Ecce and Old Earth tcc-2

by Jack Vance

  Glawen nodded. "Where did you say to go?"

  “'Accounts' on the fifth floor, or you can ask Miss Shoup herself. She is the boss.”

  “Surely she is not the founder of the business?”

  “Indeed not! Six Shoups preceded her down the years, through she may well terminate the line, if current indications can be trusted. Mulsh looked over his shoulder, “I'll give you a tip. If you talk to Miss Shoup, don't smile at her or call her 'Flavia’ or try to be familiar; she'll snap your head off."

  “I will heed your advice,” said Glawen. “By the way, the man who came in yesterday: did he get Keebles' address?"

  “I don’t know. I was off duty when he left.”

  Glawen rode the lift to the fifth floor, which like the first was a single large chamber. No attempt had been made to disguise the stark structural fabric of the building. The concrete ceiling beams were white-washed; a seamless sheath of resilient sponge covered the floor. The wall to the right was flanked by a counter overhung by signs: 'Billing', ‘Accounts,' 'Employment’ and others. Elsewhere a dozen desks were scattered here and there, seemingly at random. Everywhere men and women clad in the neat Shoup uniform worked earnestly and for the most part in silence. When conversation became necessary, hushed voices and brevity of expression were employed, so that the room seemed uncannily quiet.

  Glawen squared his shoulders, put on his most businesslike manner, marched briskly across the room to stand by the counter under the sign ‘Accounts'. Almost at once he was approached by a young woman named T. Mirmar, according to the label on her tunic. She spoke in a half-whisper. “Yes, sir?”

  Glawen brought out a card and wrote on it: ‘Melvish Keebles.' He put the card in front of T. Mirmar. Modulating his own voice he said: “I have some books to be shipped to this gentleman. Would you be kind enough to note down his exact mailing address?”

  T. Mirmar looked at him and shook her head. “What is it about this 'Keebles' person? You're the second to ask since yesterday."

  “Did you give the gentleman yesterday the address?”

  “No. I sent him to Miss Shoup, who would want to deal with such a request. I don’t know what she did, but for information you had best apply to Miss Shoup as well."

  Glawen sighed. “I was hoping to simplify my inquires. Would ten sols get me the address?”

  “From me? What an idea! No, thank you.”

  Glawen sighed again. “Well then: where is Miss Shoup?”

  “Yonder." T. Mirmar indicated a desk at the far end of the room, occupied by a tall gangling woman somewhat past her first youth.

  Glawen studied Miss Shoup for a moment. "She is not quite what I expected," he told T. Mirmar. “Am I mistaken, or is she angry about something?"

  T. Mirmar glanced across the room. She said in a flat voice: "It would not be proper for me to comment, sir.”

  Glawen continued his covert inspection of Miss Shoup. She was not at all well-favored, and Glawen could easily understand why the sixth generation of the Shoup family might be the end of the line. She wore the short-sleeved Shoup tunic, though it emphasized her narrow chest and thin white arms. The white dome of her forehead was topped by a few dismal ringlets of mouse-gray hair. Below were round gray eyes, a small thin nose, a small pallid mouth and a button of a chin. She sat bolt upright and her expression seemed stern, passionless, aloof. If she were not angry, thought Glawen, neither was she overflowing with zest and vivacity.

  There was no help for it. Miss Shoup must be approached, and as expeditiously as possible. He turned back to T. Mirmar. “Should I just walk over to her desk?”

  “Of course! How else could you get there?”

  "I was concerned about formality."

  “There is none at Shoup and Company; just good manners."

  “I see. I will do the best I can.” He walked across the room. Miss Shoup did not raise her eyes until he halted in front of her desk. “Miss Flavia Shoup?”

  "Yes?"

  "My name is Glawen Clattuc. May I sit down?" He looked about for a char the nearest was at a desk forty feet away.

  Miss Shoup appraised him for a moment, eyes as round and impersonal as those of a codfish. “Usually, when visitors find no chairs by my desk, they take the hint."

