Hard-Luck Diggings: The Early Jack Vance, Volume One (27 page)

Afterword to “DP!”

Neither Norma nor I wished to explore the continent of Europe on two wheels, so we sold our bicycles, boarded a train, and departed England. We bypassed France and rode directly into Austria and debarked at Innsbruck. At this point we were ready to settle down for a time and produce some profitable words. This would establish the program we would subsequently follow in many future excursions. We would find some romantic spot, rent a house or apartment, and there work sometimes as long as two or three months turning out a novel or set of stories.

At Innsbruck, taking local advice, we boarded a strange little trolley which reminded us of the Toonerville Trolley, and rode fifteen miles south into the Alps to a picturesque mountain village, Fulpmes. There was nothing much here except the Hotel Lutz, a shop or two, and a few houses built in the traditional Tyrolean style of bare evergreen boards, so that the village smelled of fresh pine and fir. We adopted
en pension
accommodations at the Lutz and were accorded a room on the second floor with a balcony. I remember this balcony well; it became my habit to sit in the sunlight on it while I wrote. One day a bee stung me.

We remained at Fulpmes a month or so while I completed several novelettes and started
Vandals of the Void
, a boys’ book commissioned by Winston Publishing.

—Jack Vance

Shape-Up

Jarvis came down Riverview Way from the direction of the terminal warehouse, where he had passed an uncomfortable night. At the corner of Sion Novack Way he plugged his next-to-last copper
into the
Pegasus Square Farm and Mining Bulletin
dispenser; taking the pink tissue envelope, he picked his way through the muck of the street to the Original Blue Man Cafe. He chose a table with precision and nicety, his back to a corner, the length of the street in his line of sight.

The waiter appeared, looked Jarvis up and down. Jarvis countered with a hard stare. “Hot anise, a viewer.”

The waiter turned away. Jarvis relaxed, sat rubbing his sore hip and watching the occasional dark shape hurrying against the mist. The streets were still dim; only one of the Procrustean suns had risen: no match for the fogs of Idle River.

The waiter returned with a dull metal pot and the viewer. Jarvis parted with his last coin, warmed his hands on the pot, notched in the film, and sipped the brew, giving his attention to the journal. Page after
page flicked
past: trifles of Earth news, cluster news, local news, topical discussions, practical mechanics. He found the classified advertisements, employment opportunities, skimmed down the listings. These were sparse enough: a well-digger wanted, glass puddlers, berry-pickers, creep-weed chasers. He bent forward; this was more to his interest:

Shape-up: Four travellers of top efficiency. Large profits for able workers; definite goals in sight. Only men of resource and willingness need apply. At 10 meridian see
Belisarius at the Old Solar Inn.

Jarvis read the paragraph once more, translating the oblique phrases to more definite meanings. He looked at his watch: still three hours. He glanced at the street, at the waiter, sipped from the pot, and settled to a study of the
Farm and Mining Journal
.

Two hours later the second sun, a blue-white ball, rose at the head of Riverview Way, flaring through the mist; now the population of the town began to appear. Jarvis took quiet leave of the cafe and set off down Riverview Way in the sun.

Heat and the exercise loosened the throb in his hip; when he reached the river esplanade his walk was smooth. He turned to the right, past the Memorial Fountain, and there was the Old Solar Inn, looking across the water to the gray marble bluffs.

Jarvis inspected it with care. It looked expensive but not elaborate, exuding dignity rather than elegance. He felt less skeptical; Bulletin
notices occasionally promised more than they fulfilled; a man could not be too careful.

He approached the inn. The entrance was a massive wooden door with a stained glass window, where laughing
Old Sol shot a golden ray upon green and blue Earth. The door swung open; Jarvis entered, bent to the wicket.

“Yes, sir?” asked the clerk.

“Mr. Belisarius,” said Jarvis.

The clerk inspected Jarvis with much the expression of the waiter at the cafe. With the faintest of shrugs, he said, “Suite B—down the lower hall.”

Jarvis crossed the lobby. As he entered the hall he heard the outer door open; a huge blond man in green suede came into the inn, paused like Jarvis by the wicket. Jarvis continued along the hall. The door to Suite B was ajar; Jarvis pushed it open, entered.

