by Jack Vance
Tschai
Jack Vance
Copyright 2012 by Jack Vance
Cover art by David Russell
Published by
Spatterlight Press
ISBN 978-1-61947-068-2
2012-11-01
Visit jackvance.com for more
Spatterlight Press releases
The Chasch, 1967. The Wankh, 1968. The Dirdir, 1969. The Pnume, 1969.
This title was created from the digital archive of the Vance Integral Edition, a series of 44 books produced under the aegis of the author by a worldwide group of his readers. The VIE project gratefully acknowledges the editorial guidance of Norma Vance, as well as the cooperation of the Department of Special Collections at Boston University, whose John Holbrook Vance collection has been an important source of textual evidence. Special thanks to R.C. Lacovara, Patrick Dusoulier, Koen Vyverman, Paul Rhoads, Chuck King, Gregory Hansen, Suan Yong and Josh Geller for their invaluable assistance preparing final versions of the source files.
Digitize: Olivier Allais, Richard Chandler, Herve Goubin, Jon Guppy, Joel Hedlund, Jurriaan Kalkman, Charles King, David Mortimore, Theo Tervoort, Richard White, Diff: Damien G. Jones, David A. Kennedy, R.C. Lacovara, David Reitsema, Hans van der Veeke, Suan Hsi Yong, Tech Proof: Ron Chernich, David Gorbet, Joel Riedesel, Text Integrity: Linnet Anglemark, Patrick Dusoulier, Rob Friefeld, Steve Sherman, Implement: Donna Adams, Mark Adams, Mike Dennison, Damien G. Jones, David Reitsema, Hans van der Veeke, Security: Paul Rhoads, Compose: Andreas Irle, Comp Review: Mark Adams, Marcel van Genderen, Brian Gharst, Karl Kellar, Charles King, Bob Luckin, Billy Webb, Update Verify: Rob Friefeld, Bob Luckin, Robert Melson, Paul Rhoads, RTF-Diff: Mark Bradford, Deborah Cohen, Patrick Dusoulier, Charles King, Bill Schaub, Textport: Patrick Dusoulier, Proofread: Mark Adams, Kristine Anstrats, Mike Barrett, Arjan Bokx, Malcolm Bowers, Ron Chernich, Robert Collins, Richard Develyn, Patrick Dusoulier, Andrew Edlin, Harry Erwin, Rob Friefeld, Rob Gerrand, Ed Gooding, Tony Graham, Edward Gray, Marc Herant, Peter Ikin, Karl Kellar, David A. Kennedy, Joe Keyser, Charles King, Rob Knight, Stephane Leibovitsch, Lee Lewis, Tonio Loewald, Bob Luckin, Roderick MacBeath, Betty Mayfield, Robert Melson, Michael Mitchell, Bob Moody, Till Noever, Jim Pattison, Linda Petersen, David Reitsema, Errico Rescigno, Joel Riedesel, Axel Roschinski, Jeffrey Ruszczyk, Mike Schilling, Bill Sherman, Steve Sherman, Mark Shoulder, Dave Worden, Fred Zoetemeyer
Ebook Creation: Arjen Broeze, Christopher Wood, Artwork (maps based on original drawings by Jack and Norma Vance): Paul Rhoads, Christopher Wood, Proofing: Arjen Broeze, Evert Jan de Groot, Gregory Hansen, Menno van der Leden, Koen Vyverman, Management: John Vance, Koen Vyverman, Web: Menno van der Leden
THE COMPLETE WORKS
of
Jack Vance
Tschai
THE VANCE DIGITAL EDITION
Oakland
2012
The Chasch
Previously published as
City of the Chasch
The Wankh
Previously published as
Servants of the Wankh
North-West Tschai • North-East Tschai
South-West Tschai • South-East Tschai
Contents
The Chasch
The Wankh
The Dirdir
The Pnume
The Chasch
Prologue
To one side of the Explorator IV flared a dim and aging star, Carina 4269; to the other hung a single planet, gray-brown under a heavy blanket of atmosphere. The star was distinguished only by a curious amber cast to its light. The planet was somewhat larger than Earth, attended by a pair of small moons with rapid periods of orbit. An almost typical K2 star, an unremarkable planet, but for the men aboard the Explorator IV the system was a source of wonder and fascination.