  Glawen managed to contrive a strained smile. It was an odd remark, he thought, not at all in accord with Shoup and Company’s reputation for politeness. Perhaps Miss Shoup intended only a witticism. “The hint is taken! I will be as brief as possible. Still, if you prefer that I stand, I shall do so.”

  Miss Shoup showed a thin smile. “As you like.”

  Glawen fetched the chair, emplaced it beside the desk. He seated himself after performing a small punctilious bow which he thought might mollify Miss Shoup but she spoke more crisply than ever. “I do not enjoy mockery, no matter how subliminal the level at which it is expressed.”

  “I am of this same opinion,” said Glawen. "Unfortunately, it is pervasive and I ignore it as if it did not exist."

  Miss Shoup raised her near-colorless eyebrows a hundredth of an inch, but made no comment. Glawen recalled Mulsh's warning against any attempts at familiarity with Miss Shoup. The warning, he thought, was redundant. The silence grew strained. Glawen said politely: “I am an off-worlder, as perhaps you have already divined.”

  "Of course.” The words were spoken without emphasis, but carried an overtone of distaste.

  “I am a Naturalist from Araminta Station on Cadwal, which is a Conservancy, as you may know."

  Miss Shoup said to him incuriously: “You are a long way from home."

  "Yes. I am trying to recover some documents which were stolen from the Naturalist Society."

  “You have come to the wrong place. We keep no such articles in stock.”

  “I thought not,” said Glawen. “However, one of your customers may be able to help me. His name is Melvish Keebles, but I do not have his current address, which is why I have come to you."

  Miss Shoup's mouth hitched in a thin smile. “We cannot issue such information without explicit instructions from the customer.”

  “That is ordinary business practice,” said Glawen. “I had hoped that in these special circumstances you might be flexible. I assure you, incidentally, that I mean Melvish Keebles no harm; I only want to ask regarding the disposition of some documents which are of importance to the Conservancy.”

  Miss Shoup leaned back in her chair. “I am totally flexible. I am Shoup and Company incarnate. My policy is company policy. I can change it ten times a day if I choose. I make a virtue of caprice. As for Keebles, whether or not you intended his disadvantage, you would say the same things; hence, your words carry no weight.”

  "Yes; I fear that is true,” Glawen admitted. "You have put the matter logically."

  “I know something of Keebles. He is a scapegrace. Many folk indeed would like to find him, including five ex-wives, none of whom he troubled to divorce or notify of the others. The entire membership of the Shoto Society would be pleased to lay hands on him. Of all my customers, Keebles would protest the loudest if I gave out his address."

  Glawen began to wonder whether Miss Shoup might not, very quietly, be enjoying his frustration. He said somberly: "If facts would influence you — “

  Miss Shoup leaned forward and clasped her hands in front of her. “I care nothing for facts."

  Glawen pretended an ingenuous interest, while despising himself for the dissimulation: “If so, by what means are you influenced?"

  “There are no certain methods. You might appeal to my altruism. I would laugh at you. Flattery? Try all you like; I will listen with interest. Omens and portents? I fear nothing. Threats? One word and I would order my clerks to beat you well. They would do so, and paint you in a variety of indelible colors. A bribe? I already have more money than I could spend in a thousand years. What else is there?"

  “Ordinary human decency.”

  “But I am extraordinary, or hadn't you noticed? It is not by my choice that
I am human. As for 'decency,' the word was defined without my participation; I am not bound by it.”

  Glawen reflected a moment. “I've been told that yesterday someone else asked you for Keebles' address. Did you give him the information?"

  Miss Shoup became very still. Her fingers stiffened. Her neck muscles suddenly corded, and she spoke. "Yes. So I did."

  Glawen stared at her. “What name did he use?”

  Miss Shoup clenched her fingers into a small bony fist. “It was a false name. I checked his hotel. They knew nothing of him. He made a fool of me. It will never happen again."

  "You don't know where to find him?'

