The Dirdir

by Jack Vance

  Anacho’s face relaxed from its glare of tension. In a subdued voice, Reith said, “The sooner we leave Sivishe the better.”

  Anacho drummed his fingers on the table and gave a final decisive rap. “Very well. I will telephone Aila Woudiver and arrange an exploratory meeting.” He stepped into the inn and presently returned. “A car will arrive shortly to pick us up.”

  Reith had not been ready for so swift a response. “What did you tell him?” he asked uneasily.

  “That we wanted to consult him in regard to a business matter.”

  “Hmf.” Reith leaned back in his chair. “Too much haste is as bad as too little.”

  Anacho threw up his hands in vexation and defeat. “What reason to delay?”

  “No real one. I feel strange to Sivishe and unsure of my responses, hence worried.”

  “No worry there. With familiarity Sivishe becomes even less reassuring.”

  Reith said no more. Fifteen minutes later an antique black vehicle, which at one time had been a grand saloon, halted in front of the hotel. A middle-aged man, harsh and grim, looked forth. He jerked his head toward Anacho. “You await a car?”

  “To Woudiver?”

  “Get in.”

  The three climbed into the vehicle, seated themselves on benches. The car rolled at no great speed down the avenue, then, turning off toward the south, entered a district of slatternly apartment houses: buildings erected with neither judgment nor precision. No two doorways were a like; windows of irregular shape and size opened at random in the thick walls. Wan-faced folk stood in alcoves or peered down into the streets; all turned to watch the passage of the car. “Laborers,” said Anacho with a sniff of distaste. “Kherman, Thangs, Sad Islanders. They come from all Kislovan and lands beyond, as well.”

  The car continued across a littered plaza, into a street of small shops, all fitted with heavy metal shutters. Anacho asked the driver, “How far to Woudiver’s?”

  “Not far.” The reply was uttered with hardly a motion of the lips.

  “Where does he live? Out on the Heights?”

  “On Zamia Rise.”

  Reith considered the hooked nose, the dour cords of muscle around the colorless mouth: the face of an executioner.

  The way led up a low hill. The houses became abandoned gardens. The car halted at the end of a lane. The driver with a curt gesture signaled the three to alight, then silently led them along a shadowy passage smelling of dankness and mold, through an archway, across a courtyard, up a shallow flight of stairs into a room with walls of mustard-colored tile.

  “Wait here.” He passed through a door of black psilla bound with iron, and a moment later looked forth. He crooked his finger. “Come.”

  The three filed into a large white-walled chamber. A scarlet and maroon rug muffled the floor; for furniture there were settees padded with pink, red and yellow plush, a heavy table of carved wax-wood, a censer exuding wisps of heavy smoke. Behind the table stood an enormous yellow-skinned man in robes of red, black and ivory. His face was round as a melon; a few strands of sandy hair lay across his mottled pate. He was a man vast in every dimension and motivated, so it seemed to Reith, by a grandiose and cynical intelligence. He spoke: “I am Aila Woudiver.” His voice was under exquisite control; now it was soft and fluting. “I see a Dirdirman of the First—”

  “Superior!” Anacho corrected.

  “—a youth of a rough unknown race, a man of even more doubtful extraction. Why does such an ill-matched trio seek me out?”

  “To discuss a matter possibly of mutual interest,” said Reith.

  The lower third of Woudiver’s face trembled in a grin. “Continue.”

  Reith looked around the room, then turned back to Woudiver. “I suggest that we move to another location, out of doors, by preference.”

  Woudiver’s thin, almost-nonexistent eyebrows lofted high in surprise. “I fail to understand. Will you explain?”

  “Certainly, if we can move to another area.”

  Woudiver frowned in sudden petulance, but marched forward. The three followed him through an archway, up a ramp and out on a deck which overlooked a vast hazy distance to the west. Woudiver spoke in a voice now carefully resonant: “Does this situation seem suitable?”

  “Better,” said Reith.

  “You puzzle me,” said Woudiver, settling into a massive chair. “What noxious influence do you so dread?”

