by Jack Vance
The woman who had conducted Farr to the chamber reappeared. She performed an elaborate genuflection. Farr was insufficiently familiar with the subtleties of Iszic mannerisms to decide whether or not there might be irony in the gesture, and he reserved judgment. His sudden change in status seemed highly remarkable. A hoax? Unlikely. The Iszic sense of humor was non-existent.
“Aile Farr Sainh,” declared the woman, “now that you have refreshed yourself, do you wish to associate with your host, Zhde Patasz?”
Farr smiled faintly. “At any time.”
“Then allow me to lead the way. I will take you to the private pods of Zhde Patasz Sainh, where he waits with great restlessness.”
Farr followed her along the conduit, up an incline where the branch drooped, by elevator up the central trunk, and off along another passage. At a sphincter she paused, bowed, and swept wide her arms. “Zhde Patasz Sainh awaits you.”
The sphincter expanded and Farr stepped dubiously into the chamber. Zhde Patasz was not immediately to be seen. Farr moved forward slowly, looking from right to left. The pod was thirty feet long, opening on a balcony with a waist-high balustrade. The walls and domed ceiling were tufted with trefoils of a silky green fiber; the floor was heavy with plum-colored moss; quaint lamps grew out of the wall. There were four magenta pod-chairs against one wall. In the middle of the floor stood a tall cylindrical vase containing water, plants and black dancing eels. There were pictures on the walls by ancient Earth masters, colorful curios from a strange world.
Zhde Patasz came in from the balcony. “Farr Sainh, I hope you feel well?”
“Well enough,” said Farr cautiously.
“Will you sit?”
“As you command.” Farr lowered himself upon one of the frail magenta bladders. The smooth skin stretched and fitted itself to his body.
His host languidly seated himself nearby. There was a moment of silence while each surveyed the other. Zhde Patasz wore the blue stripes of his caste and, today, the pale narrow cheeks were decorated with glossy red disks. These were not haphazard decorations, Farr realized. Every outward attribute of the Iszic was meaningful to some degree. Zhde Patasz today was without the usual loose beret. The knob and ridges along the top of his scalp formed almost a crest, an indication of aristocratic lineage across thousands of years.
“You are enjoying your visit to Iszm?” inquired Zhde Patasz at last.
Farr considered a moment, then spoke formally. “I see much to interest me. I have also suffered molestation, which I hope will cause me no permanent harm.” He gingerly felt his scalp. “Only the fact of your hospitality compensates for the ill treatment I have received.”
“This is sorry news,” said Zhde Patasz. “Who has wronged you? Provide me their names and I will have them drowned.”
Farr admitted that he could not precisely identify the Szecr who had thrust him into the dungeon. “In any event they were excited by the raid, and I bear them no malice on this account. But afterward I seem to have been drugged, which I consider very poor treatment.”
“Your remarks are well taken,” Zhde Patasz replied in the most bland of voices. “The Szecr would normally administer a hypnotic gas to the Thord. It seems that through a stupid error you had been conveyed to the same cell, and so shared this indignity. Undoubtedly the parties responsible are at this moment beside themselves with remorse.”
Farr tried to speak with indignation. “My legal rights have been totally ignored. The Treaty of Access has been violated.”
“I hope you will forgive us,” said Zhde Patasz. “Of course you realize that we must protect our fields.”
“I had nothing to do with the raid.”
“Yes. We understand that.”
Farr smiled bitterly. “While I was under hypnosis you siphoned out everything I know.”
Zhde Patasz performed the curious contraction of the filament dividing the segments of his eyes which Farr had come to recognize as a manifestation of Iszic amusement. “By chance I was informed of your misadventure.”
“ ‘Misadventure’? An outrage!”
Zhde Patasz made a soothing gesture. “The Szecr would naturally plan to subdue the Thord by use of a hypnotic atmosphere. The race has powerful capabilities, both physical and psychic, as well as notorious moral deficiencies, which presumably is why they were recruited to conduct the raid.”
Farr was puzzled. “You think the Thord weren’t acting on their own?”
