by Jack Vance
On the following day, in the company of Traz, Anacho and Derl, he explored Dadiche in a more leisurely fashion. At the Technical Center he once more examined the hulk of his space-boat, with an eye to its ultimate repair. “If I had the full use of this workshop,” he said, “and if I had the help of twenty expert technicians, I might be able to build a new drive system. It might be more practical to try to adapt the Chasch drive to the boat — but then there would be control problems … Better to build a whole new boat.”
Derl frowned at the quiet space-boat. “You are so intent then on departing Tschai? You have not yet visited Cath. You might wish never to depart.”
“Possibly,” said Reith. “But you have never visited Earth. You might not want to return to Tschai.”
“It must be a very strange world,” mused the Flower of Cath. “Are the women of Earth beautiful?”
“Some of them,” Reith replied. He took her hand. “There are beautiful women on Tschai, as well. The name of one of them is —” here he whispered a name in her ear.
Blushing, she put her hand to his mouth. “The others might hear!”
The Wankh
Chapter I
Two thousand miles east of Pera, over the heart of the Dead Steppe, the sky-raft faltered, flew smoothly for a moment, then jerked and bucked in a most ominous fashion. Adam Reith looked aft in dismay, then ran to the control belvedere. Lifting the voluted bronze housing, he peered here and there among the scrolls, floral hatchings, grinning imp faces, which almost mischievously camouflaged the engine.* He was joined by the Dirdirman Ankhe at afram Anacho.
* Such elaborations were neither ornament nor functional disguise, but expressed, rather, the Chasch obsession for complication as an end in itself. Even the nomadic Green Chasch shared the trait. Examining their saddlery and weapons, Reith had been struck by a similarity to the metalwork of the ancient Scyths.
Reith asked, “Do you know what’s wrong?”
Anacho pinched up his pale nostrils, muttered something about an “antiquated Chasch farrago” and “insane expedition to begin with.” Reith, accustomed to the Dirdirman’s foibles, realized that he was too vain to admit ignorance, too disdainful to avow knowledge so crass.
The raft shuddered again. Simultaneously from a four-pronged case of black wood to the side of the engine compartment came small rasping noises. Anacho gave it a lordly rap with his knuckles. The groaning and shuddering ceased. “Corrosion,” said Anacho. “Electromorphic action across a hundred years or longer. I believe this to be a copy of the unsuccessful Heizakim Bursa, which the Dirdir abandoned two hundred years ago.”
“Can we make repairs?”
“How should I know such things? I would hardly dare touch it.”
They stood listening. The engine sighed on without further pause. At last Reith lowered the housing. The two returned forward.
Traz lay curled on a settee after standing a night watch. On the green crush-cushioned seat under the ornate bow lantern sat the Flower of Cath, one leg tucked beneath the other, head on her forearms, staring eastward toward Cath. So had she huddled for hours, hair blowing in the wind, speaking no word to anyone. Reith found her conduct perplexing. At Pera she had yearned for Cath; she could talk of nothing else but the ease and grace of Blue Jade Palace, of her father’s gratitude if Reith would only bring her home. She had described wonderful balls, extravaganzas, water-parties, masques according to the turn of the ‘round’. (“‘Round’? What did she mean by ‘round’?” asked Reith. Ylin Ylan, the Flower of Cath, laughed excitedly. “It’s just the way things are, and how they become! Everybody must know and the clever ones anticipate; that’s why they’re clever! It’s all such fun!”) Now that the journey to Cath was actually underway the Flower’s mood had altered. She had become pensive, remote, and evaded all questions as to the source of her abstraction. Reith shrugged and turned away. Their intimacy was at an end: all for the best, or so he told himself. Still, the question nagged at him: why? His purpose in flying to Cath was twofold: first, to fulfill his promise to the girl; secondly, to find, or so he hoped, a technical basis to permit the construction of a space-boat, no matter how small or crude. If he could rely upon the cooperation of the Blue Jade Lord, so much the better. Indeed, such sponsorship was a necessity.
