by Jack Vance
“And what if the Basics come while you bicker with Carcolo?”
Joaz smiled. “Perhaps we shall all flee to the Jambles. Perhaps we shall all fight.”
“I will fight beside you,” declared Phade, striking a brave attitude. “We will attack the great Basic spaceship, braving the heat-rays, fending off the power-bolts. We will storm to the very portal, we will pull the nose of the first marauder who shows himself!”
“At one point your otherwise sage strategy falls short,” said Joaz. “How does one find the nose of a Basic?”
“In that case,” said Phade, “we shall seize their —” She turned her head at a sound in the hall. Joaz strode across the room, flung back the door. Old Rife the porter sidled forward. “You told me to call when the bottle either overturned or broke. Well, it’s done both and irreparably, not five minutes ago.”
Joaz pushed past Rife, ran down the corridor. “What means this?” demanded Phade. “Rife, what have you said to disturb him?”
Rife shook his head fretfully. “I am as perplexed as you. A bottle is pointed out to me. ‘Watch this bottle day and night’ — so I am commanded. And also, ‘When the bottle breaks or tips, call me at once.’ I tell myself that here in all truth is a sinecure. And I wonder, does Joaz consider me so senile that I will rest content with a make-work task such as watching a bottle? I am old, my jaws tremble, but I am not witless. To my surprise the bottle breaks! The explanation admittedly is workaday: a fall to the floor. Nevertheless, without knowledge of what it all means, I obey orders and notify Joaz Banbeck.”
Phade had been squirming impatiently. “Where then is this bottle?”
“In the studio of Joaz Banbeck.”
Phade ran off as swiftly as the tight sheath about her thighs permitted: through a transverse tunnel, across Kergan’s Way by a covered bridge, then up at a slant toward Joaz’s apartments.
Down the long hall ran Phade, through the anteroom where a bottle lay shattered on the floor, into the studio, where she halted in astonishment. No one was to be seen. She noticed a section of shelving which stood at an angle. Quietly, timorously, she stole across the room, peered down into the workshop.
The scene was an odd one. Joaz stood negligently, smiling a cool smile, as across the room a naked sacerdote gravely sought to shift a barrier which had sprung down across an area of the wall. But the gate was cunningly locked in place, and the sacerdote’s efforts were to no avail. He turned, glanced briefly at Joaz, then started for the exit into the studio.
Phade sucked in her breath, backed away.
The sacerdote came out into the studio, started for the door.
“Just a moment,” said Joaz. “I wish to speak to you.”
The sacerdote paused, turned his head in mild inquiry. He was a young man, his face bland, blank, almost beautiful. Fine transparent skin stretched over his pale bones. His eyes — wide, blue, innocent — seemed to stare without focus. He was delicate of frame, sparsely fleshed; his hands were thin, with fingers trembling in some kind of nervous imbalance. Down his back, almost to his waist, hung the mane of long light-brown hair.
Joaz seated himself with ostentatious deliberation, never taking his eyes from the sacerdote. Presently he spoke in a voice pitched at an ominous level. “I find your conduct far from ingratiating.” This was a declaration requiring no response, and the sacerdote made none.
“Please sit,” said Joaz. He indicated a bench. “You have a great deal of explaining to do.”
Was it Phade’s imagination? Or did a spark of something like wild amusement flicker and die almost instantaneously in the sacerdote’s eyes? But again he made no response. Joaz, adapting to the peculiar rules by which communication with the sacerdotes must be conducted, asked, “Do you care to sit?”
“It is immaterial,” said the sacerdote. “Since I am standing now, I will stand.”
Joaz rose to his feet and performed an act without precedent. He pushed the bench behind the sacerdote, rapped the back of the knobby knees, thrust the sacerdote firmly down upon the bench. “Since you are sitting now,” said Joaz, “you might as well sit.”
With gentle dignity the sacerdote regained his feet. “I shall stand.”
