Lurulu

by Jack Vance

  “In the broadest sense, you are correct,” said Yail. “In each city of Blenkinsop there are one or more great magazines similar to Monomarche, though on a lesser scale. These magazines purvey goods of every sort, both local and off-world. They deal with the ordinary Blenks and the upper castes, as well. Monomarche is the most prestigious of the group, and commands considerable influence. Excuse me a moment.” He spoke into his telephone, listened, then spoke to Myron: “What fees or other charges are outstanding on the rugs?”

  “None. All charges were prepaid on Star Home.”

  Yail returned to the telephone. He spoke a few words, listened, then dropped the instrument into its socket. “Everything is now arranged,” he told Myron. “They are sending a man for the rugs, you may put them from your mind. Also, I will send a crew to discharge the rest of the freight for Cax, and your responsibilities will be at an end.”

  Myron was puzzled. He indicated the documents he had placed on the desk. “Here are the applicable manifests, invoices, certificates and a few forms which should be filled out immediately.” He started to pass them across the desk, but Yail raised his hand to forestall him. “A clerk is usually on hand to deal with such matters, but today he is away, so you may drop the papers into yonder trash basket, where they will do us no harm.”

  Myron’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course! A clerk will be here tomorrow; he can sort through the trash, if he likes. That is his prerogative. But now we have more important business at hand.”

  Without further demur, Myron obeyed the instructions.

  “Good!” said Yail, leaning back in his chair. “Now then: what are your next ports of call?”

  “The schedule, so far as I know, is not yet definite,” said Myron. “We have no outstanding commitments; in fact, we are at liberty to accept such cargoes as you might wish to move.”

  “Excellent! We can offer cargoes to a variety of ports, mostly, I must say, off the standard shipping routes — not necessarily a disadvantage, since non-conventional itineraries are often profitable. Furthermore, all fees and freight charges are prepaid, to the great convenience of the supercargo, who sometimes finds collection of charges in strange ports to be an adventure in itself. Also, to compensate for exceptionally distant ports, a twenty percent adjustment in freight rates is often possible.”

  “That might well be an inducement,” said Myron. “If you will let me have a list of these cargoes and their destinations, and the projected freight charges, I will take it to Captain Maloof and tonight we will try to work out some practical routings.”

  Yail turned to his information machine. He touched buttons; the screen glowed pink, with lines of bright blue-green text. Yail scanned the display, made a few changes, pressed a button, and a sheet of paper issued from a slot. Yail gave the paper to Myron, who tucked it into his pocket. “We will work on this tonight. If we have any success, I will let you know as soon as possible.”

  Myron prepared to leave, but hesitated. Yail looked inquiringly across the desk.

  Myron spoke, half-apologetically: “If you have a minute or two to spare, I would be grateful for your advice.”

  “As of now, nothing presses,” said Yail. “State your problem, then I can tell you whether my advice might be useful.”

  Myron arranged his thoughts. “The situation is this; on Star Home we shifted the Glicca from Port Palactus to the rug repository at Torqual Downs, where we would take aboard the rugs for Monomarche. At the repository we noticed hundreds of rugs, the best of the best, in storage. A few days before, thieves had stolen thirty-two carboys of kasic from Port Palactus! We chased down the thieves and took back the carboys. Gontwitz, the port director, was anxious to recover the carboys and so we traded forty-six rugs from the Torqual repository in exchange for the kasic. These rugs are now in our aft cargo bay, and we want to dispose of them to best advantage, but we do not know how to proceed.”

  Yail nodded thoughtfully. “You have correctly perceived the difficulties. As soon as you made a move, you would be wrapped up like a cocoon in red tape. But do not let me alarm you; proper tactics can circumvent these obstacles. After all, the authorities cannot tax or regulate what is unknown to them. This is a universal law which is especially pervasive on Blenkinsop. Monomarche has achieved a virtual monopoly on the Star Home rugs, which it sells to the Shimerati, no doubt at a handsome profit. The other magazines would like to break this monopoly, and perhaps they could be discreetly approached.” He hitched himself forward. “What sort of price are you contemplating? For instance, would you accept three hundred sols per rug?”

