by Jack Vance
“The youths were scheduled to be graduated from the Lyceum next week; their participation in this ceremony, of course, is now impossible.”
Two days later came news that Hanafer Glackenshaw had revived sufficiently to speak, but it appeared that he had been so demoralized by the episode that he was unable to give a coherent account of the attack. The same proved to be the case with all the victims, until the police began to suspect a conspiracy of silence and threw up their hands in disgust. The four were Black Angels of Penitence and evidently had been involved with illicit mischief of their own; so there the matter rested.
Ten
1
In the morning, as the Faths sat over breakfast, the screenwriter brought news of the atrocities committed upon the Black Angels, frolicking by night in Pingaree Park. It was a deed of unmitigated ferocity, declared the announcer. Each of the Black Angels would be hospitalized for weeks.
Both Hilyer and Althea were appalled by the news. Hilyer declared, “I don’t know which should be deplored the most: the Black Angels or the thugs who beat them so viciously.”
“Both groups are wicked,” said Althea. “They live by violence! Pain is their watchword!” She looked across the table to where Jaro sat meekly eating his breakfast. “Isn’t this sort of thing enough to dissuade you from those ugly exercises?”
“Not at all,” said Jaro. “The exercises are protection. They increase my stamina. If attacked, I shall run away at full speed, and none of the thugs will be able to catch me.”
Althea looked at him doubtfully. Hilyer said, “He is making a joke. A poor joke, I might add.”
“I hope you’ll never need such an advantage, joke or no joke,” said Althea with feeling.
Hilyer changed the subject. “I heard a most interesting rumor yesterday. Do you want to hear it?”
“Of course,” said Althea. “Is it scandalous?”
“It’s strange and sad. You remember a few years back when the old Yellowbird Ranch was sold?”
“Yes, of course. Dean Hutsenreiter owned it at the time and was probably swindled.”
“The agent was Forby Mildoon. He placed the property with Fidol Combine. Gilfong Rute held eighty percent of the stock, and Forby Mildoon, was allowed the remaining twenty percent. Yesterday Fidol announced that it had sold its Yellowbird properties to Lumilar Vistas, a corporation wholly owned by Rute. The price was established by the land assessor, and was valued as wasteland, so that Mildoon’s twenty percent came to very little. It was a secret deal; Mildoon learned of the sale yesterday afternoon, to his outrage. He went to Rute’s club and threatened a law suit, which troubled Rute not at all. Mildoon lost his temper. He pulled Rute’s beard and struck him over the head with a folded newspaper. Rute turned away with a smile of easy dignity, while Mildoon was ejected from the premises. He now faces censure from the Inter-club Committee, and there the matter rests.”
“Aha,” muttered Jaro. “The mystery of the missing Forby Mildoon has been solved.”
“Missing from where?”
“From the recital at the conservatory last night.”
Hilyer smiled. “Forby Mildoon was in no mood for music last night.”
Jaro thought that still another mystery might have been illuminated. Lyssel had been urgent and persuasive when she had invited him to the recital. At the recital her personality had altered; she had been stiff and cold. What had caused the change? There was still no definite answer, but events were starting to drift into identifiable shapes.
Hilyer asked Jaro’s plans for the day.
“It’s ‘Clean-out Time’ at the Lyceum. We’re supposed to empty our lockers, turn in laboratory equipment, visit our classrooms and the like. What of you two?”
“Nothing of consequence. Just the usual end of term routines.”
Althea told Hilyer: “Don’t forget! We’re to pick up our accreditations for the Conclave! Otherwise, we won’t be allowed into Dimplewater!”
“Right!” said Hilyer. “We’d best arrive at the office early; there’s quite a contingent from Thanet—including Dean Hutsenreiter himself. He’s reading a very profound paper: ‘The Extensional Dimensions of Philosophy, as illustrated by the William Schulz Linguistic Tensors.’ ”
“Hm,” said Althea. “It sounds a bit tortuous.”
“So it is. I hope he’s more organized on his paper than he is on his financial affairs. According to rumor he’s in a quagmire.”
