The Best of Jack Vance (1976) SSC

by Jack Vance

  Jean shrugged. “If you’re happy, that’s all that matters.” She looked at herself in the mirror with satisfaction. Even if fat Mrs. Blaiskell thought otherwise, the black rompers looked well on her, now that she’d fitted them snug to her hips and waist. Her legs—slender, round and shining ivory—were good, this she knew. Even if weird Mr. Webbard and odd Mrs. Blaiskell thought otherwise. Wait till she tried them on young Earl. He preferred gravity girls; Fotheringay had told her so. And yet—Webbard and Mrs. Blaiskell had hinted otherwise. Maybe he liked both kinds…? Jean smiled, a little tremulously. If Earl liked both kinds, then he would like almost anything that was warm, moved and breathed. And that certainly included herself.

  If she asked Mrs. Blaiskell outright, she’d be startled and shocked. Good proper Mrs. Blaiskell. A motherly soul, not like the matrons in the various asylums and waifs’ homes of her experience. Strapping big women those had been—practical and quick with their hands…But Mrs. Blaiskell was nice; she would never have deserted her child on a pool table. Mrs. Blaiskell would have struggled and starved herself to keep her child and raise her nicely…Jean idly speculated how it would seem with Mrs. Blaiskell for a mother. And Mr. Mycroft for a father. It gave her a queer prickly feeling, and also somehow called up from deep inside a dark dull resentment tinged with anger.

  Jean moved uneasily, fretfully. Never mind the nonsense! You’re playing a lone hand. What would you want with relatives? What an ungodly nuisance! She would never have been allowed this adventure up to Abercrombie Station…On the other hand, with relatives there would be many fewer problems on how to spend two million dollars.

  Jean sighed. Her own mother wasn’t kind and comfortable like Mrs. Blaiskell. She couldn’t have been, and the whole matter became an academic question. Forget it, put it clean out of your mind.

  Mrs. Blaiskell brought forward service shoes, worn to some extent by everyone at the Station: slippers with magnetic coils in the soles. Wires led to a power bank at the belt. By adjusting a rheostat, any degree of magnetism could be achieved.

  “When a person works, she needs a footing,” Mrs. Blaiskell explained. “Of course there’s not much to do, once you get on to it. Cleaning is easy, with our good filters; still, there’s sometimes a stir of dust and always a little film of oil that settles from the air.”

  Jean straightened up. “Okay, Mrs. B., I’m ready. Where do we start?”

  Mrs. Blaiskell raised her eyebrows at the familiarity, but was not seriously displeased. In the main, the girl seemed to be respectful, willing and intelligent. And—significantly—not the sort to create a disturbance with Mr. Earl.

  Twitching a toe against a wall, she propelled herself down the corridor, halted by a white door, slid back the panel.

  They entered the room as if from the ceiling. Jean felt an instant of vertigo, pushing herself headfirst at what appeared to be a floor.

  Mrs. Blaiskell deftly seized a chair, swung her body around, put her feet to the nominal floor. Jean joined her. They stood in a large round room, apparently a section across the building. Windows opened on space, stars shone in from all sides; the entire zodiac was visible with a sweep of the eyes.

  Sunlight came up from below, shining on the ceiling, and off to one quarter hung the half-moon, hard and sharp as a new coin. The room was rather too opulent for Jean’s taste. She was conscious of an overwhelming surfeit of mustard-saffron carpet, white paneling with gold arabesques, a round table clamped to the floor, surrounded by chairs footed with magnetic casters. A crystal chandelier thrust rigidly down; rotund cherubs peered at intervals from the angle between wall and ceiling.

  “The Pleasaunce,” said Mrs. Blaiskell. “You’ll clean in here every morning first thing.” She described Jean’s duties in detail.

  “Next we go to—” She nudged Jean. “Here’s old Mrs. Clara, Earl’s mother. Bow your head, just as I do.”

