Lurulu

by Jack Vance

  “In front of the audience?” asked Moncrief in disbelief.

  “Definitely! Their audience eggs them on.”

  Moncrief studied Bayard, without approval. “When I entered the office and came to the counter, you ignored me as if I were made of air! How do you explain this conduct?”

  Bayard put on a stubborn face. “We must act according to our new regulations.”

  “Do I hear you aright?” asked Moncrief. “Is it your policy to ignore patrons? This would seem eccentric, to say the least!”

  “That is not our affair. In the main, our regulations are not unreasonable.”

  Moncrief glanced across the room, but the green light was not yet visible. He turned back to Bayard. “Tell me of your new regulations.”

  Bayard, becoming bored, responded mechanically. “Article One defines the need for punctuality, and correlates a scale of penalties with degrees of tardiness. Article Two bans conversation, song, banter, gossip, and the like. Article Three establishes work quotas for all office personnel — these quotas are considered stringent! Article Four curtails an old custom; in the past, when a client arrived at the counter, four or five clerks might greet him, to inquire after the health of his family and to chat and learn the details of his business. After that the client might be sent to a new department, or advised as how best to conduct himself before Overman Zank. The new rule has changed this procedure; when a client appears, the first clerk to notice him must hurry to the counter and help the client alone, with crisp efficiency. Unfortunately, the clerk who helps clients will never make up his work quota. But we have found a solution to the dilemma; nowhere is it specified that clerks are required to keep a vigilant watch on the counter; hence if the clerk focuses upon his work, he cannot be faulted for neglect.”

  “Ingenious!” declared Moncrief.

  Moncrief was distracted from further comment by the light over Zank’s door, which had turned green. “The green light has appeared!” called Bayard. “Come, if you wish to see Zank!”

  Adopting a stately posture, Moncrief pushed through the gate in the counter and passed into the business office.

  The Futin Putos suddenly became quiet, then crowded the balustrade, where they hooted and jeered. “Hoy there, old tumper! Why do you trot so briskly?” called one.

  “Tell old Zank that our memories are long!”

  “If you forget, we will pull your nose, or whatever it is that dangles between your legs!”

  Moncrief ignored the raillery and followed Bayard across the room.

  Bayard stopped at the door. “I will go in first and announce you. After the Futin Putos, Director Zank’s sang-froid may be frayed.”

  The Futin Putos continued to call advice; Moncrief waited outside the office with as much aplomb as he could muster.

  After a time, the door opened and Bayard stood in the opening. He spoke, somewhat self-importantly: “I have mentioned the Mouse-rider troupe to Overman Zank and I gather that he is favorably impressed. You may now enter. Be polite, but not ebullient. Come, if you will.”

  Moncrief followed Bayard into a large chamber, sparsely furnished and unoccupied except for a thin old man who sat motionless behind a massive semi-circular desk.

  Bayard assumed a formal posture and performed introductions. To Moncrief he said: “You are in the presence of Overman Murius Zank, Director of Production.” To Zank he said: “This gentleman is Professor Moncrief, master of the Mouse-rider troupe. He hopes to present one or more programs at the Trevanian, if circumstances permit.”

  Zank stared at Moncrief briefly, then dismissed Bayard with a flicker of his fingers. Bayard bowed with punctilio and left the chamber.

  The men surveyed each other. Moncrief saw a small gaunt man with a bald bony head. Zank’s eyes were round; his nose was a small rapacious hook; his mouth was thin and without color. If he ever felt emotion, his features gave no indication.

  After a moment, Zank spoke. “If you wish to sit, you may do so.”

  Moncrief gingerly lowered himself onto a straight-backed chair of rather fragile appearance, which creaked under his weight.

  “In regard to your programs, you come at an inconvenient time,” said Zank. “The schedule for the week is booked solid, except for a few slots in the after-midnight ‘graveyard’.

  “There is, however, a single slot the day after tomorrow, which the Futin Putos claim as their own in a most raucous manner. I do not agree with them, and this has been the source of some contention. My preference would be to send them hopping back to the Dark Forest. I hesitate only because they are popular with a segment of the audience which I cannot ignore; I have not, though, conceded them their desired slot.”

