[Jan Darzek 02] - Watchers of the Dark

by Lloyd Biggle, Jr.

  “If you say so. Will they all speak large-talk?”

  “Of course. But you would be wise to avoid the efa. They’re a clan of maf-cousins, whatever that is. They have a nasty habit of vomiting from one of their stomachs to the other.”

  Gula Azfel hurried in breathlessly and sought to regale them with cheerful comment about those charming creatures, the pwisqs. It seemed that in mating season the male swallowed the female whole, and a term or so later, when he became aware of the fact that his offspring were escaping from his mouth, he regurgitated her.

  “This would seem to impose a hardship upon the occasional female who is unfertile,” Darzek observed politely.

  Gula Azfel tittered and led them back to the reception room. The pwisqs, for all their robust peculiarities, offered a severely limited field for polite conversation, and when finally the next guests glided from the transmitter Gula Azfel met them with obvious relief.

  The newcomers greeted Darzek with an unrestrained enthusiasm that on Earth would have been reserved for long-lost brothers. When finally he succeeded in detaching himself, he said quietly to Miss Schlupe, “For some reason not properly understood by anyone, it is considered bad manners to arrive first at a party. There is also a definite limit as to how late one can arrive without being unspeakably rude. It puts the guests in a magnificent dilemma. One of the reasons I’m so popular is that I always arrive precisely on time. I remain blithely innocent of offense, and the other guests don’t have to risk the embarrassment of arriving late to avoid the embarrassment of arriving early. Watch the transmitter, and see how their faces light up when they see me.”

  “Those who have faces,” Miss Schlupe said. “What’s happened to the host?”

  “He’s not supposed to appear until all the guests have arrived.”

  The reception room was kept at low illumination for the convenience of nocturnals, and as a result the other guests soon moved away in search of a brighter atmosphere. Darzek, having started Miss Schlupe on a whirl of formal introductions, began his own rounds.

  In the shimmering aquaroom several guests were already dancing. They glided over the water with breathtaking grace and agility. Grotesquely fashioned bodies whirled in dazzling pirouettes, wove group patterns, performed magnificent, leaping solos. Darzek, who was willing to try anything once, had tried it—once. He lost his balance at the first stride, toppled into the water, and nearly drowned while trying to release himself from the gas-filled floats that enclosed his feet.

  Whereupon he salvaged something from an acutely embarrassing situation by performing an underwater ballet that quickly reduced spectators and dancers to quivering hysterics. That marvelously amusing Gul Darr! He had to invent a rare water allergy that enabled him to decline, with regret, all requests for a repeat performance.

  He skirted the pool, taking careful note of the dancers so that he could compliment them later. At the far side he joined a small group of spectators, several of them resting from dancing. They greeted him with a warmth tinged warily with apprehension; they never knew quite what to expect from the mysterious Gul Darr.

  Frequently Darzek did not know what to expect from himself, but on this occasion he was not socializing. He produced a small phial and addressed himself to a veteran trader.

  “By your leave, Gul Kaln, a minute favor. Would you sample this oil for me?”

  Gul Kaln delivered the curious circular arm motion that served as a genuflection, extended sinuous fingers, took the phial, unstopped it. An arching filament stabbed through the opening and dangled limply, tasting. “What did you wish to know?”

  Darzek prattled apologetically. He’d found two casks of the stuff in a warehouse he’d rented . . . no identifying marks, unfortunately . . . the oil had a distinctive cast to it that he didn’t recognize . . . he thought he could find a market for it if it were available in quantity . . . he’d need a continuing supply, naturally, and he wouldn’t know if one were available until he’d identified the oil.

  “Distinctive,” Gul Kaln agreed, withdrawing the filament. “There isn’t anything distinguished about it, but it does have a certain individual quality.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Darzek said. “Do you recognize it?”

