Ports of Call

by Jack Vance

  “It is a sad tale,” said Myron. “What will you do when they turn you loose?”

  “I have been pondering this question myself,” said the captive. “I have now come to a decision. If, when set free, I were to approach the Junior Guardian — you can see him lurking yonder: the fat boy in the square black hat — if, by blistering his arse with a good hazel switch, I were able to right all the ills of the universe, then I would gladly pay the price of another day in the cage. But this is not possible; evil and deceit are deeply ingrained into the fabric of being. My efforts would not efface them. For this reason I shall not trouble to beat the Junior Guardian. Instead, I shall walk to the Owlswyck Inn and there consume a muscadine tart and a pint of bitter ale. Then I shall find my wagon and drive from town. If the Junior Guardian stands nearby, I shall stroll past, oblivious to his existence. Revenge is sweet, but trundling home under the stars of night is sweeter.”

  Myron ruminated a moment, looking off across the plaza, now awash with pale light reflected from the sunset sky. He said, “That is a reasonable program, and it will help me deal with my own affairs.”

  The captive gave a glum nod. “In the end, revenge is not worth the trouble.”

  “Correct,” said Myron. “Unless, of course, you can get the deed done and escape without detection.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “I take it that you recommend the Owlswyck Inn?”

  “Yes; the tarts are tasty. The ale is good. The house is Category III and often quite jolly. Cross the plaza, turn into Melcher Lane, proceed sixty-two yards; there you will come upon the Owlswyck Inn.”

  “Thank you.” Myron turned away from the cage. Clouds in the western sky glowed in shades of vermilion, magenta and pale green: a medley of unusual colors which for Myron emphasized the peculiar ambience of Port Tanjee.

  2

  Myron crossed the plaza, entered Melcher Lane and saw ahead a sign overhanging the street:

  OWLSWYCK INN

  A hostelry of grand tradition.

  Comestibles, Noble Ale, Music and Dancing on the occasion.

  Category III. Ladies welcome.

  Heavy swinging doors allowed Myron entry into a large public taproom, illuminated by fading sunset light shining through high windows. Myron found a seat at a long table at the side of the room, where for the time, at least, he sat alone. Similar tables surrounded a central area with a waxed wooden floor for the convenience of dancers. Against the opposite wall a dais supported a lectern, where someone might address the company, if he were so inclined. An odd custom, thought Myron, but then this was an odd world.

  A serving boy appeared at his elbow. Myron ordered a pint of ale and asked to see a menu. The boy gave a patronizing chuckle. “Ale you shall have without delay, but for ‘menu’ you must read the board yonder.” He indicated a blackboard hanging over the bar. “No fandangles at the Owlswyck Inn!”

  Myron read the list of offerings. “What is the muscadine tart?”

  “It is very good, sir: duck liver, purple grape and parsley in a crust, with a garnish of boiled mash.”

  “That should do me well enough.”

  “Take my advice,” said the boy, “start your meal with a pot of our fine burgoo, which will appease the vesicles of your stomach. The price is seven dinkets for a pot; it is a bargain you will never forget!”

  “Very well; I shall try a pot of burgoo, but first the ale.”

  When the boy served the ale, Myron asked the purpose of the dais and lectern. “It seems a bit out of place.”

  The boy was amused by Myron’s lack of sophistication. “Are there no such facilities on your own world?”

  “Nothing like this, in the middle of the tavern.”

  “Well then — it is used by the Constabulary and the magistrate on duty.” He directed Myron’s attention to a sign on the wall over Myron’s head. “Have you read the notice?”

  “No. It escaped my attention.”

  “Then read it, since it explains how things go at Owlswyck Inn.”

  Myron turned and read the notice:

  LOCAL ORDINANCES STRICTLY ENFORCED. OBSTREPERY FORBIDDEN. WINKLERS AND SKATIFINCHES BE WARNED! ALL ATTEMPTS AT INSEMINATION MUST BE LICENSED. DANCERS ARE ENJOINED TO GRACE AND DIGNITY; THESE TRAITS ARE APPROVED, SINCE THEY CONTRIBUTE TO THE BEAUTY OF THE DANCE.