In the forward control pod stood Commander Marin, Chief Officer Deale, Second Officer Walgrave: three men similarly trim, erect, brisk of movement, wearing the same neat white uniforms, and so much in each other’s company that the wry, offhand intonations in which they spoke, the half-sarcastic, half-facetious manner in which they phrased their thoughts, were almost identical. With scanscopes — hand-held binocular photo-multipliers, capable of enormous magnification and amplification — they looked across to the planet.
Walgrave commented, “At casual observation, a habitable planet. Those clouds are surely water-vapor.”
“If signals emanate from a world,” said Chief Officer Deale, “we almost automatically assume it to be inhabited. Habitability follows as a natural consequence of habitation.”
Commander Marin gave a dry chuckle. “Your logic, usually irrefutable, is at fault. We are presently two hundred and twelve light-years from Earth. We received the signals twelve light-years out; hence they were broadcast two hundred years ago. If you recall, they halted abruptly. This world may be habitable; it may be inhabited; it may be both. But not necessarily either.”
Deale gave his head a doleful shake. “On this basis, we can’t even be sure that Earth is inhabited. The tenuous evidence available to us —”
Beep beep went the communicator. “Speak!” called Commander Marin.
The voice of Dant, the communications engineer, came into the pod: “I’m picking up a fluctuating field; I think it’s artificial but I can’t tune it in. It just might be some sort of radar.”
Marin frowned, rubbed his nose with his knuckle. “I’ll send down the scouts, then we’ll back away, out of range.”
Marin spoke a code-word, gave orders to the scouts Adam Reith and Paul Waunder. “Fast as possible; we’re being detected. Rendezvous at System axis, up, Point D as in Deneb.”
“Right, sir. System axis, up, Point D as in Deneb. Give us three minutes.”
Commander Marin went to the macroscope and began an anxious search of the planet’s surface, clicking through a dozen wavelengths. “There’s a window at about 3000 angstroms, nothing good. The scouts will have to do all of it.”
“I’m glad I never trained as a scout,” remarked Second Officer Walgrave. “Otherwise I also might be sent down upon strange and quite possibly horrid planets.”
“A scout isn’t trained,” Deale told him. “He exists: half acrobat, half mad scientist, half cat burglar, half —”
“That’s several halves too many.”
“Just barely adequate. A scout is a man who likes a change.”
The scouts aboard the Explorator IV were Adam Reith and Paul Waunder. Both were men of resource and stamina; each was master of many skills; there the resemblance ended. Reith was an inch or two over average height, dark-haired, with a broad forehead, prominent cheekbones, rather gaunt cheeks where showed an occasional twitch of muscle. Waunder was compact, balding, blond, with features too ordinary for description. Waunder was older by a year or two; Reith, however, held senior rank, and was in nominal command of the scout-boat: a miniature spaceship thirty feet long, carried in a clamp under the Explorator’s stern.
In something over two minutes they were aboard the scout-boat. Waunder went to the controls; Reith sealed the hatch, pushed the detach-button. The scout-boat eased away from the great black hull. Reith took his seat, and as he did so a flicker of movement registered at the corner of his vision. He glimpsed a gray projectile darting up from the direction of the planet, then his eyes were battered by a tremendous purple-white dazzle. There was rending and wrenching, violent acceleration as Waunder clutched convulsively upon the throttle, and the scout-boat went careening down toward the planet.
Where the Explorator IV had ridden space now drifted a curious object: the nose and stern of a spaceship, joined by a few shreds of metal, with a great void b
etween, through which burnt the old yellow sun Carina 4269. Along with crew and technicians, Commander Marin, Chief Officer Deale, Second Officer Walgrave had become fleeting atoms of carbon, oxygen and hydrogen, their personalities, brisk mannerisms, and jocularity now only memories.
Chapter I
The scout-boat, struck rather than propelled by the shock-wave, tumbled bow over stern down toward the gray and brown planet, with Adam Reith and Paul Waunder bumping from bulkhead to bulkhead in the control cabin.
Reith, only half-conscious, managed to seize a stanchion. Pulling himself to the panel, he struck down the stabilization switch. Instead of a smooth hum there was hissing and thumping; nevertheless the wild windmilling motion gradually was damped.
Reith and Waunder dragged themselves to their seats, made themselves fast. Reith asked, “Did you see what I saw?”
“A torpedo.”
