by Jack Vance
Wyst: Alastor 1716
Jack Vance
Chapter 1
Alastor Cluster, a node of thirty thousand live stars, uncounted dead hulks and vast quantities of interstellar detritus, clung to the inner rim of the galaxy with the Unfortunate Waste before, the Nonestic Gulf beyond and the Gaean Reach a sparkling haze to the side. For the space traveler, no matter which his angle of approach, a remarkable spectacle was presented: constellations blazing white, blue and red; curtains of luminous stuff, broken here, obscured there by black storms of dust; star streams wandering in and out; whorls and spatters of phosphorescent gas.
Should Alastor Cluster be considered a segment of the Gaean Reach? The folk of the Cluster seldom reflected upon the matter, and indeed considered themselves neither Gaean nor Alastrid. The typical inhabitant, when asked about his origin, might perhaps cite his native world or, more usually, his local district, as if this place were so extraordinary, so special and widely famed that its reputation hung on every tongue of the galaxy.
Parochialism dissolved before the glory of the Connatic who ruled Alastor Cluster from his palace Lusz on the world Numenes: a structure famed across the human universe. Five pylons veered up from five islets to a groined arch a thousand feet above the ocean, supporting first a series of promenade decks; then a bank of administrative offices, ceremonial halls and the core of the Alastrid Communications System; then the Ring of Worlds; then further offices and residential suites for distinguished visitors; and finally, ten thousand feet above the ocean, the Connatic’s private quarters. The highest pinnacle penetrated the clouds, sometimes piercing through to the upper sky. When sunlight glistened on its iridescent surfaces Lusz was a wonderful sight, and often considered the most inspiring artifact yet created by the human race.
Aloft in his eyrie, the Connatic lived without formality. For public appearances he arrayed himself in a severe black uniform and a black casque, in order to project an image of austerity, vigilance and inflexible authority: so he was known to his subjects. On more casual occasions—alone in his eyrie, as a high official on the Connatic’s service, as an anonymous wanderer in the odd corners of the Cluster—he seemed a far easier man, of rather ordinary appearance, notable only for his manner of unobtrusive competence.
At Lusz, his workroom occupied the highest tip of the eyrie: a cupola with an outlook in all directions. The furnishings were constructed of massive dark wood: a pair of cushioned chairs, a work table, a sideboard supporting a clutter of souvenirs, photographs, curios and oddments, including a globe of Old Earth. To one side of the work table a panel displayed a conventionalized chart, of the Cluster with three thousand glittering lights of various colors[1] to represent the inhabited worlds.
The work room served the Connatic as his most familiar and comfortable retreat. The time was now evening; plum-blue twilight suffused the room. The Connatic stood before the western window, watching the passing of the afterglow and the coming of the stars.
The quiet was broken by a brief clear sound: rink! Like a drop of water into a basin.
The Connatic spoke without turning: “Esclavade?”
A voice replied: “A deputation of four persons has arrived from Arrabus on Wyst. They announce themselves as ‘The Whispers’ and request a conference at your convenience.”
The Connatic, still gazing out across the afterglow, reflected a moment, then said: “I will meet them in an hour. Take them to the Black Chamber, and provide suitable refreshment.”
“As you say, sir.”
Turning from the window, the Connatic went to his work table. He spoke a number: “1716.” Three cards fell into a hopper. The first, dated two weeks previously at Waunisse, a city of Arrabus, read:
Sir:
My previous reports upon the subject at hand are identified by the codes appended below. In gist: Arrabus shortly celebrates a Centenary Festival, to mark a hundred years under the aegis of the so-called “Egalistic Manifold.” If I may presume to refresh your memory, this document enjoins all men, and specifically all Arrabins, to a society based upon human equality in a condition of freedom from toil, want and coercion.
The realization of these ideals has not been without dislocation. I refer you to my previous reports.