Joaz shrugged. “As you wish. I intend to ask you some questions. I hope that you will cooperate and answer with precision.”
The sacerdote blinked owlishly.
“Will you do so?”
“Certainly. I prefer, however, to return the way I came.”
Joaz ignored the remark. “First,” he asked, “why do you come to my study?”
The sacerdote spoke carefully, in the voice of one talking to a child. “Your language is vague; I am confused and must not respond, since I am vowed to give only truth to anyone who requires it.”
Joaz settled himself in his chair. “There is no hurry. I am ready for a long discussion. Let me ask you then: did you have impulses which you can explain to me, which persuaded or impelled you to come to my studio?”
“Yes.”
“How many of these impulses did you recognize?”
“I don’t know.”
“More than one?”
“Perhaps.”
“Less than ten?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hmm … Why are you uncertain?”
“I am not uncertain.”
“Then why can’t you specify the number as I requested?”
“There is no such number.”
“I see … You mean, possibly, that there are several elements of a single motive which directed your brain to signal your muscles in order that they might carry you here?”
“Possibly.”
Joaz’s thin lips twisted in a faint smile of triumph. “Can you describe an element of the eventual motive?”
“Yes.”
“Do so, then.”
There was an imperative, against which the sacerdote was proof. Any form of coercion known to Joaz — fire, sword, thirst, mutilation — these to a sacerdote were no more than inconveniences; he ignored them as if they did not exist. His personal inner world was the single world of reality; either acting upon or reacting against the affairs of the Utter Men demeaned him; absolute passivity, absolute candor were his necessary courses of action. Understanding something of this, Joaz rephrased his command: “Can you think of an element of the motive which impelled you to come here?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“A desire to wander about.”
“Can you think of another?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“A desire to exercise myself by walking.”
“I see … Incidentally, are you trying to evade answering my questions?”
“I answer such questions as you put to me. So long as I do so, so long as I open my mind to all who seek knowledge — for this is our creed — there can be no question of evasion.”
“So you say. However, you have not provided me an answer that I find satisfactory.”
The sacerdote’s reply to the comment was an almost imperceptible widening of the pupils.
“Very well then,” said Joaz Banbeck. “Can you think of another element to this complex motive we have been discussing?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“I am interested in antiques. I came to your study to admire your relicts of the old worlds.”
“Indeed?” Joaz raised his eyebrows. “I am lucky to possess such fascinating treasures. Which of my antiques interests you particularly?”
“Your books. Your maps. Your great globe of the Arch-world.”
“The Arch-world? Eden?”
“This is one of its names.”
Joaz pursed his lips. “So you come here to study my antiques. Well then, what other elements to this motive exist?”
The sacerdote hesitated an instant. “It was suggested to me that I come here.”
“By whom?”
“By the Demie.”
“I am uncertain.”
“Can you conjecture?”
“Yes.”
“What are these conjectures?”
The sacerdote made a small bland gesture with the fingers of one hand. “The Demie might wish to become an Utter Man, and so seeks to learn the principles of your existence. Or the Demie might wish to change the trade articles. The Demie might be fascinated by my descriptions of your antiques. Or the Demie might be curious regarding the focus of your vision-panels. Or —”
“Enough. Which of these conjectures, and of other conjectures you have not yet divulged, do you consider most probable?”
“None.”
Joaz raised his eyebrows once more. “How do you justify this?”
“Since any desired number of conjectures can be formed, the denominator of any probability-ratio is variable and the entire concept becomes arithmetically meaningless.”
Joaz grinned wearily. “Of the conjectures which to this moment have occurred to you, which do you regard as the most likely?”
“I suspect that the Demie might think it desirable that I come here to stand.”
“What do you achieve by standing?”
“Nothing.”
“Then the Demie does not send you here to stand.”
To Joaz’s assertion, the sacerdote made no comment.
Joaz framed a question with great care. “What do you believe that the Demie hopes you will achieve by coming here to stand?”
“I believe that he wishes me to learn how Utter Men think.”
