Lurulu

by Jack Vance

  The six members of the troupe jumped down upon the shelf which bordered the stage. At intervals along the shelf were six pairs of massive shapes concealed under tarpaulins.

  “Now then,” said Moncrief. “Assume your positions.” The three girls and the two Klutes each went to stand behind one of the shrouded shapes, while Moncrief himself stepped down to post himself behind the remaining brace of objects.

  “Now then: attention! I will count. You must act with full precision! So now: ready! One!”

  All bent forward and pulled the tarpaulins loose and dropped them to the floor. Revealed were twelve massive howitzers, their orifices covered over with tinsel and rosettes of pink ribbons.

  “Two!” called Moncrief. All put their hands to red buttons, to left and right.

  “Three!” Twelve buttons were touched, creating twelve horrendous blasts of sound, and a great volume of stuffs spewed out over the audience. But instead of the sweetmeats, trinkets, fruit jellies and perfumed confetti which Moncrief had installed, the audience was pelted with dead fish, ordure, shredded intestines, decaying fruit and a dozen other stuffs. Some of the material ranged up into the second balcony, causing the Hummers to call out in surprise; only the Shimerati escaped outrage, and many congratulated themselves upon being present this remarkable evening.

  For a brief period, a peculiar silence held the hall. Then a slow rumble of infinite menace arose from nowhere, swelling into a wild reckless roar, and the audience began to move down toward the stage.

  Moncrief reacted instantly. “Up!” he cried to the troupe. “Up and out!”

  The troupe needed no instruction. They jumped up from the shelf and ran to the off-stage parlor, with Moncrief close behind. Already the first wave of maddened Blenks was clambering up to the shelf. In the wings at the far end of the stage, Moncrief saw several Futin Putos, punching their fists into the air, showing white teeth in glee. “The revenge of the Futin Putos is pitiless,” Moncrief told himself.

  The troupe, Moncrief and the crew of the Glicca ran out upon the plat and flung themselves aboard the flitter. Schwatzendale took the craft aloft just as the Blenks came racing out to crowd upon the landing, to stand staring in thwarted passion after the departing flitter.

  Back at the spaceport, Schwatzendale and Myron hoisted the flitter into its bay, then boarded the ship, which promptly raised from the field, and Cax dwindled below. Up through the overcast rose the Glicca, then slanted away into the sky, leaving Blenkinsop behind.

  Chapter IX

  1

  Departing Cax, the Glicca set off along an itinerary which, after traversing remote regions of the Reach, would eventually bring it back to Coro-Coro on Fluter.

  As time passed, shipboard routines were gradually resumed, but with differences. Moncrief had become morose; owing to his haste in taking leave of the Trevanian, he had neglected to collect his fee — a lapse which galled him to the quick. He spent hours planning reprisal against the Trevanian bursars, meanwhile neglecting his work with the Mouse-riders. The Klutes had become more surly than ever, and sat hunched in a corner of the saloon, glowering and muttering to each other. The girls had been altered in a more subtle fashion. The final events at the Trevanian intimidated them; never before had they been awed by events, and had lost something of their careless innocence.

  The first port of call was Falziel on the world Mirsten. The single habitable continent was dominated by a central mountain massif, with the lands along the littoral overgrown by forests where off-world species grew on equal terms with indigenous varieties. The population diligently exploited the resources of the forests, exporting precious wood to Cax and elsewhere. At the city Falziel were the offices of the Institute, originally the Dendrological Institute, now the governing organization which exercised both executive and judicial authority over all of Mirsten.

  In due course the Glicca descended upon the Falziel spaceport. The slanting light of late afternoon exhibited the fabulous city, with its hundreds of burnished mahogany domes, to dramatic advantage.

