Ports of Call

by Jack Vance

  “We have put an end to our quarrel,” said Garwig. “From the first it was rife with cross purposes and false assumptions. Am I correct?”

  The Chan had nothing to say. Garwig went on. “A new thought has occurred to me. You may find it interesting. I suggest a transaction of mutual benefit. I will buy from you one or two of these so-called ‘ghost-chasers’, providing, of course, that the price is right.” Garwig peered sidelong toward the Chan. “What do you say to the proposition?”

  “No.”

  Garwig blinked. “Is that all?”

  “The idea is without merit.”

  “As you like,” said Garwig. He bowed stiffly, turned and limped to the Fontenoy. With Mirl’s assistance, he helped Vermyra up the gangway and into the Fontenoy. They were followed by Tibbet.

  The Chan prepared to leave. While one loaded the ghost-chasers into the flitter, Maloof engaged the other in conversation. The Chan spoke tersely, but Maloof persisted with his questions until the Chan would say no more. Maloof politely stood back and watched as the flitter lifted from the field and departed into the night.

  Garwig had been watching from the entry port. He called down to Maloof, “Come aboard, if you like! It has been a trying evening. All of us will profit from some small refreshment.”

  “That is a good idea,” said Maloof. He heard no objection from his crew and the four marched up the gangway and into the saloon.

  4

  Mirl brewed a pot of tea which he brought into the saloon along with a platter of nut-cakes. Vermyra gratefully accepted the cup tendered to her by Tibbet. She spoke in a tremulous voice: “Never have I been so terrified! It was like the worst sort of nightmare!”

  Wingo tried to soothe her. “Everything is now secure! The adventure is over and you may relax without fear.”

  “‘Adventure’?” snapped Garwig. “I call it a damnable outrage!”

  Mirl said, “Whatever the case, we are lucky to be alive — for which we can thank Tibbet and her fast action.”

  Vermyra cried out: “Oh Mirl, if you please! I am trying to forget the event!”

  “It does no good to bury one’s head in the sand,” declared Garwig. “We must face up to facts!”

  Myron said, “Tibbet is a real heroine. That is an important fact!”

  Tibbet flung her arms exultantly into the air. “Hurrah! At last! After all these years I have done something useful! I am an important person! Now, perhaps, Mother will allow me to go out by myself.”

  Vermyra patted Tibbet’s hand. “Please, dear, not so excitable! All in its own good time. At the moment you are still a bit inexperienced.”

  Tibbet snatched away her hand. “How can I become experienced when you won’t let me out of your sight?”

  “Tibbet had some important experiences tonight,” said Mirl. “That should bring her score up.”

  Vermyra was not amused. “It is nothing to joke about. Tibbet, surely it is well past your bedtime!”

  Tibbet gave a shrug of despair. “It is more like the time that I would be getting up.”

  Vermyra started to speak, but in the end decided not to order the heroic Tibbet off to bed.

  Maloof, however, had put down his cup and was making ready to leave. “Just a minute!” said Garwig. “You spoke to the Chan before they left. Was that a confidential conversation?”

  Maloof smiled. “Not at all: I was curious about the ghost-chasers. I asked if they were alive or dead. ‘Neither,’ I was told — or, if I preferred, both. I asked for more details, and finally I learned that a suitable subject is made unconscious by a hypnotic process. Next, he is impregnated with gums and syrups, which stabilize his condition and alter his metabolism. He is then pickled for two years in a solution which provides him an impervious carapace of nephrite. He is tested, then posted to an area where his services are needed. There he remains, through fog, rain, sleet and wind, perhaps forever.”

  “How strange that they gave you all this information!” exclaimed Garwig.

  Maloof smiled again. “They wanted their hand-guns back. I wanted information. That was the basis of the transaction.”

  “Hmmf. What else did they tell you?”

  “I asked about the blue flash which caused unconsciousness. They explained that small lasers were surgically attached to the optic muscles, so that a laser beam could be directed down the line of sight. The beam was modulated so as to exert maximum hypnotic potency. When the beam struck the subject’s retina, the signal induced hypnotic coma. It is a fractious device, which requires intensive training. Next, I asked if the ghost-chasers effectively repelled ghosts. They said that they had no evidence to the contrary, and there the matter rested. Now we shall bid you goodnight and return to the Glicca.”