“I think not. The organization was too precise, the planning too exact. The Thord are an impatient race and while it is not impossible that they mounted the expedition, we are inclined to think otherwise, and are extremely anxious to identify the instigator of the raid.”
“So you examined me under hypnosis, violating the Treaty of Access.”
“I assume the questioning covered only matters pertaining to the raid.” Zhde Patasz was trying to conciliate Farr. “The Szecr were perhaps over-assiduous, but you appeared to be a conspirator. You must recognize that.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“No?” Zhde Patasz seemed surprised. “You arrive at Tjiere on the day of the assault. You attempt to evade your escort at the dock. During an interview you make pointless attempts to control your reactions. Forgive me if I show you your errors.”
“Not at all, go right ahead.”
“In the arcade you once more evade your escort; you race out on the field, an apparent effort to take part in the raid.”
“This is all nonsense,” said Farr.
“We are satisfied of this,” said Zhde Patasz. “The raid has ended in disaster for the Thord. We destroyed the mole at a depth of eleven hundred feet. There were no survivors except the person with whom you shared a cell.”
“What will happen to him?”
Zhde Patasz hesitated. Farr thought he detected uncertainty in Zhde Patasz’s voice. “Under normal conditions he would have been perhaps the least lucky of all.” He paused, forming his thoughts into words. “We have faith in the deterrent effect of punishment. He would have been confined to the Mad House.”
“What happened to him?”
“He killed himself in the cell.”
Farr felt suddenly bewildered, as if this were an unexpected development. Somehow the brown man was obligated to him; something was lost…
Zhde Patasz said in a voice full of solicitude, “You appear shocked, Farr Sainh.”
“I don’t know why I should be.”
“Are you tired, or weak?”
“I’m collecting myself a little at a time.”
The Iszic woman came with a tray of food—spice-nuts, a hot aromatic liquid, and dried fish.
Farr ate with pleasure; he was hungry. Zhde Patasz watched him curiously. “It is strange. We are of different worlds, we evolved from different stock, yet we share a number of similar ambitions, similar fears and desires. We protect our possessions, the objects which bring us security.”
Farr felt the raw spot on his scalp. It still smarted and pulsed. He nodded thoughtfully.
Zhde Patasz strolled to the glass cylinder and looked down at the dancing eels. “Sometimes we are over-anxious, of course, and our fears cause us to over-reach ourselves.” He turned. They surveyed each other a long moment: Farr half-submerged in the chair-pod, the Iszic tall and strong, the double eyes large in his thin aquiline head.
“In any event,” said Zhde Patasz, “I hope you will forget our mistake. The Thord and their mentor or mentors are responsible. But for them the situation would not have arisen. And please don’t overlook our intense concern. The raid was of enormous scope and a near-success. Who conceived, who planned so complex an operation? We must learn this. The Thord worked with great precision. They seized both seeds and seedlings from specific plots evidently charted beforehand by a spy in the guise of a tourist like yourself.” And Zhde Patasz inspected Farr somberly.
Farr laughed shortly. “A tourist unlike myself. I don’t care to be associated with the affair even
indirectly.”
Zhde Patasz bowed politely. “A creditable attitude. But I am sure you are generous enough to understand our agitation. We must protect our investment; we are businessmen.”
“Not very good businessmen,” said Farr.
“An interesting opinion. Why not?”
“You have a good product,” said Farr, “but you market it uneconomically. Limited sale, high mark-up.”
Zhde Patasz brought out his viewer and waved it indulgently. “There are many theories.”
“I’ve studied several analyses of the house trade,” said Farr. “They disagree only in detail.”
“What is the consensus?”
“That your methods are inefficient. On each planet a single dealer has the monopoly. It’s a system which pleases only the dealer. K. Penche is a hundred times a millionaire and he’s the most hated man on Earth.”
Zhde Patasz swung his viewer thoughtfully. “K. Penche will be an unhappy man as well as a hated one.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Farr. “Why?”
“The raid destroyed a large number of his quota.”
“He won’t get any houses?”
“Not of the kind he ordered.”
“Well,” said Farr, “it makes little difference. He sells everything you send him anyway.”
