Hard-Luck Diggings: The Early Jack Vance, Volume One (28 page)

Jarvis smiled to himself and glanced around the table. Gildig had fallen to with gusto, as had the thin dark-skinned man; one or two of the others were eating with more caution. Jarvis thought, I won’t be caught quite so easily, and toyed with the food; and he saw from the corner of his eye that Tixon, the blond youth and the round man were likewise abstaining.

Their host looked around the table with a pained expression. “The dish, I see, is not popular.”

The round man said plaintively, “Surely it’s uncommon poor manners to poison us with the Fenn swamp-shrimp.”

Gildig spat out a mouthful. “Poison!”

“Peace, Conrad, peace,” said the old man, grinning. “These are not what you think them.” He reached out a fork, speared one of the objects from the plate of Conrad, the round man, and ate it. “You see, you are mistaken. Perhaps these resemble the Fenn swamp-shrimp—but they are not.”

Gildig looked suspiciously at his plate. “And what did you think they were?” he asked Conrad.

Conrad picked up one of the morsels, looked at it narrowly. “On Fenn when a man wants to put another man in his power for a day or a week, he seeks these—or shrimp like these—from the swamps. The toxic principle is in these red sacs.” He pushed his plate away. “Swamp-shrimp or not, they still dull my appetite.”

“We’ll remove them,” said the old man. “To the next dish, by all means—a bake of capons, as I recall.”

The meal progressed; the old man produced no more wine—“because,” he explained, “we have a test of skill approaching us; it’s necessary that you have all faculties with you.”

“A complicated system of filling out a roster,” muttered Gildig.

The old man shrugged. “I act for Belisarius.”

“Belson, you mean.”

“Call him any name you wish.”

Conrad, the round man, said thoughtfully, “Belson is not an easy master.”

The old man looked surprised. “Does not Belson—as you call him—bring you large profits?”

“Belson allows no man’s interference—and Belson never forgets a wrong.”

The old man laughed a mournful chuckle. “That makes him an easy man to serve. Obey him, do him no wrongs—and you will never
fear his anger.”

Conrad shrugged, Gildig smiled. Jarvis sat watchfully. There was more to the
business than filling out a roster, more than a profit to be achieved.

“Now,” said the old man, “if you please, one at a time, through this door. Omar Gildig, I’ll have you first.”

The seven remained at the table, watching uneasily from the corners of their eyes. Conrad and Tixon—or Captain Pardee—spoke lightly; the blond youth joined their talk; then a thud caused them all to look up, the talk to stop short. After a pause, the conversation continued rather lamely.

The old man appeared. “Now you, Captain Pardee.”

Captain Pardee—or Tixon—left the room. The six remaining listened; there were no further sounds.

The old man next summoned the blond youth, then Conrad, then one of the nondescripts, then the tall black man, the other nondescript, and finally returned to where Jarvis sat alone.

“My apologies, Gilbert Jarvis—but I think we are effecting a satisfactory elimination. If you will come this way…”

Jarvis entered a long dim room.

The old man said, “This,
as I have intimated, is a test of skill, agility, resource. I presume you carry your favorite weapons with you?”

Jarvis grinned. “Naturally.”

“Notice,” said the old man, “the screen at the far end of this room. Imagine behind
two armed and alert men who are your enemies, who are
not yet aware of your presence.” He paused; watched Jarvis, who grinned his humorless smile.

“Well then,
are you imagining the situation?”

Jarvis listened; did he hear breathing? There was the feel of stealth in the room, of mounting strain, expectancy.

“Are you imagining?” asked the old man. “They will kill you if they find you…They will kill you…”

A sound, a rush—not from the end of the room—but at the side—a hurtling dark shape. The old man ducked; Jarvis jumped back, whipped out his weapon, a Parnassian sliver-spit…The dark shape thumped with three internal explosions.

“Excellent,” said the old man. “You have good reactions, Gilbert Jarvis—and with a sliver-spit too. Are they not difficult weapons?”

“Not to a man who knows their use; then they are most effective.”

“An interesting diversity of opinion,” said the old man. “Gildig, for instance, used a collapsible club. Where he had it hidden, I have no idea—a miracle of swiftness. Conrad was almost as adept with the shoot-blade as you are with the sliver-spit,
and Noel,
the blond youngster—he preferred a dammel-ray.”

