The Jack Vance Treasury

by Jack Vance

  Fletcher nodded somberly. “That’s the presumption. I’ve warned everybody here not to go out alone; I thought I’d better do the same for you.”

  “That’s decent of you, Sam.” Chrystal frowned, looked at the cube of metal, put it down. “There’s never been trouble on Sabria before.”

  “I saw dekabrachs under the barge. They might be involved somehow.”

  Chrystal looked blank. “Dekabrachs? They’re harmless enough.”

  Fletcher nodded noncommittally. “Incidentally, I tried to check on dekabrachs in the micro-library. There wasn’t much information. Quite a bit of material has been cancelled out.”

  Chrystal raised his pale eyebrows. “Why tell me?”

  “Because you might have done the cancelling.”

  Chrystal looked aggrieved. “Now why should I do something like that? I worked hard for Bio-Minerals, Sam—you know that as well as I do. Now I’m trying to make money for myself. It’s no bed of roses, I’ll tell you.” He touched the cube of white metal, then noticing Fletcher’s eyes on it, pushed it to the side of his desk, against Cosey’s Universal Handbook of Constants and Physical Relationships.

  After a pause Fletcher asked, “Well, did you or didn’t you blank out part of the dekabrach story?”

  Chrystal frowned in deep thought. “I might have cancelled one or two ideas that turned out bad—nothing very important. I have a hazy idea that I pulled them out of the bank.”

  “Just what were those ideas?” Fletcher asked in a sardonic voice.

  “I don’t remember offhand. Something about feeding habits, probably. I suspected that the deks ingested plankton, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.”

  “No?”

  “They browse on underwater fungus that grows on the coral banks. That’s my best guess.”

  “Is that all you cut out?”

  “I can’t think of anything more.”

  Fletcher’s eyes went back to the cube of metal. He noticed that it covered the Handbook title from the angle of the V in ‘Universal’ to the center of the O in ‘of’. “What’s that you’ve got on your desk, Chrystal? Interesting yourself in metallurgy?”

  “No, no,” said Chrystal. He picked up the cube, looked at it critically. “Just a bit of alloy. I’m checking it for resistance to reagents. Well, thanks for calling, Sam.”

  “You don’t have any personal ideas on how Raight got it?”

  Chrystal looked surprised. “Why on earth do you ask me?”

  “You know more about the dekabrachs than anyone else on Sabria.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Sam.”

  Fletcher nodded. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Sam.”

  Fletcher sat looking at the blank screen. Monitor mollusks—dekabrachs—the blanked micro-film. There was a drift here whose direction he could not identify. The dekabrachs seemed to be involved, and by association, Chrystal. Fletcher put no credence in Chrystal’s protestations; he suspected that Chrystal lied as a matter of policy, on almost any subject. Fletcher’s mind went to the cube of metal. Chrystal had seemed rather too casual, too quick to brush the matter aside. Fletcher brought out his own Handbook. He measured the distance between the fork of the V and the center of the O: 4.9 centimeters. Now, if the block represented a kilogram mass, as was likely with such sample blocks—Fletcher calculated. In a cube, 4.9 centimeters on a side, were 119 cc. Hypothesizing a mass of 1000 grams, the density worked out to 8.4 grams per cc.

  Fletcher looked at the figure. In itself it was not particularly suggestive. It might be one of a hundred alloys. There was no point in going too far on a string of hypotheses—still, he looked in the Handbook. Nickel, 8.6 grams per cc. Cobalt, 8.7 grams per cc. Niobium, 8.4 grams per cc.

  Fletcher sat back and considered. Niobium? An element costly and tedious to synthesize, with limited natural sources and an unsatisfied market. The idea was stimulating. Had Chrystal developed a biological source of niobium? If so, his fortune was made.

  Fletcher relaxed in his chair. He felt done in—mentally and physically. His mind went to Carl Raight. He pictured the body drifting loose and haphazard through the night, sinking through miles of water into places where light would never reach. Why had Carl Raight been pillaged of life?

  Fletcher began to ache with anger and frustration, at the futility, the indignity of Raight’s passing. Carl Raight was too good a man to be dragged to his death into the dark ocean of Sabria.