  “Hm,” Myron mused. “300 times 46 equals 13,800, which is an impressive sum. But I must consult my colleagues before making a commitment.”

  Yail turned to look out the window, frowning in deep cogitation. At last he turned back to Myron. “The figure I mentioned is, of course, tentative. If you attempted to handle the business yourself, I imagine that the best offer you would hear might be a grudging two hundred sols. With my guidance, the price would be somewhat higher; however, I would expect a reasonable fee. I suggest that this might be twenty percent of any excess over three hundred sols per rug. For instance, if I sold a rug at four hundred sols, my fee would be twenty percent of one hundred sols, or twenty sols. You would be selling the rug for 380 sols. Would you accept such an arrangement?”

  “It sounds better than 200 sols per rug,” said Myron. “Still, I can agree to nothing definite at this moment.”

  3

  Myron returned to the Glicca, where he found Captain Maloof in the galley along with Wingo and Schwatzendale. Myron described his meeting with Yail. “He is a surprise — not the Blenk we have been led to expect. He is relaxed and easy; if he suffers nervous tensions, I saw no symptoms.”

  Maloof asked: “Does he have onward cargo for us?”

  Myron produced the list which he had received from Yail and handed it to Maloof. “There seem to be a number of parcels to ports somewhat off the usual shipping routes. I told him that we would look over the list and try to work out a practical itinerary.”

  Maloof studied the list with eyebrows raised. “I have never heard of most of these ports. And I suspect these so-called ‘parcels of cargo’ are a collection of odd lots which no other carrier would accept; they have been languishing in corners of Yail’s warehouses like lost waifs, waiting and hoping for a miracle!”

  Maloof finally put the list down on the table. “Still, they seem to make up a proper cargo, which might turn us a profit if we can find a routing which will not ruin us. Especially if we collect the twenty percent surcharge on the most inconvenient legs.” He picked up the list and studied it again. “Even so, it is not good policy to travel a hundred light-years to deliver a sack of birdseed.”

  “We might pick up a lot or two of cargo along the way,” Myron theorized.

  “That is always a possibility.”

  Maloof scanned the list. “Hmf. These places are truly obscure. But I suppose they must exist, since Yail is sending them freight! Tonight we will use the Index to locate them on our charts, and sort out a route.”

  “That will indeed be a challenge,” Myron mused.

  “Yes, but perhaps by exercising our joint ingenuity, and by throwing in a few zigzags, we may still produce a workable itinerary.”

  After a moment, Myron said: “There is another matter which I took up with Yail. I mentioned the rugs and asked how we could sell them to the best advantage. Yail warned me against trying to sell the rugs ourselves, for fear of bureaucratic complications. He asked what price we had put on the rugs; I told him that our thinking had not gone so far. He asked if we would be satisfied with 300 sols per rug, or 13,800 sols for the lot; I said that 300 sols per rug seemed adequate, but that I would confer with my shipmates and get back to him as soon as possible.

  “He went on to say that if we so chose, he would act as our agent. His commission would be twenty percent of the difference between 300 an
d the final selling price. As an example, he proposed a hypothetical sale of 400 sols, from which he would earn twenty sols, while we would get 380 sols. The proposal seemed fair, and I gave him a conditional acceptance, subject to the approval of the crew.”

  Schwatzendale wrote figures on a sheet of paper. “If we sold 46 rugs, we would take 17,480 sols, and Yail 920.”

  “That seems fair enough,” said Maloof, “provided we are paid in cash at the time the rugs are delivered.”

  Myron returned to the office of the port director. As before, Yail sat relaxed behind the desk; he signaled Myron to a chair. “Do you have instructions for me?”

  “I do. Your proposal is accepted, as long as payment is made, in cash, at the time that the rugs are delivered.”

  “The terms are accepted,” said Yail. “Now, to work.

  “There are eleven magazines large enough to consider a transaction of this magnitude, including Monomarche. The trade is profitable, since the Shimerati control so much wealth that they ignore price and pay whatever is asked. Monomarche has no need to be avaricious and so far as I can gather, the rugs are priced at about 500 sols.

