by Jack Vance
“I’m sure that you are right,” said Tibbet. “I won’t listen until you tell me whether or not they are talented; it will save me mental energy.”
“Hush, Tibbet!” snapped Joss Garwig. “You fail to enhance your charm!”
“Everybody quiet!” cried Vermyra. “They are about to play.”
The men on the bandstand brought out long pipes, and without preliminary remarks puffed out their cheeks and blew, producing a shrill squealing uproar punctuated by warbles and squeaks. The boys at the base of the bandstand put fingers to their mouths and, with eyes popping from their heads, set up a blast of ear-shattering whistles.
Joss Garwig cried in outrage, though he could not be heard: “What in the name of everything awful is going on? This is not music, not even of the avant-garde sort!”
Two of the boys took up trays and danced around the room, thrusting the trays under the faces of the inn’s patrons. Their dance was a prancing hip-jiggling strut, which they accompanied with curious belching sounds to mark out the rhythm of their steps. As they moved coins were grudgingly dropped into the trays.
Myron yelled up at Flodis, who stood beside the table with a bland expression. “What is going on?”
Flodis leaned over and called into Myron’s ear. “They are clowns from River-Isle. They perform free, so we allow them to stage their acts on the premises. It is a good arrangement; we pay nothing for the entertainment, which is being offered free of charge, though, as you see, they solicit gratuities with zeal. As soon as the take reaches ten sols, they will instantly stop the entertainment.”
The dancing boys came to Joss Garwig. With an angry expression he made as if to elbow aside the tray, but Flodis lunged out to restrain him, and shouted into Garwig’s ear: “Do not be hasty! The whole group will come to dance and entertain at your table!”
Emotions twisted Garwig’s face, but at last he dropped a few coins into the tray. Then he watched, half-furious, half-amused, as the four from the Glicca gave over a few dinkets and the boys moved on. In due course they finished their circuit of the room and returned to the bandstand, where they turned out the trays. The noise halted abruptly, while musicians carefully counted the take. It seemed adequate; at once they slid down from the bandstand and ran at a hunching lope from the premises.
Joss Garwig called to Captain Maloof: “Never before have I so deeply appreciated the solace of quiet. The cessation of sound is a joy in itself!”
“It is a soothing anodyne,” said Maloof.
“A pity that the substance cannot be bottled and sold on the market, as a general elixir,” mused Wingo.
“The need has already been met,” Schwatzendale told him. “It is known as tincture of blue cyanide.”
Wingo smilingly demurred. “That sort of elixir is too extreme. The effect is irreversible.”
“Wingo is correct,” said Maloof, and, after some analysis, Schwatzendale conceded the point.
At the next table Vermyra was pulling at Joss Garwig’s arm. “This place is not particularly interesting, and those young men yonder are ogling Tibbet in a most vulgar manner! I am quite ready to leave.”
Joss Garwig looked from face to face around his table: from Tibbet to Vermyra to Mirl. “What of it, then? Shall we depart?”
Vermyra said, “Don’t forget; we have a big day tomorrow and the hour is growing late.”
Tibbet twisted her mouth into a wry pout, and appraised the young men whose attentions had annoyed her mother. They were not particularly attractive, and two of them wore rather ludicrous mustaches. She asked Flodis, “Are there to be more entertainments?”
“Not in the next few minutes. The string-twisters will be here presently, or so I believe.”
“Are they noisy?” Garwig asked.
“Yes, to a certain degree.”
“Then we will not wait.” Garwig turned to the four from the Glicca. “I expect that we shall meet at Sweetfleur, but for now, goodnight and good luck.”
Garwig and his family departed the Green Star Inn. Maloof asked his crew: “Shall we try another round of this quite passable ale?”
“I am willing,” said Schwatzendale. “If the ‘string-twisters’ are boring, we can always leave.”
Wingo and Myron were of similar opinion; Maloof, therefore, signaled Flodis, who brought four fresh tankards.
After half an hour the string-twisters had not yet appeared, and Flodis admitted that they probably had been detained at the Lucanthus Tavern or, even more likely, had gone home to their beds.