  “Hm,” said Myron. “It seems that you enjoy lively times at the Owlswyck.”

  “In moderation, sir. The constables are quick to detect excess, and the magistrate reads from his black book without compunction.”

  Once again Myron resolved to conduct himself with maximum discretion. He tasted the ale, and found it strong, bitter and a trifle frowsty — still, all in all, palatable. He looked about the room. The clientele was mixed. He saw local townsmen, folk from the back-country wearing leather trousers and blue twill jackets. There were a few off-world tourists and businessmen, also a half-dozen spacemen sitting at the bar. The Port Tanjee terminal was a transit and trans-shipment node from which feeder routes radiated to worlds off the beaten track: hence the number of spacemen who came to drink ale at the Owlswyck Inn.

  The boy brought a pot of burgoo, along with a dish of flatbread. Myron dipped his spoon into the pot and cautiously tasted. He winced and drank a swallow of ale. He tasted again. It seemed certain that the cook, for the enhancement of zest, had used his most original spices. Myron heaved a sigh. The best policy was to eat and ask no questions; he therefore set to work upon the burgoo, from time to time swashing ale around his mouth.

  The boy served the muscadine tart, which Myron devoured without qualms, attempting no analysis of the constituents.

  The tavern began to fill. Women appeared, in groups, alone, with friends or husbands: some young, some old. Myron saw nothing to interest him, and was also given pause by the possibility of inadvertent marriage.

  The serving boy brought four men, newly arrived, toward the vacant places at Myron’s table. Myron watched their approach with interest. They were a disparate group, though to judge by their garments all were spacemen. The first, and the oldest, was spare, erect, somewhat taller than ordinary, with patrician features, crisp locks of gray hair, a serene, if somewhat remote, expression.

  Next came a short thick man, pink-skinned, with innocent blue eyes in a round amiable face. A few lank strands of blond hair lay across his scalp. He walked with delicate precision, placing his short broad feet with care, as if to minimize the discomfort of ill-fitting boots.

  The third man was slim, young, and moved with the mercurial flamboyance of a harlequin. He was inordinately handsome, with a heart-shaped face, soft black curls, long black eyelashes, a crooked mouth. He loped across the floor on long bent-kneed strides, looking from side to side with head tilted, as if watchful for the unusual or the extraordinary.

  The fourth of the group, once again, was notably different from each of his fellows. He was very tall, very thin, sallow of skin, with a severe long countenance. Black hair retreated from a high forehead; below were a long nose, a prim mouth, a long chin. He wore a black suit of magisterial cut, so tight that the arms and legs were like black pipes.

  The four seated themselves, nodded politely to Myron and ordered ale from the serving boy.

  Myron thought them an interesting group and presently fell into conversation with the short pink man, who identified himself as ‘Wingo’, Chief Steward aboard the Glicca, a freighter only just arrived at Port Tanjee. “I am Chief Steward, true enough,” said Wingo, “but that is not the whole story. I am also cook, bottle-washer, janitor, vermin exterminator, surgeon, nurse-maid, and general dog’s-body. When we carry passengers, I become social director and psychiatrist, as well. We have had lively times aboard the Glicca!”

  Wingo introduced his shipmates. “This is Captain Maloof. He may seem austere, with all the solemnity of a Drensky Archimandrite, but do not be deceived; when it comes to conniving the shipping agent or questing for lost treasure, or feeding bon-bons to pretty passenger
s, Captain Maloof is on the job.”

  The captain chuckled. “That is a blurred portrait. As usual, Wingo’s ideas are extravagant.”

  Wingo gave his head a grave shake. “Not so! I have learned that truth sometimes may best be conveyed in glancing tangents. The ‘what-might-be’ and the ‘what-should-have-been’ are always more interesting than the ‘what-truly-is’ — and often more important.”

  “So it may be,” said Myron. “In regard to Captain Maloof, I will reserve judgment.”

  “That is tactfully put,” said Wingo. “But let me direct your attention to the man beside him, now quaffing ale with the insolent grace of a fallen angel. His name is Fay Schwatzendale; aboard the Glicca he is Chief Engineer, also First Engineer, Second Engineer, oiler, wiper and general technician. He is a mathematician and performs complicated sums in his head, and furnishes the results on the instant, whether they are right or wrong.”

