Lurulu

by Jack Vance

  Maloof waved the problem aside. “Well, it is none of our affair. More to the point, when we put down at Port Palactus, we should worry that someone will be there to receive the cargo. The Ritters might not trouble with such incidentals.”

  “The Handbook mentions a Port Director’s office,” said Myron dubiously. “That would seem to imply a Port Director.”

  “Logic here would suggest as much,” said Maloof. “But logic on Star Home might mean something else again. At out of the way places like Port Palactus the extraordinary is often the usual. The poor spaceman must look in all directions, to be ready for odd surprises.”

  Myron ventured a suggestion. “I can write a clause into the contract stipulating that if the cargo cannot be discharged within three days after our arrival, owing to absence of proper spaceport personnel, title to the cargo devolves upon the carrier — which is to say, the Glicca.”

  Maloof indicated approval. “A good idea! Write the provision into the contract, and we’ll take our chances.”

  During the afternoon thirty-two carboys were loaded aboard the Glicca, into the space previously occupied by the pilgrims.

  6

  The following morning, Moncrief and his troupe boarded the Glicca and took up their old quarters. Moods varied; Flook, Pook and Snook were disconsolate at the prospect of leaving Fluter, perhaps forever. Hunzel and Siglaf took themselves to a corner of the saloon and gruffly discussed secret plans. Moncrief, hoping to elevate morale in his company, beamed on one and all, and with good cheer went so far as to dance a jig.

  Myron composed and sent off a letter to Miss Tibbet Garwig. Schwatzendale and Wingo consumed final Pooncho Punches at the Pingis Tavern, but returned to the Glicca in good order during the early evening.

  On the following morning, two hours after sunrise, the Glicca rose from the Coro-Coro spaceport and set off on a course for Star Home.

  ,

  Chapter V

  1

  The Glicca, arriving from space, descended upon the night side of Star Home to land at Port Palactus by the light of the waning moon. In the pilot-house Captain Maloof disengaged the ship’s dynamic systems and went to look from the observation window. The steppe, colorless in the pale moonlight, spread away under a blanket of grass past the edge of vision; otherwise there was little to see: the old warehouses huddled dark and quiet to the side; a few yards beyond stood a small square structure. Nothing stirred; in particular, no one appeared to register the arrival of the Glicca. The ship’s crew composed itself to wait for dawn before venturing out upon the landscape.

  After a time a glimmer of gray appeared in the east, then a slow flush of yellow. The white sun rose from behind a bank of clouds, and wan light seeped across the steppe. The Glicca’s entry port slid open, and the gangway dropped to the ground.

  One by one, the ship’s company descended to the surface of Star Home, where they stood in silence, taking in the immensity of the landscape. In the immediate vicinity of the spaceport the grass had been cut short and compressed to create a mat of turf; elsewhere it grew in a uniform carpet four feet tall. After a moment the group discovered in the far distance several enormous gray hulks, moving slowly across the steppe. They trundled through the grass on six thick legs; with twin proboscises they cut grass and conveyed the forage to ventral maws.

  Myron took it upon himself to identify the creatures to the passengers. “The local folk know them as ‘wumps’, though of course this is not proper nomenclature. It is hard to gauge their bulk from this distance, but they are obviously of prodigious size: some forty or fifty feet long and at least fifteen feet tall. According to the Handbook, their temperament is so mild that the Ritters domesticate them, and build huts on their backs to live at ease while traveling beside the sea and across the steppe.”

  Moncrief spared the wumps a single dismissive glance. An encounter with Siglaf and Hunzel had left him in a testy mood, and Myron’s display of knowledge was an added irritant. He pretended to search the surroundings. “Are you sure of your facts? Star Home appears to be deserted; at least, I see no Ritters, nor anyone else! Might they be hiding under the grass?”

  “The Handbook is quite definite,” said Myron. “The Ritters are nomads who have rejected all technical adjuncts, and for relaxation they create rugs of high quality and attend banquets where they sing, dance, and vie in the high jump. They lack social cohesiveness but are ruled by an implicit system which seems to satisfy everyone. Some of their customs are quaint: for instance, if you admire a woman’s rug, you must marry her. In any event, they are not to be found hiding under the grass.”

