by Jack Vance
“Precisely right. And you are Olin, Esteban’s friend. I forget your block exactly: wasn’t it Fodswollow?”
Olin made a wry grimace. “Not for months. I transferred to Winkler’s Hovel out along Lateral 560, and I must say I’m pleased with the change. Why don’t you move out from Old Pink? We could use someone like you, clever with his hands!”
Jantiff said in a noncommittal voice: “I’ll have to call on you one of these days.”
“By all means! It’s often been remarked how a block stamps its nature on those who live there. Old Pink, for instance, seems so intense, always seething with intrigue. At the Hovel we’re a raffish hell-for-leather crew, I assure you! The garden simply vibrates! I’ve never seen such a flow of swill! It’s a miracle that we survive starvation, with the wump all going into jugs.”
“Old Pink is somber in comparison,” said Jantiff. “And, as you say, the intrigues are extraordinary. Speaking of intrigues, have you seen Esteban lately?”
“Not for a month or more. He’s involved in some scheme or other that takes up all his time. An energetic fellow, Esteban! He never fails the game.”
“Yes, he’s quite a chap!” Jantiff agreed. “But how is it that you’re invited to the Field? Are you a notable?”
“Hardly! You know me better than that! The invitation came as quite a surprise! Not an unpleasant one, of course, if there’s a banquet of bonter at the other end of it. Still, I can’t help but wonder whose invitation I’ve been tendered by mistake. But what of you? Surely you’re not a notable?”
“No more than you. We both know Esteban; that’s the only notable thing about us.”
Olin laughed. “If that’s what brings us bonter, all glory to Esteban! I’ll be going on in; I want to place myself as close to the tables as possible. Are you coming?”
“I must wait for a friend.”
“A pleasure seeing you again! Come visit Winkler’s Hovel!”
“Yes indeed,” said Jantiff in a pensive voice. “As soon as possible.”
Olin presented his ticket and was admitted to the field. In Jantiff’s mind the pieces of the puzzle had dropped together to form a unit, of startling proportions. Surely a flaw marred the pattern? But where? Jantiff thought first one way, then another. The concept stood unchallenged, noble in its simplicity and grandeur.
Half-morning approached: where was Ryl Shermatz? The “notables” poured onto the field by the hundreds! Jantiff scanned their faces with furious intensity. Would Shermatz never arrive?
The time became half-morning. Jantiff glared into the oncoming faces, trying to evoke the presence of Shermatz by sheer force of will.
To no avail. Jantiff began to feel listless. Peering over his shoulder through the louvres, he saw that the Field had become crowded: there were “notables” from everywhere in Arrabus. “Notables” and persons like Olin! But no one from Old Pink! The idea froze his thoughts; they began again only sluggishly. Was this the flaw in the pattern? Perhaps. Again, perhaps not.
A fanfare sounded across the field, then the Arrabus anthem. The ceremonies had begun. A few hurrying late-comers jumped off the lateral to push through the gates. Still no Shermatz!
The field megaphones broadcast a great voice: “Notables of Arrabus! Egalists across all our nation! The Whispers give you greetings! They will shortly arrive on the Pedestal to communicate their remarkable plans, despite furious efforts by the forces of reaction! Hear this, folk of Arrabus, and remember! The Whispers are disputed by enemies to egalism, and events will demonstrate the evil scope of the opposition! But be of brave heart! Our path leads to—”
Jantiff ran forward, as Shermatz stepped from the man-way. Shermatz called out: “My apologies, Jantiff! I could not avoid the delay. But we are still in time. Come along; here is your ticket.”
Jantiff’s tongue felt numb; he could only stammer disconnected phrases. “No, no! Come back! No time remains!” He took Shermatz’s arm to halt his motion toward the gate. Shermatz turned on him a look of surprise. Jantiff blurted: “We can’t stay here; there’s nothing we can do now. Come, we’ve got to leave!”
Shermatz hesitated only an instant. “Very well; where do you want to go?”
“Your space-car is yonder, by the depot. Take us up, away from Uncibal.”
