by Jack Vance
I also took note of my resolve to use my machine in the service of all men.
In the end I decided to make the ‘mistake’ of many before me; I proceeded to impose my own ethical point of view upon the Oriental life-style. Since this was precisely what was expected of me; since I would have been regarded as a fool and a mooncalf had I done otherwise; since the rewards of cooperation far exceeded the gratifications of obduracy and scorn: my programs are a wonderful success, at least to the moment of writing.
* * * * * * *
Duray walked along the riverbank toward Alan Robertson’s boat. A breeze sent twinkling cat’s-paws across the water and bellied the sails which Alan Robertson had raised to air; the boat tugged at the mooring lines.
Alan Robertson, wearing white shorts and a white hat with a loose flapping brim, looked up from the eye he had been splicing at the end of a halyard. “Aha, Gil! you’re back. Come aboard, and have a bottle of beer.”
Duray seated himself in the shade of the sail and drank half the beer at a gulp. “I still don’t know what’s going on—except that one way or another Bob is responsible. He came while I was there. I told him to clear out. He didn’t like it.”
Alan Robertson heaved a melancholy sigh. “I realize that Bob has the capacity for mischief.”
“I still can’t understand how he persuaded Elizabeth to close the passways. He brought out some books, but what effect could they have?”
Alan Robertson was instantly interested. “What were the books?”
“Something about satanism, black magic; I couldn’t tell you much else.”
“Indeed, indeed!” muttered Alan Robertson. “Is Elizabeth interested in the subject?”
“I don’t think so. She’s afraid of such things.”
“Rightly so. Well, well, that’s disturbing.” Alan Robertson cleared his throat and made a delicate gesture, as if beseeching Duray to geniality and tolerance. “Still, you mustn’t be too irritated with Bob. He’s prone to his little mischiefs, but—”
“‘Little mischiefs’!” roared Duray. “Like locking me out of my home and marooning my wife and children? That’s going beyond mischief!”
Alan Robertson smiled. “Here; have another beer; cool off a bit. Let’s reflect. First, the probabilities. I doubt if Bob has really marooned Elizabeth and the girls, or caused Elizabeth to do so.”
“Then why are all the passways broken?”
“That’s susceptible to explanation. He has access to the vaults; he might have substituted a blank for your master orifice. There’s one possibility, at least.”
Duray could hardly speak for rage. At last he cried out: “He has no right to do this!”
“Quite right, in the largest sense. I suspect that he only wants to induce you to his ‘Rumfuddle’.”
“And I don’t want to go, especially when he’s trying to put pressure on me.”
“You’re a stubborn man, Gil. The easy way, of course, would be to relax and look in on the occasion. You might even enjoy yourself.”
Duray glared at Alan Robertson. “Are you suggesting that I attend the affair?”
“Well—no. I merely proposed a possible course of action.”
Duray drank more beer and glowered out across the river. Alan Robertson said, “In a day or so, when this business is clarified, I think that we—all of us—should go off on a lazy cruise, out there among the islands. Nothing to worry us, no bothers, no upsets. The girls would love such a cruise.”
Duray grunted. “I’d like to see them again before I plan any cruises. What goes on at these Rumfuddler events?”
“I’ve never attended. The members laugh and joke and eat and drink, and gossip about the worlds they’ve visited and show each other movies: that sort of thing. Why don’t we look in on last year’s party? I’d be interested myself.”
Duray hesitated. “What do you have in mind?”
“We’ll set the dials to a year-old cognate to Bob’s world Fancy, and see precisely what goes on. What do you say?”
“I suppose it can’t do any harm,” said Duray grudgingly.
Alan Robertson rose to his feet. “Help me get these sails in.”
