Tschai-Planet of Adventure (omnibus) (2012)

by Jack Vance

  One by one the passengers drifted off to their cabins, and presently the ship was left to the helmsman and the lookout.

  Days drifted past: cool mornings with a pearly smoke clinging to the sea; noons with Carina 4269 burning at the zenith; ale-colored afternoons; quiet nights.

  The Vargaz touched briefly at two small ports along the coast of Horasin: villages submerged in the foliage of giant gray-green trees. The Vargaz discharged hides and metal implements, took aboard bales of nuts, lumps of jellied fruit, butts of a beautiful rose and black timber.

  Departing Horasin the Vargaz veered out into the Draschade Ocean, steering dead east along the equator both to take advantage of the counter-current and to avoid unfavorable weather patterns to north and south.

  Winds were fickle; the Vargaz wallowed lazily across almost imperceptible swells.

  The passengers amused themselves in their various ways. The orange-haired girls Heizari and Edwe played quoits, and teased Traz until he also joined the game.

  Reith introduced the group to shuffleboard, which was taken up with enthusiasm. Palo Barba, the father of the girls, declared himself an instructor of swordsmanship; he and Dordolio fenced an hour or so each day, Dordolio stripped to the waist, a black ribbon confining his hair. Dordolio performed with foot-stamping bravura and staccato exclamations. Palo Barba fenced less flamboyantly, but with great emphasis upon traditional postures. Reith occasionally watched the two at their bouts, and on one occasion accepted Palo Barba’s invitation to fence. Reith found the foils somewhat long and over-flexible, but conducted himself without discredit. He noticed Dordolio making critical observations to Ylin Ylan, and later Traz, who had overheard, informed him that Dordolio had pronounced his technique naïve and eccentric.

  Reith shrugged and grinned. Dordolio was a man Reith found impossible to take seriously.

  Twice other sails were spied in the distance; on one occasion a long black motor-galley changed course in a sinister fashion.

  Reith inspected the vessel through his scanscope. A dozen tall yellow-skinned men wearing complicated black turbans stood looking toward the Vargaz. Reith reported as much to the captain, who made a casual gesture. “Pirates. They won’t bother us: too much risk.”

  The galley passed a mile to the south, then turned and disappeared into the southwest.

  Two days later an island appeared ahead: a mountainous hump with foreshore cloaked under tall trees. “Gozed,” said the captain, in response to Reith’s inquiry. “We’ll put in for a day or so. You’ve never touched at Gozed?”

  “Never.”

  “You have a surprise in store. Or then, on the other hand —” here the captain gave Reith a careful inspection “— perhaps you don’t. I can’t say, since the customs of your own land are unknown to me. And unknown to yourself perhaps? I understand you to be an amnesiac.”

  Reith made a deprecatory gesture. “I never dispute other people’s opinions of myself.”

  “In itself, a bizarre custom,” declared the captain. “Try as I may, I cannot decide the land of your birth. You are a sort strange to me.”

  “I am a wanderer,” said Reith. “A nomad, if you like.”

  “For a wanderer, you are at times strangely ignorant. Well then, ahead lies Gozed.”

  The island bulked large against the sky. Looking through the scanscope Reith could see an area along the foreshore where the trees had been defoliated and trimmed to the condition of crooked poles, each supporting one, two or three round huts. The ground below was barren gray sand, clear of refuse and raked smooth. Anacho the Dirdirman inspected the village through the scanscope. “About what I expected.”

  “You are acquainted with Gozed? The captain made quite a mystery of the place.”

  “No mystery. The folk of the island are highly religious; they worship the sea-scorpions native to the waters around the island. They are as large or larger than a man, or so I am told.”

  “Why then are the huts so high in the air?”

  “At night the scorpions come up from the sea to spawn, which they accomplish by stinging eggs into a host animal, often a woman left down on the beach for that purpose. The eggs hatch, the ‘Mother of the Gods’ is devoured by the larvae. In the last stages, when pain and religious ecstasy produce a curious psychological state in the ‘Mother’, she runs down the beach and flings herself into the sea.”

