Araminta Station

by Jack Vance

  “True, by unanimous acclamation. An excellent choice; don’t you agree?”

  “In no way, shape, form, color or smell! And I’ll tell you why: Glawen simply does not have the right stuff! He’s the bashful sort, always peeking around corners. As I see it, the Bold Lions are a driving hell-for-breakfast bunch who always come out on top, and devil take the hindmost! Glawen? A sorry little milksop, if truth must be told.”

  Uther pursed his lips. “I am surprised to hear this! The rest of the membership feels that we’ve made quite a good catch.”

  “Doesn’t anyone have common sense? Why go out of our way to enroll a Bureau B spy to report every little peccadillo to the authorities?”

  Uther gave a wry laugh. “Come now! Kirdy is Bureau B and you don’t raise a howl.”

  Arles blinked and considered. “Well, Kirdy is a Mummer and that makes a difference, believe me. He’s not a prig and knows when it’s best to ignore the red tape.”

  Uther said reasonably: “It really makes no difference. I for one intend to break no laws.”

  “Nor do I! But now we’ll have to gauge every innocent little indiscretion, just to make sure Glawen is not offended.”

  Kirdy Wook had come up to listen. He said in disgust: “Arles, you are hysterical!”

  “Call it what you like! I just don’t want Glawen keeping score every time I blow my nose.”

  Uther appeared to ponder. “It’s a difficult situation. What should we do?”

  Arles pounded his fist into the palm of his meaty hand. “Obviously: reconsider this flawed election!”

  Kirdy chuckled. “It’s clear that Arles must have his way. Uther, what is proper procedure, as defined in the bylaws?”

  “Proper procedure be blowed!” declared Arles. “We need only tell the blighter that a mistake was made and that he is not a Bold Lion after all.”

  “Impossible,” said Kirdy. “He was voted in unanimously.”

  “Well, we can’t have dissension,” said Uther. “Tonight we’ll call a special meeting and Arles can bring an action to expel if he’s willing to take the risk.”

  Arles stuttered: “I did not say expel! I said ‘not admit’!”

  “We must work within the bylaws,” said Uther. “You need six votes out of eight to expel, and if you fail, you’re out yourself. You won’t get Glawen’s vote; that’s certain. Kirdy?”

  “I nominated Glawen; I’d look pretty silly voting to turf him out.”

  “I seconded the nomination, and the same applies to me. Arles, it looks as if the vote has gone against you. Do you propose to resign?”

  “No,” said Arles. “Forget the special meeting. I’ll work this out some other way.”

  * * *

  Chapter III, Part 6

  A remarkable set of events, each controlling the shape of the next in sequence, received its first impulse at a class in social anthropology at the lyceum.

  The class, a prerequisite for graduation, was taught by Professor Yvon Dace, one of the least predictable of a notably unconventional faculty. Dace looked his part, with a high forehead, a few lank wisps of dust-colored hair, mournful dark eyes, a button nose, a long upper lip and an odd little crabapple of a chin.

  Professor Dace’s somewhat diffident appearance was belied by his conduct, which was often surprising. At the beginning of the term he made his position clear. “Whatever you have heard about me, dismiss it. I do not regard my class as a confrontation between the clear light of my intellect and twenty-two exemplars of sloth and willful stupidity. The exact number may be only half that, if we are lucky, and of course varies from term to term. Despite all, I am a kindly man, patient and thorough, but if I must elucidate the obvious more than twice, I often become gloomy.

  “As for the subject matter, we can hope only to acquaint ourselves with the large outline, though we will often pause to focus upon interesting details. I recommend subsidiary reading, which, incidentally, will improve your grade. Anyone who negotiates the ten volumes of Baron Bodissey’s Life in addition to the assigned texts will automatically receive at minimum a passing grade. Needless to say, I will satisfy myself that this reading has actually taken place.

