by Jack Vance
“Indeed not! Stand aside!”
Zarfo thrust himself forward. “Adam Reith, you say? What of him?”
“Where is he?”
“Why do you ask?”
The false Lokhar stepped forward, muttered to the Dirdir. The Dirdir said. “You know Adam Reith well?”
“Not well. If you have money for him, leave it with me; he would have wanted it so.”
“Where is he?”
Zarfo looked out across the sky. “You saw the sky-raft which departed as you arrived?”
“Yes.”
“It might be that he and his friends were aboard.”
“Who claims this to be true?”
“Not I,” said Zarfo. “I offer only the suggestion.”
“Nor I,” said the old Lokhar who had carried the telltale.
“What is the direction?”
“Pah! You are the great trackers,” sneered Zarfo. “Why ask us poor innocents?”
The Dirdir retreated across the compound in long strides. The skycar darted off into the air.
Zarfo confronted the three Dirdir agents, his big face twisted into a malevolent grin. “So here you are in Smargash, violating our laws. Do you not know this is Balul Zac Ag?”
“We committed no violence,” stated the false Lokhar, “but merely did our work.”
“Dirty work, conducive to violence! You shall all be flogged. Where are the constables? I give these three into custody!”
The three agents were hustled away, protesting and crying and making demands.
Zarfo came to the shed. “Best that you leave at once. The Dirdir will not delay long.” He pointed across the compound. “The wagon to the west is ready to depart.”
“Where does it take us?”
“Out to the highland rim. Beyond lie the chasms! A grim territory. But if you remain here, you will be taken by the Dirdir. Balul Zac Ag or no.”
Reith looked around the compound, at the dusty stone and timber structures of Smargash, at the black and white Lokhars, at the shabby old inn. Here had been the single interim of peace and security he had known on Tschai; now events were forcing him once more into the unknown. In a hollow voice he said, “We need fifteen minutes to collect our gear.”
Anacho said in a dismal voice, “The situation does not accord with my hopes… But I must make the best of it. Tschai is a world of anguish.”
CHAPTER TWO
ZARFO CAME TO the inn with white Seraf robes and spine helmets. “Wear these; conceivably you may win an additional hour or two. Hurry—the wagon is at the point of departure.”
“One moment.” Reith surveyed the compound. “There may be other spies, watching our every move.”
“Well, then, by the back lane. After all, we cannot anticipate every contingency.”
Reith made no further comments; Zarfo was becoming peevish and anxious to get them out of Smargash, no matter in what direction.
Silently, each man thinking his own thoughts, they went to the motorwagon terminus. Zarfo told them: “Say nothing to anyone; pretend to meditate: that is the way of the Serafs. At sundown face the east and utter a loud cry: ‘Ah-oo-cha!’ No one knows what it means but that is the Seraf way. If pressed, state that you come to buy essences. So then: aboard the wagon! May you avoid the Dirdir and succeed in all your future undertakings. And if not, remember that death comes only once!”
“Thank you for the consolation,” said Reith.
The motor-wagon trundled off on its eight tall wheels: away from Smargash, out over the plain toward the west. Reith, Anacho and Traz sat alone in the aft passenger cubicle.
Anacho was pessimistic in regard to their chances. “The Dirdir will not be confused for long. The difficulties will only make them keen. Do you know that the Dirdir young are like beasts? They must be tamed, then trained and educated. The Dirdir spirit remains feral; hunting is a lust.”
“Self-preservation is no less a lust with me,” Reith stated.
The sun sank behind the rim; gray-brown dust settled over the landscape. The wagon paused at a dismal little village; the passengers stretched their legs, drank brackish water raised from a well, haggled for buns with a withered old crone who asked outrageous prices and laughed wildly at counter-proposals.
The wagon proceeded, leaving the old woman muttering beside her tray of buns.
The dusk faded through umber into darkness. From across the wasteland came a weird hooting: the call of night-hounds. In the east rose the pink moon Az, followed presently by blue Braz. Ahead loomed a jut of rock: an ancient volcanic neck, so Reith surmised. From the summit glowed three wan yellow lights. Looking up through his scanscope[1] Reith saw the ruins of a castle… He dozed for an hour and awoke to find the wagon rolling through soft sand beside a river. On the opposite bank psillas stood outlined against the moonlit sky. Presently they passed a many-cupolaed manor-house, apparently uninhabited and in the process of decay.
