by Jack Vance
Issam’s smile became tremulous. “That was Maust! One’s behavior in Maust must be tolerated.”
“As far as I am concerned, you may return.”
Issam bowed low once more. “May nine-headed Sagorio maim your enemies! So now, farewell!” Issam took the pale leaphorses back through Khorai and disappeared to the south.
The sky-car rested where they had left it. As they climbed aboard, the harbormaster looked on with a saturnine sneer, but made no comment. Mindful of Khor truculence the three took pains to ignore his presence.
The sky-car rose into the morning sky, curved along the shore of the First Sea. So began the first stage of the journey to Sivishe.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE SKY-CAR FLEW west. To the south spread a vast dusty desert; to the north lay the First Sea. Below and ahead mudflats alternated with promontories of sandstone in a monotonous succession, one beyond the other, into the haze at the limit of vision.
Traz slept the sleep of sheer exhaustion. Anacho, to the contrary, sat unconcerned and careless, as if fear and emergency were foreign to his experience. Reith, though he ached with fatigue, could not wrench his gaze away from the radar-screen, except to search the sky. Anacho’s carefree manner at last became exasperating. Reith glared at him through red-rimmed eyes and spoke in a dour voice: “For a fugitive you show surprisingly little apprehension. I admire your composure.”
Anacho made an easy gesture. “What you call composure is childlike faith. I have become superstitious. Consider: we have entered the Carabas, killed dozens of First Folk and carried off their sequins. So now, how can I take seriously the prospect of casual interception?”
“Your faith is greater than mine,” growled Reith. “I expect the whole force of the Dirdir system to be scouring the skies for us.”
Anacho gave an indulgent laugh. “That is not the Dirdir way! You project your own concepts into the Dirdir mind. Remember, they do not look upon organization as an end in itself; this is a human attribute. The Dirdir exists only as himself, a creature responsible only to his pride. He cooperates with his fellows when the prospect suits him.”
Reith shook his head skeptically, and went back to studying the radar-screen. “There must be more to it than that. How does the society hold together? How can the Dirdir sustain long-term projects?”
“Very simple. One Dirdir is much like another; there are racial forces which compel all alike. In great dilution, the submen know these forces as ‘tradition,’ ‘caste authority,’ ‘zest to overachieve’; in the Dirdir society they become compulsions. The individual is bound to customs of the race. Should a Dirdir need assistance he need only cry out hs’ai hs’ai, hs’ai and he is helped. If a Dirdir is wronged, he calls dr’ssa dr’ssa, dr’ssa and commands arbitration. If the arbitration fails to suit him he can challenge the arbitrator, who is usually an Excellence; if he defeats the arbitrator, he is vindicated. More often he himself is defeated; his effulgences are plucked out and he becomes a pariah… There are few challenges of arbitration.”
“Under such conditions, the society would seem to be highly conservative.”
“This is the case, until there is need for change, and then the Dirdir applies himself to the problem with ‘zest to over-achieve.’ He is capable of creative thinking; his brain is supple and responsive; he wastes no energy upon mannerism. Multiple sexuality and the ‘secrets’ of course are a distraction, but like the hunt they are a source of violent passion beyond human comprehension.”
“All this to the side, why should they give up the search for us so easily?”
“Is it not clear?” demanded Anacho testily. “How could even the Dirdir suspect that we fly toward Sivishe in a sky-car? Nothing identifies the men sought at Smargash with the men who destroy Dirdir in the Carabas. Perhaps in time a connection will be made, if, for example, Issam the Thang is questioned. Until then they are ignorant that we fly a sky-car. So why put up search-screens?”
“I hope you’re right,” said Reith.
“We shall see. Meanwhile—we are alive. We fly a sky-car in comfort. We carry better than two hundred thousand sequins. Notice ahead: Cape Braize! Beyond lies the Schanizade. We will now alter course and come down upon Haulk from above. Who will notice a single sky-car among a hundred? At Sivishe we will mingle with the multitude, while the Dirdir seek us across the Zhaarken, or at Jalkh, or out on the Hunghus tundra.”
Ten miles passed below the sky-car with Reith pondering the soul of the Dirdir race. He asked. “Suppose you or I were in trouble and cried dr’ssa dr’ssa, dr’ssa?”
