Ports of Call

by Jack Vance

  Five minutes passed. Beside the tannery a man appeared. He called out, “What do you do here? This is Mel; I am the hetman!”

  Schwatzendale moved two steps forward. “We are spacemen from the ship Glicca. What cargo, if any, is ready for export?”

  The hetman called out, “Put aside your guns! I am not yet ready to lose my pelt!”

  “You need not fear,” said Schwatzendale. “If we were of a mind, we could destroy your entire village with three bursts of our Ruptor. Your pelts would be blown to bits and useless for export.”

  The Meluli hetman came slowly forward. He was middle-aged, with wings of stiff black hair projecting over his ears; his face showed a prodigious beak of a nose, hooded eyes and skin the color of bronze, with an overtone of green shine. He wore a black leather tunic, black breeches tucked into boots. Myron noticed that most of his attention was fixed, not upon Schwatzendale, not upon Wingo, but upon himself, with a curious brooding fascination — the next thing to an amorous fixation.

  Wingo chuckled. “Do not be vain. It is your pale gold hair they covet! They think that your pelt would be a thing of beauty.”

  “So it may be,” said Myron. “But I want to keep it for myself.”

  Wingo handed Myron a large white kerchief. “Tie this over your head and they will not stare so avidly.”

  “I feel like a naked virgin at the slave market,” Myron grumbled, as he tied the scarf over his head.

  Schwatzendale and the hetman had moved to within ten yards of each other. Schwatzendale asked, “What about cargo?”

  The hetman turned and called over his shoulder. A man older than himself, with an even more majestic beak of a nose, came forward, showing no fear of the guns. The hetman said, “This is the export agent; you must deal with him.”

  The agent said, “The situation is good. There are two lots, fifty to the lot, ready for the crate. Tomorrow you may take them.”

  “That is satisfactory, but I am required to examine and count the lots, since the Meluli are known to be careless in their count, and the carrier is held responsible.”

  “As you like,” said the agent. “You may count to your heart’s content. The warehouse is yonder.”

  “Very well,” said Schwatzendale. “We will visit the warehouse. The hetman must stand just yonder and wait until we return. In the event of treachery and pelt-taking, Wingo will kill first the hetman, then he will destroy Mel and all the Meluli. Why are you laughing? You sneer? You do not believe me? That is easy to fix! Wingo, be so good as to demolish that ruined hut yonder.”

  Wingo pushed the red button at the side of the Ruptor and a tumble-down hut a hundred yards distant exploded into splinters of stone.

  Both the hetman and the agent jerked back in shock. The hetman complained that the pelt of the old woman who lived in the hut had surely been damaged beyond repair. “It is a waste.”

  Wingo was crestfallen and said he was sorry, but Schwatzendale waved the incident aside. He spoke to the hetman: “As you can see, we are killers, plain and simple! We kill whomever annoys us, without remorse.”

  The hetman threw out his arms in a gesture of annoyance. “‘Remorse’? What is that? Speak so that I understand you!”

  “No matter. Obey my conditions, or we will go away, and leave your pelts here to rot! Perhaps we will kill you and a few others for practice.”

  Conditions were finally arranged to Schwatzendale’s satisfaction. The hetman stood to the side, with the Ruptor trained upon him, which caused him to fidget. None of the Meluli loitered near the warehouse where they might conveniently attack the spacemen. Myron and Schwatzendale, holding their guns at the ready, accompanied the agent to the warehouse. Here they were joined by the tanner: a small thin man of indeterminate age, milder and less coarse than either the agent or the hetman. With a tired smile, he assured Schwatzendale that the warehouse held no threat and was vacant except for himself and his apprentice. He readily acknowledged that vigilance was necessary, that mistakes in counting and declarations of quality had occurred in the past. “But not under my auspices,” he stated. “It is easier to do things correctly.”

  “Still, I have been ordered to count,” said Schwatzendale.

  “And you are an expert as to the quality of these fine leathers?”

  “No, not at all. But if there is trouble, we will return and cause far more trouble than the theft was worth.”