He
stood in a large room panelled with dark green sea-tree, furnished simply—a tawny rug, chairs and couches around the walls, an elaborate chandelier decorated with glowing spangles—so elaborate, indeed, that Jarvis suspected a system of spy-cells. In itself this meant nothing; in fact, it might be construed as commendable caution.

Five others were waiting: men of various ages, size, skin-color. Only one aspect did they have in common; a way of seeming to look to all sides at once. Jarvis took a seat, sat back; a moment later the big blond man in green suede entered. He looked around the room, glanced at the chandelier, took a seat. A stringy gray-haired man with corrugated brown skin and a sly reckless smile said, “Omar Gildig! What are you here for, Gildig?”

The big blond man’s eyes became blank for an instant; then he said, “For motives much like your own, Tixon.”

The old man jerked his head back, blinked. “You mistake me; my name is Pardee, Captain Pardee.”

“As you say, Captain.”

There was silence in the room; then Tixon, or Pardee, nervously crossed to where Gildig sat and spoke in low tones. Gildig nodded like a placid lion.

Other men entered; each glanced around the room, at the chandelier, then took seats. Presently the room held twenty or more.

Other conversations arose. Jarvis found himself next to a small
sturdy man with a round moon-face, a bulbous little paunch, a hooked little nose and dark
owlish eyes. He seemed disposed to speak, and Jarvis made such comments as seemed judicious. “A cold night, last, for those of us to see the red sun set.”

Jarvis assented.

“A lucky planet to win free from, this,” continued the round man. “I’ve been watching the Bulletin
for three weeks now; if I don’t join Belisarius—why, by the juice of Jonah, I’ll take a workaway job on a packet.”

Jarvis asked,
“Who is this Belisarius?”

The round man opened his eyes wide. “Belisarius? It’s well-known—he’s Belson!”

“Belson?” Jarvis could not hold the surprised note out of his voice; the bruise on his hip began to jar and thud. “Belson?”

The round man had turned away his head, but was staring over the bridge of his little beak-nose. “Belson is an effective traveller, much respected.”

“So I understand,” said Jarvis.

“Rumor comes that he has suffered reverses—notably one such, two months gone, on the swamps of Fenn.”

“How goes the rumor?” asked Jarvis.

“There is large talk, small fact,” the round man replied gracefully. “And have
you ever speculated on the concentration of talent in so small a one
room? There is yourself. And my own humble talents—there is Omar Gildig—brawn like a Beshauer bull, a brain of guile. Over there is young Hancock McManus, an effective worker, and there—he who styles himself Lachesis, a metaphor. And I’ll wager in
all our aggregate pockets there’s not twenty Juillard crowns!”

“Certainly not in mine,” admitted Jarvis.

“This is our life,” said the round man. “We live at the full—each minute an entity to be squeezed of its maximum; our moneys, our crowns, our credits—they buy us great sweetness, but they are soon gone. Then Belisarius hints of brave goals, and we come, like moths to a flame!”

“I wonder,” mused Jarvis.

“What’s your wonder?”

“Belisarius
surely has trusted lieutenants…When he calls for travellers through the Farm Bulletin—there always is the chance of Authority participation.”

“Perhaps they are unaware of the convention, the code.”

“More likely not.”

The round man shook his head, sighed. “A brave agent would come to the Old Solar Inn on this day!”

“There are such men.”

“But they will not come to the shape-ups—and do you know why not?”

“Why not then?”

“Suppose they do—suppose they trap six men—a dozen.”

“A dozen less to cope with.”

“But the next time a shape-up is called, the travellers will prove themselves by the Test Supreme.”

“And this is?” inquired Jarvis easily, though he knew quite well.

The round man explained with zest. “Each party kills in the presence of an umpire. The Authority will not risk the resumption of such tests; and so they allow the travellers to meet and foregather in peace.” The round man peered at Jarvis. “This can hardly be new information?”

“I have heard talk,” said Jarvis.

The round man said, “Caution is admirable when not carried to an excess.”

Jarvis laughed, showing his long
sharp teeth. “Why not use an excess of caution, when it costs nothing?”

“Why not?” assented the round man, and said no more to Jarvis.