  A woman dressed in rose-purple floated into the room. She wore an expression of absentminded arrogance, as if in all the universe there were no doubt, uncertainty or equivocation. She was almost perfectly globular, as wide as she was tall. Her hair was silver-white, her face a bubble of smooth flesh, daubed apparently at random with rouge. She wore stones spread six inches down over her bulging bosom and shoulders.

  Mrs. Blaiskell bowed her head unctuously. “Mrs. Clara, dear, allow me to introduce the new parlor maid; she’s new up from Earth and very handy.”

  Mrs. Clara Abercrombie darted Jean a quick look. “Emaciated creature.”

  “Oh, she’ll healthen up,” cooed Mrs. Blaiskell. “Plenty of good food and hard work will do wonders for her; after all, she’s only a child.”

  “Mmmph. Hardly. It’s blood, Blaiskell, and well you know it.”

  “Well, yes of course, Mrs. Clara.”

  Mrs. Clara continued in a brassy voice, darting glances around the room. “Either it’s good blood you have or vinegar. This girl here, she’ll never be really comfortable, I can see it. It’s not in her blood.”

  “No, ma’am, you’re correct in what you say.”

  “It’s not in Earl’s blood either. He’s the one I’m worried for. Hugo was the rich one, but his brother Lionel after him, poor dear Lionel, and—”

  “What about Lionel?” said a husky voice. Jean twisted. This was Earl. “Who’s heard from Lionel?”

  “No one, my dear. He’s gone, he’ll never be back. I was but commenting that neither one of you ever reached your growth, showing all bone as you do.”

  Earl scowled past his mother, past Mrs. Blaiskell, and his gaze fell on Jean. “What’s this? Another servant? We don’t need her. Send her away. Always ideas for more expense.”

  “She’s for your rooms, Earl, my dear,” said his mother.

  “Where’s Jessy? What was wrong with Jessy?”

  Mrs. Clara and Mrs. Blaiskell exchanged indulgent glances. Jean turned Earl a slow arch look. He blinked, then frowned. Jean dropped her eyes, traced a pattern on the rug with her toe, an operation which she knew sent interesting movements along her leg. Earning the two million dollars wouldn’t be as irksome as she had feared. Because Earl was not at all fat. He was stocky, solid, with bull shoulders and a bull neck. He had a close crop of tight blond curls, a florid complexion, a big waxy nose, a ponderous jaw. His mouth was good, drooping sullenly at the moment.

  He was something less than attractive, thought Jean. On Earth she would have ignored him, or if he persisted, stung him to fury with a series of insults. But she had been expecting far worse: a bulbous creature like Webbard, a human balloon…Of course there was no real reason for Earl to be fat; the children of fat people were as likely as not to be of normal size.

  Mrs. Clara was instructing Mrs. Blaiskell for the day, Mrs, Blaiskell nodding precisely on each sixth word and ticking off points on her stubby little fingers.

  Mrs. Clara finished, Mrs. Blaiskell nodded to Jean. “Come, miss, there’s work to be done.”

  Earl called after them, “Mind now, no one in my study!”

  Jean asked curiously, “Why doesn’t he want anyone in his study?”

  “That’s where he keeps all his collections. He won’t have a thing disturbed. Very strange sometimes, Mr. Earl. You’ll just have to make allowances, and be on your good behavior. In some ways he’s harder to serve than Mrs. Clara.”

  “Earl was born here?”

  Mrs. Blaiskell nodded. “He’s never been down to Earth. Says it’s a place of crazy people, and the Lord knows, he’s more than half right.”

  “Who are Hugo and Lionel?”

  “They’re the two oldest. Hugo is dead, Lord rest him, and Lionel is off on his travels. Then under Earl there’s Harper and Dauphin and Millicent and Clarice. That’s all Mrs. Clara’s children, all very proud and portly. Earl is the skinny lad of the lot, and very lucky too, because when Hugo died, Lionel was off gadding and so Earl inherited…Now here’s his suite, and what a mess.”