  “An unsettling religion.”

  The Dirdirman admitted as much. “Still it appears to suit the folk of Gozed. They could change anytime they chose. Sub-men are notoriously susceptible to aberrations of this sort.”

  Reith could not restrain a grin, and Anacho examined him with surprise. “May I inquire the source of your amusement?”

  “It occurs to me that the relationship of Dirdirmen to Dirdir is not unlike that of the Gozed folk toward their scorpions.”

  “I fail to see the analogy,” Anacho declared rather stiffly.

  “Simplicity itself: both are victims to non-human beings who use men for their particular needs.”

  “Bah!” muttered Anacho. “In many ways you are the most wrong-headed man alive.” He walked abruptly aft, to stand staring out over the sea. Pressures were working in Anacho’s subconscious, thought Reith, causing him uneasiness.

  The Vargaz nosed cautiously in toward the beach, swung behind a jut of barnacle-encrusted rock and dropped anchor. The captain went ashore in a pinnace; the passengers saw him talking to a group of stern-faced men, white-skinned, totally naked save for sandals and a fillet holding down their long iron-colored hair.

  Agreement was reached; the captain returned to the Vargaz. A half hour later a pair of lighters came out to the boat. A boom was rigged; bales of fiber and coils of rope were brought aboard; other bales and crates were lowered to the lighters. Two hours after arriving at Gozed the Vargaz backed sail, hoisted anchor and set off across the Draschade.

  After the evening meal the passengers sat on the deck forward of the sterncastle with a lantern swinging overhead, and the talk veered to the people of Gozed and their religion. Val Dal Barba, wife of Palo Barba, mother of Heizari and Edwe, thought the ritual unjust.

  “Why are there only ‘Mothers of Gods’? Why shouldn’t those flint-faced men go down on the beach and become ‘Fathers of Gods’?”

  The captain chuckled. “It seems as if the honors are reserved for the ladies.”

  “It would never be thus in Murgen,” declared the merchant warmly. “We pay sizable tithes to the priests; they take all responsibility for appeasing Bisme; we have no further inconvenience.”

  “A system as sensible as any,” agreed Palo Barba. “This year we subscribe to the Pansogmatic Gnosis, and the religion has much virtue to it.”

  “I like it much better than Tutelanics,” said Edwe. “You merely recite the litany and then you are done for the day.”

  “Tutelanics was a dreadful bore,” Heizari concurred. “All that memorizing! And remember that dreadful Convocation of Souls, where the priests were so familiar? I like Pansogmatic Gnosis much better.”

  Dordolio gave an indulgent laugh. “You prefer not to become intense. I myself incline in this direction. Yao doctrine, of course, is to some extent a syncresis; or, better to say, in the course of the ‘round’ all aspects of the Ineffable are given opportunity to manifest themselves, so that, as we move with the cycle, we experience all theopathy.”

  Anacho, still smarting from Reith’s comparisons, looked across the deck. “Well then, what of Adam Reith, the erudite ethnologist? What theosophical insights can he contribute?”

  “None,” said Reith. “Very few, at any rate. It occurs to me that the man and his religion are one and the same thing. The unknown exists. Each man projects on the blankness the shape of his own particular world-view. He endows his creation with his personal volitions and attitudes. The religious man stating his case is in essence explaining himself. When a fanatic is contradicted he feels a threat to his own existence; he reacts violently.”


  “Interesting!” declared the fat merchant. “And the atheist?”

  “He projects no image upon the blank whatever. The cosmic mysteries he accepts as things in themselves; he feels no need to hang a more or less human mask upon them. Otherwise, the correlation between a man and the shape into which he molds the unknown for greater ease of manipulation is exact.”

