by Jack Vance
Althea drew in her breath. “And what did you say to that?”
“I just laughed at him and told him his price was far too high. He said, very reasonably, that our place could hardly be sold at all in its present condition, but that he might come down perhaps a thousand sols, if we’d agree to certain conditions. I said that still was too high; and finally I badgered him down to sixty-five hundred sols and our property, but I stressed I could make no deal until I conferred with you and Jaro. He wanted to know what Jaro had to say about the case, and I told him that since Jaro expected ultimately to inherit Merriehew, and since he loved the place, his feelings must be respected. I told him that if he wanted to drop Merriehew from the deal, we might consider one of his houses at seventy-six hundred, or even eight thousand, as he had suggested.”
Althea said scornfully, “I wouldn’t want to live in one of those boxy little Catterline cottages under any circumstances; they’re all built one on top the next in tiers! I could become angry at the wretched man for suggesting such a thing! It’s truly an insult, and not so subtle as all that!”
On the following day Hilyer, in his office at the Institute, received a telephone call from Forby Mildoon. Mildoon spoke in jovial tones: “If you recall, we had a conversation as to your possible interest in a Catterline property. By the sheerest coincidence, an off-world client approached me this morning for exploration purposes. He intimated that he might be interested in a rustic property, somewhat out of town, which could be converted into a restaurant of a certain type. I thought at once of Merriehew. Now I don’t want to encourage you with visions of wealth; he is operating on the cheap, and my commission would amount to little, but I have calculated that with your sixty-five hundred sols and Merriehew property, I could fit you into a lovely cottage in the splendid Catterline district, practically next door to the Institute.”
Hilyer said crisply, “I’m afraid you must forget that proposition, Mr. Mildoon. In the first place, my son Jaro won’t hear of it—”
Forby Mildoon’s voice took on a peevish energy: “It seems to me that he should not be allowed to interfere with your comfort and convenience! After all, if I may say so, Merriehew is not a dignified residence for a pair of high-status academicians! It looks more like a resort for hoodlums and vagabonds.”
“My wife is not interested in the Catterline district. She considers it common and vulgar, and asked if your own residence were in the Catterline.”
“No, it is not,” said Mildoon rather haughtily. “I live in Chermond Park Estates.”
“I see. Well, it makes no great difference, since I think that we may safely consider the topic exhausted of all further interest.
Good day to you!”
“Good day, sir,” said Mildoon behind clenched teeth.
2
Toward the end of the Fall Term the Arcadian Mountebanks were hired to play at the Bumblebosters’ Panics, a festival sponsored by the Isograms, a Squared Circle junior auxiliary. The Panics was a yearly occasion, celebrating the aggregate comporture of the Squared Circle Quadrants. For weeks volunteers and professionals had decorated the Surcy Pavilion to represent a street in the mythical town Poowaddle. False fronts simulated buildings of an unlikely architecture; balconies held lumpy pneumatic buffoons, caparisoned in the traditional Poowaddle costume: tall crooked hats with wide brims supporting burbling baluk birds and brass-footed squeakers; loose pantaloons, enormous shoes with up-curling toes. The merry Poowaddlers, who thronged the promenade, were expected to wear one or another version of the Poowaddle costume. Booths alongside the parade would serve free tankards of “Booble”: a potion brewed from secret recipes but always more or less the same. Three orchestras, including the Arcadian Mountebanks, had been hired to play jigs and gallivants and it was said that if an Isogram failed to enjoy himself at the Bumblebosters’ Panics, he was either dead or somewhere else.
At the time stipulated, the Arcadian Mountebanks took their places in a simulated grotto overlooking the central promenade. Thousands of minute purple and green lights twinkled above them, creating a soft illumination of indescribable color.
The Mountebanks played with their usual zeal, and at the end of their stint descended from the grotto in order to rest and take refreshment. Like the others, Jaro wore the costume of a Gitanque nomad: tight breeches of black velveteen, a grey-brown smock embroidered with rose-pink frogging, a loose cap of dark scarlet, with a long black tassel swinging over his left ear. Turning to survey the promenade, Jaro found himself face to face with a pair of revelers: Lyssel Bynnoc and a young man costumed as a Bumbleboster bravo.
