Hard-Luck Diggings: The Early Jack Vance, Volume One

by Jack Vance

  Raymond nodded. “Let’s go on up, Mary; we have our duty.”

  Mary wiped her eyes. “I suppose they’re God’s creatures, but I can’t see why they should be.” She glanced at Raymond. “And don’t tell me about God moving in a mysterious way.”

  “Okay,” said Raymond. They started to clamber up over the rocks, up toward Old Fleetville. The valley became smaller and smaller below. Maude swung up to the zenith and seemed to hang there.

  They paused for breath. Mary mopped her brow. “Am I crazy, or is Maude getting larger?”

  Raymond looked. “Maybe it is swelling a little.”

  “It’s either a nova or we’re falling into it!”

  “I suppose anything could happen in this system,” sighed Raymond. “If there’s any regularity in Glory’s orbit it’s defied analysis.”

  “We might very easily fall into one of the suns,” said Mary thoughtfully.

  Raymond shrugged. “The system’s been milling around for quite a few million years. That’s our best guarantee.”

  “Our only guarantee.” She clenched her fists. “If there were only some certainty somewhere—something you could look at and say, this is immutable, this is changeless, this is something you can count on. But there’s nothing! It’s enough to drive a person crazy!”

  Raymond put on a glassy smile. “Don’t, dear. The Colony’s got too much trouble like that already.”

  Mary sobered instantly. “Sorry…I’m sorry, Raymond. Truly.”

  “It’s got me worried,” said Raymond. “I was talking to Director Birch at the Rest Home yesterday.”

  “How many now?”

  “Almost three thousand. More coming in every day.” He sighed. “There’s something about Glory that grinds at a person’s nerves—no question about it.”

  Mary took a deep breath, pressed Raymond’s hand. “We’ll fight it, darling, and beat it! Things will fall into routine; we’ll straighten everything out.”

  Raymond bowed his head. “With the Lord’s help.”

  “There goes Maude,” said Mary. “We’d better get up to Old Fleetville while there’s still light.”

  A few minutes later they met a dozen goats, herded by as many scraggly children. Some wore rags; some wore goat-skin clothes; others ran around naked, and the wind blew on their washboard ribs.

  On the other side of the trail they met another herd of goats—perhaps a hundred, with one urchin in attendance.

  “That’s the Flit way,” said Raymond, “twelve kids herd twelve goats and one kid herds a hundred.”

  “They’re surely victims of some mental disease…Is insanity hereditary?”

  “That’s a moot point…I can smell Old Fleetville.”

  Maude left the sky at an angle which promised a long twilight. With aching legs Raymond and Mary plodded up into the village. Behind came the goats and the children, mingled without discrimination.

  Mary said in a disgusted voice, “They leave New Town—pretty, clean New Town—to move up into this filth.”

  “Don’t step on that goat!” Raymond guided her past the gnawed carcass which lay on the trail. Mary bit her lip.

  They found the chief sitting on a rock, staring into the air. He greeted them with neither surprise nor pleasure. A group of children were building a pyre of brush and dry spile.

  “What’s going on?” asked Raymond with forced cheer. “A feast? A dance?”

  “Four men, two women. They go crazy, they die. We burn them.”

  Mary looked at the pyre. “I didn’t know you cremated your dead.”

  “This time we burn them.” He reached out, touched Mary’s glossy golden hair. “You be my wife for a while.”

  Mary stepped back, and said in a quivering voice, “No, thanks. I’m married to Raymond.”

  “All the time?”

  “All the time.”

  The chief shook his head. “You are crazy. Pretty soon you die.”

  Raymond said sternly, “Why did you break the canal? Ten times we’ve fixed it; ten times the Flits came down in the dark and pulled down the banks.”

  The chief deliberated. “The canal is crazy.”

  “It’s not crazy. It helps irrigate, helps the farmers.”

  “It goes too much the same.”

  “You mean, it’s straight?”

  “Straight? Straight? What word is that?”

  “In one line—in one direction.”

  The chief rocked back and forth. “Look—mountain. Straight?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Sun—straight?”

  “Look here—”

  “My leg.” The chief extended his left leg, knobby and covered with hair. “Straight?”

