by Jack Vance
An hour after sunset he changed into dark blue trousers and a soft gray shirt. Scharde noticed the preparations. “What’s all this afoot? Or is it a secret?”
Glawen made a casual gesture. “Nothing of any consequence. Just a social engagement.”
“Who is the lucky girl?”
“Sessily Veder.”
Scharde chuckled. “Don’t let her mother catch you. She’s Felice Veder, who was born a Wook, and has never relinquished her virtue.”
“I’ll have to take my chances.”
“I don’t blame you. Sessily is a charmer; no doubt of it! Be off with you, and need I say -”
“I already know, or at least I think I do.”
“Just as you like.”
Glawen paused by the door. “Whatever else, don’t tell anyone, especially Arles!”
“Naturally not. Do you take me for a fool?”
“No. But you’ve taught me yourself never to take anything for granted.”
Scharde, laughing, squeezed Glawen’s shoulders. “Absolutely right! Just don’t get caught!”
Glawen laughed nervously and departed the chambers. He descended the staircase and stepped out into the night. On feet charged with energy he half walked, half ran to Veder House; then, making a wide circuit through the meadow, he approached the rose garden. He passed between a pair of great marble urns, pale in the starlight and trailing fronds of dark ivy, and so entered the rose garden. To right and left heroic statues stood in a pair of opposing rows, with beds of white roses between. Beyond loomed the towers and tiers, bays and balconies of Veder House, black except for a few random rectangles of soft yellow glow across the streaming stars of Mircea’s Wisp.
Glawen walked up the central way to the far steps. He paused to listen, but the garden was silent. The scent of the white roses hung in the air, and forever after, the scent of roses would remind Glawen of this night.
He was alone in the garden except for the statues. He went quietly to the place of rendezvous. Sessily had not yet arrived. He went to sit on a bench in the shadows and composed himself to wait.
Time passed. Glawen looked up at the stars, many of which he could name. He found the constellation known as Endymion’s Lute. At the very center, a telescope of sufficient power would discover Old Sol . . . He heard a faint sound. A soft voice called: “Glawen? Are you here?”
Glawen stepped from the shadows. “I’m here, by the bench.”
Sessily made a small wordless sound and ran to meet him; they embraced. Intoxication! Overhead: the flow of Mircea’s Wisp streaming across the void; in the garden the pale roses and the marble statues silent in the starlight.
“Come,” said Sessily. “Let’s go over to the arbor, where we can sit.” She led him to a round open-sided pergola with vines growing up the pillars. The two seated themselves on an upholstered bench which went halfway around the inner circumference. Minutes passed. Sessily stirred and looked up. “You’re very quiet.”
“I was thinking some rather strange thoughts.”
“What kind of thoughts? Tell me!”
“They are hard to describe: more a matter of mood than thoughts.”
“Try anyway.”
Glawen spoke haltingly. “I looked up at the sky and the stars, and I felt a sudden openness - as if my mind were aware of the whole galaxy. At the same time I felt all the millions and billions of people who had spread through the stars. Their lives, or the people, seemed to give off a whir or a hum, really a soft slow music. For just an instant I could hear the music and I felt its meaning and then it was gone, and I was looking at the stars and you asked me why I was quiet.”
After a moment Sessily said: “Thoughts like that make me gloomy. I like to pretend that the world started when I was born and will go on forever, and never change.”
“That’s a very mysterious universe.”
“Who cares? It works nicely enough, and suits me very well, so I don’t worry about the machinery.” She sat up and twisted around so as to face Glawen. “I don’t want you thinking peculiar thoughts or humming weird music to yourself. It distracts your attention from me. I’m much more fun than the stars – I think.”
“I’m convinced of it.”
In the eastern sky a flush of pale vermilion announced the coming of Sing and Lorca, the other two stars of the system. As they watched, first Sing, then Lorca bumped up over the horizon: Sing like a wan orange moon; Lorca, a very bright star flashing prismatic colors.
Sessily said: “I can’t stay out late. The committee is meeting at our house, and your Great-aunt Spanchetta is on hand. She and mother always quarrel, and the meeting breaks up early.”
