Ports of Call

by Jack Vance

  Vermyra made a fluttery protest. “Come, Mirl! Do not embarrass the gentlemen!”

  “It is really no great matter,” said Mirl. “We used to own two cats: Wilmer, who was large, proud and handsome; and Tink, who was skinny and furtive. They were served their meals in separate dishes. Wilmer ate with gusto and always finished first. He would glance toward Tink, strut over to Tink’s dish, shoulder Tink aside and smell Tink’s food. Then he would pretend to cover over the dish as if it contained you-know-what. Then Wilmer would stroll away, leaving Tink to stare down at the food which he had been enjoying but now no longer cared to eat. That is the Wilmer treatment.”

  “Aha!” said Schwatzendale. “You are telling us that Tibbet has smelled Myron and myself, covered us over, then strolled away.”

  “In effect — yes.”

  Myron and Schwatzendale turned to look toward Tibbet, who shrugged and smiled quietly.

  Garwig chuckled. “Mirl and Tibbet are actually good friends, though sometimes you might not know it. Vermyra, what are you mixing for us?”

  “Saskadoodle! Be patient; it’s almost ready.”

  Myron transferred his attention from Tibbet to the saloon at large. The fittings, in Myron’s opinion, were far too lavish and opulent for functional utility. Joss Garwig himself was clearly not an authentic spaceman but, rather, a collector of curios, works of folk art and the like, which, in great profusion, crammed cabinets and cases at the after end of the saloon. It was an eclectic, even indiscriminate collection. Articles of every description crowded each other in mindless confusion. Some of the objects, thought Myron, might well be valuable, but in the aggregate they seemed only part of a clutter. Looking more closely, Myron saw that each piece was identified by a label attesting to provenance, antiquity, and perhaps other information. At the far end of the saloon he discovered an object which halted him in his tracks. On a low stone pedestal stood a man-shaped effigy carved, or otherwise shaped, from a hard stony substance, gray-green in color, with the surface gloss of chert or nephrite, or possibly olivine. The figure stood about five feet tall, with heavy shoulders hunched forward over a thick torso. Long arms, ending in enormous hands, dangled to the knees. The massive head showed the caricature of a face, with features smeared and distorted.

  Mirl’s voice came from over Myron’s shoulder. “It’s real. The others may be worse.”

  “‘Others’?”

  Mirl pointed to the shadows at the far end of the saloon, where three other effigies, similar to the first, ranged along the wall.

  Mirl asked, “What do you make of them?”

  Myron reflected. At last he said, “If I owned them, I would give them on the instant to my Aunt Hester.”

  Mirl laughed. “My father considers them marvels of human achievement. But then, that’s because he is Director of Acquisitions at the Pan-Arts Museum at Duvray on Alcydon. Now you know why we cruise in such a litter.” Mirl glanced here and there. “Most of it is junk.” He frowned toward the effigies. “But not these fellows. The museum will think them marvellous! For a fact, they exert a brutal force.”

  Myron asked in awe, “Where do you find such things?”

  “The same place we find everything else! In ancient shrines, junk heaps, old ruins, excavations, private collections, native sources; in short, from anyone willing to sell or to trade. Sometimes we find things that no one seems to own, or so we hope, and we take them! That is known as ‘dynamic scholarship’.” Mirl grinned. “It’s all in the interest of science, or art, or philosophy, which are all the same to my father. He is convinced that he can walk on water. Who am I to say he can’t?”

  Garwig, meanwhile, had taken Schwatzendale and Maloof back to the engine room. Twenty minutes passed, during which Vermyra served beakers of Saskadoodle: a pale green liquid, mildly effervescent, with a subtle bite which tingled pleasantly on the palate.

  Maloof and Schwatzendale presently reappeared, followed by Garwig. “Success!” cried Garwig with great enthusiasm. “The unit was misaligned! Schwatzendale discovered the problem at a glance and put things right before you could say ‘knife’. It was most impressive; he is a mechanical wizard!” Garwig raised his arm in a mock salute, then declared, “If I were a churl and an ingrate, I would instantly hire Schwatzendale away from the Glicca.”

  Schwatzendale gave his head a wincing jerk. “Not likely, unless you offered me the hand of your daughter in marriage, along with a large dowry; also, permission to throw those statues into the sea.”

