Jack Vance - Ecce and Old Earth

“They are almost like wild creatures, so strong are their nomadic instincts!”' declared the guidebook. “Nothing could persuade them to limit their freedom. Their status is low; other folk consider them mad and treat them with tolerant contempt, quite ignoring the fact that some of the performances display efforts of great creativity, not to mention a high degree of technical virtuosity.”

“For all the zest and vivacity of their performances, the vagabond life is far from a romantic idyll. After a long journey they arrive at a destination jubilant mood. Before long they become restless and fretful and once more strike out across the wilderness to a new destination. They are not a frivolous people but, rather, as if obeying the universal tradition, would seem to be ordinary melancholy. As children they learn to perform as soon as they can talk. Their adult lives are marred by petty jealousies and the pressure to excel; their old age is anything but tranquil. As soon as the old man or woman fails at his performance, or plays sour notes at his music, he loses the respect of his fellows and is graven only grudging and perfunctory recognition. Now, when he or she performs the audiences will still marvel at their amazing energy and abnormal agility as they drive themselves to amazing new levels of performance, until they totter and fall, or play an embarrassing luxuriance of sour notes. Then it is over and they become apathetic. During the next journey the vehicle stops briefly in the middle of the night, with the moons spilling across the dark sky. The oldster is thrust from the vehicle and given a bottle of wine. The vehicle departs, and the old buffoon is left alone. He will sit upon the ground; perhaps he will watch the moons slide past for a time, or perhaps he will sing the song he has prepared just for this occasion; then he drinks the bottle of wine and stretches out to sleep a sleep from which he will never awake, for the wine is drugged with a soft Gangril poison.”

Glawen pushed the book aside; he had learned as much as, or more than, he cared to know. He leaned back in the chair, glanced up at Pharisse and wondered whether he should order an item of pastry from the cart now being wheeled among the tables. To the other side of the cafe a young man, tall and of good physique, rose from the table at which he had been sitting, his back half-turned toward Glawen who watched him depart with no more than idle attention. By the time Glawen s interest was aroused the young man was walking away. Glawen still managed to see that he wore dark green trousers cut to a close fit, a cobalt blue cape, and a small loose-crowned brimless hat.

The figure disappeared up the avenue, his gait easy, confident, almost a swagger. Glawen tried to recall what he had glimpsed, and thought to recapture the image of a well-shaped head with a neat cap of thick dark hair a clear skin and classically regular features. Despite the lack of distortion or deviation, Glawen was half-convinced that he had seen the man before.

Glawen settled back into his chair. He consulted his watch; there was time for a nap before his rendezvous with Keebles. He rose, departed the cafe, and returned to the Novial Hotel.

A different clerk was on duty: an older man with sparse gingery hair and a prim beard. Glawen asked that he be called without fall at twenty-seven o'clock since he had an important engagement. The clerk gave a curt nod, made a note, then resumed his study of a fashion journal. Glawen went to his room, removed his outer garments, threw himself down upon the bed and soon fell asleep.

Tine passed. Glawen’s slumber was disturbed by a tingle of pain at the side of his hip. He turned on the light, and found that he had been stung by a black insect.

Outside the window the sky was dim with dusk. The time was twenty-eight o'clock. He jumped up, destroyed such insects as were conveniently to hand, splashed water into his face, dressed and left the room. As he strode through the lobby the clerk jumped to his feet and leaned forward over the counter. He caned out in aggrieved voice: ”Mr. Clattuc I was about to call you, but it seems that you have taken matters into your own hands.”

“Not quite,” said Glawen. “I was awakened by an insect. The room is infested. I will be out for a few hours; please make sure that the room is fumigated in my absence.”

The clerk resumed his seat. “The janitor evidently forgot to use insecticide when he cleaned your room. I will make sure that your complaint is received in the proper quarters.”

“That is not enough. You must deal with these insects now.”

The clerk said stiffly: “Unfortunately, the janitor has gone off duty. I can only assure you that the matter will be resolved to your complete satisfaction tomorrow.”

Glawen spoke in a careful voice: “When I return from my business, I shall look about the room. If I find any insects, I shall capture them and bring them here, and you will not enjoy what use I make of hem.”

“That is intemperate language, Mr. Clattuc.”

“I was not awakened by a temperate insect. Heed my warning!"

Glawen left the hotel. Pharisse had dropped from the sky and twilight had come to Tanjaree, working a wonderful transformation. Across the lake, Old Town, illuminated by the glow of soft white lights, seemed only half-real: a city of fairy-tale palaces. A dozen moons drifted across the sky, showing subtle variations of color: creamy-grey through white and silver-white, the palest of pinks and equally soft violet, each moon reflecting its image in the lake. Nion, according to the guidebook, was often known as ‘The World of the Nineteen Moons’. Each of the moons was named and every inhabitant of the planet knew these names as well as he knew his own.

Glawen turned into Crippet Alley, and was surprised to find that, by virtue of its illumination, the street now seemed charming and gay. Apparently every householder had been required to hang out a light globe to his own taste, resulting in a welter of colored globes set as if in celebration of a festival. Glawen knew that aesthetic impulse had been far from anyone’s mind: the lights were as they were because it was easier than a more uniform arrangement.

Many folk were still abroad, though not the previous crowds. Some were natives; others were tourists strolling at their leisure, pausing to look into the shop windows, or patronizing the little café. Glawen, an hour late for his appointment with Keebles, pressed along the street as rapidly as possible. He stopped short. A man wearing a blue cape had passed him by; Glawen glimpsed a pale preoccupied face, features set in a mask. Glawen turned and looked back, but the dark blue cloak was lost in the welter of lights and moving shapes. Glawen continued along Crippet Alley and presently arrived at the Argonaut Art Import and Export Company. There were lights on within the shop; as before, the door was unlocked, even though the posted closing hour was twenty-seven o'clock and the clerk was no longer on duty behind the counter.

Glawen entered, closed the door behind him. He stood a moment looking around the cluttered interior. Everything was as he had left it earlier in the day. He heard nothing and there was no sign of Keebles.

Glawen went to the passage leading back to Keebles' office. He halted, listened: no sound. He called out: “Mr. Keebles! I'm here — Glawen Clattuc!”

The silence seemed more profound than ever.

Glawen grimaced. He looked behind him, up the stairs, then ventured forward along the passage. Once agent he called: “Mr. Keebles?”

As before: no response. Glawen peered into the back office. A corpse lay on the floor. It was Keebles. His arms and ankles had been bound; blood oozed from his mouth. His eyes were open and bulged enormously in horror. His trousers had been cut open and it was clear that Keebles had been tortured.