“And you learn how I think by coming here?”
“I am learning a great deal.”
“How does it help you?”
“I don’t know.”
“How many times have you visited my study?”
“Seven times.”
“Why were you chosen specially to come?”
“The synod has approved my tand. I may well be the next Demie.”
Joaz spoke over his shoulder to Phade. “Brew tea.” He turned back to the sacerdote. “What is a tand?”
The sacerdote took a deep breath. “My tand is the representation of my soul.”
“Hmm. What does it look like?”
The sacerdote’s expression was unfathomable. “It cannot be described.”
“Do I have one?”
“No.”
Joaz shrugged. “Then you can read my thoughts.”
Silence.
“Can you read my thoughts?”
“Not well.”
“Why should you wish to read my thoughts?”
“We are alive in the universe together. Since we are not permitted to act, we are obliged to know.”
Joaz smiled skeptically. “How does knowledge help you, if you will not act upon it?”
“Events follow the Rationale, as water drains into a hollow and forms a pool.”
“Bah!” said Joaz, in sudden irritation. “Your doctrine commits you to non-interference in our affairs, nevertheless you allow your ‘Rationale’ to create conditions by which events are influenced. Is this correct?”
“I am not sure. We are a passive people.”
“Still, your Demie must have had a plan in mind when he sent you here. Is this not correct?”
“I cannot say.”
Joaz veered to a new line of questioning. “Where does the tunnel behind my workshop lead?”
“Into a cavern.”
Phade set a silver pot before Joaz. He poured, sipped reflectively. Of contests there were numberless varieties; he and the sacerdote were engaged in a hide-and-seek game of words and ideas. The sacerdote was schooled in patience and supple evasions, to counter which Joaz could bring pride and determination. The sacerdote was handicapped by an innate necessity to speak truth; Joaz, on the other hand, must grope like a man blindfolded, unacquainted with the goal he sought, ignorant of the prize to be won. Very well, thought Joaz, let us continue. We shall see whose nerves fray first. He offered tea to the sacerdote, who refused with a shake of the head so quick and of such small compass as to seem a shudder.
Joaz made a gesture signifying it was all the same to him. “Should you desire sustenance or drink,” he said, “please let it be known. I enjoy our conversation so inordinately that I fear I may prolong it to the limits of your patience. Surely you would prefer to sit?”
“No.”
“As you wish. Well then, back to our discussion. This cavern you mentioned — is it inhabited by sacerdotes?”
“I fail to understand your question.”
“Do sacerdotes use the cavern?”
“Yes.”
Eventually, fragment by fragment, Joaz extracted the information that the cavern connected with a series of chambers, in which the sacerdotes smelted metal, boiled glass, ate, slept, performed their rituals. At one time there had been an opening into Banbeck Vale, but long ago this had been blocked. Why? There were wars throughout the cluster; bands of defeated men were taking refuge upon Aerlith, settling in rifts and valleys. The sacerdotes preferred a detached existence and had shut their caverns away from sight. Where was this opening? The sacerdote seemed vague, indefinite. Somewhere to the north end of the valley. Behind Banbeck Jambles? Possibly. But trading between men and sacerdotes was conducted at a cave entrance below Mount Gethron. Why? A matter of usage, declared the sacerdote. In addition this location was more readily accessible to Happy Valley and Phosphor Gulch. How many sacerdotes lived in these caves? Uncertainty. Some might have died, others might have been born. Approximately how many this morning? Perhaps five hundred.
At this juncture the sacerdote was swaying and Joaz was hoarse. “Back to your motive — or the elements of your motives — for coming to my studio. Are they connected in any manner with the star Coralyne, and a possible new coming of the Basics, or the grephs, as they were formerly called?”
Again the sacerdote seemed to hesitate. Then: “Yes.”
“Will the sacerdotes help us against the Basics, should they come?”
“No.” This answer was terse and definite.
“But I assume that the sacerdotes wish the Basics driven off?”
