Lurulu

by Jack Vance

  NOTE: The intelligent reader will quickly observe that the article quoted above is a masterpiece of hyperbole; doubtless the writer was never any closer to Fluter than his local amusement park. Only the most naive of readers, upon exposure to the article, will set off pell-mell for Fluter hoping to find ‘ineffable glamour and daily episodes of erotic hi-jinks’.

  The following facts should be noted. The scenery of Fluter is very pleasant. The best hotel in Coro-Coro is the O-Shar-Shan, but there is no running hot water. The girls are neither seductive nor particularly amiable. Arrivals at the spaceport are allowed visitor’s permits of thirty days duration.

  1

  The geography of Fluter as seen from space was extraordinary, and perhaps unique — certainly within the bounds of the Gaean Reach. In cooling from its primal melt the world had shrunk, squeezing up the crust into nine enormous anticlines running north and south across all of one hemisphere, leaving the opposite hemisphere a flat peneplain. In the course of time the sea rose and the rock-folds became nine narrow continents, with shallow seas between. The opposite hemisphere was drowned beneath the waters of a vast featureless ocean.

  Time passed. The climate was benign; life came to Fluter, and clothed the land in verdure of innumerable varieties. A band of Gaean pioneers arrived from the world Ergard, to settle all nine continents. Five years later, at the First Conclave, they bound themselves to a set of strict covenants by which to control their population, so that never should Fluter become the congested jungle of concrete towers, underground warrens, smells, stinks and pollution, crowded streets and cramped space which they had left behind on Ergard. Time might pass — a hundred years, a thousand years — but never, so they swore, would they allow their wonderful new world to be so desecrated. The Flauts, as they called themselves, surveyed the nine continents and divided the arable land into sections, with each section rated for a maximum population which might never be exceeded.

  A thousand years later, the population of Fluter occupied one hundred and forty-seven villages scattered at random across all nine continents, along with a special node surrounding the Coro-Coro spaceport.

  The native flora co-existed amiably with dozens of exotic imports, from Old Earth and elsewhere. The ubiquitous coconut palm leaned across a thousand beaches; exotic hardwoods, softwoods, flowering shrubs and vines grew in the Fluter forests and along the mountain slopes. The fauna consisted of a few lizards and insects on land, and a variety of marine life, which made the waters fascinating but dangerous.

  At Coro-Coro, on Continent Five, was the famous O-Shar-Shan Hotel, and a dozen other tourist hotels more or less fashionable. Though the calculations were often complicated, Coro-Coro was subject to the same population controls as the rest of Fluter, so that Coro-Coro remained an oversized village.

  2

  The Glicca landed at the Coro-Coro spaceport and was boarded by a team of local officials. Their routines were unusually careful. A pair of medics tested ship, crew and passengers for noxious diseases, while another technician filtered samples of air in search of undesirable viruses, pollen, spores or proteins. Finding nothing of interest, the team departed the ship. Meanwhile, an immigration officer noted name, age, world of origin, reason for visit, criminal record, if any, for each member of the ship’s complement, issuing entry permits as he did so. He then addressed the company.

  “Please listen with care! I am Civil Agent Uther Taun; I represent the administration of Coro-Coro and, effectually, of all Fluter. Civil Agents are charged with many responsibilities, but most importantly we guard the beauty of our beloved world. Severe penalties are visited upon anyone so depraved as to distribute litter or cause any other defilement. I need not enlarge upon these laws, except to state that they are enforced with diligence by a corps of special Civil Agents, and equally vigilant Land Agents. If appropriate, penalties of three orders are inflicted. Neither the Land Agents nor the Civil Agents accept excuses! Wastes must be deposited in certified receptacles. Random micturition or defecation at large are never encouraged, for reasons which need not be particularized. Nevertheless, rather than frowning and wincing, you should think yourselves privileged to enjoy the delights of Fluter! Visitor’s permits are valid for thirty days, but may be renewed upon timely application. I will mention for persons desiring temporary employment, a Labor Exchange is situated nearby, along Pomare Boulevard.

