Lurulu

by Jack Vance

  Wingo and Schwatzendale discussed the episode in low tones for a moment, then decided to attempt another Number Three Pooncho Punch. They gave the order and were served.

  4

  Aboard the Glicca, Myron saw to the discharge of cargo, then retired to his office to deal with paperwork. After a time Captain Maloof appeared in the doorway. Myron looked up. “Something, sir?”

  Maloof waved his hand. “Nothing of consequence. Proceed with your work.”

  “I am almost finished. It won’t be more than a minute.”

  Maloof came into the office and seated himself, and watched while Myron made a few final entries. Myron closed his ledger and looked toward Maloof, wondering what was in the wind.

  Maloof asked: “Is there outbound cargo to interest us?”

  Myron nodded. “A good bit — all trans-shipment. About half a bay for Blenkinsop.”

  “I see.” Maloof showed no great interest. Myron thought that he seemed preoccupied. Presently Maloof said: “A few days ago I mentioned that I might have some private business here at Coro-Coro.”

  “So you did,” said Myron. “As I recall, you used the word ‘lurulu’ in this connection.”

  Maloof nodded. “I am inclined to think that I spoke carelessly. My quest is more prosaic. I want to resolve a mystery which has been troubling me a long time.”

  “What sort of mystery?”

  Maloof hesitated. “I’ll explain, if you have the patience to listen.”

  “I’ll listen, of course; in fact, I’ll be happy to help you in any way that I can.”

  “That is a kind offer, which I am tempted to accept. But first, I should mention the very real possibility of danger.”

  Myron shrugged. “There will be two of us. If nothing else, I can guard your back.”

  “Perhaps it won’t come to that,” said Maloof, without conviction. “In any case, I am pleased for the help, especially since your temperament seems suitable for this sort of undertaking. Wingo and Schwatzendale are excellent fellows, no doubt, but for this particular work neither would be at his best. Wingo is too artless and Schwatzendale too flamboyant. What is needed is someone quiet, subtle and unobtrusive, or who will adapt himself to such a role; in short, a person like yourself, with a cap pulled down to hide your blond hair, which is rather conspicuous.”

  Myron decided to take the remark as a compliment. It could be worse, he reflected.

  For a time Maloof sat deep in thought. At last he stirred. “I will explain the background to the case. It is not simple, but I will try to be succinct. I must start many years ago — at Traven on the world Morlock, in Argo Navis. I was born into the patrician caste and spent a privileged childhood, which now seems unthinkably far away. My father was a banker, and wealthy. I remember him as a tall, erect gentleman, fastidious, humorless and definite in his views. My mother was altogether different: she was pretty, frivolous, impulsive and always ready to try a new fad. We lived in a grand house overlooking Faurency Weald, with all the country clubs spread out before us, all the way to Leyland Forest. My father and I were never on the best of terms — my fault more than his, so I understand now. When I was eighteen I left home to become an IPCC cadet, which further estranged both my father and mother, who wanted me to become a banker. In those days I was wild and reckless and thought very well of myself. Six years of IPCC training ground away the worst of my rough edges, and brought discipline into my life. In the end I was commissioned a junior officer, Level Eight, and I thought that my parents might even be pleased with me. I was allowed a short leave of absence, which I spent at Traven, even though my father had become more opinionated than ever, or so it seemed. Now I understand that I had never appreciated his regard for me and that my leaving home had left him forlorn and lonely. My mother, on the other hand, seemed more frivolous and foolish than before. She fluttered and flitted about in girlish frocks, more fluffy-minded than ever. I felt concern for both of them and was sorry to return to duty.

  “I was sent out on a tour of service which took me here and there across the Reach, and finally, after a promotion to Level Six, I was posted first to Olfane on Sigil 92, where I was promoted Lieutenant Grade Five, and then to the town Wanne on the hard little world Dusa, at the very brink of Beyond. Wanne was reputedly the meanest posting on this side of the Reach. I survived; I learned what there was to be learned. I was promoted again to a grade just short of ‘Captain’, but by this time I was ready for something new. There was talk of transfer to a new posting, but now occurred an event which changed the course of my life.

