Hard-Luck Diggings: The Early Jack Vance, Volume One (4 page)

“But you are assuming intelligence in the trees?” gasped Rogge.

“Of course,” said Magnus Ridolph. “What other alternative is there? I warned you not to expect on this planet the same conditions existent on Earth. You saw how the apes buried their comrade under a tree? Undoubtedly they were led to do so by the trees—persuaded, enticed, forced: that is a matter for speculation—in order that the trees might benefit by the enrichment of the soil. In any event, I reasoned that if the trees were intelligent, after seven months they
very likely would comprehend human speech. In the presence of a tree I recommended that a large area of vegetation be cleared away—a wholesale murder of trees. Naturally I was marked as a threat, an individual to be removed. The attempt was made this evening.”

“But how?” said Rogge. “A tree can’t walk into a building and throw a rope around a man’s neck!”

“No,” said Magnus Ridolph. “But a tree has roots, and every room in the diggings has a drain or a ventilator, some sort of minute crevice. And I strongly suspect the presence of spy cells in the wood panels of every room—small eyes and ears. Not an action escapes the surrounding intelligences. And at this minute I suspect they are preparing to kill us both, by poison gas, possibly, or—”

A splintering crash sounded. A section of the floor broke open, and from the dark gap uncoiled a dull-brown hawser-like object. It threshed, wove, swung toward Rogge and Magnus Ridolph.

“Wait,” said Magnus Ridolph calmly. “Wait. You are intelligent beings. Wait, listen to what I have to say to you.”

The great root swung toward them with no pause.

“Wait,” said Magnus Ridolph calmly. “There will be no clearing and all rubble will be dumped into the bay.”

The root hesitated, wavered in mid-air.

“What malignant creatures!” breathed Rogge.

“Not at all,” said Magnus Ridolph. “They are merely the denizens of a world defending their lives. Cooperation can be to our mutual benefit.” He addressed himself to the root.

“In
the future, if the trees will bar the animals from Diggings B and provide fruit at that location, men will in no way harm the trees. All waste will be transported to the ocean. In addition other men will come, discover your needs, make known our own desires. We will form a partnership beneficial to both our species. Men can irrigate and enrich sparse soils, curb insect parasites. Trees can locate minerals for man, synthesize complex organic compounds, grow him fruit.” He paused for a moment. The root lay flaccid on the broken floor.

“If the trees understand and approve, let the root withdraw.”

The root shivered, twisted, writhed—pulled itself to the gap in the floor. It was gone.

Magnus Ridolph turned to the frozen superintendent.

“There will be no more trouble.”

Rogge seemed to come awake. He glanced at the splintered floor. “But the killings? Is there to be no punishment? The torment I’ve gone through—”

Magnus Ridolph surveyed him with cool contempt. “Have not your men cut down many trees?”

Rogge shook his head. “There’ll be an added expense taking that fill to the bay. I doubt if the diggings will pay. Why, man, with a couple incinerator tubes and a few bulldozers
we could clear off the whole area—” He caught Ridolph’s eye.

“In my opinion,” said Magnus Ridolph, “you are short-sighted and ruthless. You also flout the law. In fact you are not a fit administrator for this project.”

Rogge knitted his brow. “What law am I flouting?”

“The statute created over thirty years ago for the protection and encouragement of friendly autochthones.”

Rogge said nothing.

“You will either cooperate completely, or I will request your removal.”

Rogge looked away. “Perhaps you are right,” he muttered.

A faint sound came to their ears. Turning, they looked to the gap in the floor. It was fast disappearing. Even as they watched, the splinters, strangely pliant, turned themselves down, knitted to a smooth gleaming surface. Where the gap had been now shone a small gleaming object.

Magnus Ridolph strode forward, lifted it, displayed it wordlessly to Rogge. It was a complex crystal—blood-colored fire—perfectly formed except on one side, where it had been torn away from its matrix.

“A ruby, I believe,” said Magnus Ridolph. He looked at the staring superintendent, then coolly returned to his inspection of the jewel.

Afterword to “Hard-Luck Diggings”

Norma’s parents lived in Colton in southern California, and whenever opportunity offered we would drive down and spend time with them. On one occasion I had an experiment in mind. I was selling stories on a more or less regular basis, but the returns were not astronomical, and I thought to improve the situation by becoming a “million-word-a-year man”. I knocked out two stories in two days, the first of the Magnus Ridolph set. I sent the first drafts, without revision, to my agent Scott Meredith in New York. He sold them at once with no apparent difficulty. So much for the experiment. I was moderately pleased with this sudden gush of productivity, but I realized that in the long haul my temperament was not suited to this method of writing. I returned to my old system, which meant first draft, second draft; and if I were lucky I would find this second draft acceptable.

Just then, I received startling news from my agent. 20th Century Fox had picked up one of these stories, “Hard Luck Diggings”, for compensation which at the time seemed phenomenal. Furthermore they invited me to write a treatment and possibly a screenplay at an inordinate weekly salary, if I would report to Hollywood at once.

Norma and I jumped in the Packard and drove south. We presented ourselves to 20th Century Fox, where we were introduced to Julian Blaustein, the producer. I was installed in an office with my name on the door in gold, a secretary, and told to get to work.

We rented a spacious house with a swimming pool in Coldwater Canyon. Every morning I drove to my office at Fox and tried to produce the kind of material which Blaustein expected of me. In truth I found this sort of work unfamiliar and not particularly agreeable. For one thing, the money, while gratifying at first, frightened me a little: I did not want to become dependent upon sucking at this golden tit.

Luckily, my fears came to naught. Julian Blaustein was promoted to become an executive producer, and all his projects were shelved. I was told, “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.” The golden letters of my name were scraped from the door, my secretary bade me farewell, and everything else was restored to as before I had arrived. Without overmuch regret I took my leave of Fox Studios.