  "No." Miss Shoup's voice was calm and cold. "He sat where you are sitting and told me he was from off-world, that his father wanted to establish an artists’ supply house, and had sent him to Earth to study Shoup and Company's operations. He said that he had expected a dreary time of it, until he had met me; and now he saw that he had been wrong. He said that intelligence was the most fascinating trait a woman could have, and that we must have dinner together. I said, certainly, that would be delightful, and since he did not know the city, he should come to my house. This seemed to suit him very well. As he was leaving he said that his father wanted a certain Melvish Keebles to be his agent but did not know how to find him, and had I any suggestions. I said that by chance Keebles was one of my customers and that I could solve his problem on the spot, and I did so. He thanked me and went off. I went home and arranged a quiet dinner, with fine wine and good food. We would dine overlooking the lake, with candles on the table. I dressed in a black velvet gown I had never worn before and I made some special changes, then sat down to wait. I waited a long time, and in the end I lit the candles, started the music, drank the wine and dined alone.”

  “That was an unpleasant experience."

  “Only at first. Halfway through the second bottle of wine I was able to be amused. Today I am back in my own world, though I have developed a loathing for handsome young men which extends to you. I see you clearly. As a class you, are a crass and brutal pack of animals, stinking of rut, proud in the majesty of your genital organs. Some people have an insane aversion to spiders, others to snakes; I detest young men.”

  Glawen rose to his feet. “Miss Shoup, I have a hundred things to say to you, but you would like none of them, so I will bid you good day."

  Miss Shoup made no response.

  Glawen departed the chamber. He rode the lift down to the showroom on the ground floor, and went to the table with the display of glass-melt guns. He was approached almost at once by D. Mulsh, who asked: “How went your interview?"

  “Well enough,” said Glawen. “Miss Shoup is a remarkable woman.”

  “So she is. I see that you are still interested in the glass-melt guns. Can I sell you a kit today?”

  'Yes," said Glawen. “They seem to be very useful items.”

  'You will enjoy it,” said Mulsh heartily. “It is amazingly versatile.”

  “This particular kit I will present to a friend, and I'll have you ship it to him from here.”

  "No problem whatever, though I must charge you shipping costs.”

  “Quite all right.”

  Mulsh took the parcel to the shipping counter. "You may give the girl particulars." He took Glawen’s money and went off to the Cashier. Glawen told the girl: “Label the parcel to Melvish Keebles. The address is in your files.”

  The girl punched buttons; the label machine ejected a label, which the girl affixed to the parcel. Glawen said: “On second thought I will carry the parcel with me.”

  “Just as you like, sir.”

  Glawen left the premises of Shoup and Company. Once out on the sidewalk he examined the label. It read:

  Melvish Keebles

  Argonaut Art Supplies

  Crippet Alley, Tanjaree, Nion

  Pharisse VI ARGO NAVIS 14-AR-366

  Glawen returned to his hotel at the Division City airport. From his room he called Fair Winds, but there still had been no word from Wayness.

  “I can't imagine where she has taken herself!” Pirie Tamm fretted. “No news may be good news, but it also can be very bad news."

  “I agree,” said Glawen. "What's worse, I can't take the time to go look for her; circumstances simply don’t allow it. I'm going off-world at once."

  "As for me, there is nothing I can do but wait," gloomed Pirie Tamm.

  “Somebody has to stay at home,” said Glawen. “When Wayness calls, tell her that I’ve gone off-world, up another rung of the ladder, and that I will be back as soon as possible."

  III.

  At Tammeola Spaceport near Division City, the ticket agency's integrator sorted through routes, schedules, layovers and connections and computed for Glawen the most expeditious passage to the world Nion. The readout was valid only for a single hour's time-slot, after which circumstances might or might not change. There were also provisos in regard to transit between junction points. If the scheduled service were late, altered or canceled, then the carefully computed passage must be modified. In short, the element of luck still controlled circumstances. Glawen’s adversary had a day’s head start — which might mean much or nothing, and Glawen refused to speculate in regard to possibilities.

  Glawen boarded the Madelle Azenour which would convey him to the junction at Star Home on Aspidiske IV at the head of the Argo Navis Sector. At Star Home he would travel by local feeder packet to Mersey on Anthony Pringle's World, where another local packet would take him outward, through the Jingles, into the most remote parts of the Reach and finally down to the city Tanjaree on Nion, by the yellow-white sun Pharisse.

