by Jack Vance
Myron could think of nothing to say. As if driven by an obsession, gasping and wheezing, Dame Hester contrived to tell the bitter tale of what had befallen her. In the beginning, the practitioners, after receipt of their fees, had seemed to fall in with her requirements. They started her on a regimen of standard therapy which she found overly stringent, but which they would not modify. There was arduous exercise; she was fed coarse black biscuits and a thin grassy soup. Daily she was rubbed with a few minims of water from one of the magic springs and daily she ingested a gill of a secret ichor compounded from water of the three potent streams. As time went on, the practitioners took more of her money, but she discerned no significant changes in her personal attributes. The practitioners warned her against impatience and continued the regimen, but despite all, the metamorphosis to lissome new youth was slow in coming.
She complained to the practitioners, but they only demanded more money. At last Dame Hester dispensed with their services and embarked upon a therapy of her own devising. Instead of careful lavations with a few minims of the miraculous water, she bathed daily in one or another of the springs and imbibed gallons of the fabulous flow of the streams. In the end she achieved nothing and indeed became listless and ill; at last her constitution gave way and she collapsed. The practitioners, when they found that she had no more money, refused to help her, stating that she had brought mortifaction upon herself and now must formulate her own solution to the problem. Finally, they sent her to the hospice.
Dame Hester sighed and gasped. “It has been a dreadful time!” She paused, then, clenching and unclenching her clawlike fingers, spoke on. Now, she stated, all would be mended if Myron would whisk her back to Salou Sain, where she would surely recover her health and all would be as before.
Myron asked cautiously: “What happened to Marko Fassig?”
The frail body quivered. The rasping whisper became hectic. “He was the worst traitor of all! He stole the Glodwyn and took it Beyond. There was news that pirates had killed him, which I will never regret; the Glodwyn is gone forever. But no matter; back at Salou Sain there will be another Glodwyn.” She fell silent; her eyelids drooped. Then she spoke in a husky whisper: “I have done you a wrong; I am now filled with remorse. Once more at Salou Sain I will make amends.” The whisper faded into silence and again the eyelids drooped. She lay still and signs of respiration were no longer evident. Maloof said in a sepulchral voice: “She has gone into a coma.”
Myron studied the still form. “No; there is still something going on.”
A moment passed. The still figure gave a convulsive jerk; the eyelids lifted. She spoke in a guttural croak: “It is folly! There is nothing more; the doom is on me. I shall never breathe the sweet air of home again. Now I will do what I must.” She reached a trembling arm to the table beside the cot, took up a stylus and scrawled hasty words and sentences upon the blank page of a notebook. When she had finished, she dropped the notebook and let her arm sag upon the cot. Again she closed her eyes and lay still.
Myron took up the notebook and read what Dame Hester had written. “It is a will,” he told Maloof. “She leaves everything she owns to me.”
Maloof scrutinized the document. “It appears to be legally valid. I am a reputable witness.”
Myron folded the document and tucked it into his pocket. For a time the two men watched the still figure. The eyes remained closed and there was no further rise and fall of the sheet. Maloof said at last: “I think that she is dead.”
“I think so, too,” said Myron.
After another few moments Maloof stirred. “There is nothing to be gained by waiting.”
“No,” said Myron. “We have found what we were looking for. It is finished.”
The two men left the chamber. In the front office they informed the orderly that the person whom they had come to visit was dead. The orderly showed neither surprise nor concern, but appraised the two spacemen sidelong. “You are evidently blood relatives of the deceased?”
“By no means!” said Maloof. “We are here only to oblige a friend, who himself is indigent.”
“A pity!” said the orderly. “Still, for sixty sols I can arrange a fine funeral with pyrotechnics, a priest, athletic contests and dancing children waving colored scarves to the music of a belp-horn.”
Maloof said: “This sort of rite is unnecessary. The dead, during or after cremation are indifferent to such a display; at least, this is my experience. A simple ceremony at minimum cost will suffice.”