“What committee is this?”
“They’re planning the Parilia program. There’s to be less entertainment at the Orpheum, and they are dealing with Master Floreste right now, which will be a trial for everyone since Master Floreste can be remarkably single-minded. The dream of his life is a new Orpheum directly across from the lyceum, and every sol from the Mummers’ off-world tours goes into his fund.”
“Have you told him that you are resigning?”
“Not yet. He won’t care. It’s something he expects. He just adapts his material to the talent, which is why he is so successful. At Parilia he’ll have three short presentations and I’ll be involved in all of them: musical novelties Verd and Milden evenings and a spectacle, Smollen night, when I’m to be a butterfly with four wings. I’d like to make my own costume, out of real butterfly wings.”
“That sounds complicated.”
“Not if you help me. Are you allowed to fly?”
Glawen nodded. “Chilke signed off my advanced novice rating as of last week. I’m checked out on any of the Mitrix trainers.”
“Then we can fly down to Maroli Meadow and gather butterfly wings.”
“I don’t see why not - if your mother will approve of the idea, which somehow I doubt.”
“I doubt it too - if I asked in advance. So I’ll tell her after we get back, if she asks. It’s time that I was developing independence, don’t you think? But not too much; I’m happy to stay a little girl for a while yet . . . I must go in, before Mother comes looking for me. She has her own ideas about independence.”
“When do you want to go to Maroli Meadow? I should know a day or two in advance.”
“A week from next Ing is a school holiday. The Calliope Club is planning a swimming party and picnic up at Blue Mountain Lake. Perhaps you and I can go to Maroli Meadow on our own picnic.”
“Very well. I’ll have Chilke reserve a Mitrix for me.”
Sessily stirred. “I hate to leave-but I must! Now, do be careful walking home! Don’t fall down and hurt yourself, and don’t carried away by a big night bird or an owl!”
“I’ll be careful.”
* * *
Chapter I, Part 7
Chilke had given Glawen his flight training and made no difficulty about providing a Mitrix flyer for what would go on the log as a “cadet day patrol.”12
On the appointed bright sunny Ing morning, Glawen and Sessily arrived at the airport, Glawen with a pair of mesh baskets and a long-handled net while Sessily carried a picnic hamper.
Chilke pointed to a nearby flyer. “There’s your Mitrix. But why the baskets and the net?”
Sessily said: “We’re putting down on Maroli Meadow for butterfly wings. I need them for my Parilia costume. I’m to be a beautiful four-winged butterfly in the spectacle.”
“You’ll be that without a doubt,” said Chilke gallantly.
Sessily warned him: “Don’t tell anyone! It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
“Never fear! I’ll hold my tongue.”
Glawen asked: “What of your own costume?”
“Me? Costume? I’m just one of the help.”
“Come now, Chilke! All of us know better than that! Surely you’ll be at the festival!”
“Well - maybe so. It’s the one affair where I’m allowed, but only because the mask hide
s my face. I’ll be Chitterjay the Clown, which you’ll probably consider not much of a disguise. What of you?”
“I’m a Black Imp, in a tight black velvet skin, with even my face painted black.”
“You’re not one of the Bold Lions, then.”
“Not a chance! They’ll all be in Lion costume.” Glawen pointed to the Mitrix. “Is it ready to go?”
“Approximately, considering it’s an Araminta flyer. Let’s see if you remember the checkout.”
Chilke watched as Glawen performed the routine inspections. “Fuel: charged,” said Glawen. “Emergency power: charged. Navigator: nulls all proper. Time: correct. Circuits: blue light. Radio: blue light. Backup box: blue light. Emergency flares: in case. Pistol: on rack, at ready. Emergency water: full. Emergency gear: in cabinet. Engines: alarms quiet. Air systems alert: blue light.”
Glawen went on to complete the checkout, to Chilke’s satisfaction. “Two things to remember,” said Chilke. “At Maroli Meadow, make sure to land on the pad. If you break open a hummock you’ll have bugs everywhere, and curse the day you were born. Second: don’t stray off into the forest; tangle-tops have been sighted in the neighborhood. So keep your eyes open, and stay close to the flyer.”