  “From the town Serafim, out in the Beyond, came a dilapidated old Model 11-B Scudder with a crew of four ruffians. They attacked the Creach, a freighter which happened to be in port, killed the master and crew, then took the Creach aloft and away, presumably back into the Beyond, where our authority was nil and the law barred our presence.

  “At the time there were only three agents posted to the Wanne office. We were all outraged by the contemptuous act of the pirates. It was an insult to our dignity and it demanded a reaction, illegal or not.

  “The commanding officer was Captain Wistelrod. He promoted me to full ‘Captain’, then put me on indefinite leave and decommissioned me, so that I was temporarily a civilian and could go where I saw fit, without arousing an uproar from do-gooders and pussy-footers. I took the Model 11-B up from the Wanne spaceport and flew across the edge into the Beyond. I made for the town Serafim, where we thought the pirates would take their prize. When I arrived at Serafim I put down at night in the wilderness which surrounded the town and ran through the moonlight to the spaceport. Sure enough! There was the Creach!

  “To make a long story short, I killed the pirates and took the Creach back into Gaean space. Along the way, a constructive idea came to me. The previous owner of the vessel was dead. De facto title had passed to the pirates, once they had gone Beyond. By salvaging the ship from the pirates, title had devolved upon me. Since I was now a civilian, I need not surrender the ship to the IPCC. I fell in love with the ship, which was sound, secure and competent. I renamed it the ‘Glicca’.

  “At Wanne I reported briefly to Captain Wistelrod and told him of my decision, which was to remain on indefinite leave. He was sorry to lose me, but wished me well. I assembled a crew and at once began to transport cargo.

  “For one reason or another, three years passed before I put into Traven. I was a year too late. My father had been killed in a boating accident at the country club lake. After a few days of mourning, my foolish mother had gone off with a man whom my aunt and cousin described as an out-and-out adventurer. He had beguiled her with romantic nonsense, and their present whereabouts was unknown. The big house on Telmany Heights had been sold and was now inhabited by strangers. It was a depressing situation, with a single spark of comfort: my father, knowing my mother’s impulsive disposition, had ordered the executors of his will to consolidate his assets into a trust fund, from which my mother should be paid an adequate but not lavish annuity: a wise precaution, which could only frustrate her new consort.

  “I was troubled by the circumstances of my father’s death; I had come to revere, if not love him. He had drowned when his small sailboat had capsized on a calm day, under questionable circumstances. But I was able to prove nothing.

  “My aunt and my cousin knew very little of the man involved with my mother. She had brought him to their house only once, for a visit of half an hour. The man had given his name as ‘Loy Tremaine’, and seemed considerably younger than my mother. She clearly doted upon him and had acted like a moonstruck girl. Tremaine sat stiffly, making no effort to hide his boredom. Neither my aunt nor my cousin found him agreeable, though they admitted that he was personable, even magnetically so. His hair, short, thick and black, clasped his head like a casque. His eyes were black, intense, a trifle too close together, beside a high-bridged nose. It was a face which, in the opinion of both my aunt and my cousin, indicated a self-centered willfulness, or even cruelty. Both noti
ced a small tattoo on his neck, just under the turn of his jaw. It was a cross inside two concentric circles, in a distinctive black-purple ink.

  “Tremaine had spoken little, responding to questions in monosyllables. Only when asked as to his world of origin did he respond, and then in an excited and exalted manner, walking back and forth, flourishing his hands for emphasis. Even so, he gave them little real information. ‘It is a far world,’ he said. ‘Its name would mean nothing to you; in fact, it is known only to discriminating and wealthy tourists, who are allowed to make limited stays, despite their reluctance to leave. But we cannot relax and money means nothing to us. The world must be protected! It is now entrancing for its serenity; we cannot allow it to be defiled by vulgar hordes.’

