Tschai-Planet of Adventure (omnibus) (2012)

by Jack Vance

  Reith gave a cautious assent: “This is our design.”

  “Sell me your sky-car! Four times I have entered the Zone, creeping from rock to rock; now I have my sequins. Sell me your sky-car, so that I may return to Holangar.”

  “Unfortunately we will need the sky-car upon our own return,” said Reith.

  “I offer you sequins, purple sequins!”

  “They mean nothing to us; we go to find sequins of our own.”

  The gaunt man gave a gesture of emotion too wild to be expressed in words and lunged off down the beach. A pair of Khors now approached: men somewhat slender and delicate of physique, wearing black gowns and cylindrical black hats which gave the illusion of height. The mustard-yellow faces were grave and still, the noses thin and small, the ears fragile shells. Fine black hair grew up rather than down, to be contained within the tall hat. They seemed to Reith a stream of humanity as divergent as the Chaschmen — perhaps a distinct species.

  The older of the two spoke in a thin soft voice: “Why are you here?”

  “We go to take sequins,” said Anacho. “We hope to leave the sky-car in your care.”

  “You must pay. The sky-car is a valuable device.”

  “So much the better for you should we fail to return. We can pay nothing.”

  “If you return, you must pay.”

  “No, no payment. Do not insist or we will fly directly to Maust.”

  The mustard-yellow faces showed no quiver of emotion. “Very well, but we allow you only to the month Temas.”

  “Only three months? Too short a period! Give us until the end of Meumas, or better Azaimas.”

  “Until Meumas. Your sky-car will be secure against all but those from whom you stole it.”

  “It will be totally secure; we are not thieves.”

  “So be it. Until the first day of Meumas, on the precise instant.”

  The three took their possessions and walked through Khorai to the caravan terminus. Under an open shed a motor-wagon was being prepared for a journey, with a dozen men of as many races standing by. The three made arrangements for passage, and an hour later departed Khorai, along the road south to Maust.

  Over barren hills and dry swales rolled the motor-wagon, halting for the night at a hostel operated by an order of white-faced women. They were either members of an orgiastic religious sect or simple prostitutes; long after Reith, Anacho and Traz had stretched out upon the benches which served as beds, drunken shouts and wild laughter came from the smoky common room.

  In the morning the common room was dim and quiet, reeking with spilled wine and the smoke of dead lamps. Men huddled face-down over tables, or sprawled along benches, their faces the color of ash. The women of the place entered, now harsh-voiced and peremptory, with cauldrons of thin yellow goulash. The men stirred and groaned, somberly ate from earthenware bowls and staggered out to the motor-wagon, which presently set forth to the south.

  By noon Maust appeared in the distance: a jumble of tall narrow buildings with high gables and crooked roof-lines, built of dark timber and age-blackened tile. Beyond, a barren plain extended to the dim Hills of Recall. Running boys came out to meet the motor-wagon. They shouted slogans and held up signs and banners: “Sequin-takers attention! Kobo Hux will sell one of his excellent sequin-detectors.” “Formulate your plans at the Inn of Purple Lights.” “Weapons, puff-pads, maps, digging implements from Sag the Mercantilist are eminently useful.” “Do not grope at random; the Seer Garzu divines the location of large purple nodes.” “Flee the Dirdir with all possible agility; use supple boots provided by Awalko.” “Your last thoughts will be pleasant if, before death, you first consume the euphoric tablets formulated by Laus the Thaumaturge.” “Enjoy a jolly respite before entering the Zone at the Platform of Merriment.”

  The motor-wagon halted in a compound at the edge of Maust. The passengers alighted into a crowd of bawling men, urgent boys, grimacing girls, each with a new proffer. Reith, Traz and Anacho pushed through the throng avoiding as best they could the hands which reached to grasp them and their possessions.

  They entered a narrow street running between tall, age-darkened structures, the beer-colored sunlight barely penetrating to the street. Certain of the houses sold gear and implements conceivably useful to the sequin-taker: grading kits, camouflage, spoor eliminators, tongs, forks, bars, monoculars, maps, guides, talismans and prayer powders. From other houses came the clash of cymbals, a raucous honking of oboes, accompanied by calls of drunken exaltation. Certain of the buildings catered to gamblers; others functioned as inns, with restaurants occupying the ground floor. Everywhere lay the weight of antiquity, even to the dry aromatic odor of the air. Stones had been polished by the casual touch of hands; interior timbers were dark and waxy; the old brown tiles showed a subtle luster to glancing light.

