Lurulu

by Jack Vance

“It might be more expedient if you would extend your business hours by another minute, or perhaps a minute and a half,” Maloof suggested. “But you must do as you think best.”

  Dame Florice turned on her heel and strode off to her stock-room. The four men took advantage of the delay to look about the shop; Myron came upon a small effigy of Atlas on his knees, supporting Old Earth on his shoulders. The figure was about six inches tall and carved from a dense white wood. Ever the romantic, Myron was charmed; here was an amusing souvenir of Falziel and its taverns, and he added the item to his purchases. A moment later he discovered a rack from which hung a number of delicate chains about five feet long. Looking more closely, Myron saw that the chains were carved with exquisite nicety from long wands of pale wood.

  By this time Dame Florice had returned from the stock-room with the tankards, and had reconciled herself to the unprecedented experience of working after the close of regulation business hours. In response to Myron’s questions, she told him that the chains were carved by a coterie of old women in an isolated mountain village. These women were held to be witches by local folk, said Dame Florice. This was sheer nonsense, of course, she added with a frosty smile, the chains were carved from long shoots of mountain hazel, and the work was uncannily precise, but witchery? “Bah! Rank superstition!” Myron noted that despite her words, Dame Florice made a surreptitious sign with the fingers of her left hand. He selected two of the chains, to be used as necklaces to delight a certain Tibbet at the city Duvray on Alcydon.

  The spacemen settled their accounts and seven minutes after the ordinary closing hour returned to the spaceport.

  In the morning warehousemen appeared and cargo was off-loaded. At noon the Glicca lifted from the spaceport. The burnished mahogany domes dwindled below, and the Glicca slanted away toward the next port of call.

  3

  After Falziel, the next two stops were Chancelade on Avente, then Organon on Archimbal. Despite many similarities, the populations of the two worlds differed significantly in social philosophy; the folk of Avente were tolerant, sensitive to aesthetic subtlety, and intensely aware of themselves as individuals; the people of Archimbal, while of equivalent culture, were guided by altruistic ideals and were gregarious and most comfortable when working in communal groups. At Organon, Captain Maloof and his crew encountered circumstances which shocked and surprised them to an inordinate degree, making their visit memorable; although the Glicca had first put into Chancelade on Avente, where events no less significant occurred.

  Even before the cargo had been fully discharged, the port director of Chancelade offered Myron a parcel of onward cargo, on terms so advantageous that Myron immediately agreed to the transaction, though there would be a delay of three or four days before the cargo could be made ready.

  The layover was welcomed by everyone aboard the Glicca: crew and Mouse-riders alike, since Chancelade was a pleasant city of many charms, picturesque, romantic, casually elegant. The city occupied a parkland at the confluence of three rivers, joined by a dozen lazy canals. Along the banks of both rivers and canals were shops, salons, cafés, restaurants, conservatories and music halls, rendezvous for masked harlequins, gamins, dryads and nymphs, venues dedicated to the unexpected and the preposterous. East of the city rose massive mountains: crags and gorges, upland lakes, forests, and dozens of wilderness resorts, some rustic, others refined and luxurious.

  Immediately upon arrival Moncrief went off to solicit employment for the Mouse-riders and encountered success. The crew went off as well, to explore the city and test its potentialities. Time passed quickly. Early on the day of departure, the cargo arrived at the spaceport and was loaded aboard the Glicca.

  The crew opted for a final afternoon and evening visiting their favorite haunts about the city. During the afternoon, with the crew absent, the Mouse-riders boarded the ship, collected their belongings and departed, never so much as looking back. When the crew returned to the Glicca, Maloof discovered a note on the galley table, along with a sum of money. He read the letter aloud:

  To the esteemed Captain Maloof and others of the crew:

  By a happy circumstance we have been offered long-term employment among the mountain resorts. Contracts are lucrative and we must of necessity accept. Our best wishes to everyone aboard the Glicca; you will not soon be forgotten. I enclose funds sufficient to settle our outstanding accounts. With best respect:

  Master Moncrief and the Mouse-riders.