The Whispers, an executive committee of four, have come to take a very serious view of the situation. Their projections convince them that certain fundamental changes are necessary. At the Centenary they will announce a program to revitalize the Arrabin economy, which may not be popular: the Arrabin folk, like any others, hope for and expect augmentation rather than constriction of their lives. The present work week comprises thirteen hours of more or less uncomplicated routine, which the Arrabins nevertheless hope to reduce.
To dramatize the need for change, the Whispers will be coming to Lusz. They intend to consult with you on a realistic basis, and they hope that you will appear at the Centenary Festival, to identify yourself with the new program and perhaps provide economic assistance. I have been in consultation with the Whispers at Waunisse. Tomorrow they return to Uncibal, and will immediately depart for Numenes.
In my opinion they have made a realistic assessment of conditions, and I recommend that you listen to them with sympathetic attention.
Bonamico,
Connatic’s Cursar at Uncibal, Arrabus.
The Connatic read the card with care, then turned to the second card, which had been dated at Waunisse on the day after the first message.
To the Connatic at Lusz:
Greetings from the Whispers of Arrabus.
We will presently arrive at Lusz, where we hope to confer with you upon matters of great scope and urgency. We will also convey to you an invitation to our Centenary Festival, which signalizes a hundred years of egalism. There is much to be said on this subject, and at our conference we will disclose our thoughts regarding the next hundred years, and the adjustments which must inevitably be made. At this time we will solicit your advice and constructive assistance.
In all respect, we are,
the Whispers of Arrabus.
The Connatic had studied the two messages previously and was familiar with their contents. The third message, arriving subsequent to the first two, was new to him .
The Connatic at Lusz:
From the Alastor Centrality at Uncibal, Arrabus.
It becomes my duty to report upon an odd and disturbing situation. A certain Jantiff Ravensroke has presented himself to the Centrality, with information which he declares to be of the most absolute urgency. Cursar Bonamico is unaccountably absent and I can think only to request that you immediately send an investigative officer, that he may learn the truth of what may be a serious matter.
Clode Morre, Clerk,
The Alastor Centrality,
Uncibal.
Even as the Connatic brooded upon this third message, a fourth dropped into the hopper.
To the Connatic at Lutz:
Events are flying in all directions here, to my great distress and consternation. Specifically, I fear for poor Jantiff Ravensroke, who is in terrible danger; unless someone puts a stop, they’ll have his blood or worse. He is accused of a vile crime but he is surely as innocent as a child. Clerk Morre has been murdered and Cursar Bonamico cannot be located; therefore I have ordered Jantiff south into the Weirdlands, despite the rigors of the way.
I send this off in agitation, and with the hope that help is on the way.
Aleida Gluster, Clerk,
The Alastor Centrality,
The Connatic stood motionless, frowning down at the card. After a moment he turned away and by a twisting wooden staircase descended to the level below. A door slid aside; he entered a car, dropped to the Ring of Worlds, and, by one of the radial slideways reserved
to his private use, rode to Chamber 1716.
In the vestibule a placard provided basic data regarding Wyst—the single planet of the white star Doran, was small, cool, dense, and populated by over three billion persons. He continued into the main chamber. At the center floated—a seven-foot globe: a replica in miniature of Wyst, although physiographic relief had been exaggerated by a factor of ten in the interests of clarity. The Connatic touched the surface and the globe rotated under his hand. The opposed continents Trembal and Tremors appeared; the Connatic stopped the rotation. The continents together extended four thousand miles around the flank of Wyst, from the Northern Gulf to the Moaning Ocean in the south, to resemble a rather thick-waisted hourglass. At the equator, or the narrowest section of the hourglass, the continents were split apart by the Salaman Sea, a drowned rift averaging a hundred miles in width. That strip of littoral, never more than twenty miles wide, between sea and the flanking scarps to north and south, comprised the land of Arrabus. To the south were the cities Uncibal and Serce, to the north Propunce and Waunisse, each pair merging indistinguishably: in effect Arrabus was a single metropolitan area. Beyond the north and south extended the so-called “Weirdlands,” one-time civilized domains, now a pair of wildernesses shrouded under dark forest.
