Ports of Call

by Jack Vance

  Maloof and Myron made a circuit of the bulletin boards. Instead of taking notes or conferring with the agents, Maloof photographed the listings. “This is the simplest method,” he told Myron. “Another thing to remember: cargo with an inconvenient destination can often be dropped off at a junction port for transshipment. Much of the cargo listed today was discharged here for just such a purpose.”

  “The business is more intricate than I had expected,” said Myron.

  “Quite so. Putting together a profitable cargo is one part logic, two parts intuition and three parts luck, especially if we hope to pick up cargos of opportunity along the way.”

  The two returned to the Glicca. Maloof placed his photographs into the scanner of the ship’s computer, where the information was assimilated and processed. Maloof told Myron, “I have directed the machine to solve what once was called the ‘Travelling salesman problem’. Do you know it?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “The question is how a salesman should choose his route among a number of cities so as to minimize the distance to be traveled. It is a difficult problem in its simplest form, and I have made it several orders of magnitude more difficult by introducing two new variables: the third dimension and profit. Unfortunately, the machine cannot factor in cargos of opportunity picked up en route, so the solution will not be exact.”

  Five minutes passed. The computer produced a tinkle of three chimes. “The solution is at hand,” said Maloof. “The machine is pleased with itself.” He directed Myron’s attention to a projection box, which displayed a multitude of white sparks and three filaments of colored light, red, blue and green, each pursuing a zig-zag trail from spark to spark.

  Maloof asked, “Do you understand what you are seeing?”

  “Yes. The sparks are stars; the colored lines represent possible itineraries from star to star. They all start at Port Tanjee and end at different stars.”

  “Correct,” said Maloof, “although where the routes end is flexible and depends on cargos of opportunity.” He took a print-out from a slot in the computer. For several minutes he studied the data, then looked back to the projection box. “The ‘blue’ course will be best. Duhail, on Scropus, will be the first junction; next, to Coro-Coro; then out to Cax on Blenkinsop, which is another junction.” He folded the data sheet and tucked it into his pocket. “Now the real work begins, which is negotiating the contracts. It is like snatching red meat from the jaws of a wolf to wring profit from the agents. Still we can only try, and in the end they sometimes allow us a morsel or two.”

  Maloof and Myron returned to the terminal lobby. With the print-out from the computer in hand, Maloof was able to contract for cargos along the ‘blue’ itinerary. Myron watched the negotiations with interest. Maloof’s methods were casual and almost absent-minded. But it seemed to Myron that the work went with despatch, yielding results which Maloof evidently found satisfactory. Myron finally asked for an explanation. “Why does everything go so smoothly?”

  Maloof smiled. “Several reasons. I demand no outrageous concessions so that no one feels insulted. More important, these are orphan cargoes, with destinations far off the scheduled routes, where service is uncertain. The agent must wait until he finds a vagabond ship like the Glicca. Since he pays demurrage on the cargo, he loses money every day the cargo sits in the warehouse. In most cases, the agent is more anxious to move the cargo than I am to carry it. Today we did fairly well on our contracts, but I doubt if we are anywhere up to capacity. We’ll have to see what else we can scratch up.”

  During the evening Myron prepared a manifest and planned efficient stowage for the new cargo. In the morning the parcels to be transported were moved from the warehouse to the loading dock, then shifted into the cargo bays of the Glicca, under Myron’s anxious supervision. As Maloof had feared, the cargo was insufficient, and an entire bay remained empty.

  During the middle afternoon Maloof and Myron returned to the terminal lobby, hoping to discover newly posted parcels of cargo, but nothing had changed and only a few offices remained open. In one of these offices, a stocky black-bearded man wearing a brown- and black-striped caftan conferred with the agent, his manner by turns wheedling and insistent. He emphasized his remarks with vehement gestures. Not to be outdone, the agent responded with gestures of his own, expressing his inability to fulfill the other’s demands. His patience at last wore thin. He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head in final rejection of the demands. With almost palpable relief, he noticed Maloof and pointed; the black-bearded man wheeled about, peered toward Maloof, then instantly left the agent’s office and crossed the lobby at a trot.