  “Hm,” said Moncrief. “They seem a most intemperate group.”

  The ghost of a grim smile twitched Zank’s thin mouth. “They hope to intimidate me, but it is a vain hope.”

  Bayard had failed to close the door fully upon leaving the office. Through the crack, a number of glittering eyes peered.

  Moncrief and Zank continued their discussion unaware of the inspection. Moncrief said, somewhat sententiously: “As a stranger at Cax, perhaps I should restrain my opinions, however, they seem to me a gang of sadistic thugs, lacking all charm.”

  “It is a fair appraisal,” said Zank. “Now, tell me something of the Mouse-riders.”

  “With pleasure! I need not explain that our programs contrast notably with the grotesque capers of the Futin Putos. The Mouse-riders are inspired by a different vision; our sequences combine gallant adventure, romance and mystery. We are known for our creative imagery, so that every sequence is a mix of music, beauty and the glamour of far places.

  “I have in mind three sequences, joined by one means or another into a unity. If I may say so, the slot on the day after tomorrow would suit us well, since our stay at Cax will be brief.”

  “That is reasonable,” said Zank, after a moment of consideration. “Especially since it accords with my own inclinations. The Futin Putos shall play the graveyard; if they protest, they may chase each other back to the Dark Forest.”

  The door slammed open and the Futin Putos burst in a tumbling rush into Zank’s office.

  Zank muttered to Moncrief: “Stand behind me, and say nothing.”

  Moncrief obeyed with alacrity.

  Zank spoke harshly: “What are you up to? Leave at once; you trespass my office.”

  The chief shuffled a step forward. “But you are to blame! You have called us ‘stinking brutes’, and mocked our artistry! You have schemed with that fat Mouse-rider and have given him our good slot; you have shifted us far and late past the midnight slot, to when the hall is empty! That is betrayal and someone shall pay the price!”

  Zank raised his hand and pointed his finger as if it were a weapon, bringing the Futin Putos to an uncertain halt. “You are hysterical,” he said in a low voice. “Take care, or it will be the worse for you.”

  Momentarily daunted, the Futin Putos stood crouching and glowering, ten feet from the desk.

  Zank spoke again, his voice ringing with metallic overtones. “I am Director, and I arrange production as I see fit! Be happy with what I allow you, or take yourselves back to the Dark Forest! Go now!”

  “Not just yet,” said the chief. The Futin Putos began to inch forward, making guttural sounds, moaning, wheezing, and hissing. Moncrief shrank back against the wall. The Futin Putos had closed their minds to reason! How sad, how strange to die, here in the Trevanian!

  But Zank seemed unconcerned. “Are you going?” he asked.

  “When we have taken our vengeance!” replied the chief. “First, we will give the Mouse-rider his due, and then we shall deal with you!”

  Zank touched a button on his desk. The door into the outer office slid aside; Bayard stood in the opening. “Yes, sir?”

  “Clear away these intruders,” Zank told him. “They are unwelcome.”

  Bayard faced the Futin Putos. “Clear the office; you heard the Director! You are
unwelcome! Lively now; form a single file, if you please!”

  The Futin Putos seized Bayard and tossed him back and forth like a large sprawling bean-bag, ignoring his protests and threats. Finally, tiring of the game, they tossed him out through the door and turned back to Overman Zank. One step after another, they edged again toward the desk.

  Without haste, Zank touched another button; a heavy semi-circular glass panel lifted from a housing in the floor to create a barrier five feet tall around the desk.

  Nonplussed, the Futin Putos paused again. Then the chief vented a contemptuous laugh: “What do you expect from that trifle? I can vault it using a single bound!”

  The group howled with mockery. Leaning back in his chair, Zank said lightly: “Do as you like. I suggest, however, that you leave the office at once, and in good order.”

  “Only after justice has been done,” declared the chief.

  “Justice is poised, and ready,” said Zank, easily.