The route to Cath lay across the Dead Steppe, south under the Ojzanalai Mountains, northeast along the Lok Lu Steppe, across the Zhaarken or the Wild Waste, over Achenkin Strait to the city Nerv, then south down the coast of Charchan to Cath. For the raft to fail at any stage of the journey short of Nerv meant disaster. As if to emphasize the point, the raft gave a single small jerk, then once more flew smoothly.
The day passed. Below rolled the Dead Steppe, dun and gray in the wan light of Carina 4269. At sunset they crossed the great Yatl River and all night flew under the pink moon Az and the blue moon Braz. In the morning low hills showed to the north, which would ultimately swell and thrust high to become the Ojzanalais.
At midmorning they landed at a small lake to refill water tanks. Traz was uneasy. “Green Chasch are near.” He pointed to a forest a mile south. “They hide there, watching us.”
Before the tanks were full, a band of forty Green Chasch on leap-horses lunged from the forest. Ylin Ylan was perversely slow in boarding the raft. Reith hustled her aboard; Anacho thrust over the lift-arm — perhaps too hurriedly. The engine sputtered; the raft pitched and lurched.
Reith ran aft, flung up the housing, pounded the black case. The sputtering stopped; the raft lifted only yards ahead of the bounding warriors and their ten-foot swords. The leap-horses slid to a halt, the warriors aimed catapults and the air streamed with long iron bolts. But the raft was five hundred feet high; one or two of the bolts bumped into the hull at the height of their trajectory and fell away.
The raft, shuddering spasmodically, moved off to the east. The Green Chasch set off in pursuit; the raft, sputtering, pitching, yawing, and occasionally dropping its bow in a sickening fashion gradually left them behind.
The motion became intolerable. Reith jarred the black case again and again without significant effect. “We’ve got to make repairs,” he told Anacho.
“We can try. First we must land.”
“On the steppe? With the Green Chasch behind us?”
“We can’t stay aloft.”
Traz pointed north, to a spine of hills terminating in a set of isolated buttes. “Best that we land on one of those flat-topped peaks.”
Anacho nudged the raft around to the north, provoking an even more alarming wabble; the bow began to gyrate like an eccentric toy.
“Hang on!” Reith cried out.
“I doubt if we can reach that first hill,” muttered Anacho.
“Try for the next one!” yelled Traz. Reith saw that the second of the buttes, with sheer vertical walls, was clearly superior to the first — if the raft would stay in the air so long.
Anacho cut speed to a mere drift. The raft wallowed across the intervening space to the second butte, and grounded. The absence of motion was like silence after noise.
The travelers descended from the raft, muscles stiff from tension. Reith looked around the horizon in disgust: hard to imagine a more desolate spot than this, four hundred feet above the center of the Dead Steppe. So much for his hope of an easy passage to Cath.
Traz, going to the edge of the butte, peered over the cliff. “We may not even be able to get down.”
The survival kit which Reith had salvaged from the wrecked scout boat included a pellet gun, an energy cell, an electronic telescope, a knife, antiseptics, a mirror, a thousand feet of strong cord. “We can get down,” said Reith. “I’d prefer to fly.” He turned to Anacho, who stood glumly considering the sky-raft. “Do you think we can make repairs?”
Anacho rubbed his long white hands together in distaste. “You must realize that I have no such training in these matters.”
“Show me what’s wrong,” said Reith. “I can probably fix it.”
; Anacho’s droll face grew even longer. Reith was the living refutation of his most cherished axioms. According to orthodox Dirdir doctrine, Dirdir and Dirdirmen had evolved together in a primeval egg on the Dirdir homeworld Sibol; the only true men were Dirdirmen; all others were freaks. Anacho found it hard to reconcile Reith’s competence with his preconceptions, and his attitude was a curious composite of envious disapproval, grudging admiration, unwilling loyalty. Now, rather than allow Reith to excel him in yet another aspect, he hurried to the stern of the sky-raft and thrust his long pale clown’s face under the housing.