“Just as you say, but can’t you explain?”
“Yes, as we go!” Jantiff set off at a run, throwing bits of sentences over his shoulder. Shermatz, jogging alongside became grim. “Yes; logical… Even probable… We can’t take the chance that you’re wrong…”
They boarded the space-car; Uncibal fell away below: row after row of many-colored blocks receding into the haze. To the side spread the Field, dark with the “notables” of Arrabus. Shermatz touched the telescreen controls; the voice spoke “—delay of only a few minutes; the Whispers are on their way. They will tell you how bitterly our enemies resent the success of egalism! They will name names and cite facts!… The Whispers are still delayed; they should be on the Pedestal now. Patience for another minute or two!”
“If the Whispers appear on the Pedestal I am wrong,” said Jantiff.
“Intuitively I accept your conclusion,” said Shermatz. “But I am still confused by your facts. You mentioned a certain Swarkop and his cargoes, and also a person named Olin. How do they interrelate? Where do you start your chain of logic?”
“With an idea we have discussed before. The authentic Whispers were known to many folk; the new Whispers as well. There is a strong similarity between the two groups, but not an identity. The new Whispers must minimize the risk of recognition and exposure.
“Olin came to the Field; someone sent him a ticket. Who? He is a friend of Esteban, but hardly a notable. There are legitimate notables present: the Delegates, for instance. They are well acquainted with the old Whispers. I imagine that all Esteban’s acquaintances are at the Field, and all those of Skorlet and of Sarp: all received tickets, and all wondered why they were considered “notable.” I saw no one from Old Pink, but they would arrive by a different lateral. Again, six tickets were sent to Alastor Agency. Assume that the Connatic was visiting Arrabus. His curiosity might well be piqued by the placards. He certainly would not have joined the Whispers on the Pedestal, but he very likely would have used one of the tickets.”
Shermatz gave a curt nod. “I am happily able to assure you that the Connatic definitely did not use one of these tickets. So now, what of Swarkop?”
“He is a barge operator who carried six cargoes of frack…” Jantiff had the odd sensation that his words triggered the event. Below them the landscape erupted. The Field became an instant seethe of white flame, then disappeared under a roiling cloud of gray dust. Other blurts of white flame with subsequent billows of dust appeared elsewhere across Uncibal. The craters they left behind marked the sites of Old Pink and six other blocks, the Travelers Inn and Alastor Centrality. In the cities Waunisse, Serce and Propunce thirteen other blocks, each with its full complement of occupants, in like fashion became columns of dust and hot vapor. “I was right,” said Jantiff. “Very much too right.”
Shermatz slowly reached out and touched a button. “Corchione.”
“Here, sir.”
“The program is canceled. Call down hospital ships.”
“Very well, sir.”
Jantiff spoke in a dreary voice: “I should have understood the facts sooner.”
“You understood in time to save my life,” said Shermatz. “I am pleased on this account.” He looked down across Uncibal, where the dust was drifting slowly south. “The plan now becomes clear. Three classes of people were to be eliminated: persons who knew the old Whispers, persons who knew the new Whispers, and a rather smaller group, consisting either of the Connatic or the Connatic’s representative, should either be on hand. But you survived and I survived and the plan has failed.
“The Whispers will not know of the failure. They will consider themselves secure, and they will be preparing the next stage of their plan. Can y
ou guess how this will be implemented?”
Jantiff made a weary gesture. “No. I am numb.”
“Scapegoats are needed: the enemies of egalism. Who on Wyst is still acquainted with one of the Whispers?”
“The Contractors. They know Shubart.”
“Exactly. Within hours all contractors will be arrested. The Whispers will announce that the criminals have made abject confessions, and that justice has been done. All future contracting will be managed by a new egalistic organization, at improved efficiency; and the Whispers will share the wealth of Arrabus between them. Any moment now we can expect their first indignant outcries.” Shermatz fell silent; the two sat looking across battered Uncibal. A chime sounded. On the screen appeared the four Whispers: Skorlet, Sarp, Esteban and Shubert, their images blurred as if seen through wavering water.