“That is the call for arbitration. Hs’ai hs’ai, hs’ai is the cry for help.”
“Very well, hs’ai hs’ai hs’ai—would a Dirdir be impelled to help?”
“Yes; by the force of tradition. This is automatic, a reflexive act: the connective tissue which binds an otherwise wild and mercurial race.”
Two hours before sunset a storm blew in from the Schanizade. Carina 4269 became a brown wraith, then disappeared as black clouds tumbled up the sky. Surf like dirty beer-foam swept across the beach, close to the boles of the black dendrons which shrouded the foreshore. The upper fronds twisted to gusts of wind, turning up glossy gray undersides; roiling patterns moved across the black upper surfaces.
The sky-car fled south through the umber dusk, then, with the last glimmer of light, landed in the lee of a basalt jut. The three, huddling upon the settees and ignoring the odor of Dirdir bodies, slept while the storm hissed through the rocks.
Dawn brought a strange illumination, like light shining through brown bottle-glass. There was neither food nor drink in the sky-car, but pilgrim pod grew out on the barrens and a brackish river flowed nearby. Traz went quietly along the bank, craning his neck to peer through the reflections. He stopped short, crouched, plunged into the water to emerge with a yellow creature, all thrashing tentacles and jointed legs, which he and Anacho devoured raw. Reith stolidly ate pilgrim pod.
With the meal finished they leaned back against the sky-car, basking in the honey-colored sunlight and enjoying the morning calm. “Tomorrow,” said Anacho, “we arrive in Sivishe. Our life once more changes. We are no longer thieves and desperadoes, but men of substance, or so we must let it appear.”
“Very well,” said Reith. “What next?”
“We must be subtle. We do not simply apply at the spaceyards with our money.”
“Hardly,” said Reith. “On Tschai whatever seems reasonable is wrong.”
“It is impossible,” said Anacho, “to function without the support of an influential person. This will be our first concern.”
“A Dirdir? Or a Dirdirman?”
“Sivishe is a city of sub-men; the Dirdir and Dirdirmen keep to Hei on the mainland. You will see.”
CHAPTER NINE
HAULK HUNG LIKE a cramped and distorted appendix from the distended belly of Kislovan, with the Schanizade Ocean to the west and the Gulf of Ajzan to the east. At the head of the gulf was the island Sivishe, with an untidy industrial jumble at the northern end. A causeway led to the mainland and Hei, the Dirdir city. At the center of Hei and dominating the entire landscape stood a box of gray glass five miles long, three miles wide, a thousand feet high: a structure so large that the perspectives seemed distorted. A forest of spires surrounded the box, a tenth as high, scarlet and purple, then mauve, gray and white toward the periphery.
Anacho indicated the towers. “Each house a clan. Someday I will describe the life of Hei: the promenades, the secrets of multiple sex, the castes and class. But of more immediate interest, yonder lie the spaceyards.”
Reith saw an area at the center of the island surrounded by shops, warehouses, depots and hangars. Six large spaceships and three smaller craft occupied bays to one side. Anacho’s voice broke into his speculations.
“The spaceships are well secured. The Dirdir are far more stringent than the Wankh—by instinct rather than by reason, for no one in history has stolen a spaceship.”
“No one in history has come with two hundred thousand sequins. Such money will grease a lot of palms.”
“What good are sequins in the Glass Box?”
Reith said no more. Anacho took the sky-car down to a paved area beside the spaceyards.
“Now,” said Anacho in a calm voice, “we shall learn our destiny.”
Reith took instant alarm. “What do you mean by that?”
“If we have been traced, if we are expected, then we will be taken; and soon there will be an end to us. But the car yard seems as usual; I expect no disaster. Remember now, this is Sivishe, I am the Dirdirman, you are the sub-men; act accordingly.”
Reith dubiously searched the yard. As Anacho had stated there seemed no untoward activity.
The sky-car landed. The three alighted. Anacho stood austerely aside while Reith and Traz removed the packs.
A power-wagon approached and fixed clamps to the sky-car. The operator, a hybrid of Dirdirman and another race unknown, inspected Anacho with impersonal curiosity, ignoring Reith and Traz. “What is to be the disposition?”