  Gul Kaln inserted the filament again, tasted, withdrew it with a snap. “No. There’s something vaguely familiar about it, but I don’t quite . . . no . . .” The filament dipped a third time, dangled, agitated the fluid gently, slipped free. “No. My most humble apologies, but I cannot help you.”

  “But the apologies are mine to offer, for having troubled you,” Darzek murmured. “It is a small matter. Probably it wouldn’t have been of use to me anyway.

  Gul Kaln genuflected; Darzek genuflected, included the group with a sweep of his arm, and moved away.

  He had seen Gul Kaln perform that taste test a dozen times. Nine samples the trader had recognized; three he had not. But never did he dip the filament more than once.

  Gul Kaln was lying.

  Thoughtfully Darzek made his way through scattered groups of guests and entered the next room. Old E-Wusk sprawled in a far corner in a tangle of arms and legs, looking as pious as a cathedral and just about as immovable. Darzek had a genuine measure of affection for the old rascal. E-Wusk was the one creature he’d met on a dozen worlds whose laughter had a human quality, the ring of authentic jollity, of the sheer joy of merriment.

  “Gul Darr!” E-Wusk chortled, waving at Darzek over an admiring circle of young undertraders. “Have you been—oh, ho ho—water dancing?”

  “No,” Darzek said gravely. “For that I wait until I have sufficient thirst.”

  “Oh, ho ho!” E-Wusk’s enormous abdomen heaved and quivered.

  Darzek waited politely and then extended the phial. “By your leave, Gul E-Wusk, a minute favor. Would you sample this?”

  Darzek found Miss Schlupe seated at the entrance to the dark room, the special room maintained for nocturnal guests, deeply engrossed in conversation with a voice that emerged from its dim interior. It was a soft voice, and—a genuine rarity, this—musical.

  “Gul Darr,” Miss Schlupe said, “this is Gul Rhinzl.”

  “I have heard many complimentary things about Gul Darr,” the voice murmured.

  Darzek genuflected politely, keeping to himself the fact that the name Rhinzl held a special fascination for him. He had compiled a list of nine traders whose relationship with the Dark was, if not suspicious, at least singular, and Rhinzl was the only one on the list whom he had never met. In the depths of the dark room his appearance was shrouded in shadow, but still conveyed the impression of a truly exquisite ugliness.

  At the first opportunity Darzek produced his phial.

  “I have very little experience of oils,” Rhinzl said, “but I am honored to share my feeble knowledge with Gul Darr.”

  An arm elongated out of the dimness; a circular hand unfolded to take the phial. Rhinzl removed the stopper, sniffed delicately, tasted. “This I do not recognize. I would gladly make inquiries for you.”

  “Thank you, no. I fear that it is much too rare an oil for my purpose.”

  Rhinzl politely changed the subject and began to talk of flowers. Unlike most traders, he had a hobby. He cultivated exotic plants and blooms, especially night specimens, and he delighted in displaying his collection to such cultured and perceptive friends as Gul Darr and Gula Schlu. He began to inventory his prize specimens, and Darzek felt mildly relieved when Gula Azfel came looking for him. He had some carefully composed questions for Gul Rhinzl, but they would have to wait. They weren’t the sort of questions that could be inserted into a conversation about flowers.

  He was expecting Gula Azfel, for he had seen her quietly coaching her daughters. “I’ve been neglecting my hostess,” he said with feigned remorse. He took his leave of Rhinzl and allowed Gula Azfe
l to lead him away.

  He sensed a conflicting strategy in the Azfel family. Gula Azfel’s daughters were in full display, feathers preened and ribboned, snouts polished. Gul Azfel’s daughters were highly conspicuous by their absence, but their father had cornered Darzek earlier in the evening to suggest a joint enterprise that promised large profit for small risk.

  Female-like, Gula Azfel was overly emphasizing the feminine qualities of her daughters; her husband was subtly stressing the business connections of his. After a hard night’s work Darzek thought he’d earned a laugh, and he was more than willing to go along with either of them.