  “Now I will test the market. If you come back later, I may have news for you.”

  4

  During the early afternoon the rain of the morning abated to a fine drizzle, then halted altogether and the orange disk of Moulder appeared behind the overcast. Moncrief dressed himself with care, then set off to find the Trevanian, where he hoped to secure favorable bookings for the Mouse-riders.

  An hour or two previously, the Klutes had wandered away from the Glicca, planning to explore the city on their own account. The circumstances were dismal; a light rain was falling and the streets exhaled a sour odor.

  The Klutes marched along the narrow streets, rain-hoods pulled over their heads. At intervals, small narrow-fronted shops, dark within, overlooked the street, sometimes with the pale face of the proprietor half-seen peering through the grimy front panes.

  The Klutes saw little to interest them. After a time, grim and dissatisfied, they returned to the spaceport, striding through the rain and stamping through puddles, to finally reach the Glicca.

  They changed into dry clothes and went to the galley where Wingo served them hot tea and scones.

  “How did you find the city?” Wingo asked cheerfully.

  “The streets were like dark passages and smelled of dead dogs. The rain was incessant and coursed down our necks in a freshet. We tried to find a tea shop where we could refresh ourselves, but there was none to be found.”

  Siglaf added: “We tramped the streets with Blenks, who rambled at a fast pace as if they were late. I believe that, despite its giddy foolishness, I prefer Fluter.”

  After a pause, Wingo asked delicately: “So then; are you staying with the Mouse-riders?”

  Hunzel thought for a moment, then gave an ambiguous grunt. “We face some hard choices. We are in a state of flux.”

  Siglaf amplified the remark. “In effect, we are open to any propitious offers.”

  5

  Moncrief, meanwhile, had embarked upon adventures of his own. In front of the port offices he commanded the services of a motorized rickshaw, operated by a weedy hollow-cheeked youth with long varnished mustachios. Before consenting to activate his vehicle, the operator looked Moncrief up and down, then asked: “What is your destination?”

  Moncrief said grandly: “You may take me to the Trevanian, at best speed.”

  The operator nodded curtly, to indicate that he found the destination acceptable. “Climb aboard. The fare is ten dinkets; I will not move a man of your bulk for less.”

  Moncrief did not care for the operator’s manner which, so he thought, verged on the disrespectful, the more so when he found fault with Moncrief’s method for climbing aboard the vehicle. “Briskly now, Grandfather! The day is for jumping and running; sleep somewhere else if you are tired.”

  Moncrief, using all dignity, scrambled onto the narrow seat of the vehicle; the operator engaged the gears and the taxi set off across the field, careening dangerously through puddles, while Moncrief held on for dear life. The taxi trundled off the field to the street, and presently arrived at the Trevanian. Moncrief alighted stiffly and for a moment gazed in awe at the great Blenk entertainment hall.

  The operator tapped his hooter impatiently. “Come now, old toddler! Pay the ten dinkets at once, or I will charge a waiting supplement.”

  Moncrief hurriedly paid over the fare, which the operator accepted without comment. Cutting a final curvet through a puddle, the rickshaw departed.

  Moncrief crossed to the Trevanian. A massive door of iron and glass slid aside at his approach; he passed through the opening into a short hall which took him into a large octagonal foyer, notable for the corridors which led away from each of the wall-segments. He stopped short; a multiplicity of choices confronted him. Which corridor led to the office of the Director of Production? On the opposite wall he noticed a long white panel printed with lines of informational text: a directory? He crossed the room and studied the panel. The printed text was not immediately clear. Aha! A reference to Overman Murius Zank, the Director of Production! Moncrief read the associated text, and came upon the phrase: ‘To reach the office, use the orange indicator.’ Moncrief frowned; the words were cryptic indeed! What was an ‘orange indicator’?

  Moncrief stood back and searched the chamber for indicators, of any color whatever. He was enlightened at once. Each corridor exhibited a distinctive colored stripe along its centerline. Moncrief looked here and there and found a corridor marked by an orange stripe. Without hesitation he followed the orange stripe into the bowels of the Trevanian.

