Ecce and Old Earth

by Vance, Jack

  Glawen underwent entry formalities, which included dosages of universal prophylactic, fungicide, anti-virals and buffers to absorb the first shock of the toxic local proteins. He was also subjected to an unusually careful search of his travel-bag and his person, which resulted in the seizure of his handgun. “Weapons of this sort are not allowed on Nion, he was informed. There are too many situations which become volatile in the blinking of an eye, and the knives and kukris of Nion are bad enough.”

  “All the more reason to allow me my gun for self-defense.”

  The complaint went unheeded. Glawen was tendered a receipt. “You may reclaim the weapon upon your departure.”

  Leaving the terminal building, Glawen stepped out into the glare of light from the sun Pharisse. The sky, a cloudless expanse of purple-blue, seemed tremendously wide, by reason of the far horizons. He went to the railing which guarded the brink of the plateau and looked down over Tanjaree. It was a city of modest size, separated by a circular lake. To the west was the old town or native quarter, a random scatter of low white domes and slender spires, almost dwarfed beneath a dozen or so prodigious dendrons growing among the structures. They stood, so Glawen estimated, over two hundred feet tall, on massive black boles which separated into a sprawl of heavy branches, bending at the tips to the weight of blue fruiting globes, about ten feet in diameter.

  The new town, to the east of the lake, showed a street layout only marginally more rational than the unabashed chaos of the old town. An avenue skirted the lake. Where it passed in front of the large tourist hotels and other tourist services, it broadened and was known as ‘The Mall.’ Narrow streets and alleys slanted away in all directions through the rather shabby districts away from the waterfront. The structures, large and small alike, were fabrications of lumpy plaster, apparently wadded into place by hand, with all dimensions and measurements being estimated by eye. There were no sharp corners, neither right angles nor verticality save in those instances which occurred by accident. The effect was one of organic growth and – initially, at least – not unpleasant. Most of the structures were two stories high, though the tourist hotels fronting on the lake were often of three or even four stories.

  Glawen turned away from the view. A small structure nearby displayed a sign: TOURIST INFORMATION. Glawen went to the structure and entered. The premises were furnished with a long table, chairs, a rack of brochures. Behind the table sat a pair of young women, dressed in sleeveless white frocks and sandals. They were appealing creatures, thought Glawen, strikingly similar, with delicate features in pale faces, chestnut curls and slight small-breasted bodies. Both wore ribbons in their hair: pink on the girl sitting to the left, blue on the one to the right. They took note of Glawen with similar expressions of polite inquiry. The girl with the blue ribbon asked: “How best can we serve you, sir?”

  “First of all,” said Glawen, “I need a hotel. Can you make me a recommendation and – if possible – book me a room?”

  “Of course! That is our function!” The girls exchanged smiles, as if at a private joke. Pink Ribbon said: “There are twenty hotels in Tanjaree. Six are rated ‘First Class’; five are ‘Second Class’. The others are somewhat less convenient. There are also shelters where lodging is provided the penurious.”

  Blue Ribbon said: “Before we can accommodate you to your precise taste, we must learn your preferences. Which category do you prefer?”

  “Naturally, I prefer the best,” said Glawen. “The question becomes, can I afford it?”

  Blue Ribbon handed him a sheet of paper. “Here are the hotels and their rates.”

  Glawen glanced down the list. “I see nothing to alarm me. Which is the best?”

  Pink and Blue exchanged smiles. “That is a hard question to answer,” said Blue. “Departing tourists have much more definite opinions upon which is the worst.”

  “Hm,” said Glawen. “Perhaps I should ask which hotel provokes the fewest angry complaints?”

  Pink and Blue considered a moment, then took counsel with each other. “The Cansaspara, perhaps?” suggested Pink. ‘“The Cansaspara would be my guess,” said Blue. “Unfortunately three ships have arrived during the last three days, and none have departed. The Cansaspara is booked solid.”

  “A pity,” sighed Pink. “I like the Cansaspara Arcade.”

  “It is nice,” agreed Blue.