  “No,” sighed Raymond. “Your leg is not straight.”

  “Then why make canal straight? Crazy.” He sat back. The topic was disposed of. “Why do you come?”

  “Well,” said Raymond. “Too many Flits die. We want to help you.”

  “That’s all right. It’s not me, not you.”

  “We don’t want you to die. Why don’t you live in New Town?”

  “Flits get crazy, jump off the rocks.” He rose to his feet. “Come along, there’s food.”

  Mastering their repugnance, Raymond and Mary nibbled on bits of grilled goat. Without ceremony, four bodies were tossed into the fire. Some of the Flits began to dance.

  Mary nudged Raymond. “You can understand a culture by the pattern of its dances. Watch.”

  Raymond watched. “I don’t see any pattern. Some take a couple hops, sit down; others run in circles; some just flap their arms.”

  Mary whispered, “They’re all crazy. Crazy as sandpipers.”

  Raymond nodded. “I believe you.”

  Rain began to fall. Red Robundus burnt the eastern sky but never troubled to come up. The rain became hail. Mary and Raymond went into a hut. Several men and women joined them, and with nothing better to do, noisily began loveplay.

  Mary whispered in agony. “They’re going to do it right in front of us! They don’t have any shame!”

  Raymond said grimly, “I’m not going out in that rain. They can do anything they want.”

  Mary cuffed one of the men who sought to remove her shirt; he jumped back. “Just like dogs!” she gasped.

  “No repressions there,” said Raymond apathetically. “Repressions mean psychoses.”

  “Then I’m psychotic,” sniffed Mary, “because I have repressions!”

  “I have too.”

  The hail stopped; the wind blew the clouds through the notch; the sky was clear. Raymond and Mary left the hut with relief.

  The pyre was drenched; four charred bodies lay in the ashes; no one heeded them.

  Raymond said thoughtfully, “It’s on the tip of my tongue—the verge of my mind…”

  “What?”

  “The solution to this whole Flit mess.”

  “Well?”

  “It’s something like this: The Flits are crazy, irrational, irresponsible.”

  “Agreed.”

  “The Inspector’s coming. We’ve got to demonstrate that the Colony poses no threat to the aborigines—the Flits, in this case.”

  “We can’t force the Flits to improve their living standards.”

  “No. But if we could make them sane; if we could even make a start against their mass psychosis…”

  Mary looked rather numb. “It sounds like a terrible job.”

  Raymond shook his head. “Use rigorous thinking, dear. It’s a real problem: a group of aborigines too psychotic to keep themselves alive. But we’ve got to keep them alive. The solution: remove the psychoses.”

  “You make it sound sensible, but how in heaven’s name shall we begin?”

  The chief came spindle-legged down from the rocks, chewing at a bit of goat-intestine. “We’ve got to begin with the chief,” said Raymond.

  “That’s like belling the cat.”

  “Salt,” said Raymond. “He’d skin his grandmother for
salt.”

  Raymond approached the chief, who seemed surprised to find him still in the village. Mary watched from the background.

  Raymond argued; the chief looked first shocked, then sullen. Raymond expounded, expostulated. He made his telling point: salt—as much as the chief could carry back up the hill. The chief stared down at Raymond from his seven feet, threw up his hands, walked away, sat down on a rock, chewed at the length of gut.

  Raymond rejoined Mary. “He’s coming.”

  Director Birch used his heartiest manner toward the chief. “We’re honored! It’s not often we have visitors so distinguished. We’ll have you right in no time!”

  The chief had been scratching aimless curves in the ground with his staff. He asked Raymond mildly, “When do I get the salt?”

  “Pretty soon now. First you’ve got to go with Director Birch.”

  “Come along,” said Director Birch. “We’ll have a nice ride.”

  The chief turned and strode off toward the Grand Montagne. “No, no!” cried Raymond. “Come back here!” The chief lengthened his stride.

  Raymond ran forward, tackled the knobby knees. The chief fell like a loose sack of garden tools. Director Birch administered a shot of sedative, and presently the shambling, dull-eyed chief was secure inside the ambulance.

  Brother Raymond and Sister Mary watched the ambulance trundle down the road. Thick dust roiled up, hung in the green sunlight. The shadows seemed tinged with bluish-purple.