  “That is only sensible,” said the tanner. “Come then; count the pelts. The warehouse is safe; no ambush has been organized. At least not to my knowledge.” He looked inquiringly to the agent. “What plans are afoot, if any?”

  “None! These men are clearly killers.”

  “We are pleased for your good opinion,” said Schwatzendale. “I should mention that we are easily startled and kill at random. Whatever moves is killed and everyone within range of our guns will wander the night forever without their pelts.”

  “Enough of such grisly talk,” growled the agent. “We are here to export pelts, not to soothe your apprehensions.”

  “We are nervous for the best of reasons,” said Schwatzendale. “And for you to be more nervous than we are is optimal.”

  The tanner spoke impatiently, “No more blather; come count the pelts.” He led the way into the warehouse, followed by the agent, then Myron and Schwatzendale.

  The interior of the warehouse was cavernous and gloomy. Low orange sunlight slanted through a row of high windows, arousing a dozen tones of brown from the wooden walls, posts, planked floor, tables, heaped pelts. Charcoal brown shadows obscured the far walls. The hides ranged in color from dark ivory through the brown of tobacco into umber. The air smelled of tanning compounds, sizing resin, camphor, and an indefinable overtone which caused Myron’s stomach to twitch.

  Myron examined the premises with care. At the back of the room a wizened youth, hollow-cheeked, with a predacious nose, worked at a table, scraping a pelt. The tanner spoke a few sharp words and the apprentice sidled off into the shadows.

  Myron took a position by the entrance, gun at the ready. The agent went to lean against a stack of pelts, for the moment passive and indifferent. Schwatzendale, after a quick glance around the room, gave his attention to the tanner. “So what shall I count?”

  “These are the hides ready for export.” The tanner went to a table stacked high with pelts. “We can have them crated and ready for shipment by noon tomorrow.” He began to flip over the pelts for Schwatzendale’s inspection. “As you can see, these are top quality, properly tanned and well cured, with only trivial killing holes.”

  Myron watched in fascination. Under the tanner’s hands the leather seemed supple and fine. The processing had flattened the faces so that the features were artfully subdued, the eyes staring round holes. “It is an interesting business,” said the tanner. “I am beset by truly abstract speculations at times. I wonder how much personality resides in the pelts. What do they feel? What are their hopes and dreams? Often I have uncanny sensations along these lines.”

  “And what are your conclusions?”

  “The mystery remains as profound as ever,” said the tanner.

  “These are interesting concepts,” said Schwatzendale. “But for myself, I do not care to grope among such tenuous ideas. I deal only with what is here and now. Everything else is foam and mist.”

  “Yours is a simple methodology,” said the tanner politely. “Perhaps, ultimately, it is the wisest way of all, since the theorist is forced to wrestle with a dozen possibilities, each making its special pleading.”

  Schwatzendale laughed. “I have not theorized even to this effect! I celebrate the concrete! If I locate an itch, I scratch it! If I discover a leek and mutton pie, I eat it. If I come upon a beautiful woman, I make myself agreeable.”

  “You will avoid a hundred unfulfilled longings,” said the tanner. “You will waste no time pursuing unattainable goals. I wish that I shared your discipline! I regret to say that my aspirations take me into a land of mirages, w
here all excellent things are possible! Sometimes I dream of tanning a gamut of twelve faultless pelts, representing sheer perfection in each of the catalogued styles! At other times I long for what can only be called the ‘ineffable’.” The tanner paused in his unfolding of the pelts. “Aha! Notice here; a true curiosity!”

  Myron saw that the color of the leather was pale. The tanner explained. “It is the pelt of an off-worlder!”

  “A tourist, I hope, and not a spaceman?” asked Schwatzendale.

  “Yes, a tourist, with a most unusual pelt. Notice the tattooing! It is splendid, is it not? For instance, here: the whorls of red and green on the abdomen, and the fine floral pattern along the buttocks! Pelts of this quality are rare, and I shall invoice it as an expensive specialty.”

  “Interesting,” said Schwatzendale. “You are clearly a master of your craft.”

