by Jack Vance
“He’s safe, isn’t he?” Raymond asked Birch.
“Oh, entirely.”
The chief was confined in a pleasant room exactly ten feet on a side. He had a white bed, white sheets, gray coverlet. The ceiling was restful green, the floor was quiet gray.
“My!” said Mary brightly, “you’ve been busy!”
“Yes,” said Doctor Birch between clenched teeth. “He’s been busy.”
The bedclothes were shredded, the bed lay on its side in the middle of the room, the walls were befouled. The chief sat on the doubled mattress.
Director Birch said sternly, “Why do you make this mess? It’s really not clever, you know!”
“You keep me here,” spat the chief. “1 fix the way I like it. In your house you fix the way you like.” He looked at Raymond and Mary. “How much longer?”
“In just a little while,” said Mary. “We’re trying to help you.”
“Crazy talk, everybody crazy.” The chief was losing his good accent; his words rasped with fricatives and glottals. “Why you bring me here?”
“It’ll be just for a day or two,” said Mary soothingly, “then you get salt—lots of it.”
“Day—that’s while the sun is up.”
“No,” said Brother Raymond. “See this thing?” He pointed to the clock in the wall. “When this hand goes around twice—that’s a day.”
The chief smiled cynically.
“We guide our lives by this,” said Raymond. “It helps us.”
“Just like the big Clock on Salvation Bluff,” said Mary.
“Big devil,” the chief said earnestly. “You good people; you all crazy. Come to Fleetville. I help you; lots of good goat. We throw rocks down at Big Devil.”
“No,” said Mary quietly, “that would never do. Now you try your best to do what the doctor says. This mess for instance—it’s very bad.”
The chief took his head in his hands. “You let me go. You keep salt; I go home.”
“Come,” said Director Birch kindly. “We won’t hurt you.” He looked at the clock. “It’s time for your first therapy.”
Two orderlies were required to conduct the chief to the laboratory. He was placed in a padded chair, and his arms and legs were constricted so that he might not harm himself. He set up a terribly, hoarse cry. “The Devil, the Big Devil—it comes down to look at my life....”
Director Birch said to the orderly, “Cover over the wall clock; it disturbs the patient.”
“Just lie still,” said Mary. “We’re trying to help you—you and your whole tribe.”
The orderly administered a shot of D-beta hypnidine. The chief relaxed, his eyes open, vacant, his skinny chest heaving.
Director Birch said in a low tone to Mary and Raymond, “He’s not entirely suggestible—so be very quiet; don’t make a sound.”
Mary and Raymond eased themselves into chairs at the side of the room.
“Hello, Chief,” said Director Birch.
“Hello.”
“Are you comfortable?”
“Too much shine—too much white.”
The orderly dimmed the lights.
“Better?”
“That’s better.”
“Do you have any troubles?”
“Goats hurt their feet, stay up in the hills. Crazy people down the valley; they won’t go away.”
“How do you mean ‘crazy?’”
The chief was silent. Director Birch said in a whisper to Mary and Raymond, “By analyzing his concept of sanity we get a clue to his own derangement..”
The chief lay quiet. Director Birch said in his soothing voice, “Suppose you tell us about your own life.”
The chief spoke readily. “Ah, that’s good. I’m chief. I understand all talks; nobody else knows about things.”
“A good life, eh?”
“Sure, everything good.” He spoke on, in disjointed phrases, in words sometimes unintelligible, but the picture of his life came clear. “Everything go easy—no bother, no trouble—everything good. When it rain, fire feels good. When sun shines hot, then wind blow, feels good. Lots of goats, everybody eat.”
“Don’t you have troubles, worries?”
“Sure. Crazy people live in valley. They make town: New Town. No good. Straight—straight—straight. No good. Crazy. That’s bad. We get lots of salt, but we leave New Town, run up hill to old place.”
“You don’t like the people in the valley?”
“They good people, they all crazy. Big Devil brings them to valley. Big Devil watch all time. Pretty soon all go tick-tick-tick—like Big Devil.”