  In Handbook to the Planets, Falziel is treated in some detail. According to the text:

  The traveller may wander far and wide across the Reach, but never will he find a city comparable in sheer bravura to Falziel. The component structures occupy a site less than a mile on a side; the boundaries are strict; there are no annexes or subordinate communities; the city is an organic unit. The magnificent structures occupy sites along the avenues, some reaching seven stories high, others less. All are built to exactly the same specifications, differing only in size. All show the same facade, which through some magic of proportion achieves an indefinable elegance. Each is surmounted by a dome of glossy red-brown mahogany, with a slender finial rising from the apex.

  The inhabitants of Mirsten are in odd contrast to their splendid city. In general, they are a practical folk, with a paradoxical dread of ghosts, and other unnatural beings, to be found in dark lonely places.

  Beliefs are most common in remote mountain villages, where, on dark stormy nights, the folk huddle around their firesides and impart the eerie lore to their fascinated children.

  Immediately after arrival at Falziel, Maloof and Myron crossed to the administration building to arrange for discharge of cargo. They found an office with a sign reading:

  PORT DIRECTOR

  Arman Rouft

  ENTER

  The two pushed open the door and stepped into an office panelled in pale brown wood. Behind a counter stood a middle-aged man of moderate stature, inclined to a modest portliness indicating a penchant for easy living. His face was round and cheerful, under a ruff of thick white hair. As Maloof and Myron approached he put aside the earthenware demijohn which he had been inspecting. He spoke with a jovial lilt: “Gentlemen, if you are looking for the Port Director, you have found him. I am Arman Rouft, at your service.”

  Maloof introduced himself and Myron. “We are officers of the Glicca, which has just arrived, as you no doubt have noticed. We carry cargo for Falziel which was put aboard at Cax. We are ready to discharge this cargo at your convenience.”

  “The cargo must wait for tomorrow, since the warehousemen have gone for the day.”

  “Quite all right,” said Maloof. “We will have the opportunity to explore your remarkable city.”

  Rouft chuckled and shook his head. “If you are like the typical spacemen on the loose in a strange city, you may be disappointed. There are no resorts, nor any social parlors where folk revel without restraint. We are, on the whole, a staid people.”

  Maloof laughed incredulously. “It was not a staid people who built this audacious city!”

  “The notions do not intermesh,” said Rouft. “It is probably this very trait which allowed Falziel its existence.” He looked from Maloof to Myron. “You are puzzled?”

  Maloof acknowledged as much. “Perhaps you will explain this paradox.”

  “Certainly! The tale is not overlong, but talking is dry work. Luckily, a remedy is at hand.” He placed three goblets on the counter and lifting the demijohn poured tots of a tawny liquor into each. He slid two of the goblets across the counter to Maloof and Myron. “This is our prime plum brandy; neophytes are warned to treat it with respect!”

  Maloof and Myron, taking up their goblets, saw that they were carved with grace and finesse from cylinders of dense black wood. Rouft raised his goblet and intoned a toast: “To tall trees and fruitful women!” He tossed the contents of the goblet down his throat and swallowed at a gulp.

  Maloof and Myron tested the liquor more cautiously, finding it heady, volatile and intense. In the end, they followed the example set by Rouft and threw the tot against the back of their throats, where it exploded into pungent vapor.

  Rouft asked solicitously: “Are you ready for a second tot? A man can hop only so far on one leg.”

  “Not just yet,” said Maloof in a thick voice. “Of course, I cannot speak for Myron.”

  “Not yet,” said Myron.

  Rouft
, however, poured himself a second tot and, as before, swallowed it at a gulp. “Aha!” he said; “we can now proceed. I revert to a time six hundred years ago, when the old port city Skolpnes was destroyed in a great flood. It was, however, a time of prosperity, and the factors of the Dendrological Institute proposed that a new city be built, the better to represent the commercial consequence of Mirsten.

  “At this time an architectural genius named Riyban Trill resided on Mirsten. Trill had worked far and wide across the Reach, achieving a remarkable reputation for superlative creativity and technical excellence. He eventually returned to Mirsten, to settle into semi-retirement.

  “From the first, the factors were resolved that Trill should be associated with the grand new project, though Trill was well past his first youth and not in the best of health.