  Reith looked meaningfully across the panorama, toward the colored towers and cloud-gray Glass Box of far Hei. “You are an important man. Your activities conceivably interest certain folk to the extent that they monitor your conversations.”

  Woudiver made a jovial gesture. “Your business appears highly confidential, or even illicit.”

  “Does this alarm you?”

  Woudiver pursed his lips into a fountain of gray-pink gristle. “Let us get down to affairs.”

  “Certainly. Are you interested in gaining wealth?”

  “Poof,” said Woudiver. “I have enough for all my small needs. But anyone can use more money.”

  “In essence, the situation is this: we know where and how to obtain a considerable treasure at no risk.”

  “You are the most fortunate of men!”

  “Certain preparations are necessary. We believe that you, a man of known resource, will be able to provide assistance in return for a share of the gain. I do not, of course, refer to financial assistance.”

  “I cannot say yes or no until I am apprised of all details,” said Woudiver in the most suave of voices. “Naturally, you may speak without reserve; my reputation for discretion is a byword.”

  “First we need a clear indication of your interest. Why waste time for nothing?”

  Woudiver blinked. “I am as interested as is possible in a factual vacuum.”

  “Very well, then. Our problem is this: we must procure a small spaceship.”

  Woudiver sat motionless, his eyes boring into Reith’s face. He glanced swiftly at Traz and Anacho, then gave a short brisk laugh. “You credit me with remarkable powers! Not to say reckless audacity! How can I possibly provide a spaceship, large or small? Either you are madmen or you take me for one!”

  Reith smiled at Woudiver’s vehemence, which he diagnosed as a tactical device. “We have considered the situation carefully,” said Reith. “The project is not impossible with the help of a person such as yourself.”

  Woudiver gave his great lemon-colored head a peevish shake. “So I merely point my finger toward the Grand Spaceyards and produce a ship? Is this your belief? You would have me bounding through the Glass Cage before the day was out.”

  “Remember,” said Reith, “a large vessel is not necessary. Conceivably we could acquire an obsolete craft and put it into workable condition. Or we might obtain components from persons who could be induced to sell, and assemble them in a makeshift hull.”

  Woudiver sat pulling at his chin. “The Dirdir certainly would oppose such a project.”

  “I mentioned the need for discretion,” said Reith.

  Woudiver puffed out his cheeks. “How much wealth is involved? What is the nature of this wealth? Where is it located?”

  “These are details which at the moment can have no real interest for you,” said Reith.

  Woudiver tapped his chin with a yellow forefinger. “Let us discuss the matter as an abstraction. First, the practicalities. A large sum of money would be required: for inducements, technical help, a suitable place of assembly, and of course for the components you mention. Where would this money come from?” His voice took on a sardonic resonance. “You did not expect financing from Aila Woudiver?”

  “Financing is no problem,” said Reith. “We have ample funds.”

  “Indeed!” Woudiver was impressed. “How much, may I ask, are you prepared to spend?”

  “Oh, fifty to a hundred thousand sequins.”

  Woudiver gave his head a shake of indulgent amusement. “A hundred thousand would be barely adequate.” He turned
a glance toward Hei. “I could never concern myself in any illicit or forbidden enterprise.”

  “Naturally not.”

  “I might be able to advise you, on a friendly and informal basis, for say, a fixed fee, or perhaps a percentage of outlay, and a small share in any eventual rewards.”

  “Something of the sort might suit our needs,” said Reith. “How long, at an estimate, would such a project require?”

  “Who knows? Who can prophesy such things? A month? Two months? Information is essential, which we now lack. A knowledgeable person from the Grand Spaceyards must be consulted.”

  “Knowledgeable, competent, and trustworthy,” amended Reith.

  “That goes without saying. I know the very man, a person for whom I have done several favors. In the course of a day or two I will see him and bring up the matter.”

  “Why not now?” asked Reith. “The sooner the better.”

  Woudiver raised a hand. “Haste leads to miscalculation. Come back in two days; I may have news for you. But first the matter of finance. I cannot invest my time without a retainer. I will need a small sum-say five thousand sequins-as earnest money.”

