The Anome

by Jack Vance

Below the read-out, on one hand, was a yellow switch, the yellow of death. On the other was a red switch, the red of invisibility — in this case the red of the invisible person being sought.

  Ifness set the box on the table. “How do you explain this?”

  “It explains itself.”

  “The yellow button?” Ifness raised his eyebrows.

  “Destroy.”

  “The red button?”

  “Find.”

  “And your exact status?”

  “I am what you already know me to be: a Benevolence of the Faceless Man.”

  “When are you expected to make your report?”

  “In an hour or so.” Garstang’s answers came easily, in a voice without intonation.

  “You report in person?”

  Garstang gave a chilly laugh. “Hardly. I report into an electric voice-wire; I receive my instructions by postal delivery, or through the same voice-wire.”

  “How many Benevolences are employed?”

  “Another besides myself, so I believe.”

  “The two Benevolences and the Faceless Man carry boxes such as this?”

  “I don’t know what the others carry.”

  Etzwane asked, “The Faceless Man and two Benevolences — only three persons — police all Shant?”

  Garstang gave a disinterested shrug. “The Faceless Man could do the job alone, had he a mind.”

  For a moment there was silence. Ifness and Etzwane studied their captive, who returned the inspection with eyebrows raised in debonair unconcern. Etzwane asked, “Why won’t the Faceless Man move against the Roguskhoi?”

  “I have no more knowledge than you.”

  Etzwane said in a brittle voice, “For a man so near to death, you are very easy.”

  Garstang seemed surprised. “I see no cause to fear death.”

  “You tried to take my life. Why should I not take yours?”

  Garstang gave him a stare of disdainful puzzlement. “I did not try to take your life. I had no such orders.”

  Ifness held up his hand urgently to still Etzwane’s angry retort. “What in fact were your orders?”

  “I was to attend the meeting in Pandamon Park; I was to note the speaker’s code and follow him to his place of residence; I was there to gather information.”

  “But you were not instructed to take the speaker’s head?”

  Garstang started to reply, then turned shrewd quick glances first toward Etzwane, then Ifness. A change seemed to come over his face. “Why do you ask?”

  “Someone attempted to take my head,” said Etzwane. “If it wasn’t you, it was the Faceless Man.”

  Garstang shrugged, calculated. “That may well be. But it has nothing to do with me.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Ifness politely. “But now there is no more time for conversation. We must prepare to meet whomever comes to find you. Please turn your back.”

  Garstang slowly rose to his feet. “What do you plan to do?”

  “I will anaesthetize you. In a short time, if all goes well, you will be released.”

  In response Garstang flung himself sideways. He raised his leg in a grotesque prancing gait. “Look out!” screamed Etzwane. “He wears a leg-gun!”

  Fire! Glare! Explosion through the cuffs of Garstang’s elegant trousers: the tinkle of broken glass; then the thud of Garstang’s dead body falling to the floor. Ifness, who had crouched, snatched and fired his hand-gun, stood looking down at the corpse. Etzwane had never seen him so agitated. “I have soiled myself,” hissed Ifness. “I have killed what I swore to preserve.”

  Etzwane gave a snort of disgust. “Here you sob over this dead murderer, but on other occasions, when you might have saved someone, you looked aside.”

  Ifness turned him a yellow-eyed glare, then, after a moment, spoke in a calm and even voice. “The deed is done … What impelled him to act so desperately? He was helpless.” For a moment he stood musing. “Many mysteries remain,” he muttered. “Much is obscure.” He made a peremptory gesture. “Search the body, drag it to the back shed. I must modify his torc.”

  An hour later Ifness stood back. “In addition to the ‘explode’ and ‘echo’ circuits, I discover a simple vibrator signal as well. I have installed an alarm, to inform us when someone seeks Garstang. This time should not be far distant.” He went to the door. The suns had rolled behind the Ushkadel; the soft dusk of Garwiy, suffused with a million colored glooms, settled over the land. “Before us now is a problem in tactics,” said Ifness. “First, what have we achieved? A great deal, it seems to me. Garstang convincingly denies all attempts to take your head, hence we may reasonably put the onus for these acts upon the Faceless Man. We may affirm, therefore, that he came to Pandamon Park, and into the range of my camera. If we chose, we might attempt to identify and investigate each of the two hundred persons present — a tedious prospect, however.