“But how can that be?” Althea demanded. “He’s renowned for his intellect!”
“Perhaps a bit too much intellect,” suggested Hilyer. “Schulz’s tensors operate in seventeen dimensions, where both Schulz and Dean Hutsenreiter are quite at home. Finance operates along a single y-axis: buy low, sell high. Dean Hutsenreiter transacts business across too many dimensions and bank officials can’t grasp his Non-Zero Mathematics.”
Althea clicked her tongue. “Hilyer, you can be devastating when you choose.”
Hilyer smiled thinly and turned to Jaro. “You knew his daughter, did you not?”
“Skirlet? Yes. She’s been off-world, at a private school; I don’t know where.”
“I knew once but I’ve forgotten,” said Althea. “I remember that it’s on an island. The students sleep in tents and classes are conducted on the beach. I’m told it’s very expensive, even though the students are fed bananas and fried fish from the lagoon which they catch themselves.”
“It must have been a strain on the girl,” said Hilyer. “Here she’s a Clam Muffin; there she’s just another girl floundering around after some fish.”
“Perhaps that’s why her father sent her away,” suggested Althea. “To bring her feet back to earth.”
Jaro protested at once. “Skirlet isn’t like that! She’s not at all vain! The fact is, she doesn’t care who thinks what about her!”
“Isn’t that a rather lofty attitude?” suggested Althea mildly.
“Yes—for good reason.”
“You are surprisingly vehement,” suggested Hilyer drily.
Jaro grinned. “She’s extremely pretty. I’ve always wanted to know her better, but then, she’s a Clam Muffin, and it’s difficult.”
Althea said vaguely, “Clam Muffins do all sorts of odd things. It’s part of their reason-for-being.”
Hilyer smiled sardonically. “I suspect she’s home because her off-world expenses became too much for Dean Hutsenreiter to handle.”
Jaro looked up in surprise. “Skirlet is back at Thanet?”
Hilyer nodded. “I saw her yesterday in the Dean’s office.”
“That’s interesting news. How did she look?”
Hilyer shrugged. “I didn’t notice much change. She still uses that careless damn-your-eyes pose that in anyone else would be called ‘insolence.’ She’s still something of a tomboy, to judge by her clothes and her figure. Still, it’s easy to see that she’s grown up a bit. I thought she looked tired, to tell you the truth, and perhaps depressed. She did not recognize me, of course.”
Althea said brightly, “I expect that she’s come to complete her education at the Institute.” She turned to Jaro. “You’ll be seeing her next term in your classes; won’t that be nice?”
“Not if she snubs me and acts insolent,” said Jaro, grinning at his father.
“It’s a pity you can’t come with us to Ushant,” said Hilyer. “Unfortunately it would interfere with your first term at the Institute.”
Althea said soothingly, “There will be other occasions, and as always your education must come first.”
Jaro had glumly accepted the prospect of four more years as a scholar, whenever instinct urged him to search out the secrets of his beginnings, but he no longer quarreled with Hilyer and Althea. Sometimes he wondered if ever he would know the truth. These occasions of doubt always stimulated a surge of obstinacy from somewhere deep in his mind, and resolution returned.
After breakfast Jaro took himself to Gaing’s office at the space terminal.
Gai
ng had learned of the previous night’s event in Pingaree Park, and he gave Jaro a brief dispassionate inspection. “There seems to have been a bit of a flare-up last night near the conservatory.”
Jaro grinned. “The Black Angels were involved, or so I’m told. They’ll be flying low for a time.”
Gaing nodded. “So what’s the schedule for summer?”
“Just the routine. The Faths will be gone and I’ll be alone. I intend to repair the roof and give the place a coat of paint; then there will be a week or so of formalities before I can enter the Institute. Meanwhile, I’d like to continue my lessons, and work as many hours as possible at the shop.”
“That can be arranged,” said Gaing. “I’ll be glad for your help; the work has started to pile up. Next week we have a shakedown scheduled for the big red Mark Nineteen Space-eater. Unless the owner is aboard, you can take her out and bring her in.”
“Great! Thank you very much!”