  Maloof tossed the note down upon the galley table. “So, that is the way of it. They are gone.” He stared down at the note. “All taken with all, their style of departure is commendable, or so it seems to me.”

  Wingo spoke, his expression bleak. “The ship will seem very quiet.”

  Schwatzendale leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. “For a fact, their going was opportune, for everyone. The atmosphere aboard ship was stale. Moncrief had become a derelict. His magic was fading. The Klutes crouched like lumps of rancid meat in the shadows. The girls were feckless creatures from a lost land; they danced their own dances and sang their own songs; they knew nothing of responsibility and distracted us all. Now they leave behind only bittersweet memories.”

  Maloof, smiling a wan twisted smile, said: “That is a moving testimonial.”

  “Bah,” growled Wingo. “It is more like an epitaph.”

  “They leave a gap,” Myron agreed. “Still, life will be simpler without them.”

  “Bah!” said Wingo again, more emphatically. “What good is simplicity? Even their foolishness was an event! With the Mouse-riders, anything was possible.”

  Myron nodded somberly. “Including the possibility that they might never leave the Glicca, but remain aboard forever.”

  Maloof winced. “The idea is alarming. It is almost an indelicacy.” Myron apologized, and the conversation came to an end.

  Early the next morning the Glicca departed Chancelade and set off toward Organon, on Archimbal. The ship seemed unnaturally quiet; Wingo abruptly halted his production of novel pastries. The corner of the saloon where the Klutes had brooded and muttered seemed curiously naked.

  As time passed, memories of the Mouse-riders became less vivid, and the new reality gradually submerged the old.

  4

  The Glicca arrived at the Organon spaceport halfway through the local morning. Cargo was expeditiously discharged and the crew set off to explore the city. If along the way they chanced to discover a hospitable tavern where they could test the quality of the beer, so much the better.

  An omnibus conveyed the four men along a scenic boulevard to the central plaza: an immaculate area, paved with slabs of polished granite. At the center, fountains played around the base of a heroic statue celebrating the legendary locator Hans van der Veeke who had first set foot upon the world Archimbal. He was depicted wearing a black frock coat and a flat black hat. His pose was portentous, with one great arm raised on high, saluting generations of the future. Ranked around the periphery of the plaza were narrow-fronted buildings of a spare, almost gaunt architecture, generally five or six stories high. At the ground level, shops of understated elegance relieved the austerity of the structures in which they were housed. Most sold goods of discreet luxury; there were also restaurants in evidence, as well as a number of agencies and salons.

  Upon alighting from the omnibus, the four off-worlders paused to take stock of their surroundings. Inhabitants of the city strolled about the plaza. Men and women alike wore garments of formal cut and excellent quality, as if it were not reputable to appear in public wearing clothes which might not be considered genteel. As they passed, they gave the spacemen quick side-glances, then immediately looked away, to avoid any imputation of undignified curiosity.

  The four men from the Glicca turned their attention to shops around the square, noting restaurants and cafés but nowhere any establishment suggesting the presence of a tavern. Myron theorized that such premises might be relegated to the backstreets, or even a separate
district of the city. Wingo agreed that the theory was as plausible as any, and that the mystery in good time would be resolved.

  The four men set off around the plaza. Almost at once the group came to an establishment, apparently a café, identified by an ornamental sign as ‘The Blue Urn’. Windows under three wide arches afforded a view of persons sitting at tables, taking refreshment of various sorts. At a table nearby, four middle-aged gentlemen of obvious status drank from glass tankards containing amber liquid under a notable collar of white foam. With one accord the four spacemen entered the Blue Urn and seated themselves at a vacant table.

  A tall gray-haired waiter of stately demeanor wearing formal garments of impeccable cut approached the table. He bowed slightly as if to acknowledge their status as off-worlders, and so entitled to sympathetic understanding. He spoke in a nicely modulated voice: “Gentlemen, may I enquire your wishes?”

  “You may indeed,” said Maloof. “We have worked up a thirst! You may bring us your premium bitter ale, in large tankards.”

  The waiter smilingly shook his head. “We offer no libation of this sort, sir.”