  Reith shook his head. “I’ll show you five thousand.” He produced a card of purple sequins. “In fact here is twenty thousand. But we can’t afford to spend a sequin except on actual costs.”

  Woudiver’s face was one vast hurt. “What of my fee, then? Must I toil for joy alone?”

  “Of course not. If all goes well, you will be rewarded to your satisfaction.”

  “This must serve for the moment,” declared Woudiver in sudden heartiness. “In two days I will send Artilo for you. Discuss the matter with no one! Secrecy is absolutely essential!”

  “This we well understand. In two days then.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SIVISHE WAS A dull city, gray and subdued, as if oppressed by the proximity of Hei. The great homes of Prospect Heights and Zamia Rise were pretentious enough, but lacked style and finesse. The folk of Sivishe were no less dull: a somber, humorless race, grayskinned and tending toward overweight. At their meals they consumed great bowls of clabber, platters of boiled tuber, meat and fish seasoned with a rancid black sauce that numbed Reith’s palate, though Anacho declared that the sauce occurred in numerous variants and was in fact a cultivated taste. For organized entertainment there were daily races, run not by animals but by men. On the day after the meeting with Woudiver, the three watched one of the races. Eight men participated, wearing garments of different colors and carrying a pole topped with a fragile glass globe. The runners not only sought to outrun their opponents but also to trip them by agile side-kicks, so that they fell and broke their glass globes, and were hence disqualified. The spectators numbered twenty thousand and maintained a low guttural howl during the duration of each race. Reith noticed a number of Dirdirmen among the spectators. They bet with as much verve as anyone, but kept themselves fastidiously apart. Reith wondered that Anacho would risk recognition by some previous acquaintance, to which Anacho gave a bitter laugh.

  “Wearing these clothes I am safe. They will never see me. If I wore Dirdirmen clothes I would be recognized at once and reported to the Castigators. Already I have seen half a dozen former acquaintances. None have so much as glanced at me.”

  The three visited the Grand Sivishe Spaceyards, where they strolled around the periphery observing the activity within. The spaceships were long, spindle-shaped, with intricate fins and sponsons—totally different from the bulky Wankh vessels and the flamboyant craft of the Blue Chasch, just as these differed from the starships of Earth.

  The yards appeared to operate at less than top efficiency and far below capacity; even so, a respectable volume of work was in progress. Two cargo vessels were in the process of overhaul; a passenger ship seemed to be under construction. Elsewhere they noted three smaller ships, apparently uncommissioned warcraft, five or six space-boats in various stages of repair, a clutter of hulks on a junk heap to the rear of the shops. At the opposite end of the spaceyard three ships in commission rested on large black circles.

  “They fare occasionally to Sibol,” said Anacho. “There is no great traffic. Long ago when the Expansionists held sway Dirdir ships went out to many worlds. No longer. The Dirdir are quiescent. They would like to force the Wankh off of Tschai and slaughter the Blue Chasch, but they do not marshal their energies. It is somehow frightening. They are a terrible and active race and cannot lie quiet too long. One of these days they must explode, and go forth again.”

  “What of the Pnume?” Reith asked.

  “There is no established pattern..” Anacho pointed to the palisades behind Hei. “Through your electric telescope you might see Pnume warehouses, where they store metals for trade with the Dirdir. Pnumekin occasionally come out into Sivishe for one purpose or another. There are tunnels through all the hills and out into the country beyond. The Pnume observe every move the Dirdir make. They never come forth, however, for fear of the Dirdir, who kill them for vermin. On the other hand a Dirdir who goes hunting alone may never return. The Pnume have taken him down into their tunnels, so it is believed.”

  “It could only happen on Tschai,” said Reith. “The folk trade in mutual detestation and kill each other on sight.”

  Anacho gave a sour snort. “I see nothing remarkable in the fact. The trading conduces to mutual profit; the killing gratifies the mutual detestation. The institutions have no common ground.”

  “What of the Pnumekin? Do the Dirdir or Dirdirmen molest them?”

