The Virgin of Zesh & the Tower of Zanid

by L. Sprague De Camp

  Fredro waved a placatory hand, stammering, “I m-meant no slight, gentlemen . . .”

  “Oh, stow it,” said Fallon. “I’m not insulted. I don’t share Percy’s prejudices against Krishnans.”

  “I am not prejudiced,” protested Mjipa. “Some of my best friends are Krishnans. But another species is another species, and one should always bear it in mind.”

  “Meaning they’re all right so long as they keep their place,” said Fallon, grinning wickedly.

  “Not how I should have expressed it, but it’s the general idea.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes. Different races of one species may be substantially the same mentally, as among Terrans—but different species are something else.”

  “But we are talking about Krishnans,” said Fredro. “And psychological tests show no differences in average intelligence level. Or if there are differences of averages, overlap is so great that average differences are negligible.”

  “You may trust your tests,” said Mjipa, “but I’ve known these beggars personally for years, and you can’t tell me they display human inventiveness and originality.”

  Fallon spoke up: “But look here, how about the inventions they’ve made? They’ve developed a crude camera of their own, for instance. When did you invent something, Percy?”

  Mjipa made an impatient gesture. “All copied from Terran examples. Leaks in the blockade.”

  “No,” said Fredro. “Is not it either. Krishnan camera is case of—ah—stimulus diffusion.”

  “What?” said Mjipa.

  “Stimulus diffusion, term invented by American anthropologist Kroeber, about two centuries ago.”

  “What does it mean?” asked Mjipa.

  “Where they hear of something in use elsewhere and develop their own version without have seen it. Some primitive Terrans a few centuries ago developed writing that way. But it still requires inventiveness.”

  Mjipa persisted: “Well, even granting all you claim, these natives do differ temperamentally from us, and intelligence does no good without the will to use it.”

  “How do you know they are different?” asked Fredro.

  “There was some psychologist who tested a lot of them and pointed out that they lack some of our Terran forms of insanity altogether, such as paranoia . . .”

  Fallon broke in: “Isn’t paranoia what that loon Kir’s got?”

  Mjipa shrugged. “Not my field. But that’s what this chap said, also pointing out their strong tendency toward hysteria and sadism.”

  Fredro persisted: “That is not what I had so much in the mind. I have not been here before, but I have studied Krishnan arts and crafts on Earth, and these show the highest degree of imaginative fertility—sculpture, poetry, and such . . .”

  Fallon, stifling a yawn, interrupted: “Mind saving the debate till I’ve gone? I don’t understand half of what you’re talking about . . . Now, how much would this stipend be?” he asked, more from curiosity than from any intention of seriously considering the offer.

  “Two and one-half karda a day,” replied Fredro.

  While this was a high wage in Balhib, Fallon had just turned down a lump-sum offer of a thousand. “Sorry, Dr. Fredro. No sale.”

  “Possibly I could—I could squeeze a little more out of . . .”

  “No sir! Not for ten times that offer. People have tried to get into that thing before and always came to a bad end.”

  “Well,” said Mjipa, “you’re destined for a bad end sooner or later anyway.”

  “I still prefer it later rather than sooner. As you gentlemen know, I’ll take a chance—but that’s not a chance, it’s a certainty.”

  “Look here,” said Mjipa. “I promised Dr. Fredro assistance, and you owe me for past favors, and I particularly wish you to take the job.”

  Fallon shot a sharp look at the consul. “Why particularly?”

  Mjipa said: “Dr. Fredro, will you excuse us a few minutes? Wait here for me. Come along, Fallon.”

  “Thank you,” said Fredro.

  Fallon, scowling, followed Mjipa outside. When they found a place with nobody near, Mjipa said in a low voice: “Here’s the story. Three Earthmen have disappeared from my jurisdiction in the past three years, and I haven’t found a trace of them. And they’re not the sort of men who’d normally get into bad company and get their throats cut.”

  “Well?” said Fallon. “If they were trying to get into the Safq that proves my point. Serves them right.”

  “I have no reason to believe they were trying to enter the Safq—but they might have been taken into it. In any case, I should be remiss in my duty, when confronted with a mystery like this, if I didn’t exhaust all efforts to solve it.”