Lyssel stopped short, stared. She wore an ankle-length skirt of soft white web, a black vest and a tiara of green agapanthus leaves, as might circle the brow of a woodland nymph. She cried out in hushed surprise: “Jaro! Is it truly Jaro the spaceman?”
Jaro admitted his identity. Odd! Lyssel, as usual, looked vivacious, fascinating, ready for whatever mischief might be afoot—in short, nothing extraordinary. Still, Jaro could not help but notice an odd discord. At their last meeting, she had not troubled to disguise the utter boredom she felt in his company. Why, then, the glad excitement she now displayed? Caprice? Perhaps.
Lyssel took stock of his costume, then looked up to the stage where Jaro had left his instrument. She asked in wonder, “Are you also a musician?”
“I get paid, if that proves anything.”
“I see a suanola up there. Is that yours? Or do you play something silly, like the twittering toothpicks or the galloping spoons?”
“Just the suanola. The spoons are too much for me.”
“Come, Jaro! You’re far too modest, and it’s not convincing!”
The Bumbleboster bravo took her arm. “This way, Lyssie. Our table is ready.”
Lyssel worked to disengage herself. “Just a moment. I must think.”
Her escort impatiently tried to lead her away. “Come along, Lyssie! Think at the table! There’s nothing here to detain us!”
Lyssel pulled her arm from his grasp. “Kosh, don’t be so masterful, and do stop that tugging! You’ll pull my arm from the socket!”
“We’ll lose our table,” growled Kosh, with one antagonistic eye on Jaro.
Lyssel saw the chance for mischief. “Excuse me; I’ve been rude! Jaro, this is Kosh Diffenbocker. Kosh, this is Jaro Fath.”
Kosh looked in puzzlement from Jaro to Lyssel, then spoke impatiently: “Come along, Lyssie, enough of this foolishness! We’ll lose our table if we don’t hurry!”
Lyssel gave him a little shove. “Then hurry! Go! Make haste! Leap, bound and run! This is Bumblebosters’ Panics; you can even play leap-frog along the way!”
“What shall I tell Hanafer?”
“Whatever you like; he’s no concern of mine and he takes far too much for granted.”
Kosh said uncertainly, “That’s Hanafer for you. He knows what he wants and when he wants it.”
“So I’ve noticed. For now, make sure of the table; I’ll be along in a moment.”
With poor grace Kosh Diffenbocker stalked away through the resplendent crowd. Lyssel turned back to Jaro, a smile trembling on her mouth. “Well then, Jaro, what do you think of our gorgeous Panics?”
“It’s very grand. I like the decorations.”
Lyssel laughed happily. “I worked on the committee. Look yonder! See that odd animal with the green hat and curled-over tail? I painted the entire tail, including the tuft! I was careful to select exactly the proper colors!”
“You did a splendid job. You were born to be an artist, rather than—” Jaro halted to look across the promenade. Lyssel demanded, “Rather than what?”
“Oh, let’s say, a mysterious woman of a thousand intrigues.”
“I want to be both!” declared Lyssel. “Why should I limit myself? Especially when I have important affairs to take up with you.”
“Ha hm. What sort of affairs?”
Lyssel airily fluttered her fingers. “Oh, just affairs.”
Lyssel shook her head in wonder. “I can’t believe that you’re so cynical! When we met at the terminal I was worried for my uncle, and perhaps I seemed a bit thoughtless. Today is different.”
“Exactly so,” said Jaro. “It’s today I wonder about. Why, suddenly, are we on such good terms?”
Lyssel reached out her forefinger and touched the tip of Jaro’s nose: an artful act which made her physical presence very real. Jaro decided that a love affair with Lyssel would be pleasant—if, perhaps, full of surprises. And also highly unlikely, in view of Lyssel’s social strivings. He asked, “Is that an answer? If so, I don’t understand it.”