  “The Handbook is wrong!” cried Flook, pointing with both forefingers. “Just now I saw a face, staring at me from under the grass!”

  Snook asked with interest: “Was he handsome?”

  “Not really; he had a shifty expression.”

  “Tschah,” muttered Moncrief. “Sheer flapdoodle!”

  “Not really,” declared Pook. “I saw him myself.”

  Moncrief could not conceal his impatience. “It is well known that girls of your age are subject to delusions, which are often unsettling! Restraint and wise counsel are of prime importance; I advise sober reflection!”

  “Exactly so!” declared Pook. “I saw him clearly, and what could be more sober than that?”

  Once again Myron was able to provide authoritative information. “What you saw was probably a ‘mereng’ — which is, according to the Handbook, a sinuous creature that may reach ten feet long. It glides under the grass on six squat legs and is said to be extremely dangerous, so do not wander out into the grass hoping for romance.”

  “Bah!” muttered Moncrief, and turned away to study the steppe.

  Meanwhile Maloof, looking past the warehouses, noted a rock-melt structure: evidently the combination port office and bank which had been mentioned in the Handbook. He moved away from the group and crossed the turf to the lonely structure. Around to the side he found the door: a slab of dark wood hanging on a pair of iron hinges.

  He stepped back and turned to survey the landscape: nothing in sight but the steppe covered with wind-blown grasses all the way to the horizon. He turned back to the door, rapped once, twice, three times, eliciting no response. He tried the latch; to his surprise the door eased open. For a moment Maloof hesitated; then he leaned forward and looked through the crack.

  There was little to see. Three high windows admitted more gloom than light; Maloof glimpsed a couch, a table, chairs, a desk on which rested dog-eared documents, scattered papers, a somewhat battered communicator. In the shadows along the back wall the outline of a door indicated a rear chamber. Maloof stepped away, reluctant to trespass upon private premises, but prompted by a troubling thought, he stopped short. Where was the port director? Might he be lying behind that door, ill or otherwise incapacitated? Maloof put aside his scruples and entered the building.

  To his left, a hanging object caught his attention: a rug, or section of a rug, about four feet on a side, framed in dark wood. He looked closely; the rug was clearly a work of high virtuosity. The craftsmanship was meticulous, and the patterns were worked with intricate shapes and unconventional colors: stinging blues, lime-greens, sulfurous reds, black, pomegranate, the bitter off-white of potash dye. He turned away from the hanging and approached the door.

  He halted, stared at the panel, then raised his hand and knocked. He listened, but the silence was complete. He knocked again, more vigorously; the silence was as before. But what was that? The ghost of a sound, no more than a whisper.

  Emboldened, Maloof knocked again. From within came the tragic moan of a man aroused from a deep and beneficent slumber. Again Maloof knocked and now he heard the mutter of a thick voice: “Who pounds at my door? It is not yet daylight; have you no pity? I deserve my rest!”

  Maloof called: “Where is the port director? Why is he not on duty?”

  “All in good time,” came the grumbled response. “Allow me to collect my wits.”
/>   Maloof set himself to wait.

  Time passed. Maloof became restive. He stood once again in front of the door, and raised his hand, but before he could knock, the door swung aside to reveal a stocky man wearing a voluminous orange nightgown which draped his portly physique from neck to ankle. He stood blinking at Maloof with a surly expression. “I am Port Director Gontwitz; how do you explain your boisterous conduct?”

  “I am Captain Maloof of the ship Glicca. We arrived two hours ago; when you failed to appear, I came to make sure that you were not ill. We carry a cargo of thirty-two carboys for Port Palactus. All is ready for discharge as soon as the freight is paid.”

  Gontwitz cried out in outrage. “What sort of fandangle is this? All freight is prepaid at Cax!”

  “Not in this case. These goods were taken aboard at Coro-Coro as a cargo of opportunity. The bill of lading will make this clear.”

  Gontwitz held out his hand. “Show me the document, if you please.”

