Lurulu

by Jack Vance

  “All is explained,” said Wingo. “Still, why did the conversation take place behind her fan?”

  “For no particular reason,” said Schwatzendale. “It was as good a place as any.”

  Wingo accepted the explanation and the conversation came to a close.

  2

  The following morning Maloof and Myron breakfasted in the galley, then rode the omnibus along Pomare Boulevard to the IPCC office. They found Serle at his desk, occupied with the paperwork which, because of Civil Agent sensitivity, comprised most of his official duties. Serle greeted the two spacemen politely and indicated chairs. Leaning back, he surveyed them with dispassionate curiosity. “You seem to have avoided serious damage. How did you fare?”

  “Well enough, all taken with all. We watched the young folk of the town engaged in what seemed to be an energetic courtship rite in the public square. We dined at the Three Feathers Inn and also took breakfast in a special breakfast saloon. A serving girl named Buntje accused Myron of peering at her ankles, and reported his conduct to the cook. More importantly, we learned that ‘Loy Tremaine’ is in fact ‘Orlo Cavke’, who killed three children. He was captured but broke free and fled to Coro-Coro, then escaped off-world. The Krenks were surprised to learn that he had returned to Fluter. They want him badly.”

  “Amazing!” said Serle. “I marvel at Cavke’s audacity!”

  “So long as he could avoid the Civil Servants he was in no great danger — not until we came looking for him.”

  “So it would seem,” Serle agreed. “But the presence of Lady Maloof reduces his options. It would not be practical for him to take a house in Coro-Coro; too much paperwork is involved and Lady Maloof would surely want to make sorties to the O-Shar-Shan and other places of high fashion, and after a month the Agents would wonder about her entry papers, whereupon both she and Cavke would be in serious trouble. He could set up a romantic camp in the wilderness, but Lady Maloof might not enjoy the cold water, bad food, insects, or crouching over a hole in the ground when the need became urgent.”

  “This option may be dismissed,” said Maloof.

  “Another possibility exists, which is more probable. I refer to the use of a houseboat. They come in all sizes, configurations and degrees of luxury. The vessels can be taken to where scenery is most appealing and anchored without restriction, and supplies can be obtained at waterside villages. From Cavke’s point of view, a houseboat would seem the optimum solution to his problems.”

  “Perhaps so, but what then?” demanded Myron. “Fluter is a world with a hundred rivers, and probably hundreds of houseboats. Once Orlo Cavke is anchored on some lonely river he is lost.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Serle. “There is a method to check out every houseboat on Fluter without leaving Coro-Coro.”

  “That sounds useful,” Myron admitted. “How is it done?”

  “In a most logical fashion,” said Serle. “Suppose that you owned a fleet of rental houseboats, what would be your greatest fear?”

  Myron reflected, then said: “I would be afraid that a drunken tourist would run my best boat up on a reef, then go off and leave my boat to rot. By the time I learned what had happened, the tourist would be back on his home-world.”

  Serle nodded. “To guard against this event, the renter installs a tracer button aboard each of his houseboats. On a map in his office, the position of each of his houseboats is plotted. You need only learn which vessel Orlo Cavke has rented, copy the coordinates, proceed to this position, board the houseboat, apprehend Cavke and the job is done.”

  “Simple enough,” said Maloof, “especially if Cavke makes no objection.”

  “That is the only dubious link in the chain,” Serle agreed. “Sorry to say, I am restricted by IPCC protocol with the Agency; otherwise Jervis and I, wearing field uniforms, could board the houseboat and put Cavke under arrest, which would finalize the matter very neatly — except for a furious wrangle with the Agency, which looks bad on my record.”

  “No matter,” said Maloof. “One way or another, we will get the job done, even if we have to set fire to the houseboat and make the capture as Cavke jumps overboard.”

  3

  The Tourist Guide to Fluter listed two concerns from which houseboats might be rented or leased. The Tarquin Transit Company maintained premises on Pomare Boulevard, next to the Pingis Tavern. Maloof and Myron visited Tarquin Transit and sought out the yardmaster, a debonair young man with a fine set of silky yellow side-whiskers. When Maloof put his initial questions, the yardmaster looked at him a trifle askance. “Are the Civil Agents concerned in this matter?”