  As they worked Mrs. Blaiskell commented on various aspects o
f the room. “That bed now! Earl wasn’t satisfied with sleeping under a saddleband like the rest of us, no! He wears pajamas of magnetized cloth, and that weights him against the cushion almost as if he lived on Earth…And this reading and studying, my word, there’s nothing the lad won’t think of! And his telescope! He’ll sit in the cupola and focus on Earth by the hour.”

  “Maybe he’d like to visit Earth?”

  Mrs. Blaiskell nodded. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you were close on it there. The place has a horrid fascination for him. But he can’t leave Abercrombie, you know.”

  “That’s strange. Why not?”

  Mrs. Blaiskell darted her wise look. “Because then he forfeits his inheritance; that’s in the original charter, that the owner must remain on the premises.” She pointed to a gray door. “That there’s his study. And now I’m going to give you a peep in, so you won’t be tormented by curiosity and perhaps make trouble for yourself when I’m not around to keep an eye open…Now don’t be excited by what you see; there’s nothing to hurt you.”

  With the air of a priestess unveiling mystery, Mrs. Blaiskell fumbled a moment with the door-slide, manipulating it in a manner which Jean was not able to observe.

  The door swung aside. Mrs. Blaiskell smirked as Jean jumped back in alarm.

  “Now, now, now, don’t be alarmed; I told you there was nothing to harm you. That’s one of Master Earl’s zoological specimens, and rare trouble and expense he’s gone to—”

  Jean sighed deeply, and gave closer inspection to the horned black creature which stood on two legs just inside the door, poised and leaning as if ready to embrace the intruder in leathery black arms.

  “That’s the most scary part,” said Mrs. Blaiskell in quiet satisfaction. “He’s got his insects and bugs there”—she pointed—“his gems there, his old music disks there, his stamps there, his books along that cabinet. Nasty things, I’m ashamed of him. Don’t let me know of your peeking in them nasty books that Mr. Earl gloats over.”

  “No, Mrs. Blaiskell,” said Jean meekly. “I’m not interested in that kind of thing. If it’s what I think it is.”

  Mrs. Blaiskell nodded emphatically. “It’s what you think it is and worse.” She did not expand on the background of her familiarity with the library, and Jean thought it inappropriate to inquire.

  Earl stood behind them. “Well?” he asked in a heavy sarcastic voice. “Getting an eyeful?” He kicked himself across the room, slammed shut the door.

  Mrs. Blaiskell said in a conciliatory voice, “Now, Mr. Earl, I was just showing the new girl what to avoid, what not to look at, and I didn’t want her swounding of heart stoppage if innocent-like she happened to peek inside.”

  Earl grunted. “If she peeps inside while I’m there, she’ll be ‘swounding’ from something more than heart stoppage.”

  “I’m a good cook too,” said Jean. She turned away. “Come, Mrs. Blaiskell, let’s leave until Mr. Earl has recovered his temper. I won’t have him hurting your feelings.”

  Mrs. Blaiskell stammered, “Now, then! Surely there’s no harm…” She stopped. Earl had gone into his study and slammed the door.

  Mrs. Blaiskell’s eyes glistened with thick tears. “Ah, my dear, I do so dislike harsh words…”

  They worked in silence and finished the bedroom. At the door Mrs. Blaiskell said confidentially into Jean’s ears, “Why do you think Earl is so gruff and grumpy?”

  “I’ve no idea,” breathed Jean. “None whatever.”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Blaiskell warily, “it all boils down to this: his appearance. He’s so self-conscious of his thinness that he’s all eaten up inside. He can’t bear to have anyone see him; he thinks they’re sneering. I’ve heard him tell Mrs. Clara so. Of course they’re not; they’re just sorry. He eats like a horse, he takes gland-pellets, but still he’s that spindly and all hard tense muscle.” She inspected Jean thoroughly. “I think we’ll put you on the same kind of regimen, and see if we can’t make a prettier woman out of you.” Then she shook her head doubtfully, clicked her tongue. “It might not be in your blood, as Mrs. Clara says. I hardly can see that it’s in your blood…”

  V

  There were tiny red ribbons on Jean’s slippers, a red ribbon in her hair, a coquettish black beauty spot on her cheek. She had altered her rompers so that they clung unobtrusively to her waist and hips.