  Fletcher jerked himself upright, marched out of the office, up the steps to the laboratory.

  Damon was still busy with his routine work. He had three projects under way: two involving the sequestering of platinum by species of Sabrian algae; the third an attempt to increase the rhenium absorption of an Alphard-Alpha flat-sponge. In each case his basic technique was the same: subjecting succeeding generations to an increasing concentration of metallic salt, under conditions favoring mutation. Certain of the organisms would presently begin to make functional use of the metal; they would be isolated and transferred to Sabrian brine. A few might survive the shock; some might adapt to the new conditions and begin to absorb the now necessary element.

  By selective breeding the desirable qualities of these latter organisms would be intensified; they would then be cultivated on a large-scale basis and the inexhaustible Sabrian waters would presently be made to yield another product.

  Coming into the lab, Fletcher found Damon arranging trays of algae cultures in geometrically exact lines. He looked rather sourly over his shoulder at Fletcher.

  “I talked to Chrystal,” said Fletcher.

  Damon became interested. “What did he say?”

  “He says he might have wiped a few bad guesses off the film.”

  “Ridiculous,” snapped Damon.

  Fletcher went to the table, looked thoughtfully along the row of algae cultures. “Have you run into any niobium on Sabria, Gene?”

  “Niobium? No. Not in any appreciable concentration. There are traces in the ocean, naturally. I believe one of the corals shows a set of niobium lines.” He cocked his head with birdlike inquisitiveness. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just an idea, wild and random.”

  “I don’t suppose Chrystal gave you any satisfaction?”

  “None at all.”

  “Then what’s the next move?”

  Fletcher hitched himself up on the table. “I’m not sure. There’s not much I can do. Unless—” he hesitated.

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless I make an underwater survey, myself.”

  Damon was appalled. “What do you hope to gain by that?”

  Fletcher smiled. “If I knew, I wouldn’t need to go. Remember, Chrystal went down, then came back up and stripped the micro-file.”

  “I realize that,” said Damon. “Still, I think it’s rather…well, foolhardy, after what’s happened.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not.” Fletcher slid off the table to the deck. “I’ll let it ride till tomorrow, anyway.”

  He left Damon making out his daily check sheet, descended to the main deck.

  Blue Murphy was waiting at the foot of the stairs. Fletcher said, “Well, Murphy?”

  The round red face displayed a puzzled frown. “Agostino up there with you?”

  Fletcher stopped short. “No.”

  “He should have relieved me half an hour ago. He’s not in the dormitory; he’s not in the mess hall.”

  “Good God,” said Fletcher, “another one?”

  Murphy looked over his shoulder at the ocean. “They saw him about an hour ago in the mess hall.”

  “Come on,” said Fletcher. “Let’s search the raft.”

  They looked everywhere—processing house, the cupola on the mast, all the nooks and crannies a man might take it into his head to explore. The barges were all at dock; the launch and catamaran swung at their moorings; the helicopter hulked on the deck with drooping blades.

  Agostino was nowhere aboard the raft. No one knew where A
gostino had gone; no one knew exactly when he had left.

  The crew of the raft collected in the mess hall, making small nervous motions, looking out the portholes over the ocean.

  Fletcher could think of very little to say. “Whatever is after us—and we don’t know what it is—it can surprise us and it’s watching. We’ve got to be careful—more than careful!”

  Murphy pounded his fist softly on the table. “But what can we do? We can’t just stand around like silly cows!”

  “Sabria is theoretically a safe planet,” said Damon. “According to Stryzkal and the Galactic Index, there are no hostile life forms here.”

  Murphy snorted, “I wish old Stryzkal was here now to tell me.”

  “He might be able to theorize back Raight and Agostino.” Dave Jones looked at the calendar. “A month to go.”

  “We’ll only run one shift,” said Fletcher, “until we get replacements.”

  “Call them reinforcements,” muttered Mahlberg.

  “Tomorrow,” said Fletcher, “I’m going to take the water-bug down, look around, and get an idea what’s going on. In the meantime, everybody better carry hatchets or cleavers.”