  At the back of the central plaza stood a spacious hostelry, which appeared to offer comfortable accommodations and which Anacho favored, though Traz grumbled at what he considered excessive and unnecessary luxury. “Must we pay the price of a leap-horse merely to sleep the night?” he complained. “We have passed a dozen inns more to my taste.”

  “In due course you will learn to appreciate the civilized niceties,” said Anacho indulgently. “Come, let us see what is offered within.”

  Through a portal of carved wood they entered the foyer. Chandeliers fashioned to represent sequin-clusters hung from the ceiling; a magnificent rug, black of field with a taupe border and five starbursts of scarlet and ocher, cushioned the tile floor.

  A majordomo approached to inquire their needs. Anacho spoke for three chambers, clean linen, baths and unguents. “And what do you demand in the way of tariff?”

  “For such accommodation each must pay a hundred sequins* per day,” replied the majordomo.

  * Sums expressed in sequins are in terms of the unit value sequin, the ‘clear’.

  Traz gave an exclamation of shock; even Anacho was moved to protest. “What?” he exclaimed. “For three modest chambers, you demand three hundred sequins? Have you no sense of proportion? The charges are outrageous.”

  The majordomo gave his head a curt inclination. “Sir, this is the famous Alawan Inn, at the threshold of the Carabas. Our patrons never begrudge themselves; they go forth either for wealth or the experience of a Dirdir intestine. What then a few sequins more or less? If you are unable to pay our fees I suggest the Den of Restful Repose or the Black Zone Inn. Notice, however, that the tariff includes access to a buffet of good-quality victuals as well as a library of charts, guides and technical advice, not to mention the services of an expert consultant.”

  “All very well,” said Reith. “First we will look into the Black Zone Inn, and one or two other establishments.”

  The Black Zone Inn occupied the loft above a gambling establishment. The Den of Restful Repose was a cold barracks a hundred yards north of town, beside a refuse dump.

  After inspecting several other hospices the three returned to the Alawan, where by dint of furious haggling they managed to secure a somewhat lower rate, which they were forced to pay in advance.

  After a meal of stewed hackrod and mealcake, the three repaired to the library, at the back of the second floor. The side wall displayed a great map of the Zone; shelves held pamphlets, portfolios, compilations. The consultant, a small sad-eyed man, sat to the side and responded to questions in a confidential whisper. The three passed the afternoon studying the physiography of the Zone, the tracks of successful and unsuccessful ventures, the statistical distribution of Dirdir kills. Of those who entered the Zone, something under two-thirds returned, with an average gain of sequins to the value of about six hundred. “The figures here are somewhat misleading,” Anacho stated. “They include the fringe-runners who never venture more than half a mile into the Zone. The takers who work the hills and the far slopes account for most of the deaths and most of the wealth.”

  There were a thousand aspects to the science of sequin-taking, with arrays of stati
stics to illuminate every possible inquiry. Upon sighting a Dirdir band a sequin-taker might run, hide or fight with chances of clean escape calculated in terms of physiography, the time of day, proximity to the Portal of Gleams. Takers organized into bands for self-protection attracted an overcompensating number of Dirdir; their chances of survival decreased. Nodes were found in all parts of the Zone, most being found in the Hills of Recall and upon the South Stage, the savannah at the far side of the hills. The Carabas was reckoned no-man’s land: takers occasionally ambushed each other; such acts were reckoned as eleven percent of the risk.

  Dusk approached, and the library became filled with gloom. The three went down to the refectory, where, under the light of three great chandeliers, servitors in black silk livery had already laid out the evening meal. Reith was moved to remark at so much elegance, to which Anacho gave a bark of sardonic amusement. “How else to justify such exorbitant tariffs?” He went off to the buffet and returned with three cups of spiced wine.

  The three, leaning back in the ancient settees, observed the other sojourners, most of whom sat alone. A few were in pairs, and a single group of four huddled at a far table, in dark cloaks and hoods which revealed only long ivory noses.