  “Some of you may consider my teaching techniques rather casual. Others will wonder how I arrive at your proper grade. There is no mystery here. I grade partly from examination results, partly from a subjective, or even subconscious, evaluation. I lack sympathy with both mysticism and stupidity; I hope that you will control any such tendencies during our discussions. I must admit that beautiful girls face a special handicap; I must constantly guard against giving these delicious creatures all that they want and more. I might add that ugly girls fare no better, since then I must take into account my kindly pangs of guilt and pity.

  “Enough of the side issues; to the work itself, which you will find to be fascinating, rich in drama, humor and pathos. Your first assignment is Parts One and Two of The World of the Goddess Gaea, by Michael Yeaton. Are there questions? Yes?”

  Ottillie Veder said: “I am a girl. How will I know whether my bad grade is because you admire me or because you find me disgusting and repulsive?”

  “Nothing could be simpler. Arrange to meet me out on the beach with a blanket and a bottle of good wine. If I do not appear, your most pessimistic fears will be confirmed. Now, then, as for today . . .”

  The girls of the class, along with Ottillie Veder, included Cynissa and Zanny Diffin, Tara and Zaraide Laverty; Mornifer and Jerdys Wook; Adare and Clare Clattuc; Vervice Offaw; Wayness Tamm from Riverview House, and others. The Bold Lions were represented by Glawen and Arles Clattuc, Kiper Laverty, Kirdy Wook, Ling Diffin and Shugart Veder.

  Two weeks of the term went by, then one day professor Dace leaned back into his chair. “Today we deviate from our usual procedure, and undertake some anthropological fieldwork here in the class. Everyone has doubtless taken note of the individuals normally present during this period. Two of these persons derive from cultures somewhat alien to that of Araminta Station. One of them is myself, but I could not, without flagrant loss of dignity, allow the class to use me as a case study. Therefore we will focus our attention upon that intriguing individual who calls herself Wayness, and hope that her dignity is proof to the trial. Observe her now as she sits at her desk, evaluating this startling turn of events. Her composure is worthy of note; she neither titters, rolls her eyes nor crouches in a nervous huddle. Aha! At last she laughs! She is mortal after all! To a keen and educated eye a variety of subtle signals indicates her alien background: for instance, the odd manner in which she holds her pencil.”

  Kiper Laverty, sitting next to Wayness, called out: “That is not a pencil; she has borrowed my new fidget rod.”

  “Thank you, Kiper,” said Professor Dace. “As always, you bring a fresh perspective to our ruminations. Returning to Wayness, I suspect that the events of her life have been almost incommensurable with those of the rest of us. Furthermore, she interprets these events differently than we might. Am I right, Wayness?”

  “I would expect so, sir, since you are the professor.”

  “Hm, yes; quite so. Well, then: how would you describe the differences between life here and life at Stroma?”

  Wayness reflected a moment. “There are differences, certainly, although they are hard to explain. Our customs are much the same; we use the same table manners and wash when we are dirty. At Araminta Station class distinctions are important and carefully defined, but you have no perceptible politics. At Stroma, politics and political skills are the source of prestige, even more than wealth. But we have no class distinctions.”

  “That is an interesting observation,” said Professor Dace. “And which do you consider the better system?”

  Wayness pursed her lips in mild perplexity. “I’ve never troubled to think about it. I’ve always taken it for granted that ours is the best way.”

  Professor Dace shook his head. “That is not necessarily so, although today we will not explore the topic in depth.
Continue, if you will.”

  “Whatever the case,” said Wayness, “politics at Stroma is very important; in fact it’s a continuous wrangle which involves everyone.”

  “And what, in brief, are the issues?”

  “There are two main factions: the Life, Peace and Freedom group, who are anxious to make what they call ‘progressive changes,’ and the Old Naturalists, whom the LPFers call the Old Naturals or Bird-watchers, who want to maintain Cadwal as a wilderness preserve.”

  Professor Dace asked: “And what are your own views?”

  Wayness, smiling, shook her head. “The Conservator is officially neutral. I’m part of his household.”

  Adare Clattuc asked: “Where do you prefer to live? Here or at Stroma?”

  “I often ask myself the same question. There really is no basis for comparison.”

  “But isn’t Araminta far nicer? How can you even hesitate?”