  “That is most impressive!” said Myron. He glanced across the table to where Schwatzendale sat with head tilted, smiling a slantwise smile. Myron said, “He would seem almost as versatile as you!”

  “Far more than I!” declared Wingo. “Schwatzendale can play the concertina and also the spoons. He can render ‘The Ballad of Rosie Maloney’ from beginning to end. This is only a start. Schwatzendale is a practitioner of probability. He works the laws of chance as deftly as I toss a soufflé. He thrives on five-star monte, stingaree, layabout, kachinka, and any other whimsies of fate from which he thinks he can wring a profit.”

  “It’s quite beyond my understanding.” said Myron. He signaled to the serving boy and ordered a round of ale. Then he indicated the tall thin gentleman in the tight black suit at the end of the table. “What of your other shipmate: is he also a virtuoso?”

  Wingo spoke in a measured voice: “That is Hilmar Krim, the supercargo, and the answer to your question is a tentative ‘yes’, especially if Krim himself is to be believed. He has been with us three months, and we are only gradually sorting him out. His field is jurisprudence and his learning would seem to be profound; in fact, he is compiling material for a work to be entitled: ‘Comparative Gaean Jurisprudence’. Am I right, Krim?”

  “Possibly,” said Krim. “I was not listening. What issue were you arguing?”

  “I have been telling Myron Tany that you are a savant in the field of jurisprudence.”

  Krim inclined his head. “I am endeavoring to combine the multiple strands of local law into a comprehensive synthesis. It is a large work.”

  Wingo turned his blue eyes back to Myron. “So there you have it. This is the crew of the Glicca. All of us have gone wrong, in one way or another. Captain Maloof is a dreamer and pursues a romantic memory as if it were real. Schwatzendale is a gambler and a master of mysterious tricks; Hilmar Krim is a savant and a pundit. All of us are a bit estranged from a life of known routines; we are picaroons rather than respectable members of society.”

  Krim spoke with heavy jocularity: “Please excuse me from your category, Mr. Wingo. I think of myself as a syncretic pantologist, integral with any environment. I am an element of the universal Gaean society, and not a pariah.”

  “It shall be as you wish,” Wingo told him.

  Krim nodded, well satisfied. Myron asked Wingo, “What of yourself? Are you a pundit? A gambler? A dreamer?”

  Wingo wistfully shook his head. “I am, essentially, nothing: not even a pariah. I am aware of the cosmic puzzle, and I have tried to discover its outlines. To this end I have read the works of the Gaean philosophers; I have learned their words and phrases, their prefaces and envois. It was a sad revelation to learn that they, I, and the cosmos all speak different languages; no gloss exists.”

  “So what happens next?”

  “Nothing very much. What is to be learned from chaos?” Wingo scowled thoughtfully down at his thick-fingered hands. “Once I wandered into some mountains, whose name I now forget. I came upon a rain puddle which reflected the sky and some moving clouds. I looked for a moment, then looked up at the sky, which was vast, blue, majestic. I went my way in a reverie.” Wingo gave his head a rueful shake. “I recall my poor feet hurting all the way down the mountainside — as always when I try them too hard. In the end, I enjoyed the relief of bathing my feet in warm salt water and applying an ointment.” After a pause he went on. “If I came upon another puddle, perhaps I might look again.”

  “I don’t quite understand,” said Myron. “You seem to be telling me that it is a mistake to search too hard for knowledge.”

  “I suspect that this is what I mean,” said Wingo. “Even if ‘Reality’, or ‘Truth’ — whatever it is called — were discovered, and scientifically codified, it might be something trivial and years might have been wasted in the search. I might well recommend mystics and zealots to caution, lest after decades of fasting and penitence they are allowed Truth, only to find it to be some miserable scrap of information, of no more account than mouse droppings in the sugar bowl.”

  Myron began to feel light-headed — whether from the ale or the effort to grasp Wingo’s theories, he could not be sure.