  The captain raised his goblet of wine against the light of the lantern, tossed it down his throat. “Perhaps you’re right, but no one will ever change himself on this account. I have known a multitude of peoples. I have walked under Dirdir spires, through Blue Chasch gardens and Wankh castles. I know these folk and their changeling men. I have traveled to six continents of Tschai; I have befriended a thousand men, caressed a thousand women, killed a thousand enemies; I know the Yao, the Binth, the Walalukians, the Shemolei on one hand; on the other the steppe nomads, the marshmen, the islanders, the cannibals of Rakh and Kislovan; I see differences; I see identities. All try to extract a maximum advantage from existence, and finally all die. None seems the better for it. My own god? Good old Vargaz! Of course! As Adam Reith insists, it is myself. When Vargaz groans through the storm waves, I shudder and grind my teeth. When we glide the dark water under the pink and blue moons, I play the lute, I wear a red ribbon around my forehead, I drink wine. I and Vargaz serve each other and the day Vargaz sinks into the deep, I sink with her.”

  “Bravo!” cried Palo Barba, the swordsman, who had also drunk much wine. “Do you know, this is my creed as well?” He snatched up a sword, held it high so that lantern-light played up and down its spine. “What the Vargaz is to the captain, the sword is to me!”

  “Father!” cried his orange-haired daughter Edwe. “And all the time we thought you a sensible Pansogmatist!”

  “Please put down the steel,” urged Val Dal Barba, “before you become excited and cut someone’s ear off.”

  “What? Me? A veteran swordsman? How can you imagine such a thing? Well then, as you wish. I’ll trade the steel for another goblet of wine.”

  The talk proceeded. Dordolio swaggered across the deck to stand near Reith. Presently he said, in a voice of facetious condescension, “A surprise to find a nomad so accomplished in disquisition, so apt in subtle distinctions.”

  Reith grinned at Traz. “Nomads are not necessarily buffoons.”

  “You perplex me,” Dordolio declared. “Exactly which is your native steppe? What was your tribe?”

  “My steppe is far away; my tribe is scattered in every direction.”

  Dordolio pulled thoughtfully at his mustache. “The Dirdirman believes you to be an amnesiac. According to the Blue Jade Princess you have implied yourself to be a man from another world. The nomad boy, who knows you best, says nothing. I admit to what may be an obtrusive curiosity.”

  “The quality signifies an active mind,” said Reith.

  “Yes, yes. Let me put what I freely acknowledge to be an absurd question.” Dordolio examined Reith cautiously sidewise. “Do you consider yourself to be the native of another world?”

  Reith laughed and groped for an answer. He said: “Four possible conditions exist. If I were indeed from another world I could answer either yes or no. If I were not from another world I could answer yes or no. The first case leads to inconvenience. The second diminishes my self-respect. The third case is insanity. The fourth represents the only situation you would not consider an abnormality. The question, hence, as you admit, is absurd.”

  Dordolio tugged angrily at his mustache. “Are you, by any farfetched chance, a member of the ‘cult’?”

  “Probably not. Which ‘cult’ is this?”

  “The Yearning Refluxives who rode up the cycle to destroy our two gorgeous cities.”

  “But I understood that an unknown agency torpedoed the cities.”

  “No matter; the ‘cult’ instigated the attack; they are the cause.”

  Reith shook his head. “Incomprehensible! An enemy destroys your cities; your bitterness is directed not against the cruel enemy but against a possibly sincere and thoughtful group of your own people. A displaced emotion, or so it seems.”

  Dordolio gave Reith a cold inspection. “Your analyses at times border upon the mordant.”

  Reith laughed. “Let it pass. I know nothing of your ‘cult’. As for my place of origin, I prefer to be amnesiac.”

  “A curious lapse, when otherwise you seem so emphatic in your opinions.”

  “I wonder why you trouble to press the point,” Reith mused. “For instance, what would you say if I claimed origin from a far world?”

  Dordolio pursed his lips, blinked up at the lantern. “I had not taken my thoughts quite so far. Well, we will not pursue the subject. A frightening idea, to begin with: an ancient world of men!”

  “‘Frightening’? How so?”