  “A final word: if, during your excursion, you should come upon a village, you would be prudent to turn away and go elsewhere. Should you ignore my advice and enter the village, be absolutely discreet! The typical Flaut is not a graceful host; to the contrary he is both unfeeling and surly. If you visit a village tavern, use total decorum. If you encounter a female, no matter of what age, abstain from familiarity, since the Flauts have no qualms about thrashing an obnoxious tourist. If you are careful and pay with a willing hand, you will encounter no trouble.

  “Another matter of importance: the lands of Fluter are devoid of both dangerous beasts and predatory birds; the law therefore forbids the importation or possession of power guns, or other such weapons. This is an ancient law, enacted during the Terrible Times. It was felt that warriors of the day committed enough horror with their dirks and battle-hatchets without the need for more help. The law is still enforced by the Civil Agents, and applies to all weapons of projective energy, large or small. No excuses pertain, and penalties are of the third order. Now then: are there questions?”

  The ineffable Cooner stepped forward, his plump face alight with eager innocence. He raised his hand on high, fingers fluttering. The Civil Agent looked down at him. “You have a question?”

  “Yes sir! Why are there both Civil Agents and Land Agents?”

  The Agent frowned coldly. “The differences are real, but sometimes unclear to the public. In general, the Civil Agents patrol Coro-Coro, while the Land Agents keep a vigilant surveillance over the conduct of campers and excursionists.”

  “And which is the more severe?”

  “Neither is severe. Both enforce the law of the land to the exact jot and tittle.”

  “Ha!” cried Cooner, with unbecoming joviality. “And what, may I ask, is the nature of the three orders of punishment? What, exactly, do they designate?”

  The Agent, not happy with Cooner’s flippant demeanor, answered tersely: “These matters are considered indelicate; ladies and gentlemen prefer to ignore them.”

  “Aha!” cried Cooner, chuckling. “You misread your audience! Aboard the Glicca we are all philosophers; not a lady or a gentleman in the group! You may speak on with an easy mind.”

  The Agent’s voice became even more terse than before. “Just as you like. Listen then!

  “Punishment of the first order is public chastisement. Punishment of the second order includes disgrace, confiscation of all property and expulsion from Fluter dressed only in a bramble. Punishment of the third order involves death by subaqueation in Sharler’s Pond.”

  “Hm,” said Cooner, more soberly than before. “I see that you take your litigation seriously. Perhaps it is wise to stay within the law.”

  “That is ever the case,” said the official.

  “A final question!” called Cooner. “How might I detect a Civil Agent or a Land Agent, when one is in the vicinity? How are they different?”

  “The questions are nuncupatory. The most prudent conduct is to assume that you are being watched by one or the other at all times. To answer your question more circumspectly: the Civil Agent is never conspicuous, even though he wears a neat uniform. He is polite even when he is taking you into custody. Tradition ordains that he wear a short square beard. He is mature but never infirm, and is notable for his punctilio. The Land Agent wears a green sash and carries a ceremonial whangee. Otherwise he is much like a Civil Agent. Now: to other business.” From his pouch he brought forth pamphlets entitled: ‘LEGAL CODE, Ordinary Regulations’, ‘Duties of the Visitor’ and ‘Advice from a Civil Agent’.

  “Everyone must study this
compendium with care!” declared the Agent. “There can then be no excuses for misconduct!”

  Cooner muttered: “Never fear; we shall creep about our affairs on tiptoe.”

  The Agent pretended not to hear. He distributed the pamphlets, then departed the ship.

  3

  Perrumpter Kalash made a final attempt to soften the resolve of Captain Maloof. He approached, face wreathed in a tremulous smile. “Sir, in talking with my colleagues, I find that we are united in admiration for the clarity of your wisdom!”

  “Thank you,” said Maloof. “That is good to hear.”

  “But we also feel that certain of your views are so abstract as to insulate you from the woes of humanity. It is our sincere hope that you have reconsidered our unhappy situation, that perhaps you have reached a better understanding, and now feel a surge of sympathy for our plight; am I right?”

  “You could not be more wrong. My recommendation is as before.”

  Kalash threw up his arms in defeat and turned away. The pilgrims gathered to confer, and decided to ask Schwatzendale to return his winnings. Wingo overheard their muttered plans and assured them that Schwatzendale would “rather drain blood from his leg than relinquish money, once it had come into his possession.”

