Ecce and Old Earth tcc-2

by Jack Vance

  Glawen arrived at the Argonaut Art Supply Company: a two-story structure, somewhat more imposing than others along the alley. A pair of windows to either side of the door displayed on the left a number of small mechanical toys; to the right, a sampling of the art supplies offered for sale within the shop, modeling tools; waxes, plasters and clays; equipment for the decoration of fabric, along with dyes and mordants; pigments, stains and solvents; kits of graduated andromorphs. The merchandise had a settled look, as if it had not been shifted for a long time.

  Glawen entered the shop: a dim cluttered chamber with the high ceiling and walls stained dark brown. The room was very silent Glawen saw that he was alone save for a middle-aged woman with short blonde-gray hair who sat behind a counter reading a journal. Her complexion was fair; she wore a neat blue smock.

  Glawen approached the counter; the woman looked up from her journal with an amiable, if incurious, expression. "Yes, sir?”

  Glawen found that his mouth was dry. The moment had come and he was nervous. He found his voice: "Is Mr. Keebles at hand?”

  The woman looked off across the room, frowning as if pondering the question. She decided upon a reply. "Mr. Keebles? He is not here."

  Glawen’s heart sank. The woman added: "Not at the moment.” Glawen released his pent breath.

  Having responded to the question, the woman returned to her Journal. Glawen spoke patiently: “When will he be back?"

  The woman looked up again. “Before long, or so I should think.”

  “In minutes? Hours? Days? Months?”

  The woman showed a dutiful smile. “Really now! What a funny thing to say! Mr. Keebles has only just gone off to the bathroom!”

  “Then we are thinking in terms of minutes," said Glawen. “Am I right?”

  “Certainly not days, nor months,” said the woman primly. “Not even hours.”

  “In that case, I will wait.”

  The woman nodded and went back to her reading. Glawen turned and gave the room a more detailed inspection. At the back was a flight of rickety stairs and, to the side, a shipping counter, where his eye was caught by a glint of green. Approaching the counter, he saw a tray half a dozen green jade clasps, three inches in diameter much like those he had noticed In Ma Chilke’s sitting room, Though these were chipped and cracked, or otherwise damaged. Odd! thought Glawen. He looked toward the woman and spoke: "What are these jade pieces?"

  The woman tilted her head to look. She reflected a moment. “Ah, yes! The jade buckles! They are 'tanglets,' from the Plain of Standing Stones, around the other side of the world.”

  “Are they valuable?”

  “Oh yes! But it is dangerous to collect them, unless one is an expert.”

  “Is Mr. Keebles such an expert?”

  The woman gave her head a smiling shake. “Not Mr. Keebles! He gets them from a friend but they are becoming scarce, which is a pity since they bring good prices.” She turned her head. “Here is Mr. Keebles.”

  Down the stairs came a small man with a ruff of white hair. His chest and shoulders were lumpy; his head hunched forward on a short neck. Round pale blue eyes studied Glawen warily. "Well, sir, and what is it you are needing? “

  "You are Melvish Keebles?”

  The pale blue eyes appraised Glawen without friendliness. “If you are a salesman or an agent, you are wasting your time and, more importantly, mine.”

  “I am neither salesman nor agent. My name is Glawen Clattuc. I would like a few words with you.”

  “In what connection?”

  “I can’t explain until I ask you a question or two.”

  Keebles curled his thin lips. “I take this to mean that you want something but are not disposed to pay for it.”

  Glawen smiled and shook his head. “I think that our transaction will bring you at least some small profit.”

  Keebles gave a shuddering groan. “When will I get clients who think in something other than trifles?” He waved his hands toward Glawen. "Come; I will listen to you, for a few moments at least.” He turned away and led Glawen along a passage, into a room of irregular dimensions, as dim and fusty as the shop itself. A row of windows in openings canted and askew, no two alike, overlooked a dreary yard. “This is my office,” said Keebles. “We can talk here."

  Glawen looked around the room. The furnishings were scant: a desk, four gaunt tall-backed chairs of bent cane, a red and black rug, a rank of cabinets, a side-table stacked with oddments. A shelf supported a dozen ceramic statues, each about sixteen inches high, representing monsters of the Tangting Forest. Glawen found them arresting, by reason both of superb workmanship and the impact of the subject matter, since they were the most hideous and disgusting objects of his experience.