Zhde Patasz showed a trace of impatience. “He is an Earther—a mercantilist. We are Iszic and house-breeding is in our blood, a basic instinct. The line of planters began two hundred thousand years ago when Diun, the primordial anthrophib, crawled out of the ocean. With salt-water still draining from his gills he took refuge in a pod. He is my ancestor. We have gained mastery over houses; we shall not dissipate this accumulated lore, or permit ourselves to be plundered.”
“The knowledge eventually will be duplicated,” said Farr, “whether you like it or not. There are too many homeless people in the universe.”
“No.” Zhde Patasz snapped his viewer. “The craft cannot be induced rationally—an element of magic still exists.”
“Magic?”
“Not literally. The trappings of magic. For instance, we sing incantations to sprouting seeds. The seeds sprout and prosper. Without incantations they fail. Why? Who knows? No one on Iszm. In every phase of growing, training and breaking the house for habitation, this special lore makes the difference between a house and a withered useless vine.”
“On Earth,” said Farr, “we would begin with the elemental tree. We would sprout a million seeds, we would explore a million primary avenues.”
“After a thousand years,” said the Iszic, “you might control the number of pods on a tree.” He walked to the wall and stroked the green fiber. “This floss—we inject a liquid into an organ of the rudimentary pod. The liquid comprises substances such as powdered ammonite nerve, ash of the frunz bush, sodium isochromyl acetate, powder from the Phanodano meteorite. The liquid undergoes six critical operations, and must be injected through the proboscis of a sea-lympid. Tell me,” he glanced at Farr through his viewer, “how long before your Earth researchers could grow green floss into a pod?”
“Perhaps we’d never try. We might be satisfied with five or six-pod houses the owners could furnish as they liked.”
Zhde Patasz’s eyes snapped. “But this is crudity! You understand, do you not? A dwelling must be all of a unit—the walls, the drainage, the decor grown in! What use is our vast lore, our two hundred thousand years of effort, otherwise? Any ignoramus can paste up green floss, only an Iszic can grow it!”
“Yes,” said Farr. “I believe you.”
Zhde Patasz continued, passionately waving his viewer. “And if you stole a female house, and if you managed to breed a five-pod house, that is only the beginning. It must be entered, mastered, trained. The webbings must be cut; the nerves of ejaculation must be located and paralyzed. The sphincters must open and close at a touch.
“The art of house-breaking is almost as important as house-breeding. Without correct breaking a house is an unmanageable nuisance—a menace.”
“K. Penche breaks none of the houses you send to Earth.”
“Pahl Penche’s houses are docile, spiritless. They are without interest. They lack beauty, grace.” He paused. “I cannot speak. Your language has no words to tell what an Iszic feels for his house. He grows it, grows into it. His ashes are given it when he dies. He drinks its ichor; it breathes his breath. It protects him; it takes on the color of his thoughts. A spirited house will repel a stranger. An injured house will kill. And a Mad House—that is where we take our criminals.”
Farr listened in fascination. “That’s all very well—for an Iszic. An Earther isn’t so particular—at least, a low income Earther. Or as you would put it, a low-caste Earther. He just wants a house to live in.”
“You may obtain houses,” said Zhde Patasz. “We are glad to provide them. But you must use the accredited distributors.”
“K. Penche?”
“Yes. He is our representative.”
“I think I will go to bed,” said Farr. “I am tired and my head hurts.”
“A pity. But rest well, and tomorrow, should you choose, we will inspect my plantation. In the meantime, my house is yours.”
The young woman in the black turban conducted Farr to his chambers. She ceremoniously bathed his face, his hands, his feet, and sprayed the air with an aromatic scent.
Farr fell into a fitful slumber. He dreamt of the Thord. He saw the blunt brown face, heard the heavy voice. The abrasion on his scalp stung like fire, and Farr twisted and turned.
The brown man’s face disappeared like an extinguished light. Farr slept in peace.