  “My mother proudly amplified the statement. ‘Loy claims that it is the most beautiful world in all the Reach — so beautiful, in fact, that it compels the return of anyone who has lived there. I am anxious to know this wonderful place!’ At this time, according to my aunt, Tremaine rose to his feet and said: ‘It is time that we were leaving.’ A moment later they were gone.

  “I made inquiries at the bank. I learned that a few months before, my mother had come to the bank in the company of a surly gentleman. She had stated her intention to travel, and had requested that the trust be broken so that she might realize the full value of the fund at once. The bank officials had decisively denied the request, eliciting sharp comments from the gentleman, which troubled them not at all. The bank officials had tendered my mother a set of dated coupons, which she might cash at any local bank at the beginning of each year. After a set of formalities to prove her identity, the coupons would be referred to the bank at Traven and the value of the coupon returned to my mother. She complained that the process seemed cumbersome, and was told it was the only means to ensure that her money was paid to her and not some clever swindler, and that she should not complain. I asked if they as yet had paid off any of the coupons, but none had been presented for payment. The bank had no clue as to my mother’s present whereabouts.

  “At the spaceport, I tried to discover, first: when Loy Tremaine had arrived on Morlock; second: when Tremaine and my mother had departed; and third: what had been their destination? I learned nothing. There was urgent cargo aboard the Glicca; I could delay no longer, and so I departed Morlock.

  “Sometime later the Glicca put into Lorca on the world Sansevere. I went to the Aetna University and sought out Doctor Tessing, a savant in the field of social anthropology. I described Tremaine to the best of my ability. I mentioned that he was native to what he felt to be the most beautiful world of the Gaean Reach, which no one could leave without yearning to return. I asked if he could identify this world. Doctor Tessing said that the chances were good. He worked the controls of his information processor, and studied the output. Then he said: ‘The problem is relatively simple. Both man and world have well-defined characteristics. Together they indicate that the man is a Flaut, native to the world Fluter, which is famed for the charm of its landscapes. I can tell you more. The Flauts are obsessional in regard to their world, and no Flaut would leave unless fleeing for his life. If he returns to Fluter, he will do so at great risk.’

  “I asked: ‘What do you make of the tattoo on his neck?’

  “‘It is either a status symbol, or it identifies his place of origin.’

  “There was nothing more he could tell me. I expressed my thanks and returned to the Glicca. I now knew where my mother could be found. Her money would keep her safe, so I reasoned. Tremaine could not get at her capital, but her annuity nevertheless was a substantial sum, and was in effect her insurance policy.

  “For a time the transport business kept us across the Reach and far away from Fluter. We drifted here and there, but one day we settled upon the Coro-Coro spaceport. We would remain for three days only.

  “I spent one of these days with the senior official in the Office of Entry Formalities. Together we searched the files, but there was no record of either the man who called himself ‘Tremaine’ or my mother. The official was not altogether surprised. He told me, rather reluctantly, that certain rogues and blackguards avoided the immigration laws by arranging to be set down a mile or so out in the wilderness, then walking into town. This was a serious offense, he told me, and the perpetrators, if apprehended, were liable to penalties of the third order, since they were violating the basic canon of Flaut law: namely, the statutes controlling the population. Without valid entry permits, they were in constant danger of being taken up by a Civil Agent. This would be the case if they tried to book into a hotel.

  “I asked: ‘What if they use forged documents?’

  “‘Possible,’ he admitted, ‘but such documents must be renewed monthly, which would soon arouse attention. After two or three such renewals the permit would be voided and the guilty person — would suffer the appropriate penalties.’”

  Myron grimaced. “It seems rather extreme.”

  “Not when you know Flaut history. During their ‘Terrible Times’ they learned to accept death as the all-purpose punishment for any mistake whatsoever. It was easy and there was no quibbling.

  “The next day I went to the IPCC office. The commanding officer was Captain Harms, a crusty old veteran who had been sent out to rusticate at Coro-Coro, a post considered a safe and comfortable sinecure where the agent in charge could do no great damage. His assistant was an innocuous young lieutenant who had learned to exert no twitch of initiative for fear of Captain Harms’ displeasure.