“They still are afraid to exhibit themselves in all clarity,” Shermatz observed. “Not too many people survive who might recognize them but there are probably a few. In the next week or so they would no doubt disappear. Quietly, mysteriously: who would trouble or wonder why?”
Esteban stepped forward a half-pace and spoke, his voice ringing with dull passion: “Folk of Arrabus! By the chance of a few minutes delay, your Whispers have survived the cataclysm. The Connatic hopefully has also escaped; he never arrived to the stipulated place of rendezvous, and we as yet have no sure knowledge. Unless he went incognito out upon the Field, he escaped, and the assassins failed in double measure! We are not yet able to make a coherent statement; all of us are grief-stricken by the loss of so many cherished comrades. Be assured, however, the demons who planned this frightful deed will never survive—”
Shermatz touched a button. “Corchione.”
“Here, sir.”
“Trace the source of the message.”
“I am so doing, sir.”
“—a day of sorrow and shock! The Delegates are gone, all gone; by the caprice of Fate we ourselves escaped, but by sheerest accident! Our enemies will not be pleased: be sure that we will hunt them down! That is all for now; we must attend to acts of mercy.” The screen went dead.
“Corchione?”
“The transmission originated from Uncibal Central. We could not fix upon the feed-in.”
“Seal off the space-port. Allow no egress from the planet.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Send a team down to Uncibal central; determine the source of the transmission. Notify me at once.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Monitor all air traffic. If anyone is moving, discover his destination.”
“Yes, sir.”
Shermatz leaned back in his seat. He spoke to Jantiff: “After today your life may seem pallid and uneventful.”
“I won’t complain as to that.”
“I am alive only through your common sense, of which I myself showed a dismal lack.”
“I wish this ‘common sense’ had come to life sooner.”
“Be that as it may. The past is fixed, and the dead are dead. I am alive and thankful for the fact. In reference to the future, may I inquire your goals?”
“I want to repair my vision. It is starting to blur. Then I will go back to Balad and try to learn what happened to Glisten.”
Shermatz gave his head a sad shake. “If she is dead, you’ll search in vain. If she is alive, how will you find her in the Weirdland forests? I have facilities for such a search; leave the matter in my hands.”
“Just as you say.”
Shermatz turned back to his control panel. “Corchione.”
“Sir?”
“Order the Isirjir Ziaspraide down to Uncibal space-port, and also a pair of patrol cruisers. The Tressian and the Sheer are both at hand.”
“Very good, sir.”
Shermatz said to Jantiff: “In times of uncertainty, it is wise to display symbols of security. The Isirjir Ziaspraide admirably suits this purpose.”
“How will you deal with the Whispers?”
“I can’t quite make up my mind. What would you suggest?”
Jantiff shook his head in perplexity. “They have committed awful deeds. No penalty seems appropriate. Merely to kill them is an anticlimax.”
“Exactly! The drama of retribution should at least equal that of the crime: in this case an impossible undertaking. Still something must be contrived. Jantiff, put your fecund mind to work!”
“I am not skilled at inventing punishments.”
“Nor are they to my taste. I enjoy creating conditions of justice. All too often, however, I must ordain harsh penalties. It is the disagreeable side to my work. The preferences of the criminal, of course, can’t be considered; as often as not, he will opt for leniency or even no punishment whatever.”
A chime sounded. Shermatz touched a button; Corchione spoke.
“The transmission originated at a lodge owned by Contractor Shubart, on the upper slopes of Mount Prospect, eighteen miles south of Uncibal.”
“Send out an assault force; seize the Whispers and bring them to the Ziaspraide.”
“At once, sir.”
Chapter 18
The Isirjir Ziaspraide, flagship of the Thaiatic[42] Fleet, and a vessel of awesome magnitude, served less as a weapon of war than as an instrument of policy. Wherever the Isirjir Ziaspraide showed itself, the majesty of the Connatic and the force of the Whelm were manifest.