V
The following day Farr awoke to the sighing whispering sounds of Iszic music. Fresh clothing hung close at hand, which he donned and then went out on the balcony. The scene was one of magnificent eerie beauty. The sun, Xi Aurigae, had not yet risen. The sky was an electric blue and the sea a plum-colored mirror, darkening to a tarnished black at the horizon. To right and left stood the vast and intricate houses of the Tjiere aristocrats, the foliage in silhouette against the sky, and the pods showing traces of muted colors: dark blue, maroon, deep green, like old velvet. Along the canal dozens of gondolas drifted. Beyond spread the Tjiere bazaar where goods and implements from the industrial systems of South Continent and a few off-world items were distributed by some apparently casual means of exchange not completely clear to Farr.
From within the apartment came the sound of a plucked string. Farr turned to find two attendants carrying in a tall compartmented buffet laden with food. Farr ate wafers, fruits, marine tubers and pastes while Xi Aurigae bulged gradually over the horizon.
When he finished, the attendants reappeared with a promptness that caused Farr a twinge of wry amusement. They removed the buffet, and the Iszic woman who had greeted Farr the previous evening now entered. Today her normal costume of black ribbons was augmented by a complicated headdress of the same black ribbons which concealed the knobs and ridges of her scalp and gave her an unexpectedly attractive semblance. After performing an elaborate ceremonial salute she announced that Zhde Patasz awaited Farr Sainh’s pleasure.
Farr accompanied her to the lobby at the base of the great trunk. Here Zhde Patasz waited in the company of an Iszic whom he introduced as Omon Bozhd, a general agent for the house-growers’ cooperative. Omon Bozhd was taller than Zhde Patasz, his face was rather broader and less keen, and his manner was almost imperceptibly brisker and more direct. He wore bands of blue and black, with black cheek disks, a costume Farr vaguely understood to indicate one of the upper castes. Zhde Patasz’s manner toward Omon Bozhd seemed a peculiar mixture of condescension and respect, insofar as Farr could define it. Farr ascribed Zhde Patasz’s attitude to the discord between Omon Bozhd’s caste and his pallid white skin which was that of a man from one of the southern archipelagoes, or even South Continent, and which lacked the pale blue tinge distinguishing the aristocratic planters of the Pheadh. Farr, sufficiently perplexe
d by the extraordinary attention he was receiving, gave him no great attention.
Zhde Patasz conducted his guests to a charabanc with padded benches, supported by a hundred near-silent whorls of air. There was no attempt at embellishment or decoration, but the pale shell of the structure, grown in one piece along with the curved and buttressed railings, the arched seats and the dangling fringe of dark brown fiber, were sufficiently striking in themselves. A servant in red and brown bands straddled a prong protruding forward and worked the controls. On a low bench to the rear sat two other servants who carried the various instruments, emblems and accoutrements of Zhde Patasz, serving purposes which Farr for the most part could not guess.
At the last minute a fourth Iszic joined the group, a man in blue and gray bands whom Zhde Patasz introduced as Uder Che, his “chief architect.”
“The actual Iszic word,” said Zhde Patasz, “of course is different, and includes an array of other meanings or resonants: biochemist, instructor, poet, precursor, one who lovingly nurtures, much else. The end effect, nonetheless, is the same, and describes one who creates new sorts of houses.”
Behind, as a matter of course, came a trio of the ubiquitous Szecr riding another smaller platform. Farr thought he recognized one of the group as his escort at the time of the Thord raid, the author of the various indignities to which he had been subjected. But he could not be certain. To his alien eye all Iszic looked alike. He toyed with the idea of denouncing the man to Zhde Patasz, who had sworn to have him drowned. Farr restrained the urge; Zhde Patasz might feel impelled to make good his word.
The platform glided off under the massive tree-dwellings at the center of town, out along a road which led beside a series of small fields. Here grew the gray-green shoots Farr recognized as infant houses. “Class AAA and AABR houses for the work-supervisors of South Continent,” explained Zhde Patasz with a rather patronizing air. “Yonder are four- and five-pod trees for the artisans. Each district has its unique requirements, the description of which I will not burden you. Our off-world exports of course are not of such critical concern, since we only sell a few standard and easily grown structures.”