  Glawen looked from one girl to the other. Both were charming, he thought, though a bit languid and indirect in the conduct of their duties; He said: “I have some business I must transact as soon as possible, so book me anywhere you can.”

  “The Superbo and the Haz Warrior are about equal in their amenities, “said Pink. “Do you have a preference?”

  “Not really. The Superbo would seem a bit more relaxed than the Warrior.”

  “You are a thoughtful man,” said Blue. “Evidently you know something of the Haz. Am I correct?”

  “I’m afraid not. But for the moment –”

  “The Haz are almost extinct. A few remain, under the Croo Cleeks, but they no longer sail their desert-boats. In the old days they captured tourists and forced them to fight duels.”

  Blue gave a shudder. “It is all in the past: the midnight camps, the music, the wild dances, the weird Haz honor!”

  “Very picturesque,” said Glawen. “But it must have discouraged tourism.”

  Pink and Blue both laughed. “Not at all! The tourist need not fight. The warrior would mock him, and pull his nose, and offer to fight blindfold, or with his hands tied. If the tourist still demurred, he would be called a dog, a thief and a tourist. The women would spit on his feet and cut the bottom out of his trousers, but he would be allowed to return to Tanjaree alive, with much material for reminiscence.”

  “Interesting,” said Glawen. “But now, between the Superbo and the Haz Warrior –”

  “There is little difference,” said Blue. “At the Haz Warrior, they play Haz music and pretend to despise the tourist, but they offer no violence.”

  Glawen said: “I think I prefer the Superbo. Be so kind as to –”

  “Both the Superbo and the Haz Warrior are fully booked,” said Pink. “We will place you at the Novial.”

  “Anywhere, since I am in a bit of a hurry.”

  “An instant only!” said Blue. “We are famous for the quickness of our fast speed!”

  “The Novial it is then, though their pold is far from classic.”

  “It’s good enough for me,” said Glawen. “I am not yet a connoisseur. You may book me into the Novial.”

  “Just so,” said Blue. “If you need good pold, go to one of the kiosks. The Gangril formulations are best.”

  Pink thrust out her tongue. On the tip rested a small black pastille. She said: “At this very moment I am sucking on a wafer of tikki-tikki, which is a Gangril formulation. The flavor is sharp but subtle, and the formulation soothes me.”

  Blue stated: “Tikki-tikki often eases the aggravations of my work.”

  Glawen said decisively: “I must leave, before I become an aggravation.”

  “You are no aggravation!” declared Pink. “We like talking to you, and we have nothing better to do.”

  Blue said: “Here is a map of Tanjaree.” She made marks. “This is where we live. If you are bored, you may come to call, and taste our truest pold.”

  Pink suggested: “Or we could walk beside the lake and count the moons, and recite the proper poems.”

  Blue said: “Or we could visit the serai and watch the mad harlequins as they dance and play their concertinas.”

  “I am bewildered by so many choices,” said Glawen. “However I must first see to my business, which is most urgent.”

  “If you like, I will give you a wafer of nging,” said Pink. ‘“The effect is to minimize the importance of serious business. It allows one to live without tension or care.”

  Glawen smilingly shook his head. “Thank you again.” He looked at the map. “The Novial is where?”

  B
lue made a mark. “First, we must book you your lodging, or all might come to naught.”

  “I will do so at once;” said Pink. “I had forgotten the gentleman’s requirements.”

  Glawen waited while Pink spoke into the telephone, then nodded to Glawen. “Your lodging is secure, but you must report to the Novial at once or it might be let to someone else. As you see, things go briskly here at Tanjaree.”

  “You have made that clear,” said Glawen. “Please mark Crippet Alley on the map, and also the Argonaut Art Supply Company.”

  Blue made careful indications, which Pink verified and approved. Glawen again expressed his thanks and departed.

  * * *

  Chapter VIII, Part 4

  A long rickety escalator lowered him to the lakeside avenue. He looked up toward the sun Pharisee. To judge by the altitude, the time was perhaps an hour into the afternoon. The reckoning, however, might be misleading, since Nion’s sidereal day was something over thirty-seven hours long.