  Keebles seated himself at his desk. “Pretty things, are they not?"

  Glawen turned away. “How can you bear to look at them?”

  “I have no choice," said Keebles. “If can't sell them.”

  “The tourists will take them off your hands,” said Glawen. “They will buy anything, the more horrifying the better.”

  Keebles snorted. “A hundred thousand sols for the twelve?"

  “That seems a high price."

  “Not so. One of the Tangting monsters is a freak. He models his fellows in clay for recreation. I will take them to Earth and describe them as fascinating works which pose a hundred psychological puzzles and sell them to a museum.” He jerked his thumb toward a chair. “Sit down and explain your business. Please be brief, since I have an appointment by and by.”

  Glawen seated himself. His father Scharde had once remarked that candor should not be avoided merely because it represented truth. In the case at hand, Keebles would believe nothing, so that truth served the same purpose as mendacity. Not the entire truth, of course. That would be a diet too rich for Keebles.

  “I have just come out from Earth, to negotiate some business for a client. It’s nothing to do with you, I hasten to say, except that while I was looking down a list of general business agents, I noticed your name. There can't be too many Melvish Keebles in the profession, and to make a long story short, I decided to call on you."

  Keebles listened with no great interest. “Go on.”

  "You are the Melvish Keebles who at one with worked with Floyd Swaner?"

  Keebles nodded. “Those were good days, and I doubt if I will see their like again.” He leaned back in his chair.

  "Where did you learn of our connection?”

  "From Swaner’s daughter. She still lives out on the Big Prairie.”

  Keebles turned his eyes up toward the ceiling and seemed to reflect upon times past. “I remember her though her name escapes me."

  “She is Mrs. Chilke. I'm not sure that I have ever heard her first name."

  “ 'Chilke', so it was. And what took you out to the Big Prairie?”

  “Simple enough. Like you, I am an agent of sorts, and one of my clients is the Naturalist Society. More accurately, I work in their interests as a labor of love; there certainly is very little profit involved. Are you a member?”

  “Of the Naturalist Society?" Keebles shook his head. “I thought the Naturalists were defunct.”

  “Not quite. But you support Society goals?"

  Keebles showed a thin smile. “Everyone is against sin. So who disagrees with the Naturalists?"

  “No one, until he sees a chance for profit."

  Keebles laughed soundlessly, in soft little pants. '"That is the rock which tears the bottom out of the boat."

  “In any case, the society is trying to revive itself. Quite some time ago — and I think you know of this — a Secretary named Nisfit sold off all the Society archives and kept the money. The Society is trying to recover as many of the missing documents as possible, and wherever I go, I keep my eye open. Hence, when I learned that you were located here, I thought I would make some inquiries."

  Keebles said indifferently, "All this is long ago and far away."

  “According to Mrs. Chilke, F
loyd Swaner sold a parcel of these documents to you. Are they still in your possession?"

  "After all these years? “Keebles again gave his soft panting laugh. “Not very likely."

  Glawen felt a pang of discouragement; he had been hoping against hope that Keebles might still possess the Grant and the Charter. "You have none of them whatever?"

  "Not a one. Books and documents are not my line of work."

  “What happened to the documents?"

  '"They left my hands long ago."

  "Do you know where they are now?"

  Keebles shook his head. “I know to whom I sold them. What happened next I can’t even guess."

  “Is it possible the buyer still has them in his possession?"

  “Anything is possible."

  “Well then, to whom did you sell them?"

  Keebles, leaning back, put his feet on the desk. “We are now moving into the quiet area, where words are golden. This is where we take off our shoes and go on tiptoe."

  “I’ve played such games before," said Glawen. "Someone has always stolen my shoes."

  Keebles ignored the remark. “I am not wealthy, and information is my stock in trade. If you want it you must pay for it.”

  ''Words are cheap, “said Glawen. “Is your information worth anything? In short, what do you know?”

  "I know to whom I traded the Naturalist documents, and I know where to find him now. That's the information you want, isn’t it? So what is it worth to you? Quite a bit, I should imagine.”