  Maloof had noted the sequence of events and his expression became glum. He muttered to Myron, “Here comes bad news! I detect a passenger.”

  The man in the caftan halted. He was of moderate stature, small of hands and feet, with a modest paunch. Black ringlets covered his head; his black beard was trimmed square two inches below his chin; bulging dog-brown eyes looked from a round and earnest face. He introduced himself. “I am Deter Kalash, from Loisonville on the world Komard. My status, as you can readily detect, is good; in fact, I am Perrumpter of the Clantic Sect, and I now serve as Wayfinder for a contingent of ten pilgrims. We are bound for Impy’s Landing on Kyril. So far our trip has not been serene. In full trust we took passage aboard the Bazard Cosway, assured of a journey direct to Impy’s Landing. But Captain Vogler quite ruthlessly altered course and discharged us here along with our baggage. This has caused us a great inconvenience, since, for us, time is of the essence.”

  “Very sad!” said Maloof. “Nevertheless —”

  “One moment, if you please! I am told that your itinerary takes you out through the Pergola Region toward Kyril, if not to Kyril itself! Therefore, at this time, I wish to negotiate passage to Impy’s Landing for eleven persons, in the ‘Choice Comfort’ category, along with eleven cases containing sacred stuffs. We will naturally qualify for eleemosynary rates, with our consecrated cases transported off the billing, free and clear, as is no doubt your usual practice.”

  “Not always,” said Maloof. “In fact, never.”

  Kalash’s eyes grew round with surprise. “I must insist upon the usual sacerdotal concessions!”

  Maloof heaved a deep sigh. “Excuse me a moment.” He crossed the lobby to the office of the shipping agent. He asked a question; the agent brought out several charts, which Maloof consulted, and also studied a projection from the agent’s computer. Then he returned to Kalash and Myron and indicated they be seated. When the three had settled themselves, Maloof addressed Kalash. “I assume that you carry funds to pay your transit charges?”

  “Naturally,” said Kalash, in a voice of offended dignity. “Do you take us for Spurionites, or the Brotherhood of the Damned?”

  Maloof shrugged. “It’s all the same to me, once the fares are paid.” He brought out a pad of yellow paper and a stylus. “Now then: first things first. You want passage for eleven persons with baggage to Impy’s Landing on Kyril.”

  “Exactly! We prefer the semi-deluxe ‘Choice Comfort’ category. The baggage, owing to its nature, should receive special handling.”

  “Describe this baggage, if you will.”

  “There is nothing to describe,” said Kalash peevishly. “Each of us among his personal effects carries a quantity of sacred material.”

  “In a case? Is this your usual practice?”

  “To some extent. Now then! As to the cuisine; we are just a bit fastidious …”

  “No doubt. But first, a few more questions. What do these cases contain?”

  Kalash frowned. “Each of us brings consecrated material to enrich the substance of Kyril.”

  “The cases are similar in size?”

  “They are identical.”

  “Aha! And what is the dimension of each case?”

  Kalash made an expansive gesture. “I have no notion; such details are of no interest to me. Now then, in regard to the cuisi
ne.”

  Maloof refused to be diverted. “The cases are about so high?” Holding his hand two feet from the floor, Maloof looked questioningly at Kalash.

  “I expect so, more or less. Somewhere in that neighborhood, I should say.”

  Maloof raised his hand another foot. “This high?”

  Kalash laughed. “Perhaps — but remember! I am neither a mathematician nor a trained estimator.”

  Maloof raised his hand to a level five feet above the floor. “As high as this?”

  Kalash scowled. “No, certainly not so high.”

  Maloof scribbled a note. “We shall tentatively say four feet, subject to correction. How wide are these cases? About so?”

  Kalash eventually conceded that the dimensions of each case were about five feet long, three feet wide and four feet high.

  Maloof made notes. “And there are eleven such cases?”

  Kalash gave a curt nod. “Remember: all are pervaded by a strong spiritual afflatus.”

  Maloof made calculations. “They will occupy a quarter of a cargo bay. The gross substance will command our usual rates, inclusive of afflatus. As a special concession, the afflatus will be carried free of surcharge.”