  Adroitly Gula Azfel shepherded him through the room where her daughters were waiting, tense with excitement. Darzek, spellbound with their beauty, begged to be introduced and spent the next half hour regaling the girls with compliments while Gula Azfel faded simperingly into the background.

  Finally Miss Schlupe caught his eye from the doorway, and he excused himself.

  “Can you drop the Casanova bit long enough to tell me when we eat?” she asked.

  “We don’t. No hostess would be idiotic enough to try to serve a banquet to a mixed crowd like this one. It would require almost as many different dishes as there are guests. If they’re hungry they can go to the dining room and order food with a service transmitter, but very few guests bother. Parties are for scintillating conversation and group entertainments. Eating is something anyone can do in private, so why waste valuable party time on it?”

  “I like high society less and less. Why the Romeo act with those, if you’ll pardon the expression, chickens?”

  “It’s the solemn obligation of the unmarried male guest to pay court to the daughters of the host and hostess.”

  “Oh, joy! I’ve heard of mixed marriages, but that would be hilarious. How come all four daughters look like their mother?”

  “Miss Schlupe!” Darzek said sternly. “I have been telling you to get out of the office now and then and find out what goes on in the galaxy. You are observing the inevitable result of the completely integrated interstellar society. Marriages between biologically incompatible species are bound to occur. Among the sophisticated classes they are the rule. One does not marry for such a trivial purpose as reproducing his kind. One marries for social, business, political, or economic reasons.”

  “Just like on Earth,” Miss Schlupe observed.

  “It’s nothing like on Earth, and you know it. Stop interrupting. At the same time one strives to find a marriage partner who will be an intellectual companion and helpmeet. There are a surprising number of instances where people marry because they happen to like and admire each other—once the other requirements are satisfied, naturally.

  “But there is no logical justification for forbidding a person to reproduce merely because he has married a wife from a species with which reproduction is impossible. Therefore we have two-dimensional marital arrangements. Every husband is entitled to a mate of his own species; and every wife is entitled to a mate of hers. These mates may be married to husbands and wives of other species, who will of course have mates of their own, and so it goes. In this society a household can become a rather complicated institution.”

  “It sounds scandalous to me.”

  “It is not. Scandal ensues only when a person is so unwise as to take both a marriage partner and a mate of his own species. A person stupid enough to do that is asking for trouble. Gula Azfel is a delightful hostess, and she and her husband have a successful marriage with many things in common, though not their children. With regard to marriage the society is scrupulously monogamous, but less so where mates are concerned. There are those species that have more than two sexes, and for them the arrangements become vastly more complicated. The one colony here on Yorlq keeps pretty much to itself, having perhaps all the social problems that it can cope with at home. I am reliably informed that the one-sex species have a rather easy time of it.”

  “You mean that they actually expect you—that you’d even consider—”

  “Making a nonbiological marriage? Of course. Every promising young bachelor needs a wife to run his home and furnish intellectual companionship, not to mention providing him with all kinds of important connections. I’m seriously considering it. Wouldn’t one of Gula Azfel’s daughters make a charming hostess?”

  “Ugh!”

  “Have you seen the water dancing? Come along.”

  They lingered for a time in the aquaroom and then looked in on the darkened arena, where in a central enclosure two luminous dmo plants were locked in mortal combat. The spectators cheered lustily; the glowing branches traced fantastic patterns in the darkness as they whipped about, grappled, struggled for a death hold.

  “Eventually one will pull the other up by the roots and eat it,” Darzek said. “Want to watch?”

  “No, thank you. Isn’t there an outside door anywhere? And a terrace where one can enjoy the moonlight?”

  Darzek shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder if these people know that an outdoors exists. What do you think of them?”

  “They’re scared,” she said.

  “Rhinzl?”

  She hesitated. “Maybe ‘scared’ isn’t the right word. He’s certainly uneasy.”