  “Well - since Throy isn’t nice at all, the word simply doesn’t apply. Throy is a land of force and grandeur: not necessarily harsh or cruel but certainly not kindly. When I think of Throy I feel two emotions: a lifting of the spirits in response to the natural beauty, and awe. These emotions are always with us, and often challenge our courage. In our winter cabins out on the seaward crags, we can feel the force of the storm and watch the great waves smashing against the rocks. Part of the joy comes from the thrill of fear, even though we know we are safe and comfortable. Certain bold persons claim to enjoy what is known as storm-sailing; they go out on the sea to challenge the worst of the storms. Sometimes I think that mostly they enjoy the sensation of returning alive to the dock. Naturally, the storm boats are very strong and very heavy; they make a wonderful sight as they ride over the waves. Once when I was small I watched from our cabin as a storm boat struck a submerged rock and sank; even now when I think of it I feel a strange emotion which I can’t describe.

  “Sometimes we go out to one of the famous old inns instead of our cabin. The Iron Barnacle, which is built out on an offshore crag, is my favorite place to be when the storm is wildest. The green waves come in from the sea to crash against the rocks, and white foam spatters a hundred feet into the air. Wind roars; clouds tumble across the sky, while rain and hail fall on the roof and firelight stirs the soul like beautiful music. There is a special hot soup prepared for such occasions, and rum punch. When finally we go to bed, all the wild black night we hear the roar of the sea and the wind wailing through the rocks. When we travel from Throy and go far away, memories of the Iron Barnacle always make us homesick.”

  Professor Dace said: “Visitors often wonder why the Society built Stroma on Throy, when easier sites were at hand. Can you explain?”

  “I think that they wanted to keep the population low, without imposing a numerical limit.”

  “And the population now?”

  “Six hundred or so. When the Society was still sending subsidies, it reached fifteen hundred.”

  “And what of the Society now? Does it still concern itself with Conservancy policy?”

  “Not at all, so far as I know.”

  “Tell us something of your daily routine at Stroma.”

  Wayness hesitated. “I don’t think anyone would be interested.”

  “Include a saucy anecdote or two; you’ll instantly have everyone’s attention, especially when they realize that your remarks will form the basis of an examination.”

  “Let me think. Where shall I start? Everyone knows that Stroma overlooks the Stroma Fjord. We live in the best of the old houses; others have been pulled down, and only the gardens remain. At the end of the sound are the greenhouses; almost a hundred acres are under glass.

  “Almost every family has a cabin: along the sea cliffs, at a mountain lake or out on the moors, where friends are entertained. This is great fun, especially for the children. During the day and sometimes at night we walk out, often alone, to enjoy the solitude. The andorils1 have learned not to bother us. The toctacs2 sometimes set up elaborate ambushes, which we take pains to avoid. One day out on the moor I came upon an enormous master andoril, sitting on a rock. He must have been twelve feet tall, with curving black shoulder horns and a crest of five bones. He watched very closely as I walked past, with about a hundred feet between us. I knew he would like nothing better than to eat me, and he knew that I knew. He also knew that I would not kill him unless he attacked me, and therefore sat quietly, wondering whether I’d make a better roast than a stew. I could see every detail of his face, which was disconcerting, since I felt that I could read his thoughts.”

  Zaraide Laverty gasped: “Weren’t you frightened?”

  “In a way. But I had my handgun ready, and there was no real danger. If I were out walking by night, I’d be wearing a sensor harness against ambushes. Here at Araminta, of course, I don’t bother with such things.”

  “You go out to walk at night? Alone?”

  Wayness laughed. “Sometimes I swim, when the sea is calm - especially when Lorca and Sing are up.”

  Glawen, looking sidewise, saw Arles jerk up his head and fix a hooded stare upon Wayness. After a moment Arles lowered his head and for a period pretended to take notes. Then, after a moment, he surreptitiously glanced up again, to study Wayness more carefully.

  Vervice Offaw, one of the Fortunate Five, in her relations with Wayness, tended to use a cool condescension. She said now: “You must find Riverview House dull and overcivilized after all your exciting battles with the elements, not to mention andorils. Are you bored living here?”

