Jack Vance - Big Planet

One by one the party entered the hall, until at last everyone was present. Except—

“Where’s Cloyville?” asked Pianza. “Doesn’t he plan to get up?” He turned to a servant. “Will you please arouse Mr Cloyville?”

The servant returned. “Mr Cloyville is not in his room.”

Cloyville was not seen all day.

It was possible, said Sir Walden, that he had wished to explore the town on foot. Glystra, with no other hypothesis to offer, concurred politely. If Cloyville had indeed wandered off, he would return when he felt so inclined. If he had been taken against his will, Glystra was unable to formulate a plan to retrieve him. Words would avail nothing… It might be wise, thought Glystra, to leave Kirstendale as soon as possible. He said as much at lunch.

Wailie and Motta were downcast, and toyed with their food sulkily. “Best we should remain here in Kirstendale,” said Wailie. “Everyone is gay; there is no beating of the woman, and a great deal of food.”

“Of course there is no meat,” Motta pointed out, “but who cares? The fabrics and the perfumed water and—” she glanced at Wailie and giggled. They looked at Corbus and Bishop, and giggled again.

Bishop blushed, sipped green fruit juice. Corbus raised his eyebrows sardonically. Glystra chuckled; then, thinking of Nancy, asked himself ruefully, what am I laughing at?

Sir Walden said gravely, “I have a rather pleasant surprise for you. Tonight, at our evening meal, there will be meat—a dish prepared in honor of our guests.”

He looked from face to face, half-smiling, waiting for the expected enthusiasm. Then: “But perhaps for you, meat is not the gala event it is for us… Also, I have been asked to convey the invitation of my Lord Sir Clarence Attlewee to a soiree at his castle this evening. It has likewise been planned in your honor, and he hopes you will accept.”

“Thank you,” said Glystra. “Speaking for myself, I’ll be delighted.” He looked around the circle of faces. “I think we’ll all be there… Even Cloyville, if he shows up.”

During the afternoon Sir Walden took them to what he called a “pressing.” It proved to be a ceremonial squeezing of essence from a vat of flowing petals. Two hundred of the aristocrats appeared, wearing green and gray headgear, which Sir Walden described as traditional for the occasion.

Glystra looked about the plaza, along the ranks of gay careless faces. “A good proportion of the upper classes must be present, I would imagine,” he said idly to Sir Walden.

Sir Walden stared straight ahead, and not a muscle moved on his face. “There are others, many others.”

“What is the population of Kirstendale, Sir Walden?”

Sir Walden made a non-committal gesture. “It is at best a speculation. I have no figures.”

“And what is your speculation?”

Sir Walden darted him a brilliant glance. “We are a proud race, proud and sensitive. And we have our Secret.”

“Excuse me.”

“Of course.”

The booms which radiated like spokes from the press were bedecked like a maypole, and manned by children. Round and round and round, chanting a shrill song— round and round. Flower fumes rose into the air, and trickle of yellow-green syrup dripped from the spout. Round and round. Essence of white blossoms, lush yellow petals, blue flake-flowers… The children bore tiny cups through the crowd, each containing a few drops of essence. Sir Walden said, “Bring your tongue almost to the liquid, but do not quite taste it.”

Glystra bent his head, followed the instructions. A wave of pungent fragrance swept through his throat, his nose, his entire head. His eyes swam, his head reeled, momentarily dizzy in a kind of floral ecstasy.

“Exquisite,” he gasped when he was able to speak.

Sir Walden nodded. “That was the Baie-Jolie press. Next will be a heavy Purple Woodmint, then a Marine Garden, then a Rose Thyme, and last my favorite, the fascinating Meadow Harvest Sachet.”

Through the afternoon the travellers revelled in perfume, and at last, half-intoxicated from gorgeous odors, they returned to Sir Walden’s castle.

Inquiry revealed that Cloyville had not yet returned.

Glystra bathed with a troubled mind. Awaiting him with a towel was the same smiling girl who had served him yesterday. Today she wore, in addition to her short black skirt, a string of red coral beads around her neck.

Sighing, half in frustration, Glystra allowed himself to be arrayed in fresh clothes.

Sir Walden was more attentive and gracious than ever this evening; repeatedly he toasted his guests and planet Earth in wines first green, then orange, then red, and Glystra’s head was light before the first series of courses was served.

Course after course: hot pickled fruit, slabs of nutty yeast spread with sweet syrups, salads, croquettes garnished with crisp water-weed—and presently a great tureen was wheeled in, a pottery bowl glazed in stripes of brown, black and green.

Sir Walden himself served the meat—slices of pale roast swimming in rich brown gravy.

Glystra found himself replete, without further appetite, and merely toyed with his portion. Sir Walden and his lady ate with silent concentration, for a moment quiet.

Glystra asked suddenly, “What kind of animal furnishes the meat?”

Sir Walden looked up, wiped his lips with a napkin. “A rather large beast, seldom seen in these parts. It seems to have wandered down from the north woods; by rare luck we procured it; its meat is superlatively delicious.”

“Indeed,” said Glystra. Looking about he noticed Pianza and Bishop had likewise left their plates untouched. Corbus and Clodleberg still had appetite, and ate the meat with relish, as did Nancy and the gypsy girls.

At the final course—a rich cheese-like substance— Glystra said suddenly, “I think Sir Walden, that tomorrow we will take our leave of Kirstendale.”

Sir Walden paused in his eating. “What? So soon?”

“We have far to go, and the monoline takes us but a short distance along the way.”

“But—your friend Cloyville?”

“If he is found—” he paused. “If he returns, he possibly may be able to overtake us. I feel that we had better go before—ah, any of us wander away.”

“You’re spoiling us for the tough life we have ahead,” said Pianza. “Another week here and I couldn’t bring myself to leave.”

Sir Walden politely expressed his regret. “I invited you as curiosities of the moment; now I look upon you as my friends.”

A coach came to convey the party to Sir Clarence Attlewee’s soiree. Sir Walden stood back.

“But do you not come with us?” asked Glystra.

“No,” said Sir Walden. “I will be occupied this evening.”

Glystra slowly took his seat in the carriage. Automatically he felt to his side—but he had left his weapon in his room. He whispered to Corbus, “Tonight—don’t drink too much. I think that we had better keep our heads clear… For what—I don’t know.”

“Right.”

The carriage stopped by a column painted blue-white, and the party was conducted up a spiral staircase much like Sir Walden Marchion’s.

Sir Clarence, a man with a heavy chin and snapping eyes, greeted his guests at the head of the stairs. Glystra stared at him. Somewhere, somehow, Sir Clarence’s face was familiar to him. He stammered, “Haven’t we met, Sir Clarence? This afternoon at the pressing?”

“I think not,” said Sir Clarence. “I was otherwise occupied today.”

“I feel I’ve spoken to you before. Your voice is familiar-”

Sir Clarence shook his head. “I’m afraid not.” He conducted them into his home. “Allow me to present my wife-” He did so. “And Valery, my daughter…” Glystra’s mouth fell open.