  Schwatzendale joined the conversation. “The Glicca is a hive of deep thinking. Krim is planning a legal system which will be standard everywhere across the Reach. He wants to charge a royalty every time a crime is committed. As for me, I live by a simple rule: if I point with excitement to the east, everyone will jump up and look to the east while I eat their lunch. Captain Maloof takes pains to appear grave, sober, and respectable — but it is all a façade. He follows a will-o’-the-wisp everywhere across the lands beneath all the stars.”

  Captain Maloof listened with a faint smile. He said, “My quest, even if it were real, would be little more than a nostalgia and not worth talking about.” He spoke to Myron: “What of you? Do you too follow a will-o’-the-wisp?”

  “Not really. I can explain myself very quickly, and you may laugh if you wish. My great-aunt Hester owns the space-yacht Glodwyn. We set out on a cruise. I was nominally captain. My aunt became restless, until a man named Marko Fassig came aboard. When we arrived at Port Tanjee, I ordered Fassig off the ship, but my aunt put me off instead, and I am now at liberty, drinking ale at the Owlswyck Inn.”

  “You tell a melancholy tale,” said Captain Maloof.

  Myron reflected, then put a tentative question. “I should ask if you are short of crew in the areas of my competence. If so, I would like to apply for the job.”

  “You were Captain of the Glodwyn?”

  “Well, yes. That was my designation.”

  Maloof smilingly shook his head. “The Glicca is fully staffed at the moment; the entire crew is sitting here at the table.”

  “Ah well,” said Myron, “I just thought I would ask.”

  “No harm done,” said Captain Maloof. “I’m sorry that we cannot oblige you. We definitely have no need for two captains.”

  Myron gloomily drank more ale. A group of musicians had arrived at the tavern. They mounted to the bandstand at the far end of the room and brought out their instruments: a flageolet, a concertina, a baritone lute and a trambonium. They tuned to the concertina, producing the usual squeaks, warbles, tinkles, slurs and scales; then began to play: first a tune of simple construction but one which jerked along at a good gait. Fingers began to drum on the tables and toes tapped the floor. Soon folk went out to dance: sometimes singly, sometimes in pairs.

  Night had come to Port Tanjee; the tavern was illuminated by small colored lanterns. Myron drank another mug of ale and sat back enjoying the occasion. Wingo solemnly informed him that, while he liked dancing, the impact of the floor upon his sensitive feet caused him nervous distress.

  A stalwart red-haired woman, in the full bloom of her early maturity, approached Schwatzendale and suggested that he join her in the dance. Schwatzendale declined the honor with so many graceful compliments that the woman stroked his head before walking away. “Schwatzendale is wise,” Wingo observed to Myron. “The marriage customs to be fou
nd from place to place are never the same. Often the stranger performs some innocent act, or suggests a casual intimacy, only to find that he has committed himself to a marriage which must be executed upon penalty of a large fine, or perhaps a good beating by the girl’s relatives or a term of occupational therapy. When you are in a new place and the customs are unfamiliar, I advise you never to take liberties with a woman — or, for that matter, with a man. Schwatzendale is wily, but even he will take no chances. Listen now.” Wingo addressed Schwatzendale. “Suppose a beautiful lady approached wearing a basket of fruit on her head and tried to hang a wreath of amaranthines around your neck: what would you do?”

  “I would run at full speed from Owlswyck Inn and hide in the Glicca with the covers pulled over my head.”

  “That is expert advice,” said Wingo.

  “I will take care.” said Myron. “Such hints are extremely valuable.”

  The orchestra had started a new tune, an energetic two-step propelled by the rhythmic pulses of the trambonium and chords in the powerful lower register of the lute. The dancers again took to the floor, executing steps of several sorts. One of the favorites started with a man and woman, arms clasping shoulders, standing poised and impassive, before setting off at a bent-kneed running glide of four steps, a halt, then a high swinging kick first to right and then to left, then the same evolution in reverse. Other folk twirled this way and that, in rollics and hornpipes. Myron thought the spectacle highly picturesque. He chanced to notice Hilmar Krim, who sat tapping his fingers and wagging his head in time with the music. Wingo said with a chuckle: “Krim has taken four ales, which is two past his usual complement, and now the music is revealing its meaning to him. He has a mind of great tenacity, and is now searching for precedents.”