  Anacho spoke: “Eighteen men in the room, with ourselves. Nine will find sequins, nine will find none. Two may locate a node of high value, purple or scarlet. Ten, perhaps twelve, will pass through Dirdir guts. Six, or perhaps eight, will return to Maust. Those ranging the farthest to find the choicest nodes run the most risk; the six or eight will show no great profit.”

  Traz said dourly, “Every day in the Zone a man faces one chance in four of death. His average gain is about four hundred sequins: it would seem that these men, and ourselves as well, value life at only sixteen hundred sequins.”

  “Somehow we’ve got to change the odds,” said Reith.

  “Everyone who comes to the Zone makes similar plans,” said Anacho drily. “Not all succeed.”

  “Then we must try something no one else has considered.”

  Anacho made a skeptical sound.

  The three went forth to explore the town. The music houses showed red and green lights; on the balconies frozen-faced girls twitched and postured and sang strange soft songs. The gambling houses showed brighter lights and more fervent activity. Each seemed to specialize in a particular game, as simple as the throw of fourteen-faced dice, as complex as chess played against the house professionals.

  They stopped to watch a game called ‘Locate the Prime Purple Node’. A board thirty feet long by ten feet wide represented the Carabas: the Forelands, the Hills of Recall, the South Stage, the gorges and valleys, the savannahs, the streams and forests were faithfully depicted. Blue, red and purple lights indicated the location of nodes, sparse along the Forelands, more plentiful in the Hills of Recall and on the South Stage. Khusz, the Dirdir hunting camp, was a white block, with purple prongs rising from each corner. A numbered grid was superimposed upon all. A dozen players overlooked the board, each controlling a manikin. Also on the board were the effigies of four lunging Dirdir hunters. The players in turn cast fourteen-sided dice to determine the movement of all the manikins across the grid, as each player elected. The Dirdir hunters, moving to the same numbers, endeavored to cross an intersection on which rested a manikin, whereupon the manikin was declared destroyed and removed from the game. Each manikin sought to cross the lights representing sequin nodes, thus augmenting his score. Whenever he chose, he left the Zone by the Portal of Gleams and was paid his winnings. More often, prompted by greed, the player held his manikin on the board until a Dirdir struck it down, by which he lost the totality of his gain. Reith watched the game in fascination. The players sat clenching the rails of their booths. They stared and fidgeted, calling hoarse orders to the operators, yelling in exultation when they won a node, groaning at the approach of the Dirdir, leaning back with sick faces when their manikins were destroyed and their winnings lost.

  The game ended. No further manikins roamed the Carabas. No Dirdir hunted an empty Zone. The players stiffly descended from their booths; those who had won free of the Zone took their winnings. The Dirdir returned to Khusz beyond the South Stage. New players bought manikins, climbed into the booths and the game began once more.

  Reith, Traz and Anacho continued along the street. Reith paused at a booth to scan packets of folded paper on display. Placards read:

  METICULOUSLY ANNOTATED ACROSS SEVENTEEN YEARS: THE CHART OF SABOUR YAN, FOR A MERE 1000 SEQUINS, GUARANTEED TO BE UNEXPLOITED.

  and

  THE CHART OF GORAGONSO THE MYSTERIOUS WHO LIVED IN THE ZONE LIKE A SHADOW, NURTURING HIS SECRET NODES LIKE CHILDREN, AT A MERE 3500 SEQUINS. NEVER EXPLOITED.

  Reith looked to Anacho for explanation.

  “Simple enough. Such folk as Sabour Yan and Goragonso the Mysterious over the years explore the safer regions of the Carabas, seeking out low-grade nodes, the waters and milks, the pale blues which are known as sards, the pale greens. When they locate such nodes they carefully note their position and conceal them as best they may, under heaps of gravel or slabs of shale, thinking to return in later years after the nodes mature. If they find purple nodes so much the better, but in the near regions which for safety’s sake they frequent, purple nodes are few — save those which as ‘waters’ or ‘milks’ or ‘sards’, were discovered and concealed a generation before. When such men are killed, their charts become valuable documents. Unfortunately, buying such a chart can be risky. The first person to come into possession of the chart might ‘exploit’ it, removing the choicest nodes, and then putting the chart up for sale as ‘unexploited’. Who can prove otherwise?”

