Jack Vance - Big Planet

Glystra returned to the river. The zipangotes had been arranged in line, each long dog-like head under the hindquarters of the beast ahead. “Let’s go,” said Glystra.

The river fell behind, was quickly lost to sight. The caravan wound like a snake in tall grass—now left, now right, twisting, side-stepping, detouring the puddles of water.

The sun rose, and they rode through shafts and bars of heavy light, and zebra striping lay along the tall spines.

About noon, there was a sudden opening before them—a lake. Small waves rippled and glinted at their feet; clouds reflected between areas of deep blue. In the distance floated a few low boats with wide double-lateen booms and baggy orange sails; and beyond was Swamp City. It sat up in the air, on top of the forest, like a mirage; it reminded Glystra of an old-world fishing village.

For several moments the party stood staring at the city on stilts… A shrill squawking startled them: a blue and yellow flying thing, beating sluggishly through the air.

“For a moment,” said Cloyville, “I thought the Magick-ers were upon us.”

Back to the forest—more winding, squeezing, doubling back, occasionally a straight run of twenty or thirty feet.

The sun moved across the sky; at last, in the middle afternoon, Glystra saw overhead the walls and houses of the city. Five minutes later the caravan moved into the shadow of the deck.

“A moment, please” said an unhurried voice. A platoon of warriors stood beside them, stocky men in mulberry coats.

The officer approached Glystra. “Your business, if you please.”

“No business. We’re travellers.”

“Travellers?” The officer glanced at the zipangotes. “From where?”

“From Jubilith, north of Beaujolais.”

“How did you get those beasts across the river? Certainly not on the high-line; our agent would have reported you.”

“We ferried them over on a raft. Last night.”

The officer fingered his mustache. “Did not the griamobots—”

Glystra smiled. “The Magickers have been hoaxing you. The griamobots are vegetarians, harmless. The only dangerous griamobot was one the Magickers built and filled with soldiers.”

The officer swore under his breath. “Lord Wittelhatch will wish to hear this. Magicker regulations and tariffs have long irked him, especially since he strung up the cable to begin with.”

“The cable interests me,” said Glystra. “Is it metal?”

“Oh no, by no means.” The officer laughed affably—a handsome young man with an expressive face and a jaunty straw-colored mustache. “Come, I’ll lead you to where your caravan may rest, and along the way you’ll see the working of our industry. We are rope-makers to the world; nowhere is cable equal to ours.”

Glystra hesitated. “Our wish was to continue as far along the way as possible before nightfall. Perhaps you will direct us—”

“A wealthy man in a hurry,” said the officer, thoughtfully eying the three girls, “would ride the monoline. It would cost much metal, much metal… Best confer with Wittelhatch.”

“Very well.” Glystra motioned to the column; they followed the officer, and a moment later came upon a scene of industry.

A series of rope-walks occupied an area five hundred feet square, which had been partially cleared, leaving only enough spines to support the weight of the city above. Each rope-walk consisted of a series of frames. In the process of formation the rope passed through a hole in the frame and immediately afterward passed through a wheel, which rotated around the rope as an axis. Fixed at regular intervals on the wheel were five fat slugs, and from their positors white strands ran to the rope. As the rope pulled through the frame, the wheel rotated and five new strands were added to the rope.

Glystra sighted up the rope-walk. Each frame had its wheel, and each wheel carried five slugs secreting thread for the rope. “Very clever,” said Glystra. “Very clever indeed.”

“Our rope is unexcelled,” said the officer, with a proud twist for his mustache. “Flexible, weatherproof, strong. We furnish rope for the monolines of Felissima, Bogover, Thelma, also the long line to Grosgarth in Beaujolais and the line out to Myrtlesee Fountain.”

“Hm… And the monolines are fast transportation?”

The officer inspected him smilingly. “I assure you.”

“Just what is a monoline?”

The officer laughed. “Now you joke with me. Come, I will take you to Wittelhatch, and he will doubtless feast you at his evening wassail. I understand an excellent conger bakes in his oven this day.”

“But our packs, our luggage! And the zipangotes, they have not eaten yet, there is nothing in this swamp for them to eat!”

The officer signalled; four men stepped forward. “Service and groom the beasts, feed them well, pluck their sores, wash and bind their feet, set them out each a dram of dympel.“ He said to Glystra. ”Your baggage will be secure, Swamp Island knows no thieves. Merchants and industers we be, but robbers no, it is against our rotes.”

Wittelhatch was a fat man with round red face, half-petulant, half-jocular, with crafty heavy-lidded eyes. He wore a white blouse embroidered with red and yellow frogs, a red brocade surcingle, tight blue trousers, black boots. In each ear hung a gold ring and each finger was heavy with assorted metals. He sat in a ceremonial chair, apparently having just lowered himself into place, for he was yet wrestling with the folds of his garments.

The officer bowed gracefully, indicated Glystra with a debonair motion. “A traveller from the west, Lord.”

“From the west?” Wittelhatch, narrow-eyed, rubbed one of his sub-chins. “I understand that the highline across the river has been cut. It will be necessary to kite it back into place. How then did you cross?”

Glystra explained the Magicker hoax. Wittelhatch became shrill and angry. “The long white muckers—and all the business I’ve sent them out of pity! Hey, but it discourages an honest community to be set so close to rascals!”

Glystra said with restrained impatience, “Our wish is to proceed on our way. Your officer suggested that we use the monoline.”

Wittlehatch immediately became business-like. “How many are in your party?”

“Eight, together with our baggage.”

Wittelhatch turned to the officer. “What do you suggest, Clodleberg? Five singles and a pack?”

The officer squinted thoughtfully. “Their baggage is considerable. Better might be two packs and two singles. And since they are unused to the trolleys, a guide.”

“Where is your destination?” Wittelhatch inquired.

“As far east as possible.”

“That’s Myrtlesee… Well now.” Wittelhatch calculated. “I care little to let my trolleys journey to such vast extents; you must pay substantially. If you buy the trolleys outright—ninety ounces of good iron. If you rent—sixty ounces, plus the guide’s pay and a reasonable return fee— another ten ounces.”

Glystra haggled politely, and reduced the rental to fifty ounces plus the zipangotes, and Wittelhatch would pay the guide. “Perhaps, Clodleberg, you would care to lead the party?” Wittelhatch inquired of the young officer.

Clodleberg twisted his blond mustache.

“Delighted.”

“Good,” said Glystra. “We’ll leave at once.”

Wittelhatch rang a hand-bell. A porter appeared. “Carry the baggage of these people to the take-off deck.”

Wind blew in sails and trolley wheels whispered down the monoline—a half-inch strand of white Swamp Island cable. From the dome at Swamp City the line led from spine to spine across three miles of swamp to a rocky headland, crossed over the rotten basalt with only six feet to spare, swung in a wide curve to the south-east. At fifty-foot intervals L-brackets mounted to poles supported the line, so designed that the trolleys slid across with only a tremor and slight thud of contact.