The surface of the butte was scoured clean of vegetation, with here and there little channels half-full of coarse sand. Ylin Ylan wandered moodily across the butte. She wore the gray steppe-dwellers’ trousers and blouse, with a black velvet vest; her black slippers were probably the first to walk the rough gray rock, thought Reith … Traz stood looking to the west. Reith joined him at the edge of the butte. He studied the dismal steppe, but saw nothing.
“The Green Chasch,” said Traz. “They know we’re here.”
Reith once more scanned the steppe, from low black hills in the north to the haze of the south. He could see no flicker of movement, no plume of dust. He brought out his scanscope, a binocular photo-multiplier, and probed the gray-brown murk. Presently he saw bounding black specks, like fleas. “They’re out there, for a fact.”
Traz nodded without great interest. Reith grinned, amused as always by the boy’s somber wisdom. He went to the sky-raft. “How go the repairs?”
Anacho’s response was an irritated motion of arms and shoulders. “Look for yourself.”
Reith came forward, peered down at the black case, which Anacho had opened, to reveal an intricacy of small components. “Corrosion and sheer age are at fault,” said Anacho. “I hope to introduce new metal here and here.” He pointed. “It is a notable problem without tools and proper facilities.”
“We won’t leave tonight then?”
“Perhaps by tomorrow noon.”
Reith walked around the periphery of the butte, a distance of three or four hundred yards, and was somewhat reassured. Everywhere the walls were vertical, with fins of rock at the base creating crevices and grottos. There seemed no easy method to scale the walls, and he doubted if the Green Chasch would go to vast trouble for the trivial pleasure of slaughtering a few men.
The old brown sun hung low in the west; the shadows of Reith and Traz and Ylin Ylan stretched long across the top of the butte. The girl turned away from her contemplation of the east. She watched Traz and Reith for a moment, then slowly, almost reluctantly, crossed the sandstone surface and joined them. “What are you looking at?”
Reith pointed. The Green Chasch on their leap-horses were visible now to the naked eye: dark motes hopping and bounding in bone-jarring leaps.
Ylin Ylan drew in her breath. “Are they coming for us?”
“I imagine so.”
“Can we fight them off? What of our weapons?”
“We have sandblasts* on the raft. If they climbed the cliffs after dark they might do some damage. During daylight we don’t need to worry.”
* Sandblast: a weapon electrostatically charging and accelerating grains of sand to near-light speed, with consequent gain in mass and inertia. Upon penetrating a target, the energy is yielded in the form of an explosion.
Ylin Ylan’s lips quivered. She spoke in an almost inaudible voice. “If ever I return to Cath, I will hide in the farthest grotto of the Blue Jade garden and never again appear. If ever I return.”
Reith put his arm around her waist; she was stiff and unyielding. “Of course you’ll return, and pick up your life where it left off.”
“No. Someone else may be Flower of Cath; she is welcome … So long as she chooses other than ylin-ylan for her bouquet.”
The girl’s pessimism puzzled Reith. Her previous trials she had borne with stoicism; now, with fair prospects of returning home, she had become morose. Reith heaved a deep sigh and turned away.
The Green Chasch were no more than a mile distant. Reith and Traz drew back to attract no notice in the event that the Chasch were unaware of their presence. The hope was soon dispelled. The Green Chasch bounded up to the base of the butte, then, dismounting from their horses, stood looking up the cliff face. Reith, peering over the side, counted forty of the creatures. They were seven and eight feet tall, massive and thick-limbed, with pangolin-scales of metallic green. Under the jut of their crania their faces were small, and, to Reith’s eyes, like the magnified visage of a feral insect. They wore leather aprons and shoulder harness; their weapons were swords which, like all the swords of Tschai, seemed long and unwieldy, and these, eight and ten feet long, even more so. Some of them armed their catapults; Reith ducked back to avoid the flight of bolts. He looked around the butte for boulders to drop over the side, but found none.
Certain of the Chasch rode around the butte, examining the walls. Traz ran around the periphery, keeping watch.