  Fallon shook his head. “If you want to get into that monstrosity, go ahead . . .”

  “If it weren’t for the color of my skin, which can’t be disguised, I would.” Mjipa gripped Fallon’s arm. “So you, my dear Fallon, are going in, and don’t think you’re not.”

  “Why? To make a fourth at bridge with these missing blighters?”

  “To find out what happened. Good God, man, would you leave a fellow Terran to the mercies of these savages?”

  “That would depend. Some Terrans, yes.”

  “But one of your own kind . . .”

  “I,” said Fallon, “try to judge people on their individual merits, whether they have arms or trunks or tentacles, and I think that’s a lot more civilized attitude than yours.”

  “Well, I suppose there’s no use appealing to your patriotism, then. But if you come around next ten-night for your longevity dose, don’t be surprised if I’m just out of them.”

  “I can get them on the black market if I have to.”

  Mjipa glared at Fallon with deadly fixity. “And how long d’you think you’d live to enjoy your longevity if I told Chabarian about your spying for the Kamuran of Qaath?”

  “My sp—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Fallon, icy fear shooting down his spine.

  “Oh, yes you do. And don’t think I wouldn’t tell him.”

  “So . . . with all your noble talk, you’d betray a fellow-Terran to the Krishnans after all?”

  “I don’t like to, but you leave me no other choice. You’re no asset to the human race as you are—lowering our prestige in the eyes of the natives.”

  “Then why bother with me?”

  “Because, with all your faults, you’re just the man for a job like this, and I won’t hesitate to force you to it.”

  “How could I get in without a disguise?”

  “I’ll furnish that. Now, I’m going back into that pavilion, either to tell Fredro you’ll make the arrangements, or to tell Kir’s minister about your meetings with that snake, Qais of Babaal. Which shall it be?”

  Fallon turned his bloodshot eyes upon the consul. “Can you furnish me with some advance information? A plan of the interior, for instance, or a libretto of the rites of Yesht?”

  “No. I believe the Neophilosophers know, or think they know, something about the interior of the building—but I don’t know of any members of that cult in Balhib. You’ll have to dig that stuff up yourself. Well?”

  Fallon paused a minute more. Then, seeing Mjipa about to speak again, he said: “Oh, hell. You win, damn you. Now, let’s have some data. Who are these three missing Earthmen?”

  “Well, there was Lavrenti Botkin, the popular science writer. He went out to walk on the city wall one evening and never came back.”

  “I read something about it in the Rashm at the time. Go on.”

  “And there was Candido Soares, a Brazilian engineer—and Adam Daly, an American factory manager.”

  Fallon asked, “Do you notice anything about their occupations?”

  “They’re all technical people, in one sense or another.”

  “Mightn’t somebody be trying to round up scientists and engineers to build modern weapons for them? That sort of thing has been tried, you know.”


  “I thought of that. If I remember rightly,” said Mjipa, “you once attempted something of the sort yourself.”

  “Now, now, Percy, let’s let the dead past bury the dead.”

  Mjipa continued: “But that was before we had the Saint-Rémy pseudo-hypnotic treatment. If only it had been developed a few decades earlier . . . Anyway, these people couldn’t give out such knowledge—even under torture—any more than you or I could. The natives know that. However, where we find these missing people, we shall no doubt find the reason for their abduction.”

  III

  The Long Krishnan day died. As he opened his own front door, Anthony Fallon’s manner acquired a subtle furtiveness. He slipped stealthily in, quietly took off his sword belt, and hung it on the hatrack.

  He stood for a moment, listening, then tiptoed into the main room. From a shelf he took down a couple of small goblets of natural crystal, the product of the skilled fingers of the artisans of Majbur. They were practically the only items of value in the shabby little living-dining room. Fallon had picked them up during one of his rare flush periods.

  Fallon uncorked the bottle (the Krishnans had not yet achieved the felicity of screw-caps) and poured two hookers of kvad. At the gurgle of the liquid a female Krishnan voice spoke from the kitchen: “Antané?”

  “It is I, dear,” said Fallon in Balhibou. “Home the hero . . .”