Half an hour later, at midnight, the wagon rumbled into the compound of a large village, to halt for the right. The passengers composed themselves to sleep on their benches or on top of the wagon.
Carina 4269 finally rose: a cool amber disc only gradually dispelling the morning mist. Vendors brought trays of pickled meats, pastes, strips of boiled bark, toasted pilgrim pod, from which the passengers made a breakfast.
The wagon proceeded to the west toward the Rim Mountains, now jutting high into the sky. Reith occasionally swept the sky with his scanscope but discovered no signs of pursuit.
“Too early yet,” said Anacho cheerlessly. “Never fear; it will come.”
At noon the wagon reached Siadz, the terminus: a dozen stone huts surrounding a cistern.
To Reith’s intense disgust, no transportation, neither motorwagon nor leap-horse, could be hired for transportation onward across the rim.
“Do you know what lies beyond?” demanded the elder of the village. “The chasms.”
“Is there no trail, no trade-route?”
“Who would enter the chasms, for trade or otherwise? What sort of folk are you?”
“Serafs,” said Anacho. “We explore for asofa root.”
“Ah, the Serafs and their perfumes. I have heard tales. Well, don’t play your immortal antics on us; we are a simple people. In any event, there is no asofa among the chasms; only cripthorn, spumet and rack-belly.”
“Nevertheless, we will go forth to search.”
“Go then. There is said to be an ancient road somewhere to the north, but I know of none who have seen it.”
“What people inhabit the chasms? Are they friendly?”
“ ‘People’? A joke. A few pysantillas, red cors under every rock, bodebirds. If you are extremely unlucky you might meet a fere.”
“It seems a dire region.”
“Aye, a thousand miles of cataclysm. Still, who knows? Where cowards never venture, heroes find splendor. So it may be with your perfume. Strike out to the north and seek the ancient road to the coast. It will be no more than a mark, a crumble. When darkness comes, make yourself secure: night-hounds range the wastes!”
Reith said, “You have dissuaded us; we will return east with the motorwagon.”
“Wise, wise! Why, after all, throw away your lives, Seraf or no?”
Reith and his companions rode the motor-wagon a mile back down the road, then inconspicuously slid to the ground. The wagon lumbered east and presently disappeared into the amber murk.
There was silence about them. They stood on coarse gray soil, with here and there wisps of salmon-colored thorn and at even greater intervals a coarse tangle of pilgrim plant, which Reith saw with a certain glum satisfaction. “So long as we find pilgrim plant we won’t starve.”
Traz gave a dubious grunt. “We had best reach the mountains before dark. On the flat night-hounds have advantage over three men.”
“I know an even better reason for haste,” said Anacho. “The Dirdir won’t be puzzled long.”
Reith searched the empty sky, the
bleak landscape. “They might conceivably become discouraged.”
“Never! When thwarted they grow excited, furious with zeal.”
“We’re not far from the mountains. We can hide in the shadow of the boulders, or in one of the ravines.”
An hour’s travel brought them under the crumbling basalt palisade. Traz suddenly halted, sniffed the air. Reith could smell nothing, but long since had learned to defer to Traz’s perceptions.
“Phung[2] droppings,” said Traz. “About two days old.”
Reith nervously checked the availability of his handgun. Eight explosive pellets remained. When these were gone the gun became useless. It might be, thought Reith, that his luck was running out. He asked Traz, “Is it likely to be close at hand?”
Traz shrugged. “The Phung are mad things. For all I know, one stands behind that boulder.”
Reith and Anacho looked uneasily about. Anacho finally said, “Our first concern must be the Dirdir. The critical period has begun. They will have traced us aboard the motor-wagon; they can easily follow us to Siadz. Still, we are not completely without advantage, especially if they lack game-finding instruments.”
“What instruments are these?” asked Reith.
“Detectors of human odor or heat radiation. Some trace footprints by residual warmth, others observe exhalations of carbon dioxide and locate a man from a distance of five miles.”
“And when they catch their game?”