“Very well, sir. We’ll take care.”
Glawen and Sessily stowed their gear, climbed into the flyer, waved to Chilke, then, to Glawen’s touch, were taken aloft. With the autopilot engaged, they flew south at a conservative altitude of a thousand feet.
The Mitrix drifted at no great speed over plantations and vineyards, across the River Wan and the Big Lagoon, then away from the enclave and out over the wilderness: here a placid savanna of low hills grown over with a carpet of low blue-gray plants, and pale green bushes, marked by dark green dendrons, alone or in copses, and occasional smoke trees, holding puffs of fragile blue foliage three hundred feet into the air. To the west the hills rolled higher, one rank behind another, and at last swelled enormously to become the Muldoon Mountains, with plain-to-be-seen Flutterby Pass: that notch through the mountains which funneled the migrating butterflies down Maroli valley to their rendezvous with the sea.
Ten miles, twenty miles, thirty miles: below was Maroli Meadow, a garish sight splotched with a hundred colors. The flyer settled slowly through a myriad of butterflies. Glawen sighted through the optic finder, fixed the pale green disk on a pad of concrete established for the convenience of tourists in omnibus flyers. Glawen pushed the landing toggle, and the Mitrix lowered itself to the pad.
For a minute the two sat quietly, looking around the meadow. They were alone. Except for the butterflies, nothing moved. A hundred yards to the right rose a rim of forest, ominously dense and dark, with similar forest to the left, even closer. Ahead, at a somewhat greater distance, the meadow opened upon the ocean beach, with blue ocean beyond.
The two opened the door and stepped down to the pad. The sky flickered with the wings of a million butterflies arriving from all parts of Deucas. The throb of their wings created a low near-inaudible hum; the air reeked with a rich sweet stench. In shoals and schools each of distinctive color: scarlet and blue; lambent green; lemon yellow and black; purple, lavender, white and blue; purple and red, they slanted down into the meadow, to swirl and circle, often flying through a swarm of a different sort, producing what seemed previously unknown colors of amazing pointillist brilliance.
The swarms, after milling and wheeling, at last settled into that tree dedicated to their own sort. At once they nipped off their wings, to create a rain of colored snow under the tree, and give the meadow a curiously garish aspect.
The butterflies, now two-inch grubs, identically pale gray, with six strong legs and horny mandibles, ran down the tree trunk to the ground, and scurried at full speed toward the ocean.13
Glawen and Sessily took long-handled nets and trays from the flyer and Glawen, mindful of Chilke’s remarks, thrust the pistol into his belt.
Sessily asked quizzically: “Why the gun? There are plenty of loose wings; you needn’t shoot the butterflies.”
Glawen said: “It’s one of the first things my father taught me: never go even three feet into the wilderness without a gun.”
“The principal danger around here is stepping into something wet and sticky,” said Sessily. “Come; let’s get our wings and leave; I can barely breathe because of the fearful chife.”
“Do you know what colors you want?”
“Let’s get some blues and greens from that tree yonder, and some reds and yellows, from over there, a few blacks and purples and that should do nicely.”
They picked their way carefully across the meadow to the specified trees. With the net Glawen caught the wings as they drifted down from above and turned them over into the baskets: first, emerald green and blue, then pomegranate red and rich yellow, and finally purple, black and white.
Sessily stood, hesitant. Glawen asked: “Is this enough?”
“I’m sure it is,” said Sessily. “I’d like some of those yellow-reds and greens, but it’s too far to walk, and this smell is making me sick.”
“I see another reason,” said Glawen in a suddenly flat voice. “Let’s get back to the flyer, and fast.”
Following his gaze, Sessily saw across the meadow a long massive beast, black except for its white oddly human face. It trotted on six taloned legs and clasped a pair of hooked pincers to its chest in the attitude of prayer. This was the semi-intelligent Muldoon tangle-top, so named for the squirming black tendrils at the top of its head.
Glawen and Sessily started back toward the flyer, as inconspicuously as possible, but the tangle-top instantly noted the movement. It turned and trotted forward denying them the refuge of the flyer.