X
From Memoirs and Reflections:
The problems which long have harassed historians have now been resolved. Who were the Cro-Magnons; where did they evolve? Who were the Etruscans? Where were the legendary cities of the proto-Sumerians before they migrated to Mesopotamia? Why the identity between the ideographs of Easter Island and Mohenjo Daro? All these fascinating questions have now been settled and reveal to us the full scope of our early history. We have preserved the library at old Alexandria from the Mohammedans and the Inca codices from the Christians. The Guanches of the Canaries, the Ainu of Hokkaido, the Mandans of Missouri, the blond Kaffirs of Bhutan: all are now known to us. We can chart the development of every language syllable by syllable, from earliest formulation to the present. We have identified the Hellenic heroes, and I myself have searched the haunted forests of the ancient North and, in their own stone keeps, met face to face those mighty men who generated the Norse myths.
* * * * * * *
Standing before his machine, Alan Robertson spoke in a voice of humorous self-deprecation. “I’m not as trusting and forthright as I would like to be; in fact I sometimes feel shame for my petty subterfuges; and now I speak in reference to Bob. We all have our small faults, and Bob certainly does not lack his share. His imagination is perhaps his greatest curse: he is easily bored, and sometimes tends to over-reach himself. So while I deny him nothing, I also make sure that I am in a position to counsel or even remonstrate, if need be. Whenever I open a passway to one of his formulae, I unobtrusively strike a duplicate which I keep in my private file. We will find no difficulty in visiting a cognate to Fancy.”
* * * * * * *
Duray and Alan Robertson stood in the dusk, at the end of a pale white beach. Behind them rose a low basalt cliff. To their right the ocean reflected the afterglow and a glitter from the waning moon; to the left palms stood black against the sky. A hundred yards along the beach dozens of fairy lamps had been strung between the trees to illuminate a long table laden with fruit, confections, punch in crystal bowls. Around the table stood several dozen men and women in animated conversation; music and the sounds of gaiety came down the beach to Duray and Alan Robertson.
“We’re in good time,” said Alan Robertson. He reflected a moment. “No doubt we’d be quite welcome, still it’s probably best to remain inconspicuous. We’ll just stroll unobtrusively down the beach, in the shadow of the trees. Be careful not to stumble or fall, and no matter what you see or hear, do nothing! Discretion is essential; we want no awkward confrontations.”
Keeping to the shade of the foliage, the two approached the merry group. Fifty yards distant, Alan Robertson held up his hand to signal a halt. “This is as close as we need approach; most of the people you know, or more accurately, their cognates. For instance, there is Royal Hart, and there is James Parham and Elizabeth’s aunt, Emma Bathurst, and her uncle Peter, and Maude Granger, and no end of other folk.”
“They all seem very gay.”
“Yes; this is an important occasion for them. You and I are surly outsiders who can’t understand the fun.”
“Is this all they do, eat and drink and talk?”
“I think not,” said Alan Robertson. “Notice yonder; Bob seems to be preparing a projection screen. Too bad that we can’t move just a bit closer.” Alan Robertson peered through the shadows. “But we’d better take no chances; if we were discovered everyone would be embarrassed.”
They watched in silence. Presently Bob Robertson went to the projection equipment and touched a button. The screen became alive with vibrating rings of red and blue. Conversations halted; the group turned toward the screen. Bob Robertson spoke, but his words were inaudible to the two who watched from the darkness. Bob Robertson gestured to the screen, where now appeared the view of a small country town, as if s
een from an airplane. Surrounding was flat farm country, a land of wide horizons; Duray assumed the location to be somewhere in the Middle West. The picture changed, to show the local high school, with students sitting on the steps. The scene shifted to the football field, on the day of a game: a very important game to judge from the conduct of the spectators. The local team was introduced; one by one the boys ran out on the field to stand blinking into the autumn sunlight; then they ran off to the pre-game huddle.
The game began; Bob Robertson stood by the screen in the capacity of an expert commentator, pointing to one or another of the players, analyzing the play. The game proceeded, to the manifest pleasure of the Rumfuddlers. At half-time the bands marched and counter-marched, then play resumed. Duray became bored and made fretful comments to Alan Robertson who only said: “Yes, yes; probably so,” and “My word, the agility of that halfback!” and “Have you noticed the precision of the line-play? Very good indeed!” At last the final quarter ended; the victorious team stood under a sign reading:
THE SHOWALTER TORNADOES
CHAMPIONS OF TEXAS
1951
The players came forward to accept trophies; there was a last picture of the team as a whole, standing proud and victorious; then the screen burst out into a red and gold starburst and went blank. The Rumfuddlers rose to their feet and congratulated Bob Robertson who laughed modestly, and went to the table for a goblet of punch.