The great hull, with its various sponsons, catwalks and rotundas, had long been regarded as a masterpiece of the naaetic[43] art. The interior was no less splendid, with a main saloon a hundred feet long and thirty-seven feet wide. From the ceiling, which was enameled a warm lavender-mauve, hung five scintillants. The floor, of a dead-black substance, lacked all luster. Around the periphery white pilasters supported massive silver medallions; depictions of the twenty-three goddesses, clothed in vestments of purple, green and blue, occupied the spaces between. Jantiff, upon entering the saloon, studied the intricacy of these designs with wondering envy; here were subtle skills, of draughtsmanship and understated color, beyond his present capacity. Sixty officers of the Whelm, wearing white, black and purple dress uniforms, followed him into the saloon. They ranged themselves along the walls to either side and stood in silence.
A far sound broke the silence: a drum roll, and another, and another, in fateful slow cadence. The sound grew loud. Into the hall marched the drummer, somberly costumed after the ancient tradition, with a black mask across the upper half of his face. Behind came the Whispers, each accompanied by a masked escort: first Esteban and Sarp. then Skorlet and Shubart. Their faces were bleak; their eyes glistened with emotion.
The drummer led the way to the end of the hall. He ceased drumming and stepped aside. The ensuing silence tingled with imminence.
The Commander of the Isirjir Ziaspraide stepped out upon a raised platform, and seated himself behind a table. He addressed the Whispers: “By the authority of the Connatic, I fix upon you the guilt of multiple murders, in yet unknown number.”
Sarp clenched his fingers together; the others stood rigid. Esteban spoke out in a brassy voice: “One murder, many murders: what is the difference? The crime is not multiplied.”
“The point is of no consequence. The Connatic admits himself in a quandary. He feels that in regard to your case, death is an almost trivial disposition. Nevertheless, after taking advice, he has issued the following decree. You shall immediately be housed in spheres of transparent glass twenty feet above the Field of Voices. The spheres shall be twenty feet in diameter, and furnished with a minimum of facilities. One week hence, after your crimes have been elucidated in full detail to all Arrabus, you shall be taken into a vehicle. At the hour of midnight this vehicle will rise to an altitude of seven hundred and seventy-seven miles and there explode with a spectacular effulgence of light. Arrabus will thereby be notified that your deeds have been expiated. That is to be your fate. Take your farewells of each other; you will meet again but only briefly, one week hence.”
The Commanda
nt rose to his feet and departed the hall. The four stood stiffly, showing no desire to exchange sentiments of any sort whatever.
The drummer stepped forward, and ruffled his drums; again , again, at a portentous tempo. The escorts led the four back down the, length of the hall. Esteban’s eyes darted this way and that, as if he intended a desperate act; the escort at his elbow paid no heed. Esteban’s gaze suddenly became fixed. His head thrust forward; he stopped short and pointed a finger. “There stands Jantiff! Our black demon! We have him to thank for our fate!”
Skorlet, Sarp and Shubart turned to look; their gazes struck into Jantiff’s face. He stood coldly watching.
The escorts touched the arms of their charges; the group moved on, at the tempo of the drum roll.
Jantiff turned away, to find Shermatz at his side.
“Events have run their course, so far as you and I are concerned,” said Shermatz. “Come; the commander has assigned us comfortable quarters, and for a period we can relax without startlements or dismal duties.”
An ascensor lifted them to a high rotunda. Entering, Jantiff stopped short, taken aback by opulence on a scale which exceeded all his previous concepts. Shermatz could not restrain a laugh; he took Jantiff’s arm and led him forward. “The appointments are perhaps a trifle grand,” said Shermatz, “but, adaptable as you are, you will quickly find them comfortable. The view, especially when the Ziaspraide coasts quietly among the stars, is superb.”
The two seated themselves on couches upholstered in purple velvet. A mess boy, stepping from an alcove, proffered a tray from which Jantiff took a goblet carved from a single topaz crystal. He tasted the wine, looked deep into the swimming depths, tasted again. “This is very good wine indeed.”