  “Absolutely not! It is the IPCC which has become interested in Loy Tremaine and the rather haughty old lady with whom he is travelling. There is no wish to involve the Civil Agents.”

  “Ah well!” said the yardmaster. “That puts a new face on the matter. For your information, then, Tarquin Transit has never, within the span of my employment, rented to a couple such as that which you have described. For the most part we serve groups of three or four tourists, often with children.” He consulted his listings but was only confirmed in his statements.

  Maloof and Myron went on to the Zangwill Agency, situated on a side street at the back of the O-Shar-Shan hotel. The proprietor, Urban Zangwill, unlike the Tarquin yardmaster, showed no inclination whatever to cooperate and responded to Maloof’s initial inquiry with disdain. “I have an enviable reputation for discretion! Am I likely to risk this priceless asset at the behest of a pair of off-worlders?”

  As Serle had predicted, Zangwill became cooperative as soon as the IPCC was mentioned. Grudgingly he looked into his ledger and presently announced that the Maijaro, a luxury vessel of excellent characteristics, had been let on a long-term basis to a distinguished gentleman named Loy Tremaine and his ailing mother, who displayed a testy temperament. Zangwill brought out plans which depicted a fine vessel forty-eight feet long with a fifteen foot beam. The plans showed a forward pilot station, a large main saloon, a galley with a pantry, two staterooms each with a bath, a forward deck six feet wide and a similar afterdeck.

  “And where is the Maijaro anchored?” Maloof asked.

  Zangwill took them into his inner office. A table supported a large-scale map of Fluter embossed on a surface of matte black glass, with pale tinted continents in relief and the waterways flat, spangled here and there by white sparks. In a voice without accent, as if detaching himself from all association with Maloof and Myron, Zangwill said: “The sparks represent Agency houseboats. There are fifty-one vessels, of four classes.”

  “And which is the Maijaro?”

  Still impassive, Zangwill looked into a ledger, then touched buttons on a panel beside the map. One of the white sparks became a bright green glitter. “That is the Maijaro. It is anchored on the Suametta river, to the west of the second continent.” Maloof studied the map with care and noted the geographical coordinates which defined the exact position of the Maijaro.

  Zangwill spoke, still in the same uninterested voice: “This is an especially fine anchorage: the scenery is beautiful; there is adequate privacy and supplies are available at a village a few miles upstream.”

  “The information is important,” said Maloof. “You should know that Tremaine is a criminal. I tell you this so that you will feel no compulsion to warn him of our interest, by any means whatever. If you do so, you become an accessory to his crimes, which are serious, and you will incur the same penalties that will be visited upon Tremaine. The IPCC penitential colonies are cold, wet, miserable and long-term. The food is bad. Your fellow prisoners are vicious. Are these facts well understood?”

  Zangwill grimaced. “You have made them clear. You should realize that the Agency operates in total accord with the law.”

  “Good,” said Maloof. “We are reassured.”

  4

  Maloof and Myron returned to the IPCC office. Serle looked up from his work in surprise. “You are back earlier than I had expected. Is this a posi
tive sign?”

  Maloof assented. “Our affairs seem to be moving forward.” He described the events of the morning. “Zangwill was cooperative, but he would seem a man of flexible principles. For this reason I warned him that he would incur severe punishment if he should communicate with Orlo Cavke — Loy Tremaine, as he knows him.”

  “Good,” said Serle. He pondered. “But not good enough.” He spoke into his telephone.

  The screen brightened to reveal a somber, black-browed face. “Urban Zangwill here.”

  “I am Commander Skahy Serle, at the IPCC office.”

  Zangwill studied Serle’s image. “I have not had the pleasure of meeting you before. How may I be of service?”

  Serle smiled. “I am about to inform you of something which you may find unusual, but I am sure that in your lifetime you have adapted to many odd circumstances.”