  The corridor and the orange stripe receded into the distance. At intervals, numbered doors appeared to right and left.

  Moncrief presently arrived at a pair of doors with a plaque, reading:

  OVERMAN MURIUS ZANK

  DIRECTOR OF PRODUCTION

  Moncrief touched the latch and the doors swung aside. He entered a large high-ceilinged room. A counter separated him from an office area where a dozen clerks worked with remarkable diligence. Moncrief advanced to the counter, where he assumed a posture of importance and waited for a clerk to approach and inquire his needs.

  While he waited Moncrief took occasion to assess the office. On the far end of the section where he stood, a carved wooden balustrade created what seemed to be a special waiting area, perhaps for the use of dignitaries. At the moment the area was vacant.

  Moncrief noticed a door in the back wall of the business office. A panel read:

  OVERMAN MURIUS ZANK

  DIRECTOR OF PRODUCTION

  Enter at the Green Light.

  Moncrief noticed that a red light now glowed above the door. He turned his attention back to the office. He became impatient and thumped on the counter with his knuckles. The signal went unheeded.

  The desk nearest the counter was occupied by a fresh-faced young man, a trifle plump, dressed in natty garments. A sign on his desk read: ‘Bayard Desosso’. Like his colleagues, Bayard worked so diligently as to be oblivious to all else. Moncrief stared at him, trying to compel his attention by sheer force of will. He met no success; if anything, Bayard exerted himself even more energetically.

  At this moment a sudden tumult issued from the inner office: enraged voices, pounding and stamping, outcries and catcalls. Bayard, startled, looked up, and his gaze met Moncrief’s insistent stare. Moncrief instantly pointed his finger. “You there, Bayard! Come here at once!”

  A sad expression crossed Bayard’s face, altering at once to resolute courtesy. “Certainly, sir! By all means!” He strode to the counter. “How can I help you, sir?”

  “I am Master Moncrief, director of the famous Mouse-rider troupe. I am here to see Director Zank; he will wish to fit the Mouse-riders into his schedule. Time is of the essence.”

  Bayard looked over his shoulder. The red light still glowed. Bayard said regretfully: “The Director
may not be disturbed at this time.”

  Moncrief cocked his head to listen. “He is either rehearsing a very frolicsome act, or he is being soundly thrashed.”

  “Such a liberty would be unthinkable!” cried Bayard, but he turned an apprehensive look toward the inner office.

  “Nevertheless,” said Moncrief firmly, “I suggest that you at least announce to him that Master Moncrief of the famous Mouse-riders is on hand. It is important that he see me at once!”

  Bayard smilingly shook his head. “You propose an enormity.” He paused, to hear the sound of stamping feet. “He is now trying to quell the Futin Putos; as you will note, they are emphatic.”

  Moncrief inquired: “Who are the ‘Futin Putos’?”

  “They are a troupe of acrobats from the Dark Forest,” replied Bayard. “Overman Zank is disgusted with their brutish antics. Still, they are popular with a certain segment of the audience, and he feels obliged to use them from time to time.”

  The sounds from Zank’s office had subsided, except for a murmur of voices which suddenly waxed in anger, then went quiet.

  Minutes passed, while Moncrief drummed his fingers upon the counter. Then a back door into Zank’s office flew open, and out to the area behind the balustrade came a tumble of ten hairy men, jostling, shoving, struggling for places on the upholstered benches intended for the comfort of visiting dignitaries. After squirming, elbowing, grumbling and growling, the Futin Putos began to stare across the balustrade at the office clerks with the curiosity of visitors to a zoo.

  Moncrief looked with disfavor at what he considered the most uncouth group of individuals of his experience. They were of ordinary stature, but so burly as to seem squat. Lank black hair hung down to join heavy black beards, cut off square under the chin. They wore leather vests and short leather pantaloons, dank with soil and grease.

  “Not a savory group,” said Moncrief with a sniff, and turned away.

  “Don’t show them overt disapproval,” Bayard warned quickly. “If they perceive an insult, they will take a vicious revenge! On the stage they perform spectacular feats, but if someone makes a mistake, they knock him sprawling, then kick him until he crawls away in humiliation.”