“Temporary deposit, on call,” said Anacho.
“To what charge?”
“Special. I’ll take the token.”
“Number sixty-four.” The clerk gave Anacho a brass disc. “I require twenty sequins.”
“Twenty, and five for yourself.”
The lift-wagon conveyed the sky-car to a numbered slot. Anacho led the way to a slide-way, with Reith and Traz trudging behind with the packs. They stepped aboard and were conveyed out to a wide avenue, along which ran a considerable traffic of power-wagons, passenger cars, drays.
Here Anacho paused to reflect. “I have been gone so long, I have traveled so far, that Sivishe is somewhat strange. First, of course, we need lodgings. Across the avenue, as I recall, is a suitable inn.”
At the Ancient Realm Inn the three were led down a white and black-tiled corridor to a suite overlooking the central court, where a dozen women sat on benches watching the windows for a signal.
Two seemed to be Dirdirwomen: thin sharp-faced creatures, pallid as snow, with a sparse fuzz of gray hair at the back of their scalps. Anacho surveyed them thoughtfully for a moment or so, then turned away. “We are fugitives, of course,” he said, “and we must be wary. Nevertheless, here in Sivishe where many people come and go, we are as safe as we might be anywhere. The Dirdir do not concern themselves with Sivishe unless circumstances fail to suit them, in which case the Administrator goes to the Glass Box. Otherwise, the Administrator has a free hand; he taxes, polices, judges, punishes, appropriates as he sees fit and is therefore the least corruptible man in Sivishe. For influential assistance we must seek elsewhere; tomorrow I will make an inquiry. Next we will need a structure of suitable dimensions, close by the spaceyards, yet inconspicuous. Again, a matter requiring discreet inquiry. Then-most sensitive of all—we must hire technical personnel to assemble the components and perform the necessary tuning and phasing. If we pay high wages we can no doubt secure the right men. I will represent myself as a Dirdirman Superior-in fact, my former status—and hint of Dirdir reprisals against loose-mouthed men. There is no reason why the project should not go easily and smoothly, except for the innate perversity of circumstances.”
“In other words,” said Reith, “the chances are against us.”
Anacho ignored the remark. “A warning: the city seethes with intrigue. Folk come to Sivishe for a single purpose: to win advantage. The city is a turmoil of illicit activity, robbery, extortion, vice, gambling, gluttony, extravagant display, swindling. These are endemic, and the victim has small hope of recourse. The Dirdir are unconcerned; the antics and maneuvers of the submen are nothing to them. The Administrator is interested only in maintaining order. So: caution! Trust no one; answer no questions! Identify yourselves as steppe-men seeking employment; profess stupidity. By such means we minimize risk.”
CHAPTER TEN
IN THE MORNING Anacho went forth to make his inquiries. Reith and Traz descended to the street cafe and sat watching the passersby. Traz was displeased with everything he saw. “All cities are vile,” he grumbled. “This is the worst: a detestable place. Do you notice the stink? Chemicals, smoke, disease, rotting stone. The smell has infected the folk; observe their faces.”
Reith could not deny that the inhabitants of Sivishe were an unprepossessing lot. Their complexions ranged from muddy brown to Dirdirman white; their physiognomies reflected thousands of years of half-purposeful mutation. Never had Reith seen so wary and self-contained a people. Living in contiguity with an alien race had fostered no fellowship: in Sivishe each man was a stranger. As a positive consequence, Reith and Traz were inconspicuous: no one looked twice in their direction.
Reith sat musing over his bowl of pale wine, relaxed and almost at peace. As he pondered old Tschai, it occurred to him the single homogenizing force was the language, the same across the entire planet. Perhaps because communication often represented the difference between life and death, because those who failed to communicate died, the language had retained its universality. Presumably the language had its roots on ancient Earth. It resembled no language with which he was familiar. He considered key words. Vam was “mother”; tatap was “father”; issir was “sword.” The cardinal numbers were aine, sei, dros, enser, nif, hisz, yaga, managa, nuwai, tix. No significant parallels, but somehow, a hunting echo of Earth sounds…
In general, reflected Reith, life on Tschai ranged a wider gamut than did life on Earth. Passions were more intense: grief more poignant, joy more exalted. Personalities were more decisive. By contrast the folk of Earth seemed pensive, conditional, sedate. Laughter on Earth was less boisterous; still, there were fewer gasps of horror.