  Kalash cried out in protest, but Maloof ignored him. “There is another aspect to the matter. Our itinerary does not include Kyril. We will discharge you at Coro-Coro on Fluter. This is the junction node from which you can transship to Kyril.”

  Kalash’s eyes became round and moist. “That is not a happy prospect! We are anxious to pursue our Five-year Roundel! Surely you can veer off at a slant so as to include Kyril on the route, and put us down at Impy’s Landing! It would be a relatively minor deviation.”

  “Yes; in a sense that is true. Although the ‘deviation’ you mention takes us off-course at right angles, and you would pay a surcharge.”

  Kalash said cautiously, “This would seem a convenient choice — provided that you quote us an all-inclusive fare to match the depth of our purses.”

  “The purse I worry about is my own,” said Maloof. “I can quote you rates, however, if that is what you wish.”

  “Of course!” declared Kalash eagerly. “Calculate on a blank sheet of paper with a fresh stylus. Use a light touch! Naturally, I expect the full religious discount!”

  Maloof smilingly shook his head. “Your expectations are unsound. Our fares are not excessive.”

  Kalash uneasily pulled at his beard. “That is good to hear, certainly. And the fare?”

  Maloof calculated. “Let us say, a hundred sols each for pilgrim and baggage to Coro-Coro, and an all-inclusive surcharge of five hundred sols for the detour to Kyril.”

  Kalash cried out in anguish, “The price is outrageous!”

  “If you think so, you may exercise a third option,” said Maloof.

  “And what is that?”

  “You may take passage aboard another ship.”

  “That is quite impractical! No other ship is scheduled for the Pergola Region.”

  “That is beyond my control.”

  In poignant tones Kalash pleaded: “Think beneficially of us and our pilgrimage! Like the paladins of old, we are dedicated to deeds of glory! Our way is often stark, often bitter! Still, as we traverse the wastes of Kyril, we shall acclaim the altruists who helped us along the way!”

  Maloof chuckled. “We also pursue glorious goals, such as profit, survival, and the sheer joy of wringing revenue from parsimonious passengers.”

  “That is a crass philosophy!”

  “Not so!” declared Maloof. “Rationality is never crass. It suggests that if you can afford the luxuries of an expensive religion, you can afford to pay full rate, plus all applicable surcharges on your baggage.”

  Kalash struggled for an adequate response. Myron watched with close attention. Each minute, or so it seemed, he learned an important new aspect of the theory and practice of interworld transport.

  Kalash was not yet defeated. For another ten minutes he cajoled, blustered, cried out in despair, supplicated, used all the resources of transcendental doctrine, but at last lapsed into sullen defeat. “It seems that I must accede to your exorbitant charges. I select the first option; we will ride as far as Coro-Coro and trust to luck for the final leg of the voyage.”

  “As you like.”

  Kalash said bravely, “At this moment I will give you a draught upon the headquarters of the order, for payment in full, and I will need a receipt witnessed by your assistant.”

  Maloof smiled and shook his head. “That is the last despairing prayer of a religious zealot.”

  “I do not understand you,” said Kalash stiffly.

  “If the draught is worthless, what is my recourse?” asked Maloof. “Do I search the wastes of Kyril? Do I force your return to Port Tanjee? Or simply accept your apologies for the mistake?”

  Kalash raised his dog-brown eyes to the ceiling. “Have you neither faith nor trust?”

  “Neither.”

  Kalash grumbled further but Maloof remained unmoved, and in the end Kalash paid over the fares in cash.

  During the evening Myron supervised the loading of the pilgrims’ cases into Number Three cargo bay. The cases were of identical style and dimension, built of a dense dark brown wood, waxed and polished to a high gloss, bound with bronze straps and secured by three locks. In response to Myron’s question, he was told only that the cases contained goods of extreme sanctity.

  The pilgrims trooped aboard the Glicca: a disparate group ranging in age from Cooner, brash and plump, to the truculent old Barthold. In temperament, Zeitzer was mild while Tunch was surly, sardonic and suspicious. Between the vacuous Loris and the savant Kershaw existed an even greater gap, this time of the intellect. Kalash the Perrumpter, though ordinary in most respects, was at times over zealous in his efforts to extract concessions for which he was unwilling to pay. After a single glance at the accommodations, Kalash made a strong protest to Captain Maloof, asserting that the term ‘Choice Comfort’ could not reasonably be applied to the dormitories assigned to the pilgrims.