“Bulky,” said Jarvis. “Bulky and delicate, with limited capacity.”

“I agree,” said the old man. “But each man to his own methods.”

“It puzzles me,” said Jarvis. “Where does he carry the weapon? I noticed none of the bulk of a dammel-ray on his person.”

“He had it adjusted well,” said the old man cryptically. “This way, if you please.”

They returned to the original waiting room. Instead of the original twenty men, there were now but four: Gildig, old Tixon, the blond young Noel, and Conrad, the round man with the owlish face. Jarvis looked Noel over critically to see where he carried his weapon, but it was nowhere in evidence, though his clothes were pink, yellow and black weave, skin-tight.

The old man seemed in the best of spirits; his mournful jowls quivered and twitched. “Now, gentlemen, now—we come to the end of the elimination. Five men, when we need but four. One man must be dispensed with; can anyone propose a means to this end?”

The five men stiffened, looked sideways around with a guarded wariness, as the same idea suggested itself to each mind.

“Well,” said the old man, “it would be one way out of the impasse, but there might be several simultaneous eliminations, and it would put Belisarius to considerable trouble.”

No one spoke.

The old man mused, “I think I can resolve the quandary. Let us assume that all of us are hired by Belisarius.”

“I assume nothing,” growled Gildig.
“Either I’m hired, or I’m not! If I’m hired
I want a retainer.”

“Very well,” said the old man. “You all are, then, hired by Belisarius.”

“By Belson.”

“Yes—by Belson. Here—” he distributed five envelopes “—here is earnest-money. A thousand crowns. Now,
each and all of you are Belson’s men. You understand what this entails?”

“It entails loyalty,” intoned Tixon, looking with satisfaction into the envelope.

“Complete, mindless, unswerving loyalty,” echoed the old man. “What’s that?” he asked to Gildig’s grumble.

Gildig said, “He doesn’t leave a man a mind of his own.”

“When he serves Belson, a man needs his mind only to serve. Before, and after, he is as free as air. During his employment, he must be Belson’s man, an extension of Belson’s mind. The rewards are great—but the punishments are certain.”

Gildig grunted with resignation. “What next, then?”

“Now—we seek to eliminate the one superfluous man. I think now we can do it.” He looked around the faces. “Gildig—Tixon—”

“Captain Pardee, call me—that’s my name!”

“—Conrad—Noel—and Gilbert Jarvis.”

“Well,” said Conrad shortly, “get on with it.”

“The theory of the situation,” said the old man didactically, “is that now we are all Belson’s loyal followers. Suppose we find a traitor to Belson, an enemy—what do we do then?”

“Kill him!” said Tixon.

“Exactly.”

Gildig leaned forward, and the bulging muscles sent planes of soft light moving down his green suede jacket. “How can there be traitors when we are just hired?”

The old man looked mournfully at his pale fingers. “Actually, gentlemen, the situation goes rather deeper than one might suppose. This unwanted fifth man—the man to be eliminated—he happens to be one who has violated Belson’s trust. The disposal of this man,” he said sternly, “will provide an object lesson for the remaining four.”

“Well,” said Noel easily, “shall we proceed? Who is the betrayer?”

“Ah,” said the old man, “we have gathered today to learn this very fact.”

“Do you mean to say,” snapped Conrad, “that this entire rigmarole
is not to our benefit, but only yours?”

“No, no!” protested the old man. “The four who are selected will have employment—if I may say, employment on the instant. But let me explain; the background is this: at a lonesome camp, on the marshes of Fenn, Belson had stored a treasure—a rare treasure! Here he left three men to guard. Two were known to Belson, the third was a new recruit, an unknown from somewhere across the universe
.

“When the dawn was breaking
this new man rose, killed the two men, took the treasure across the marsh to the port city Momart, and there sold it. Belson’s loyal lieutenant—myself—was on the planet. I made haste to investigate. I found tracks in the marsh. I established that the treasure had been sold. I learned that passage had been bought—and
followed. Now, gentlemen,” and the old man sat back, “we are all persons of discernment. We live for the pleasurable moment. We gain money, we spend money, at a rather predictable rate. Knowing the value of Belson’s treasure,
I was able to calculate just when the traitor would feel the pinch of poverty. At this time I baited the trap; I published the advertisement; the
trap is sprung. Is that not clever? Admit it now!”

And he glanced from face to face.