  Maloof tendered the paper, which Gontwitz scrutinized with care. “Give special attention to the footnote,” said Maloof politely. “You will notice that the cargo must be discharged within three days. If not officers of the Glicca may confiscate the cargo and depart without formality.”

  “Bah!” muttered Gontwitz. “It is too early in the day for chaffering. Wait until I can deal with you on an official basis. Be seated and compose yourself.” He stepped back; the door slid shut.

  Instead of seating himself, as Gontwitz had suggested, Maloof returned to study the wall hanging. The article exerted the same fascination as it had before. The craftsmanship seemed flawless; the colors were no less pungent; the composition was even more clever and intricate than his first look had revealed.

  The door slid aside; in the opening stood Gontwitz, now wearing his official regalia: a gray tunic, loose white breeches and a white cap with a short black bill pulled down over dark ringlets. He advanced into the room and halted to inspect Maloof. He noticed Maloof’s interest in the hanging, and his manner changed.

  “That is an experimental panel created by my daughter Treblinka. She is twelve years old, but her work is of good quality.”

  “She would seem a prodigy,” said Maloof.

  “So it may be! But at this time I must see to business. There is reason for haste. Transport is my first concern. Three wagons should suffice. I will call Dockerl at Farol Depot, and if he is brisk the wagons will be here in three or four days. If the Lallankers are caught off guard all will go well.” Gontwitz crossed the room to his desk, worked the controls of his communicator. At the tinkle of a chime he punched buttons, and sat back to wait.

  Minutes passed. Gontwitz became impatient and drummed his fingers on the desk. Eventually a gentle voice issued from the screen. “Wagon Master Dockerl here! Who calls with such happy brio?”

  Neither the wait nor Dockerl’s flippant salute eased Gontwitz’s disposition. Hunching forward, he issued instructions so energetically that Dockerl was unable to resolve or state an opinion. Finally Gontwitz was forced to stop for breath, and noticed that the screen had gone dead.

  Gontwitz leaned back in his chair, mouth drooping. Slowly, he swung around to face Maloof. “Have you ever known the like? It is more than just a sorry joke!” He came back across the room. “When schmeer is scarce, the wagons cluster around the port like bugs on a corpse. When schmeer pots are full, with the rugmakers grinning from ear to ear, where are the wagons then? At Miskitter Marsh, or Blackwater Camp or Sluiceway Riverside, or off at the fringes of the steppe! At Palactus we can only pray that they rumble their wumps and arrive within four days.” Gontwitz gave his head an angry shake.

  Maloof suggested, “Somehow you should enforce better service.”

  “We are Ritters; we enforce nothing! In the old days service went smartly. Wagons were assigned to the port. They took the cargo as soon as it was discharged; the Lallankers were helpless and distribution was conducted properly. The radio is a modern abomination! If the Lallankers pick up my signal, they trundle in from the steppe, preempt the carboys from under my nose, then ramble away, shouting slogans.”

  “Exasperating!” said Maloof.

  Gontwitz nodded grimly.

  After a pause Maloof ventured a cautious remark. “There is something here which I find mystifying! It would seem a true paradox.”

  Gontwitz showed little interest in Maloof’s quandary. “You are an off-worlder; our way of life will baffle you.”

  “No doubt, but after making all allowances, the mystery remains. Perhaps you can throw some light on the matter.”

  “I am not a pundit,” said Gontwitz brusquely. “Nor is there time for idle rumination.”

  “I will be brief. You might even be interested, since the matter touches upon yourself.”

  “Oh very well,” growled Gontwitz. “Let us hear this famous conundrum and be done with it.”

  “Thank you. The situation is this. I have known you for only a short time, but already I can sense the broad outline of your character. In my opinion you are a strong, practical man, neither timid nor meek, and certainly not submissive.”

  Gontwitz gave a snort of dour amusement. “I will not try to refute you, but — more to the point — where is the mystery?”

  Maloof held up his hand. “Oddly enough, at this moment I have come upon a reasonable explanation and the mystery has dissolved.”

  Gontwitz eyed Maloof with suspicion. “That is good news, or so it seems, and now we can get on with our affairs. What, then, was the nature of this so-called ‘mystery’?”