Flodis’ voice dwindled away and broke off in mid-sentence. His attention had been caught by the arrival of two elderly gentlemen wearing long black cloaks and low-crowned black hats. For a moment the two stood in the entrance, looking about the pavilion. Myron wondered at the disquiet the two had aroused in Flodis; could they be penal officers of the town come to apprehend Flodis for a misdeed? Probably not. More likely they were officials from an outlying township. Both were of middle stature, thin and erect, as if by some ascetic discipline, with pinched pale faces, round black eyes, pointed chins.
The two moved to a side table, settled themselves, and became still. Unnaturally still, thought Myron. He beckoned to Flodis, who reluctantly approached. “The two men yonder,” Myron pointed. “Are they the string-twisters?”
Flodis licked his lips. He blurted, “Ignore them, at all costs! They are Chan Overmen, down from the hills! They bring bad luck to someone.”
Myron looked at Maloof. “Did you hear?”
“I heard.”
Myron covertly studied the Chan Overmen. Except for their peculiar stillness, there was little about them to account for Flodis’ uneasiness.
Myron told Flodis: “I see only a pair of polite old gentlemen who are sitting quietly. Why are you so timid?”
Flodis gave a husky laugh. “They are shrikes of the deepest dye! They consort with ghosts and know what human men should never know. Don’t so much as look at them! They will send poulders to sit on your neck of nights.”
Maloof asked, “Do they often come to the Green Star Inn?”
“Not often — but even once is too many.” Flodis drew a deep breath. “Now I must go to serve them. For any trivial mistake they will look at me and take down my name.”
“No need for despair,” Myron told him. “They are leaving.”
Flodis was not reassured. “I failed to serve them promptly! They took notice and left in a fury! I will suffer; you will see!”
“Possibly so,” said Maloof. “But I suspect that they came to watch the string-twisters, and now are on their way to Lucanthus Tavern.”
Flodis nodded dubiously. “You may be right. If so, I am much relieved.”
Flodis went off about his duties. A moment passed. Maloof rose to his feet. “I have had enough ale, and I think that now I shall return to the ship. Also, I am curious as to how affairs are going aboard the Fontenoy.”
“A good idea,” said Wingo. “I will join you.”
Schwatzendale and Myron were of the same mind. The four spacemen departed the Green Star Inn and set off toward the terminal, moving like shadows under the tall trees. They arrived at the terminal and went out upon the field. One moon floated at the zenith. Another hung halfway down the sky, while the third sat with its lower limb on the western horizon. Myron still thought to discern a faint crust of green luster on the otherwise pale faces. In the moonlight the field stretched stark and empty to its far limits. A night-light glowed in the main saloon of the Fontenoy; otherwise the ship seemed dark and silent. The four continued across the field to the Glicca, and retired to their cabins.
At some unknown hour of the night Myron awoke. Through the porthole he saw that the last of the moons had reached the horizon. He lay listening. A sound had awakened him, but now the night was quiet. Once more he tried to sleep.
Time passed: several minutes, perhaps longer. A soft hooting sound came to Myron’s ears. His eyes snapped open. After a moment he slipped from his bunk and went to
the porthole. In the starlight he recognized the shape of the Fontenoy. To the side, half-concealed by the hull, was another smaller shape, an unnatural presence which he could not identify. He ran from his cabin to the saloon. Maloof stood by the window, looking out over the field. He told Myron: “Something is happening at the Fontenoy. Get dressed; bring your gun.”
Myron ran back to his cabin. As he dressed, he heard Maloof instructing Schwatzendale.
Myron returned to the saloon. Maloof asked, “You are carrying your gun?”
“Yes sir.”
“Come along then.”
3
Tibbet awoke, blinking and confused. The echo of a sound still rang in her ears. It had been a strange, soft call, like nothing she had heard before. She lay rigid, listening, then slid from her bunk and went to the porthole, where she stared in perplexity at the object just beside the Fontenoy. It seemed a large, if rather ungainly, flitter. She thrust her feet into slippers, donned a dark blue robe, went to the door. Here she hesitated, then summoning all her courage, opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. From the saloon came the stir of movement. She heard her father’s voice raised in angry challenge. Step by step Tibbet moved along the corridor. She stared with fear and dismay into the saloon. This was nightmare, pure and simple, and could not be believed! Two squat figures were dragging the limp body of her father toward the entry port.