  “Oh?” demanded Maloof. “What are the gentlemen yonder drinking with such gusto?”

  The waiter politely turned to look. “Of course! They are enjoying our premium Mark Twelve Special, which, for a fact, is my own favorite.”

  “In that case,” said Maloof, “you may bring me a tankard of the Mark Twelve Special.”

  The others gave the same instruction, and the waiter departed to fill the orders. He presently returned with four tankards which he deftly served around the table, and then withdrew.

  Maloof took up his tankard. “For want of a better toast, I salute the ten thousand generations of brewmasters who, through their unflagging genius, have, in effect, made this moment possible!”

  “A noble toast,” cried Wingo. “Allow me to add an epilogue. At the last moments of the universe, with eternal darkness converging from all sides, surely someone will arise and cry out: ‘Hold back the end for a final moment, while I pay tribute to the gallant brewmasters who have provided us a pathway of golden glory down the fading corridors of time!’ And then, is it not possible that a bright gap will appear in the dark, through which the brewmasters are allowed to proceed, to build a finer universe?”

  “It is as reasonable as any other conjecture,” said Schwatzendale. “But now!” The four saluted each other, tilted their tankards, and drank deep draughts.

  At this instant, Maloof felt that bewildering shock of surprise which would never vanish from his memory. He slowly raised his head and stared at the waiter, who came inquiringly forward. “Sir?”

  In a low passionless voice, Maloof asked: “What is this liquid you have served us, when we called for beer?”

  The waiter spoke feelingly: “Sirs, you were served our best barley-water!”

  “Barley-water!” cried Maloof huskily.

  “Exactly so, I did you a kindness! Alcohol is highly toxic; its use is interdicted on Archimbal.”

  Schwatzendale asked in a hushed voice: “There is neither beer, nor ale to be had in Organon?”

  “None at all.”

  The spacemen glumly paid the score and returned to the spaceport. An hour later the Glicca departed Organon, and set off for the next port of call.

  5

  The Glicca continued along its eccentric course, finally returning to Coro-Coro on Fluter. Immediately upon arrival, the pilgrims whose passage to Kyril had been interrupted converged upon the Glicca. Maloof met with the Perrumpter Kalash, and Cooner, who had become coadjutor; he assured them that the previous commitments remained valid, and that the next port of call would be Impy’s Landing. Kalash and Cooner expressed satisfaction, then citing their religious affiliation, argued for a discount from the fares previously quoted. Maloof explained that religion was known to be prevalent on certain over-populated worlds, but was conspicuously absent in space; and for this reason, among others, no discounts would be allowed. Grumbling and disgruntled, the pilgrims boarded the Glicca, along with their chests of sanctified soil. And so the Glicca, departing Coro-Coro, set off for Impy’s Landing on Kyril.

  During the voyage Wingo became acquainted with a certain Efraim Cuireg, a peripatetic savant associated with the Institute of Transcendental Metaphysics at Bantry’s Bog on the world Montroy. Cuireg was a gentleman of obvious distinction. His stature was moderate, or a trifle less; his physique was trim, and his habits were fastidious. Under a cap of white hair his features were crisp, his gaze cool, his expression austere and somewhat ironic; he carried himself with the erect posture of a patrician. He travelled independently, and avoided other tourists.

  The pilgrims thought him condescending and supercilious. Nevertheless, the Perrumpter tried to include him into the company, and invited him to join the morning colloquies; but Cuireg declined participation.

  The ineffable Cooner had evolved an abstruse theory postulating an infinite regression of ever more complex godheads, each subservient to the entity looming behind, with the Gaean race abjectly at the forefront. He deployed his theory before Cuireg, only to encounter a stare so blank and incurious that the confident smile froze on his plump pink cheeks, and he recalled urgent business elsewhere.

  Wingo found Cuireg’s presence an enigma which gnawed at his curiosity. One day he invited Cuireg to a mid-afternoon collation of tea, scones and fancy pastries. Cuireg, a dedicated epicure, readily accepted the invitation and appeared precisely upon the appointed hour. He surveyed the delicacies gracing the table with approval and seated himself at Wingo’s direction.