“You weren’t meant to understand. That is how I conceal my secrets.”
“Too bad,” said Jaro. “I don’t have time for mysteries, so I’ll go back to being bad Jaro the spaceman.”
Jaro felt the loom of a tall shape at his back. Looking about, he found a bulky young man in the flamboyant market-day costume of a Poowaddle dog barber. It was Hanafer Glackenshaw, his face congested with anger. He addressed Jaro: “What’s all this? Why are you here? You’re a nimp and this is the Bumblebosters’ Panics—strictly Squared Circle! That makes you a damnable schmeltzer as well!”
Lyssel came forward. “Hanafer, don’t be such an idiot! Can’t you see he’s one of the musicians?”
“So what? He should be out of sight, behind the partition! Not down here!”
“Hanafer, please be reasonable! Jaro is doing no harm!”
“I am utterly reasonable! Behind that partition he is a musician; out here, simpering like a halfwit, he’s a schmeltzer.”
Lyssel shook her head in vexation. “You are becoming hysterical! Come now; Kosh is holding our table.” Over her shoulder she gave Jaro a quick glance, and led Hanafer away.
The episode had definitely annoyed Hanafer. He had never liked Jaro, whom he considered both smarmy and conceited. Secondly, to find a nimp like Jaro preening himself out in society, as if he had striven up the ledges, was deeply offensive.
On the way to the table Hanafer complained to Lyssel: “Why do you trouble to notice him? He’s a schmeltzing moop!”
Lyssel spoke flippantly, “Be just, Hanafer! He’s very intelligent, and he plays the suanola nicely. Also, he’s handsome in a strange archaic way, don’t you agree?”
“Certainly not!”
Lyssel enjoyed teasing Hanafer. “Don’t you think you could be more lenient, just for once? I’d like to invite him to our table; he’s actually an interesting person.”
Hanafer grated, “He can be the third coming of four-toed Gezemyer, for all I care. He’s not in the Circle, and that’s what counts in my book.”
“Hanafer, you really are extreme. I’m sorry that I must tell you this, but it’s true. The Squared Circle is not everything in life.”
“Ha hah! The Circle may not be everything, but it separates quality from schmeltzers, bounders and moops!”
“Surely, Hanafer, you’re not referring to Jaro?”
“I am exactly and precisely referring to Jaro. I call him a cad, a gak and a peeker, and if he starts smelling around you, I’ll be forced to teach him his piddles and squeaks.” Hanafer alluded to the parental discipline inflicted upon an unruly child.
“Well, you might as well know! I’m inviting him to the Multiflor, where he’ll be one of the strolling musicians, and I expect you to be courteous.”
“We’ll see. But if he starts schmeltzing, I’ll quickly set him right.”
3
Three days passed, during which Lyssel receded from the forefront of Jaro’s mind. Then, late in the afternoon, as he left the Lyceum, she came up beside him. “Jaro! You were about to walk past without so much as noticing me!”
Jaro had made several staunch resolutions, but now, somewhat to his surprise, he heard himself say, “If I had seen you, I surely would have noticed.” Resolutions were easier to make than to keep.
Today Lyssel wore a simple dark blue frock with a white collar. She asked, “Why do you look at me like that?”
“I’m trying to think.”
“Oh? thinking what?”
“Thinking that I should politely say, ‘Hello, Lyssel; goodbye, Lyssel.’ ”
Lyssel came a step closer. She pointed toward the sky. “Look! The sun is shining! I’m not a female devil with four fangs. I want us to be friends!”
“Certainly. Whatever you like.”
Lyssel looked quickly around the forecourt, then took Jaro’s arm. “Come, let’s go somewhere else. Everyone notices everything, and gossip travels on wings.”
Without enthusiasm Jaro allowed himself to be led away. “We’ll try the Old Den,” Lyssel told him. “It’s quiet this time of day and we can talk.”