Director Birch turned to Raymond and Mary, his face in a puzzled frown. “This isn’t going so good. He’s too assured, too forthright.”
Raymond said guardedly, “Can you cure him?”
“Before I can cure a psychosis,” said Director Birch, “I have to locate it. So far I don’t seem to be even warm.”
“It’s not sane to die off like flies,” whispered Mary. “And that’s what the Flits are doing.”
The Director returned to the chief. “Why do your people die, Chief? Why do they die in New Town?”
The chief said in a hoarse voice, “They look down. No pretty scenery. Crazy cut-up. No river. Straight water. It hurts the eyes; we open canal, make good river... .Huts all same. Go crazy looking at all same. People go crazy; we kill ’em.”
Director Birch said, “I think that’s all we’d better do just now till we study the case a little more closely.”
“Yes,” said Brother Raymond in a troubled voice. “We’ve got to think this over.”
They left the Rest Home through the main reception hall. The benches bulged with applicants for admission and their relatives, with custodian officers and persons in their care. Outside the sky was wadded with overcast. Sallow light indicated Urban somewhere in the sky. Rain spattered in the dust, big, syrupy drops.
Brother Raymond and Sister Mary waited for the bus at the curve of the traffic circle.
“There’s something wrong,” said Brother Raymond in a bleak voice, “Something very very wrong.”
“And I’m not so sure it isn’t in us,” Sister Mary looked around the landscape, across the young orchards, up Sarah Gulvin Avenue into the center of Glory City.
“A strange planet is always a battle,” said Brother Raymond. “We’ve got to bear faith, trust in God—and fight!”
Mary clutched his arm. He turned. “What’s the trouble?”
“I saw—or thought I saw—someone running through the bushes.”
Raymond craned his neck. “I don’t see anybody.”
“I thought it looked like the chief.”
“Your imagination dear.”
They boarded the bus, and presently were secure in their white- walled, flower-gardened home.
The communicator sounded. It was Director Birch. His voice was troubled. “I don’t want to worry you, but the chief got loose. He’s off the premises—where we don’t know.”
Mary said under her breath, “I knew, I knew!”
Raymond said soberly, “You don’t think there’s any danger?”
“No. His pattern isn’t violent. But I’d lock my door anyway.”
“Thanks for calling, Director.”
“Not at all, Brother Raymond.”
There was a moment’s silence. “What now?” asked Mary.
“I’ll lock the doors, and then we’ll get a good night’s sleep.”
Sometime in the night Mary woke up with a start. Brother Raymond rolled over on his side. “What’s the trouble?”
“I don’t know,“ said Mary. “What time is it?”
Raymond consulted the wall clock. “Five minutes to one.”
Sister Mary lay still.
“Did you hear something?” Raymond asked.
“No. I just had a—twinge. Something’s wrong, Raymond!”
He pulled her close, cradled her fair head in the hollow of his neck. “All we can do is our best, dear,
and pray that it’s God’s will.”
They fell into a fitful doze, tossing and turning. Raymond got up to go to the bathroom. Outside was night—a dark sky except for a rosy glow at the north horizon. Red Robundus wandered somewhere below.
Raymond shuffled sleepily back to bed.
“What’s the time dear?” came Mary’s voice.
Raymond peered at the clock. “Five minutes to one.”
He got into bed. Mary’s body was rigid. “Did you say—five minutes to one?”
“Why yes,” said Raymond. A few seconds later he climbed out of bed, went into the kitchen. “It says five minutes to one in here, too. I’ll call the Clock and have them send out a pulse.”
He went to the Communicator, pressed buttons. No response.
“They don’t answer.”
Mary was at his elbow. “Try again.”
Raymond pressed out the number. “That’s strange.”
“Call Information,” said Mary.
Raymond pressed for Information. Before he could frame a question, a crisp voice said, “The Great Clock is momentarily out of order. Please have patience. The Great Clock is out of order.”
Raymond thought he recognized the voice. He punched the visual button. The voice said, “God keep you, Brother Raymond.”