  For a time the conversation was general, then Wingo, at what seemed an appropriate moment, put a casual question. “In all candor, I cannot understand why a scholar of your credentials should be travelling to Kyril like one of the pilgrims, and presumably planning to join the march around the continent. Can you explain?”

  “Naturally,” said Cuireg with a cool smile. “However, I do not propose to do so, since you would surely find the ideas abstract and probably beyond your comprehension.”

  Wingo raised his eyebrows, somewhat taken aback. A singular remark, indeed, and not one calculated to elevate his self-esteem. He sought for a suitable response, and finally said: “Naturally, you have a right to your assumptions, although, from my point of view, they are far too pessimistic.”

  Cuireg showed little interest in Wingo’s opinion. “Indeed?” He selected a lemon tart from the platter and ingested half of it with a quick snap of small white teeth. “Ah well, no great matter.”

  “Except that, as we sit here, apparently at our ease, communication has been disrupted.”

  “Oh?” Cuireg’s attention was caught. “You have left me behind.”

  “Just so!” said Wingo. “If folk want to exchange information, clarity is essential. If they want to confuse each other, various methods exist. They can use glossolalia, or a primitive language of clicks and grunts, or, as a last resort, the esoteric jargon of the Institute.”

  Cuireg was only mildly interested. “A pungent analysis! To what is it relevant?”

  Wingo leaned back in his chair. “In regard to your visit to Kyril, you felt that your remarks would only confuse me. I suspect, however, that if you spoke in the ordinary Gaean idiom, using standard syntax, I should be able to capture the gist of your remarks.”

  Cuireg was sardonically amused. “Take care, Wingo! The epistemological jungle is dark and deep! There are pitfalls and strange byways and monsters lurk in the shadows! An intrepid traveller such as yourself, however, should manage to discover at least the basic dogma, which is starkly simple and germane to our discussion. It asserts that between individuals exact communication is never possible.” He inspected Wingo. “You doubt the proposition? You need only refer to the physical laws of uncertainty, ignoring, of course, the mischievous corollary which states that the laws themselves are laughably uncertain. The lemon tarts, incidentally, are excellent.”

  Wingo pond
ered a moment, then shrugged. “This is all very well, but rather remote. It would seem that you do not concede the reality of ‘Truth’, at any level whatever.”

  “‘Truth’?” Cuireg made an indolent gesture. “‘Truth’ is a refuge for weak minds. Why concern yourself? It is a non-functional notion, like the square root of negative infinity, or, if you prefer, a mare’s nest. The good Baron Bodissey issued a definitive dictum: ‘Truth is a barnacle on the arse of progress.’” He took the last lemon tart from the platter.

  Wingo sighed, rose to his feet, replenished the platter and resumed his place at the table. “I suggest that you try the rainberry creamcakes. The frosted éclairs are also quite good.”

  “Thank you,” said Cuireg. “I shall do so at once. Is there still tea in the pot?”

  Wingo refilled Cuireg’s cup, then his own. “Now,” said Cuireg, “if you are still interested, I will tell you why I am travelling to Kyril.”

  “Just as you like,” said Wingo rather stiffly. “I do not care to intrude even slightly upon your privacy. My curiosity, such as it is, is only casual.”

  “In that case, I can satisfy this concern in five seconds or less.” Cuireg took a rainberry creamcake from the platter. “I am visiting Kyril to verify the recollections of my first visit.”

  Wingo stared in surprise. Cuireg went on pensively. “All this happened a long time ago, during the romantic phase of my life. The visit to Kyril seemed a gallant adventure, and so it was.” His voice fell, and he seemed to reflect. He said presently: “There are too many memories. They come in a welter: images, voices, colors, faces, landscapes, thousands of episodes; large tragedies, small triumphs.” He watched silently as Wingo refilled his teacup, then went on. “Kyril is not a kindly world. The way leads across arid wastes, dunes, bogs and moors, rolling savannahs where nothing grows but thorn trees and canker bush. The weather is unpredictable; there are morning mists and afternoon thunder-storms. At night three dim moons drift across the sky.