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

by Jack Vance

  “Where is the staging chamber?”

  “Way down the levels, behind the Bank. Too low for me to work. I got more ambition.” For emphasis he spat on the floor.

  “A custodian is there, you say?”

  “An old junior executive named Dodkin. He’s been there a hundred years.”

  Luke dropped thirty levels aboard an express lift, then rode the down escalator another six levels to Sublevel 48. He emerged on a dingy landing, a low-perquisite nutrition hall to one side, a lift-attendants dormitory to the other. The air carried the familiar reek of the deep underground, a compound of dank concrete, phenol, mercaptans, a discreet but pervasive human smell. Luke realized with bitter amusement that he had returned to familiar territory.

  Following instructions grudgingly detailed by the under-file clerk, Luke stepped aboard a chattering man-belt labeled ‘902—Tanks’. Presently he came to a brightly-lit landing marked by a black and yellow sign: Information Tanks: Technical Station. Inside the door a number of mechanics sat on stools, dangling their legs, lounging, chaffering.

  Luke changed to a side-belt, even more dilapidated, almost in a state of disrepair. At the second junction—this unmarked—he left the man-belt, turned down a narrow passage toward a far yellow bulb. The passage was silent, almost sinister in its disassociation from the life of the City.

  Below the single yellow bulb a dented metal door was daubed with a sign:

  Information Tanks: Staging Chamber

  No Admittance

  Luke tested the door and found it locked. He rapped and waited.

  Silence shrouded the passage, broken only by a faint sound from the distant man-belt.

  Luke rapped again, and now from within came a shuffle of movement. The door slid back, a pale placid eye looked forth. A rather weak voice inquired, “Yes sir?”

  Luke attempted a manner of easy authority. “You’re Dodkin the custodian?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m Dodkin.”

  “Open up, please, I’d like to come in.”

  The pale eye blinked in mild wonder. “This is only the staging room, sir. There’s nothing here to see. The storage complexes are around to the front; if you’ll go back to the junction—”

  Luke broke into the flow of words. “I’ve just come down from Files; it’s you I want to see.”

  The pale eye blinked once more; the door slid open. Luke entered the long narrow concrete-floored staging room. Conduits dropped from the ceiling by the thousands, bent, twisted and looped, entered the wall, each conduit labeled with a dangling metal tag. At one end of the room was a grimy cot where Dodkin apparently slept; at the other end was a long black desk: the monitoring machine? Dodkin himself was small and stooped, but moved nimbly in spite of his evident age. His white hair was stained but well brushed; his gaze, weak and watery, was without guile, and fixed on Luke with an astronomer’s detachment. He opened his mouth, and words quavered forth in spate, with Luke vainly seeking to interrupt.

  “Not often do visitors come from above. Is something wrong?”

  “No, nothing wrong.”

  “They should tell me if aught isn’t correct, or perhaps there’s been new policies of which I haven’t been notified.”

  “Nothing like that, Mr. Dodkin. I’m just a visitor—”

  “I don’t move out as much as I used to, but last week I—”

  Luke pretended to listen while Dodkin maundered on in obbligato to Luke’s bitter thoughts. The continuity of directives leading from Fedor Miskitman to Lavester Limon to Judiath Ripp, by-passing Parris deVicker to Sewell Sepp and the Chairman of the Board, then returning down the classifications, down the levels through the Policy Evaluation Board, the Bureau of Abstracts, the File Clerk’s Office—the continuity had finally ended; the thread he had traced with such forlorn hope seemed about to lose itself. Well, Luke told himself, he had accepted Miskitman’s challenge; he had failed, and now was faced with his original choice. Submit, carry the wretched shovel back and forth to the warehouse, or defy the order, throw down his shovel, assert himself as a free-willed man, and be declassified, to become a junior executive like old Dodkin—who, sucking and wheezing, still rambled on in compulsive loquacity.

  “…something incorrect, I’d never know, because who ever tells me? From year end to year end I’m quiet down here and there’s no one to relieve me, and I only get to the up-side rarely, once a fortnight or so, but then once you’ve seen the sky, does it ever change? And the sun, the marvel of it, but once you’ve seen a marvel—”

  Luke drew a deep breath. “I’m investigating an item of information which reached the File Clerk’s Office. I wonder if you can help me.”

  Dodkin blinked his pale eyes. “What item is this, sir? Naturally I’ll be glad to help in any way, even though—”

  “The item dealt with economy in the use of metals and metal tools.”

  Dodkin nodded. “I remember the item perfectly.”

  It was Luke’s turn to stare. “You remember this item?”

  “Certainly. It was, if I may say so, one of my little interpolations. A personal observation which I included among the other material.”

  “Would you be kind enough to explain?”

  Dodkin would be only too pleased to explain. “Last week I had occasion to visit an old friend over by Claxton Abbey, a fine Conformist, well adapted and cooperative, even if, alas, like myself, a junior executive. Of course, I mean no disrespect to good Davy Evans, like myself about ready for the pension—though little enough they allow nowadays…”

  “The interpolation?”

  “Yes, indeed. On my way home along the man-belt—on Sublevel 32, as I recall—I saw a workman of some sort—perhaps an electrical technician—toss several tools into a crevice on his way off-shift. I thought, now there’s a slovenly act—disgraceful! Suppose the man forgot where he had hidden his tools? They’d be lost! Our reserves of raw metallic ore are very low—that’s common knowledge—and every year the ocean water becomes weaker and more dilute. That man had no regard for the future of Organization. We should cherish our natural resources, do you not agree, sir?”

  “I agree, naturally. But—”

  “In any event, I returned here and added a memorandum to that effect into the material which goes up to the Assistant File Clerk. I thought that perhaps he’d be impressed and say a word to someone with influence—perhaps the Head File Clerk. In any event, there’s the tale of my interpolation. Naturally I attempted to give it weight by citing the inevitable diminution of our natural resources.”