  “I found Captain Harms sitting at his desk. He was in fact a man of formidable aspect, with the broad chest and thin legs of a pouter pigeon. His face had been weathered pinkish-brown, against which bristling white eyebrows, ferocious blue eyes, an ungovernable tuft of white hair and a bristling white mustache made a fine contrast.

  “I introduced myself and explained my problem. As I expected, he produced a dozen reasons why the IPCC could not stir its majestic bulk to interfere in the local jurisdiction. I told him that Tremaine almost certainly had killed my father and that the safety of my mother was at risk. Harms declared that these factors were extraneous to the case, and that I should report my suspicions to the Civil Agents. I explained that, by so doing, I would be exposing my mother to a penalty of the third order. Harms shrugged, implying that she should have foreseen the eventuality before she indulged in a criminal act. I mentioned Tremaine’s tattoo. Harms said that it identified his native village. He could not help in this regard since he had no list or compendium of the Flaut tattoos. For such information I might apply to the Office of Civil Dispositions, or the Bureau of Vital Statistics, or the Population Registry. I bade Captain Harms farewell and left the agency. The next day I followed his suggestion. I presented myself first to the Office of Civil Dispositions. After two hours they referred me to the Population Registry, where after another two hours I was told that the information could most easily be had at the Office of Vital Statistics. After another wait I learned that the clerk who might have this information had gone off to a houseboat for a two-week vacation, and nothing could be done until her return. They suggested that I make inquiries at the Bureau for Archaeological Research, but by this time I was certain that they were playing a game with me. I returned to the Glicca in a very bad mood.

  “On the next day we departed Fluter. But now the Glicca is back and I will resume where I left off.”

  “So there you have it. Is it lurulu?” Maloof smiled. “Not exactly; in fact, not even close.” He surveyed Myron. “Now that you understand the program, do you still care to participate?”

  “Certainly! But I have a question or two. First, how do you plan to proceed?”

  Maloof shrugged. “I wish I had a clever strategy, but I expect that I will do as before, which means trudging around, asking questions until someone decides to answer. The clerk at Vital Statistics may now be back from the houseboat.”

  “We have at least one advantage,” said Myron. “Tremaine will not know
that we are looking for him.”

  “True.”

  “And if we find him — what then?”

  “Much depends upon circumstances.”

  Myron rose to his feet. “I’m ready when you are.”

  Maloof also stood erect. “Wear a dark jacket. We are anthropologists from Aetna University on Sansevere. And don’t forget your hat.”

  Chapter II

  Excerpt from Handbook To The Planets:

  FLUTER: THE TERRIBLE TIMES

  Visitors to this most beautiful of worlds are ordinarily ignorant of a dark episode in Fluter’s past. When they learn the facts, more often than not the information is received with polite incredulity, or more intelligently, as just another scar on the body of Gaean history. Nevertheless, here is an outline of the events which occurred on Fluter at that time.

  The original settlers came in reaction to the insufferable overcrowding of their native world-city, Coreon on Ergard. They made population control the first and most stringent law of the land. As the centuries passed the strictures gradually relaxed and memory of Coreon became dim. The spectre of overcrowding once again cast a dreary shadow over the land and fervor for reviving the old statutes increased — rather hysterically, so it seems now. At the first Conclave for Population Readjustment, the old laws were emphatically renewed. Zealots ruled the day; proposals for gradual retrenchment were shouted down in favor of immediacy. Each village was assigned an index indicating by how far its population must be reduced to stay within the norms; killing became an ordinary affair. First to go were the aged and the infirm, along with the feeble-minded or anyone considered deficient in some regard. Family feuded with family; the elderly and even the middle-aged walked abroad at their peril. Ambush became a fine art, but the elderly suffered most until they organized themselves into fearsome gangs: the ‘Silver Ghosts’, who skulked through shadows seeking children and wailing babies, whose brains they dashed out against a rock. When at last the roster of the village declined below the index, and the need for slaughter was gone, furtive killing persisted, from habit and from engendered hatred.