Jack Vance: Big Planet

Arthur Hidders, he called himself. He wore Earth-style clothes, and, except for the length of his hair and his mustache rings, he looked the complete Earthman— which, in a sense, he was. His age was indeterminate; the exact panel of races which had gone into his make-up was a secret six hundred years gone. He stood an easy five foot six; he was light, with delicate features centered rather too closely in a large round head, which obviously held many brains.

Turning away from the porthole out on space, he fixed old Pianza with a gaze of almost child-like ingenuousness. “That’s all very interesting—but doesn’t it seem, well, futile?”

“Futile?” Pianza said with great dignity. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”

Hidders made a careless gesture, taking few pains to hide his opinion of Pianza: a well-meaning man, perhaps a trifle dense. “Earth-Central has sent commissions to Big Planet once a generation for the last five hundred years. Sometimes the commission returns alive, more often not. In either case nothing is accomplished. A few investigators lose their lives, much money is spent, Big Planet tempers—forgive me—are ruffled, and things go on, regrettably, as before.”

Pianza, certainly well-meaning, not at all dense, reflected that Hidders’ air of naivete comported poorly with his professed occupation of fur-trading. Also, thought Pianza, how could a Big Planet fur-trader—a naive fur-trader—accumulate the exchange necessary to buy passage to Earth? He answered gravely. “What you say is true, but this time perhaps events will turn out differently.”

Hidders raised his eyebrows, spread out his hands. “Has Big Planet changed? Has Earth-Central changed?”

Pianza looked uneasily around the lounge—empty except for the nun who sat statue-quiet, the visible section of her thin white face rapt in meditation. Big Planet lay close ahead; the Bajarnum of Beaujolais could not possibly know of their approach. Pianza committed an indiscretion.

“Conditions are different,” he admitted. “A great deal different. The former commissions were sent out to—well, let us say, to soothe Earth consciences. We knew there was murder, torture, terror on Big Planet; we knew something had to be done.” He smiled sadly. “The easiest gesture was to send out commissions. The commissions invariably made the same report: nothing could be done that was not being done already at the Enclave—unless Earth-Central wanted to expand, to take full responsibility for Big Planet.”

“Interesting,” said Hidders. “You have the gift of expressing complicated ideas in simple language. And now?”

Pianza eyed him doubtfully. The butter had become a little thick. “Now there’s something new on Big Planet: the Bajarnum of Beaujolais.”

“Yes, yes—I’ve frequently traveled through his realms.”

“Well, on Big Planet there are probably hundreds of rulers no less cruel, arrogant, arbitrary—but the Bajarnum, as you certainly must be aware, is expanding his empire, his range of activities, and not only on Big Planet but elsewhere.”

“Ah,” said Hidders. “So you come to investigate Charley Lysidder, Bajarnum of Beaujolais.”

“Yes,” muttered Pianza. “You might say so. And this time we have the authority to act.”

“If he learns of your plans, he will no doubt react with rancor and violence.”

“We realize that,” stammered Pianza, wishing now that he could disavow the conversation. “But I’m sure he won’t learn until we’re ready.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Hidders gravely. “Let us hope so.”

A dark-skinned man of medium height came into the lounge. His muscles lay close under his skin; he moved quickly, with sharp definite motions. This was Claude Glystra, Executive Chairman of the commission.

Glystra looked swiftly around the lounge, ice-colored glances, hard, searching, just short of suspicious. He joined Hidders and Pianza at the porthole, pointed to a flaming yellow sun close ahead. “There’s Phaedra, we’ll be on Big Planet in a few hours.”

A gong rang. “Lunch,” said Pianza, rising with a feeling of relief. The purpose of the commission was hardly a secret to anyone aboard the ship; however, he had been uncomfortably explicit in his talk with Hidders. He was glad to push the whole matter to the back of his mind.

Glystra led the way from the saloon, pausing at the door to let the nun sweep ahead in a billow of black vestments.

“Peculiar creature,” muttered Pianza.

Glystra laughed. “There’s no one on Big Planet but peculiar people; that’s why they’re there. If she wants to convert them to her own private peculiarity, that’s her privilege.”

Hidders nodded with lively emphasis. “Perfect democracy on Big Planet, eh Mr Glystra?”

Pianza watched expectantly; Glystra was nothing if not outspoken. Glystra did not fail him.

“Perfect anarchy, Mr Hidders.”

In silence they descended the spiral to the dining saloon, took their places. One by one the other members of the commission entered. First was Cloyville, big, booming, florid; then Ketch, dark, drawn and saturnine, like the “Before” in a laxative advertisement. Next came Bishop, the youngest man on the commission, sheep-faced and seal-smooth, with a brain full of erudition and a tendency toward hypochondria. He satisfied the one with a portable microfilm library, the other with a portable medicine-chest. Behind him, and last, was Darrot, erect and military with carrot-colored hair, lips compressed as if against an imminent outburst of temper.

The meal was placid, but over-hung with a sense of excitement, almost tension, which persisted, grew stronger all afternoon as the bulk of Big Planet spread across the field of vision. Horizons belled out, blotted Phaedra from the sky, and the space-ship settled into the darkness.

There was a shock, a lurch, a perceptible change of direction. Glystra spun away from the window. The lights flickered, died, then glowed weakly. Glystra ran up the spiral toward the bridge. At the top landing stood a squat man in ship’s uniform—Abbigens, the radio operator and purser. Lank blond hair hung down his forehead. He watched Glystra’s approach with narrow eyes set far apart.

“What’s the trouble?” Glystra demanded sharply. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t know, Mr Glystra. I tried to get in myself; I found the door locked.”

“The ship feels out of control, as if we’re going to crash!”

“Don’t worry your head about that, Mr Glystra. We’ve got emergency landing gear to set us down—automatic stuff. There may be a bit of a thump, but if we sit quiet in the saloon we’re safe enough.”

Gently he took Glystra’s arm. Glystra shook him off, returned to the door. Solid as a section of the wall.

He ran back down the steps, railing at himself for not taking precautions against just such a chance. To land anywhere on Big Planet except Earth Enclave meant tragedy, debacle, cataclysm. He stood in the saloon doorway; there was a babble of voices, white faces turned to him. Cloyville, Darrot, Pianza, Bishop, Ketch, Hidders and the nun. All there. He ran to the engine room; the door opened under his hands. Corbus, the easygoing chief engineer, pushed him back.

“We’ve got to get to the life-boats,” barked Glystra.

“No more life-boats.”

“ No more life-boats ! What’s happened to them?” Glystra demanded.

“They’ve been ejected. It’s stick by the ship, there’s nothing else to do.”

“But the captain, the mate—”

“They don’t answer the telephone.”

“But what on Earth happened?”