No answer.
Joaz rephrased his words. “Do the sacerdotes wish the Basics repelled from Aerlith?”
“The Rationale bids us stand aloof from affairs of men and non-men alike.”
Joaz curled his lip. “Suppose the Basics invaded your caves, dragged you off to the Coralyne planet. Then what?”
The sacerdote almost seemed to laugh. “The question cannot be answered.”
“Would you resist the Basics if they made the attempt?”
“I cannot answer your question.”
Joaz laughed. “But the answer is not no?”
The sacerdote assented.
“Do you have weapons, then?”
The sacerdote’s mild blue eyes seemed to droop. Secrecy? Fatigue? Joaz repeated the question.
“Yes,” said the sacerdote. His knees sagged, but he snapped them tight.
“What kind of weapons?”
“Numberless varieties. Projectiles, such as rocks. Piercing weapons, such as broken sticks. Cutting and slashing weapons such as cooking utensils.” His voice began to fade as if he were moving away. “Poisons: arsenic, sulfur, triventidum, acid, black-spore. Burning weapons, such as torches and lenses to focus the sunlight. Weapons to suffocate: ropes, nooses, slings, cords. Cisterns, to drown the enemy …”
“Sit down, rest,” Joaz urged him. “Your inventory interests me, but its total effect seems inadequate. Have you other weapons which might decisively repel the Basics should they attack you?”
The question, by design or chance, was never answered. The sacerdote sank to his knees, slowly, as if praying. He fell forward on his face, then sprawled to the side. Joaz sprang forward, yanked up the drooping head by its hair. The eyes, half-open, revealed a hideous white expanse. “Speak!” croaked Joaz. “Answer my last question! Do you have weap
ons — or a weapon — to repel a Basic attack?”
The pallid lips moved. “I don’t know.”
Joaz frowned, peered into the waxen face, drew back in bewilderment. “The man is dead.”
Chapter VII
Phade looked up from drowsing on a couch, face pink, hair tossed. “You have killed him!” she cried in a voice of hushed horror.
“No. He has died — or caused himself to die.”
Phade staggered blinking across the room, sidled close to Joaz, who pushed her absently away. Phade scowled, shrugged and then, as Joaz paid her no heed, marched from the room.
Joaz sat back, staring at the limp body. “He did not tire,” muttered Joaz, “until I verged upon secrets.”
Presently he jumped to his feet, went to the entry hall, sent Rife to fetch a barber. An hour later the corpse, stripped of hair, lay on a wooden pallet covered by a sheet, and Joaz held in his hands a rude wig fashioned from the long hair.
The barber departed; servants carried away the corpse. Joaz stood alone in his studio, tense and light-headed. He removed his garments, to stand naked as the sacerdote. Gingerly he drew the wig across his scalp and examined himself in the mirror. To a casual eye, where the difference? Something was lacking: the torc. Joaz fitted it about his neck, once more examined his reflection, with dubious satisfaction.
He entered the workshop, hesitated, disengaged the trap, cautiously pulled away the stone slab. On hands and knees he peered into the tunnel and since it was dark, held forward a glass vial of luminescent algae. In the faint light the tunnel seemed empty. Irrevocably putting down his fears, Joaz clambered through the opening. The tunnel was narrow and low; Joaz moved forward tentatively, nerves thrilling with wariness. He stopped often to listen, but heard nothing but the whisper of his own pulse.
After perhaps a hundred yards the tunnel broke out into a natural cavern. Joaz stopped, stood indecisively, straining his ears through the gloom. Luminescent vials fixed to the walls at irregular intervals provided a measure of light, enough to delineate the direction of the cavern, which seemed to be north, parallel to the length of the valley. Joaz set forth once again, halting to listen every few yards. To the best of his knowledge the sacerdotes were a mild unaggressive folk, but they were also intensely secretive. How would they respond to the presence of an interloper? Joaz could not be sure, and proceeded with great caution.