  Garwig chuckled. “Tibbet, yes. Dowry, no. The statues you must learn to love. They are profound works of art.”

  Schwatzendale said politely, “Rather than contradict you, I shall simply stay with the Glicca. For a fact, I am not sure what the word ‘art’ means, if anything.”

  “The word has a hundred applications,” said Wingo. He turned to Garwig: “Fay is a sensitive man! The statues project a baleful force. You would do well to pack them into iron crates and return them to the sculptor.”

  Garwig laughed again, somewhat less cheerfully. “The museum will accept them with gratitude, since they are truly exceptional pieces! My reputation will not be hurt; I may well be promoted or even granted a knighthood, with a raise in stipend.”

  “And then?”

  “Then we are off again, on a new quest, and who knows what wonderful treasures we will find?”

  “You lead an interesting life,” said Maloof. “It takes you to places where ordinary folk never venture.”

  “Quite true,” said Garwig. “The work has its challenges, but the compensations are priceless! At the very least, Mirl and Tibbet are receiving a splendid education!”

  Tibbet uttered a half-sad, half-sardonic laugh. “I have learned how to make Saskadoodle, Pink-eye Punch and Wild Dingo Howler, which was invented by a reckless smuggler named Terence Dowling. I have seen sun dances and moon dances, totem worship, snake races and at least a dozen fertility rites. They would be more fun if I were allowed to participate, but whenever I show interest, someone always hustles me away.”

  Vermyra clicked her tongue. “My dear, if you please! Your jokes are truly not in the best taste! They may offend our guests!”

  “Not likely,” said Tibbet. “Mr. Schwatzendale is thinking secret thoughts. Mr. Wingo has not been listening.”

  Wingo, indeed, had been inspecting the effigies with critical attention. After a moment he spoke to Garwig. “There is more here than meets the eye.”

  “Oh? Really?”

  “I think so. The craftsmanship is unusual: grotesque, savage, yet adept! I doubt if they were created to express aesthetic joy.”

  “Probably not. They are ‘ghost-chasers’, or so I have been told.”

  Tibbet had become bored with the effigies. In a languid voice she said, “I make them to be simple garden ornaments — a bit too quaint for my taste.”

  “‘Quaint’?” cried Myron, in shock. “They are absolute horrors! Who would want such squalid things in their gardens? And why?”

  “Don’t be dense,” snapped Tibbet. “The people who owned the gardens wanted them! That’s why they put them there! For what purpose? To chase ghosts!”

  “Personally, I’d prefer the ghosts,” said Myron.

  Garwig smiled indulgently. “You look at them with a layman’s eye! The ‘cognoscenti’ will see them differently!”

  Captain Maloof asked Garwig, “How did you come by them?”

  “A matter of luck,” said Garwig complacently. “Are you aware of the Moabite Cloudlands? No? About a hundred miles east of here the land thrusts up into a region of rocky crags and high meadows. The scenery is wild: pinnacles reach up to catch the lightning; wind screams through gorges; mists swirl through the forests and blow out over the meadows. It is a dreary landscape, but at one time it was mined for jade by the Chan uplanders, or Overmen, as they called themselves — a strange reclusive folk, by all accounts. A few of these Overmen still occupy the old manor houses, living on their investments. They welcome
no visitors, tourists, curio collectors, or anyone else. The locals suspect them of black magic and give them a wide berth. There you have the Moabite Cloudlands. On the Plain below, just under the first jut of the Cloudlands, is an old market town, Zemerle, at one time the outlet for mountain jade. We put down at Zemerle, hoping to discover a piece or two of old jade, but we found nothing. Then one of the merchants approached us with a scheme. After a great deal of furtive hemming and hawing, he showed us a photograph of what he called a ‘ghost-chaser’ from an abandoned Chan manor house. He said it was carved from prime jade, and possibly might be had, if I were willing to pay the price. I asked for particulars; he explained that when the Chan Overmen worked the jade mines, they used indentured Tril laborers from the Farsetta marshes. The Tril died by the thousands, leaving their ghosts to wander the fogs of the upland meadows. The Chan put out ghost-chasers to frighten the ghosts back into the forests. Today many of the manor houses are abandoned and moulder away at the back of dim old gardens. Ghost-chasers still stand on guard, allowing no incursion of ghosts.” Garwig looked fondly over his shoulder toward the effigies. “The shopkeeper warned me that to obtain a ghost-chaser was no casual affair, but that he knew a pair of reckless young bravos who might attempt the job. The total fee would be a thousand sols.