  Glawen set off along the avenue and a few minutes later arrived at the Novial Hotel. He entered the lobby: a nondescript chamber neither spacious nor elegant. He approached the reception counter where sat a dapper young clerk, engaged in an animated telephone conversation, He was two or three years older than Glawen, with plump shoulders, full jowls, sleek black hair, limpid brown eyes under fine expressive black eyebrows. He wore dark green pantaloons, a yellow blouse decorated with two panels of intricate designs in black and red. On his head he wore a jaunty black toque - evidently the last cry in fashion. After a single swift glance toward Glawen from the corner of his eye, he turned away from the counter and continued to talk into the telephone. On the screen Glawen glimpsed the face of another young dandy, wearing a similar toque, also rakishly aslant.

  A moment passed. Glawen waited, his patience slowly eroding. The clerk spoke on, with an occasional chuckle. Glawen became restive. He began to tap his fingers on the counter. Time was passing; every minute might be important! The clerk creased his eyebrows in annoyance, then looked over his shoulder and brought the conversation to an end. He swung about and asked: “Well, sir? What are your needs?”

  Glawen composed his voice. “Lodging, naturally.”

  “Unfortunately, sir, the hotel is complete. You must go elsewhere.”

  “What! The tourist office only just made my reservation!”

  “Really?” The clerk shook his head. “Why am I not told of these things? They must have called elsewhere. Have you tried the Bon Felice?”

  “Of course not. I was booked into the Novial; I came to the Novial. Does that sound at all unreasonable to you?”

  “I am not the unreasonable one,” said the clerk. “That word best describes the person who, when notified that no accommodation exists, continues to wheedle and argue. It is this conduct I define as unreasonable.”

  “Just so,” said Glawen. “When the Tourist Information Office telephones down a booking, what is the procedure?”

  “It is simple enough. The official on duty, which is to say, myself, carefully inscribes the name upon this board, and there is no scope for mistake.”

  Glawen pointed to the board. “What is the name in that blue square to the side?”

  The clerk rose wearily to his feet. “This square? It reads: ‘Glawen Clattuc.’ So then?”

  “I am Glawen Clattuc.”

  For a few seconds the clerk stood silent. Then he said: “You are lucky. That is our Grand Suite. In the future you should take pains to explain your arrangements more carefully; we cannot function in the absence of facts.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Glawen. “You are a marvel of efficiency. Now show me to the ‘Grand Suite.’”

  The clerk flashed Glawen a glare of astounded outrage. “My rank is high! I am office manager and deputy executive vice-president! I do not lead lodgers here and there about the hotel!”

  “Who does so, in that case?”

  “At the moment, no one. The porter has not yet arrived, and I have no idea as to how the housekeepers have arranged their schedules. You may either wait here until the proper employee reports for duty, or you may walk down yonder corridor to the end, and pass through the last door on the left. The lock code is ta-ta ta.”

  Glawen went to the specified door tapped ta-ta-ta upon the lock panel. The door slid ajar Glawen stepped through the opening. He found himself in a room of no great size, with a table to the right and a bed along the left wall. The bathroom occupied an alcove. Glawen stood looking about the room in wonder. Had there been some sort of mistake? Could this truly be the ‘Grand Suite’?

  For the moment it must serve; other concerns pressed upon him. Journey’s end was at hand, and Destiny was waiting somewhere along Crippet Alley. He tossed his travel bag upon the bed and left the room.

  In the lobby the clerk watched his approach sidelong; then, raising his fine black eyebrows, ostentatiously turned away, so that when Glawen came to make the customary complaints, he could look about with an air of indifference which, by infuriating off-world patrons, served to enhance his self-esteem.

  Glawen paid him no heed. Looking neither right nor left he crossed the lobby and departed the hotel. The clerk looked after him glumly, his self-esteem deflated to its original condition.

  Out on the avenue, Glawen paused to take stock of his surroundings. Pharisse had moved no great distance across the sky; eight hours, perhaps, of daylight remained before what would be a long slow dusk. Low in the sky floated a number of pale wraiths: some of Nion’s numerous satellites, in phases, crescent to half-full. At the moment the air was still, and the lake reflected the low white domes and minarets of Old Tanjaree on the opposite shore.