  “Secondly: what can we next expect of the Faceless Man? He awaits Garstang’s report. In view of his failure to take the ‘anonymous adventurer’s’ head, he will be curious, to say the least. Lacking news, he will become first annoyed, then concerned. I would guess that Garstang’s report was due an hour ago; we can expect a signal to Garstang’s torc in the near future. Garstang of course will not respond. The Faceless Man must then either send forth another Benevolence or go himself to find Garstang, using the locator-pulses.

  “We have, in fact, a situation analogous to that of this morning. Instead of the ‘anonymous adventurer’ and his threatened sedition, we now have Garstang’s torc, to stimulate our quail into motion.”

  Etzwane gave a grudging acquiescence. “I suppose that this is reasonable enough.”

  Garstang’s torc emitted a thin clear sound, eerily disturbing the silence, followed by four staccato chirping noises.

  Ifness gave a fateful nod. “There: the signal to report at once, or perhaps to make a responsive signal … Time we were moving. The cottage gives us no advantage.” He dropped Garstang’s torc into a soft black case, and then after reflecting a moment added a handful of his exquisite tools.

  “If we don’t hurry, we’ll have the Discriminators around our ears,” grumbled Etzwane.

  “Yes, we must hurry. Switch off the echo circuit in your torc, if you have not already done so.”

  “I have done so, long since.”

  The two departed the cottage and walked toward Garwiy’s complicated skyline. Beyond, along the Ushkadel, a thousand palaces glittered and sparkled. Trudging through the dark with Ifness, Etzwane felt like a ghost walking with another ghost; they were two creatures on an eerie errand, estranged from all other folk of Shant … “Where are we going?”

  Ifness said mildly, “To a public house, a tavern, something of the sort. We will put Garstang’s torc in a secluded spot and watch to see who goes to investigate.”

  Etzwane could find no fault with the idea. “Fontenay’s is yonder, along the river. Frolitz and the troupe will be there.”

  “As good as any. You, at least, will be provided the camouflage of your instrument.”

  Chapter XI

  Music came through the open door of Fontenay’s. Etzwane recognized the fluid lower-register of Frolitz’ wood-horn, the graceful touch of Fordyce’s khitan, Mielke’s grave bass tones; he felt a deprivation so great that tears came to his eyes. His previous life, so miserly and pinched, with every florin into his lock-box, now seemed sweet indeed!

  They entered and stood in the shadows to the side of the door. Ifness surveyed the premises. “What is that door?”

  “It leads to Fontenay’s private quarters.”

  “What about the hall yonder?”

  “It leads to the stairs and a back door.”

  “And what about that door behind Frolitz?”

  “It leads into a storeroom, where the musicians leave their instruments.”

  “It should serve. Take Garstang’s torc, go into the storeroom for your instrument, and hang the torc somewhere near the door. Then when you come
forth —” From within the black bag Garstang’s torc produced the whine of the locator circuit. “Someone soon will be here. When you come forth, take a place near the storeroom door. I will sit in this corner. If you notice anything significant, look toward me, then turn your left ear toward what you notice. Do this several times, in case I do not see you the first time, as I will be busy otherwise … Again, where is the rear entrance?”

  “Down the hall, past the stairs and to the right.”

  Ifness nodded. “You are now a musician, a part of the troupe … Don’t forget the torc.”

  Etzwane took the torc, tucked it into his inside pocket. He sauntered up to Frolitz, who gave him an indifferent nod. Etzwane recalled that he had been parted from the troupe only a single day. It seemed as if a month had passed. He went into the storeroom, hung the torc on a peg near the door, and covered it with someone’s old jacket. He found his khitan, his tringolet, his beautiful silver-mounted wood-horn and brought them out to the musician’s platform. Finding a chair, he seated himself only a yard from the door. Ifness still sat in the corner of the room; with his mild expression he might have been a merchant’s clerk; no one would look at him twice. Etzwane, playing with the troupe, was merged even more completely into the environment … Etzwane smiled sourly. The stalking of the Faceless Man was not without its ludicrous aspects.

