to dine.”

  The two returned the way they had come, to the Corporation Plaza; here they kept to the peripheral arcade, beyond the purview of the observer in the Corporation Center. Etzwane looked toward the Office of Petitions; the purple- and black-bordered document was no longer to be seen. He informed Ifness of the fact.

  “Another evidence of the Anome’s sensitivity,” said Ifness in an abstracted voice. “Our work will be the easier on this account.”

  “How so?” demanded Etzwane, ever more irritated by Ifness’ condescension.

  Ifness looked sidewise with raised eyebrows, and spoke in a patient voice: “We must induce the Faceless Man to reveal himself. A quail cannot be seen until it moves; so with the Faceless Man. We must generate a situation which he will wish to inspect in his own person, rather than relying upon his Benevolences. The fact of his sensitivity makes such a reaction more likely.”

  Etzwane gave a sardonic grunt. “Just so. What situation do we generate?”

  “It is a matter we must discuss. First, let us dine.”

  They seated themselves in the loggia of the Old Pagane Restaurant; their meal was set before them. Ifness stinted himself nothing; Etzwane, unsure whether or not he might be required to pay his own score, dined less lavishly. In the end, however, Ifness laid down money for both meals, and leaned back to sip the dessert wine. “Now, to our business. The Faceless Man returned a polite response to your five hundred florins, and in fact evinced interest only when you noted your dissatisfaction. This calibrates one of our parameters.”

  Etzwane wondered where all this was leading.

  Ifness mused: “We must act within bounds of Garwiy law, to give the Aesthetic Corporation no pretext for action … Perhaps we will offer an informative lecture on the Roguskhoi and promise startling revelations. The Faceless Man has demonstrated his concern in regard to this subject; in all probability he will be interested enough to attend.”

  Etzwane agreed that such a contingency was possible. “But who will give such a lecture?”

  “That is a matter to be carefully considered,” said Ifness. “Let us return to the cottage. Again I must modify your torc, so that it becomes a tool of aggression rather than a mere warning device.”

  In the cottage once more, Ifness worked two hours upon the modification of Etzwane’s torc. At last he completed his work. A pair of inconspicuous wires now led to a coil of fifty turns tied down upon a square of stiff fibreboard. “This is a directional antenna,” said Ifness. “You will wear the coil under your shirt. Warning signals inside the torc will notify you when an attempt is being made either to locate you or to take your head. By turning, you will maximize the signals and thus determine their direction. Allow me now to place the torc around your neck.”

  Etzwane submitted without enthusiasm. “It seems,” he grumbled, “that I am to function as bait.”

  Ifness allowed himself a frosty smile. “Something of the sort. Now listen carefully. The explosive impulse you will feel as a vibration against the back of your neck. The locator pulse will be received as a vibration at the right side. In either case, turn until you maximize the vibration. The source will then be directly in front of you.”

  Etzwane nodded grimly. “And what of you?”

  “I will carry a similar device. With luck we should be able to strike a fix upon our subject.”

  “And what if we are unlucky?”

  “This, to be frank, is my expectation. Such facile success is too much to hope for. We may startle our quail on this occasion, but other quail may move as well and so confuse us. But I will carry my camera; we will at least have an exact record of the occasion.”

  Chapter X

  At those places throughout Garwiy designated for the display of public announcements appeared large and dramatic placards printed in brown and black on white paper with a yellow border: colors to signify dire and fateful import, with overtones of the sensationally macabre.

  THE ROGUSKHOI EXPOSED!

  Who are these horrid savages, who ravage and rape, who torment our land? Where do they come from? What is their plan?

  AN ANONYMOUS ADVENTURER JUST RETURNED FROM THE HWAN WILL REVEAL STARTLING FACTS AND EVEN MORE STARTLING SUSPICIONS. WHO SHARES THE BLAME FOR THIS INFESTATION? YOU WILL HEAR AN AMAZING ACCUSATION!

  —

  MID-AFTERNOON KYALISDAY

  at the Public Pavilion in Pandamon Park

  On a hundred bulletin-boards the placards were posted, and even the folk of Garwiy took notice, reading the placards once, twice, a third time. Ifness was pleased with the effect. “The Faceless Man will not ignore this. Yet we give neither him nor the Corporation cause to interfere.”

  Etzwane said sourly, “I’d rather that you were the ‘anonymous adventurer’.”

  Ifness laughed, in high good humor. “What? The talented Gastel Etzwane uncomfortable before an audience? What happens when you play one of your instruments?”

  “That is different.”

  “Possibly so. But as the ‘anonymous adventurer’ I could not use my camera. You have memorized the material?”