  The chief hunched his shoulders, crouched, then sprang to the top of the glass wall. A dazzle of blue sparks ran up his arms and legs, and caused all the hairs of his head and beard to expand and stiffen into the semblance of a great puff-ball, each hair crackling with sparks; he uttered a choking cry, then tumbled over into a backward somersault. His feet, touching the floor, spattered blue sparks, which gradually diminished as he danced and stepped high, his fellows looking on with slack-jawed wonder.

  At this time six Monitors in black and yellow uniforms filed quietly into the office. Without words they addressed themselves to the Futin Putos. After a brief scuffle, and a few taps with persuasion rods, the Futin Putos were shackled neck to neck along a chain and, at a signal, were marched unceremoniously from the office.

  Moncrief sheepishly stepped from behind the desk. Resuming his place in the chair, he tried to act as if nothing in particular had occurred. After a moment he asked: “What will happen to them now?”

  “Nothing very much,” said Zank. “They ignore beatings, causing the Monitors to exert themselves to no avail. And incarceration only aggravates the Monitors, as the Futin Putos do nothing but sleep, waking just long enough to befoul their cells. If we send them north to Windy Isle, after a few months their audience raises a fearful protest. But if I write them into the midnight slot for three or four months, they will see the error of their ways — perhaps.”

  “Hm,” mused Moncrief. “Are their threats to be taken seriously?”

  Zank considered. “The best that I can tell you is that they are unpredictable. They are malevolent and vengeful without doubt, but whether the act depends upon opportunity, or whether they might be distracted by another exploit it is hard to say. My advice to you is not to wander by night alone along dark streets.”

  Zank straightened up in his tall chair. “But at this time you should consult Overman Skame to arrange for your stage sets.” He touched one of the buttons on his desk.

  Bayard limped into the room. “Yes, sir?”

  Zank looked him over with raised eyebrows. “Bayard, you will please conduct Master Moncrief to the office of the stage manager.”

  “Yes, sir; at once!” spoke Bayard.

  Zank inspected him coldly. “Then, before you resume your usual duties, step into the dressing room and freshen yourself. At the moment you cut a sorry figure. I insist that my staff take pride in a smart appearance.”

  “As you say, sir!” replied Bayard. He bowed stiffly, then turned to Moncrief. “If you are ready, sir, I will take you to Overman Skame.”

  Moncrief expressed his gratitude to Overman Zank, then followed Bayard from the office.

  6

  By a cross-passage Bayard led Moncrief to a corridor with a blue stripe which took them to a massive iron door decorated with a hundred silver rosettes. The plaque read:

  OVERMAN LUCAN SKAME

  DIRECTOR OF STAGE MANAGEMENT

  Bayard spoke a few words of reassurance. “Overman Skame has an easy disposition, and will always listen to your ideas. You may find him a bit startling at first, but you must pay no heed.” He touched a pad and the door slid aside. “I wish you luck.” Bayard bowed, then turned back along the corridor.

  Moncrief stepped forward, but was halted by the impact of what confronted him. Chaotic clutter appeared to occupy the entire volume of the office, except at the far end where he saw Overman Skame sitting at an extraordinary desk, opposite a pair of clerks hunched over work stations.

  Moncrief was unattended; he blinked and looked from right to left, up to the high ceiling, and down to the floor. He moved slowly forward, appraising the concatenation of shape, color and complication that lay around him. The room was full of tables laden with contrivances of unknown purpose, as well as more familiar devices. Cases displayed hundreds of animals, the denizens of as many worlds; dolls wearing characteristic costumes stood in groups or worked at typical tasks. Everywhere, in no perceptible order, stood modeled structures from many times and places. There were replicas of private dwellings; pavilions and palaces, odd little bungalows and mountain lodges; there were towers, and tumbles of cones and spheres. From the ceiling on bronze chains hung lamps and lanterns of a hundred styles, some old, some archaic, others primitive, all aglow with appropriate sources of illumination. Interspersed were hundreds of mechanical and electrical devices of unknown purpose. Along the walls, completely encircling the room, shelves supported tracks along which moved vehicles of many descriptions, some emitting small hoots and whistles.

