by Jack Vance
He did not go unnoticed. Pallid faces peered down in wonder. Reith paid them no heed. He no longer shared their world; he was game. He pulled the rope down and ran off toward South Hill, coiling the rope as he ran through forests of bristle, over limestone juts and coffee-colored chert.
He neared the first slopes of South Hill, sighting neither hunters nor game. The hunters would now be taking such positions as tactics dictated; the game would be lurking at the base of South Hill, wondering how best to reach the sanctuary of North Hill. Reith suddenly came upon a young Gray, crouched in the shadow of a white bamboo-like growth. He wore sandals and a breech-clout; he carried a club and a cactus-prong dagger. Reith asked him, “Where is the Dirdirman, the one just put out on the field?”
The Gray gave his head an indifferent jerk. “There might be one such around the hill. Leave me; you create a flurry of darkness with your cloak. Drop it off; your skin is the best camouflage. Don’t you know the Dirdir observe your every move?”
Reith ran on. He saw two elderly men, stark naked, with stringy muscles and white hair, standing poised like specters. Reith called out, “Have you seen the Dirdirman anywhere near?”
“Up beyond, or so it may be. Take yourself off, with your dark cloak.”
Reith scrambled up a jut of sandstone. He called out: “Anacho.”
No response. Reith looked at his watch. In ten minutes the field would go dark. He searched the side of South Hill. A little distance away he glimpsed movement: persons running off through the thicket. His cloak seemed to arouse antagonism; he removed it, threw it over his arm.
In a hollow Reith found four men and a woman. They showed him the faces of hunted animals, and would not reply to his question. Reith labored up the hill, to gain a better view. “Anacho!” he called. A figure in a white smock swung around. Reith felt engulfed in relief; his knees felt weak; tears came to his eyes. “Anacho!”
“What do you do here!”
“Hurry. This way. We’re about to escape.”
Anacho looked at him in stupefaction. “No one escapes the Glass Box.”
“Come along! You’ll see!”
“Not that way,” cried Anacho hoarsely. “Safety lies to the north, on North Hill! When the darkness comes the hunt starts!”
“I know, I know! We don’t have much time. Come this way. We must take cover somewhere over yonder; we must be ready.”
Anacho threw his hands in the air. “You must know something I don’t know.”
They ran back the way Reith had come, to the western face of South Hill. As they ran Reith gasped out the details of the plan.
Anacho asked in a hollow voice, “You did all this… for me? You came down here on the field?”
“No matter about that. Now—we want to be close to that tall clump of white bristles. Where shall we take cover?”
“Within the clump-as good as any. Notice the hunters! They take their positions. They must keep off half a mile until the darkness comes. We are just barely within the sanctuary. Those four are marking us!”
“Darkness will be coining in seconds. Our plan is this: we run due west, toward that mound. From there we work to that bank of brown cactus and around the southern edge. Most important: we must not become separated!”
Anacho made a plaintive gesture. “How can we avoid it? We can’t call out; the hunters will hear us.”
Reith gave him an end of the rope. “Hold to that. And if we are separated we meet on the west edge of that yellow clump.”
They waited for darkness. Out on the field the young Dirdir took up their positions, with here and there more experienced hunters. Reith looked to the east. By some trick of light and atmosphere the fields seemed to be open and to extend to far horizons; only by dint of concentration could Reith make out the east wall.
Darkness came. The lights dulled to red, flickered out. Far to the north glowed a single purple light, to indicate direction. It cast no illumination. Darkness was complete. The hunt had begun. From the north came Dirdir hunting calls: chilling hoots and ululations.
Reith and Anacho moved west. From time to time they halted to listen through the dark. To their right came a sinister jingling. They stood stock-still. The jingling and a pad-pad-pad faded off to the rear.
They arrived at their landmark hummock, and continued toward the clump of cactus. Something was near. They halted to listen. It seemed to their straining ears, or nerves, that something else paused as well.