  Garwig conducted the four to the entry port. “Goodnight, and, once again, our thanks to you all. Tomorrow we’ll be off to Sweetfleur, which will please Vermyra and Tibbet, and perhaps they will forget the whole ugly affair.”

  “No doubt we shall meet at Sweetfleur,” said Maloof. “Tomorrow morning we work cargo, so that we will arrive at Sweetfleur sometime during the afternoon. Goodbye till then!”

  Before leaving the ship, Myron paused beside Tibbet. He said in a low voice, “You are not only brave; you are also extremely pretty.”

  Tibbet smiled. “It is nice of you to notice.” She glanced over her shoulder. “My mother is watching; I can’t talk to you now. Tomorrow!”

  “Tomorrow, I hope!” Myron descended the gangway and followed Maloof to the Glicca.

  Chapter VIII

  1

  Shortly after noon the Glicca rose into the air and flew a thousand miles south, up over the Botanic Mountains and down to the Sweetfleur space terminal. The Fontenoy had arrived but showed no sign of activity; the Garwigs already had gone off to explore the town.

  As at Girandole, the warehousemen were celebrating their holiday; no cargo would be worked until the morrow. The pilgrims, anxious to arrive at Impy’s Landing without delay, urged that the crew should perform the task, but the crew paid no heed and departed the Glicca immediately, leaving the pilgrims glowering after them.

  With jaunty steps the crew crossed the field. In the transit lobby they discovered a placard advertising the Grand Lalapalooza, now in progress on Lilibank Field. The placard listed a score of events and exhibitions, including novelty dancing, acrobatic spectaculars, a stilt-walkers’ ballet, a beauty pageant to dazzle the senses, races and tournaments, a parade of monsters guaranteed to bring nightmares to the sleep of the most placid child. Elsewhere were displays of prize-winning fruits and vegetables which also graced the menus of nearby restaurants.

  A second placard hung alongside the first, its message printed in pale green, scarlet and black:

  AT THE LALAPALOOZA! AN EXCITING SURPRISE!

  MONCRIEF THE MAGE,

  HIS COMPANY AND THEIR MARVELLOUS PRESENTATIONS!

  —

  Witness deeds of glory, enjoy the redoubtable games where wealth trembles on the twitch of a finger! Play for sport; play for profit! Do not stand in the dust while the Caravan of Dreams rolls past! Laugh and joke with Flook, Pook and Snook! Enjoy the artistry of

  MONCRIEF THE MAGE!

  Schwatzendale read the placards with a rapt expression. This could be none other than Moncrief the Mouse-rider, who so dispassionately had vanquished him at a game of Cagliostro, mulcting him to the amount of forty-seven sols and sixty dinkets.

  Schwatzendale turned away, making no comment. Wingo mused: “I am partial to fairs, and the Lalapalooza sounds as if it might be quite good! Shall we make it an occasion?”

  “A sound idea,” said Maloof. Neither Myron nor Schwatzendale offered objections and so it was decided.

  A public conveyance took the group to Lilibank Field. They paid entrance fees at a wicket and passed through and out upon ten acres of rampant color, noise and festivity. For a time they wandered through an exhibition of prize-winning provender: fruits both familiar and exotic; nuts large and s
mall; pepper-balls, truffles, green and blue tubers, smoked fish, sun-dried tripes arranged in tasteful patterns; land leeches, bogberries, pastes and pâtés; small tubs of so-called devil’s ‘butter’, blocks of cheese, and other items even less familiar. Much of the same produce was offered for immediate consumption by vendors serving from cauldrons, grills and spits. As they worked they chanted the virtues of their wares, at the same time denouncing the cuisine of competitors.

  Wandering musicians added to the din. Some wore bizarre costumes; others shuffled and jigged as they croaked woebegone ballads. At intervals old women huddling behind barrows uttered sudden raucous cries, like the calls of jungle parrots, hoping to promote the sale of their goods. These, for the most part, were handicrafts from the Botanic Mountains. Wingo, who doted upon curios, acquired a dozen small treasures, and also captured a number of excellent ‘mood impressions’.