Tibbet opened her mouth to scream, but produced only a gurgle. Now something seized her from behind with bone-cracking power. Wrenching her head about, she looked over her shoulder into the face of a ghost-chaser, a mere six inches from her own face. The creature’s touch was marmoreal; its features were even more horrid than she remembered. She wanted to scream, but, as before, could manage no more than a sick gurgle. As she stared into the face, the loose-lipped mouth quivered. The ghost-chaser was about to suck her breath, or do something else even more horrifying. Tibbet’s flesh crawled.
Without conscious plan, Tibbet wriggled free and lunged toward the entry port. She fell through the opening to the ground below, rolled over and over, and struggled to her knees. A Chan bent to seize her; she kicked at him and scurried away on hands and knees; then, picking herself up, ran off into the night.
Maloof and Myron crossed the field at a crouching lope, swinging to the side in order to gain the shadow at the stern of the Fontenoy. As they approached they heard an odd whimpering sound, which grew louder. With startling suddenness a human figure lurched from the darkness. Starlight shone into a pale contorted face under a wild tangle of dark hair. Maloof stepped forward; Tibbet saw him and gave a croak of terror. Maloof called out, “Tibbet, it is Captain Maloof and Myron! Don’t be frightened!” But Tibbet had sagged to the ground in sheer despair. Maloof picked her up and stroked her hair. “Tibbet! You are safe! No one will hurt you!” Tibbet gulped and made shuddering sounds in her throat. “The ghost-chaser; it took me —”
“Tibbet, listen carefully! The others need help; we can’t take care of you right now. Do you hear me?”
In a muffled voice Tibbet said, “I hear you.”
“Do you see the Glicca yonder?”
“Yes, I see it.”
“Run to the Glicca, go aboard and wait until we come.”
Tibbet said peevishly, “I want to wait here.”
There was no time to argue. Maloof said, “As you like! Don’t move from this spot.”
Tibbet was no longer heeding Maloof’s orders. She cried out in a poignant contralto: “Look! What are they doing to my father?” She started back toward the Fontenoy, but Myron stood in her way and halted her. “Stay here! You can’t help us!”
Tibbet stared at him numbly. Myron ran off after Maloof, toward the shadows at the stern of the Fontenoy. Behind him he sensed that Tibbet was following, but he could no longer control her movements.
There was activity at the Fontenoy’s entry port. Joss Garwig was thrust down the gangplank. He tumbled into a limp heap. Down the gangplank behind him stumped a squat shape. It lowered its long arms, seized Garwig’s leg and started to drag him toward the flitter. Next came Mirl, who was also tumbled down the steps and dragged away. Finally, Vermyra was thrust out the port, to sprawl gracelessly down the steps. Two other ghost-chasers, slow and ponderous, came next, followed by the second Chan. Once upon the ground the Chan strode out upon the field, then halted, apparently in search of Tibbet, but in the shadows at the stern of the Fontenoy, Maloof, Myron and Tibbet were inconspicuous.
Maloof whispered instructions into Myron’s ear. Tibbet came tentatively forward, but Maloof gestured her to stand back, behind the aft sponson. Tibbet reluctantly obeyed.
Maloof stepped out into the open. The two Chan Overmen saw him at once and dropped their hands toward the side-pockets of their cloaks.
Maloof raised his gun. “Don’t move! You are close to death!”
The Chan became still. Maloof indicated the nearest of the two. “Come forward. Keep your hands high.”
The Chan advanced slowly, until Maloof signalled with his gun. “That is far enough. Myron, keep this gentleman under control.”
Myron left the shadows and approached, gun at the ready. He halted five yards from the Chan. “I have him in my sights.”
Maloof turned his attention to the second Chan, who stood near the flitter. The Chan said, “This is a private affair. Go away, at once.”
“It is not so simple,” said Maloof. “We are acquainted with these folk, and you are treating them very roughly.”
“They are guilty of crimes, and must pay the penalty.”