The Connatic turned the globe a half-revolution and briefly inspected Zumer and Pombal, island continents opposed across the equator: each an uninviting terrain of mountain crags and half-frozen swamps, supporting a minimal population.
Moving away from the globe, the Connatic studied an array of effigies. Closest at hand stood a pair of Arrabins, dressed alike in gaily patterned smocks, short trousers and sandals of synthetic fiber. They wore their hair teased out into extravagant puffs and fringes, evidently to the prompting of individual whim. Their expressions were cheerful if rather distrait, like those of children contemplating a pleasant bit of mischief. Their complexions were pale to medium in tone, and their ethnic type seemed to be mixed. Nearby stood folk from Pombal and Zumer, men and women of a more distinctive character: tall, large-boned, with long beaked noses, bony jaws and chins. They wore padded garments studded with copper ornaments, boots and brimless hats of crumpled leather. On the wall behind a photograph depicted a Zur shunk-rider on his awesome mount[2], both caparisoned for the sport known as “shunkery.” Somewhat apart from the other effigies crouched a middle-aged woman in a hooded gown striped vertically in yellow, orange and black; her fingernails gleamed as if gilded. Weirdland Witch read the identifying plaque.
Moving to the information register, the Connatic studied a synopsis of Arrabin history[3], with which he was familiar only in outline. As he read he nodded slowly, as if in validation of a private opinion. Turning from the register he went to examine three large photographs on the wall. The first, an aerial view of Uncibal, might have been a geometrical exercise in which rows of many-colored blocks dwindled to a point at the horizon. The second photograph depicted the interior of the 32nd District Stadium. Spectators encrusted the interior; a pair of shunk confronted each other across the field. The third photograph presented a view along one of the great Arrabin slideways: a moving strip something more than a hundred feet wide, choked with, humanity, extending into the distance as far as lens could see.
The Connatic studied the photographs with a trace of awe. The idea of human beings in vast numbers was familiar to him as an abstraction; in the photographs the abstraction was made real.
He glanced through a file of cursar’s[4] reports; one of these, ten years old, read:
Arrabus is the beating heart of Wyst. Despite rumor to the contrary, Arrabus functions; Arrabus is real; Arrabus, in fact, is an amazing experience. Whoever doubts can come to Wyst and learn for himself. Immigrants are no longer welcome additions to the overcrowded social facilities; still, anyone with a sufficiently thick skin can participate either temporarily or permanently in a fantastic social experiment, where food and shelter, like air, are considered the natural right of all men.
The newcomer will find himself suddenly relieved of anxieties. He works two brief periods of “drudge” each week, with another two hours of “maintenance” at the block where he resides. He will find himself immediately caught up in a society dedicated to self-fulfillment, pleasure and frivolity. He will dance, sing, gossip, engage in countless love affairs, endlessly ride the “man-rivers” to no special destination, and waste hours in that obsessive occupation of the Arrabins, people-watching. He will make his breakfast, lunch and dinner upon wholesome “gruff” and nutritious “deedle,” with a dish of “wobbly,” as the expression goes, “to fill up the cracks.” If he is wise he will learn to tolerate, and even enjoy, the diet, since there is nothing else to eat.
“Bonter,” or natural food, is almost unknown on Arrabus. The problems involved in growing, distributing and preparing “boater” for three billion persons is quite beyond the capacity of those who have resolutely eliminated toil from their lives. Occasionally “bonter” is a subject of wistful speculation but no one seems seriously troubled by its lack. A certain opprobrium attaches to the person who concerns himself overmuch with food. The casual visitor will refrain from grumbling unless he wishes to become known as a “guttrick.” So much for the high cuisine of Arrabus; it falls to exist. A final note: intoxicants are not produced by any of the public agencies. Disselberg, who drank no wine, beer or spirit, declared against them as “social waste.” Nevertheless, every day on every level of every block someone will be brewing a jug or two of “swill” from fragments of leftover gruff.
