Jack Vance: Big Planet

The Voivode turned back to the oracle. “How may I extend my life?”

“I have no certain knowledge. A reasonable regimen would include bland foods, abstinence from stimulating narcotics and gland revitalizers, a program of charitable deeds to ease your mind.”

The Voivode twisted angrily back to the prefect. “You have gulled me; this creature voids the most odious nonsense. Why does he not reveal the formula?”

“What formula?” inquired the prefect without concern.

“The mixing of the elixir of eternal life!” roared the Voivode. “What else?”

The prefect shrugged. “Ask him yourself.”

The Voivode dictated the question. The oracle listened politely.

“There is no such information in my experience, and insufficient data to synthesize such a formula.”

In more gentle tones the prefect suggested, “Ask only such information as lies in the realm of the natural. The oracle is no seer, like the Witthorns or the Edelweiss Hags.”

The Voivode’s face turned a mottled purple. “How may I best secure my son his inheritance?”

“In a state isolated from external influence a ruler can rule from tradition, by force or by the desire and acquiescence of his subjects. The last of these guarantees the most stable reign.”

“Go on, go on!” screamed the Voivode. “Time fleets: You will die at any moment?”

“Strange,” said the oracle with a weary smile, “when now for the first time I have started to live.”

“Speak!” said the prefect sharply.

“Your dynasty started with yourself when you poisoned the previous voivode; there is no tradition of rule. Your son might therefore maintain himself by force. The process is simple. He must kill all who dispute his leadership. These acts will win him new enemies, and he must kill these likewise. If he is able to kill faster than his enemies are able to gather their strength, he will remain in power.”

“Impossible! My son is a popinjay. I am surrounded by traitors, preening cock-o’-the-walk underlings who wait the time of my death as the signal to rob and pillage.”

“In this case your son must prove himself a ruler so able that no one will desire to be rid of him.”

The Voivode’s eyes grew dim. His gaze went far away, perhaps to the face of his son.

“To foster this situation, you must institute a change in your own policies. Examine every act of your officials from the viewpoint of the least privileged members of the state, and modify your policies accordingly; then when you die, your son will be floated on a reservoir of good will and loyalty.”

The Voivode leaned back in his chair, looked quizzically up at the prefect. “And it is for this that I have paid twenty sound slaves and five ounces of copper?”

The prefect was disturbed. “He has outlined a course of action to guide you. He has answered your questions.”

“But,” the Voivode protested, “he told me nothing pleasant!”

The prefect looked blandly up along the mother-of-pearl panelling. “At Myrtlesee Fountain you will hear no flattery, no spurious evasions. You hear exactitude and truth.”

The Voivode swelled, puffed, blew out his cheeks.

“Very well, another question. The Delta-men have been raiding all Cridgin Valley and stealing cattle. My soldiers flounder in the mud and reeds. How best may I abate this nuisance? What can I do?”

“Plant bush-vine on the Imsidiption Hills.”

The Voivode sputtered; the prefect said hastily, “Explain if you please.”

“The Delta-folk subsist by preference on clams. For centuries they have cultivated clam beds. You have grazed your pechavies on the Imsidiption slopes so steadily that the vegetation is gone and the rain washes great quantities of silt into River Pannasic. This silt is deposited on the clam beds, the clams die. In hunger the Delta-men raid the cattle of the valley. To abate the nuisance, remove the cause.”

“They have been impudent and treacherous; I want revenge.”

“You will never achieve your wish,” the oracle said.

The Voivode leapt to his feet. He seized a stone jar from his palanquin, threw it viciously at the oracle, struck him on the chest. The prefect held up an outraged hand; the Voivode darted him a look of black malice, flung aside the girls, jumped into the palanquin. The four black porters silently lifted the poles to their shoulders, started for the door.

The oracle had closed his eyes. His mouth drooped. A tic twisted his lips. He began to gasp—great gulping breaths. His fingers clenched, unclenched. Glystra, watching in fascination, started forward, but Nymaster clutched him, drew him back.

“Are you mad? Do you not value your head?”

Koromutin marched past, motioned significantly. “Await me in the corridor.”

“Hurry!” said Glystra.

Koromutin gave him a glance of wordless contempt, disappeared down the passage. An endless ten minutes later he returned, wearing his usual white and blue robe. Without a word or glance he turned up the steps glowing with vermilion lacquer, which gave on an arcade circling the dome. Through tall arches Glystra could see across the oasis, past the shimmer of the desert to the black hills, now hazy in the afternoon light.

Koromutin turned up another flight of stairs, and they came out into another corridor circling the dome. This time the openings overlooked the hall below. Koromutin turned into a small office. A man almost his twin sat at a desk. Koromutin waved Nymaster and Glystra back, approached the desk, spoke with great earnestness, and presently received an answer of equal import.

Koromutin beckoned to Nymaster. “This is Gentile, the Steward Ordain. He can help us, if your father will part with a second dagger of workmanship like that I am to receive.”

Nymaster grumbled and cursed. “It can be so arranged.”

Koromutin nodded and the little man at the desk, as if waiting the signal, arose, stepped out into the hall.

“He has seen the woman in question,” said Koromutin in a confidential undertone, “and can take you to her quarters. I leave you in his care. Walk discreetly, for now you tread in high places.”

They continued, with Gentile the steward in the lead— along interminable corridors, up another flight of stairs. Glystra heard a sound which caused him to halt in his tracks—a low-pitched steady hum.

Gentile turned impatiently. “Come now, I will show you the woman, then my task is done.”

“What causes that sound?” asked Glystra.

“Look through the grating; you will see the source. It is a glass and metal organism that talks in distant voices—a think of potency, but not of our present interest. Come.”

Glystra peered through the grating. He saw modern electronic equipment arranged and hooked together in a manner that suggested knowledgeable improvisation. A rough table held a speaker, a microphone, a bank of controls, and behind, the twenty parallel fins which carried the printed circuits, served as condensers, resistances, impedances… Glystra stared, the sight opening an entirely new range of possibilities.

“Come, come, come!” barked the steward. “I wish to keep my head on my shoulders, even if you care nothing for yours.”

“How much further?” snapped Nymaster. The affair was taking him farther afield than he had bargained for.

“A few steps, no more, then you shall see the woman; but mind you, take care not to make your presence known or else we’ll all dangle and our heads will be drained.”

“What!” barked Glystra savagely. Nymaster gripped his arm, shook his head urgently. “Don’t antagonize the old fool,” he whispered. “Otherwise we’ll never find her.”

They continued, walking on heavy green carpet along a corridor which constantly curved out of sight ahead. At last Gentile halted at a door of heavy wood. He looked furtively behind, then stooped with the ease of much practice, peered through the crack where the hinges dented the jamb.