  There was soft sound on the windows, on the deck outside. “Rain,” said Mahlberg. He looked at the clock on the wall. “Midnight.”

  The rain hissed through the air, drummed on the walls; the decks ran with water and the mast-head lights glared through the slanting streaks.

  Fletcher went to the streaming windows, looked toward the process house. “I guess we better button up for the night. There’s no reason to—.” He squinted through the window, then ran to the door and out into the rain.

  Water pelted into his face, he could see very little but the glare of the lights in the rain. And a hint of white along the shining gray-black of the deck, like an old white plastic hose.

  A snatch at his ankles: his feet were yanked from under him. He fell flat upon the streaming metal.

  Behind him came the thud of feet; there were excited curses, a clang and scrape; the grip on Fletcher’s ankles loosened.

  Fletcher jumped up, staggered back against the mast. “Something’s in the process house,” he yelled.

  The men pounded off through the rain; Fletcher came after.

  But there was nothing in the process house. The doors were wide; the rooms were bright. The squat pulverizers stood on either hand, behind were the pressure tanks, the vats, the pipes of six different colors.

  Fletcher pulled the master switch; the hum and grind of the machinery died. “Let’s lock up and get back to the dormitory.”

  Morning was the reverse of evening; first the green gloom of Atreus, warming to pink as Geideon rose behind the clouds. It was a blustery day, with squalls trailing dark curtains all around the compass.

  Fletcher ate breakfast, dressed in a skin-tight coverall threaded with heating-filaments, then a waterproof garment with a plastic head-dome.

  The water-bug hung on davits at the east edge of the raft, a shell of transparent plastic with the pumps sealed in a metal cell amidships. Submerging, the hull filled with water through valves, which then closed; the bug could submerge to four hundred feet, the hull resisting about half the pressure, the enclosed water the rest.

  Fletcher lowered himself into the cockpit; Murphy connected the hoses from the air tanks to Fletcher’s helmet, then screwed the port shut. Mahlberg and Hans Heinz winged out the davits. Murphy went to stand by the hoist-control; for a moment he hesitated, looking from the dark pink-dappled water to Fletcher, and back at the water.

  Fletcher waved his hand. “Lower away.” His voice came from the loudspeaker on the bulkhead behind them.

  Murphy swung the handle. The bug eased down. Water gushed in through the valves, up around Fletcher’s body, over his head. Bubbles rose from the helmet exhaust valve.

  Fletcher tested the pumps, then cast off the grapples. The bug slanted down into the water.

  Murphy sighed. “He’s got more nerve than I’m ever likely to have.”

  “He can get away from whatever’s after him,” said Damon. “He might well be safer than we are here on the raft.”

  Murphy clapped him on the shoulder. “Damon, my lad—you can climb. Up on top of the mast you’ll be safe; it’s unlikely that they’ll come there to tug you into the water.” Murphy raised his eyes to the cupola a hundred feet over the deck. “And I think that’s where I’d take myself—if only someone would bring me my food.”

  Heinz pointed to the water. “There go the bubbles. He went under the raft. Now he’s headed north.”

  The day became stormy. Spume blew over the raft, and it meant a drenching to venture out on deck. The clouds thinned enough to show the outlines of Geideon and Atreus, a blood-orange and a lime.

  Suddenly the winds died; the ocean flattened into an uneasy calm. The crew sat in the mess hall drinking coffee, talking in staccato uneasy voices.

  Damon became restless and went up to his laboratory. He came running back down into the mess hall.

  “Dekabrachs—they’re under the raft! I saw them from the observation deck!”

  Murphy shrugged. “They’re safe from me.”

  “I’d like to get hold of one,” said Damon. “Alive.”

  “Don’t we have enough trouble already?” growled Dave Jones.

  Damon explained patiently. “We know nothing about dekabrachs. They’re a highly developed species. Chrystal destroyed all the data we had, and I should have at least one specimen.”

  Murphy rose to his feet. “I suppose we can scoop one up in a net.”

  “Good,” said Damon. “I’ll set up the big tank to receive it.”