  “I cried out in shock! The price was far too high, but he would not yield by so much as a dinket. The risks, so he insisted, were real. The Overmen were savants of the transfinite mysteries, and that if I wanted a ghost-chaser on the cheap I must procure it myself.

  “After some fruitless haggling, I left the shop. In the end, weighing all with all, I decided that the merchant had exaggerated the difficulties. Many of the old manors were abandoned; why should the Chan fret over the loss of a ghost-chaser or two?

  “To make a long story short, I took the Fontenoy aloft and drifted high over the Cloudlands. For several days we scouted the terrain, peering through the mists and fog. After careful investigation, we selected an ancient manor which was definitely abandoned. At dusk we dropped down in our flitter and loaded aboard four ghost-chasers. All went well. The moons, rolling in and out of the mists, provided sufficient light; even so, the old gardens were melancholy and heavy with memories of the past. We became uneasy and were happy to return aloft to the Fontenoy.

  “We proceeded directly to Girandole in order to repair our malleator, and that is the story in its essential form.” Garwig again looked over his shoulder toward the ghost-chasers. “If the truth be told, I am tempted to return to the Cloudlands for a second consignment.”

  Vermyra called out sharply: “Put the idea from your mind! Tomorrow we go to Sweetfleur for the Grand Lalapalooza Fair! That is our definite plan!”

  Garwig stared with smiling incredulity. “Did you say ‘Lalapalooza’?”

  “I did, because that is the tradition, which is ever so old.”

  Garwig made a gracious gesture. “So it shall be! To the Grand Lalapalooza we shall go, without let, stay, hitch, qualm or quandary!”

  “I am happy to hear you say so!” Vermyra turned to Wingo. “From what we’ve been told, the Fair is ever so jolly, with parades, exhibits, amusement booths, pageants of folk-dancing: all highly picturesque, though it seems that some of the pantomimes can be a bit boisterous.”

  Garwig gave a fruity chuckle. “Or — let us say — a bit close to the knuckle. Still, all in good fun! It won’t deter Mirl, Tibbet even less.”

  Vermyra started to protest, but Garwig held up his hand. “Now then, my dear, we can’t isolate the youngsters from the real world! We must rely upon the example we set to guide them, steadfast and true, along their way! Am I correct, Captain?”

  Maloof glanced toward Tibbet, who was smiling a prim smile. “Absolutely!”

  Vermyra had picked up a sheet of paper. “Listen to this! Here is more about the Grand Lalapalooza, as they call it. There will be acrobats, and stilt-dancing on fifteen-foot stilts, and mock stilt-battles! There is a troupe of comics under the direction of a certain Moncrief the Mage.”

  Schwatzendale jerked about. “Not Moncrief the Mouse-rider?”

  Vermyra studied the descriptive passages. “I see no mention of mouse-riding. Still, it all sounds like great fun, and tomorrow we will be off to the Fair.”

  “Tomorrow we will discharge cargo and join you at Sweetfleur,” said Maloof. “Now we must go.” He bowed toward Vermyra and Tibbet, then turned toward the entry port. Garwig cleared his throat portentously. “We truly appreciate your help with the malleator,” he told Schwatzendale. Stepping forward, he tucked five sols into Schwatzendale’s pocket. “With my thanks.”

  For an instant Schwatzendale stood quivering, as if at the receipt of an electrical shock. Then, slanting his eyes toward the ceiling and twisting his mouth sideways, he plucked the money from his pocket and dropped it upon the counter. Three long bent-kneed strides took him to the entry port. He jumped to the ground and was gone.

  Garwig spoke in an aggrieved voice: “What an extraordinary fellow! If he had wanted more, he should have let me know! I’m not mean, but I can’t read his mind.”

  Captain Maloof chuckled. “You don’t quite understand. Fay is the scion of an extremely high-caste family; it is below his dignity to take money from a commoner or any sort of social inferior.”