Duray said disgustedly, “Is this one of Bob’s famous parties? Why does he make such a tremendous occasion of the affair? I expected some sort of debauch.”
Alan Robertson said, “Yes, from our standpoint at least the proceedings seem somewhat uninteresting. Well, if your curiosity is satisfied, shall we return?”
“Whenever you like.”
* * * * * * *
Once again in the lounge under the Mad Dog Mountains, Alan Robertson said: “So now and at last we’ve seen one of Bob’s famous Rumfuddles. Are you still determined not to attend the occasion of tomorrow night?”
Duray scowled. “If I have to go to reclaim my family, I’ll do so. But I just might lose my temper before the evening is over.”
“Bob has gone too far,” Alan Robertson declared. “I agree with you there. As for what we saw tonight, I admit to a degree of puzzlement.”
“Only a degree? Do you understand it at all?”
Alan Robertson shook his head with a somewhat cryptic smile. “Speculation is pointless. I suppose you’ll spend the night with me at the lodge?”
“I might as well,” grumbled Duray. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
Alan Robertson clapped him on the back. “Good lad! We’ll put some steaks on the fire and turn our problems loose for the night.”
XI
From Memoirs and Reflections:
When I first put the Mark I machine into operation I suffered great fears. What did I know of the forces which I might release?…With all adjustments at dead neutral, I punched a passway into a cognate Earth. This was simple enough; in fact, almost anti-climactic…Little by little I learned to control my wonderful toy; our own world and all its past phases became familiar to me. What of other worlds? I am sure that in due course we will move instantaneously from world to world, from galaxy to galaxy, using a special space-traveling hub on Utilis. At the moment I am candidly afraid to punch through passways at blind random. What if I opened into the interior of a sun? Or into the center of a black hole? Or into an anti-matter universe? I would certainly destroy myself and the machine and conceivably Earth itself.
Still, the potentialities are too entrancing to be ignored. With painstaking precautions and a dozen protective devices, I will attempt to find my way to new worlds, and for the first time interstellar travel will be a reality.
* * * * * * *
Alan Robertson and Duray sat in the bright morning sunlight beside the flinty blue lake. They had brought their breakfast out to the table and now sat drinking coffee. Alan Robertson made cheerful conversation for the two of them. “These last few years have been easier on me; I’ve relegated a great deal of responsibility. Ernest and Henry know my policies as well as I do, if not better; and they’re never frivolous or inconsistent.” Alan Robertson chuckled. “I’ve worked two miracles: first, my machine, and second, keeping the business as simple as it is. I refuse to keep regular hours; I won’t make appointments; I don’t keep records; I pay no taxes; I exert great political and social influence, but only informally; I simply refuse to be bothered with administrative detail, and consequently I find myself able to enjoy life.”
“It’s a wonder some religious fanatic hasn’t assassinated you,” said Duray sourly.
“No mystery there! I’ve given them all their private worlds, with my best regards, and they have no energy left for violence! And as you know, I walk with a very low silhouette. My friends hardly recognize me on the street.” Alan Robertson waved his hand. “No doubt you’re more concerned with your immediate quandary. Have you come to a decision regarding the Rumfuddle?”
“I don’t have any choice,” Duray muttered. “I’d prefer to wring Bob’s neck. If I could account for Elizabeth’s conduct, I’d feel more comfortable. She’s not even remotely interested in black magic. Why did Bob bring her books on Satanism?”