“Bah,” muttered the orderly. “I can provide a simple ceremony for ten sols. There will be no dignitaries on hand, and the only music will be five recorded fanfares. For another sol I will provide three sticks of incense.”
Myron paid over ten sols. “You may omit the incense.”
“As you like.”
3
After a three-day layover at Port Tanjee, the Glicca continued onward toward Salou Sain, where Myron now had important business in connection with Dame Hester’s estate. Again Captain Maloof agreed to a detour, on this occasion to the city Duvray, on Alcydon where the Pan-Arts Museum was located.
Upon arriving at the Duvray Spaceport, Myron collected his various gifts, souvenirs and curios and rode by cab through the elegant city into the fashionable Ranglin Heights district to the Garwig residence: an imposing mansion at the back of a garden. Myron alighted, and after arranging for the cab to wait, set off along the path which led through the garden.
Almost immediately he was confronted by a pair of objects standing at either side of the path: statues twelve feet tall, apparently wrought by a mad genius in the avant-garde mode, as icons to represent his contempt for ordinary conventions of society. The objects were constructed of unusual materials, spars of metal, and twisted, pitted shapes contorted as half-in half-out of another dimension. Gray-pink tubing looking unpleasantly like viscera wound in and out of the other materials. Myron stared at the objects in wonder; the Garwigs evidently were members of a clique where such demonstrations were fashionable. Odd, indeed!
He continued up the path to the front entrance, a massive door at the back of a short portico. The door lacked knob, latch, handle, or other such device; Myron looked in vain for a bell-push or knocker. Fixed to the door was a heavy demon-mask of antique copper, the features molded in high relief to express a leer of malignant triumph — or perhaps some other horrid emotion. The eyes bulged, the ears were distorted wads; a long black tongue dangled from the mouth. Myron gave his head a grim shake: here was another phase of avant-garde doctrine, where shock and novelty were accorded the highest priority. He wondered to what extent Tibbet had been infected; it was a depressing thought. He looked again for a bell-push, a toggle or other signalling device, but as before found nothing. He pounded the door with his knuckles, but produced only a muffled thump; he kicked the door with like result. Then as a last resort, Myron pulled at the dangling tongue, and immediately from within came a peculiar fluting ululation, a quasi-musical sequence of discords lacking all charm, but which Myron nevertheless found intriguing; he pulled at the tongue a second time, eliciting a new, equally random set of discords. Strange! he thought. It was not music but the studious creation of non-music: another avant-garde demonstration! He reached to pull at the tongue a third time, but the door swung aside. In the opening stood a tall woman wearing a house-maid’s uniform, bearing an expression of annoyance. She swept Myron up and down with a severe gaze, then said: “What, sir, are your needs?”
Myron drew together the shreds of his dignity. “I am calling upon the Lady Tibbet. Be so good as to announce my presence.”
The maid regarded him without sympathy. “That is beyond my ability, sir. The Lady is not on the premises.”
“Oh? In that case, if you expect her back within a reasonable time, I will wait.”
“That would not be practical, sir. Lady Tibbet and her husband are offworld, at the Palisades on Frantock, collecting shards for the Museum. Do you care to leave a message?”
“Yes,” said Myron. “You may mention that Peter Birdsong called on a matter of no great importance.”
“Very well, sir.”
4
Myron returned to the cab and was conveyed back to the spaceport. Aboard the Glicca, Captain Maloof, Schwatzendale and Wingo were in the galley, taking a mid-morning collation of tea and pastries. Myron went quietly to his quarters, stowed the parcels in a locker, changed into his ordinary clothes, then stood irresolute. At last he shrugged; there was nothing to be gained by delay. He drew a deep breath, squared his shoulders and marched from his cabin, across the saloon and into the galley. He seated himself, poured a cup of tea and took a lemon tart from the tray.
His shipmates watched him with mild curiosity. Wingo at last spoke. “You are back early. How went the affair?”
Myron made a measured response. “All in all, ‘the affair’, as you put it, went smoothly, though in a negative direction.” After a moment of rumination, he added: “If anyone is interested, I will mention that there is no longer any connection between Tibbet Garwig and myself.”