As he often did, Reith wondered: Suppose I return to Earth, what then? Can I adjust to an existence so placid and staid? Or all my life will I long for the steppes and seas of Tschai? Reith gave a sad chuckle. A problem he would be glad to confront.
Anacho returned. After a quick glance to left and right he settled himself at the table. His manner was subdued. “I’ve been optimistic,” he muttered. “I’ve trusted too much to my memories.”
“How so?” Reith demanded.
“Nothing immediate. It seems, merely, that I have underestimated our impact on the times. Twice this morning I heard talk of the madmen who invaded the Carabas and slaughtered Dirdir as if they were lippets. Hei throbs with agitation and anger, or so it is said. Various tsau’gsh are in progress; all would regret to be the madmen once they are captured.”
Traz was outraged. “The Dirdir go to the Carabas to kill men,” he stormed. “Why should they resent the case when they themselves are killed?”
“Hist!” exclaimed Anacho. “Not so loud! Do you wish to attract attention? In Sivishe no one blurts forth his thoughts; it is unwholesome!”
“Another black mark against this squalid city!” declared Traz, but in a more restrained voice.
“Come now,” said Anacho nervously. “It is not so disheartening after all. Think of it! While Dirdir range the continents, we three rest in Sivishe, at the Ancient Realm Inn.”
“A precarious satisfaction,” said Reith. “What else did you learn?”
“The Administrator is Clodo Erlius. He has just assumed office-not necessarily advantageous from our point of view since a new official is apt to stringency. I have made guarded inquiries, and since I am a Dirdirman Superior, I did not encounter total frankness. However a certain name has been mentioned twice. That name is Aila Woudiver. His ostensible occupation is the supply and transport of structural materials. He is a notable gourmand and voluptuary, with tastes at once so refined, so gross and so inordinate as to cost him vast sums. This information was given freely, in a tone of envious admiration. Woudiver’s illicit capabilities were merely implied.”
“Woudiver would appear to be an unsavory colleague,” said Reith.
Anacho snorted in derision. “You demand that I find someone proficient at conniving, ch
icanery, theft; when I produce this man, you look down your nose at him.”
Reith grinned. “No other names were mentioned?”
“Another source explained, in a carefully facetious manner, that any extraordinary activity must surely attract the attention of Woudiver. It would seem that he is the man with whom we must deal. In a certain sense, his reputation is reassuring; he is necessarily competent.”
Traz entered the conversation. “What if this Woudiver refuses to help us? Are we not then at his mercy? Could he not extort our sequins from us?”
Anacho pursed his lips, shrugged: “No scheme of this sort is absolutely reliable. Aila Woudiver would seem to be a sound choice, from our point of view. He has access to the sources of supply, he controls transport vehicles, and possibly he can provide a suitable building in which to assemble a space-boat.”
Reith said reluctantly, “We want the most competent man, and if we get him I suppose we can’t cavil at his personal attributes. Still, on the other hand… Oh, well. What pretext should we use?”
“The tale you gave the Lokhars—that we need a spaceship to take possession of a treasure-is as good as any. Woudiver will discredit all he is told; he will expect duplicity, so one tale is as good as another.”
Traz muttered: “Attention! Dirdir are approaching.”
There were three, striding with a portentous gait. Cages of silver mesh clung to the back of their bone-white heads; the effulgences splayed down to either side of their shoulders. Flaps of soft pale leather hung from their arms, almost to the ground.
Other strips hung down front and back, indited with vertical rows of red and black circular symbols.
“Inspectors,” muttered Anacho through down-drooping lips. “Not once a year do they come to Sivishe-unless complaints are made.”
“Will they know you for a Dirdirman?”
“Of course. I hope they do not know me for Ankhe at afram Anacho, the fugitive.”
The Dirdir passed; Reith glanced at them indifferently, though his flesh crept at their proximity. They ignored the three and continued along the avenue, pale leather flaps swinging to their stride.