  Mary said in a trembling voice, “I do so hope we’re doing the right thing…The poor chief looked so—pathetic. Like one of his own goats trussed up for slaughter.”

  Raymond said, “We can only do what we think best, dear.”

  “But is it the best?”

  The ambulance had disappeared; the dust had settled. Over the Grand Montagne lightning flickered from a black-and-green thunderhead. Faro shone like a cat’s-eye at the zenith. The Clock—the staunch Clock, the good, sane Clock—said twelve noon.

  “The best,” said Mary thoughtfully. “A relative word…”

  Raymond said, “If we clear up the Flit psychoses—if we can teach them clean, orderly lives—surely it’s for the best.” And he added after a moment, “Certainly it’s best for the Colony.”

  Mary sighed. “I suppose so. But the chief looked so stricken.”

  “We’ll go see him tomorrow,” said Raymond. “Right now, sleep!”

  When Raymond and Mary awoke, a pink glow seeped through the drawn shades: Robundus, possibly with Maude. “Look at the clock,” yawned Mary. “Is it day or night?”

  Raymond raised up on his elbow. Their clock was built into the wall, a replica of the Clock on Salvation Bluff, and guided by radio pulses from the central movement. “It’s six in the afternoon—ten after.”

  They rose and dressed in their neat puttees and white shirts. They ate in the meticulous kitchenette, then Raymond telephoned the Rest Home.

  Director Birch’s voice came crisp from the sound box. “God help you, Brother Raymond.”

  “God help you, Director. How’s the chief?”

  Director Birch hesitated. “We’ve had to keep him under sedation. He’s got pretty deep-seated troubles.”

  “Can you help him? It’s important.”

  “All we can do is try. We’ll have a go at him tonight.”

  “Perhaps we’d better be there,” said Mary.

  “If you like…Eight o’clock?”

  “Good.”

  The Rest Home was a long, low building on the outskirts of Glory City. New wings had recently been added; a set of temporary barracks could also be seen to the rear.

  Director Birch greeted them with a harassed expression.

  “We’re so pressed for room and time; is this Flit so terribly important?”

  Raymond gave him assurance that the chief’s sanity was a matter of grave concern for everyone.

  Director Birch threw up his hands. “Colonists are clamoring for therapy. They’ll have to wait, I suppose.”

  Mary asked soberly, “There’s still—the trouble?”

  “The Home was built with five hundred beds,” said Director Birch. “We’ve got thirty-six hundred patients now; not to mention the eighteen hundred colonists we’ve evacuated back to Earth.”

  “Surely things are getting better?” asked Raymond. “The Colony’s over the hump; there’s no need for anxiety.”

  “Anxiety doesn’t seem to be the trouble.”

  “What is the trouble?”

  “New environment, I suppose. We’re Earth-type people; the surroundings are strange.”

  “But they’re not really!” argued Mary. “We’ve made this place the exact replica of an Earth community. One of the nicer sort. There are Earth houses and Earth flowers and Earth trees.”

  “Where is the chief?” asked Brother Raymond.

  “Well—right now, in the maximum-security ward.”

  “Is he violent?”

  “Not unfriendly. He just wants to get out. Destructive! I’ve never seen anything like it!”

  “Have you any ideas—even preliminary?”

  Director Birch shook his head grimly. “We’re still trying to classify him. Look.” He handed Raymond a report. “That’s his zone survey.”

  “Intelligence zero.” Raymond looked up. “I know he’s not that stupid.”

  “You’d hardly think so. It’s a vague referent, actually. We can’t use the usual tests on him—thematic perception and the like; they’re weighted for our own cultural background. But these tests here—” he tapped the report “—they’re basic; we use them on animals—fitting pegs into holes; matching up colors; detecting discordant patterns; threading mazes.”

  “And the chief?”

  Director Birch sadly shook his head. “If it were possible to have a negative score, he’d have it.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, for instance, instead of matching a small round peg into a small round hole, first he broke the star-shaped peg and forced it in sideways, and then he broke the board.”

  “But why?”

  Mary said, “Let’s go see him.”

  “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 Director 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. “I 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 instanc
e—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 terrible, 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 now 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.”