“God keep you, Brother Ramsdell...What in the world has gone wrong?”
“It’s one of your proteges, Raymond. One of the Flits—raving mad. He rolled boulders down on the Clock.”
“Did he—did he—”
“He started a landslide. We don’t have any more Clock.”
Inspector Coble found no one to meet him at the Glory City spaceport. He peered up and down the tarmac; he was alone. A scrap of paper blew across the far end of the field; nothing else moved.
Odd, thought Inspector Coble. A committee had always been on hand to welcome him, with a program that was flattering but rather wearing. First to the Arch-Deacon’s bungalow for a banquet, cheerful
speeches and progress reports, then services in the central chapel, and finally a punctilious escort to the foot of the Grand Montagne.
Excellent people, by Inspector Coble’s lights, but too painfully hon- est and fanatical to be interesting.
He left instructions with the two men who crewed the official ship, and set off on foot toward Glory City. Red Robundus was high, but sinking toward the east; he looked toward Salvation Bluff to check local time. A clump of smoky lace-veils blocked his view.
Inspector Coble, striding briskly along the road, suddenly jerked to a halt. He raised his head as if testing the air, looked about him in a complete circle. He frowned, moved slowly on.
The colonists had been making changes, he thought. Exactly what and how, he could not instantly determine: The fence there—a section had been tom out. Weeds were prospering in the ditch beside the road. Examining the ditch, he sensed movement in the harp-grass behind, the sound of young voices. Curiosity aroused, Coble jumped the ditch, parted the harp-grass.
A boy and girl of sixteen or so were wading in a shallow pond; the girl held three limp water-flowers, the boy was kissing her. They turned up startled faces; Inspector Coble withdrew.
Back on the road he looked up and down. Where in thunder was everybody? The fields—empty. Nobody working. Inspector Coble shrugged, continued.
He passed the Rest Home, and looked at it curiously. It seemed considerably larger than he remembered it: a pair of wings, some temporary barracks had been added. He noticed that the gravel of the driveway was hardly as neat as it might be. The ambulance drawn up to the side was dusty. The place looked vaguely run down. The inspector for the second time stopped dead in his tracks. Music? From the Rest Home?
He turned down the driveway, approached. The music grew louder. Inspector Coble slowly pushed through the front door. In the reception hall were eight or ten people—they wore bizarre costumes: feathers, fronds of dyed grass, fantastic necklaces of glass and metal. The music sounded loud from the auditorium, a kind of wild jig.
“Inspector!” cried a pretty woman with fair hair. “Inspector Coble! You’ve arrived!”
Inspector Coble peered into her face. She wore a kind of patchwork jacket sewn with small iron bells. “It’s—it’s Sister Mary Dunton, isn’t it?”
“Of course! You’ve arrived at a wonderful time! We’re having a carnival ball—costumes and everything!”
Brother Raymond clapped the inspector heartily on the back. “Glad to see you, old man! Have some cider—it’s the early press.”
Inspector Coble backed away. “No, no thanks.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be off on my rounds.. .and perhaps drop in on you later.”
Inspector Coble proceeded to the Grand Montagne. He noted that a number of the bungalows had been painted bright shades of green, blue, yellow; that fences in many cases had been pulled down, that gardens looked rather rank and wild.
He climbed the road to Old Fleetville, where he interviewed the chief. The Flits apparently were not being exploited, suborned, cheated, sickened, enslaved, forcibly proselyted or systematically irritated. The chief seemed in a good humor.
“I kill the Big Devil,” he told Inspector Coble. “Things go better now.”
Inspector Coble planned to slip quietly to the space-port and depart, but Brother Raymond Dunton hailed him as he passed their bungalow.
“Had you breakfast, Inspector?”
“Dinner, darling!” came Sister Mary’s voice from within. “Urban just went down.”
“But Maude just came up.”
“Bacon and eggs anyway, Inspector!”
The inspector was tired; he smelled hot coffee. “Thanks,” he said, “don’t mind if I do.”
After the bacon and eggs, over the second cup of coffee, the inspector said cautiously, “You’re looking well, you two.”