  “Not in Sivishe. A truce is observed. Elsewhere they too are destroyed, though rarely do they show themselves. There are, after all, relatively few Pnumekin, who must be the strangest and most remarkable folk of Tschai… We must depart before we attract the attention of the yard police.”

  “Too late,” said Traz in a dreary voice. “We are being watched at this moment.”

  “By whom?”

  “Behind us, along the way, stand two men. One wears a brown jacket and a loose black hat; the other a dark blue cloak and the head-shroud.”

  Anacho glanced along the avenue. “They are not police-at least not yard guards.”

  The three turned back to the dingy jumble of concrete which marked the center of Sivishe. Carina 4269, glowing through a high layer of haze, cast cool brown light over the landscape. Full in the light came the two men, and something in their noiseless gait sent a pang of panic through Reith. “Who can they be?” he muttered.

  “I don’t know.” Anacho turned a quick glance over his shoulder, but the men were no more than silhouettes against the light. “I don’t think they are Dirdirmen. We have been in contact with Aila Woudiver; it may be that he is watched. Woudiver’s own men conceivably. Or a criminal gang? After all, we might have been noticed coming down in the sky-car, or taking sequins to the vaults-Worse! Our descriptions from Maust may have been circulated. We are not undistinctive.”

  Reith said grimly, “We’ll have to find out, one way or another. Notice where the street passes closes to that broken building—”

  “Suitable.”

  The three strolled past a crumbling buttress of concrete, then, once out of sight, jumped to the side and waited. The two men came running past on long noiseless strides. As they passed the buttress, Reith tackled one, Anacho and Traz seized the other. With a sudden exclamation Anacho and Traz released their grip. For an instant Reith sensed a curious rancid odor, like camphor and sour milk. Then a bone-racking shudder of electricity sent him lurching back. He gave a croak of dismay. The two men fled.

  “I saw them,” said Anacho in a subdued voice. “They were Pnumekin, or perhaps Gzhindra. Did they wear boots? Pnumekin walk with bare feet.”

  Reith went to look after the pair, but in some miraculous fashion they had disappeared. “What are Gzhindra?”

  “Pnumekin outcasts.”

  The three trudged back through the dank streets of Sivishe.

  Anacho presently said, “It might have been w
orse.”

  “But why should Pnumekin follow us?”

  Traz muttered, “They have been following us since we departed Settra. And maybe before.”

  “The Pnume think strange thoughts,” said Anacho in a heavy voice. “Their actions seldom admit of sensible explanation; they are the stuff of Tschai itself.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE THREE SAT at a table outside the Ancient Realm Inn, sipping soft wine and watching the passing folk of Sivishe. Music was the key to a people’s genius, thought Reith. This morning, passing a tavern, he had listened to the music of Sivishe. The orchestra consisted of four instruments. The first was a bronze box studded with vellum-wrapped cones which when rubbed produced a sound like a cornet played at the lowest possible range. The second, a vertical wooden tube a foot in diameter, with twelve strings across twelve slots, emitted resonant twanging arpeggios. The third, a battery of forty-two drums, contributed a complex muffled rhythm. The fourth, a wooden slidehorn, bleated, honked and produced wonderful squealing glissandos as well.

  The music performed by the ensemble seemed to Reith peculiarly simple and limited: a repetition of simple melody, played with only the smallest variation. A few folk danced: men and women, face to face, hands at sides, hopping carefully from one leg to the other. Dull! thought Reith. Yet, at the end of the tune the couples separated with expressions of triumph, and recommenced their exertions as soon as the music started again. As minutes passed, Reith began to sense complexities, almost imperceptible variations. Like the rancid black sauce which drowned the food, the music required an intensive effort even to ingest; appreciation and pleasure must remain forever beyond the reach of a stranger. Perhaps, thought Reith, these almost-unheard quavers and hesitations were the elements of virtuosity; perhaps the folk of Sivishe enjoyed hints and suggestions, fugitive lusters, almost unnoticeable inflections: their reaction to the Dirdir city so close at hand.