  The tanner smiled wistfully. “The real artists work elsewhere. You are a sensitive man; I will show you true art.” From a shelf under the table he brought out a large loose-leaf volume. “See here!” He threw back the cover, turned to a photograph, evidently cut from a glossy periodical. The caption read:

  Rector Fabian Mais stands in the exquisite drawing room of his manor at Tassa Lola. He examines his wonderful new acquisition entitled ‘Sylvan Passage’, created by the artist Fedore Coluccio from exotic materials.

  In the photograph an elegant gentleman stood beside a panel twelve feet wide by eight feet tall, depicting a procession of distorted human forms emerging from a forest. The group had halted where they could look forever into the drawing-room from their vacant eye-holes. First in line came a man, then a woman staring over his shoulder; and behind, half lost in the gloom, a child; and then, further back, the suggestion of other shapes.

  Beside the photograph was a clipping from a journal which read:

  It is a most effective use of a striking and unique medium. Rector Mais finds the work soothing and placid, conveying, so he declares, ‘a sense of —’ and here the Rector falters, unable to find the exact word to describe his mood. ‘A sense of eternity,’ he says at last.

  The tanner turned to another photograph which depicted the interior of a large and sumptuous bedroom. To either side of the bed a panel framed a pelt staring solemnly at the occupants of the room. The caption read:

  Here we are vouchsafed a glimpse into the great bedroom of Babbinch House at Ballymore, and our immediate attention is drawn to what Lord Shioban smilingly calls his ‘memento mori’.

  The tanner murmured, “Is it not impressive?” He turned to another photograph. “This is from a journal called Architect’s Vantage. It is another composite work by Fedore Coluccio. It is called ‘The Lovers’.” Coluccio had painted a formal garden with a bench in the foreground. He had posed a pair of pelts as if they were sitting on the bench, their arms awkwardly clasped as if in affection. As always, the eye-holes stared from the panel and seemed to say, ‘Look at us! Our love is forever!’

  The tanner asked Schwatzendale, “What is your opinion?”

  Schwatzendale said, “It is absolutely fetching, and very smart!”

  Myron, standing by the doorway, tried to see the photograph. A hand touched his arm; he turned about, startled, to discover the apprentice boy, smiling shyly and making a sign to enjoin silence. He spoke in a whisper. “I will show you something even more beautiful! Come.”

  Myron stared at him in perplexity. “What do you mean, ‘beautiful’?”

  “Come! Let the others buy and sell! Step around here, into the shadows.”

  “I must remain here,” said Myron. “I am on guard.”

  “Come,” the boy whispered. “They are looking at picture-books; they will never notice.” He tugged at Myron’s arm. “Come.”

  Schwatzendale had been watching from the corner of his eye. He darted forward, and struck the boy with his fist so hard that the boy fell. Something tinkled across the floor. Schwatzendale cried, “You poisonous little imp! This is your lucky day! Or you would now be dead if I were not a merciful man!” He bent and snatched up the object which had fallen. He showed it to Myron. “It is his flaying knife. Keep it for a souvenir!”

  From the boy came an instant wail. “Give me my knife! It is my thing of value!”

  The tanner and the agent stood, tensely watching. The tanner said, “There is nothing more to say. Tomorrow I will have two bales packed and ready for shipment. Now our business is at an end.”

  Schwatzendale motioned to the tanner and the agent. “You go out first.”

  From the boy came a yammer of pleading: “My knife, my good knife! Oh where will I get another? Give me back my property!”

  Neither Myron nor Schwatzendale heeded the plea. From the shadows the boy called out in fury, “Ugly milk-fed tourists! Go back to your wallow! In two more seconds I would have had the squonk’s hide, and now I have lost my knife!”

  Myron and Schwatzendale returned to the flitter. As they flew back down to Sholo, Myron asked, “What is a ‘squonk’?”

  Schwatzendale reflected, then said at last, “I believe it to be some sort of hairless white rat.”