“We are politely interested, of course,” said Maloof. “I cannot help but notice that you seem quite definite in this regard.”
“I could not be more so,” said Myron. He sipped moodily from his cup.
Wingo at last spoke. “If you wish to explain in greater detail, we will listen with care.”
Myron slumped back in his chair. “Very well; you shall have the facts in their full regalia. I rode by cab to the Garwig mansion without so much as an inkling of doom. I arranged for the cab to wait, then set off through the garden toward the house. Almost at once I was confronted by a pair of what I shall call ‘statues’; they stood twelve feet tall and were fabricated in the avant-garde style. I found them not only lacking in charm, but actively offensive. I was disturbed; the Garwigs would never have chosen such a site for their statues had they not themselves been members of an avant-garde clique.”
Myron went on to describe the massive front door, the copper demon-mask with its dangling black tongue, and the discordant wailing discords produced when the tongue was pulled. He told of his encounter with the housemaid, and her information regarding Tibbet. “I disguised my emotions, and returning to the cab, was conveyed back to the Glicca. At this time most of the emotions have subsided, and now I feel only gratitude, to whatever agency is responsible for my narrow escape — destiny, lurulu, or blind stupid luck.”
“Hm,” said Wingo, smiling. “Myron uses the word ‘luck’, which of course is simple fatalism. But essentially, he recognizes the presence of subliminal forces, working at most delicate levels.” He looked to Myron. “Am I right?”
Myron shrugged. “Better to say that I am confused.”
Wingo spoke seriously. “The circumstances are mysterious. ‘Destiny’ is what happens; ‘lurulu’ is far more delicate, and in Myron’s case, it exerts a protective influence — which of course is most interesting.”
“Balderdash,” said Schwatzendale, tilting his head and arching his eyebrows at different angles.
Myron said: “Tibbet will certainly be confused when she tries to identify ‘Peter Birdsong’.”
Captain Maloof rose to his feet. “Perhaps I alone am not confused, since for the moment I have become an unalloyed fatalist. I can see, without ambiguity, that the time has come for us to continue our voyage. On the alert — seal the ports, make ready for departure.”
5
The Glicca arrived at the world Vermazen, and settled upon the spaceport at Salou Sain. On the day after arrival, Myron visited the Municipal Conservancy, where Dame Hester’s last will and testament was validated with a gratifying absence of formality. Myron found himself in possession of an unexpectedly large estate, which included the grand mansion Sarbiter House on Dingle Terrace.
Myron hired a domestic staff, then he and his shipmates took up residence among the luxurious precincts of the mansion, where they quickly developed an extremely agreeable pattern of existence. When the days were fine, they took long and languorous breakfasts in the garden. During the afternoons, they sometimes wandered into town, alone, or as a group. Most often though they remained at the house lounging beside the pool, consuming fruit punches, and socializing with new acquaintances.
Dinners were formal, in the wood-panelled dining room, under a chandelier of a thousand glittering crystals. There were always seven, eight or even nine courses, enhanced by dusty bottles brought up from the cellars. After dinner, the four usually moved into the dim old library, where a fire burned in the stone fireplace and chairs upholstered in soft leather awaited their coming. Decanters charged with spirits, essences and distillations of notable marks were ready to hand. Conversation touched upon many topics and often continued into the late hours. Persons of recent acquaintance were discussed, and their attributes analyzed; or the talk might wander to remote ports of call and the odd folk who dwelt in far places. Profundities sometimes entered the conversation, usually in response to Wingo’s predilection for abstruse philosophy.
Occasionally the word ‘lurulu’ was mentioned, and it developed that each of the four invested the word with a different significance. During such discussions Maloof had little to say, and Myron even less, but Schwatzendale enlivened the discourse with fanciful conjectures, which Wingo felt compelled to qualify or refute before resuming his own remarks.