Reith nodded. “The planet is inhabited.”
“The inhabitants are far from cordial. That was a rough reception.”
“We’re a long way from home.” Reith looked along the line of non-signifying dials and dead indicator lights. “Nothing seems to be functioning. We’re going to crash, unless I can make some swift repairs.” He limped aft to the engine room, to discover that a spare energy-cell, improperly stowed, had crushed a connection box, creating a chaotic tangle of melted leads, broken crystals, fused composites.
“I can fix it,” Reith told Waunder who had come aft to inspect the mess. “In about two months with luck. Providing the spares are intact.”
“Two months is somewhat too long,” said Waunder. “I’d say we have two hours before we hit atmosphere.”
“Let’s get to work.”
An hour and a half later they stood back, eyeing the jury-rig with doubt and dissatisfaction. “With luck we can land in one piece,” said Reith gloomily. “You go forward, put some power into the lifts; I’ll see what happens.”
A minute passed. The propulsors hummed; Reith felt the pressure of deceleration. Hoping that the improvisations were at least temporarily sound, he went forward, resumed his seat. “What’s it look like?”
“Short range, not too bad. We’ll hit atmosphere in about half an hour, somewhat under critical velocity. We can come down to a soft landing — I hope. The long-range prognosis — not so good. Whoever hit the ship with a torpedo can follow us down with radar. Then what?”
“Nothing good,” said Reith.
The planet below broadened under their view: a world dimmer and darker than Earth, bathed in tawny golden light. They now could see continents and oceans, clouds, storms; the landscape of a mature world.
The atmosphere whined around the car, the temperature gauge rose sharply toward the red mark. Reith cautiously fed more power through the makeshift circuits. The boat slowed, the needle quivered, sank back toward a comfortable level. There came a soft report from the engine room and the boat began to fall free once more.
“Here we go again,” said Reith. “Well, it’s up to the airfoils now. Better get into ejection harness.” He swung out the side-flaps, extended the elevators and rudder, and the boat hissed down at a slant. He asked, “How does the atmosphere check out?”
Waunder read the various indices of the analyzer. “Breathable. Close to Earth normal.”
“That’s one small favor.”
Looking through scanscopes, they could now observe detail. Below spread a wide plain or a steppe, marked here and there with low relief and vegetation. “No sign of civilization,” said Waunder. “Not below, at any rate. Maybe up there, by the horizon — those gray spots …”
“If we can land the boat, if no one disturbs us while we rebuild the control system, we’ll be in good shape … But these airfoils aren’t intended for a fast landing in the rough. We’d better try to stall her down and eject at the last instant.”
“Right,” said Waunder. He pointed. “That looks like a forest — vegetation of some sort. The ideal spot for a crash.”
“Down we go.”
The boat slanted down; the landscape expanded. The fronds of a dank black forest reached into the air ahead of them.
“On the count of three: eject,” said Reith. He pulled the boat up into a stall, braking its motion. “One — two — three. Eject!”
The ejection ports opened; the seats thrust; out into the air snapped Reith. But where was Waunder? His harness had fouled, or the seat had failed to eject properly; and he dangled helplessly outside the boat. Reith’s parachute opened, swung him up pendulum-wise. On the way down he struck a glossy black limb of a tree. The blow dazed him; he swung at the end of his parachute shrouds. The boat careened through the trees, plowed into a bog. Paul Waunder hung motionless in his harness.
There was silence except for the creaking of hot metal, a faint hiss from somewhere under the boat.
Reith stirred, kicked feebly. The motion sent pain tearing through his shoulders and chest; he desisted and hung limp.
The ground was fifty feet below. The sunlight, as he had noted before, seemed rather more dim and yellow than the sunlight of Earth, and the shadows held an amber overtone. The air was aromatic with the scent of unfamiliar resins and oils; he was caught in a tree with glossy black limbs and brittle black foliage which made a rattling sound when he moved. He could look along the broken swath to the bog, where the boat sat almost on an even keel, Waunder hanging head-down from the ejection hatch, his face only inches from the muck. If he were alive, if the boat should settle, he would smother. Reith struggled frantically to untangle himself from his harness. The pain made him dizzy and sick; there was no strength in his hands, and when he raised his arms there were clicking sounds in his shoulders. He was helpless to free himself, let alone assist Waunder. Was he dead? Reith could not be sure. Waunder, he thought, had twitched feebly.