From high, high above came a many-voiced cry, ranging up and down the sonic range, then another and another. “The huntcalls of all the septs,” Anacho whispered. “A traditional ritual. Now from the field, all the sept-members present must give voice.” The calls from above halted; from all parts of the hunting field, eerie out of the dark, came the responses. Anacho nudged Reith. “While the responses sound, we are free to move. Come.”
They set out with long strides, their feet sensitive as eyes. The hunt-slogans dwindled away into the distance; again there was silence. Reith struck a loose rock with his feet, to cause a distressing rattle. They froze, teeth gritted.
There was no reaction. On they walked, on and on, feeling out with their feet for the cactus clump, but encountering only air and harsh soil. Reith began to fear that they had passed it by, that the lights would go on to expose them to all the hunters, all the spectators.
Seven minutes of darkness had elapsed, or so he estimated. In another minute, at the latest, they should find the outskirts of the clump… A sound! Running feet, apparently human, passed not thirty feet distant. A moment later a jogging thud, shrill whispers, a jingle of hunting gear. The sounds passed, dwindled. Silence returned.
Seconds later they came to the cactus. “Around to the southern side,” Reith whispered. “Then on hands and knees into the center.”
The two pushed through the coarse stalks, meeting sharp side-prongs.
“Light! Here it comes!”
The dark began to dissipate in the style of a Sibol sunrise: up through gray, pallid white, into the full glare of day.
Reith and Anacho looked about them. The cactus provided fair concealment; they seemed in no imminent peril, though not a hundred yards distant three Dirdir scions bounded across the field, heads high, searching in all directions for fleeing game. Reith consulted his watch. Fifteen minutes remained—if Traz had suffered no mishap, if he had been able to reach the opposite wall of the Glass Box.
The forest of white bristle lay a quarter of a mile ahead, across somewhat open ground. It might, thought Reith, be the longest quarter-mile he had ever traversed.
The two wormed through the cactus to the northern verge. “The hunters keep to middle ground for an hour or so,” said Anacho. “They restrain quick penetration to the north, then they work to the south.”
Reith handed Anacho a power-gun, tucked his own into his waistband. He raised to his knees. A mile distant he glimpsed movement, Dirdir or game he could not be sure. Anacho suddenly pulled him down into concealment. From behind the cactus bush trotted a group of Immaculates, hands sheathed in artificial talons, simulated effulgences trailing over their shining white pates. Reith’s stomach twisted; he stifled the impulse to confront the creatures, to shoot them.
The Dirdirmen loped past, and it seemed that they missed seeing the fugitives only through the sheerest chance. They angled away to the east, and, sighting game, bounded off at full speed.
Reith checked his watch; time was growing short. Rising to his knees, he looked in all directions. “Let’s go.”
They jumped erect, ran off for the white forest.
They paused halfway, crouched behind a little thicket. By South Hill a hot hunt was in progress; two bands of hunters converged on game which had taken cover on South Hill itself. Reith checked his watch. Nine minutes. The white forest was only a minute or two away. The lone spire which he had established as a landmark could now be seen, a few hundred yards west of the forest. They set forth again. Four hunters stepped from the forest, w
here they had stationed themselves to spy out the game. Reith’s heart sank into his boots. “Keep going,” he said to Anacho. “We’ll fight them.”
Anacho looked dubiously at the power-gun. “If they take us with guns, they’ll toss us for days… but I was to be tossed in any event.”
The Dirdir watched in fascination as Reith and Anacho approached. “We must take them into the forest,” muttered Anacho. “The judges will intervene if they see our guns.”
“Around to the left then, and behind that clump of yellow grass.”
The Dirdir did not advance to meet them, but moved to the side. With a final burst Reith and Anacho gained the edge of the forest. The Dirdir screamed their hunt slogans and sprang forward, while Reith and Anacho retreated.
“Now,” said Reith. They brought forth their guns. The Dirdir gave a croak of dismay. Four quick shots: four dead Dirdir. Instantly from high above came a great howl: a mind-jarring ululation. Anacho shouted out in sheer frustration, “The judges saw. They’ll watch us now, and direct the hunt. We are lost.”