  “I see,” said Luke. “And do you frequently include interpolations into the day’s information?”

  “Occasionally,” said Dodkin, “and sometimes, I’m glad to say, people more important than I share my views. Only three weeks ago I was delayed several minutes on my way between Claxton Abbey and Kittsville on Sublevel 30. I made a note of it, and last week I noticed that construction has commenced on a new eight-lane man-belt between the two points, a really magnificent and modern undertaking. A month ago I noticed a shameless group of girls daubed like savages with cosmetic. What a waste! I told myself, what vanity and folly! I hinted as much in a little message to the Under-File Clerk. I seem to be just one of the many with these views, for two days later a general order discouraging these petty vanities was issued by the Secretary of Education.”

  “Interesting,” Luke muttered. “Interesting indeed. How do you include these ‘interpolations’ into the information?”

  Dodkin hobbled nimbly to the monitoring machine, beckoned. “The output from the tanks comes through here. I print a bit on the typewriter and tuck it in where the Under-Clerk will see it.”

  “Admirable,” sighed Luke. “A man with your intelligence should have ranked higher in the Status List.”

  Dodkin shook his placid old head. “I don’t have the ambition nor the ability. I’m fit for just this simple job, and only barely. I’d take my pension tomorrow, only the Chief File Clerk asked me to stay on a bit u
ntil he could find a man to take my place. No one seems to like the quiet down here.”

  “Perhaps you’ll have your pension sooner than you think,” said Luke.

  Luke strolled along the glossy tube, ringed with alternate pale and dark refractions like a bull’s-eye. Ahead was motion, the glint of metal, the mutter of voices. The entire crew of Tunnel Gang No. 3 stood idle and restless.

  Fedor Miskitman waved his arm with uncharacteristic vehemence. “Grogatch! At your post! You’ve held up the entire crew!” His heavy face was suffused with pink. “Four minutes already we’re behind schedule.”

  Luke strolled closer.

  “Hurry!” bellowed Miskitman. “What do you think this is, a blasted promenade?”

  If anything Luke slackened his pace. Fedor Miskitman lowered his big bull-head, staring balefully. Luke halted in front of him.

  “Where’s your shovel?” Fedor Miskitman asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Luke. “I’m here on the job. It’s up to you to provide tools.”

  Fedor Miskitman stared unbelievingly. “Didn’t you take it to the warehouse?”

  “Yes,” said Luke. “I took it there. If you want it, go get it.”

  Fedor Miskitman opened his mouth. He roared, “Get off the job!”

  “Just as you like,” said Luke. “You’re the foreman.”

  “Don’t come back!” bellowed Miskitman. “I’ll report you before the day is out. You won’t gain status from me, I tell you that!”

  “‘Status’?” Luke laughed. “Go ahead. Cut me down to junior executive. Do you think I care? No. And I’ll tell you why. There’s going to be a change or two made. When things seem different to you, think of me.”

  Luke Grogatch, Junior Executive, said good-by to the retiring custodian of the staging chamber. “Don’t thank me, not at all,” said Luke. “I’m here by my own doing. In fact—well, never mind all that. Go up-side, sit in the sun, enjoy the air.”

  Finally Dodkin, in mingled joy and sorrow, hobbled for the last time down the musty passageway to the chattering man-belt.

  Luke was alone in the staging chamber. Around his ears hummed the near-inaudible rush of information. From behind the wall came the sense of a million relays clicking, twitching, meshing; of cylinders and trace-tubes and memory-lanes whirring with activity. At the monitoring machine the output streamed forth on a reel of yellow tape. Nearby rested the typewriter.

  Luke seated himself. His first interpolation…what should it be? Freedom for the Nonconformists? Tunnel-gang foremen to carry tools for the entire crew? A higher expense account for junior executives?

  Luke rose to his feet and scratched his chin. Power…to be subtly applied. How should he use it? To secure rich perquisites for himself? Yes, of course, this he would accomplish, by devious means. And then—what? Luke thought of the billions of men and women living and working in the Organization. He looked at the typewriter. He could shape their lives, change their thoughts, disorganize the Organization. Was this wise? Or right? Or even amusing?

  Luke sighed. In his mind’s eye he saw himself standing on a high terrace overlooking the city. Luke Grogatch, Chairman of the Board. Not impossible, quite feasible. A little at a time, the correct interpolations…Luke Grogatch, Chairman of the Board. Yes. This for a starter. But it was necessary to move cautiously, with great delicacy…

  Luke seated himself at the typewriter and began to pick out his first interpolation.

  Afterword to “Dodkin’s Job”

  After my eyes went, my life became much simplified. Our travels became a thing of the past, apart from the occasional junket to a convention. I continued to write, although since longhand was obviously no longer possible, I learned to use a word processor. John modified computers with special keyboards I could feel my way around, and with what little eyesight I had left I could make out words on the monitor if they were big enough—enlarged to about ten words per screen! Eventually, however, I became totally blind and had to rely on the computer’s voice synthesizer to read back what I had written. I wrote most of Lyonesse this way, and everything after that—Cadwal, Night Lamp, Ports of Call and Lurulu. I have no way of knowing for certain, but I may well be the only writer who bypassed the typewriter completely, going straight from longhand to computer! Still, the computer was never a perfect solution for me and writing became an increasingly laborious process as the last ray of my eyesight went glimmering. I never considered dictating my novels to tape…After Lurulu I retired from writing fiction. Finishing Lurulu—which I like to call my “swansong”—was like going through triage…That guy who wrote all that junk for so many years—he seems like another person!

  —Jack Vance