At the Old Den they found a table on the back terrace, in the shade of three ancient olive trees, whose branches had been twisted and interlaced to form an arbor. A waitress served them jugs of fruit punch. Jaro sat passively, watching the flux of Lyssel’s expressions. Presently she became impatient and leaned forward. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for ever so long.”
“Now’s your chance! I’m here and I’m listening.”
Lyssel grimaced sadly. “I don’t think that you take me seriously.”
“Naturally not. What do you want to talk about?”
Lyssel pretended to pout. “You, mainly.”
Jaro laughed. “I can’t think why.”
“Well, for instance: I’ve heard that there’s a mystery about your early life, that the Faths are not your real parents.”
“That’s true enough. When I was six years old they rescued me from a gang of hoodlums and saved my life. This was on another world, during one of their expeditions. Afterwards they brought me back to Gallingale and adopted me. That is the story of my life.”
“But there must be more than that!”
“True. It’s all very complicated.”
“You don’t know your real father and mother?”
“No. Someday I hope to learn the facts.”
Lyssel found the account fascinating. “You might well have been born into a family of high prestige, or whatever they call ‘comporture’ among the outer worlds.”
“It’s a possibility.”
“And so that is why you want to become a spaceman?”
“Partly.”
“What if you went off into space but never found what you were searching for?”
Jaro shrugged. “I wouldn’t be the first.”
Lyssel sipped at the fruit punch. “So—you might leave Gallingale and never come back.”
Jaro looked off across the arbor as if trying to see the years to come. Finally he said, “I’ll always come back to Merriehew, if only to visit my parents.”
Lyssel chewed at her lip. “The Faths might prefer to live somewhere more convenient than raggle-taggle old Merriehew.”
Jaro shook his head. “They’d never be happy anywhere else. We’re agreed as to that.”
“Still, you never know. They might change their minds.”
“Not if I can help it. Last week some slick real estate type tried to sell them a box in the Catterline district. He was obviously a scoundrel and my father just laughed at him.”
Lyssel winced. “Your father should not be so judgmental. The agent was probably acting in good faith.”
“Anything is possible.”
Lyssel reached out and squeezed his hand. “That’s far more charitable. It’s a trait I want you to practice, so that you’ll be able to sympathize with me and help me with my own problems.”
Jaro disengaged his hand. “I’ll sympathize from a distance, where there’s no chance of becoming involv
ed.”
Lyssel’s mouth dropped piteously. “But I thought that you wanted us to become friends!”
Jaro grinned. “I might have used the word, but I probably meant something else.”
Lyssel said cautiously: “There’s nothing wrong with the word ‘friends.’ ”
“Of course not. But ‘friends’ go to the same parties together, whereas we have to run down here to the Old Den just to talk.”
Lyssel seemed uncertain. “That’s no great matter! If you behave and help me with my plans we can still be friends—more or less,” she added lamely.
“Let me explain,” said Jaro. “You exert a strong force. This force swirls my creative juices back and forth until I want to seize you and squeeze you and carry you off to bed. Friendship comes later.”
Lyssel said decidedly, “Nothing of that sort is feasible. If I were to be seized, squeezed and dragged off to bed, I would fear for my reputation. Next, I would reprimand the culprit, even if it were you.”
“In that case—” Jaro made a fatalistic gesture “—there is little scope for a relationship.”
“You give up very easily,” said Lyssel crossly. “It is almost insulting! Especially when I was about to invite you to Multiflor! I mentioned it at the Panics, remember?”
“Not really.”
“It’s the Jinkers’ Lawn Party, and I want you to be on hand. There will be flowers everywhere and you’re certain to enjoy it.”
“Me? I’m not a Jinker, or anything else. I couldn’t get past the first dandelion. Further, if Hanafer saw me he’d raise a great outcry and call me schmeltzer.”
“No matter! You’ll be coming because I asked you specially, and it’s not all that formal. I’m on the committee and we want to make it the prettiest occasion of the season. There’ll be showers of flowers, and big iron jugs brimming with deep purple Gradencia; and then, of course, instead of an orchestra we’ll want you to be costumed as the resident satyr, and wander about playing pretty music on the suanola.”