  The crew went out on deck where the weather had turned sultry. The ocean was flat and oily; haze blurred sea and sky together in a smooth gradation of color, from dirty scarlet near the raft to pale pink overhead.

  The boom was winged out, a parachute net was attached and lowered quietly into the water. Heinz stood by the winch; Murphy leaned over the rail, staring intently down into the water.

  A pale shape drifted out from under the raft. “Lift!” bawled Murphy.

  The line snapped taut; the net rose out of the water in a cascade of spray. In the center a six-foot dekabrach pulsed and thrashed, gill slits rasping for water.

  The boom swung inboard; the net tripped; the dekabrach slid into the plastic tank.

  It darted forward and backward; the plastic dented and bulged where it struck. Then it floated quiet in the center, head-tentacles folded back against the torso.

  All hands crowded around the tank. The black eye-spot looked back through the transparent walls.

  Murphy asked Damon, “Now what?”

  “I’d like the tank lifted to the deck outside the laboratory where I can get at it.”

  “No sooner said than done.”

  The tank was hoisted and swung to the spot Damon had indicated; Damon went excitedly off to plan his research.

  The crew watched the dekabrach for ten or fifteen minutes, then drifted back to the mess hall.

  Time passed. Gusts of wind raked up the ocean into a sharp steep chop. At two o’clock the loudspeaker hissed; the crew stiffened, raised their heads.

  Fletcher’s voice came from the diaphragm. “Hello aboard the raft. I’m about two miles northwest. Stand by to haul me aboard.”

  “Hah!” cried Murphy, grinning. “He made it.”

  “I gave odds against him of four to one,” Mahlberg said. “I’m lucky nobody took them.”

  “Get a move on; he’ll be alongside before we’re ready.”

  The crew trooped out to the landing. The water-bug came sliding over the ocean, its glistening back riding the dark disorder of the waters.

  It slipped quietly up to the raft; grapples clamped to the plates fore and aft. The winch whined, the bug lifted from the sea, draining its ballast of water.

  Fletcher, in the cockpit, looked tense and tired. He climbed stiffly out of the bug, stretched, unzipped the water
proof suit, pulled off the helmet.

  “Well, I’m back.” He looked around the group. “Surprised?”

  “I’d have lost money on you,” Mahlberg told him.

  “What did you find out?” asked Damon. “Anything?”

  Fletcher nodded. “Plenty. Let me get into clean clothes. I’m wringing wet—sweat.” He stopped short, looking up at the tank on the laboratory deck. “When did that come aboard?”

  “We netted it about noon,” said Murphy. “Damon wanted to look one over.”

  Fletcher stood looking up at the tank with his shoulders drooping.

  “Something wrong?” asked Damon.

  “No,” said Fletcher. “We couldn’t have it worse than it is already.” He turned away toward the dormitory.

  The crew waited for him in the mess hall; twenty minutes later he appeared. He drew himself a cup of coffee, sat down.

  “Well,” said Fletcher. “I can’t be sure—but it looks as if we’re in trouble.”

  “Dekabrachs?” asked Murphy.

  Fletcher nodded.

  “I knew it!” Murphy cried in triumph. “You can tell by looking at the blatherskites they’re up to no good.”

  Damon frowned, disapproving of emotional judgments. “Just what is the situation?” he asked Fletcher. “At least, as it appears to you?”

  Fletcher chose his words carefully. “Things are going on that we’ve been unaware of. In the first place, the dekabrachs are socially organized.”

  “You mean to say—they’re intelligent?”

  Fletcher shook his head. “I don’t know for sure. It’s possible. It’s equally possible that they live by instinct, like social insects.”

  “How in the world—” began Damon; Fletcher held up a hand. “I’ll tell you just what happened; you can ask all the questions you like afterwards.” He drank his coffee.

  “When I went down under, naturally I was on the alert and kept my eyes peeled. I felt safe enough in the water-bug—but funny things have been happening, and I was a little nervous.

  “As soon as I was in the water I saw the dekabrachs—five or six of them.” Fletcher paused, sipped his coffee.