Jack Vance - Big Planet

The prefects held Glystra with practiced ease.

“Look!” exclaimed the Bajarnum delightedly. “Look how he flails about… Ah, he has caused me much trouble, that one. Now he pays the price.”

But Glystra felt no pain. He had passed beyond mere sensation. He was reliving his life, from earliest foetus up through the years, reliving, re-experiencing, re-knowing every detail of his existence. Reviewing these events was a great super-consciousness, like an inspector watching a belt of fruit. As each distorted concept, misunderstanding, fallacy appeared, the hand of the inspector reached down, twitched events into rational perspectives, smoothed out the neural snarls which had clogged Glystra’s brain.

Childhood flickered past the super-awareness, then early life on Earth, his training among the planets of the System. Big Planet bulked outside the space-ship port, again he crashed on the Great Slope of Jubilith; again he set out on the long journey to the east. He retraced his route through Tsalombar Woods, Nomadland, past Edelweiss, the River Oust, Swamp Island, down the monoline through the Hibernian March, Kirstendale, across the desert toward Myrtlesee Fountain. Present time loomed ahead; he plunged through like a train coming out of a tunnel. He was once more aware and conscious, with the whole of his life rearranged, all his knowledge ordered into compartments, ready for instant use.

The High Dain’s voice came to his ears. “You see him with his brain purged and clear. Now you must hasten; in a few minutes his life-force dwindles and he dies.”

Glystra opened his eyes. His body was at once warm and cool, tingling with sensitivity. He felt strong as a leopard, agile, flooded with potential.

He looked around the hall, studied the troubled faces of the people before him. Victims they were, the result of their inner warps. Nancy was pale as eggshell, her eyes full and moist. He saw her as she was, divined her motives.

The Bajarnum said doubtfully, “He looks perfectly happy.”

Mercodion answered, “That’s the common response. For a brief period they float on a sea of well-being. Then their vitality fails and they go. Hurry, Bajarnum; hurry if you wish knowledge.”

Charley Lysidder spoke in a loud voice. “How can I buy weapons from the System Arms Control? Who can I bribe?”

Glystra looked down at the Bajarnum, at Mercodion, at Nancy. The situation seemed suddenly one of vast humor; he found it hard to control his face.

The Bajarnum repeated the question, more urgently.

“Try Alan Marklow,” said Glystra, as if imparting a precious secret.

The Bajarnum leaned forward, excited in spite of himself. “Alan Marklow? The chairman of the Control?” He sat back, a pink flush, half-anger, half-anticipation, on his face. “So Alan Marklow can be bought—the sanctimonious scoundrel.”

“To the same extent as any other member of the Control,” said Glystra. “That is the reasoning behind my advice: if you plan to bribe any of them, the best person to subvert is the man at the top.”

The Bajarnum stared. The High Dain’s eyes narrowed. He jerked upright in his seat.

Glystra said, “As I understand it, you want weapons so that you may extend your empire; am I right?”

“In essence,” the Bajarnum admitted warily.

“What is the motive behind this desire?”

Mercodion raised his head, started to bellow an order, thought better of it, clamped his mouth in a tight white line.

The Bajarnum reflected. “I wish to add glory to my name, to make Grosgarth the queen city of the world, to punish my enemies.”

“Ridiculous. Futile.”

Charley Lysidder was nonplussed. He turned to Mercodion. “Is this a usual manifestation?”

“By no means,” snapped Mercodion. He could contain his fury no longer. He leapt to his feet, black brows bristling. “Answer the questions directly! What kind of oracle are you, evading and arguing and asserting the ego which you must know has been numbed by the drug of wisdom? I command you, act with greater pliability, for you will die in two minutes and the Bajarnum has much he wants to learn.”

“Perhaps my question was inexact,” said the Bajarnum mildly. He returned to Glystra. “What is the most practical method for me to acquire metal weapons at a low cost?”

“Join the Star Patrol,” said Glystra waggishly. “They’ll issue you a sheath-knife and an ion-shine free.”

Mercodion exhaled a deep breath. The Bajarnum frowned. The interview was not going at all as he had expected. He tried a third time. “Is it likely that Earth-Central will forcibly federate Big Planet?”

“Highly unlikely,” said Glystra, with complete honesty. He thought it was almost time to die, and sank limply into the chair.

“Most unsatisfactory,” grumbled Mercodion.

Charley Lysidder chewed his lip, surveyed Glystra with his deceptively candid eyes. Nancy stared numbly; for all his sharpened perceptions, Glystra could not fathom her thoughts.

“One more question,” said the Bajarnum. “How can I best prolong my life?”

Only by the sternest measures could Glystra control his features. He responded in a weak and doleful voice, “Allow the Inculcator to shoot you full of wisdom-stuff, as he has me.”

“Faugh!” spat Mercodion. “The creature is insufferable! Were he not three-quarters dead, I swear I would run him through… Indeed—”

But Glystra had slumped to the dais.

“Drag the hulk to the ’toir-room,” roared Mercodion. He turned to Charley Lysidder. “A miserable mistake, Bajarnum, and if you wish, a second oracle will be prepared.”

“No,” said the Bajarnum, thoughtfully surveying Glys— tra’s body. “I wonder only what was his meaning.”

“Aberrated mish-mash,” scoffed Mercodion.

They watched the prefects take the body from the hall.

“Strange,” said Charley Lysidder. “He seemed completely vital—a man very far from death… I wonder what he meant...”

A naked man stole through the night, trailing the odor of death. He came through Nello’s garden plot, ducked into the alley, quietly approached the street.

No one was in sight or ear-shot. He trotted quietly through the shadows to the house of the sword-smiths.

Light glowed yellow through the shutters. He knocked.

Nymaster opened the door. He stood stock-still, his eyes bulging. A second man came to look suspiciously over his shoulder—Corbus, who stared a breathless moment. “Claude,” he said huskily, “You’re—you’re—” his voice broke.

Glystra said briskly, “We’ve got to hurry. First a bath.”

Corbus nodded wryly. “You need something of the sort.” He turned to Nymaster. “Fill a tub. Get some clothes.”

Nymaster turned away wordlessly.

“They hauled me to their abbatoir,” said Glystra. “They threw me in a bin full of corpses. When the head-boiler came with his knife, I jumped out at him, and he went into a fit. I escaped through the wall.”

“Did they pump you full of nerve-juice?”

Glystra nodded. “It’s quite an experience.” During his bath he gave Corbus and Nymaster an account of his adventures.

“And now what?” Corbus asked.

“Now,” said Glystra, “we do Charley Lysidder one in the eye.”

Half an hour later, slipping through the gardens, they looked out on the marble courtyard where the Bajarnum’s air-boat rested. A man in a scarlet tunic and black boots lounged against the hood. An ion-shine at his waist.

“What do you think?” whispered Glystra.

“If we can get in it, I can fly it,” said Corbus.

“Good. I’ll run around behind him. You attract his attention.” He disappeared.

Corbus waited two minutes, then stepped out into the court-yard, levelled his ion-shine. “Don’t move,” he said.