“The Dirdir are conservative. They do not recognize change,” said Anacho. “They need not hunt but are driven by inner forces. They consider themselves beasts of prey, and impose no restraint upon themselves.”
“In other words,” said Traz, “they will eat us.”
Reith was gloomily silent. At last he said, “Well, we must not be captured.”
“As Zarfo the Lokhar said, ‘Death comes but once.’ ”
Traz pointed. “Notice the break into the palisade. If ever a road existed, there it must go.”
Across barren hummocks of compacted gray soil, around tangles of thorn and tumbled beds of rubble, the three hurried, perspiring and constantly watching the sky. At last they reached the shadow of the notch, but could find no trace of the road. If ever it existed, detritus and erosion had long ago expunged it from view.
Anacho suddenly gave a low sad call. “The sky-car. It comes. We are hunted.”
Reith forced back a panicky urge to run. He looked up the notch. A small stream trickled down the center, to terminate in a stagnant tarn. To the right rose a steep slope; to the left, a massive buttress overhung an area of deep shade, at the back of which was an even deeper shadow: the mouth of a cave.
The three crouched behind the tumble which choked half the ravine. Out over the plain the Dirdir boat, with chilling deliberation, slid toward Siadz.
Reith said in a neutral voice, “They can’t detect our radiation through the rocks. Our carbon dioxide blows up the notch.” He turned to look up the valley.
“No point in running,” said Anacho. “There’s no sanctuary. If they follow us this far they will chase us forever.”
Five minutes later the sky-car returned from Siadz, following the road east, at an altitude of two or three hundred yards. Suddenly it swerved and circled. Anacho said in a fateful voice, “They have found our tracks.”
The sky-car came across the plain, directly toward the notch. Reith brought forth his handgun. “Eight pellets left. Enough to explode eight Dirdir.”
“Not enough to explode one. They carry shields against such missiles.”
In another half-minute the sky-car would be overhead. “Best that we take to the cave,” said Traz.
“Obviously the haunt of Phung,” muttered Anacho. “Or an adit of the Pnume. Let us die cleanly, in the open air.”
“We can walk through the pond,” said Traz, “and stand below the overhang. Our trail is then broken; they may follow the stream up the valley.”
“If we stand here,” said Reith, “we’re finished for sure.”
The three ran through the shallow fringes of the pond, Anacho gingerly bringing up the rear. They huddled under the loom of the cliff. The odor of Phung was strong and rich.
Over the shoulder of the mountain opposite came the skyboat. “They’ll see us!” said Anacho in a hollow voice. “We’re in plain sight!”
“Into the cave,” hissed Reith. “Back, further back!”
“The Phung—”
“There may be no Phung. The Dirdir are certain!” Reith groped back into the dark, followed by Traz and finally Anacho. The shadow of the sky-car passed over the pond, flitted on up the valley.
Reith flashed his light here and there. They stood in a large chamber of irregular shape, the far end obscured in murk. Light brown nodules and flakes covered the floor ankle-deep; the walls were crusted over with horny hemispheres, each the size of a man’s fist.
“Night-hound larvae,” muttered Traz.
Anacho stole to the cave-mouth, looked cautiously forth. He jerked back. “They’ve missed our trail; they’re circling.”
Reith extinguished the light and looked cautiously from the cave-mouth. A hundred yards away the sky-car descended to the ground, silent as a falling leaf. Five Dirdir alighted. For a moment they stood in consultation; then, each carrying a long transparent shield, they advanced into the notch. As if at a signal, two leaped forward like silver leopards, peering along the ground. Two others came behind at a slow lope, weapons ready; the fifth remained to the rear.
The pair in the lead stopped short, communicating in odd squeaks and grunts. “The hunting language,” Anacho muttered, “from the time they were yet beasts.”
“They look no different now.”
The Dirdir halted at the far shore of the pond. They looked, listened, smelled the air, obviously aware their prey was close at hand.
Reith sighted along his handgun, but the Dirdir continually twitched their shields, frustrating his aim.
One of the leading Dirdir searched the valley through binoculars; the other held a black instrument before his eyes. At once he found something of interest. A great bound took him to the spot where Reith, Traz and Anacho had halted before crossing to the cave. Sighting through the black instrument, the Dirdir followed the tracks to the pond, then searched the space below the overhang. He gave a series of grunts and squeaks; the shields jerked about.