  The three returned to the Alawan. In the foyer a single chandelier exuded the light of a hundred sullen jewels, which lost itself in the shadows, with only a colored gleam here and there on the dark wood. The refectory was also dim, occupied by a few murmuring groups. From an urn they drew bowls of pepper-tea and settled themselves in a booth.

  Traz spoke in a disgruntled voice: “This place is insane: Maust and the Carabas together. We should leave and seek wealth in some normal manner.”

  Anacho gave an airy wave of white fingers and spoke in a didactic and fluting voice: “Maust is merely an aspect of the interplay between men and money, and must be viewed on this basis.”

  “Must you always talk gibberish?” demanded Traz. “To gain sequins either in Maust or in the Zone is a gamble, at poor odds. I do not care to gamble.”

  “As far as I am concerned,” said Reith, “I plan to gain sequins, but I do not intend to gamble.”

  “Impossible!” Anacho declared. “In Maust you gamble with sequins; in the Zone you gamble with your life. How can you avoid doing so?”

  “I can try to reduce the odds to a tolerable level.”

  “Everyone hopes to do the same. But Dirdir fires burn nightly across the Carabas, and at Maust the shopkeepers earn more than most sequin-takers.”

  “Taking sequins is uncertain and slow,” said Reith. “I prefer sequins already gathered.”

  Anacho pursed his lips in quizzical calculation. “You plan to rob the sequin-gatherers? The process is risky.”

  Reith looked up at the ceiling. How could Anacho still misread the processes of his mind? “I plan to rob no sequin-takers.”

  “Then I am puzzled,” said Anacho. “Whom do you intend to rob?”

  Reith spoke with care. “While we watched the hunting game, I began to wonder: when Dirdir kill a taker, what happens to his sequins?”

  Anacho gave his fingers a bored flutter. “The sequins are booty; what else?”

  “Consider a typical Dirdir hunt-party: how long will it remain in the Zone?”

  “Three to six days. Grand hunts and commemoratives are longer; competition hunts are somewhat less extended.”

  “And, in a day, how many kills will a typical party make?”

  Anacho considered. “Each hunter naturally hopes for a trophy each day out. The usual well-se
asoned party kills two or three times each day, sometimes more. They waste much meat, necessarily.”

  “So that the typical hunting party returns to Khusz with sequins from as many as twenty takers.”

  Anacho said curtly, “So it might be.”

  “The average taker carries sequins to the value of, let us say, five hundred. Hence each hunting party returns with a value of ten thousand sequins.”

  “Don’t allow the calculation to excite you,” Anacho remarked in the driest of voices. “The Dirdir are not a generous folk.”

  “The game-board, I take it, is an accurate representation of the Zone?”

  Anacho gave a dour nod. “Reasonably so. Why do you ask?”

  “Tomorrow I want to trace the hunt routes out from Khusz and back again. If the Dirdir come to the Carabas to hunt men, they can hardly protest if men hunt Dirdir.”

  “Who can imagine men hunting the Effulgents?” croaked Anacho.

  “It’s never been done before?”

  “Never! Do gekkos hunt smur?”

  “In this case we gain the benefit of surprise.”

  “No doubt of that!” declared Anacho. “But you must proceed without me; I will have none of it.”

  Traz choked back a guffaw; Anacho swung about. “What amuses you?”

  “Your fear.”

  Anacho leaned back in his seat. “If you knew the Dirdir as I do, you would fear too.”

  “They are alive. Kill, they die.”

  “They are hard to kill. When they hunt, they use a separate region of their mind, what they call the ‘Old State’. No man can stand against them. Reith’s concept verges upon insanity.”

  “Tomorrow we’ll study the hunt-board again,” said Reith in a soothing voice. “Something may suggest itself.”

  Chapter VI

  Three days later, an hour before dawn, Reith, Traz and Anacho departed Maust. Passing through the Portal of Gleams, they set out across the Foreland toward the Hills of Recall, black on the mottled dark brown and violet sky, ten miles to the south. Ahead and behind, a dozen other shapes ran half-crouched through the cool gloom. Some had burdened themselves with equipment: digging implements, graders, weapons, deodorizing ointment, face-stains, camouflage; others had no more than a sack, a knife, a wad of alimentary paste.