  “As much as needs be,” growled Etzwane. “In a
ll candor, I dislike acting as your cat’s-paw. I do not care to be seized by the Discriminators* and clapped off to Stonebreakers’ Island, while you dine on pomfret and inger eggs at the Old Pagane.”

  * Avistioi: literally, ‘nice discriminators’: the constabulary of the Aesthetic Corporation.

  “Unlikely,” said Ifness. “Not impossible, but unlikely.”

  Etzwane merely grunted. As an ‘anonymous adventurer’ he wore a bulky cape of black fur, square and wide across the shoulders; sand-colored breeches and black boots: the garments of a Canton Shkoriy mountaineer. The medallion of his torc showed at his neck; the designation ‘musician’ was not at odds with the role of ‘adventurer’. Slender, taut, with a keen quick-featured face, Gastel Etzwane cut a gallant figure in the mountaineer’s costume; insensibly it affected his stride, his mannerisms, his mode of thought. He had become in fact the ‘anonymous adventurer’. Ifness, wearing dark gray trousers, a loose white shirt, a soft gray jacket, was as usual. If Ifness felt any emotion, he gave no indication; Etzwane found it difficult to control his nervousness.

  They arrived at Pandamon Park.

  “A half-hour to the mid-afternoon chime,” said Ifness. “A fair number of folk are about; all idle wanderers, or so I suspect. No person of Garwiy is early for an event. Those who come to hear the scandal will arrive one minute before the chime.”

  “What if none arrive?” asked Etzwane in melancholy hopefulness.

  “There will be some,” said Ifness, “including the Faceless Man, who cannot be happily anticipating the occasion. He may even post a Discriminator to discourage the speech. I suspect, however, that he will listen, then act as circumstances dictate. We must stimulate him to push his ‘Explode’ button.”

  “And when I retain my head?”

  “The torc circuits must occasionally fail; he will conclude that such is the case and send forth other impulses. Remember the signal I have stipulated.”

  “Yes, yes,” muttered Etzwane. “I hope he doesn’t become dissatisfied with his explosive and shoot me with a gun.”

  “A risk we must take … The time is still twenty minutes to the chime. Let us stand in the shadows yonder and rehearse the terms of your address.”

  The mid-afternoon chime sounded. From the foliage came the ‘anonymous adventurer’. Looking neither right nor left, walking with something of a swagger, he approached the rostrum. He went to the rear, climbed the white-glass steps and approached the lectern. He stopped short, to study the magenta-bordered notice on the green-glass surface.

  It was the Faceless Man’s reaction, and it read:

  Your advertisement has excited the interest of the ANOME himself. He requests discretion, that you may not jeopardize certain very sensitive investigations. The ANOME’S opinion is this: the Roguskhoi are a nuisance, a tribe of disreputable folk already on the decline. A person properly informed will stress the minor and transitory aspects of the matter, or he might even wish to discuss a subject of more general interest.

  Etzwane put down the notice. He examined the faces which had collected around the rostrum. A hundred persons stood watching; as many more sat on benches: too many, thought Etzwane. To the left stood Ifness; he had pulled a merchant’s hood over his soft white hair, and by some peculiar alteration of pose now seemed one with the others. Did the Faceless Man stand among the people present? Etzwane looked from face to face. There: that hollow-cheeked man with the lank black hair and burning eyes. Or that small man yonder with the high round forehead, the delicate mouth. Or the handsome Aesthete in the green cloak with the neat fringe of black beard along his jaw. Or the stern man in the plum-colored habit of the Eclectic Godhead. Others, still others …

  Etzwane wasted a moment or two longer, steeling himself to immobility. The audience had now assembled. Etzwane leaned forward and began to speak, and because of the Faceless Man’s notice he altered his remarks.

  “In my advertisements I promised remarkable information; this I will provide: immediately.” He held up the magenta-bordered notice. “The illustrious Anome himself has demonstrated an interest in my remarks. Listen to his advice!” Etzwane read the notice in a studiously solemn voice; when he looked up he saw that he had indeed interested his audience; they gazed at him in wonder. Ifness, so Etzwane saw, studied the crowd with care. He carried an almost invisible camera and took pictures.

  Etzwane frowned at the document. “I am pleased that the Anome considers my ideas significant, especially since his other informants clearly have misled him. ‘A minor and transitory’ nuisance? The Anome should take the head of the man who so deceived him. The Roguskhoi threaten everyone who now hears me. They are not ‘a tribe of disreputable folk’ — as the Anome innocently believes. They are ruthless, well-armed warriors, and they are sexual maniacs as well. Do you know their habit? They do not copulate normally; instead they seed a woman with a dozen imps which are born while she sleeps, and never again can she bear a human child — though she can bear another dozen imps. Every woman alive in Garwiy now may conceivably mother a brood or two of Roguskhoi imps.