  Dordolio gave an uneasy laugh. “There is a dark side to humanity, which is like a stone pressed into the mold. The upper side, exposed to sun and air, is clean; tilt it and look below, at the muck and scurrying insects … We of Yao know this well; nothing will put an end to awaile. But enough of such talk!” Dordolio gave his shoulders a jerk and a shake, and resumed his somewhat condescending tone of voice. “You are resolved to come to Cath; what will you do there?”

  “I don’t know. I must exist somewhere; why not in Cath?”

  “Not too simple for a stranger,” said Dordolio. “Affiliation with a palace is difficult.”

  “Odd that you should say that! The Flower of Cath declares that her father will welcome us to Blue Jade Palace.”

  “He would necessarily show formal courtesy, but you could no more take up residence at the Blue Jade Palace than you could on the bottom of the Draschade, merely because a fish invited you to swim.”

  “What would prevent me?”

  Dordolio shrugged. “No man cares to make a fool of himself. Deportment is the definition of life. What does a nomad know of deportment?”

  Reith had nothing to say to this. “A thousand details go into the conduct of a cavalier,” stated Dordolio. “At the academy we learn degrees of address, signals, language configuration, in which I admit a deficiency. We take instruction in sword address and principles of duelling, genealogy, heraldry; we learn the niceties of costume and a hundred other details. Perhaps you consider these matters over-arbitrary?”

  Anacho the Dirdirman, standing nearby, chose to reply. “‘Trivial’ is a word more apt.”

  Reith expected an icy retort, at the least a glare, but Dordolio gave only an indifferent shrug. “Well, then, is your life more significant? Or that of the merchant, or the swordsman? Never forget the Yao are a pessimistic race! Awaile is always a threat; we are perhaps more somber than we seem. Recognizing the essential pointlessness of existence, we exalt the small flicker of vitality at our command; we extract the fullest and most distinctive flavor from every incident, by insisting upon an appropriate formality. Triviality? Decadence? Who can do better?”

  “All very well,” said Reith. “But why be satisfied with pessimism? Why not expand your horizons? Further, it seems that you accept the destruction of your cities with a surprising nonchalance. Vengeance is not the most noble activity, but submissiveness is worse.”

  “Bah,” muttered Dordolio. “How could a barbarian understand the disaster and its aftermath? The Refluxives in vast numbers took refuge in awaile; the acts and the expiations kept our land in a ferment. There was no energy for anything else. Were you of good caste, I would cut your heart out for daring so gross an imputation.”

  Reith laughed. “Since my low caste protects me from retribution, let me ask another question: what is awaile?”

  Dordolio threw his hands in the air. “An amnesiac as well as a barbarian! I have no conversation for such as you! Ask the Dirdirman; he is glib enough.” And Dordolio strode off in a rage.

  “An unreasonable display of emotion,” mused Reith. “I wonder what my imputation was?”

  “Shame,” said Anacho. “The Yao are as
sensitive to shame as an eyeball to grit. Mysterious enemies destroy their cities; they suspect the Dirdir but dare no recourse, and must cope with helpless rage and shame. It is their typical attribute and predisposes them to awaile.”

  “And this is?”

  “Murder. The afflicted person — one who feels shame — kills as many persons as he is able, of any sex, age or degree of relationship. Then, when he is able to kill no more, he submits and becomes apathetic. His punishment is dreadful and highly dramatic, and enlightens the entire population, who crowd the place of punishment. Each execution has its particular flavor and style and is essentially a dramatic pageant of pain, possibly enjoyed even by the victim. The institution permeates the life of Cath. The Dirdir on this basis consider all sub-men mad.”

  Reith grunted. “So then, if we visit Cath, we risk insensate murder.”

  “Small risk. After all, the acts are not ordinary events.” Anacho looked around the deck. “But it seems that the hour is late.” He bade Reith goodnight and stalked off to his bunk.

  Reith remained by the rail, looking out over the water. After the bloodletting at Pera, Cath had seemed a haven, a civilized environment where just possibly he might contrive to patch together a space-boat. The prospect seemed ever more remote.

  Someone came to stand beside him: Heizari, the older of Palo Barba’s orange-haired daughters. “You seem so melancholy. What troubles you?”