Reith watched intently. Waunder was slipping slowly into the mire. In the ejection seat was a survival kit with weapons and tools. With his broken bones he could not raise his arms to reach the clasp. If he detached himself from the shrouds he would fall and kill himself … No help for it. Broken shoulder, broken collarbone or not, he must open the ejection seat, bring forth the knife and the coil of rope.
There was a sound, not too far distant, of wood striking wood. Reith desisted in his efforts, hung quietly. A troop of men armed with fancifully long rapiers and heavy hand-catapults marched quietly, almost furtively, below.
Reith stared dumbfounded, suspecting hallucination. The cosmos seemed partial to biped races, more or less anthropoid; but these were true men: people with harsh strong features, honey-colored skin, blond, blond-brown, blond-gray hair and bushy drooping mustaches. They wore complicated garments: loose trousers of striped brown and black cloth, dark blue or dark red shirts, vests of woven metal strips, short black capes. Their hats were black leather, folded and creased with out-turned ear-flaps, each with a silver emblem four inches across at the front of a tall crown. Reith watched in amazement. Barbarian warriors, a wandering band of cutthroats: but true men, nonetheless, here on this unknown world over two hundred light-years from Earth!
The warriors passed quietly below, stealthy and furtive. They paused in the shadows to survey the boat, then the leader, a warrior younger than the rest, no more than a youth and lacking a mustache, stepped out into the open, examined the sky. He was joined by three older men, wearing globes of pink and blue glass on their helmets, who also searched the sky with great care. Then the youth signaled to the others, and all approached the boat.
Paul Waunder raised his hand in the feeblest of salutes. One of the men with the glass globes snatched up his catapult, but the youth yelled an angry order and the man sullenly turned away. One of the warriors cut the parachute shrouds, let Waunder fall to the ground.
The youth gave other orders; Waunder was picked up and carried to a dry area.
The youth now turned to investigate the space-boat. Boldly he clambered up on the hull and looked in through the ejection ports.
/> The older men with the pink and blue globes stood back in the shadows, muttering dourly through their drooping whiskers and glowering toward Waunder. One of them clapped his hand to the emblem on his hat as if the object had jerked or made a sound. Then, at once, as if stimulated by the contact, he stalked upon Waunder, drew his rapier, brought it flickering down. To Reith’s horror Paul Waunder’s head rolled free of his torso, and his blood gushed forth to soak into the black soil.
The youth seemed to sense the act and swung about. He cried out in poignant fury, leaped to the ground, marched over to the murderer. The youth snatched forth his own rapier, flicked it and the flexible end slashed in to cut away the emblem from the man’s hat. The youth picked it up, and pulling a knife from his boot hacked savagely at the soft silver, then cast it down at the murderer’s feet with a spate of bitter words. The murderer, cowed, picked up the emblem and moved sullenly off to the side.
From a great distance came a throb of sound. The warriors set up a soft hooting, either as a ceremonial response or in fear and mutual admonition and quickly retreated into the forest.
Low in the sky appeared an aircraft, which first hovered, then settled: a sky-raft fifty feet long, twenty feet wide, controlled from an ornate belvedere at the stern. Forward and aft great lanterns dangled from convolute standards; the bulwarks were guarded by a squat balustrade. Leaning over the balustrade, pushing and jostling, were two dozen passengers, in imminent danger, so it seemed, of falling to the ground.
Reith watched in numb fascination as the craft landed beside the scout-boat. The passengers jumped quickly off: individuals of two sorts, non-human and human, though this distinction was not instantly obvious. The non-human creatures — Blue Chasch, as Reith was to learn — walked on short heavy legs, moving with a stiff-legged strut. The typical individual was massive and powerful, scaled like a pangolin with blue pointed tablets. The torso was wedge-shaped, with exoskeletal epaulettes of chitin curving over into a dorsal carapace. The skull rose to a bony point; a heavy brow jutted over the ocular holes, glittering metallic eyes and the complicated nasal orifice. The men were as similar to the Blue Chasch as breeding, artifice and mannerism allowed. They were short, stocky, with bandy-legs; their faces were blunt and almost chinless, with the features compressed. They wore what appeared to be false craniums which rose to a point and beetled over their foreheads; and their jerkins and trousers were worked with scales.