  “It starts with the fact that I am a rational being! I could not understand why a man of your character should not defend his carboys to better effect. Then a new idea occurred to me: I realized that the Lallankers must be a reckless ferocious race whom Director Gontwitz, brave though he might be, is forced to allow to depredate and despoil as they choose, while he seeks safety in a secret place. Am I right?”

  “You are wrong!” thundered Gontwitz, “In every degree, respect and particular! The Lallankers are vermin and I am a Ritter of Star Home! I am self-guided, self-determined, autonomous! On Star Home there are neither rules nor statutes. To even attempt to regulate the Lallankers would be to deny the Ritter franchise!”

  Gontwitz made a sweeping gesture to indicate that the topic had been exhausted. “Now then, let us look to the cargo. As I recall, there were thirty-two carboys of kasic ready for discharge.”

  “Correct! By the way, what is kasic? I ask from sheer curiosity.”

  Gontwitz’s response was tart. “Ask any way you like; the facts are immutable.”

  “Hm,” said Maloof. “On a strange world, where paradoxes are rife, this is good news.”

  “Bah!” muttered Gontwitz. “If I explained every detail, you would know no more than you do now.” Turning on his heel, Gontwitz marched through the doorway out into the pale light of morning, with Maloof following. He stopped short, as if at a sudden recollection. “Now it occurs to me! The warehousemen are not on duty! They have gone off to games at the Ballingay Traces. But there should be no real inconvenience; I expect that your crew will discharge the cargo for us, as a courtesy.”

  “Certainly,” said Maloof. “We have done such work before, and can do it again. Our fee will be the standard fifty sols.”

  Gontwitz cried out in shock. “Do my ears hear correctly? Did you truly mention the sum ‘fifty sols’? Have you no morality whatever? How can a gentleman swindle with such easy aplomb?”

  Maloof held up his hand. “I will answer your questions in the order they were asked. Yes; your ears are functioning properly. Yes; the price quoted was fifty sols. Yes; I use the morality of the working spaceman, which is compact, but versatile. As for the basis of our rates; all too often, at one or another spaceport, an official begs for a free service, as a courtesy, or as a personal favor. Then when we are gone, he puts the savings into his own pocket. Our schedule of fees is intended to curb this nuisance.”

&nb
sp; “Sheer bullypup!” stormed Gontwitz. “Save your excuses for ears more innocent than mine!” Swinging about, he re-entered the office and went to his desk. Opening a drawer, he snatched out a handful of pink and blue currency, then returned through the doorway, oblivious to the notes which fluttered to the floor. He waved the notes in Maloof’s face. “As you can see, your fee is secure!”

  Maloof said: “I am interested less in security than in the money itself.”

  Gontwitz grimly paid over three hundred and seventy five sols. Maloof signed ‘Payment received in full’ across the bill of lading.

  “Now then, your demands have been met. You may put your crew to work.”

  “Just as you say.”

  2

  Maloof and Gontwitz stood to the side, watching as the work proceeded. In the cargo bay Wingo operated the overhead hoist, shifting the carboys and lowering them to the turf where Myron and Schwatzendale waited with power-dollies. Pursuant to Gontwitz’s instructions they trucked the carboys into the far warehouse, which Gontwitz considered more secure from depredation.

  Moncrief strolled across the turf to join Maloof and Gontwitz. Moncrief’s romantic temperament disposed him to more or less innocent flights of fancy, which served to amuse him and relieve the tedium. On this occasion he introduced himself to Gontwitz with flair: “I am Master Marcel Moncrief, roving polymath on the staff of the Galactic Sentinel, on open assignment.”

  Gontwitz inspected him without cordiality; Maloof listened with raised eyebrows.

  Moncrief enlarged upon his fabrication. “I have no explicit program for this planet, aside from my usual survey of a world and its culture. However, my references mention certain remote villages where ancient customs are preserved. If time permits, I would like to visit one or two of these villages to study their folk art, and perhaps record a few staves of their ceremonial chants.”

  Gontwitz gave a contemptuous snort. “You have been reading too many books! The Ritters are nomads; villages are non-existent, and our most poignant music are the cries of woe, heard when schmeer pots run dry.”