Gaing nodded. “Now let’s work out some kind of schedule.”
2
Halfway through the morning Jaro arrived at the Lyceum and busied himself with the duties required of departing students. For some it was a melancholy experience. Clean-out Day and commencement marked a transition: behind was youth, with its normal quota of games, irresponsibility, small love affairs, and a mock-serious striving up the ledges, which were of great symbolic significance and the best of training for the future.
Jaro went about the familiar halls, gathering up belongings, bidding farewell to his instructors, a few of whom he had liked. At noon he went to the cafeteria, and took his lunch of a sandwich, salad and fruit tart to a table. As he started to eat, Lyssel entered the room, wearing a fetching white skirt and a dark blue pullover. She was alone and seemed, so Jaro thought, rather peaked, and subdued, as if she were not feeling well. She noticed Jaro only when he came up behind her and took her tray. She turned in surprise. “This way,” said Jaro. “Over here to my table.”
Lyssel’s face tightened, and she stood stiffly silent, staring at her tray. “Come!” said Jaro. “We’re holding up the line.”
Scowling, Lyssel marched behind him to the table and ungraciously seated herself.
Jaro pretended not to notice. “I was pleased to meet your family. They are not at all as I expected.”
“Oh?” Lyssel could not with decorum refuse to answer; also she was curious. “Where were they different from your expectations?”
“They all seem persons of decision, with energetic personalities.”
Lyssel responded with a curt nod. She spoke grudgingly, “You’re quite right; they are very important persons, and of excellent comporture as well. My mother has just received a bid from Ambrosiana. She could slide into the Kahulibahs any time she liked.”
“Interesting,” said Jaro. “How did you enjoy the recital?”
Lyssel said gloomily, “I couldn’t understand it, nor could any other sane person. Dorsen is as bewildered as anyone else, but she is forced to play as the director indicates. She’s now practicing a work by Jeremy Cavaterra, which she says is nicer.”
Jaro asked cautiously, “I hope that everyone thought well of me?”
“Does it matter?” asked Lyssel. “Dame Vinzie thought you were an usher, and could not understand why you sat in the box. My mother did not care for you very much; she said that you were a pussyfooter and a schmeltzer. She said the way you were sitting, so stiff and uneasy, gave her to think that you had just wet your pants.”
“Whisht!” said Jaro. “If I ever meet her again, I won’t know what to say.”
Lyssel made no response. Jaro sighed. “Luckily, my internal equilibrium, or pride—whatever it’s called—doesn’t need compliments for survival.”
Lyssel remained silent. Moody and sullen, she nibbled at her lunch, then pushed it aside. She eyed Jaro stonily. “How odd to hear you speak of pride and self-respect! When Hanafer calls you a moop, you merely simper and show him your pretty eyelashes.” She turned away. “I must be going. You, of course, have your various secrets to attend to. Also, you must not neglect to pay off your gang.”
“Gang? What gang?”
“Come, Jaro, don’t be vapid! I mean the gang you hired to thrash Hanafer and the others last night.”
“There was no gang. I was alone. Hanafer jumped me from the bushes with his Black Angels. Do you want to hear the whole story?”
Lyssel gave a slight nod. Jaro proceeded. “I went to the conservatory last night. Why do you think I went?”
Lyssel said coldly, “It’s surely clear! Everyone knows it! You went to schmeltz with me and my high-status family.”
Jaro smiled. “You could not be more wrong! I went to lure Hanafer and his Angels. I made sure he knew what was happening, and he took the bait. Hanafer and his group came to Pingaree Park, where they hoped to teach me penitence. I was waiting for them. I was alone.”
Lyssel’s eyes were round with incredulity. “It can’t be true! Hanafer said there were seven or eight big burly types, probably Kolaks. You are not telling the truth, and I can’t abide liars!” She rose to her feet.
“Wait! When will you go again to visit Hanafer?”
“Late this afternoon.”
“Tell him that you want the truth. Tell him that if they continue their lies, I will wait until they are out of the hospital; then some pleasant evening I will find them. I will be alone. I will do worse than before, so that they will come out from the hospital hopping and crawling, like broken mannequins. Will you tell them that?”