  “So there you are! I hope you enjoyed your worthless self at the Festival. By ’Anerik the Enlightener, I might be a slave for all the entertainment I receive.”

  “Now, Gazi my love, I’ve told you time and again . . .”

  “Of course you’ve told me! But need I believe such moonshine? How big a fool think you I am? Why I ever accepted you as jagain I know not.”

  Stung to his own defense, Fallon snapped, “Because you were a brotherless woman, without a home of your own. Now stop yammering and come in and have a drink. I’ve got something to show you.”

  “You zaft!” began the woman furiously, then as the import of his words sank in: “Oh, in that case, I’ll come forthwith.”

  The curtain to the kitchen parted and Fallon’s jagaini entered. She was a tall, powerfully built Krishnan woman, well-made and attractive by Krishnan standards. Her relationship to Fallon was neither that of mistress nor that of wife, but something of both. For the Balhibuma did not recognize marriage, holding it impractical in a warrior race, such as they had been in earlier centuries. Instead each woman lived with one of her brothers, and was visited at intervals by her jagain—a voluntary relationship terminable at whim, but exclusive while it lasted. Meanwhile the brother reared the children. Therefore, instead of the patronymics of the other Varasto nations, the Balhibuma tagged themselves with the name of the maternal uncle who had reared them. Gazi’s full name was Gazi er-Doukh, Gazi the niece of Doukh. A woman who—like Gazi—actually lived with her jagain was deemed unfortunate and déclassé.

  Fallon, looking at Gazi in the doorway, wondered if he had been so clever in choosing Krishna as the scene of his extraterrestrial activities. Why didn’t he walk out on her? She could not stop him. But she cooked well; he was fond of her in a way . . .

  Fallon held up the goblet that he had poured for her. She took it, saying: “ ’Tis grateful, but I ween you’ve spent the last of our housekeeping money on it.”

  Fallon dug out the wallet that hung from his belt, and displayed the fistful of gold pieces that he had extracted from Qais. Gazi’s eyes widened; her hand shot out to snatch. Fallon jerked the money back, laughing, then handed her two ten-kard coins. The rest he put back in the wallet.

  “That should keep the menage running for a few ten-nights,” he said. “When you need more, ask.”

  “Bakhan,” she muttered, sinking into the other chair and sipping. “If I know you, ’twill do no good to ask where you got these.”

  “None whatever,” he replied cheerfully. “Someday you’ll learn that I never discuss business. That’s one reason I’m alive.”

  “A vile, indign business, I’ll warrant.”

  “It feeds us. What’s dinner?”

  “Cutlets of unha with badr, and a tunest for dessert. Is your mysterious business over for the day?”

  “I think so,” he responded cautiously.

  “Then what hinders you from taking me to the Festival this eve? There’ll be fireworks and a mock battle.”

  “Sorry dear, but you forget I’ve got the guard tonight.”

  “Always something!” She stared gloomily at her glass. “What have I done to the gods that they should hold me in such despite?”

  “Have another drink and you’ll feel better. Someday, when I get my throne back . . .”

  “How long have I heard that same song?”

  “. . . when I get my throne back, there’ll be fun and games enough. Meanwhile, business before pleasure.”

  ###

  The third section of the Juru Company of the Civic Guard, or Municipal Watch, of Zanid was already falling in when Fallon arrived at the armory. He snatched his bill from the rack and stepped into his place.

  As Fallon had explained to Mjipa at the Festival, it was impractical to exhibit the Juru Company on parade. The Juru district was largely inhabited by poor non-Krishnans, and its representation in the Watch resembled a sampling of all the Earth-type planets having intelligent inhabitants. Besides the Krishnans, there were several other Earthmen: Weems, Kisari, Nunez, Ramanand, and so on. There were twelve Osirians and thirteen Thothians. There was a Thorian (not to be confused with the Thothians)—something like an ostrich with arms instead of wings. There was an Isidian—an eight-legged nightmare combination of elephant and dachshund. And others of still different form and origin.