  Moncrief gave up trying to assimilate the variety contained in the office. He came to Skame’s desk, an object of eccentric design, at its basis a long table almost four feet wide, but bent into a semi-circle with the director seated centrally, clasped by the wings to right and left. Skame’s attention was fixed upon the pages of a large folio depicting fashionable young women, not necessarily Blenk, bodies and limbs twisted into odd postures, wearing garments of extreme style. So intent was his interest that he seemed oblivious to Moncrief, who had come to a halt in front of the desk.

  Moncrief studied Overman Skame. Here, he thought, was a man of undoubtedly distinctive character. Like Yail and Zank, and perhaps Bayard, he appeared to differ from the typical Blenk stock, as if there might be an admixture of another blood-line. Shimerati? Moncrief wondered. Skame was tall, gaunt, with narrow shoulders and thin arms. His face was long, pale and narrow, with a thin nose, pale green eyes under near-invisible eyebrows, and a wide crooked mouth. He wore a loose robe striped dark blue and green, with a globular opal, two inches in diameter, dangling from his neck on a fine iron chain; on his head was a flat-crowned hat of heavy tan stuff with an extremely wide brim, worn rakishly aslant.

  Overman Skame at last became aware of Moncrief; closing the folio, he swung around in his chair. “Sir, you must excuse me; I became absorbed in thought; I was, so it appears, oblivious to all else!

  “In any case, you now have my full attention. How can I help you? But first, please be seated! Remove the cloak of angel feathers from yonder chair and use it properly; then we shall see to your business.”

  Moncrief followed the instructions, then introduced himself. “I am Marcel Moncrief, master of the Mouse-rider troupe. We have been scheduled into a slot on the day after tomorrow; Overman Zank has advised me to consult you at once in regard to such stage properties as I may require.”

  “Yes; just so. What is the nature of your program?”

  “We shall present a medley of three sequences, each different from the others. I hope that this will not tax your resources.”

  Skame smiled and shook his head, setting the wide brim of his hat into flexible motion. “That is unlikely. At the Trevanian we can provide almost any scenic effect, interior or exterior. For certain extravagant effects, such as naval battles, or the destruction of grand cities or struggles between grotesque monsters of stupendous size, or astronomical spectacles such as the collision of black holes, sunspots, or other galactic convulsions, we use holographic projection. In short, we c
an produce whatever stage set you can stipulate in a very short time.”

  Moncrief spoke in awe: “That is most impressive!”

  Skame laughed, almost waggishly. “So it must seem! Still, our basic system is quite simple. If you like, I will explain it to you.”

  “I am indeed interested!”

  Skame straightened in his chair. “The Trevanian stage is oblate, with a wall across the central diameter. While the half facing the audience is in use, the stage hands arrange the concealed half, using any of the thousands of components in our warehouses. At the end of the scene, the curtain falls and the stage rotates, so that when the curtain rises again, a new setting is revealed.

  “Now, if you will supply me information regarding your troupe and your sequences, also the sets you have in mind, I will put the processes into motion.”

  Moncrief did as requested. When he had finished, Skame ruminated for a time, then said: “The sequences, for the most part, are ingenious. The contrast of mood between the first and second sequences is effective. The first exerts a strange force; events move with the ponderous momentum of fate itself.”

  “I am pleased to hear your favorable opinion,” said Moncrief modestly.

  Skame inclined his head, causing his hat to undulate. “Now then: the second sequence uses a different mood, as gay and happy as a frolic among white and yellow flowers! The concept of the three girls each trying to bring life to the marble statue, with its erotic intimations, is fascinating, and the final scene, where the girls dance off across the glade and the statue, at last aroused, struggles to follow but can only totter and fall among the reeds, while the girls dance away, will pull at many a heartstring.”

  Moncrief gave a shrug of deprecation. “I am fortunate in the quality of my troupe.”

  Skame pursed his lips judiciously. “No doubt! In regard to the final sequence, I confess to puzzlement. This piece, for all its graceful attributes, seems a bit avant-garde for a Blenk audience.”