  Zangwill responded cautiously: “I suppose that this is true.”

  “Then you will have no difficulty with the following fact. This morning, as you sat relaxing in your office, you drifted off into what is called a fugue, or a kind of day-dream. At this time you may have a vague recollection that two IPCC operatives spoke to you in relation to a certain houseboat; am I right?”

  Zangwill’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement. “I do not quite understand the thrust of your remarks.”

  “It is no mystery. During your day-dream, you fabricated a hallucinatory event. I now assure you that no such operatives appeared at your yard, and that for the sake of your mental health you should totally dismiss such peculiar dream-figments from your mind. Even as we speak, I am sure that these notions have disappeared — especially if someone should ask a foolish question. Am I clear on this?”

  Zangwill’s heavy mouth twitched. “In short, if someone asks about your operatives, I am to forget that they ever existed.”

  “More than that! How can you forget a fact which has never existed?”

  Zangwill licked his lips. “I see that it would not be possible.”

  “Correct!” Serle examined Zangwill’s face with attention. “In general, how is your memory?”

  Zangwill took time to consider. “I believe that it is good.”

  “Excellent! Therefore, if you do not recall a visit by anyone this morning, such event failed to exist.”

  “That would be my conclusion; yes indeed!”

  “And you do not recall any such event?”

  Zangwill grimaced. “No; I fear not.”

  “If anyone shows an interest in this hypothetical occasion, communicate with me immediately, and I will put matters right. I may say that your cooperation has established you in the good graces of the IPCC.”

  Zangwill showed a wry smile. “That is good news.”

  The screen went blank. Serle, frowning at some unwelcome thought, asked Maloof: “I assume that you learned the exact location of the Maijaro?”

  Maloof responded without emphasis. “I took the coordinates from Zangwill’s map.” He recited numbers.

  Serle brought out a map of the second continent and spread it upon his desk. Maloof repeated the numbers; Serle traced the coordinates and marked the intersection. “The Maijaro is here where the river passes close under the Sumberlin Ridge.” He studied the map. “Upstream about eight miles is a small village. Its name is ‘Pengelly’, being the term for a local crowlike bird; otherwise it seems of little importance.” He reached into a drawer, brought out a reference book, found relevant information and read: “Pengelly: a village of considerable antiquity on the Suametta River, with a population of about four hundred, occupied principally with fishing and agriculture. Pengelly figures to a small extent in historical lore and at one time was the lair of the bandit Rasselbane. The single structure of importance is the ‘Iron Crow Inn’.” Serle put the book aside. “And there you have it. The Maijaro lies at anchor on the Suametta, with your mother and Cavke drowsing away the hours. Cavke will not surrender gracefully. Apart from setting the houseboat on fire, how will you proceed?”

  “There is no lack of options,” said Maloof. “We might dress as fishermen and try to sell Cavke some fish. We might present ourselves as river police looking for a stolen houseboat. During the night we could transfer the anchor line to a tree on the shore; the current would swing the houseboat up on the beach, then when Cavke waded ashore we could apprehend him. In any case, we will bring my mother back to Coro-Coro and return her to Morlock.” Maloof rose to his feet. “We will keep in touch with you.”

  Serle also rose. “If you leave now, you will arrive at the Suametta by late afternoon. I suggest that you put down somewhere for the night and reconnoiter in the morning.”

  “No doubt that is what we shall do.”

  5

  Returning to the Glicca, Maloof and Myron found no one aboard. They left a note on the galley table, then took the flitter aloft to cross once more the pleasant landscapes of Fluter, holding to a north-westerly course. Halfway through the morning they passed over a long line of cliffs and set out over the blue ocean beyond, reaching the white beach which fringed the second continent as the sun approached the noon meridian. They flew on, over forests, rolling hills, mountains, cultivated lands, tracts of wilderness.

  Late in the day the flitter reached the River Suametta; turning upstream, Maloof and Myron found the houseboat Maijaro lying quietly at anchor.