  Glawen set off on his fateful mission, trying to insulate his mind against both foreboding and hope - a task complicated by uneasy speculations regarding the man who had beguiled Miss Shoup: where was he now?

  Glawen came to Crippet Alley and turned aside, passing instantly from the enclave of the off-worlders into an environment where the local population pursued its own quiet purposes. They seemed a sedate gentle folk, loving a languid pace perhaps influenced by the long thirty-seven hour day of Tanjaree. Like Pink and Blue, they were of no great stature, with chestnut hair, delicate features and gray eyes. The alley itself was irregular and crooked, sometimes narrow and overhung by the upper stories of houses along the way, at times expanding into a small irregular plaza, perhaps with a thick-trunked dendron at the center.

  It gradually came upon Glawen that there was something strange about Crippet Alley: it was unnaturally quiet. There were no loud voices or music or clangor; only the slide of soft footsteps and a muted whisper from the stalls and shops.

  Glawen arrived at the Argonaut Art Supply Company: a two-story structure, somewhat more imposing than others along the alley. A pair of windows to either side of the door displayed on the left a number of small mechanical toys; to the right, a sampling of the art supplies offered for sale within the shop, modeling tools; waxes, plasters and clays; equipment for the decoration of fabric, along with dyes and mordants; pigments, stains and solvents; kits of graduated andromorphs. The merchandise had a settled look, as if it had not been shifted for a long time.

  Glawen entered the shop: a dim cluttered chamber with the high ceiling and walls stained dark brown. The room was very silent; Glawen saw that he was alone save for a middle-aged woman with short blonde-gray hair who sat behind a counter reading a journal. Her complexion was fair; she wore a neat blue smock.

  Glawen approached the counter; the woman looked up from her journal with an amiable, if incurious, expression. “Yes, sir?”

  Glawen found that his mouth was dry. The moment had come and he was nervous. He found his voice: “Is Mr. Keebles at hand?”

  The woman looked off across the room, frowning as if pondering the question. She decided upon a reply. “Mr. Keebles? He is not here.”

  Glawen’s heart sank. The woman added: “Not at the moment.” Glawen released his pent
breath.

  Having responded to the question, the woman returned to her journal. Glawen spoke patiently: “When will he be back?”

  The woman looked up again. “Before long, or so I should think.”

  “In minutes? Hours? Days? Months?”

  The woman showed a dutiful smile. “Really now! What a funny thing to say! Mr. Keebles has only just gone off to the bathroom!”

  “Then we are thinking in terms of minutes,” said Glawen. “Am I right?”

  “Certainly not days, nor months,” said the woman primly. “Not even hours.”

  “In that case, I will wait.”

  The woman nodded and went back to her reading. Glawen turned and gave the room a more detailed inspection. At the back was a flight of rickety stairs and, to the side, a shipping counter, where his eye was caught by a glint of green. Approaching the counter, he saw a tray half a dozen green jade clasps, three inches in diameter, much like those he had noticed In Ma Chilke’s sitting room, though these were chipped and cracked, or otherwise damaged. Odd! thought Glawen. He looked toward the woman and spoke: “What are these jade pieces?”

  The woman tilted her head to look. She reflected a moment. “Ah, yes! The jade buckles! They are ‘tanglets,’ from the Plain of Standing Stones, around the other side of the world.”

  “Are they valuable?”

  “Oh yes! But it is dangerous to collect them, unless one is an expert.”

  “Is Mr. Keebles such an expert?”

  The woman gave her head a smiling shake. “Not Mr. Keebles! He gets them from a friend but they are becoming scarce, which is a pity since they bring good prices.” She turned her head. “Here is Mr. Keebles.”

  Down the stairs came a small man with a ruff of white hair. His chest and shoulders were lumpy; his head hunched forward on a short neck. Round pale blue eyes studied Glawen warily. “Well, sir, and what is it you are needing?”

  “You are Melvish Keebles?”

  The pale blue eyes appraised Glawen without friendliness. “If you are a salesman or an agent, you are wasting your time and, more importantly, mine.”