Jack Vance - Big Planet

Heinzelman loomed on the afterglow, a heroic figure, larger than life… Bishop ran forward, closed with him. Heinzelman bellowed, a ringing bull-sound. He bent, Bishop twisted, rose up beneath. Heinzelman performed a majestic cartwheel, struck earth with a ponderous jar. Bishop sat casually on him, made play with his hands a moment, then stood up. Glystra approached, still numb. “What did you do?”

“Tried out a few judo tricks,” said Bishop modestly. “I had an idea the fellow won his battles with his voice, his hypnotic suggestion. Sure enough he was soft; no muscle around his major chord. I killed him dead as a mackerel, one tap in the right place.”

“I never knew you were a judo expert.”

“I’m not… I read a book on the subject a few years back, and it came to me all at once—my word, all those zipangotes!”

“They must have belonged to the other Politburos, that the Beaujolains killed. They’re ours now.”

“Where are the other gypsies?”

Glystra listened. There was not a sound to be heard across the steppes. A far bray of the horn? He could not be sure.

“They’ve gone. Melted away.”

They returned to the copse leading the zipangotes. Glystra said, “We’d better get going.”

Cloyville stared. “Now?”

“Now!” Glystra snapped. He was taut with weariness. “Three Beaujolain soldiers got away last night. They’ll take the news to Montmarchy. A new column will be sent out. They’ll be mounted on zipangotes, they’ll carry metal weapons. We can’t take chances. I don’t like it any more than you do but—” he pointed to the zipangotes “—at least we can ride.”

Morning, midday, afternoon—the Earthmen slumped on the curved backs of the zipangotes, half-dazed with fatigue. The gait was a smooth rocking pitch, not conducive to sleep. Evening came with a slow dimming of the sky.

A fire was built in a hollow, a pot of wheat porridge boiled and eaten, two-hour sentry watches set, and the column bedded down.

Glystra was too tired to fall asleep. He twisted and turned. He thought of Nancy, raised to his elbow. Her eyes were on him. Sweating, he sank back into the couch. It would be hard indulging what he felt to be a mutual passion without making themselves ridiculous. It would also be inconsiderate… Sighing, Glystra slumped back into his blankets.

The next morning Glystra opened his eyes to observe Bishop running lightly back and forth along the side of the slope. Glystra rubbed his eyes, yawned, hauled himself to his feet. Feeling dull and liverish he called irritably to Bishop, “What in the world’s come over you? I never knew you to go in for early morning exercise before.”

A flush mounted Bishop’s long homely face. “I can’t understand it myself. I just feel good. I’ve never felt so well in my life. Perhaps my vitamins are taking hold.”

“They never took hold before we got all doped up with that zygage. Then they took hold like ice-tongs, and you ran out and played hell with Heinzelman.”

“I can’t understand it,” said Bishop, now half-worried. “Do you think that drug has permanently affected me?”

Glystra rubbed his chin. “If it has it seems to be a good thing—but why did it give the rest of us hangovers? We all ate the same, drank the same… Except—” he eyed Bishop speculatively. “I wish we had more of those branches; I’d make some experiments.”

“What kind of experiments?”

“It occurred to me that you’d crammed yourself with vitamins—just before the smoke hit us.”

“Well, yes. That’s true. So I did. I wonder if possibly there’s a connection… Interesting thought…”

“If I ever lay my hands on any more of that zygage,” muttered Glystra, watching Bishop absent-mindedly flexing his arms. “I’ll find out for sure.”

Four days of steady travel passed, from dawn till sunset. They saw no human being until on the afternoon of the fourth day they came upon a pair of young gypsy girls, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, tending a score of sluggish animals, yellow-furred, the size of sheep— pechavies. They wore tattered gray smocks and their feet were tied in rags. The freshness of youth was still theirs, and they had a wild prettiness in no way diminished by their complete fearlessness when they found that the men of the column were not gypsies.

They deserted their animals and ran forward. “Are you slavers,” asked the first happily. “We wish to be slaves.”

“Sorry,” said Glystra dryly. “We’re just travellers. Why are you so anxious?”

The girls giggled, eyeing Glystra as if his question were obtuse. “Slaves are fed often and eat from dishes. Slaves may step under a roof when the rain comes, and I’ve heard it said that slaves are eaten only if no other food is available… We are to be eaten this winter, unless the pechavies fatten past expectation.”

Glystra looked at them irresolutely. If he set about righting the wrongs of everyone they meet, they would never arrive at Earth Enclave. On the other hand—a stealthy thought—if the other men in the column were provided with women, it would be possible for him to advance his own desires. Of course, camp-followers would slow up the column. There would be added supply problems, emotional flare-ups… He looked over his shoulder. Corbus caught his eyes as if divining his thoughts.

“I could use a good slave” he said easily. “You—what’s your name?”

“I’m Motta. She’s Wailie.”

Glystra said weakly, “Anyone else?”

Pianza shook his head. “I’m much too old. Too old.”

Cloyville snorted, turned away.

This was embarrassing thought Glystra. Here is where he should display firmness, leadership… He passed over Ketch, who gloried in his misogyny, and would suffer the pangs of Saint Anthony before yielding so eaily.

Bishop said tentatively, “I’ll take her.”

Glystra felt quick relief, vindication of a sort. And the problems of the future could be met as they arose. Now was the present, now was the time containing that sweet union of carbon, oxygen, hydrogen, spirit, will and imagination named Nancy. He met her eyes, as if there had been a signal. She colored faintly, gave an enigmatic jerk of the shoulder, looked away.

Three more days of riding the steppe, each exactly alike. On the fourth day the land changed. The bracken grew taller and harder to ride through, almost like Earthly manzanita. There were occasional flamboyant shrubs six feet tall, with leaves like peacock fans. Ahead appeared a low black blur, which the gypsy girls identified as the bank of the River Oust.

At noon they came upon a fetish post driven into the earth—a round timber eight feet tall, topped by a spherical gourd painted to represent a face.

The gypsy girls made a wide circuit of the post. Wailie said in a hushed voice, “The Magickers of Edelweiss put that there, and only just now, to warn us away from the river.”

Bishop patiently pointed out that in all the range of vision there was no living creature but themselves.

“Only just now,” declared Wailie stubbornly. “See the moist dirt.”

“Does look fresh,” Bishop admitted dubiously.

“If you touch the post, you will blacken and die,” cried Motta.

Glystra, reflecting that many folk-beliefs were based on fact, searched the steppe in all directions… There! A flicker of white? Whatever it was, it disappeared over a distant swale.

In the middle afternoon they came upon Edelweiss, a stockaded fort, with three story blockhouses at each corner.

Motta explained. “Sometimes the South Cossacks raid the Magickers. They are not allowed at the Rummage Sale, because the sight of naked knees drives them mad and they run killing-crazy. But they love the gray powder salt which comes up the river from Gammerei and the Magickers have it in stock, and that is why Edelweiss is girt up with such care.”