  In the failing light of afternoon the village Pengelly could be seen on the opposite shore, half-hidden under tall trees. The Iron Crow Inn was immediately noticeable: a massive two-story structure built of antique timber and stone under a crotchety slate roof, with ghost-chasers protecting the ridges. The single street of the village led away under the trees, past weathered stone houses. Tendrils of somnolent smoke rose from chimneys; Pengelly had succumbed to the torpor of age.

  Maloof and Myron surveyed the village from above, then dropped to a landing upon a strip of wasteland beside the inn. Alighting, they stood watching and listening, but heard neither voices nor running footsteps; their arrival apparently had gone unnoticed.

  They set off along a path which led to the front of the building. Over the entrance, an iron-framed sign of traditional style hung by chains from an overhead gallows: a black iron crow, four feet tall, in an attitude of intrepid defiance. Under the sign a pair of heavy doors opened into the inn.

  Maloof and Myron pushed through the doors and entered a large high-ceilinged common room. Windows in the left wall overlooked the Suametta, admitting a tide of dim light. A glossy wooden bar occupied the front half of the right-hand wall, with a dining area to the rear. Alone in the room, at a table to the back, sat two children busily writing in exercise books. The boy was about eleven, the girl somewhat younger.

  Upon entering the chamber, Maloof and Myron came forward, then stopped short, staring in fascination at the length of wall behind the bar, where an artist of long ago had painted a remarkable mural. With absolute preciosity the artist had simulated a long mirror reflecting the images of the patrons, who sat studying their images in the mirror. A representative group of villagers were present on that long-past occasion: young, old, men and women, wearing clothes of archaic style; a few laughing, others grave, each concerned with the exigencies of their now forgotten lives. The bar was untenanted, except perhaps for the ghosts of those who sat reflected in the mirror.

  The children had become aware of the newcomers. Both were clean, alert, self-assured. The boy jumped to his feet, ran to a door in the back wall, called through a message, then trotted back to his place at the table. In the doorway a grizzled old man showed himself. He was small, bony, dour, wearing a white apron. Muttering an objurgation, he sidled down behind the bar to where Maloof and Myron waited. Halting, he subjected them to a brief inspection, then spoke. “Gentlemen, what are your needs?”

  “They are quite ordinary,” said Maloof. “We want lodging for the night, supper and breakfast in the morning.”

  The bartender reflected at length, nodding in slow cogitation
, until Maloof became impatient. “Surely this is the Iron Crow Inn? Am I addressing the proper official? If not, please direct us to someone in authority.”

  The bartender surveyed Maloof with disapproval. He responded carefully, using precise diction, so as not to confuse Maloof. “Be calm! You have certainly arrived at the historic Iron Crow Inn. I am Ugo Teybald, the proprietor. I am obliged to notify you that our clientele is select and we cannot indulge the habits of off-worlders, except at premium rates.”

  Maloof smiled grimly. “Your preconceptions are wrong. We are savants touring Fluter like vagabonds and we are accustomed to the hospitality of Fluter inns. Nothing surprises us; we will make do with your standard accommodation, but put away all thought of premium rates, since we have agreed to report all instances of over-charging to the District Control.”

  “Bah!” muttered Teybald. “Our rates are graven in stone. If the goddess Hyrcania came up from her cave and wanted lodging, she would find that our rates were immutable.”

  “Very well then; we shall be content with the best you can offer, at the immutable rate.”

  Teybald deliberated, then said gruffly: “The season is slack; we can allow you a first-class chamber which includes fine furniture and a splendid view of the river. An adjacent lavatory is offered as an extra.”

  “Oh? How much extra? And what will be the immutable total?”

  The two eventually agreed upon an all-inclusive rate for room, lavatory, supper, breakfast, service and view, for a rate which Maloof found acceptable.

  Teybald looked here and there. “And where is your luggage?”

  “Still aboard the flitter.”

  Teybald slapped his hand upon the bar and cried out: “Berard! Sonssi! Be quick! These rich off-worlders want service! Smartly now, if you hope for a noble gratuity!”