Ports of Call

by Jack Vance

  Tutter presently announced that the lands below were part of his ranch. A few minutes later the flitter alighted beside an old stone and timber farmhouse, surrounded by a dozen majestic yews.

  Tutter jumped from the flitter, followed more sedately by Myron and Maloof. The three stood surveying the old house. “This is quite a surprise,” said Maloof. “I expected something more modest.”

  Tutter chuckled. “It suits me well enough. I have all the room I need, and there is no noise except the wind.”

  Myron asked, “Do you live alone?”

  “So I do, for the most part. The farm compound lies over yonder, behind the Irfle Woods. There I keep twenty-eight Yelting women, who work the farm and patrol the fences. Once a week a young woman comes in to cut my hair and do whatever else is needful; otherwise I am alone and free to take care of my business.”

  “What is this business?” Maloof asked.

  “Trifles of this and that. In the main I sell farm stuff to villagers along the eastern shore. But come! Step inside for a moment! I can show you objects even more surprising than the house itself!”

  Myron and Maloof looked at each other. They shrugged, then followed Tutter through the front door into a large room panelled with planks of varnished rock-cedar. A pair of heavy rugs, striped black, white and gray, lay on the floor; furniture, consisting of a long table, a few chairs, a couch, a pair of small tabourets, were all built of black wenge and placed to the dictates of household etiquette. On the walls hung Panselin family portraits, painted upon thin slabs of wenge.

  Maloof went to study the long pale faces, which stared at him from brooding black eyes. “The portraits are interesting,” Maloof told Tutter. “Are these your ‘surprises’?”

  “No; I had something else in mind, as you will see.”

  “We have far to go,” said Maloof. “It is time that we were on our way.”

  Tutter cried out heartily. “Must you go so soon? I have something more to show you.”

  “Another of your ‘surprises’?”

  “Yes,” said Tutter, after reflection. “I think that the word holds force. In any case, I must serve refreshments! It would be shameful to do otherwise.”

  Tutter left the room at a lope, to return a moment later with a tray which he placed upon the table. “It is our traditional fare. These are seedcakes; and here, in the pot of the Panselin, is a special tea. It is considered very good.” He poured, tendered a mug to Myron and another to Maloof. “I am anxious to learn your opinion.”

  Maloof took up his mug and smelled the steam. His eyebrows jerked high; he replaced the mug on the tray.

  Tutter watched carefully. “What do you think?”

  “It is too strong for me. If anyone — even you — could drink it, I would consider it a ‘surprise’ indeed.”

  “Try just a sip!” Tutter urged. “You too, Myron! You might well find it pleasing!”

  “I am afraid it will make me sick,” said Maloof.

  “Just a sip?” suggested Tutter.

  “No, thank you.”

  Myron also put down his mug. “My opinion is the same.”

  Maloof turned toward the door. “And now —”

  Tutter held up his hand. “You may recall that I spoke of the Arct helmets?”

  “You mentioned that they were valuable.”

  “So I did, and so they are!” Tutter went to the cabinet and threw wide the doors. “See for yourselves!”

  Six tall helmets faced out upon the room, staring from shadowed holes to right and left of the nasals. “My treasures stand revealed!” cried Tutter. “So much beauty is surely a ‘surprise’, is it not? But there is more!” Tutter stepped forward, lifted one of the helmets from the shelf. “Look! Notice the sweep of the curves! The helmet is a symbol of Destiny! But one moment.” He placed the helmet on the table and turned back to the shelves. “Symmetry is indispensable.” He reached, then paused to look over his shoulder. “Beauty comes in many guises! It is everywhere! Some identify beauty with life! Others claim that the waning of life, like the fading of a sunset, is the culmination of all experience. A paradox? If so, I have not been able to resolve it.”

  Tutter shook his head as if baffled. He turned back to the shelves, stretched his arm, groped in the shadows and brought out a silver-blue gun. He swung about, his face a gaunt grinning mask. “All questions, both of life and death, are now moot, since I must have the flitter.”

  Maloof had been waiting, gun in hand. He shot before Tutter could level his weapon, and watched as Tutter slumped to the floor.

  Myron came to look down at the body. “It is hard to mourn Tutter.”

  Maloof turned away. “Come; it is time to go. Let Tutter solve his mysteries in peace.”

  “Wait!” cried Myron. “There are still the helmets to consider!”

  “What about them?”

  “We just can’t walk away and leave them! They would be loot for the first gang to look through the window!”

  “You may well be right.”

  The two carried the helmets out to the flitter, then climbed aboard and flew off into the east through the failing light of afternoon. In due course they arrived at the dismal shore of the Aeolian Ocean. They set off across the water and four hundred miles later, they put down behind the squat stone ramparts of Pharisee City. They discharged their cargo, then went to the refectory and made a meal of fried fish and oatcakes. Returning to the flitter, they departed Pharisee City and flew back the way they had come: over the water and across the Lilank Prairie, chasing twilight into the west.

  The two rode in silence, each preoccupied with his own thoughts. The prairie fell behind; the flitter drifted out across the vast black face of the Shinar Forest. Myron looked down from the window, wondering whether he might see the glimmer of a light, but saw only deep darkness. He drew back. “I would not care to make a forced landing down there, especially now.”