The creature halted a hundred feet away to appraise the situation, then uttered a querulous whine, a rumbling rasping groan, and with dire deliberation began to stalk them.
Glawen said between clenched teeth: “My father was right, as always.” He pulled the heavy pistol from his belt and aimed it toward the tangle-top, which stopped short; from somewhere it had learned that men pointing weapons were even more dangerous than itself. It gave another querulous whine, then turned and ran on long loping lunges to the beach, where it pounced on one of the yoots. A horrid squealing protest became a mournful sobbing sound, then silence.
Glawen and Sessily had long since run to the flyer, where they packed baskets and net and without delay took the flyer aloft.
Glawen spoke in heartfelt emotion: “Safety! I’ve never appreciated it so much!”
“It was nice of the beast to go away,” said Sessily.
“Very nice. It decided to give me another chance. My hands were shaking so badly I could never have hit it. I wonder if I could have pulled the trigger . . . I’m not pleased with myself.”
Sessily said soothingly, “Of course you would have hit it, no doubt in some very painful place. The beast realized this. Also I told it to go away.”
“You did what?”
Sessily laughed airily. “I used telepathy and told it to run off. It recognized a stronger will than its own and obeyed me.”
“Hmf,” muttered Glawen. “Shall we go back and try again?”
“Glawen! It’s wicked to tease me so. I was only trying to help.”
Glawen brooded: “I wonder if we should tell anyone what happened. It may sound too alarming, like a dangerous emergency - which it was.”
“We’ll say nothing about it. Do you feel hungry?”
“I still feel nothing but fright.”
Sessily pointed. “There’s a nice hilltop where we can have our lunch.”
* * *
Chapter I, Part 8
Early in the afternoon Glawen and Sessily returned to Araminta Station. Glawen landed the flyer in the park at the back of Veder House, where Sessily alighted with her wings, net and picnic hamper. Glawen then flew the Mitrix to the airfield and landed beside the hangar.
Chilke came out to greet him. “How went the butterfly hunt?”
/>
“Quite well,” said Glawen. “Sessily is pleased with her wings.”
Chilke looked over the Mitrix. “The flyer seems to be in one piece. Why are you so pale?”
“I’m not pale,” said Glawen. “At least I don’t think I am.”
“I’d call you just a bit spooky.”
“For a fact, there was something, but I don’t particularly want to talk about it.”
“Come, now! It can’t be that bad. Speak!”
Glawen’s story came out in a rush. “Here is what happened. We had finished netting the wings. Then just as we started back to the flyer, a big black tangle-top came out of the forest. It spotted us right away and began to stalk us, approaching really close. I had the gun ready but I didn’t need to shoot, because it turned away and ran down to the shore, where it ate a yoot. Sessily says she chased it away by telepathy; for all I know, she did; I was too scared for anything even that sensible.” Glawen took a deep breath. “I had buck fever so bad I could hardly hold the gun.”
“A very moving tale,” said Chilke. “Is there more?”
“Just a bit. We left Maroli Meadow at full speed, and glad to get away. About ten miles north we got some of our nerve back and put down on a hilltop for our lunch. I was still annoyed with myself. I thought I’d practice shooting the gun, and getting a feel for it. I aimed at a rock, and pulled the trigger. The gun went click! I examined the chamber and found that there was no ammo in the gun.”
Chilke’s jaw dropped. “Isn’t that a situation! You wasted your buck fever on an empty gun!”
“I didn’t think of it quite that way.”
For a moment Chilke whistled tunelessly through his teeth. At last he said: “If there’s a need for blaming people, we can start with you. Checking ammo in the gun is the operator’s responsibility; that’s the rule.”
Glawen hung his head. “I know. I missed it.”
“Second on the list is me. I stood here and watched you go past the gun. My only excuse is that I charged that gun myself three days ago. We’ve both learned a lesson, so I hope. And now we’ll get down to brass tacks. Why was there no charge of ammo in the gun? Here we must look to that scoundrel Sisco. Ah! It’s a great aggravation! I’ll beat that Sisco well. First, we’ve got to find him. It’s pure pleasure listening to the Yips lie, especially when they suspect that they’re caught dead to rights.”