“We have a chance,” Reith insisted. He wiped the sweat from his face, squinting against the glare. “In three minutes—if all goes well—the explosion. Let’s go on to the long spire.”
They ran through the forest, and as they emerged they saw hunt-teams loping in their direction. The howling overhead rose and fell, then stopped.
They reached the single spire, with the glass wall only a hundred yards distant. Above, obscured by glare and reflections, ran the observation decks; Reith was barely able to make out the gaping spectators.
He checked his watch.
Now.
An interval, to be expected: the Box was three miles across. Seconds passed, then came a great puff of shock and a thunderous reverberation. Lights flickered; far to the east they were extinguished. Reith peered but could not see the effect of the blast. From overhead, up and down the length of the field, came a frantic baying, expressing rage so savage and stupendous that Reith’s knees became weak.
Anacho was more matter-of-fact. “They direct all hunts east to the rupture, to prevent the escape of game.”
The hunts which had been converging upon Reith and Anacho turned and raced off to the east.
“Get ready,” said Reith. He looked at his watch. “To the ground.”
A second explosion: a tremendous shatter to gladden Reith’s heart, to lift him into a state of near religious exaltation. Shards and chunks of gray glass whistled overhead; the lights dimmed, went dark. Before them appeared a gap, like an opening into a new dimension, a hundred feet wide, almost as high as the first observation deck.
Reith and Anacho jumped to their feet. Without difficulty they reached the wall and sprang through-away from the arid Sibol, out into the dim Tschai afternoon.
Down the broad white avenue they ran, then at Anacho’s direction turned off to the north, toward the factories and the white Dirdirman spires, then to the waterfront, and across the causeway into Sivishe.
They halted to catch their breath. “Best that you go direct to the sky-car,” said Reith. “Take it and leave. You won’t be safe in Sivishe.”
“Woudiver issued the information against me; he’ll do the same for you,” said Anacho.
“I can’t leave Sivishe now, with the spaceship so near to completion. Woudiver and I must have an understanding.”
“Never,” said Anacho bleakly. “He is a great wad of malice.”
“He can’t betray the spaceship without endangering himself,” argued Reith. “He is our accomplice; we work in his shed.”
“He’d explain it away somehow.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. In any event, you must leave Sivishe. We’ll share the money—then you must go. The sky-car is no more use to me.”
Anacho’s white face became mulish. “Not so fast, I am not the goal of a tsau’gsh, remember this. Who will take the initiative to seek me out?”
Reith looked back toward the Glass Cage. “You don’t think they’ll seek you in Sivishe?”
“They are unpredictable. But I’m as safe in Sivishe as anywhere else. I can’t go back to the Ancient Realm. They won’t seek me at the shed unless Woudiver betrays the project.”
“Woudiver must be controlled,” said Reith.
Anacho only grunted. They set off once more, through the mean alleys of Sivishe.
The sun passed behind the spires of Hei and dimness seeped into the already shadowed streets. Reith and Anacho rode by public powerwagon to the shed. Woudiver’s office was dark; within the shed dim lights glimmered. The mechanics had gone home; there seemed to be no one on the premises… In the shadows a figure moved. “Traz!” cried Reith.
The lad came forward. “I knew that you would come here, if you won free.”
Neither the nomads nor the Dirdirmen were given to demonstration; Anacho and Traz merely took note of each other.
“Best that we leave this place,” said Traz. “And quickly.”
“I said to Anacho, I say to you: take the sky-car and go. There is no reason for you to risk another day in Sivishe.”
“And what about you?”
“I must take my chances here.”
“The chances are very small, what with Woudiver and his vindictiveness.”
“I will control Woudiver.”
“An impossibility!” Anacho cried out. “Who can control such perversity, so much monstrous passion? He is beyond reason.”
Reith nodded somberly. “There is only one certain way, and it may be difficult.”
