Lurulu

by Jack Vance

  Eventually equilibrium returned. Population control was everywhere rigidly enforced through regulation of procreation, fertility, elimination of abnormal children, and abortion, producing more or less the same conditions we find in the Flaut villages today.

  The question is often asked: where was the IPCC during these bad times? It has been asserted that the IPCC was indifferent; such was not the case. In sheer point of fact the IPCC could function effectively only if it occupied each of the Flaut villages and Coro-Coro. A force of at least fifty thousand field agents would have been needed for the operation, resulting in a program so complex as to be unacceptable. When the Flauts became surfeited with killing, they would stop of their own accord. And so it happened.

  1

  The IPCC at Coro-Coro kept a low profile. In the main there was little need for a strong presence. All manifestations of local control aroused resentment in the Civil Agents, who exerted a soft but implacable influence by which order and discipline were imposed upon the folk of Fluter, in a manner adequate to the needs of a civilized society. On several occasions the Civil Agent demanded that the IPCC remove its office from Coro-Coro: requests to which the IPCC responded by constructing a new headquarters of obvious permanence, situated near the O-Shar-Shan circus.

  Maloof and Myron set off along tree-shaded Pomare Boulevard, walking under dangling white blossoms from which drifted a barely perceptible and so tantalizing musky-sweet perfume. They might also have jumped aboard one of the picturesque open-sided omnibuses which plied the boulevard, long high-wheeled charabancs carrying tourists and Flauts alike between the spaceport and the O-Shar-Shan circus.

  The two passed the Labor Exchange. Lined up at the counter were the pilgrims receiving referrals to potential employers. None showed enthusiasm toward the prospect of employment. Cooner, dissatisfied with his referral, stood leaning over the counter, half-prancing with indignation, angrily waving his referral in the air, trying to catch the attention of the clerk who gave him a glance of mild wonder before turning back to his work.

  Maloof and Myron continued along the boulevard and presently passed the office of the Tarquin Transit Agency. In the adjacent yard rental vehicles were ranked: flitters, resembling disheveled winged insects built of bamboo and membrane, of local manufacture except for the imported power units. Each was unique, built to the dictates of possibly amateur designers. The wheeled vehicles, known locally as ‘skitters’, like the flitters, were of ad hoc construction, with struts, frames and braces installed where the builder thought they would do the most good. Some were decorated with arrays of banderoles, others with bouquets of artificial flowers. At the back of the lot several lordly way-cars were ranked, awaiting the pleasure of those who wished to roam the wilderness in comfort, if not luxury. The firm also announced itself as agent for the rental of houseboats moored in every river and waterway of Fluter.

  Maloof and Myron continued along the boulevard, almost brushed by the white dangling blossoms. They came to the Pingis Tavern and stopped short to appraise the rustic structure. Maloof mused: “It is early, of course, but I wonder if Wingo and Schwatzendale might have paused here to test the local ale. This is a subject they always find of interest.”

  “Not unlikely,” said Myron. “The idea would certainly occur to them.”

  Without further words the two climbed the three steps to the porch and entered the tavern. Halting, they surveyed the dim interior. Behind the bar was a bartender of middle age; in a corner two old women sat engrossed in a game of some sort.

  Maloof asked the bartender: “Have our friends looked in this morning? One is plump, round-faced, with a rather pink complexion and going bald. He would be wearing a pale brown cloak. The other is dark-haired and nervous, wearing a shirt of striking green and black diaper pattern, so that he seems a harlequin.”

  The bartender placed both hands on the bar and frowned toward the old women, then his face cleared into remembrance. “Two gentlemen stepped in this morning. One was sturdy, with a kind pink face. The other was all elbows and knees, with eyes that looked in two directions at once.” He grinned and shook his head, caught up by some marvelous recollection. “Now I recall everything. They drank three tankards each of Number Three Pooncho Punch. Despite my earnest advice, they called for a fourth tankard, which they consumed. They are now resting in the back room; in due course they will arouse themselves and manfully set out to face what remains of the day. I could have given them a gill each of the Number Four Pooncho, but I thought better of it. The Four sometimes has startling effects. While you wait, will you each take a Pooncho to foster your own vigor?”

