by Jack Vance
“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 suns shine 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 bring 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 protégés, 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 space-port. 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 honest 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 torn 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 your 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!”
Afterword to “The Devil on Salvation Bluff”
Who has been influential upon my development as a writer? Who indeed? I don’t know. To name some names, I admire C. L. Moore from the old Weird Tales magazine. As a boy I was quite affected by the prose of Clark Ashton Smith. I revere P. G. Wodehouse. I also admire the works of Jeffery Farnol, who wrote splendid adventure books but who is today unknown except to connoisseurs of swashbuckler fiction. There are perhaps others—Edgar Rice Burroughs and his wonderful Barsoomian atmosphere; Lord Dunsany and his delicate fairylands; Baum’s Oz books, which regrettably are of less and less interest to today’s children.
—Jack Vance
Where Hesperus Falls
My servants will not allow me to kill myself. I have sought self-extinction by every method, from throat-cutting to the intricate routines of Yoga, but so far they have thwarted my most ingenious efforts.
I grow ever more annoyed. What is more personal, more truly one’s own, than a man’s own life? It is his basic possession, to retain or relinquish as he sees fit. If they continue to frustrate me, someone other than myself will suffer. I guarantee this.
My name is Henry Revere. My appearance is not remarkable, my intelligence is hardly noteworthy, and my emotions run evenly. I live in a house of synthetic shell, decorated with wood and jade, and surrounded by a pleasant garden. The view to one side is the ocean, the other, a valley sprinkled with houses similar to my own. I am by no means a prisoner, although my servants supervise me with the most minute care. Their first concern is to prevent my suicide, just as mine is to achieve it.
It is a game in which they have all the advantages—a detailed knowledge of my psychology, corridors behind the walls from which they can observe me, and a host of technical devices. They are men of my own race, in fact my own blood. But they are immeasurably more subtle than I.
My latest attempt was clever enough—although I had tried it before without success. I bit deeply into my tongue and thought to infect the cut with a pinch of garden loam. The servants either noticed me placing the soil in my mouth or observed the tension of my jaw.
They acted without warning. I stood on the terrace, hoping the soreness in my mouth might go undetected. Then, without conscious hiatus, I found myself reclining on a pallet, the dirt removed, the wound healed. They had used a thought-damping ray to anaesthetize me, and their sure medical techniques, aided by my almost invulnerable constitution, defeated the scheme.
As usual, I concealed my annoyance and went to my study. This is a room I have designed to my own taste, as far as possible from the complex curvilinear style which expresses the spirit of the age.
Almost immediately the person in charge of the household entered the room. I call him Dr. Jones because I cannot pronounce his name. He is taller than I, slender and fine-boned. His features are small, beautifully shaped, except for his chin which to my mind is too sharp and long, although I understand that such a chin is a contemporary criterion of beauty. His eyes are very large, slightly protuberant; his skin is clean of hair, by reason both of the racial tendency toward hairlessness, and the depilation which every baby undergoes upon birth.
Dr. Jones’ clothes are vastly fanciful. He wears a body mantle of green film and a dozen vari-colored disks which spin slowly around his body like an axis. The symbolism of these disks, with their various colors, patterns, and directions of spin, are discussed in a chapter of my History of Man—so I will not be discursive here. The disks serve also as gravity deflectors, and are used commonly in personal flight.
Dr. Jones made me a polite salute, and seated himself upon an invisible cushion of anti-gravity. He spoke in the contemporary speech, which I could understand well enough, but whose nasal trills, gutturals, sibilants and indescribable fricatives, I could never articulate.
“Well, Henry Revere, how goes it?” he asked.
In my pidgin-speech I made a non-committal reply.
“I understand,” said Dr. Jones, “that once again you undertook to deprive us of your company.”
I nodded. “As usual I failed,” I said.
Dr. Jones smiled slightly. The race had evolved away from laughter, which, as I understand, originated in the cave-man’s bellow of relief at the successful clubbing of an adversary.
“You are self-centered,” Dr. Jones told me. “You consider only your own pleasure.”
“My life is my own. If I want to end it, you do great wrong in stopping me.”
Dr. Jones sh
ook his head. “But you are not your own property. You are the ward of the race. How much better if you accepted this fact!”
“I can’t agree,” I told him.
“It is necessary that you so adjust yourself.” He studied me ruminatively. “You are something over ninety-six thousand years old. In my tenure at this house you have attempted suicide no less than a hundred times. No method has been either too crude or too painstaking.”
He paused to watch me but I said nothing. He spoke no more than the truth, and for this reason I was allowed no object sharp enough to cut, long enough to strangle, noxious enough to poison, heavy enough to crush—even if I could have escaped surveillance long enough to use any deadly weapon.
I was ninety-six thousand, two hundred and thirty-two years old, and life long ago had lost that freshness and anticipation which makes it enjoyable. I found existence not so much unpleasant, as a bore. Events repeated themselves with a deadening familiarity. It was like watching a rather dull drama for the thousandth time: the boredom becomes almost tangible and nothing seems more desirable than oblivion.
Ninety-six thousand, two hundred and two years ago, as a student of bio-chemistry, I had offered myself as a guinea pig for certain tests involving glands and connective tissue. An incalculable error had distorted the experiment, with my immortality as the perverse result. To this day I appear not an hour older than my age at the time of the experiment, when I was so terribly young.
Needless to say, I suffered tragedy as my parents, my friends, my wife, and finally my children grew old and died, while I remained a young man. So it has been. I have seen untold generations come and go; faces flit before me like snowflakes as I sit here. Nations have risen and fallen, empires extended, collapsed, forgotten. Heroes have lived and died; seas drained, deserts irrigated, glaciers melted, mountains levelled. Almost a hundred thousand years I have persisted, for the most part effacing myself, studying humanity. My great work has been the History of Man.
Although I have lived unchanging, across the years the race evolved. Men and women grew taller, and more slender. Every century saw features more refined, brains larger, more flexible. As a result, I, Henry Revere, homo sapiens of the twentieth century, today am a freakish survival, somewhat more advanced than the Neanderthal, but essentially a precursor to the true Man of today.