  In front of the line of guards stood the well-made Captain Kordaq er-Gilan, of the regular army of Balhib, frowning from under the towering crest of his helmet. Fallon knew why Kordaq glowered. The captain was a conscientious spit-and-polish soldier who would have loved to beat a company of civic guards into machinelike precision and uniformity. But what sort of uniformity could one expect from such a heterogeneous crew? It was useless even to try to make them buy uniforms; the Thothians claimed that clothes over their fur would stifle them, and no tailor in Balhib would have undertaken to cut a suit for the Isidian.

  “Zuho’í,” cried Captain Kordaq, and the jagged line came to some sort of attention.

  The captain announced: “There shall be combat drill for all my heroes upon the western plain next Fiveday, during the hour after Roqir’s red rays first shed their carmine beams upon it. We shall bring . . .”

  Captain Kordaq exhibited to an extreme degree the Krishnan tendency to wrap his speech, even the simplest sentences, in fustian magniloquence. At this point, however, he was interrupted by a long loud chorus of groans from the section.

  “Wherefore in Hishkak do you resty knaves waul like the creak of an aged tree in a gale?” cried the captain. “One would surmise from these ululations that you’d been commanded on pain of evisceration to slay a shan with a dust-broom!”

  “Combat drill!” moaned Savaich, the fat tavernkeeper from Shimad Street, and the senior squad leader of the section. “Of what use would that be to us? Well ye know one mounted Junga could scatter the whole company with a few flights of arrows, as Qarar scattered the hosts of Dupulan. Then why this silly soldier-playing?”

  Junga was the Balhibou term for one of the steppe-dwellers to the west: the fierce folk of Qaath, Dhaukia, or Yeramis.

  Kordaq said: “For shame, Master Savaich, that one of our martial race should speak so cowardly! ’Tis the express command of the minister that all companies of the Civic Guard do exercise at arms, willy-milly.”

  “I’ll resign,” muttered Savaich.

  “Resignations are not being accepted, poltroon!” Kordaq lowered his voice confidently. “Betwixt me and you, a vagrant rumor hath been wafted by the breeze from the steppes to my ears, saying: the state of the West is indeed parlous and threatening. The
Kamuran of Qaath—may Yesht make his eyes fall out—hath called up his tribal levies and is marching to and fro throughout the length and breadth of his whole immense domain.” He pronounced “Qaath” something like “Qasf,” for the Balhibou tongue has no dentals.

  “He cannot so assail us!” said Savaich. “We’ve done nought to provoke him, and besides, he swore not to in the treaty that followed the Battle of Tajrosh.”

  Kordaq gave an exaggerated sigh. “So, old tun of lard, thought the good folk of Jo’ol’and Suria and Dhaukia and other places I could mention, had I nothing else to do this night save bandy arguments. At any event, such are your orders. Now off upon your rounds, and let not the reek of the wineshop, nor the enticements of the giglot, seduce you from the speedy execution of your allotted task. Watch well for thieves who rape from citizens’ doorways their very door-gongs. There’s come a veritable plague of such thefts since preparations for sanguinary strife have driven up the price of metal.

  “Now, then, Master Antané take your squad to the eastern metes of the district via Ya’fal Street, circling the Safq and returning via Barfur Street. Take particular notice of the alleys near the fountain of Qarar. There have been three robberies and a dolorous murder there during the last ten-night: a reeky disgrace to the virtuous vigilance of the Guard. Master Mokku, you shall patrol . . .”

  As each squad received its orders, it broke ranks and wandered off into the night, bills at all angles and bodies swathed against the cold in thick quilted over-tunics. For while the seasons are less pronounced on Krishna than on Earth, the diurnal temperature range is considerable, especially in a prairie region like that in which Zanid stands.

  Fallon’s squad comprised three persons besides himself: two Krishnans and an Osirian. It was unusual for non-Krishnans to hold offices of command, but the polyethnic Juru Company made its own rules.

  To be sent to cover the district wherein lay the Safq suited Fallon fine. The squad cut through an alley on to Ya’fal Street and proceeded along that thoroughfare—two on each side—peering into doorways for signs of burglary or other irregularities. The two largest of Krishna’s three moons, Karrim and Golnaz, provided an illumination which, though wan, was adequate when supplemented by the light of the little fires burning in iron cressets at the main intersections. Once the squad passed the cart, drawn by a single shaihan that made the rounds of the city every night replenishing the fuel in these holders.