  Aboard the Madelle Azenour tlme went by smoothly and pleasantly, with nothing to do but eat, sleep, watch the stars slide past, and enjoy such recreation facilities as were available. Glawen studied his fellow passengers with care, since quite possibly his adversary might be aboard the same ship. In the end he decided that the young man who had deceived Miss Shoup so heartlessly had chosen either another route or another schedule."

  In HANDBOOK TO THE INHABITED WORLDS Glawen learned that Nion had first been explored in the remote past, during the first great surge of men across space. The human tilde had slackened and then receded, notably from the far side of the Jingles, leaving Nion in near-isolation for thousands of years.

  Nion, according to the HANDBOOK, was a medium-large planet (diameter: 13,000 miles; surface gravity: 1.03 Earth normal; sidereal day: 37.26 hours), attended by a numerous retinue of satellites. While the climate was generally mild, the topography was diverse and the habitable areas separated by deserts, steep-sided plateaus, tracts of weird wonderful forests and water-fields. “These latter were suspensions of pollen blown from forests and 'flower-fields' into areas originally lakes and seas, where the sedimented pollen became the substance known as 'pold.'

  The fauna, principally insects, is of no great consequence. The HANDBOOK declared: "In order to understand the intricacies of life on Nion, one must understand pold. There are hundreds of types of pold, but basically they are either: dry derived from loess-like beds of pollen and spores transported by the wind, drifted and ultimately compacted; or the 'wet’, from deposits laid down in the ancient lakes and seas. The sub-varieties of pold derive from age, curing and blending, the action of morphotic agents, and thousands of secret processes. Pold is ubiquitous. The soil consists of pold. Beer is brewed from pold. Natural raw pold is often nutritious, but not always; some deposits are poisonous, narcotic, hallucinogenic, or vile-tasting. The Gangrils of the Lankster Cleeks are experts; they have built a complex society upon their manipulation of pold. Other peoples are not such connoisseurs, and eat pold like bread, or pudding, or as a substitute for meat. The flavor of pold depends, obviously, upon many factors. Often it is bland, or somewhat nutty, or even sour, like new cheese.”

  “By reason of pold, everywhere available, hunger is unknown. Still, for a variety of reasons, the population remains scarce.”

 
; “Visitors to Nion will find it hard to avoid the consumption of pold, whether dining at a fine restaurant or one less esteemed, for the simple reason that pold is plentiful and easy to prepare, and the tourist will complain in vain.”

  “A warning may properly be inserted here. Due possibly to the plenitude of pold, the work ethic is little in evidence, and the tourist must be prepared for casual service at even the best hotels. ‘The easy way is the best way': this is the basic premise of Tanjaree society. Be prepared, and control your temper the folk of Tanjaree are actually agreeable, if a trifle vain and self-conscious. Social status is all important, but it is based upon subtleties and conditions which are quite incomprehensible to the visitor. To make a crude generalization, status derives from avoiding work and, with an ineffably cavalier flourish, inducing someone else to undertake the task. Hence, at an outdoor restaurant on the Mall, the patron will try to give his order to one of the three waiters on duty, all of whom will ostentatiously tum away, until the patron cries out for attention and perhaps starts to make a scene. To participate in an undignified altercation is to lose tremendous face. The nearest waiter reluctantly condescends to take the order, but service will be slow and the order will eventuality be served by a kitchen flunky while the waiter stands with hands clasped behind him, absorbing status at the expense of the exasperated patron, the other waiters and the debased kitchen flunky.”

  “A second warning, even more urgent, may be in order: Tanjaree is the single cosmopolitan center of Nion. Other settlements are controlled by local conventions which the tourist will find strange, sometimes unpleasant and not infrequently dangerous. Should the tourist foolishly attempt to enforce his own theories upon the local population. On Nion human life — especially that of the off-worlder — is not considered sacrosanct. The tourist is warned not to go off on solitary expeditions into the outback without local advice and assistance. Many hundreds of tourists have suffered some very peculiar fates by ignoring this warning.”