  In due course the four came to an area marked off by blue and silver pennons, where the stilt-walkers performed their stately exercises. The four watched an intricate minuet, then a tournament involving four Grand Masters on thirty-foot stilts: two in blue and silver armor, the other two in red and gold. In the end a choir of clarions sounded defeat for the red and gold, and the stilt-walkers adjourned until evening.

  The four moved on to the adjacent arena, where a corps of child acrobats formed themselves into living bridges, towers and double cantilevers. A special squad performed apparently impossible feats on sets of high springboards: bounding, flipping, twisting through high open spaces with nothing below.

  After leaving the acrobats, the four came upon a large windowless structure: the Hall of the Three Aeons. Within the hall were darkness and looming masses suggesting the presence of gigantic cromlechs; through the shadows moving shapes simulated a fabulous race a million years gone. In a silence broken only by wisps of eery sound a troupe enacted ‘The Rite of Dawn’.

  The Glicca’s crew left the hall in somber silence. They stood in the avenue for a few moments, dazzled by the sunlight, then crossed to a refreshment hut built of wicker and palapa thatch. They were served frozen punch in dark wooden bowls, and gradually the spell cast by ‘The Rite of Dawn’ seeped away.

  They set off along an avenue, which first passed a field devoted to the asseveration of spiritual verities, and another where the same beliefs were ridiculed and refuted. Special cults: meta-men, paramystics, futurians, vegetarians, yaga-yagas, each convening in a private sector, where each sect celebrated its own style of reality. There was an occasional immolation and at times a boy might be sent climbing up a swaying ladder of snakes, until, with a final startled outcry, he disappeared into the sky, leaving his parents standing below, staring up in perplexity.

  The avenue continued past a children’s park, then entered a central compound: a place thronged by visitors and bordered by booths, cafés, and pavilions. The four spacemen halted to take stock of the area. Through an opening in the crowd Myron glimpsed the Garwig family standing near the House of Buffoons, apparently debating whether or not to enter the premises. Tibbet stood to the side, half-turned away, taking no part in the conference. She wore a pale tan pullover, snug white pants, a small white cap controlling most of her dark locks. Myron stared in fascination.

  Tibbet felt his gaze. She turned her head, saw him, and smiled. She glanced quickly toward her mother, looked back to Myron, made a secret gesture indicating — what? Myron thought he knew.

  The crowds shifted; miscellaneous shoulders and torsos closed the gap; Tibbet could no longer be seen. Myron stood staring at nothing in particular. He glimpsed the Garwigs once again, near the parade yard where the Green Pygmy Dervishes conducted their maneuvers. A moment later they had disappeared.

  Wingo, meanwhile, had discovered a large sign designating a rather pretentious pavilion consisting of a low platform surmounted, in part, by a tall pink and blue tent. A sign read:

  —

  MONCRIEF THE MAGE

  PURPORTMENTS! EXTUITIONS!

  GREAT AND GOOD FORTUNES.

  PLAY THE GAMES!

  —

  The four approached the pavilion, where several dozen folk stood awaiting the appearance of Moncrief and the next session of his games. The time for this occasion seemed imminent. Three cylindrical blocks had been arranged near the front of the platform. They were three feet wide and two feet high, decorated with glossy white enamel and bands of pink, blue and gold ormolu. As the spacemen watched, three girls came from the tent and climbed upon the drums, where they stood smiling cheerfully down at the spectators. They were of no great age, slender, clear-eyed, beautiful as angels. Honey-colored hair hung past their ears; they wore knee-length white frocks and white sandals without ornament. Each stood with feet slightly apart, grasping the shaft of a tall flamboy, with yellow flames dancing two feet over their heads; they might have been children playing at the rituals of an ancient mystery. Even more wonderful, the girls were exactly alike.

  A pair of hard-faced women, also much alike, came to stand in the shadows at the back of the platform. They were tall, built like bulls, with massive shoulders, short necks, hair like handfuls of wet hay. An impressive pair, thought Myron, though lacking physical appeal. Their hips, thick and deep, clamped tough muscular buttocks. Their breasts were stark leathery rinds.