  With Etzwane present, Fordyce put aside his khitan and took up the bass clarion; Frolitz jerked his head in satisfaction.

  Etzwane played with only a quarter of his mind. His faculties seemed magnified, hypersensitized. Every sound in the room reached his ears: every tone and quaver of music, the tinkle of glasses, the thud of mugs, the laughter and conversation. And from the storeroom an almost petulant whine from Garstang’s torc. Etzwane glanced toward the far corner of the room; catching Ifness’ eye, he reached up his hand as if to tune the khitan and gave a jerk of his thumb back toward the storeroom. Ifness nodded in comprehension.

  The music halted. Frolitz turned around. “We will play that old piece of Anatoly’s; you, Etzwane —” Frolitz explained a variation on the harmony. The barman brought up mugs of beer; the musicians refreshed themselves. Etzwane thought: here was a life worth living: easy, relaxed, not a worry in the world. Except for the Roguskhoi and the Faceless Man. He lifted his mug and drank. Frolitz gave a sign; the music started. Etzwane let his fingers move of themselves; his attention wandered around the room. Fontenay tonight did good business; the tables were occupied. The mulberry glass bosses high in the dark blue glass wall admitted a glow from the lights outside; over the bar hung a pair of soft white glow-bulbs. Etzwane looked everywhere, studying everyone: the folk coming through the door, Aljamo with fingers tapping the marimba-boards, the pretty girl who had come to sit at a nearby table, Frolitz now stroking a tipple, Ifness … Who among these people would know him now for the ‘anonymous adventurer’ who had so disturbed the Faceless Man?

  Etzwane thought of his past life. He had known much melancholy; his only pleasure had come from music. His gaze wandered to the pretty girl he had noticed before: an Aesthete, from the Ushkadel, or so he assumed. She wore clothes of elegant simplicity: a gown of dark scarlet-rose, a fillet of silver with a pair of rock crystals dangling past her ear, a curious jeweled belt, slippers of rose satin and pink glass. She was dark-haired, with a clever, grave face; never had Etzwane seen anyone so captivating. She felt his gaze and looked at him. Etzwane looked away, but now he played to her, with new concentration and intensity … Never had he played so richly, with such lilting phrases, such poignant chords … Frolitz gave him a half-sneering side-glance, as if wordlessly asking, “What’s got into you?” … The girl leaned to whisper to her escort, whom Etzwane had hardly noticed: a man of early middle-age, apparently also an Aesthete. Behind Etzwane the torc gave a thin whine, reminding him of his responsibilities.

  The Aesthete girl and her escort moved to a table directly in front of Etzwane, the escort glum-faced and bored.

  The music halted. The girl spoke to Etzwane. “You play very well.”

  “Yes,” said Etzwane with a modest smile. “I suppose I do.” He looked toward Ifness, to find him frowning disapproval. Ifness had wished that particular table, close by the storeroom left vacant. Etzwane again made the quick signal with his thumb toward the torc. Ifness nodded distantly.

  Frolitz spoke over his shoulder: “The Merrydown.” He jerked his head to give a beat; the music came forth, a rollicking quick-step, up and down, with unexpected halts and double-beats. Etzwane’s part was mainly a strong and urgent chord progression; he was able to watch the girl … She improved upon proximity. She gave off a subtle fragrance; her skin had a clean glow; she knew the uses of beauty as Etzwane knew the meaning of music. He thought with a sudden inner ferocity, “I want her; I must have her for my own.” He looked at her, and his intent showed clear in his eyes. She raised her eyebrows and turned to speak to her escort.

  The music ended; the girl paid no more heed to Etzwane. She seemed uneasy. She settled her fillet, adjusted her belt … Behind Etzwane came the thin whine of the circuit. The girl jerked to stare. “What is that?” she asked Etzwane.

  Etzwane pretended to listen. “I hear nothing.”

  “Is someone in there, making peculiar sounds?”

  “Perhaps a musician rehearsing.”

  “You are joking.” Her face was alive with — humor? Alert mischief? Etzwane wondered.

  “Someone is ill,” she suggested. “You had better investigate.”

  “If you’ll come in with me.”