  Professor Dace said lazily: “Allow me to offer a judgment which Wayness herself might be too charitable to make. She has spent considerable time on Earth where true overcivilization is not unknown, and I seriously doubt if she thinks of Riverview House in those terms. Dull? The Conservator frequently entertains guests from both Stroma and off-world. I suspect that Wayness finds Riverview House both stimulating and pleasantly placid, though never dull. Araminta Station may well seem a languid little backwater, where all the styles and fads are ten years out of date.”

  Vervice decided that she hated Professor Dace more thoroughly than any man she had ever met.

  Wayness smiled at the remark. “Riverview House is certainly peaceful. I have more time to myself than ever before, which I find that I like.”

  Ottillie Veder asked: “What of love affairs at Stroma? Who arranges your marriages?”

  “Arranged marriages are unusual at Stroma.3 Love affairs? They are very common.”

  Professor Dace straightened up in his chair. “And on this note we shall excuse Wayness, before the questions become overpersonal.”

  * * *

  Chapter III, Part 7

  Early in the evening the Bold Lions gathered at the Old Arbor, to drink a goblet or two of wine, gossip, formulate plans and discuss space yachts. Almost all brought books, as if they intended to study, but little was ever accomplished in this direction.

  The conversation veered to a topic of general interest: how to judge a girl’s erotic proclivities from a study of her mannerisms, signs, signals and physical characteristics. Each of the Bold Lions had given thought to the subject and each contributed his own insights. Several of the group, almost as an article of faith, asserted that breast dimension infallibly corresponded with erotic enthusiasm. Ling Diffin tried to justify the theory on the basis of psychological compulsion: “It’s only sensible. A girl looks down and can’t see her feet by reason of an extraordinary bust, so she tells herself: ‘Oh my word! Everywhere I go I brandish these truly notable sex symbols! Whether I realize it or not, I must be a real five-star high-output performer! No other explanation is valid! So why fight it?’ The obverse situation, when the girl can see not only her feet, but her ankles and heels as well, exerts the negative influence.”

  “Scholarly but absurd,” said Uther Offaw.

  Kiper Laverty said: “Girls are curious creatures, but their motives yield to close observation. I learn all I need to know by watching how a girl t
witches her fingers, especially her little fingers.”

  “Total nonsense!” said Kirdy Wook. “Why would a girl attempt such subtle refinements? She’s got better things to wave than her little finger.”

  Shugart Veder said, somewhat ponderously: “In my opinion, there are no valid shortcuts; one must study the whole picture.”

  “Possibly yes, possibly no,” said Arles. “Still, I can pick out a sizzler at a distance of fifty yards, simply by watching the way she walks.”

  Uther Offaw shook his head. “In this case I must side with Shugart. Personally, I keep a schematic image in my notebook, and I synthesize information from several key parameters. I have never known the system to be at fault.”

  Arles put on a patronizing grin. “Specifically, then: how do you and your index rate, let’s say, Ottillie, zero being a dead fish and ten a real go-for-broke steamer?”

  “As I recall, my figures indicate that Ottillie can be had, by the right man in the right place at the right time.”

  “Very informative,” said Arles. “What is the line on Wayness?”

  Uther frowned. “In this case, I am not satisfied with my figures. She puts out too many contradictory signals. At first I thought she was prim; now I find her strangely attractive.”

  “It’s not strange at all,” said Kiper. “In those tight pants she’s practically edible.”

  “Quiet, Kiper,” said Shugart. “You curdle the moral atmosphere.”

  Kirdy Wook addressed Kiper: “I thought that you were a proponent of the ‘twitching finger’ theory.”

  “I looked at her fingers first,” said Kiper. “Then I changed.”

  “I wish you chaps would talk of something else,” grumbled Kirdy Wook. “I came down here to study.”

  “So did I,” said Arles. He looked down at his books with disfavor. “This stuff’s dry as dog bone. Uther, you’re a mathematical genius; work out these problems for me! They’re due tomorrow, and I’ve only just started.”