  Glawen shook his head. “You are not being realistic. The Naturalists can't afford a large outlay, and I can't pay out money on speculation. The man might have disposed of the material long ago."

  “Life is unpredictable, Mr. Clattuc. To gain something you must risk something.”

  “A sensible man considers the odds. In this case, they are not good. Your friend might have sold the material long ago to someone he can't remember or, if he still owns it, he might refuse to let it go, for any number of reasons. In short, your information might earn me a small commission. More likely it will bring me nothing more than a wild goose chase."

  “Bah," muttered Keebles. "You worry too much." He removed his feet from the desk and sat up in the chair. "Let's get down to brass tacks. What will you pay for the information?"

  “'What information?” demanded Glawen. “I can't offer anything until I know what I'm getting. Telephone your friend and ask if he still owns everything you sold him, or whether he sold off any segment of the material, and if so, what. I will pay you five sols to make the call, and wait for the answer."

  Keebles gave a roar of indignation. "The time I waste haggling with you is worth twice as much!"

  "'Perhaps so, if you could find someone willing to pay."

  Glawen laid five sols on the desk. “Make the call, get the facts, and we'll go on from there. Do you want me to wait in the outer office?"

  “I can't call now” grumbled Keebles. “It's the wrong time of day.” He glanced at the wall clock. “Also, I have another appointment. Come back this evening, at sunset or a bit later. It still may not be a convenient hour to call, but nothing is convenient on this cursed world, and I still can't fathom the thirty-seven hour days."

  V.

  Glawen walked back along Crippet Alley, pondering his interview with Melvish Keebles. Everything considered, the affair had gone about as well as could have been hoped, even though Keebles had left him in a state of nerve-wracking suspense.

  Nonetheless, he had made progress, of a sort. Keebles had agreed to telephone the other party to the transaction, tacitly acknowledging the presence of this person upon Nion. Glawen wondered whether the admission had been an indiscretion which Keebles had regretted. If so, it indicated a carelessness which surely was not characteristic of Keebles. If not, the significance could only be that Keebles considered the business trivial, with little prospect of profit for himself and this seemed the most likely explanation. As for the other party to the transaction, it could hardly be anyone other than Keebles' long-time associate, now collecting tanglets out on the Plain of Standing Stones — a dangerous business, according to the woman who seemed to serve as Keebles' clerk, though perhaps she might be another of the wives he married so casually.

  Crippet Alley expanded into a square, than narrowed again. More folk were abroad than before: for the most part the slight delicate-featured natives of Tanjaree, with here and there a man or a woman from one of the outer districts, of markedly different physiognomy and costume, in Tanjaree that they might visit the markets. No one paid Glawen the slightest heed; he might have been invisible for all the attention he aroused.

  The long afternoon lay ahead. Glawen returned to the Novial Hotel. In the lobby the clerk leaned forward upon the counter. “The dining room is now prepared for the mid-afternoon service. Shall I announce that you will shortly be on hand to take your pold?”

  Glawen stopped short. Mid-afternoon service? How many meals were consumed during the course of a thirty-seven hour day? Breakfast, lunch, dinner, mid-morning and mid-afternoon services, at the very least. What happened during the long hungry nineteen-hour nights?[8] Glawen temporarily put the question from his mind. At the moment, he was hungry. “I doubt if I am ready for pold," he told the clerk. “Is standard cuisine available?”

  “Naturally! A certain class of tourist will take nothing else, which is a pity, since pold gratifies, sustains and lubricates. It is wholesome and cannot be defeated. Still, you may eat as you like."

  "In that case I will take the risk.”

  In the restaurant Glawen was handed the Tourist's Menu, from which he made a selection. As an unsolicited side dish, he was served a slab of pale cream-yellow pold which, when he tasted it, yielded a bland nutty flavor. He found no incentive to linger in the dining room and as soon as possible went out upon the avenue. The time was still early afternoon. Pharisse seemed welded to a spot on the sky. To east and west the pale daylight moons eased unobtrusively along their tracks. Across the lake the domes and spires of Old Town shimmered its reflection on the surface of the water.