A few moments later the inner door opened; an old man, slight, crotchety, in tight black trousers and vest, peered out. His eyes were mild, his face was long, waxy, melancholy; his voice was suitably grave. “Your attention, if you please.”

“By Crokus,” muttered the round man, “Belson has hired undertakers to staff his conferences!”

The old man in black spoke on. “I will summon you one at a time, in the order
of your arrival. You will be given certain tests, you will submit to certain interrogations…Anyone who finds the prospect over-intimate may leave at this moment.”

He waited. No one rose to depart, although scowls appeared, and Omar Gildig said, “Reasonable queries are resented by no one. If I find the interrogation too searching—then I shall protest.”

The old man nodded, “Very well, as you wish. First then—you, Paul Pulliam.”

A slim
elegant man in wine-colored jacket and tight trousers rose to his feet, entered the inner room.

“So that is Paul Pulliam,” breathed the round man. “I have wondered six years, ever
since the Myknosis affair.”

“Who is that old man—the undertaker?” asked Jarvis.

“I have no idea.”

“In fact,” asked Jarvis, “Who is Belson? What is Belson’s look?”

“In truth,” said the round man, “I know no more to that.”

The second man was called, then the third, the fourth, then: “Gilbert Jarvis!”

Jarvis rose to his feet, thinking: how in thunder do they know
my first name?
He passed through into an anteroom, whose only furnishing was a scale. The old man in black said, “If you please, I wish to learn your weight.”

Jarvis stepped on the scale; the dial glowed with the figure 163, which the old man recorded in a book. “Very well, now—I will prick your ear—”

Jarvis grabbed the instrument; the old man squawked, “Here, here, here!”

Jarvis inspected the bit of glass and metal, gave it back with a wolfish grin. “I am a man of caution; I’ll have no drugs pumped into my ear.”

“No, no,” protested the old man, “I need but a drop to learn your blood characteristics.”

“Why is this important?” asked Jarvis cynically. “It’s been my experience that if a man bleeds, why so much the worse, but let him bleed till either he stops or he runs dry.”

“Belisarius is a considerate master.”

“I want no master,” said Jarvis.

“Mentor, then—a considerate mentor.”

“I think for myself.”

“Devil drag me deathways!” exclaimed the old man, “you are a ticklish man to please.” He put the drop from Jarvis’ ear into an analyzer, peered at the dials. “Type O…Index 96…Granuli B…Very good, Gilbert Jarvis, very good indeed!”

“Humph,”
said Jarvis, “is that all the test Belisarius gives a man—his weight, his blood?”

“No, no,” said the old man earnestly, “these are but the preliminaries; but allow me to congratulate you, you are so far entirely suitable. Now—come with me and wait; in an hour we will have our lunch, and then discuss the remainder of the problem.”

Of the original applicants
only eight remained after the preliminary elimination. Jarvis noticed that all of the eight approximated his own weight, with the exception of Omar Gildig, who weighed two hundred fifty or more.

The old man in black summoned them to lunch; the eight filed into a round green dining-saloon; they took places at a round green table. The old man gave a signal and wine and appetizers appeared in the service slots. He put on an air of heartiness. “Let us forget the background of our presence here,” he said. “Let us enjoy the good food and such fellowship as we may bring to the occasion.”

Omar Gildig snorted, a vast grimace that pulled his nose down over his mouth. “Who cares about fellowship? We want to know that which concerns us. What is this affair that Belson plans for?”

The old man shook his head smilingly. “There are still eight of you—and Belisarius needs but four.”

“Then get on with your tests; there are better things to be doing than jumping through these jackanape hoops.”

“There have been no hoops so far,” said the old man gently. “Bear with me only an hour longer; none of you eight will go without your recompense, of one kind or another.”

Jarvis looked from face to face. Gildig; sly
reckless old Tixon—or Captain Pardee, as he called himself; the round
owlish man; a blond
smiling youth like a girl in men’s gear; two quiet nondescripts; a tall pencil-thin black, who might have been dumb for any word
he spoke.

Food was served: small steaks of a local venison, a small platter of toasted pods with sauce of herbs and minced mussels. In fact, so small were the portions that Jarvis found his appetite merely whetted.

Next came glasses of frozen red punch, then came
braised crescents of white flesh, each with a bright red nubbin at both ends, swimming in a pungent sauce.