  Garwig’s jaw slackened. He looked ruefully down at the money. “Ah, then: he puts me in an awkward position. I am hardly a commoner, but I suppose —”

  “No matter,” said Maloof. “Fay has already forgotten the incident. I advise that when you see him again, you attempt no familiarity, nor explanations which might bore him.”

  “No, of course not,” Garwig muttered.

  The three from the Glicca departed the Fontenoy. Schwatzendale awaited them and the group continued across the field.

  2

  The time was early evening. Kaneel Verd had set; clouds in the western sky glowed pomegranate crimson and pale green, along with shadings of blue and lavender.

  The spacemen strolled up an avenue toward the center of town, while sunset colors deepened into the violet of dusk. At the edge of town they came upon the Green Star Inn: a long low structure of dark wood at the back of an open-air pavilion. Tall black deodars, weeping willows and indigenous kardoons surrounded the area. Flamboys fixed to high branches gave off plumes of colored light. A number of tables spaced around the edge of the pavilion were occupied by townspeople: family groups, young lovers, a few elderly folk out for an evening’s entertainment. The four spacemen stepped up into the covered area and seated themselves at a table beside the balustrade. They were approached by a round-faced serving boy wearing a fine green- and black-striped shirt, a white apron and a tall loose-crowned white cap with the name ‘Flodis’ embroidered along the front band. He announced the dishes available for service: a soup of tubers, leeks and plantains; a confiture of reedfowl; fried loup-fish with sea fruit; a roast of cavies in special sauce, along with bread and side dishes. If they were inclined only to drink, he was prepared to supply deep-cellar ale, new toddy, arrack, dark or light rum, several varieties of wine. The group opted for tankards of ale, to be followed by soup, then reedfowl with swamp rice and fried leeks.

  The four drank ale, while two moons drifted across the zenith and a third moon rose in the east. Myron watched the moons in surprise; their surfaces seemed to swim with a pale green luster. An illusion? Or might the ingestion of strong ale have contributed to the effect?

  Flodis served the soup in deep earthenware bowls, and Myron’s attention was distracted. The soup was followed by roasted reedfowl on beds of brown rice seasoned with pods of local pepper.

  The tables around the pavilion and within the covered area became occupied, by folk of many sorts and many classes. From one of the passenger packets at the terminal came a noisy group of tourists, who sat marveling at the three moons and drinking both ale and the new toddy. Nearby sat a farming family who dined on soup and bread, while covertly watching the tourists. Four you
ng bravos of the town also seemed interested in the tourists and exchanged badinage from a table nearby. Flodis the serving boy watched them sourly. “They’ll make trouble before the evening is over,” he told Myron. “They hope to attract the tourist girls, and one way or another there is always a wrangle. It’s up to me to sort things out, which like as not earns me a sound thumping. Am I paid a bonus for such work? As you can guess, the answer is, in every respect and in all degrees: no!” Flodis gave his head a glum shake and went off about his duties.

  Next to arrive was a group of spacemen from the freighter Herlemar, who ranged themselves along the bar. A moment later Joss Garwig and his family appeared. Noticing the four from the Glicca, they approached and seated themselves at the adjacent table. Garwig eyed Schwatzendale warily, then said in his most affable voice: “So — here we are again!” He looked around the chamber. “A picturesque place, if a bit — shall we say? — raggle-taggle?”

  “Perhaps so,” said Maloof. “Nevertheless, the ale is quite good.”

  Flodis the serving boy approached, took orders and departed. Vermyra pointed and called out in happy anticipation. “I do believe that we are about to have music! Perhaps there will be dancing, as well! Tibbet, this is your enthusiasm! Aren’t you excited?”

  “Profoundly,” said Tibbet.

  From the back of the room came six small men, swarthy and sharp-featured, moving at a crouching, half-furtive run. They climbed upon the bandstand and arranged themselves in a semi-circle. After them came a group of small boys: pallid, thin-featured urchins, with ragged mops of dark hair, arms and legs like sticks. They gathered at the base of the bandstand, and began to peer around the room, pointing and whispering sly comments.

  Tibbet muttered, “What is going on? I understand none of this! They carry no instruments! The boys are like avid little rats!”

  Joss Garwig uttered a mild reproof: “Hush, my dear! You must learn forbearance! Artistic excellence is never obvious, especially to a stranger! We must listen before we judge; these odd little men may be virtuosos of the first water. We must wait and try to understand!”