  Chapter VI

  The flitter slid down to land beside the Glicca, where it was lifted aboard and secured into its cradle. The time was late afternoon. Wingo set out a meal for the pilgrims, who had become more querulous than ever. Portinac, a thin hot-eyed old man who wore his gray hair in a straggle, demanded, “Why are we waiting here on this wretched outpost? Where is the need? Every instant of delay is a new barb in our flesh! We are fearfully far from our destination!”

  Captain Maloof responded in a reasonable voice, “We are more or less at the mercy of the shipping agents. If their cargo is not ready, then we must allow them at least some small latitude. This is our business, after all.”

  Deter Kalash snapped, “Are you forgetting the responsibility you owe your passengers? Think of it! Precious hours go by while we crouch here on this arid steppe, surrounded by savages.”

  A bumptious young pilgrim named Cooner cried out, “Even while we wait, diddling and twiddling, the brethren are marching from Impy’s Landing singing their songs of triumph!”

  “And what of us?” demanded a pilgrim named Tunch. “Where is our triumph? Only when we conquer each other at double-moko! In all truth, the situation is vexing.”

  “I am sorry to hear this,” said Maloof. “Why not visit the tavern? It will be a change, and you will be safe so long as you do not wander off in search of women.”

  “Bah!” muttered Kalash. “We have no money to pay for that sort of foolishness.”

  “No need to pay,” said Maloof. “Chastity is unknown, but unless you fornicate in a group, you may lose your pelts.”

  Kalash rejected the advice. “We prefer to do this sort of thing in private, since we all have our secret methods.”

  “In that case, I cannot advise you.”

  “No need! We will remain aboard the ship.”

  During the early evening, Wingo, Schwatzendale and Myron set off toward the Glad Song Tavern. The orange sun Bran, its large diameter magnified even further by the thick air, trembled at the horizon, with far peaks and spires in silhouette. As they approached the tavern, Bran sank behind a pansy sky leaving the world in lavender gloom.

  The three spacemen entered the tavern to find themselves in a long room with walls of white-washed concrete. Travel posters, gay with the scenery of far worlds, decorated one wall; on the wall opposite hung skulls taken from ferocious creatures of the western swamps. The landlord presided over the refreshment counter, drawing ale and beer from wooden kegs, dispensing liquors from tall black bottles. He was middle-aged, placid and portly; gray hair hung past the points of his ears. His face was typically Shuja: broad across the forehead, narrowing from cheekbones to a pointed chin. From the wall behind him, three signs addressed his patrons. The first read:

  Tourists! We can arrange safe excursions to the remarkable Galahanga Swamp, where savage creatures create a fearsome
spectacle for your interested observation. Safety is emphasized; there is little injury, and fatal accidents are rare. For details, consult the counterman.

  Another sign read:

  Drink our special beverages! They have been approved by off-world connoisseurs. The flavors are unique and enticing.

  We recommend both our Booming Ale and our Sweet Fructer Beer.

  The third sign read:

  Warning to tourists: do not visit friends in the village by night. Ruffians lurk in the dark; you may be attacked and seriously injured or even killed. This warning has been posted by order of the IPCC.

  The three spacemen seated themselves at a table. A dozen other patrons sat about the room, hunched over fluted brass tankards. They drank in great pulsing gulps, with heads thrown back and ale trickling from the corners of their mouths. When the tankards went dry, they were set down with a clang, whereupon a serving girl came to take orders. She was not a typical tavern wench, so Myron noticed at once. She was slight, slender, somewhat younger than himself, definitely attractive, if quiet and grave. Chestnut curls fringed her forehead and hung past her ears. Her mouth drooped — in boredom? discontent? unhappiness? She wore a white frock, sandals, with a white ribbon binding her hair. Myron wondered whether she might share the typical Shuja disregard for chastity. If opportunity offered, he might make a discreet investigation.

  Presently the girl came to take orders from the spacemen. She looked from Myron, to Wingo, to Schwatzendale, without interest.

  Wingo asked a question; the girl replied that the tavern served both bitter ale and dark sweet beer; also silverthorn wine, and imported spirits. Her voice was soft and controlled, which to Myron’s ears seemed incongruous to the surroundings. Odd!