  “Despite all, a formal proposal was put to Trill, soliciting his creative talents. Trill considered the proposal for a week, then responded with a document specifying the conditions under which he would accept the commission. In effect, he required total control over every phase of the project, without any interference of any sort. He allowed the factors only two options: they could either accept, or reject his requirements; flexibility or compromise was not offered. The factors eventually accepted Trill’s conditions. The contract was signed and embossed with the seal of the Dendrological Institute, and Trill immediately went to work.

  “The site was surveyed, a grid of avenues delineated, and a pilot building erected on a site beside the central plaza. When completed, the structure stood seven stories high; it was built completely of rich red-brown mahogany, and was surmounted by a dome of a ravishing rotundity. Ultimately the building would house the offices of the Dendrological Institute. The building met with universal approval; even Trill’s detractors were silenced.

  “At this precise moment, when Trill’s career reached its zenith, his health deserted him; he suffered a debilitating stroke which enfeebled him, curtailing most of his physical functions.

  “He realized that he could not complete the city as he had planned, but at almost the same instant arrived at a scheme which obviated all his difficulties; with one stroke of the pen he ordained that every building of the city should be constructed to the same specification as the pilot building, varying only in size.

  “Trill’s boldness astonished everyone. From the factors came a storm of protest, along with the opinion that, since Trill’s ploy was clearly the irresponsible whim of a madman, it must be invalidated forthwith.

  “The idea stimulated unease in the public. I mentioned that we are a staid race — a trait which includes an ingrained regard for individual responsibility and the sanctity of a formal contract. This conviction shapes the local character and no deviation is tolerated; eventually, the factors’ suggestion that Trill’s contract be violated aroused such outrage that the factors abandoned their plan, and Trill’s new city came into being.

  “Almost immediately the new city was considered a work of ultimate genius, and Trill was honored as never before. He was granted a patent of nobility and made a full Fellow of the Institute, which awarded him a gold coruscation to wear on his shoulder.

  “So there you have it: Falziel, a tribute both to Trill’s reckless creativity, and the steadfast faith of the population!” He indicated the demijohn. “Shall we try another dram or two, to memorialize the occasion?”

  Maloof looked toward Myron, who gave a fatalistic shrug. “Perhaps then, just a taste.”

  Rouft tilted the demijohn with a loose wrist, replenishing the goblets to their former level, then proposed another toast: “To tall women and fruitful trees!”

  The goblets were dealt with as before; the ardent fluid was consumed in appropriate style.

  When Maloof found his voice, he asked, somewhat haltingly: “Can you recommend a tavern where we can sample the local ale?”

  “Easily! The ‘Court of King Gambrinus’ instantly comes to mind. It is a place where I myself am a frequent visitor. The Darkling Stout is somewhat heavy for my taste, but the Bitter Silurian is beyond reproach. The tavern is convenient to hand. Proceed along yonder boulevard to the first intersection, turn left; fifty yards ahead you will notice an arched portico supporting an effigy representing the demigod Atlas, supporting the globe of Old Earth on his shoulders. This effigy, by custom, marks every tavern of Falziel.”

  “Interesting!” said Maloof. “The information might be invaluable, if we had more time to explore the town.”

  Rouft sighed. “I often wish that I could drink in two taverns at the same instant; it would save much wasted energy wandering to and fro.”

  Myron muttered, half to himself: “If anyone were capable of such a feat, it would be our engineer, Fay Schwatzendale.”

  2

  Shortly after sunset, Captain Maloof and his crew sauntered forth from the spaceport; Moncrief and the Mouse-riders elected to remain aboard the Glicca. The men proceeded up the boulevard, turned at the intersection and came upon the arched portico, surmounted by the effigy of Atlas with the globe of Old Earth on his shoulders, marking the site of The Court of King Gambrinus.