  “At this moment, no,” said Maloof. “Perhaps the next time we pass. You say that our friends are resting in comfort?”

  “Just so. They are as limp as dead eels.”

  Thus reassured Maloof and Myron left the tavern. Not far ahead the boulevard entered O-Shar-Shan circus, across from the wonderful O-Shar-Shan terrace, where tourists wearing their most splendid regalia sat under gay parasols drinking fizzes, punches and toddies from tall bamboo mugs. They were on hand early, to see and be seen. In modes of feigned languor and sophisticated indifference, they covertly studied the folk at nearby tables, speculating as to their places of origin, social status and moral standards. From time to time charabancs stopped before the terrace. Passengers disembarked, others were loaded aboard, and the charabanc set off on a new sortie into the wilderness.

  Around the circus skitters of a dozen sorts rolled, veering in and out of the usual traffic patterns, careening from lane to lane, high wheels whirring and thumping. The drivers sat proudly erect in the approved posture, regarding other drivers with disdain as if questioning their competence. The three-wheelers appealed to persons of feckless disposition who rode high behind the two after-wheels, with the third wheel on a boom thrust forward like an instrument of attack. Vanities were raised aloft on struts clamped to the forward boom: a peacock’s fan, a winged cherub blowing a clarion, a grotesque head with features articulated to contort in hideous grimaces as the vehicle moved along. The drivers tended to be critical of each other, and easily became outraged by faulty or intemperate techniques. They called out advice, often waving their arms to indicate the nature of the other’s mistake, which usually evoked responsive comments and significant gestures.

  A few yards short of the circus a walkway led off under tall yews to an impressive stone structure. A vertical line of bronze capitals beside the door read: IPCC. At the approach of Maloof and Myron the door slid aside and after they had entered, slid softly shut.

  The two stood in a large high-ceilinged chamber which, like the exterior, conveyed a sense of uncompromising certitude. The walls were washed severely white and were unadorned except for the IPCC starburst emblem high on the back wall. The floor was paved with pale grey tile; there was a functional minimum of austere furniture. Behind the desk sat a man who might have been purposely selected for the office itself. He was in his early maturity, with dark golden hair and intelligent blue eyes. A plaque on his desk identified him as ‘Captain Skahy Serle’. He rose to his feet and waited as Maloof and Myron approached, then indicated chairs. “Good morning, gentlemen; be seated, if you will.”

  When they had seated themselves, he resumed his own place behind the desk. “Now then: introduce yourselves and tell me how I can be of service.”

  “Very well. I am Adair Maloof, master of the ship Glicca, now at the local spaceport; this is Myron Tany, my First Assistant. To begin with, we need information. After that, much depends upon what you can tell us.”

  “Please continue.”

  “We are trying to locate a certain Loy Tremaine, who may now be on Fluter. Do you care to hear the background details? They are a trifle sordid.”

  Serle smiled. “I am not easily disturbed! I have nothing better to do than make out the monthly reports, which I can easily assign to Jervis, my subaltern.”

  Maloof collected his thoughts. “About a year ago I took the Gl
icca to Traven on the world Morlock, for two reasons. The Glicca needed modifications and an overhaul, and I wanted to visit my father and mother who resided at Traven. My father had accumulated substantial wealth and I expected to find them in comfortable retirement in their home on Sunset Hill. I discovered that time had not dealt kindly with them.