And another:
Every visitor to Wyst expects shocks and surprises, but never can he prepare himself for the sheer bogglement inflicted upon him by reality. He observes the endless blocks dwindling in strict conformity to the, laws of perspective until finally they disappear; he stands on an overpass watching the flow of a hundred-foot man-river, with its sensitive float of white faces; he visits Disjerferact on the Uncibal mud flats, a place of carnival, whose attractions include a death house where folk so inclined deliver eloquent orations, then die by suicide to the applause of casual passersby; he watches a parade of chunk lurch fatefully toward the stadium. He asks himself, is any of this truly real, or even possible? He blinks; all is as before. But the incredibility still persists!
Perhaps he may depart the confines of Arrabus, to wander the misty forests to north and south: the so-called Weirdlands. As soon as he crosses the scarps, he finds himself in another world, which apparently exists only to reassure the Arrabins that their lot is truly a fortunate one. Hard to imagine that a thousand years ago these wastes were the provinces of dukes and princes. Trees conceal every trace of the former splendor. Wyst is a small world, only five thousand miles in diameter; a relatively few miles of travel takes one far around the horizons. If one travels south beyond the Weirdlands he comes at last to the shore of the Moaning Ocean, to find a land with a character all its own. Merely to watch the opal light of Dwan reflecting from the cold gray waves makes the journey well worth the effort.
The casual visitor to Wyst, however, seldom departs the cities of Arrabus, where he may presently feel an almost overpowering suffocation of numbers, a psychic claustrophobia. The subtle person becomes aware of a deeper darker presence, and he looks about him in fascination, with a crawling of the viscera, like a primeval man watching a cave mouth, certain that a horrid beast waits inside.
The Connatic smiled at the somewhat, perfervid style of the report; he looked to see who had submitted it: Bonamico, the current cursar, a rather emotional man. Still—who could say? . The Connatic himself had never visited Wyst; perhaps he might share Bonamico’s comprehensions. He glanced at a final note, which was also signed by Bonamico:
Zumer and Pombal, the small continents, are mountainous and half frozen; they deserve mention only because they are home to the ill-natured shunk and the no less irascible folk who manage them.
Time pressed: in a few minutes the Connatic must meet with the Whispers. He gave the
globe a final glance and set it spinning; so it would turn for days, until air friction brought it to a halt.
Returning aloft, the Connatic went directly to his dressing room, where he created that version of himself which he saw fit to present to the people of the Cluster: first a few touches of skin toner to accentuate the bones, of jaw and temple; then film which darkened his eyes and enhanced their intensity; then a clip of simulated cartilage to raise the bridge of his nose and produce a more incisive thrust to his profile. He donned an austere suit of black, relieved only by a silver button at each shoulder, and finally pulled a casque of black fabric over his close-cropped mat of hair.
He touched a button; across the room appeared the holographic image of himself: a spare saturnine man of indeterminate age, with an aspect suggesting force and authority. With neither approval nor dissatisfaction he considered the image; he was, so to speak, dressed for work, in the uniform of his calling.
Esclavade’s quiet voice issued from an unseen source. “The Whispers have arrived in the Black Parlor.”
“Thank you.” The Connatic stepped into the adjoining chamber: a replica of the Black Parlor, exact to the images of the Whispers themselves: three men and a woman dressed in that informal, rather frivolous, style current in contemporary Arrabus. The Connatic examined the images with care: a reconnaissance he made of almost every deputation, to offset, at least in part, the careful stratagems by which the visitors hoped to further their aims. Uneasiness, rigidity, anger, easy calm, desperation, fatalistic torpor: the Connatic had learned to recognize the indicators and to judge the mood in which the delegations came to meet him.
In the Connatic’s estimation, this seemed a particularly disparate group, despite the uniformity of their garments. Each presented a different psychological aspect, which frequently signaled disunity, or perhaps mutual antagonism. In the case of the Whispers, who were selected by an almost random process, such lack of inner cohesion might be without significance, or so the Connatic reflected.