“‘Crimes’?” asked Maloof incredulously. “Misdeeds, perhaps.”
“Desecration of our old places is a crime, as are trespass and theft.”
“Minor crimes, certainly. What penalty do you propose?”
“It is appropriate. Four statues of jade will presently stand yonder, at the end of the field. Each will hold a sign: ‘I stole from the Chan Overmen. I shall steal no more.’”
Maloof spoke evenly: “That is a pretty notion, but it is quite unreasonable.”
“Not so, and if you interfere further there will be six statues, rather than four. Your guns mean nothing. Go away at once.”
Maloof said, “There is a gunship in the sky above you. Do not move. I am about to secure your weapons.”
The Chan showed him a small prim smile. “And I am about to secure yours.” The smile became a grimace; in each of the Chan’s eyes a blue spark appeared. Blue glare flashed into Maloof’s brain. His senses roiled and went vague; oblivion closed in upon him. But first! Something needed to be done. Even as he sagged to the ground he tightened his fingers against the gun: a white bolt struck into the Chan’s shoulder, spinning him around. He fell prone, to lay twitching with pain.
Maloof found himself on his knees, head hanging low. He managed to look over his shoulder; the second Chan stood rigid, his eyes fixed upon Myron. Maloof croaked: “Don’t look at him! Turn your head!”
Too late. The blue glare had already broken into Myron’s mind, and the gun hung loosely by his side. From behind Myron came the flurry of motion; a glimpse by starlight of a pale set face as Tibbet ran to the Chan and pulled the hat-brim down over his eyes. The control was gone; Myron staggered forward and struck the Chan with the side of his gun. The Chan fell to the ground, clawing feebly at his hat. Myron bent, and from the Chan’s pocket took a small power-gun. Maloof did the same for the other Chan.
The flitter from the Glicca landed; Schwatzendale and Wingo came forward. Maloof stood back while Wingo dealt with the wounded Chan, bandaging the injury and staunching the flow of blood. Tearing a strip from the hem of the Chan’s cloak, he contrived a sling, into which he cradled the Chan’s arm.
Meanwhile Joss Garwig had pulled himself to his feet. He stood leaning against the flitter while Mirl and Tibbet ministered to Vermyra, who sat huddled upon the bottom step of the gangway, only half-conscious.
Garwig gradually grasped the full extent of what had bee
n done to himself and his family. With glittering eyes he hobbled across the field to where Maloof stood beside the wounded Chan. Garwig managed to speak coherently to Maloof: “You have rescued us! I am grateful! Later I will thank you properly. Now I must call the IPCC; they will know how to deal with these brutes.” He turned toward the Fontenoy.
“Just a minute!” called Maloof. “Don’t be too hasty! Have you thought the matter through?”
Garwig halted and turned to scowl toward Maloof. “Why delay? These creatures were intending to kill us all!”
“That may be true — but don’t forget: you committed the first offense.”
“What of that? I merely rescued a few abandoned statues from the bog.”
“So you say. The Chan will claim that you came furtively to the Cloudlands, that you descended by night and looted a manor house of four statues which you acknowledge to be valuable works of art. You do not come clean to the case. You risk confiscation of the Fontenoy, and possibly a term of penal servitude.”
Garwig stood crestfallen. “Then what should I do? Much as they deserve it, I can’t kill them in cold blood. To be honest, I don’t know what to do.”
“I will make a suggestion, which you may or may not like.”
“Well, then: what is this suggestion?”
“Go aboard the Fontenoy with your family. The Chan will load the ghost-chasers aboard their flitter and return to the Cloudlands. No one is happy, but no one is dead.”
Garwig blew out his cheeks. “The scheme is untidy but rational. I am not happy, but I will comply with these terms.”
Maloof asked the Chan Overmen: “Will you accept these conditions?”
For a moment the Chan looked at him stony-faced; then one of them said, “So it will be. Our plan is now canceled.”
Garwig raised his hand in a gesture of resignation. He turned away and limped toward the Fontenoy. After three steps he stopped short and seemed to reflect upon a sudden new concept. Slowly he turned about and thoughtfully appraised the Chan. They stared back at him without interest.