  Schwatzendale himself joined the conversation. He asked Perrumpter Kalash: “Would you have returned my losses had you depredated my wealth? Remember, if you will, that I too have feelings!”

  The pilgrims murmured resentfully, then left the ship and straggled off toward the Labor Exchange. Captain Maloof and Myron went off to the warehouse to arrange for the discharge of cargo. Moncrief, along with Flook, Pook and Snook, set off toward the center of town, with Hunzel and Siglaf hunching behind.

  Wingo and Schwatzendale, before leaving the ship, changed into shoreside clothes. Wingo donned dust-brown breeches, a gray-pink shirt with a black string cravat, his loose brown cloak and the brown planter’s hat with the sweeping brim — a costume harking back to those gallant artists who swaggered with such élan across the early romantic eras. His sensitive feet were at ease in the fine boots of soft leather by which he set great store. Schwatzendale wore black breeches, a shirt patterned in a black and green diaper, a soft black cap pulled askew over his black locks. They set off along the Pomare Boulevard, walking under a rustling canopy of overhanging foliage and sweet-smelling flowers.

  The trees were of many varieties: some indigenous, others brought from far worlds. Certain of the trees towered grandly on high; others crouched contorted, with heavy limbs spreading fans of foliage over the roadway. Silurian elms displayed fronds of pale blue and sea-green; dendrons released lobes of gas-filled membrane which floated off down the boulevard, loaded with spores. Quake-trees, nectarcups hanging on corkscrew tendrils, bobbed and bounced to spill perfume into the air.

  Schwatzendale trotted along in jaunty high spirits. He danced first ahead of Wingo’s staunch and steady gait, then off to the side to pluck a flower, which a moment later he flung over his shoulder in flamboyant disregard for the law. Wingo watched benignly and paused to pick up Schwatzendale’s litter, which he tucked into his pocket.

  The two passed the Labor Exchange: a long open-sided shed thatched with tawny palm fronds, overhung by talisman trees. Behind a counter, a single clerk attended to the needs of a stout woman wearing black boots and wide orange pantaloons. The pilgrims, meanwhile, stood in a glum huddle reading notices on a bulletin board, striking from time to time at flying insects.

  Wingo and Schwatzendale continued along the way. Wingo was inclined to commiserate with the pilgrims, citing the inconveniences of their present plight. Schwatzendale was more detached. “They were not compelled to march off on this fateful expedition! Had they stayed at home, they might have slept in their own beds, or performed religious rites whenever the notion took them, each to their heart’s content.”

  “They are driven by something called ‘afflatus’,” Wingo told him. “It is an all-consuming force which cannot be explained.”

  Schwatzendale nodded his comprehension. They proceeded, passing the premises of the Tarquin Transit Company, which offered rental vehicles of all kinds, some fanciful and ostentatious, others built for speed, low in front with tall spindly wheels behind. There were flitters of local construction, so fragile and light that it seemed as if the wind might carry them away.

  Taking in the sights Schwatzendale and Wingo went on, dodging the occasional skitter which trundled along the boulevard. They noticed several bungalows, almost hidden in the foliage, then came upon a rambling structure built of old boards and panels of compressed grass, under a high-peaked roof of palm thatch. A sagging porch ran along the front, with three wooden steps connecting porch to ground. Above the porch hung a sign: Pingis Tavern. Wingo and Schwatzendale stopped short. They appraised the raffish structure with practiced eyes, then with one accord they turned aside, mounted the steps and entered the tavern.

  They were met by a familiar odor: the scent of old wood permeated by generations of spilled beer, along with the must of dry palm. At this time of day, business was slow. The interior was dim and quiet. At the back a pair of stout ladies gossiped earnestly over small beers. A gentleman of evident respectability leaned against the bar, clasping a goblet of pale liquor in his right hand. He wore a smart blue tunic, breeches of black whipcord, black ankle-boots of good quality. His face was long and sober, under a neatly ordered ruff of crisp brown hair. A short square beard emphasized the sobriety of his features. He nodded politely as Wingo and Schwatzendale seated themselves at a scarred wooden table.

