Jack Vance - The Houses of Iszm

Farr walked slowly along the shaded arcade that once had been Atlantic Avenue. Interesting, he thought, that coincidence should bring him here. Well, he was this close, perhaps it might be a good idea to see Penche…

No! said Farr stubbornly. He had made the decision, no irrational compulsion was going to make him change his mind. An odd matter, that in all the vast reaches of Greater Los Angeles, he should wind up almost at K. Penche’s door. Too odd, it went beyond mere chance. His subconscious must be at work.

He glanced behind him. No one could possibly be following, but he watched for a moment or two as hundreds of people, old and young, of all shapes, sizes and colors passed. By a subtle evaluation he fixed on a slender man in a gray suit; he struck a false note. Farr reversed his direction, threaded the maze of open-air shops and booths under the arcade, ducked into a palm-shaded cafeteria, and stepped out of sight behind a wall of leaves.

A minute passed. The man in the gray suit came briskly past. Farr stepped out and stared hard into the well-groomed, well-pomaded countenance. “Are you looking for me, mister?”

“Why no,” said the man in the gray suit. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

“I hope I don’t see you again,” said Farr. He left the cafeteria, stalked to the nearest underground station, dropped down the shaft, and jumped into a car. After a minute’s thought he dialed Altadena. The car hummed off. No easy relaxation now; Farr sat on the edge of his seat. How had they located him? Through the tube? Incredible.

To make doubly sure, he canceled Altadena and dialed Pomona.

Five minutes later he wandered with apparent casualness along Valley Boulevard. In another five minutes he located the shadow, a young workman with a vacant face. Am I crazy? Farr asked himself, am I developing a persecution complex? He put the shadow to a rigorous test, strolling around blocks as if looking for a particular house. The young workman ambled along behind him.

Farr went into a restaurant and called the Special Squad on the stereo-screen. He asked for and was connected with Detective-Inspector Kirdy.

Kirdy greeted him politely, and positively denied that he had assigned men to follow Farr. He appeared keenly interested. “Wait just a shake,” he said. “I’ll check the other departments.”

Three or four minutes passed. Farr saw the blank young man enter the restaurant take an unobtrusive seat, and order coffee.

Kirdy returned. “We’re innocent around here. Perhaps it’s a private agency.”

Farr looked annoyed. “Isn’t there anything I can do about it?”

“Are you being molested in any way?”

“No.”

“We really can’t do anything. Drop into a tube, shake ’em off.”

“I’ve taken the tube twice—they’re still after me.”

Kirdy looked puzzled. “I wish they’d tell me how. We don’t try to follow suspects any more; they brush us off too easily.”

“I’ll try once more,” said Farr. “Then there’ll be fireworks.”

He marched out of the restaurant. The young workman downed his coffee and came quickly after.

Farr dropped down a tube. He waited, but the young workman did not follow. So much for that. He called over a car and looked around. The young workman was nowhere near. No one was near. Farr, jumping in, dialed for Ventura. The car sped off. There was no conceivable way it could be traced or followed through the tubes.

In Ventura his shadow was an attractive young housewife who seemed out for an afternoon’s shopping.

Farr jumped into a shaft and took a car for Long Beach. The man who followed him in Long Beach was the slender man in the gray suit who had first attracted his attention at Signal Hill. He seemed unperturbed when Farr recognized him, shrugging rather insolently, as if to say, ‘What do you expect?’

Signal Hill. Back again, only a mile or two away. Maybe it might be a good idea after all to drop in on Penche.

No!

Farr sat down at an arcade cafe in full view of the shadow and ordered a sandwich. The man in the natty gray suit took a table nearby and provided himself with iced tea. Farr wished he could beat the truth out of the well-groomed face. Inadvisable; he would end up in jail. Was Penche responsible for this persecution? Farr reluctantly rejected the idea. Penche’s man had arrived at the Imperador desk while Farr was leaving. The evasion had been decisive there.

Who then? Omon Bozhd?

Farr sat stock-still, then laughed—a loud, clear, sharp bark of a laugh. People looked at him in surprise. The gray man gave him a glance of cautious appraisal. Farr continued to chuckle, a nervous release. Once he thought about it, it was so clear, so simple.

He looked up at the ceiling of the arcade, imagining the sky beyond. Somewhere, five or ten miles overhead, hung an air-boat. In the air-boat sat an Iszic, with a sensitive viewer and a radio. Everywhere that Farr went, the radiant in his right shoulder sent up a signal. On the viewer-screen Farr was as surreptitious as a lighthouse.

He went to the stereo-screen and called Kirdy.

Kirdy was vastly interested. “I’ve heard of that stuff. Apparently it works.”

“Yes,” said Farr, “it works. How can I shield it?”

“Just a minute.” Five minutes passed. Kirdy came back to the screen. “Stay where you are, I’ll send a man down with a shield.”

The messenger presently arrived. Farr went into the men’s room and wrapped a pad of woven metal around his shoulder and chest.

“Now,” said Farr grimly. “Now we’ll see.”

The slim man in the gray suit followed him nonchalantly to the tube shaft. Farr dialed to Santa Monica.

He rose to the surface at the Ocean Avenue station, walked northeast along Wilshire Boulevard, and back toward Beverly Hills. He was alone. He made all the tests he could think of. No one followed him. Farr grinned in satisfaction, picturing the annoyed Iszic at the viewer-screen.

He came to the Capricorn Club—a large, rather disreputable-looking saloon, with a pleasant old-fashioned odor of sawdust, wax and beer. He turned in, went directly to the stereo-screen, and called the Hotel Imperador. Yes, there was a message for him. The clerk played back the tape, and for the second time Farr looked into Penche’s massive sardonic face. The harsh deep voice was conciliatory; the words had been carefully chosen and rehearsed. “I’d like to see you at your earliest convenience, Mr. Farr. We both realize the need for discretion. I’m sure your visit will result in profit for both of us. I will be waiting for your call.”

The stereo faded; the clerk appeared. “Shall I cancel or file, Mr. Farr?”

“Cancel,” said Farr. He left the booth and went to the far end of the bar. The bartender made the traditional inquiry, “What’s yours, brother?”

Farr ordered. “Vienna Stadtbrau.”

The bartender turned, spun a tall oak wheel twined with hop vines, gay with labels. A hundred and twenty positions controlled a hundred and twenty storage-tubes. He pushed the bumper and a dark flask slipped out of the dispenser, The bartender squeezed the flask into a stein and set it before Farr. Farr took a deep swallow, relaxed, and rubbed his forehead.

He was puzzled. Something very odd was going on no question about it. Penche seemed reasonable enough. Perhaps, after all, it might be a good idea—wearily Fan put the thought away. Amazing how many guises the compulsion found to clothe itself. It was difficult to guard against all of them. Unless he vetoed out of hand any course of action that included a visit to Penche. A measure of uncompromising rigor, a counter-compulsion that set shackles on his freedom of action. It was a mess. How could a man think clearly when he could not distinguish between an idiotic subconscious urge and common sense?