  “Nor I,” said Maloof. “I want only to arrive at Cambria, board the Glicca and put this dismal world astern!”

  “I agree.”

  For a time they rode in silence. Then Maloof looked toward the sky, where the stars were shining. “Up there is our next port of call: Coro-Coro on Fluter. It is serene and restful. The scenery is splendid. It is the ideal place for a layover, which will be useful to all of us.”

  “You’ll hear few complaints.”

  “At Coro-Coro the first phase of our voyage is over. The next phase takes us to Cax on Blenkinsop. The padroons are not always reasonable; if we hope to have our way with them, we shall need all our craft. But I am sanguine; I suspect that we will succeed and set off along the next phase of our voyage. And there ahead I see the lights of Cambria!”

  3

  Before leaving Mariah, the Glicca made a final stop at Felker’s Landing, in order to load another consignment of kiki-nuts. At the first opportunity Wingo donned his brown cloak and wide-brimmed hat and, taking up a parcel, set off toward town. He passed the Prospero Inn, turned into a side-street, approached the Museum of the Natural Man and entered. He found Professor Gill standing at a counter, polishing a stone amulet.

  Professor Gill acknowledged Wingo’s presence with a curt nod and continued his work. Wingo bowed politely and placed his parcel on the counter. After a moment Professor Gill glanced sidewise at the parcel, then a second time, then finally could no longer contain his curiosity. He put down his work. “What do you have there?”

  Wingo responded rather ponderously: “I believe this piece to be genuine, but I would be interested to hear your opinion.”

  Professor Gill made a sound of annoyance: “Sassah! Is it not always the way? Every time a tourist finds a bit of petrified turnip, he comes running to me with his prize and demands a notarized affidavit! I must start charging a fee. Well then, let’s have a look.”

  “A glance should be enough,” said Wingo soothingly. He opened the parcel. “I remember you expressed interest in such articles, so before I take it to auction —”
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br />   “Hold!” cried Professor Gill in a choking voice. “My dear sir; am I seeing correctly?”

  “Of course; why should you not?”

  “Because I never thought to see such a piece! What is its source?”

  “It comes, so I am told, from the collection of an outlaw Arct, who no longer flies.”

  “It is a superb example! May I touch it?”

  “Of course! In fact I wonder if we might agree on a trade.”

  “Absolutely! What are your desires? You need but name them.”

  Wingo said hesitantly, “As a matter of fact, one of your properties caught my eye: the sketchbook of a boy named Dondil Reske.”

  “I know it well, a charming little piece! It is yours! What more do you need?”

  “That will be enough.”

  Professor Gill ran to fetch the sketchbook.

  The two connoisseurs congratulated each other, then Wingo returned to the Glicca. Professor Gill closed and locked the door. He placed the helmet on a counter. To right and left he arranged a golden candelabrum and reverently put flame to the orange candles. From the depths of a cabinet he brought a squat bottle and a goblet. He unsealed the bottle and poured a thick amber liquid into the goblet; then he pulled up a chair, settled himself to the joy of his acquisition. The universe had been opened to him; he was free to leave this frowsty little town of mad sprang-hoppers and, in dignity and pride, return to the cloisters of academia, where his wry anecdotes of life on Mariah would grace many an intimate little dinner party.

  Bliss!

  Epilogue

  The Glicca drifted through space, unsubstantial as a puff of magic smoke. Far astern, Pfitz was a dying white spark, which presently faded. Ahead, golden Franetta could not yet be seen.

  In the pilot-house of the Glicca, Captain Maloof turned from the observation window and stepped aft into the main saloon. He waited until the cheerful voices quieted, then spoke.

  “Before long we will be arriving at the Coro-Coro spaceport on Fluter, and you should know something of local conditions, which at times are ambiguous if not extraordinary.” Maloof read from The Handbook to the Planets: “‘In general Fluter is a tranquil world with beautiful landscapes in every direction, and a near-total lack of natural hazards. On Fluter time seems to move at a languid pace, possibly because there are twenty-eight hours to the Fluter day.’

  “‘Coro-Coro is the only settlement of consequence. Aside from the tourist facilities, there is nothing much to the town. A boulevard runs from the spaceport out to the O-Shar-Shan Hotel, with more hotels along the way; also agencies, shops, taverns. Residences are scattered in the gardens to either side of the boulevard. These are the homes of the folk native to Coro-Coro, who are different from the Flauts who live in the back-country villages. The folk of the town regard themselves as sophisticated aristocrats, with wealth derived from the tourist trade, which on Fluter is highly developed and very lucrative.’

  “‘A tourist who explores the back-country will find solitude and magnificent scenery; perhaps he will come upon a village consisting of picturesque old cottages, a tavern, a market and a few shops surrounding a village green. If you should visit a village, remain unobtrusive; express no opinions; drink with temperance. No one worries for the drunken tourist who has been tossed into the sump. Do not haggle or complain. Above all else, ignore the girls; the Flauts observe an exact sexual morality. If you wonder why suddenly you have been emasculated, it is probably because you have committed an immoral act, such as looking under a girl’s skirt. The village may seem a placid place where nothing ever happens, but it is almost certainly the scene of a thousand grisly events.’

