Jack Vance: The Houses of Iszm

Farr tried to speak with indignation. “My legal rights have been totally ignored. The Treaty of Access has been violated.”

“I hope you will forgive us,” said Zhde Patasz. “Of course you realize that we must protect our fields.”

“I had nothing to do with the raid.”

“Yes. We understand that.”

Farr smiled bitterly. “While I was under hypnosis you siphoned out everything I know.”

Zhde Patasz performed the curious contraction of the filament dividing the segments of his eyes which Farr had come to recognize as a manifestation of Iszic amusement. “By chance I was informed of your misadventure.”

“ ‘Misadventure’? An outrage!”

Zhde Patasz made a soothing gesture. “The Szecr would naturally plan to subdue the Thord by use of a hypnotic atmosphere. The race has powerful capabilities, both physical and psychic, as well as notorious moral deficiencies, which presumably is why they were recruited to conduct the raid.”

Farr was puzzled. “You think the Thord weren’t acting on their own?”

“I think not. The organization was too precise, the planning too exact. The Thord are an impatient race and while it is not impossible that they mounted the expedition, we are inclined to think otherwise, and are extremely anxious to identify the instigator of the raid.”

“So you examined me under hypnosis, violating the Treaty of Access.”

“I assume the questioning covered only matters pertaining to the raid.” Zhde Patasz was trying to conciliate Farr. “The Szecr were perhaps over-assiduous, but you appeared to be a conspirator. You must recognize that.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“No?” Zhde Patasz seemed surprised. “You arrive at Tjiere on the day of the assault. You attempt to evade your escort at the dock. During an interview you make pointless attempts to control your reactions. Forgive me if I show you your errors.”

“Not at all, go right ahead.”

“In the arcade you once more evade your escort; you race out on the field, an apparent effort to take part in the raid.”

“This is all nonsense,” said Farr.

“We are satisfied of this,” said Zhde Patasz. “The raid has ended in disaster for the Thord. We destroyed the mole at a depth of eleven hundred feet. There were no survivors except the person with whom you shared a cell.”

“What will happen to him?”

Zhde Patasz hesitated. Farr thought he detected uncertainty in Zhde Patasz’s voice. “Under normal conditions he would have been perhaps the least lucky of all.” He paused, forming his thoughts into words. “We have faith in the deterrent effect of punishment. He would have been confined to the Mad House.”

“What happened to him?”

“He killed himself in the cell.”

Farr felt suddenly bewildered, as if this were an unexpected development. Somehow the brown man was obligated to him; something was lost…

Zhde Patasz said in a voice full of solicitude, “You appear shocked, Farr Sainh.”

“I don’t know why I should be.”

“Are you tired, or weak?”

“I’m collecting myself a little at a time.”

The Iszic woman came with a tray of food—spice-nuts, a hot aromatic liquid, and dried fish.

Farr ate with pleasure; he was hungry. Zhde Patasz watched him curiously. “It is strange. We are of different worlds, we evolved from different stock, yet we share a number of similar ambitions, similar fears and desires. We protect our possessions, the objects which bring us security.”

Farr felt the raw spot on his scalp. It still smarted and pulsed. He nodded thoughtfully.

Zhde Patasz strolled to the glass cylinder and looked down at the dancing eels. “Sometimes we are over-anxious, of course, and our fears cause us to over-reach ourselves.” He turned. They surveyed each other a long moment: Farr half-submerged in the chair-pod, the Iszic tall and strong, the double eyes large in his thin aquiline head.

“In any event,” said Zhde Patasz, “I hope you will forget our mistake. The Thord and their mentor or mentors are responsible. But for them the situation would not have arisen. And please don’t overlook our intense concern. The raid was of enormous scope and a near-success. Who conceived, who planned so complex an operation? We must learn this. The Thord worked with great precision. They seized both seeds and seedlings from specific plots evidently charted beforehand by a spy in the guise of a tourist like yourself.” And Zhde Patasz inspected Farr somberly.

Farr laughed shortly. “A tourist unlike myself. I don’t care to be associated with the affair even indirectly.”

Zhde Patasz bowed politely. “A creditable attitude. But I am sure you are generous enough to understand our agitation. We must protect our investment; we are businessmen.”

“Not very good businessmen,” said Farr.

“An interesting opinion. Why not?”

“You have a good product,” said Farr, “but you market it uneconomically. Limited sale, high mark-up.”

Zhde Patasz brought out his viewer and waved it indulgently. “There are many theories.”

“I’ve studied several analyses of the house trade,” said Farr. “They disagree only in detail.”

“What is the consensus?”

“That your methods are inefficient. On each planet a single dealer has the monopoly. It’s a system which pleases only the dealer. K. Penche is a hundred times a millionaire and he’s the most hated man on Earth.”

Zhde Patasz swung his viewer thoughtfully. “K. Penche will be an unhappy man as well as a hated one.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Farr. “Why?”

“The raid destroyed a large number of his quota.”

“He won’t get any houses?”

“Not of the kind he ordered.”

“Well,” said Farr, “it makes little difference. He sells everything you send him anyway.”

Zhde Patasz showed a trace of impatience. “He is an Earther—a mercantilist. We are Iszic and house-breeding is in our blood, a basic instinct. The line of planters began two hundred thousand years ago when Diun, the primordial anthrophib, crawled out of the ocean. With salt-water still draining from his gills he took refuge in a pod. He is my ancestor. We have gained mastery over houses; we shall not dissipate this accumulated lore, or permit ourselves to be plundered.”

“The knowledge eventually will be duplicated,” said Farr, “whether you like it or not. There are too many homeless people in the universe.”

“No.” Zhde Patasz snapped his viewer. “The craft cannot be induced rationally—an element of magic still exists.”

“Magic?”

“Not literally. The trappings of magic. For instance, we sing incantations to sprouting seeds. The seeds sprout and prosper. Without incantations they fail. Why? Who knows? No one on Iszm. In every phase of growing, training and breaking the house for habitation, this special lore makes the difference between a house and a withered useless vine.”

“On Earth,” said Farr, “we would begin with the elemental tree. We would sprout a million seeds, we would explore a million primary avenues.”

“After a thousand years,” said the Iszic, “you might control the number of pods on a tree.” He walked to the wall and stroked the green fiber. “This floss—we inject a liquid into an organ of the rudimentary pod. The liquid comprises substances such as powdered ammonite nerve, ash of the frunz bush, sodium isochromyl acetate, powder from the Phanodano meteorite. The liquid undergoes six critical operations, and must be injected through the proboscis of a sea-lympid. Tell me,” he glanced at Farr through his viewer, “how long before your Earth researchers could grow green floss into a pod?”

“Perhaps we’d never try. We might be satisfied with five or six-pod houses the owners could furnish as they liked.”