  “Ill health had overtaken my father; he had lost most of his initiative and now demanded from life nothing more than quiet and the solace of his books. My mother, on the other hand, had thrown herself into a whirl of social activities. She had become giddy and a bit senile, and was desperately trying to recapture the fervor of youth. Despite my father’s complaints, she opened the house to eccentric semi-scandalous masques and wild midnight revels. My father was forced to take refuge in his country home on Lake Cristel, which allowed my mother more scope than ever. My father finally became disgusted with my mother’s extravagances and put the whole of his wealth into a trust fund, from which she would be paid a moderate annuity. When notified of the changes, my mother was outraged, but she was careful to keep quiet her altered circumstances since the news would surely excite the furtive amusement of her cronies. By one means or another she managed to keep alive the illusion of grandiose wealth.

  “Shortly thereafter I appeared on the scene. I was disturbed by what I learned. My mother, more foolish than ever, had become fascinated by a swashbuckling young rogue named Loy Tremaine. Unquestionably, his appearance was striking. His hair was lustrous black; his features were aquiline; his eyes, rather closely set beside his nose, burned with a black intensity. His manners were flamboyant. The old ladies could not take their eyes from him. They were universally smitten with this picaresque rogue; they preened and simpered when he spoke to them, although he gave my mother, who was known to control a notable family fortune, the most earnest attention. They hung on his every word, each trying to outdo the others in girlish verve.

  “On one occasion, as the evening progressed, Tremaine drank much wine and became vainglorious. He told of escapades and dangerous ventures Beyond — all no doubt fictitious, but which held the old ladies spellbound. He mentioned his home world, which he declared to be the most beautiful of the Reach! He spoke with a curious passion, more than a simple yearning for home. One day so he declared, he would return — as soon as a small misunderstanding with the civil authorities could be adjusted, and all other matters would be set right.

  “My mother was much affected. She said that she also longed to wander among the exotic worlds, but her husband considered such off-world travel dangerous and a waste of money. She complained that it was his penury which prevented her from enjoying the full amplitude of the family fortune, which was her due. Tremaine listened sympathetically, but made no comment. Nevertheless, two days later my father drowned when his boat mysteriously capsized in Lake Cristel.

  “My mother appeared at the funeral in company with Loy Tremaine. A few days later he apparently induced her to go off with him for romantic adventures among the fabulous far worlds of the Reach; at least this was the thrust of a hurried note to a friend. They departed incognito and left no traces, and it is pointless trying to track someone across the Reach; the routes run in too many directions.”

  Maloof paused and after a moment continued, with delicate precision. “That, by and large, is the situation. The Glicca arrived here yesterday and it is only fitting that I make inquiries. If, for a fact, the two have taken up residence on Fluter, I hope to rescue my mother and ship her back to Morlock. If the IPCC can be of assistance, so much the better … Another matter, I noticed a curious tattoo on Tremaine’s neck, a slantwise cross inside two concentric circles.”

  Serle nodded. “Ah, yes. And what of Tremaine?”

  Again, with cautious detachment, Maloof said: “Tremaine is a man of mystery. There is much about him which we do not know, except that he has had trouble with the Civil Agents which he presumably has been able to resolve — perhaps by a donation to their Beneficial Fund, or something similar.”

  “Possibly,” agreed Serle, “though in general the Agents are diffident about even the whisper of a scandal.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I will naturally do what I can, given the strictures under which I work. The Civil Agents resent the IPCC presence and have petitioned that the local office be abandoned. Instead we built a new, larger office and put me in charge. My instructions are not to interfere with the activities of the Agents, unless they put too many tourists, or Flauts, for that matter, to punishments of the third order. At this moment, if I were to act as they think proper, I would refer you to the local office of the Civil Agents, but if they found both Tremaine and your mother on Fluter under illicit circumstances, both would share a similar and severe punishment. In any case, I can help you to a certain extent. The tattoo on Tremaine’s neck indicates his place of origin. It is not Coro-Coro; if it were so, this tattoo would be a sunburst. Still, it should be easy to identify. I will put Jervis on the job.” He pressed a button on his desk.

  A door in the back wall opened and a young man in the blue and black IPCC uniform appeared. He was slender, dark-haired and carried himself with almost military punctilio. “Sir, you have need of me?”