  “‘The first settlers arrived from the congested world Ergard. At their first conclave, they vowed that pressure of population should never again become distressful. The number they fixed upon was ninety-nine thousand, and by great effort across the ages the limit has been maintained, and the population of Fluter is now at equilibrium. The bitter events of the past still rankle and gnaw at the Flaut soul, so that they display a peculiar personality: a kind of sullen grandiosity. Today they are a dour suspicious folk, by reason of their grim history.’“

  Maloof put aside the Handbook. “I think I have covered everything important. Are there any questions?”

  Kalash, Perrumpter of the pilgrims, raised his hand. “What of our cases? They contain valuable materials; will you relinquish them to us?”

  “Certainly, as soon as you pay off the freight charges.”

  “Ah bah!” cried Kalash. “Can you not take the long view? If you recall, we gambled with Schwatzendale; now we lack funds.”

  “That was your mistake, not mine.”

  Kalash grimaced. “We are quite at a loss! Ours is a pilgrimage of immense importance, but Schwatzendale avoids all talk of restitution! Our needs are urgent! Think, if you will! We must pay our fares to Kyril, then return fares home to Komard — not to mention the expenses during our march around Kyril. How can we obtain this necessary money?”

  “Simple enough: through the process of work.”

  Kalash made a face. “That is easier said than done.”

  “Not altogether. There is a labor shortage at Coro-Coro. You should have no trouble.”

  “And the cases?”

  “They shall be ready to hand! I will leave them in the transit warehouse. To redeem them, pay off storage and freight charges, and they are yours. Have you any further questions?”

  “Bah,” grumbled Kalash. “What good are questions, when the answers are all non-sequiturs?”

  Maloof nodded in agreement. “There is something in what you say.”

  Kalash was not yet done. “We had hoped for an easy generosity on your part, but reasoning with you is like gnawing on a stone.”

  Maloof turned away from Kalash. “Any other questions?”

  Cooner stepped forward, frowning thoughtfully, to indicate that he might have a question, possibly of a recondite nature. Maloof looked past him and addressed the group.

  “I have an announcement to make! The crew of this ship needs both bodily rest and nervous regeneration. The Glicca itself is in need of maintenance. Therefore we shall sojourn upon Fluter for — perhaps a week or two. The pilgrims will debark and prepare to trans-ship to Kyril. We shall miss their wise counsel and their happy songs, but after Coro-Coro we must fare onward to Cax. Thereafter: who knows? I can make no prediction; we are like the romantic vagabonds of old, each searching for lurulu.”

  Cooner called out: “The place is unknown to me! What or where, pray, is ‘lurulu’?”

  “‘Lurulu’ is a special word from the language of myth. It is as much of a mystery to me now as when I first yearned for something which seemed forever lost. But one day I shall glance over my shoulder and there it will be, wondering why I had not come sooner.

  “For now, it is on to Coro-Coro. Here I feel an imminence; here something important will happen, of this I feel certain. What? I do not know; it is a mystery.”

  Cooner’s puzzlement had not yet been assuaged. “And ‘lurulu’ is part of this mystery?”

  Maloof gave a non-committal shrug. “Perhaps. I may not be happy with what I find, if and when I find it.”

  “But what is it you seek?”

  Maloof smiled. “I can tell you this much: if I am lucky — or perhaps if I am unlucky — I will find it on Fluter.”

  “Interesting!” declared Cooner. He turned to Moncrief. “And you, sir! Are you also in pursuit of ‘lurulu’?”

  “I am sidling in its direction,” Moncrief admitted. “I see a glimmer every time I take some of Schwatzendale’s money. In the main, I hope that the Mouse-riders will resurge in all their glory! That would be lurulu of the purest water!”

  Cooner looked to Wingo. “How about you, Brother Wingo? Where do you seek lurulu?”

  “I cannot put it aptly into words,” said Wingo. “It is what I hope to capture in my ‘Pageant of the Gaean Race’. There is also an elemental equation which de
scribes Truth — but in this regard I am reluctant to say more.”

  Myron called out: “I am not so diffident! The object of my quest is named Dame Hester Lajoie, and when I catch her I hope that a jail is near, since gallantry would not allow me to do what I would like.”

  Cooner turned to Captain Maloof. “Do you, sir, care to tell us a bit more of your own quest?”

  Captain Maloof smiled sadly. “I will say only that I am anxious to arrive on Fluter. Out among the back-lands mysteries still abide. In any case: good luck to us all.”

  Cooner started to ask a cogent new question, but Captain Maloof turned back into the pilot-house.

  He went to look from the observation window. Franetta still could not be seen. He muttered to himself: “How will it be, if it happens at all? I must take care not to commit myself absolutely.” He stared out the window, to where Franetta would shortly come into view. “Whatever the case, life goes on, and I must prepare for Cax, where something ugly is certain.”

  For several moments he stood gazing out the window. At last, far across the void, he thought to see a small gleam, which would be the star Franetta.