Jack Vance: The Houses of Iszm

Kirdy stood facing Paul Bengston. He turned his head. “Yes, Mr. Farr?”

Dorristy, seething, muttering, red in the face, stood back.

Farr said, “This man—he’s guilty?”

Kirdy nodded. “The evidence is conclusive.”

Farr looked at Bengston. His face blurred and swam and seemed to alter, as if by trick photography, with the candor and mild good humor becoming deceit and cruelty and callousness. Farr wondered how he could have been deceived. He bent a little forward. Paul Bengston met his eyes with defiance and dislike.

“Why?” he asked. “Why did all this happen?”

Bengston made no answer.

“I’ve got to know,” said Farr. “Why?”

Still no answer.

Farr swallowed his pride. “Why?” he asked humbly, “won’t you please tell me?”

Paul Bengston shrugged, laughed foolishly.

Farr pled with him. “Is it something I know? Something I’ve seen? Something I own?”

An emotion close to hysteria seemed to grip Bengston. He said, “I just don’t like the way your hair is combed.” And he laughed till the tears came.

Kirdy said grimly, “I haven’t got any better from him.”

“What could be his motive?” asked Farr plaintively. “His reason? Why would the Anderviews want to kill me?”

“If I find out I’ll let you know,” said Kirdy. “Meanwhile—where can I get in touch with you?”

Farr considered. There was something he had to do… It would come to him, but in the meantime! “I’m going to Los Angeles. I’ll be at the Imperador Hotel.”

“Fool,” said Bengston under his breath.

Farr took a half-step forward. “Easy, Mr. Farr,” said Kirdy.

Farr turned away.

“I’ll let you know,” said Kirdy.

Farr looked at Dorristy. Dorristy said, “Never mind. Don’t bother to apologize.”

When Farr returned to the lounge, the other passengers had debarked and were passing through the immigration office. Farr hurriedly followed them out, almost in claustrophobic panic. The SS Andrei Simic , the magnificent bird of space, enclosed him like a clamp, a coffin; he could wait no longer to leave, to stand on the soil of Earth.

It was almost morning. The wind off the Mojave blew in his face, aromatic with sage and desert dust, the stars glinted, paling in the east. At the top of the ramp, Farr automatically looked up and searched out Aurigae. There: Capella, there—the faintest of glitters— Xi Aurigae beside which swung Iszm. Farr walked down the ramp and planted his foot on the ground. He was back on Earth. The impact seemed to jar an idea into his head. Of course, he thought, with a feeling of relief, the natural thing to do, the obvious man to see: K. Penche.

Tomorrow. First to the Hotel Imperador. A bath in a hundred gallons of hot water. A hundred gallons of Scotch for a nightcap. Then bed.

Omon Bozhd approached. “It has been a pleasure knowing you, Farr Sainh. A word of advice: use vast caution. I suspect that you are still in great danger.” He bowed, then walked away. Farr stood looking after him. He felt no disposition to scoff off the warning.

He passed immigration quickly and dispatched his luggage to the Imperador. By-passing the line of heli-cabs, he stepped down the shaft to the public tube. The disk appeared under his feet (always a thrill in the shaft, always the thought: suppose the disk doesn’t come? Just this once?).

The disk slowed to a stop. Farr paid his fare, summoned a one-man car to the dock, jumped in, dialed his destination, and relaxed into the seat. He could not marshal his thoughts. Visions seeped through his mind: the regions of space, Iszm, Jhespiano, the many-podded houses. He sailed in the Lhaiz to Tjiere atoll. He felt the terror of the raid on the fields of Zhde Patasz, the fall down the root into the dungeon, the confinement with the Thord—and later, the terrible experience on Zhde Patasz’s experimental islet… The visions passed, they were a memory, far away, farther than the light years to Iszm.

The hum of the car soothed him. His eyes grew heavy; he started to doze.

He pulled himself awake, blinking. Shadowy, phantasmagorical, this whole affair. But it was real. Farr forced himself into a sober frame of mind. But his mind refused to reason, to plan. The stimuli had lost their sting. Here in the tube, the sane normal underground tube, murder seemed impossible…

One man on Earth could help him: K. Penche, Earth agent for the Iszic houses, the man to whom Omon Bozhd brought bad news.

The car vibrated, jerked, and shunted off the main tube toward the ocean. It twisted twice more, threading the maze of local tubes, and coasted finally to a stop.

The door snapped open and an uniformed attendant assisted him to the deck. He registered at a stereoscreen booth; an elevator lofted him two hundred feet to the surface, then another five hundred feet to his room level. He was shown into a long chamber, finished in pleasant tones of olive green, straw, russet and white. One wall was sheer glass looking over Santa Monica, Beverly Hills and the ocean. Farr sighed in contentment. Iszic houses in many ways were remarkable, but never would they supersede the Hotel Imperador.

Farr took his bath, floating in hot water faintly scented with lime. Rhythmical fingers of cooler water jetted and surged, massaging his legs, back, ribs, shoulders… He almost fell asleep. The bottom of the tub elevated, angled gently to vertical, and set him on his feet. Blasts of air removed his wetness; sunlamp radiation gave him a quick pleasant scorch.

He came out of the bath to find a tall Scotch-and-soda waiting for him—not a hundred gallons, but enough. He stood at the window, sipping, enjoying the sense of utter fatigue.

The sun came up; golden light washed in like a tide across the vast reaches of the world-city. Somewhere out there, in the luxury district that had once been Signal Hill, dwelt K. Penche. Farr felt an instant of puzzlement. Strange, he thought, how Penche represented the solution to everything. Well, he’d know whether that was right or not when he saw the man.

Farr polarized the window and light died from the room. He set the wall clock to call him at noon, sank into bed, and fell asleep.

The window depolarized, and daylight entered the room. Farr awoke, sat up in bed, and reached for a menu. He ticked off coffee, grapefruit, bacon, eggs. Then he jumped out of bed and went to the window. The world’s largest city spread as far as he could see, white spires melting into the tawny haze, everywhere a trembling and vibration of commerce and life.

The wall extruded a table set with his breakfast. Farr turned away from the window, seated himself, ate and watched news on the stereoscreen. For a minute he forgot his troubles. After his long absence, he had lost the continuity of the news. Events which he might have overlooked a year ago suddenly seemed interesting. He felt a cheerful flush. It was good to be home on Earth.

The news-screen voice said, “Now for some flashes from outer space. It has just been learned that aboard the Sed Ball Packet Andrei Simic two passengers, ostensibly missionaries returning from service in the Mottram Group…”

Farr watched, his breakfast forgotten, the cheerful glow fading.

The voice recounted the affair. The screen modeled the Andrei Simic : first the exterior, then a cutaway, with an arrow directing attention to “the death cabin.” How pleasant and unconcerned was this commentator! How remote and incidental he made the affair seem!

“… the two victims and the murderer have all been identified as members of the notorious Heavy Weather crime-syndicate. Apparently they had visited Iszm, third planet of Xi Aurigae, in an attempt to smuggle out a female house.”