  “No, thank you.” She turned to her escort, who gave Etzwane a glance of haughty warning. Etzwane looked toward Ifness, and meeting his gaze, turned to look fixedly toward Frolitz, who stood to his right. His left ear indicated the table in front of him.

  Ifness nodded without over-much interest, or so it seemed to Etzwane.

  Into the tavern came four men, wearing mauve and gray uniforms: Discriminators. One spoke loudly: “Your attention! A disturbance has been reported in this building. In the name of the Corporation, I order no one to move.”

  Etzwane glimpsed the twitch of Ifness’ hand. Two reports, two flashes: the glow-bulbs burst. Darkness and confusion came suddenly to Fontenay’s tavern. Etzwane made a lunge. He felt the girl, caught her up, carried her in front of Frolitz, into the hall. She tried to scream. Etzwane clapped his hand over her mouth. “Not a sound if you know what’s good for you!” She kicked and struck at him; her noises were drowned by hoarse shouts in the tavern proper.

  Etzwane staggered to the back door; he groped for the latch, opened the door, carried the writhing, kicking girl out into the night. Here he paused, let her feet swing to the ground. She tried to kick him. Etzwane twisted her around, held her arms in a lock. “No noise,” he growled in her ear.

  “What are you doing to me?” she cried.

  “Keeping you safe from the raid. Such affairs are great inconveniences.”

  “You are the musician!”

  “Exactly.”

  “Let me go back. I don’t fear the Discriminators.”

  “What idiocy!” Etzwane exclaimed. “Now that we are free of that tiresome man you sat with, we can go elsewhere.”

  “No, no, no!” Her voice was more confident, even somewhat amused. “You are gallant and bold — but I must go back into the tavern.”

  “You may not,” said Etzwane. “Come with me, and please make no trouble.”

  The girl once more became alarmed. “Where are you taking me?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “No, no! I —” Someone came behind; Etzwane turned, ready to drop the girl and defend himself. Ifness spoke, “Are you there?”

  “Yes. With a captive.”

  Ifness approached. In the dim light of the back alley he peered at the girl. “Who do you have?”

  “I can’t say for sure. She wears a peculiar belt. I suggest you take it.”

  “No!” cried the girl in an astounded voice.

>   Ifness unclasped the belt. “We had best be away, and swiftly.” He told the girl: “Do not make a scene of any sort; do not scream or try to attract attention or we will use you roughly. Is that understood?”

  “Yes,” she said huskily.

  Each taking one of the girl’s arms, they set off through the back streets, and in due course came to the blue tile cottage. Ifness unlocked the door; they entered.

  Ifness pointed to a couch. “Please sit.”

  The girl wordlessly obeyed. Ifness examined the belt. “Curious indeed.”

  “So I thought. I noticed her touch the red stud whenever the alarm sounded.”

  “You are observant,” said Ifness. “I thought you were interested otherwise. Be careful of her; remember Garstang’s leg-gun.”

  Etzwane went to stand by the girl. “No Faceless Man then — but a Faceless Woman.”

  The girl made a scornful sound. “You are mad.”

  Ifness said gently, “Please turn and lay face down on the couch. Excuse me while I search for a weapon.” He did so with thoroughness. The girl cried out in indignation; Etzwane looked away. “No weapons,” said Ifness.

  “You need only to have asked,” said the girl. “I would have told you.”

  “You are not otherwise candid.”

  “You have asked no questions.”

  “I shall, in a few minutes.” He rolled over his work-table, adjusted the vise to grip the girl’s torc. “Do not move or I will be forced to anesthetize you.” He worked with his tools, opened her torc. Reaching with his long-nose pliers he removed a tube of explosive. “No Faceless Man, nor Faceless Woman either,” he told Etzwane. “You seized the wrong individual.”

  “This is what I tried to tell you,” cried the girl in a voice of desperate hope. “It’s all a terrible mistake. I am of the Xhiallinen; and I want nothing to do with you or your intrigues.”

  Ifness, making no response, worked further on the torc. “The echo circuit is dead. You cannot now be located. We can relax and test your vaunted candor. You are of the Xhiallinen family?”

  “I am Jurjin of Xhiallinen.” The girl spoke sullenly.