Jack Vance: The Houses of Iszm

“Come, we must secure you. Danger, danger!”

Farr shook them off. “I’ll wait here.”

“Farr Sainh, Farr Sainh,” they cried. “Our orders are to see to your safety.”

“I’m safe here,” said Farr. “I want to watch.”

The three monitors hung over the crater, drifting back and forth.

“Looks like the raiders got away,” said Farr.

“No! Impossible,” cried the Szecr. “It’s the end of Iszm!”

Down from the sky dropped a slender ship, smaller than the monitors. If the monitors were scorpions, the new vessel was a wasp. It settled over the crater and sank into the loose dirt—slowly, gingerly, like a probe. It began to roar, to vibrate, then it churned out of sight.

Along the arcade came a dozen men, running with the sinuous back-leaning glide of the Iszic. On an impulse, Farr fell in behind them, ignoring the distress of the two young Szecr.

The Iszic fled across the field toward the crater. Farr followed. He passed the limp body of the brown man and halted. The man’s hair was heavy, leonine; his features were broad, blunt; his hands still clenched the seedlings he had uprooted. The fingers fell limp even as Farr came to a halt. At the same time the eyes opened. They held full intelligence. Farr bent forward half in pity, half in interest.

Hands gripped him. He saw yellow and green stripes and furious faces with lips drawn back to show the pallid Iszic mouth, the sharp teeth.

“Here!” cried Farr, as he was hustled off the field. “Let go!”

The Szecr fingers bit into his arms and shoulders. They were obsessed by a murderous madness, and Farr held his tongue.

A deep far rumble underfoot sounded; the ground heaved.

The Szecr ran Farr toward Tjiere, then turned aside. Farr began to struggle, to drag his feet. Something hard struck the back of his neck. Half-stunned, he made no further resistance. They took him to an isolated tree near the basalt scarp. It was very old, with a gnarled black trunk, a heavy umbrella of leaves, and two or three withered pods. An irregular hole gaped into the trunk. Without ceremony they thrust him through.

Aile Farr, screaming hoarsely, fell through the dark. He kicked and clawed at the air. His head scraped against the side of the shaft. Then his shoulder struck, then his hip, then he was in full contact. The fall became a slide as the tube curved. His feet struck a membrane that seemed to collapse, then another and another. Seconds later he struck a resilient wall. The impact stunned him. He lay quiet, collecting his wits.

He moved and felt his head. The scrape on his scalp smarted. He heard a peculiar noise, a hissing bumping rush of an object sliding down the tube. Farr scrambled to the side. Something hard and heavy struck him in the ribs; something struck the wall with a thump and a groan. There was silence except for the sound of shallow breathing.

Farr said cautiously, “Who’s there?”

No answer.

Farr repeated the question in all his languages and dialects. Still no answer. He hunched himself up uneasily. He had no light, no means of making fire.

The breathing became stertorous, labored. Farr groped through the dark and felt a crumpled body. He rose to his knees and laid the unseen figure flat, straightening the arms and legs. The breathing became more regular.

Farr sat back, waiting. Five minutes passed. The walls of the room gave a sudden pulse and Farr heard a deep sound like a distant explosion. A minute or two later the sound and the pulse occurred again. The underground battle was raging, thought Farr. Wasp against mole, an underground battle to the death.

A wave of pressure and sound rocked him; the walls heaved. He heard an explosion that had a feeling of finality. The man in the dark gasped and coughed.

“Who’s there?” Farr called.

A bright eye of light winked into his face. Farr winced and moved his head. The light followed.

“Turn that damn thing away!” growled Farr.

The light moved up and down his body, lingering on the striped visitor’s shirt In the reflected glow Farr saw the brown man, dirty, bruised, haggard. The light issued from a clasp on the shoulder of his tunic.

The brown man spoke in a slow hoarse voice. The language was unknown to Farr and he shook his head in incomprehension. The brown man regarded him a moment or two longer in careful, if dubious, appraisal. Then he lurched painfully to his feet and ignoring Farr minutely examined the walls, floor and ceiling of the cell. Above, and inaccessible was the opening by which they had entered, to the side was a tightly knotted sphincter. Farr felt sullen and resentful, and the cut on his head smarted. The brown man’s activity irritated him. Obviously there would be no easy escape. The Szecr were nothing if not painstaking in matters of this sort.

Farr watched the brown man and presently decided him to be a Thord, the most manlike of the Three Arcturian races. There were various disturbing rumors regarding the Thord, and Farr was not too easy at having one of the race for a cell-mate—especially in the dark.

The Thord completed his study of the walls, and returned his attention to Farr. His eyes glowed softly, deep, cool and yellow, like cabochons of topaz. He spoke once again in his halting husky voice. “This is not a true prison.”

Farr was startled. Under the circumstances the remark seemed more than peculiar. “Why do you say that?”

The Thord studied him a full ten seconds before making a reply. “There was great excitement. The Iszt dropped us here for safekeeping. Soon they will take us elsewhere. There are no spy-holes here, nor sound receptors. This is a storage chamber.”

Farr looked dubiously at the walls. The Thord uttered a low moaning sound which caused Farr new startlement, until he understood that the Thord was merely expressing some unearthly variety of amusement. “You wonder how I can be sure of this,” said the Thord. “It is my ability to feel the weight of attention.”

Farr nodded politely. The Thord’s unwavering scrutiny was becoming oppressive. Farr turned half-away. The Thord began to mutter to himself: a crooning, monotonous sound. A lament? A threnody? The light dimmed but the Thord’s lugubrious murmur continued. Farr eventually became drowsy and fell asleep. It was a troubled restless sleep. His head seemed to smart and burn. He heard confidential voices and hoarse cries; he was home on Earth, and on his way to see—someone. A friend. Who? In his sleep Farr twisted and muttered. He knew he was asleep; he wanted to wake up.

The hollow voices, the footsteps, the restless images dwindled, and he slept soundly.

Light streamed in through an oval gap, silhouetting the frames of two Iszic. Farr awoke. He was vaguely surprised to find the Thord gone. In fact, the entire room seemed different. He was no longer in the root of the gnarled black tree.

He struggled up in a sitting position. His eyes were dim and watery; he found it hard to think. There was no anchor for his thoughts. It was as if all the faculties of his mind were separate pieces falling free through the air.

“Aile Farr Sainh,” said one of the Iszic, “may we trouble you to accompany us?” They wore bands of yellow and green: Szecr.

Farr struggled to his feet and stumbled through the oval door. With one of the Szecr ahead and one behind he walked along a twisting corridor. The foremost Szecr slid back a panel and Farr found himself in the arcade he had traversed before.

They took him out into the open, under the night sky. The stars glittered; Farr noticed Home Sun a few degrees below a star he knew to be Beta Aurigae. It aroused no pang, no homesickness. He felt emotion toward nothing. He saw without attention. He felt light, easy, relaxed.