  On the wall behind the bar a board listed a dozen special drinks in an illegible scrawl. The brown-bearded gentleman watched tolerantly for a moment, then volunteered advice: “Balrob, our host, is a man of good reputation, and I can vouch for his bitter ale.”

  Balrob bowed in gratification. “Thank you, Sir Agent! Your commendation carries weight.”

  The gentleman straightened to an erect posture. “Allow me to introduce myself; I am Efram Shant, Land Agent, at your service.”

  Wingo and Schwatzendale mentioned their own names, and the Land Agent continued his remarks. “If you are partial to toddies, the Tingletown, the Importunata and the Old Reliable are all well-regarded! Balrob, however, feels that his first speciality is Pooncho Punch, and I am inclined to agree.”

  “Hm,” mused Wingo. “I am not familiar with this drink.”

  Schwatzendale gave his head a doubtful shake. “I have tested many formulations, but never Pooncho Punch.”

  “I am not surprised,” said Balrob. “There are four versions of Pooncho; all have been developed locally, using local ingredients only. The recipe is, of course, a guarded family secret.”

  Agent Shant said: “My own preference is Pooncho Number Three. It is bracing and flavorful, yet never sits heavy on the tongue.”

  Wingo looked at Schwatzendale. “Shall we attempt this storied tipple?”

  “The opportunity should not be wasted!” declared Schwatzendale without hesitation.

  “My feelings exactly,” said Wingo. He signalled to Balrob. “Two orders of the Number Three Pooncho, if you please.”

  “With pleasure, sir.”

  “… Well, then? What is your verdict?”

  Wingo coughed and cleared his throat. “This is a drink of several dimensions. It should not be judged in haste.”

  Schwatzendale said: “I find the drink stimulating, well-balanced, and rife with a distinctive panache.”

  Wingo sipped again from the mug. “Most refreshing! Might there be a Number Four Pooncho?”

  Agent Shant pulled soberly at his beard. “I have no personal experience with the drink. However, I understand that it is sometimes known as the ‘Pingis Rejuvenator’, and is occasionally administered to the dead or unconscious.”

  “Indeed!” marvelled Wingo. “To what effect?”

  “I have not witnessed the cure myself. Still, I have had a broad experience of life and I have seen some
startling events, so that I no longer make absolute assertions.”

  “You would seem a man to be trusted,” said Schwatzendale. “I would value your advice on another topic altogether.”

  “Speak! I shall answer to my best ability.”

  “We are new arrivals upon this remarkable world. How best can we entertain ourselves, at modest expense, and within the limits of the law?”

  “Hm.” Agent Shant again pulled at his beard. “That is like asking how to dive into the water without getting wet. But let me reflect. If you are keen botanists, you will enjoy examining the flowers in the public parks, or you may go on nature walks about the countryside. At slightly larger expense, you may hire a way-car, which affords you more latitude, or you might simply trundle off across the wilderness. Again, you might rent a houseboat and cruise our incomparable waterways. We discourage the use of flitters or aircraft of any sort, since they often intrude upon the privacy of the back-country Flauts.” The Land Agent squared his shoulders, drained his goblet and glanced around the room. “I must be off about my business.”

  Schwatzendale, never diffident, asked: “With full respect, I wonder what might be your business.”

  The Land Agent turned Schwatzendale a brief, rather severe look. “I am a member of the Land committee. I supervise thirty Land Agents and as many sub-Agents, often known as the ‘Land Rovers’, all of whom seek illicit rubbish and bring the culprits to justice. It is a taxing job, and not without danger.”

  Wingo asked innocently: “Do you yourself search out litter?”

  Agent Shant stood erect with shoulders thrown back. “I never shrink from my duty, at all times and in all places! I must set an example for my men!” Agent Shant glanced idly down at the floor, then frowned and stared more fixedly. Wingo, sensing a change in the Agent’s demeanor, followed his gaze to the floor, where, to his alarm, he found that one of the dead flowers he had picked up from the road had fallen from his pocket and now lay blatantly in full view. Wingo hastily reached down and retrieved the illicit object. The Land Agent gave a grim shrug, then turned away and departed.