Jack Vance - The Dragon Masters

Phade had been squirming impatiently. “Where then is this bottle?”

“In the studio of Joaz Banbeck.”

Phade ran off as swiftly as the tight sheath about her thighs permitted. She passed through a transverse tunnel, across Kergan’s Way by a covered bridge, then up at a slant toward Joaz’s apartments.

Down the long hall ran Phade, through the anteroom where a bottle lay shattered on the floor, into the studio, where she halted in astonishment. No one was to be seen. She noticed a section of shelving which stood at an angle. Quietly, timorously, she stole across the room, peered down into the workshop.

The scene was an odd one. Joaz stood negligently, smiling a cool smile, as across the room a naked sacerdote gravely sought to shift a barrier which had sprung down across an area of the wall. But the gate was cunningly locked in place, and the sacerdote’s efforts were to no avail. He turned, glanced briefly at Joaz, then started for the exit into the studio.

Phade sucked in her breath, backed away.

The sacerdote came out into the studio, started for the door.

“Just a moment,” said Joaz. “I wish to speak to you.”

The sacerdote paused, turned his head in mild inquiry. He was a young man, his face bland, blank, almost beautiful. Fine transparent skin stretched over his pale bones; his eyes, wide, blue, innocent, seemed to stare without focus. He was delicate of frame, sparsely fleshed; his hands were thin, with fingers trembling in some kind of nervous imbalance. Down his back, almost to his waist, hung the mane of long light-brown hair.

Joaz seated himself with ostentatious deliberation, never taking his eyes from the sacerdote. Presently he spoke in a voice pitched at an ominous level. “I find your conduct far from ingratiating.” This was a declaration requiring no response, and the sacerdote made none.

“Please sit,” said Joaz. He indicated a bench. “You have a great deal of explaining to do.”

Was it Phade’s imagination? Or did a spark of something like wild amusement flicker and die almost instantaneously in the sacerdote’s eyes? But again he made no response. Joaz, adapting to the peculiar rules by which communication with the sacerdotes must be conducted, asked, “Do you care to sit?”

“It is immaterial,” said the sacerdote. “Since I am standing now, I will stand.”

Joaz rose to his feet and performed an act without precedent. He pushed the bench behind the sacerdote, rapped the back of the knobby knees, thrust the sacerdote firmly down upon the bench. “Since you are sitting now,” said Joaz, “you might as well sit.”

With gentle dignity the sacerdote regained his feet. “I shall stand.”

Joaz shrugged. “As you wish. I intend to ask you some questions. I hope that you will co-operate and answer with precision.”

The sacerdote blinked owlishly.

“Will you do so?”

“Certainly. I prefer, however, to return the way I came.”

Joaz ignored the remark. “First,” he asked, “why do you come to my study?”

The sacerdote spoke carefully, in the voice of one talking to a child. “Your language is vague; I am confused and must not respond, since I am vowed to give only truth to anyone who requires it.”

Joaz settled himself in his chair. “There is no hurry. I am ready for a long discussion. Let me ask you then—did you have impulses which you can explain to me, which persuaded or impelled you to come to my studio?”

“Yes.”

“How many of these impulses did you recognize?”

“I don’t know.”

“More than one?”

“Perhaps.”

“Less than ten?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hmm . . . Why are you uncertain?”

“I am not uncertain.”

“Then why can’t you specify the number as I requested?”

“There is no such number.”

“I see. You mean, possibly, that there are several elements of a single motive which directed your brain to signal your muscles in order that they might carry you here?”

“Possibly.”

Joaz’s thin lips twisted in a faint smile of triumph. “Can you describe an element of the eventual motive?”

“Yes.”

“Do so, then.”

There was an imperative, against which the sacerdote was proof. Any form of coercion know to Joaz—fire, sword, thirst, mutilation—these to a sacerdote were no more than inconveniences; he ignored them as if they did not exist. His personal inner world was the single world of reality; either acting upon or reacting against the affairs of the Utter Men demeaned him, absolute passivity, absolute candor were his necessary courses of action. Understanding something of this, Joaz rephrased his command. “Can you think of an element of the motive which impelled you to come here?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“A desire to wander about.”

“Can you think of another?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“A desire to exercise myself by walking.”

“I see. Incidentally, are you trying to evade answering my questions?”

“I answer such questions as you put to me. So long as I do so, so long as I open my mind to all who seek knowledge—for this is our creed—there can be no question of evasion.”

“So you say. However, you have not provided me an answer that I find satisfactory.”

The sacerdote’s reply to the comment was an almost imperceptible widening of the pupils.

“Very well then,” said Joaz Banbeck. “Can you think of another element to this complex motive we have been discussing?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“I am interested in antiques. I came to your study to admire your relicts of the old worlds.”

“Indeed?” Joaz raised his eyebrows. “I am lucky to possess such fascinating treasures. Which of my antiques interests you particularly?”

“Your books, your maps, your great globe of the Arch-world.”

“The Arch-world? Eden?”

“This is one of its names.”

Joaz pursed his lips. “So you come here to study my antiques. Well then, what other elements to this motive exist?”

The sacerdote hesitated an instant. “It was suggested to me that I come here.”

“By whom?”

“By the Demie.”

“Why did he so suggest?”

“I am uncertain.”

“Can you conjecture?”

“Yes.”

“What are these conjectures?”

The sacerdote made a small bland gesture with the fingers of one hand. “The Demie might wish to become an Utter Man, and so seeks to learn the principles of your existence. Or the Demie might wish to change the trade articles. The Demie might be fascinated by my descriptions of your antiques. Or the Demie might be curious regarding the focus of your vision panels. Or—”

“Enough. Which of these conjectures, and of other conjectures you have not yet divulged, do you consider most probable?”

“None.”

Joaz raised his eyebrows once more. “How do you justify this?”

“Since any desired number of conjectures can be formed, the denominator of any probability-ratio is variable and the entire concept becomes meaningless.”

Joaz grinned wearily. “Of the conjectures which to this moment have occurred to you, which do you regard as the most likely?”

“I suspect that the Demie might think it desirable that I come here to stand.”

“What do you achieve by standing?”

“Nothing.”

“Then the Demie does not send you here to stand.”

To Joaz’s assertion, the sacerdote made no comment.

Joaz framed a question with great care. “What do you believe that the Demie hopes you will achieve by coming here to stand?”

“I believe that he wishes me to learn how Utter Men think.”

“And you learn how I think by coming here?”