  “So I do. This is Captain Maloof and his shipmate Myron Tany. Gentlemen, this is my assistant Ian Jervis.”

  Maloof and Myron acknowledged the introductions. Serle turned to Jervis. “Do you know where to find the artist Florio?”

  “Yes. His shop is across the boulevard.”

  Serle drew on a card, tucked it into an envelope and handed it to Jervis. “I have drawn the pattern of a tattoo on the card. Please ask Florio to identify the tattoo.” Jervis took the envelope and departed. A few minutes passed, then Jervis returned in company with a thin white-haired man. Jervis said apologetically: “I showed the card to Master Florio, and he insisted on speaking to you in person.”

  “Just so,” said Florio. “I must confer with you privately; certain of my affairs may not be circulated in the public forum.”

  “As you wish.” Serle led Florio into a side room and closed the door. Jervis bowed politely and returned to his own office. Maloof and Myron waited in silence, the implications of Florio’s conduct were too recondite to prompt speculation.

  After a prolonged interval Florio and Serle returned to the chamber. Florio gave Maloof and Myron nods of impersonal courtesy and departed the office, while Serle resumed his seat. For a moment Serle sat considering the two off-worlders, his face a study. Finally he roused himself and straightened in his chair. “You will wonder at Florio’s insistence upon privacy. Needless to say, any information or hints of enlightenment you hear now must never be revealed, especially to the Civil Agents, toward whom Florio feels total contempt. To begin with, Florio identified Tremaine’s tattoo as the emblem of the village Krenke, which indicates that Krenke was his place of origin; in itself this is not significant. Far more important is that two months ago a man answering Tremaine’s description came to his studio, and for a large cash payment Florio altered his Krenke tattoo to a Coro-Coro sunburst, then applied a sunburst to the neck of an old woman who was Tremaine’s companion. Here is evidence that Tremaine and your mother have established themselves somewhere on Fluter; precisely where, it is impossible to surmise.”

  Maloof reflected. “If Krenke were his native village, this is where he might feel most secure from the Civil Agents.”

  Serle shrugged. “Possibly so. For a fact he would be conspicuous in Coro-Coro.”

  Maloof considered further. “Where is Krenke? What kind of a village is it?”

  Again Serle summoned Jervis, and instructed him to discover what there was to be learned about Krenke. After a period Jervis returned to report that Krenke was a village of moderate size, adequately prosperous, where the Three Feathers Inn provided decent lodging for tourists.

  Serle provided Maloof a map indicating the location of Krenke. “It is remote, but not too remote. If you leave now, you should arrive this evening.”


  2

  Maloof and Myron returned to the Glicca, to find themselves alone aboard, with the rest of the ship’s company occupied elsewhere. To Myron’s comment that he would have been comforted by the support of Wingo and Schwatzendale, Maloof replied, “We can deal adequately with the situation, and we are far less conspicuous alone.” Myron accepted Maloof’s program without protest, but checked that his hand-weapons were in good working order. Maloof left a note on the galley table. “That should soothe their anxieties, if any exist.”

  The two unshipped the flitter and stowed a few items of equipment aboard. Once aloft they set off over the arcadian landscapes of Fluter toward the village Krenke. As the sun traversed the sky, the continents and seas passed below. With the sun close to the horizon Krenke appeared below, dozing in the golden light of late afternoon.

  Maloof put the flitter into a slow circle over the village. A road from the east crossed a tranquil river by an iron bridge to become the high street of the village. After passing the Three Feathers Inn, the road proceeded a hundred yards to give upon a public square, then angled away and was lost under the foliage of tall trees.

  Across the bridge from the inn was an area of open land, occupied by a variety of vehicles: farm equipment, drays, power-carts, a few skitters badly in need of maintenance and a pair of antique flitters, fragile as moth-wings. Maloof found an empty bay at the back of the area and landed the flitter just as the last sliver of sun dropped below the horizon, leaving behind a tumble of clouds glowing vermilion, amber and gold.