Anacho muttered, “They see the cave. They know we’re here.”
Reith peered into the back reaches of the cave.
Traz said in a matter-of-fact voice, “There is a Phung back there. Or it has not long departed.”
“How do you know?”
“I smell it. I feel the pressure.”
Reith turned to the Dirdir. Step by step they came, effulgences sparkling up from their heads. Reith spoke in a fateful croak: “Back, into the cave. Perhaps we can set up some kind of ambush.”
Anacho gave a stifled groan; Traz said nothing. The three retreated through the dark, across the carpet of brittle granules. Traz touched Reith’s arm. He whispered, “Notice the light behind us. The Phung is close at hand.”
Reith halted, to strain his eyes into the dark. He saw no light. Silence pressed upon them.
Reith now thought to hear the faintest of scraping sounds. Cautiously he crept back through the dark, gun ready. And now he sensed yellow light: a wavering glimmer reflecting against the cave-wall. The scrape-scrape-scrape was somewhat louder. With the utmost caution Reith peered around a jut of rock, into a chamber. A Phung sat, back half-turned, burnishing its brachial plates with a file. An oil lamp emitted a yellow glow; to the side a broad-brimmed black hat and a cloak hung from a peg.
Four Dirdir stood in the mouth of the cave, shields in front, weapons ready; their effulgences, standing high, furnished their only light.
Traz plucked one of the horny hemispheres from the wall. He threw it at the Phung, which gave a startled cluck. Traz pressed Anacho and Reith back behind the jut of rock.
&
nbsp; The Phung came forth; they could see its shadow against the glimmer of lamp-light. It returned into its chamber, once more came forth, and now it wore its hat and cloak.
For a moment it stood silent, not four feet from Reith, who thought the creature must surely hear the thud-thud-thud of his heart.
The Dirdir came three bounds forward, effulgences casting a wan white glow around the chamber. The Phung stood like an eight-foot statue, shrouded in its cloak. It gave a cluck or two of chagrin, then a sudden series of whirling hops took it among the Dirdir. For a taut instant, Dirdir and Phung surveyed each other. The Phung swung out its arms, swept two Dirdir together, squeezing and crushing both. The remaining Dirdir, backing silently away, swung up their weapons. The Phung leaped on them, dashing the weapons aside. It tore the head from one; the other fled, with the Dirdir who had stood guard outside. They ran through the pond; the Phung danced a queer circular jig, sprang forth, leaped ahead of them, kicking water into a spray. It pushed one under the surface and stood on him, while the other ran up the valley. The Phung presently stalked in pursuit.
Reith, Traz and Anacho darted from the cave and made for the sky-car. The surviving Dirdir saw them and gave a despairing scream. The Phung was momentarily distracted; the Dirdir dodged behind a rock, then with desperate speed dashed past the Phung. He seized one of the weapons which had previously been knocked from his hand, and burned off one of the Phung’s legs. The Phung fell in a sprawling heap.
Reith, Traz and Anacho were now scrambling into the skycar; Anacho settled to the controls. The Dirdir screamed a wild admonition, and ran forward. The Phung made a prodigious hop, to alight on the Dirdir with a great flapping of the cloak. With the Dirdir at last a tangle of bones and skin, the Phung hopped to the center of the pond where it stood like a stork, ruefully considering its single leg.
CHAPTER THREE
BELOW LAY THE chasms, separated by knife-edged ridges of stone. Black gash paralleled black gash; looking down Reith wondered whether he and his party could possibly have survived to reach the Draschade. Almost certainly not. He speculated: Did the chasms tolerate life of any sort? The old man at Siadz had mentioned pysantillas and fere; who knows what other creatures inhabited the gulches far below? He now noticed, wedged in a crevice high between two peaks, a crumble of angular shapes like an efflorescence from the mother rock: a village, apparently of men, though none could be seen. Where did they find water? In the depths of the chasm? How did they provide themselves with food? Why did they choose so remote an aerie for their home? There were no answers to his questions; the aerie was left behind in the murk.