“If you recall, we were speaking of lurulu. At the risk of banality, I will point out that ‘fate’, ‘destiny’ and ‘lurulu’ are not synonymous. ‘Fate’ is dark and ponderous; ‘destiny’ is more like a beautiful sunset. In speaking of ‘lurulu’, however, language of this kind is not useful; lurulu is personal, it is like hope, or a wistful longing, more real than a dream.”
“Bah,” grumbled Schwatzendale. “Wingo has become a poet; he decorates the air with verbal finery in the same way that he frosts his pastry with fine icing.”
Wingo sighed. “My purposes are not ignoble; I believe the cosmos to be a thing of many complexities, most of which have no linkage with the words of our language, and can only be addressed through the use of allusion.”
“Bah!” said Schwatzendale again. “Balderdash, of the purest stripe! The language serves us very well; why turn it inside out to describe something which isn’t there in the first place?”
Maloof poured wine from the decanter into his goblet. “Your motives are not under attack, but abstract language is not necessary to discuss lurulu, when sitting next to you — not a yard away — is the real thing; I refer to Myron, naturally. He is strong, personable, sound of wind; he has an easy disposition and a full head of hair. He lives in a palace; he has more wealth than he can count, and he wants for nothing. The girls find him appealing, and they cluster around him in a nimbus of charming vitality. If Myron needs someone to peel him a grape, or to scratch an inconvenient itch, he need only cock an eyebrow and the task is accomplished. Myron is the very embodiment of lurulu!”
Myron leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know. If I look in the mirror, I see someone quite ordinary, only lucky enough to have Dame Hester Lajoie for an aunt.”
Schwatzendale amended the statement: “Better to say, for a dead aunt.”
Myron nodded. “Just so. In any case, it is not so easy as you might think. Half the time I feel guilty, as if I had been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.” Myron looked from face to face. “You are laughing at me.”
“Such qualms are hardly surprising,” said Maloof. “I shouldn’t worry about them overmuch.”
Myron agreed. “But sometimes another mood comes on me. I feel nervous, or restless, and I have a dim intuition as to the cause.” Myron leaned forward and stared into the fire. “I would feel more secure if the three of you were always to share this lurulu with me.”
For a time the four sat in silence, gazing into the fire. Then Maloof said quietly: “Your intuition is correct. Transience cannot be altered. Your program, for all its idyllic qualities, never has been f
easible. I am not a natural sybarite, content to live in an enchanted dream; I am restless, and possibly Wingo and Schwatzendale as well. The Glicca has been totally overhauled — it gleams with fresh enamel and new metal; the galley flaunts some splendid new equipment. At the moment it sits at the side of the yard like an abandoned waif.” Maloof laughed. “Could the Glicca be lonely? It is a point I must take up with Wingo — although I can see by his face that he has doubts.”
“Not necessarily,” declared Wingo. “It is a tantalizing thought.”
Schwatzendale yawned, and rose to his feet. “At this moment I still enjoy decadence, and I am trying to break several records in the field. The life of a full-fledged epicurean, dancing with flowers and smelling beautiful ladies, requires more strength than I can deploy at this time! I am off to bed — goodnight, all.” He departed the library, and was presently followed by Maloof and Wingo, and finally Myron, leaving the fire to flicker to a smoulder in the silent library.
6
On several occasions Myron visited his father and mother at the family home in Lilling. The visits were never wholly comfortable, since his parents had never abandoned the hope that Myron might be induced to remain at Lilling and take up a position at the Exchange, where he could work in association with his father. Such a step could be the basis for a most creditable career, and would certainly enhance Myron’s reputation. Myron politely rejected these proposals, citing his commitments at Salou Sain.
Once Myron urged his parents to spend some time with him at Salou Sain. The invitation was accepted, and in due course the parents travelled to Salou Sain to spend two days at Sarbiter House. During this time the elderly Tanys used the utmost propriety and irreproachable good manners, but were secretly perturbed by the casual conduct of Myron and his companions. They thankfully returned to Lilling convinced that Myron’s friends were vagabonds, intent upon infecting him with their own deplorable standards.