  “True. I wondered if you’d notice. Yorlq is poised on the brink of the Dark like a house teetering on the edge of an abyss, and its inhabitants pretend not to notice. The traders blithely carry on with their trade, and their childish fun and games. The natives go their native way and spice their mundane lives with the traditional cycle of folk festivals. When a common product is no longer available because the Dark has taken the world of its origin, the traders find a substitute without seeming to give a thought as to why a substitute is needed. It’s as if all of them have made a pact not to mention the Dark, and they won’t even think about it if they can help it. But they know it’s there, and they’re frightened.”

  “What was the angle with the oil?”

  “It’s a vegetable oil, and it comes from a world called Quarm. It was once in common use here, being readily available and cheap. Then the Dark took Quarum.”

  “Ah!”

  “There were plenty of substitutes, so the passing of Quarmer oil didn’t seriously inconvenience anyone. The point is that it was a well-known product. The native who found those two casks knew what it was. Anyone in this part of the galaxy having anything to do with oils would recognize it. The interesting thing is that no one did. I’m not sure about old E-Wusk—he deals mostly in luxury goods, which this Quarmer oil isn’t. And as far as I know, your friend Rhinzl has never dealt in oils, so perhaps he was telling the truth. But all the others knew what it was and said they didn’t. It’s very interesting. You might even call it fascinating. Normally these traders are scrupulously honest, but tonight at least seven of them deliberately lied to me.”

  Chapter 8

  Darzek entered upon his career as a trader with a single objective—instantaneous status, which would place him wholly above suspicion before he did anything that might arouse suspicion.

  There was no time to start modestly and obtain a solid grounding in his new profession. He had to begin at the top and learn from his successes, with no leeway at all for failures.

  He founded the Trans-Star Trading Company.

  Miss Schlupe objected to the title. “It’s bad enough to be running a trading company that has nothing to trade,” she said. “Let’s restrict our operations to one star until we have some operations.”

  “Think big, Schluppy,” Darzek said cheerfully. “It won’t hurt our chances if the local tycoons believe we have far-flung connections.”

  “Then you’d better get yourself some far-flung connections. They’ll have ways of checking.”

  “You have a point,” Darzek admitted.

  He made a fast circuit of a doze
n neighboring worlds and found a free-lancing factor on each who took no offense at Darzek’s offer of modest compensation for displaying a notice that said he was the local representative of the Trans-Star Trading Company. Darzek also called on peripheral factors of vast trading concerns whose headquarters were located in the remote inner reaches of the galaxy and held forth the possibility of transactions that would not be detrimental to their reputations. They were receptive.

  Darzek had his connections, but he still had nothing to trade.

  His one asset was his solvency credential. His unlimited solvency credential. Darzek was skeptical. Large-talk words had a disconcerting tendency to take on meanings not implicit in the translations he had been taught, or to mean different things in different circumstances.

  “How unlimited is unlimited?” he demanded.

  “Spend some of it and find out,” Miss Schlupe suggested.

  “I’ll spend all of it,” Darzek said. “Anything less than a colossal deal would be a waste of time.”

  He quickly found three natives who had talent for investigation—that kind of business he understood—and after several days of patient inquiry they reported to him that Gul Zarkun, a merchant who stood high in the local traders’ pecking order, had a warehouse crammed with unmarketable mosf skins.

  Darzek called on Gul Zarkun, who greeted him with polite reserve. “Trans-Star Trading Company? I don’t recall—”

  “We’re just commencing operations in this sector,” Darzek said glibly. “I understand that you have a surplus of mosf skins.”

  “I have,” Gul Zarkun admitted, with truly confounding frankness. “A large surplus. I had a good market for them, but business conditions have changed.”

  Darzek nodded wisely. Gul Zarkun’s market had been the world of Borut. He had astutely cornered the mosf supply, and then the Dark had swallowed Borut and the mosf market and left him with a surfeit of mosf skins that no one wanted.