  Glawen went to sit on a bench. The Plain of Standing Stones, according to Keebles' clerk, was halfway around the world. Noon at Tanjaree was midnight on the Plain of Standing Stones, and dusk, correspondingly, would be early morning, so that it became clear why Keebles felt impelled to delay his telephone call.

  Glawen brought out the packet of information folders he had received at the tourist information office, from which he took a map of Nion in Mercator projection, printed is a variety of colors. Vertical lines created thirty-seven segments, corresponding to the thirty-seven hours and fifteen minutes of the sidereal day. The origin — 0 o’clock, or midnight — passed through Tanjaree.

  Nions surface area was roughly four times that of Earth: a disparity magnified by the absence of oceans and large seas. Colors indicated physiographic detail: gray for dry sea bottom, olive green for water fields, blue for open water, pink for vast steppes. Clots of population surrounded the three principal cities: Tanjaree; Sirmegosto, six thousand miles south and east; Tyl Toc, four thousand miles due west. Additionally, there were several dozen isolated towns scattered across the planet, including many tourist destinations: Hooktown, near the Tangting Forest; Moonway on the Plain of Standing Stones; Whipple’s Camp, under the Scintic Crag; also a spatter of even smaller villages. Black lines connecting the populated areas were identified as ‘nomad routes’.

  Glawen found the Plain of standing Stones in the segment marked '18’, halfway around the world. Here was the town Moonway, the William Schulz Buttes to the north and the Gerhart Pastels to the south.

  Glawen studied the map for a few moments, then folded it and replaced it in his pocket. He rose from the bench and walked along the avenue to a bookseller’s shop near the Cansaspara Hotel. He bought a tourist's guide, entitled:

  NION: WHERE TO GO, WHAT TO DO!

  Also, where not to go and what not to do, if you value your life
and sanity. (Yes: Sanity. See section on Gangril pold).

  Nearby was an outdoor cafe. Glawen found a table somewhat to the side and seated himself. The other patrons were for the most part off-worlders: tourists chattering and remarking upon the contradictions of Tanjaree, in their estimation a place forlorn and shabby, but truly exotic and of course incomprehensible. Some recounted their experiences with pold; others excitedly spoke of that excursion to the Tangting Forest and its mind numbing inhabitants. In the sky Pharisse seemed to hang steady and still among its retinue of moons.

  Glawen started to read is the tourist guide, but was interrupted by the arrival of a waiter wearing a maroon uniform with a flowing black cravat. “Your order, sir?”

  Glawen looked up from his book. “What is available?”

  "We offer a full range of potations, sir. They are listed here, on the menu.” He indicated a card and started to turn away.

  “Wait!” cried Glawen. “What is a ‘Tympanese Tonic’?"

  “It is a local beverage, sir, with mildly stimulating effects."

  “It is derived from pold?"

  “Yes, sir."

  “What is ‘Meteor Fuel’?"

  “It is another mild stimulant, sir, and is sometimes taken before foot races.”

  "Also, derived from — "

  “A different sort of pold, sir."

  “The lady yonder what is she drinking?”

  “That is our 'Corpse Reviver’. It is a secret recipe of the Gangrils and is popular among tourists with modernistic views.”

  “I see. What about these "Teas imported from Earth”? Are they also pold?”

  “Not to my knowledge, sir."

  “You may bring me a pot of green tea, if you please."

  Glawen returned to the guidebook and found a section entitled: ‘The Plain of Standing Stones’. He read:

  One cannot think of the Standing Stones without reference to the Shadowmen, who to this day lurk is the neighborhood. They are aptly named, if only because they are little more than shadows of their remarkable progenitors, each of whom strove incessantly for honor and devoted his life to the performance of mighty deeds. The Shadowmen of today are somber, taciturn, intensely superstitious, and so introverted as to be impenetrable. Etiquette guides each phase of his life, so that he seems overwhelmed by its minutiae, and his conduct is predictable. The casual visitor to Moonway, who chances to come upon one of the Shadowmen during the course of his excursion, will see a person stolid as a rock, and quite imperturbable. But let the visitor make no mistake: this aloof gentleman will cut his throat without a qualm if he finds the tourist tampering with his sacred objects. Still, do not be deterred from a visit to the Standing Stones; they are remarkable, and you will be safe so long as you conform to the regulations.