Lyssel shivered, turned and walked away, shoulders drooping. Jaro watched her go, wondering why he felt sorry for her.
On the occasion of commencement, Jaro encountered Lyssel. He asked: “Did you consult Hanafer?”
Lyssel nodded. “I gave him your message.”
Jaro waited.
Lyssel looked off across the hall. “He said that there was no gang, only you. He said that you were a devil, that he would avoid you as best he could for the rest of his life.” She started to move away, then looked back over her shoulder. “And I will do the same.”
3
Hilyer went off to his office at the Institute, only to discover he had forgotten a sheaf of documents which he would need at a committee meeting. He telephoned home; Althea found the documents and sent Jaro to deliver them. Returning to the telephone, she notified Hilyer that the problem had been solved and that Jaro was on his way.
Hilyer expressed his relief, then said, “We’ve just had another offer for Merriehew.”
“Indeed! Was it that odious Mildoon character again? I wouldn’t deal with him if he offered me Queen Kaha’s jewels in a gold warming dish.”
“It wasn’t Mildoon. This man was dignified and handsome, like a retired justiciant. He gave his name as ‘Pomfrey Yikes,’ from a company called Beneficial Properties.”
“So: what did you tell Mr. Yikes?”
“I said we were on the verge of departing for Ushant, and could not even talk to him until our return. He said that he would approach us later. I asked the identity of his client; he said he was not at liberty to say. I told him not to call back until he was ready to divulge this information; that, in effect, we would deal only with principals. He said that he would take advice, and there the matter rested.”
“Strange how these offers continue to surface,” mused Althea. “It’s almost as if someone knows something we don’t.”
Hilyer gave a cynical chuckle. “That’s taken for granted.”
“It’s a real mystery!” said Althea. “There is no intrinsic value to the ramshackle old place except to the three of us. It’s quiet and peaceful; we can hear the wind in the trees and at night the troubadour bats.”
“There’ll be changes if anyone starts a development along Katzvold Road.”
“That’s all just talk,” said Althea. “It’s been going on for years and nothing has come of it.”
“Possibly true,” said Hilyer. “It’s also true that Merriehew
is falling apart. The roof leaks; we need new windows in the kitchen, the timber should be treated with Constor. It all means money, time and effort, and what do we have in the end? A cranky old farmhouse with floors out of level and every wall askew. Sooner or later, Jaro will be going off on his own, and we’ll be left to rattle around in an untidy old barn.”
Althea spoke in surprise, “I’ve never heard you say such things before!”
“I suppose I’m in a bad mood.”
“Personally, I’m fond of the old place. I don’t want to sell, and I’m sure that Jaro feels the same.”
“Very well,” said Hilyer. “Just as long as you don’t insist that I paint the place from a ladder.”
They spoke a few moments longer, then Hilyer said, “Jaro has arrived with my documents. Goodbye for now.”
4
Jaro, upon leaving Hilyer’s office, returned to the corridor. A few yards ahead double doors led into Dean Hutsenreiter’s glossy suite of administrative offices. As Jaro approached, the doors slid open and a slender dark-haired girl stepped out. She wore a jacket and short skirt of pale blue twill; her figure was taut and erect; she held her head high, eyebrows arched, mouth compressed. Noticing Jaro, she stopped short and waited for him to approach.
Jaro thought that she had changed very little. A tousle of short dark locks still clasped her face, with small indication of purposeful planning; she still carried herself with the swaggering bravura that was part of her fabulous legend. She might have been an inch or two taller and her figure was no longer that of a hungry waif. She appeared more serene, less fractious than the Skirlet Jaro remembered, so that he was not surprised when she greeted him with civility. “You are Jaro Fath.”
“Of course I’m Jaro Fath! Who did you take me for?”
Skirlet smiled a humorless smile. “No one in particular. I just wanted to start off on the proper footing.”
Jaro looked at her incredulously, and her smile slowly faded. He said, “I heard you were home and I was wondering when I would see you.”