“How do you intend this miracle?” Anacho demanded.
“I intend simply to take him at gunpoint, and bring him here. If he will not come, I will kill him. If he comes, he will be my captive, under constant guard. I can think of nothing better.”
Anacho grunted. “I would not object to guarding Big Yellow.”
“The time to act is now,” said Traz. “Before he knows of the escape.”
“For you two, no!” Reith declared. “If I get killed… too bad but unavoidable. It is a risk I have to take. Not so for you. Take the skycar and money, leave now while you are able!”
“I remain,” said Traz.
“And I as well,” said Anacho.
Reith made a gesture of defeat. “Let’s go after Woudiver.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE THREE STOOD in the dark court outside Woudiver’s apartments, judging how best to open the postern. “We don’t dare force the lock,” muttered Anacho. “Woudiver undoubtedly guards himself with alarms and death-traps.”
“We’ll have to go over the top,” said Reith. “It shouldn’t be too hard to reach the roof.” He studied the wall, the cracked tile, a twisted old psilla. “Nothing to it.” He pointed. “Up there, across to there—then there and over.”
Anacho shook his head gloomily. “I’m surprised to find you still so innocent. Why do you think the route appears so simple! Because Woudiver is convinced no one can climb? You’d find strings, traps and jangle-buttons every place you put your hand.”
Reith chewed his lip in mortification. “Well, then, how do you propose we get in?”
“Not through here,” said Anacho. “We must defeat Woudiver’s craft with cleverness of our own.”
Traz made a sudden motion, and drew the other two back into the deep shadows of an area-way.
Along the alley came a shuffle of footsteps. A tall thin shape limped past them and went to stand by the postern. Traz whispered: “Deine Zarre! He’s in a bitter state.”
Deine Zarre stood motionless; he brought forth a tool and worked on the lock. The postern swung open; he walked through, his pace inexorable as doom. Reith sprang forward and held the gate ajar. Deine Zarre limped on unseeing. Traz and Anacho passed through the postern; Reith let the gate rest against the lock. They now stood in a paved loggia, with a dimly lit passage leading to the main bulk of the house. “For the moment,” said Reith, “you two wait here; let me confront Woudiver alone.”
“
You’ll be in great danger,” said Anacho. “It’s obvious that you came for no good!”
“Not necessarily!” said Reith. “He will be suspicious, certainly. But he can’t know that I’ve seen you. If he sees the three of us he’ll be on his guard. Alone, I have a better chance of outwitting him.”
“Very well,” said Anacho. “We’ll wait here, for a certain period, at any rate. Then we’ll come in after you.”
“Give me fifteen minutes.” Reith set off down the passage, which opened into a courtyard. Across, in front of a brassbound door, stood Deine Zarre, plying his tool. Light suddenly flooded the courtyard. Deine Zarre had apparently tripped an alarm.
Into the courtyard stepped Artilo. “Zarre,” he said.
Deine Zarre turned about.
“What do you do here?” Artilo asked in a gentle voice.
“It is no concern of yours,” said Deine Zarre tonelessly. “Leave me be.”
With an uncharacteristic flourish, Artilo brought forth a power-gun. “I have been so ordered. Prepare to die.”
Reith stepped quickly forward, but the motion of Deine Zarre’s eyes gave warning to Artilo; he started to look about. With two long strides, Reith was on him. He struck a terrible blow at the base of Artilo’s skull, and Artilo collapsed dead. Reith took up the power-gun, rolled Artilo to the side. Deine Zarre was already turning away, as if the circumstances held no interest.
Reith said, “Wait!”
Deine Zarre turned around once more. Reith came forward. Deine Zarre’s gray eyes were astonishingly clear. Reith asked, “Why are you here?”
“To kill Woudiver. He has savaged my children.” Deine Zarre’s voice was calm and expository. “They are dead, both dead, and gone from this sad world Tschai.”
Reith’s voice sounded muffled and distant to his own ears.
“Woudiver must be destroyed… but not until the ship is complete.”