  Yet another personage appeared from the tent: a plump man of medium stature, wearing garments of subdued elegance. Moncrief? Myron had envisioned someone more severe; Moncrief — if this were he — seemed a kindly avuncular sort, perhaps a bit absent-minded. A tuft of gray hair grew up from his scalp; below was a pale forehead, a long lumpy nose, a pair of dog-brown eyes which seemed to plead for faith and trust.

  Moncrief looked out over the spectators. If he recognized Schwatzendale, he gave no signal of the fact.

  Schwatzendale muttered to Maloof, “He has swindled so many folk that now he can’t tell one from the other.”

  Moncrief stepped forward. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am Marcel Moncrief; I call myself a purveyor of magic and mysteries, but most of that stems from a time twenty years gone when my eyes were keen and my nerves were strong.” Moncrief chuckled. “That is the way of the world! My friends, accept this wisdom from me! Remember: I am not a stranger! I have long enjoyed my visits to Fiametta and to Sweetfleur in particular.” Moncrief raised his eyes to the sky and showed a sweet smile, as if he were caught up in halcyon reminiscences. With a regretful shake of the head he brought himself back to the present. “Alas! I and others like myself are cursed with wanderer’s itch; we must travel, up hill and down dale, always yearning after an unattainable dream! Hence our unworldly generosity! Who cares whether the game is won or lost? Our concern is only that folk depart with happy memories! So then — come play the game! It costs so very little, and you alone specify how much you wish to win!”

  Moncrief looked around the spectators. “You are impatient; you are anxious to play the game! Very well then! Allow me to introduce my company. On the drums stand the beautiful Flook, Pook and Snook: each a vision of delight, each as pure as the driven snow. At the back of the platform are Siglaf and Hunzel: both sturdy Klutes from the Bleary Hills of Numoy, a most extraordinary world. They are simple farm girls; each in her own way is timid and demure. Nevertheless, they are anxious to earn their dowries, so that they may return to their loved ones and the home of their dreams. Later in the day, they will take part in an exciting competition which can also enrich those who participate. In this connection, notice the tank yonder, beside the pavilion. I have spoken enough! It is time for activity, to quicken the blood and jingle the wallets! Let us play one of our jolly games, which can win you as much wealth as you care to specify! You do not believe me? Play the game and be convinced! At this moment turn your attention to these three maidens, each as fresh as the morning dew! Notice that each wears a ring. Further, each ring is distinguished by a small but excellent gem: for Flook, a ruby; for Pook, an emerald; for Snook, a fine royal blue sapphire. Examine the girls care
fully! Study their peculiarities; analyze their habits! For instance, when Pook smiles, you can often see the glint of her right upper canine tooth. Flook parts her hair on the left; Pook and Snook have not yet adopted this style, and so it goes! Now then, at this time —”

  “Hold hard!” A bird-like old man with lank grey hair, red-rimmed eyes and an unkempt nose mustache thrust himself to the front, where he now cocked his head from one side to the other, staring and peering.

  Moncrief said with gentle insistence: “If you have concluded your study, it is now time for us to proceed.”

  “Not so fast! My investigations are not complete! I want to study Flook at greater length!”

  Moncrief made a gracious gesture. “By all means! I ask only that you neither loiter nor lallygag, since we do not wish to delay the game.”

  The old man moved close to the edge of the platform and leaned forward. “Hah! Harrumph!”

  Almost at once Flook set up a complaint. “He is acting strangely! It is most unusual! He is breathing on my knee! It tickles!”

  “We must be patient with our senior customers,” Moncrief told her. “Perhaps his eyesight is faulty.”

  “Not so! His eyes are sharp! He is counting the hairs on my leg!”

  Moncrief frowned down upon the old man. “What, sir, are your intentions?”

  “Quiet; do not distract me or I shall lose my count!”

  Moncrief pulled at his chin. Then he said, “Our rules specify that you may approach the platform no closer than three feet! You are in violation of this rule, and you must desist!”

  “La la! I was not born yesterday! Show me this rule!”

  “The document is lost, but the rule remains. May I ask how much you intend to wager?”

  “Nothing. I am practicing.”

  Moncrief threw his arms in the air. “Stand back! Go away! Practice on your grandmother!”