  Entering the tavern, the four men found themselves in a long, narrow, dimly lit chamber with a vaulted ceiling and walls panelled with polished planks of wood the color of dark honey. Tables were scattered along the length of the chamber, with a bar flanking the wall to the right. Business was slack; at a table far to the rear a pair of old men sat hunched over a chess-board, with tankards at their elbows. On the wall behind them an artist of long ago had painted King Gambrinus sitting in state on a majestic golden throne. In one hand he held a scepter, in the other a tankard of foaming brew, his expression, as he surveyed the chamber, at once stern yet benign. Behind the bar stood a fat bartender, wearing a white smock and small white cap. He took note of the newcomers, displaying minimal interest, and spoke in a ripe rolling baritone. “Good evening, gentlemen; you come at a late hour; still, we will take pains to accommodate your thirst.” He flourished his hand toward the tables. “You may sit where you notice your correct hermetic sign, or if you prefer, I can advise you.”

  “That might be wise,” said Maloof. “The signs are somewhat arcane.”

  “True,” said the bartender. He reflected a moment, then pointed. “Yonder is a congenial table. It is dependable and it has supported thousands of tankards with only rare spillage, and it seems to induce kindness and liberality even among strangers. There has never been a glottal congestion at this table, nor has anyone ever failed to pay his score.”

  The four seated themselves at the recommended table. The bartender asked: “What can I serve you?”

  “Describe our choices,” said Maloof.

  “Very well; our beers and ales are excellent. We serve Darkling Stout, Dankwel’s Special, Wyvern, Old Spiteful, Pale Gothic, and Bitter Brown Ale.”

  Maloof opted for the Bitter Brown Ale, as did his companions. The ale was served in tankards turned from billets of a dense dark wood.

  Maloof studied his tankard at length, turning it this way and that. He asked the bartender: “Does this black wood have a name?”

  “Of course; it is swamp-gnarl, a tree which grows half-submerged in the swamp, never more than nine feet tall and four feet wide. The tree cannot be cut in place; it must be pulled up entire by a floating derrick. The piece is trimmed, cut into baulks, and seasoned for five years. Then it is sliced into billets, and turned in a special lathe — to become unfinished vessels, known as ‘blanks’. The ‘blanks’ are boiled in a special oil for three days, then are shaped, carved, and finished by hand. Now they are tankards, no two alike; they cannot be broken, and last forever.”

  Maloof held up the heavy black tankard. “It has an extraordinary appeal. Are they available for purchase, and if so, where?”

  The bartender looked at the clock upon the wall behind him, then said: “My information is both good and bad.” He pointed through the window toward a shop on the opposite side of the street with
a green starburst over the door. “Yonder shop is directed by a true galardinet named Dame Florice. She sells curios, objects of vertu, and miscellaneous oddments to tourists, spacemen and local folk alike, making no distinction so long as they can pay. She keeps an adequate supply of tankards, which she sells at reasonable prices. That is the good news. In five minutes, she turns off the lights and closes her shop with inexorable determination — that is the bad news.”

  Maloof stared up at the clock. “Five minutes?”

  “Ten seconds less — you have time to finish your ale, pay the score, and dash across the street, with about two minutes and thirty seconds remaining to make your purchases, if Dame Florice sympathizes with your plight. I myself close at the same instant.”

  The four men drained their tankards. Between gulps, Myron gestured toward the chess-players, one of whom had just made a move. “What of them?”

  The bartender shrugged. “They will continue their game by candle-light, and I shall find them here in the morning.”

  Maloof paid the score, and the four men, departing the Court of King Gambrinus, hastened across the street to the shop under the green starburst.

  Dame Florice was a tall woman with a long bony nose; she eyed the last-minute customers with disfavor. “You are overly casual; the shop is about to close. Business is done for the day.”

  “Not quite,” declared Maloof. “There is time for you to sell me six swamp-gnarl tankards.”

  Myron added, “While you are serving Captain Maloof, it will save time if you will bring me six tankards as well.”

  Dame Florice spoke sharply: “By the time I bring your orders from the stock-room, it will be time to turn out the lights. Do you propose to pay in the dark?”