Jarvis eased his body around in the chair to provide swifter scope for movement, and also to ease his hip, which now throbbed painfully.

“Go on,” said Gildig, likewise glaring from face to face.

“I now exercised my science. I cut turves from the swamp, those which held the tracks, the crushed reeds, the compressed moss. At the laboratory, I found that a hundred and sixty pounds pressure, more or less, might make such tracks. Weight—” he leaned forward to confide “—formed
the basis of the first elimination. Each of you was weighed, you will recall, and you that are here—with the exception of Omar Gildig—fulfill the requirement.”

Noel asked lightly, “Why was Gildig included?”

“Is it not clear?” asked the old man. “He can not
be the traitor, but he makes an effective sergeant-at-arms.”

“In other words,” said Conrad dryly, “the traitor is either Tixon—I mean Captain Pardee, Noel, Jarvis or myself.”

“Exactly,” said the old man mournfully. “Our problem is reducing the four to one—and then, reducing the one to nothing. For this purpose we have our zealous sergeant-at-arms here—Omar Gildig.”

“Pleased to oblige,” said Gildig, now relaxed, almost sleepy.

The old man slid back a panel, drew with chalk on a board.

“We make a chart—so:”

and
as he spoke he wrote the figures
beside each name: “Captain Pardee: 162; Noel: 155; Conrad: 166; and Jarvis: 163. Next—each of you four were familiar with the Fenn swamp-shrimp, indicating familiarity with the Fenn swamps. So—a check beside each of your names.” He paused to look around. “Are you attending, Gildig?”

“At your service.”

“Next,” said the old man, “there was blood on the ground, indicating a wound. It was not the blood of the two slain men—nor blood from the treasure. Therefore it must be blood from the traitor; and today I have taken blood from each of the four. I leave this column blank. Next—to the weapons. The men were killed, very neatly, very abruptly—with a Parnassian sliver.
Tixon uses a JAR-gun; Noel, dammel-ray; Conrad, a shoot-blade—and Jarvis, a sliver-spit. So—an X beside the name of Jarvis!”

Jarvis began drawing himself up. “Easy,” said Gildig
. “I’m watching you, Jarvis.”

Jarvis relaxed, smiling a wolfish grin.

The old man, watching him from the corner of his eye, said, “This, of course, is hardly conclusive. So to
the blood. In the blood are body-cells. The cells contain nuclei, with genes—and each man’s genes are distinctive. So now with the blood—”

Jarvis, still smiling, spoke. “You find it to be mine?”

“Exactly.”

“Old man—you lie. I have no wound on my body.”

“Wounds heal fast, Jarvis.”

“Old man—you fail as Belson’s trusted servant.”

“Eh? And how?”

“Through stupidity. Perhaps worse.”

“Yes? And precisely?”

“The tracks…In the laboratory you compressed turves of the swamp. You found you needed weight of one hundred and sixty pounds to achieve the effect of the Fenn prints.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Fenn’s gravity is six-tenths Earth standard. The compression of one-sixty
pounds on Fenn is better achieved by a man of two hundred and forty or two-fifty pounds—such as Gildig.”

Gildig half-raised. “Do you dare to accuse me?”

“Are you guilty?”

“No.”

“You can’t prove it.”

“I don’t need to prove it! Those tracks might be made by a lighter man carrying the treasure. How much was the weight?”

“A light silken treasure,” said the old man. “No more than a hundred pounds.”

Tixon drew back to a corner. “Jarvis is guilty!”

Noel threw open his gay coat, to disclose an astonishing contrivance: a gun muzzle protruding from his chest, a weapon surprisingly fitted into his body. Now Jarvis knew where Noel carried his dammel-ray.

Noel laughed. “Jarvis—the traitor!”

“No,” said Jarvis, “you’re wrong. I am the only loyal servant of Belson’s in the room. If Belson were near, I would tell him about it.”

The old man said quickly, “We’ve heard enough of his wriggling. Kill him, Gildig.”

Gildig stretched his arm; from under his wrist, out his sleeve shot a tube of metal three feet long, already swinging
to the pull of Gildig’s wrist. Jarvis sprang back, the tube struck him on the bruised hip; he shot the sliver-spit. Gildig’s hand was gone—exploded.

“Kill, kill,” sang the old man, dodging back.

The door opened; a sedate handsome man came in. “I am Belson.”