  Before she left the room she examined herself in the mirror. Maybe it’s me that’s out of step! How would I look with a couple hundred more pounds of grade? No. I suppose not. I’m the gamin type. I’ll look like a wolverine when I’m sixty, but for the next forty years—watch out.

  She took herself along the corridor, past the Pleasaunce, the music rooms, the formal parlor, the refectory, up into the bedrooms. She stopped by Earl’s door, flung it open, entered, pushing the electrostatic duster ahead of her.

  The room was dark; the transpar walls were opaque under the action of the scrambling field.

  Jean found the dial, turned up the light.

  Earl was awake. He lay on his side, his yellow magnetic pajamas pressing him into the mattress. A pale blue quilt was pulled up to his shoulders, his arm lay across his face. Under the shadow of his arm his eye smoldered out at Jean.

  He lay motionless, too outraged to move.

  Jean put her hands on her hips, said in her clear young voice, “Get up, you sluggard! You’ll get as fat as the rest of them lounging around till all hours…”

  The silence was choked and ominous. Jean bent to peer under Earl’s arm. “Are you alive?”

  Without moving Earl said in a harsh low voice, “Exactly what do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m about my regular duties. I’ve finished the Pleasaunce. Next comes your room.”

  His eyes went to a clock. “At seven o’clock in the morning?”

  “Why not? The sooner I get done, the sooner I can get to my own business.”

  “Your own business be damned. Get out of here, before you get hurt.”

  “No, sir. I’m a self-determined individual. Once my work is done, there’s nothing more important than self-expression.”

  “Get out!”

  “I’m an artist, a painter. Or maybe I’ll be a poet this year. Or a dancer. I’d make a wonderful ballerina. Watch.” She essayed a pirouette, but the impulse took her up to the ceiling—not ungracefully, this she made sure.

  She pushed herself back. “If I had magnetic slippers I could twirl an hour and a half. Grand jetés are easy…”

  He raised himself on his elbow, blinking and glaring, as if on the verge of launching himself at her.

  “You’re either crazy—or so utterly impertinent as to amount to the same thing.”

  “Not at all,” said Jean. “I’m very courteous. There might be a difference of opinion, but still it doesn’t make you automatically right.”

  He slumped back on the bed. “Argue with old Webbard,” he said thickly. “Now—for the last time—get out!”

  “I’ll go,” said Jean, “but you’ll be sorry.”

  “Sorry?” His voice had risen nearly an octave. “Why should I be sorry?”

  “Suppose I took offense at your rudeness and told Mr. Webbard I wanted to quit?”

  Earl said through tight lips, “I’m going to talk to Mr. Webbard today and maybe you’ll be asked to quit…Miraculous!” he told himself bitterly. “Scarecrow maids breaking in at sunup…”

  Jean stared in surprise. “Scarecrow! Me? On Earth I’m considered a very pretty girl. I can get away with things like this, disturbing people, because I’m pretty.”

  “This is Abercrombie Station,” said Earl in a dry voice. “Thank God!”

  “You’re rather handsome yourself,” said Jean tentatively.

  Earl sat up, his face tinged with angry blood. “Get out of here!” he shouted. “You’re discharged!”

  “Pish,” said Jean. “You wouldn’t dare fire me.”

  “I wouldn’t dare?” asked Earl in a dangerous voice
. “Why wouldn’t I dare?”

  “Because I’m smarter than you are.”

  Earl made a husky sound in his throat. “And just what makes you think so?”

  Jean laughed. “You’d be very nice, Earl, if you weren’t so touchy.”

  “All right, we’ll take that up first. Why am I so touchy?”

  Jean shrugged. “I said you were nice-looking and you blew a skull-fuse.” She waved away an imaginary fluff from the back of her hand. “I call that touchiness.”