Sister Mary looked especially pretty with her fair hair loose.
“Never felt better,” said Brother Raymond. “It’s a matter of rhythm, Inspector.”
The Inspector blinked. “Rhythm, eh?”
“More precisely,” said Sister Mary, “a lack of rhythm.”
“It all started,” said Brother Raymond, “when we lost our Clock.”
Inspector Coble gradually pieced out the story. Three weeks later, back at Surge City he put it in his own words to Inspector Keefer.
“They’d been wasting half their energies holding onto—well, call it a false reality. They were all afraid of the new planet. They pretended it was Earth—tried to whip it, beat it, and just plain hypnotize it into being Earth. Naturally they were licked before they started. Glory is about as completely random a world as you could find. The poor devils were trying to impose Earth rhythm and Earth routine upon this magnificent disorder; this monumental chaos!”
“No wonder they all went nuts.”
Inspector Coble nodded. “At first, after the Clock went out, they thought they were goners. Committed their souls to God and just about gave up. A couple of days passed, I guess—and to their surprise they found they were still alive. In fact even enjoying life. Sleeping when it got dark, working when the sun shone.”
“Sounds like a good place to retire,” said Inspector Keefer. “How’s the fishing out there on Glory?”
“Not so good. But the goat-herding is great!”
Ecological Onslaught
Aboard the exploration-cruiser Blauelm an ugly variety of psycho-neural ailments was developing. There was no profit in extending the expedition, already in space three months overlong; Explorator Bemisty ordered a return to Blue Star.
But there was no rise of spirits, no lift of morale; the damage had been done. Reacting from hypertension, the keen-tuned technicians fell into glum apathy, and sat staring like andromorphs. They ate little, they spoke less. Bemisty attempted various ruses; competition, subtle music, pungent food, but without effect.
Bemisty went further; at his orders the play-women locked themselves in their quarters, and sang erotic chants in
to the ship’s address-system. These protean measures failing, Bemisty had a dilemma on his hands. At stake was the identity of his team, so craftily put together—such a meteorologist to work with such a chemist; such a botanist for such a virus analyst. To return to Blue Star thus demoralized—Bemisty shook his craggy head. There would be no further ventures in Blauelm .
“Then let’s stay out longer,” suggested Berel, his own favorite among the play-women.
Bemisty shook his head, thinking that Berel’s usual intelligence had failed her. “We’d make bad matters worse.”
“Then what will you do?”
Bemisty admitted he had no idea, and went away to think. Later in the day, he decided on a course of immense consequence; he swerved aside to make a survey of the Kay System. If anything would rouse the spirits of his men, this was it.
There was danger to the detour, but none of great note; spice to the venture came from the fascination of the alien, the oddness of the Kay cities with their taboo against regular form, the bizarre Kay social system.
The star Kay glowed and waxed, and Bemisty saw that his scheme was succeeding. There was once more talk, animation, argument along the gray steel corridors.
The Blauelm slid above the Kay ecliptic; the various worlds fell astern, passing so close that the minute movement, the throb of the cities, the dynamic pulse of the workshops were plain in the viewpiates. Kith and Kelmet—these two warted over with domes—Karnfray, Koblenz, Kavanaf, then the central sum star Kay; then Kooi, too hot for life; then Kerrykirk, the capitol world; then Kobald and Kinsle, the ammonia giants frozen and dead—and the Kay System was astern.
Now Bemisty waited on tenterhooks; would there be a relapse toward inanition, or would the intellectual impetus suffice for the remainder of the voyage? Blue Star lay ahead, another week’s journey. Between lay a yellow star of no particular note....It was while passing the yellow star that the consequences of Bemisty’s ruse revealed themselves.
“Planet!” sang out the cartographer.
This was a cry to arouse no excitement; during the last eight months it had sounded many times through the Blauelm Always the planet had proved so hot as to melt iron; or so cold as to freeze gas; or so poisonous as to corrode skin; or so empty of air as to suck out a man’s lungs. The call was no longer a stimulus.