All returned to the main group, where they muttered and grumbled together. Reith thought that they showed no great zest for the business of scaling the wall. Setting up camp, they tethered their leap-horses, thrust chunks of a dark sticky substance into the pale maws. They built three fires, over which they boiled chunks of the same substance they had fed the leap-horses, and at last hulking down into toad-shaped mounds, joylessly devoured the contents of their cauldrons. The sun dimmed behind the western haze and disappeared. Umber twilight fell over the steppe. Anacho came away from the raft and peered down at the Green Chasch. “Lesser Zants,” he pronounced. “Notice the protuberances to each side of the head? They are thus distinguished from the Great Zants and other hordes. These are of no great consequence.”
“They look consequential enough to me,” said Reith.
Traz made a sudden motion, pointed. In one of the crevices, between two vanes of rock, stood a tall dark shadow. “Phung!”
Reith looked through the scanscope and saw the shadow to be a Phung indeed. From where it had come he could not guess.
It was over eight feet in height: in its soft black hat and black cloak like a giant grasshopper in magisterial vestments.
Reith studied the face, watching the slow working of chitinous plates around the blunt lower section of the face. It watched the Green Chasch with brooding detachment, though they crouched over their pots not ten yards away.
“A mad thing,” whispered Traz, his eyes glittering. “Look, now it plays tricks!”
The Phung reached down its long thin arms, raised a small boulder which it heaved high into the air. The rock dropped among the Chasch, falling squarely upon a hulking back.
The Green Chasch sprang up, to glare toward the top of the butte. The Phung stood quietly, lost among the shadows. The Chasch which had been struck lay flat on its face, making convulsive swimming motions with arms and legs.
The Phung craftily lifted another great rock, once more heaved it high, but this time the Chasch saw the movement. Venting squeals of fury they seized their swords and flung themselves forward. The Phung took a stately step aside, then leaping in a great flutter of cloak snatched a sword, which it wielded as if it were a toothpick, hacking, dancing, whirling, cutting wildly, apparently without aim or direction. The Chasch scattered; some lay on the ground, and the Phung jumped here and there, slashing and slicing, without discrimination, the Green Chasch, the fire, the air, like a mechanical toy running out of control.
Crouching and shifting, the Green Chasch hulked forward. They chopped, cut; the Phung threw away the sword as if it were hot, and was hacked into pieces. The head spun off the torso, landed on the ground ten feet from one of the fires, with the soft black hat still in place. Reith watched it through the scanscope. The head seemed conscious, untroubled. The eyes watched the fire; the mouth parts worked slowly.
“It will live for days, until it dries out,” said Traz huskily. “Gradually it will go stiff.”
The Chasch paid the creatur
e no further heed, but at once made ready their leap-horses. They loaded their gear and five minutes later had trooped off into the darkness. The head of the Phung mused upon the play of the flames.
For a period the men squatted by the edge of the precipice, looking across the steppe. Traz and Anacho fell into an argument regarding the nature of the Phung, Traz declaring them to be products of unnatural union between Pnumekin and the corpses of Pnume. “The seed waxes in the decay like a bark-worm, and finally breaks out through the skin as a young Phung, not greatly different from a bald night-hound.”
“Sheer idiocy, lad!” said Anacho with easy condescension. “They surely breed like Pnume: a startling process in itself, if what I hear is correct.”
Traz, no less proud than the Dirdirman, became taut. “How do you speak with such assurance? Have you observed the process? Have you seen a Phung with others, or guarding a cub?” He lowered his lip in a sneer. “No! They go singly, too mad to breed!”
Anacho made a finger-fluttering gesture of fastidious didacticism. “Rarely are Pnume seen in groups; rarely do we see a Pnume alone, for that matter. Yet they flourish in their peculiar fashion. Brash generalizations are suspect. The truth is that after many long years on Tschai we still know little of either Phung or Pnume.”
Traz gave an inarticulate growl, too wise not to concede the conviction of Anacho’s logic, too proud to abandon abjectly his point of view. And Anacho, in his turn, made no attempt to push a superficial advantage home. In time, thought Reith, the two might even learn to respect each other.
In the morning Anacho again tinkered with the engine, while the others shivered in the cold airs seeping down from the north. Traz gloomily predicted rain, and presently a high overcast began to form, and fog eased over the tops of the hills to the north.