  “The Hwan Wildlands swarm with Roguskhoi. In the cantons bordering the Hwan it is an accepted fact that the Roguskhoi have been sent from Palasedra.

  “The situation is remarkable, is it not? Reputable folk have implored the Anome to destroy these terrible creatures. He refuses; in fact, he takes their heads. Why? Ask yourself. Why does the Faceless Man, our protector, scoff at this peril?”

  Vibrations jarred at the back of Etzwane’s neck: the explosive circuit. The Faceless Man was angry. Etzwane swung around to maximize the vibrations. They ceased before he could make a fix as to their direction. He clenched his left hand: the signal to Ifness.

  Ifness nodded and studied the crowd with even more intense interest than before.

  Etzwane spoke on: “Why does the Faceless Man deprecate so imminent a threat? Why does he write a document urging me to ‘discretion’? Friends, I ask a question; I do not answer it. Is the Faceless Man —”

  The vibrations struck again. Etzwane swung around, but again could not decide upon the source of the pulses. He looked straight at the cold-eyed man in green, who stared back at him, gravely intent.

  The directional antenna, at least with respect to the killer pulses, was a failure. It was pointless to provoke the Faceless Man to a state where he might use a weapon less subtle. Etzwane modified the tone of his discourse. “The question I wish to ask is this: has the Faceless Man become old? Has he lost his zest? Should he perhaps pass on his responsibilities to a man with more energy and decision?”

  Etzwane looked around the group, to see who responded to the question. Here he was disappointed; the folk in the audience all looked around as well, more interested in the others than themselves. (They knew their own ideas; how did the others feel?)

  Etzwane spoke on in a voice of spurious docility. He held up the magenta-bordered notice. “In deference to the Anome, I will reveal no more secrets. I may say that I am not alone in my concern; I speak for a group of persons dedicated to the safety of Shant. I go now to make my report. In a week I will speak again, when I hope to recruit others into this group.”

  Etzwane jumped down from the rostrum, and to avoid idle questions set off at a brisk pace in the direction from which he had come. As he walked he touched the switch in his torc, to activate the echo circuit. From the shelter of the foliage he looked back. The Aesthete in green strolled after him without haste. Behind the Aesthete, no less casual, came Ifness … Etzwane turned, hurried on. A vibration struck against the right side of his neck: someone had sent out a questing radiation.

  Etzwane went directly to the blue tile cottage north of Garwiy.

  As he went down Elemyra Way, east of the Corporation Plaza, his torc vibrated a second time, again as he entered the Avenue of the Thasarene Directors, again as he turned down the hedge-shaded lane. Once within the cottage Etzwane slipped out of the clumsy black cloak, unclasped the torc and set it on the table. Leaving the cot
tage by the back door, he went to where he could survey the road.

  Half an hour passed. Along the lane came a man in a hooded dark green cloak. His eyes were very keen; he looked constantly right and left, and occasionally down at an object he held in his hand. At the gap in the hedge he stopped short, the instrument in his hand resonating to the pulse echoed from Etzwane’s torc inside the cottage.

  Stealthy as a thief the man looked up and down the lane, peered along the path at the cottage; slipping quickly through the gap, he took shelter behind a lime tree. Here stood Etzwane, who sprang forward. The man was enormously strong; Etzwane clung with feet and one arm and with the other slapped the man on the side of the neck with the needle-sack Ifness had supplied.

  Almost at once the man’s activity lessened; a moment later he fell to his hands and knees.

  Ifness appeared; the two carried the limp body into the cottage. Ifness, instantly setting to work, removed the man’s torc. Etzwane switched the echo circuit of his torc to ‘Off’.

  Ifness gave an exclamation of dissatisfaction and drew forth a tube of black explosive, which he regarded with vast displeasure.

  The man had regained consciousness to find his arms and wrists bound. “You are not the Faceless Man, after all,” said Ifness.

  “I never claimed to be,” said the captive in a cool voice.

  “Who are you, then?”

  “I am the Aesthete Garstang: a director of the Corporation.”

  “It seems that you serve the Faceless Man.”

  “As do all of us.”

  “You more than the rest, to judge by your conduct, and by this control box.” From the table Ifness picked up the instrument he had taken from Garstang’s cloak: a metal box, three inches wide, an inch deep, four inches long. From the top of the case protruded a set of studs, each a different color. The ten squares of a read-out below displayed the colors of Etzwane’s torc.