“Well—the subject is inherently fascinating,” Alan Robertson suggested, without conviction. “The name ‘Satan’ derives from the Hebrew word for ‘adversary’; it never applied to a real individual. Zeus of course was an Aryan chieftain of about 3500 B.C., while ‘Woden’ lived somewhat later. He was actually ‘Othinn’, a shaman of enormous personal force, who did things with his mind that I can’t do with the machine…But again I’m rambling.”
Duray gave a silent shrug.
“Well then, you’ll be going to the Rumfuddle,” said Alan Robertson, “by and large the best course, whatever the consequences.”
“I believe that you know more than you’re telling me.”
Alan Robertson smiled and shook his head. “I’ve lived with too much uncertainty among my cognate and near-cognate worlds. Nothing is sure; surprises are everywhere. I think the best plan is to fulfill Bob’s requirements. Then, if Elizabeth is indeed on hand, you can discuss the event with her.”
“What of you? Will you be coming?”
“I am of two minds. Would you prefer that I came?”
“Yes,” said Duray. “You have more control over Bob than I do.”
“Don’t exaggerate my influence! He is a strong man, for all his idleness. Confidentially, I’m delighted that he occupies himself with games rather than…” Alan Robertson hesitated.
“Rather than what?”
“Than that his imagination should prompt him to less innocent games. Perhaps I have been over-ingenuous in this connection. We can only wait and see.”
XII
From Memoirs and Reflections:
If the Past is a house of many chambers, then the Present is the most recent coat of paint.
* * * * * * *
At four o’clock Duray and Alan Robertson left the lodge and passed through Utilis to the San Francisco depot. Duray had changed into a somber dark suit; Alan Robertson wore a more informal costume: blue jacket and pale gray trousers. They went to Bob Robertson’s locker, to find a panel with the sign: NOT HOME! FOR THE RUMFUDDLE GO TO ROGER WAILLE’S LOCKER, RC3-96 AND PASS THROUGH TO EKSHAYAN!
The two went on to Locker RC3-96 where a sign read: RUMFUDDLERS, PASS! ALL OTHERS: AWAY!
Duray shrugged contemptuously and parting the curtain looked through the passway, into a rustic lobby of natural wood, painted in black, red, yellow, blue and white floral designs. An open door revealed an expanse of open land and water glistening in the afternoon sunlight. Duray and Alan Robertson passed through, crossed the foyer and looked out upon a vast slow river flowing from north to south. A rolling plain spread eastward away and over the horizon. The western bank of the river was indistinct in the afternoon glitter. A path led north to
a tall house of eccentric architecture. A dozen domes and cupolas stood against the sky; gables and ridges created a hundred unexpected angles. The walls showed a fish-scale texture of hand-hewn shingles; spiral columns supported the second- and third-story entablatures, where wolves and bears carved in vigorous curves and masses, snarled, fought, howled and danced. On the side overlooking the river a pergola clothed with vines cast a dappled shade; here sat the Rumfuddlers.
Alan Robertson looked at the house, up and down the river, across the plain. “From the architecture, the vegetation, the height of the sun, the characteristic haze, I assume the river to be either the Don or the Volga, and yonder the steppes. From the absence of habitation, boats and artifacts, I would guess the time to be early historic—perhaps 2,000 or 3,000 B.C., a colorful era. The inhabitants of the steppes are nomads; Scyths to the east, Celts to the west, and to the north the homeland of the Germanic and Scandinavian tribes; and yonder the mansion of Roger Waille, and very interesting too, after the extravagant fashion of the Russian Baroque. And, my word! I believe I see an ox on the spit! We may even enjoy our little visit!”
“You do as you like,” muttered Duray, “I’d just as soon eat at home.”
Alan Robertson pursed his lips. “I understand your point of view, of course, but perhaps we should relax a bit. The scene is majestic, the house is delightfully picturesque; the roast beef is undoubtedly delicious; perhaps we should meet the situation on its own terms.”
Duray could find no adequate reply, and kept his opinions to himself.
“Well then,” said Alan Robertson, “equability is the word. So now let’s see what Bob and Roger have up their sleeves.” He set off along the path to the house, with Duray sauntering morosely a step or two behind.