  Maloof shrugged. “Since we provide only one class of accommodation, the term ‘Choice Comfort’ is as suitable as any other.”

  Kalash tried to expostulate further, but Captain Maloof refused to listen. “In the future, please address all complaints to the supercargo, who will adjust the deficiencies, if possible.”

  The pilgrims made an immediate complaint to Myron as to the amenities of the dining saloon. Instead of the long table with benches to either side, they wanted to be served at tables set with linen napery. Myron agreed at once, and prepared a menu with each item priced as it might be at a deluxe restaurant, along with a daily couvert charge of one sol per man.

  Kalash studied the menu with surprise and disfavor. “There is much here I cannot understand. What is this item: ‘Boiled beans after the style of Wingo’ at one sol? And here: ‘Salt mackerel au naturel’ at one sol seventy dinkets? At this rate we can’t afford to eat!”

  Myron said, “You might prefer the ordinary menu, which is often quite decent, and is included in your fare.”

  “Yes,” growled Kalash. “We will give it a try.”

  Wingo served them a fine dinner of goulash, dumplings and his special salad, and Kalash was too busy eating to complain.

  Maloof told Myron, “I see that you are learning the elements of the trade. You may become a successful supercargo after all, despite your innocent appearance.”

  2

  The Glicca departed Port Tanjee, and set a course toward Tacton’s Star and the world Scropus, where the town Duhail was the first port of call. At Duhail the Glicca would discharge a consignment of chemicals, drugs and general medical supplies, destined for the Refunctionary, a penal institution housed in an ancient palace. With luck, the Glicca would find additional cargo of compressed pollen, or aromatic gums, or possibly a pallet or two of precious woods for onward transport.

  Myron quickly adapted to the routines of his work. He found rather more
difficulty dealing with Hilmar Krim’s accounts and his extraordinary methods of bookkeeping. Krim had used a system of abbreviations, jotted notes in an abstruse shorthand writing, as well as a set of unintelligible hieroglyphics. Additionally, many financial details, such as port charges, wages paid to warehousemen, cash advances to members of the crew and other incidental expenses, Krim had never recorded. He preferred to keep a running total in his memory, until such time as he felt inclined to transfer the lump sum to his books. These occasions seemed dictated by caprice, and Krim seldom troubled to identify the numbers.

  In the end Myron devised a method of computation which he called ‘creative averaging’. The system was both straightforward and definite, though its basis might be considered intuitive, or even arbitrary. To use the system, Myron replaced Krim’s hieroglyphics for imaginary quantities, which he adjusted until they produced an appropriate result. By this means Myron restored the books to a state of order, though he made no guarantees of instant precision. Myron discovered that the exact numbers meant little, so long as they were written in a bold hand and produced a reasonable summation, so that, in the end, all accounts were balanced. Maloof had always reviewed the accounting, but Krim’s processes exceeded his understanding. Now, with Myron’s ‘creative’ methods and simplified entries, he was well satisfied.

  As the days passed, Myron became acquainted with his shipmates. Schwatzendale, so he discovered, was spontaneous and volatile, with a lilting imagination rife with surprises and wonders. In contrast, Wingo was placid, methodical, and a thinker of profound thoughts. Superficially, Schwatzendale seemed a charming rascal of slantwise habits and antic good looks. His heart-shaped face, with its widow’s peak and luminous eyes, often prompted strangers to take him for a languid young aesthete, or even a sybarite. Such theories were wildly incorrect. Schwatzendale, in fact, was brash, restless, extravagant in his moods and attitudes. He skipped and hopped like a child, without perceptible self-consciousness. He attacked his work with disdain, as if it were too contemptible for a person of style to take seriously. In this regard, Schwatzendale was both romantic and vain; he thought of himself as a combination gambler and gentleman-adventurer. Wingo occasionally spoke of Schwatzendale’s exploits in a mixture of awe, grudging admiration and disapproval.