—Jack Vance

The Temple of Han

In the nip-and-tuck business of keeping himself alive, Briar Kelly had not yet been able to shed his disguise. The adventure had turned out rather more ruggedly than it had started. He had
not bargained for so much hell.

Up to the moment he had entered the queer dark temple at North City, the disguise had served him well. He had been one with the Han; no one had looked at him twice. Once
inside the temple he
was alone and disguise was unnecessary.

It was an oddly impressive place. A Gothic web of trusses supported the ceiling; alcoves along the walls were crammed with bric-a-brac. Red and green lamps cast an illumination which was stifled and absorbed by black
drapes.

Walking slowly down the central nave, every nerve tingling, Kelly had approached the tall black mirror at the far end, watching his looming
reflection with hypnotic fascination. There were limpid depths beyond, and Kelly would have looked more closely had he not seen the jewel: a
ball of cool green fire resting on a black velvet cushion.

With
marvelling
fingers Kelly had lifted it, turned it over and over—and then tumult had broken loose. The red and
green lights flickered; an alarm horn brayed like a crazy bull. Vengeful priests appeared in the alcoves as if by magic, and
the disguise had become a liability. The tubular black cloak constricted his legs as he ran—back along
the aisle, down the shabby steps, through the foul back alleys to his air-boat. Now as he crouched low over the controls sweat
beaded up under the white grease-paint and
his skin itched and crawled.

Ten feet below, the salt-crusted mud-flats
fleeted astern. Dirty yellow rushes whipped the hull. Pressing an elbow to his hip Kelly
felt the hard shape of the jewel. The sensation aroused mixed feelings, apprehension predominating. He dropped the boat even
closer to the ground. “Five minutes of this, I’ll be out of radar range,” thought Kelly. “Back at Bucktown, I’m just one among fifty thousand. They can’t very well locate me, unless Herli talks, or Mapes…”

He hazarded a glance at the rear-vision plate. North City could still be seen, an exaggerated Mont St. Michel jutting up from the dreary salt marsh. Misty exhalations blurred the detail; it faded into the sky, finally dropped below the horizon. Kelly eased up the nose of the boat, rose
tangentially from the surface, aiming into Magra Taratempos, the hot white sun.

The atmosphere thinned, the sky deepened to black, stars came out. There was
old Sol, a yellow star hanging between Sadal Suud and Sadal Melik in Aquarius—only thirty light years to home—

Kelly heard a faint swishing sound. The light changed, shifting white
to red. He blinked, looked around in bewilderment.

Magra Taratempos had disappeared. Low to the left a giant red sun hulked above the horizon; below, the salt marshes swam in a new claret light.

In amazement Kelly gazed from red sun to planet, back up across the heavens where Magra Taratempos had hung only a moment before.

“I’ve gone crazy,” said Kelly. “Unless…”

Two
or three months before, a peculiar rumor had circulated Bucktown. For lack of better entertainment, the sophisticates of the city had made a joke of the story, until it finally grew stale and was no more heard.

Kelly, who worked as computer switchman at the astrogation station, was well-acquainted
with the rumor. It went to the effect that a Han priest, dour and intense under his black cloak, had been tripped into the marsh by a drunken pollen-collector. Like a turtle the priest had shoved his white face out from under the hood of his cloak, and rasped in the pidgin of the planet: “You abuse the priest
of Han; you mock us and the name of the Great God. Time is short. The Seventh Year is at hand, and you godless Earth-things will seek to flee, but there will be nowhere for you to go.”

Such had been the tale. Kelly remembered the pleased excitement which had fluttered from tongue to tongue. He grimaced, examined the sky in new apprehension.

The facts were before his eyes, undeniable. Magra Taratempos had vanished. In a different quarter of the sky a new sun had appeared.

Careless of radar tracing, he nosed up and broke entirely clear of the atmosphere. The stellar patterns had changed. Blackness curtained half the sky, with here and there a
lone spark of a star or the wisp of a far galaxy. To the other quarter a vast blot of light stretched across the sky, a narrow elongated luminosity with a central swelling, the whole peppered with a million tiny points of light.

Kelly cut the power from his engine; the air-boat
drifted. Unquestionably the luminous blot was a galaxy seen from one of its outer fringes. In ever-growing bewilderment, Kelly looked back at the planet below. To the south he could see the triangular plateau shouldering up from the swamp, and Lake Lenore near Bucktown. Below was the salt marsh, and far to the north, the rugged pile where the Han had
their city.

“Let’s face it,” said Kelly. “Unless I’m out of my mind—and I don’t think I am—the entire planet has been picked up and taken to a new sun…I’ve heard of strange things here and there, but this is it…”

He felt the weight of the jewel in his pocket, and with it a new thrill of apprehension. To the best of his knowledge the
Han priests
could not identify him. At Bucktown it had been Herli and Mapes who had urged him into the escapade, but they would hold their tongues. Ostensibly he had flown to his cabin along the lakeshore, and there was no one to know of his comings and goings…He turned the boat down
toward Bucktown, and a half hour
later landed at his cabin beside Lake Lenore. He had scraped the grease-paint from his face; the cloak he had jettisoned over the swamp; and the jewel still weighed
heavy in his pocket.

The cabin, a low flat-roofed building with aluminum walls and a glass front, appeared strange and unfamiliar in the new light. Kelly walked warily to the door. He looked right and left. No one, nothing was visible. He put his ear to the panel of the door. No sound.

He slid back the panel, stepped inside, swept the interior with a swift glance. Everything appeared as he had left it.

He started toward the visiphone, then halted.

The jewel.

He took it from his pocket, examined it for
the first time. It was a sphere the size of a golf-ball. The center shone with a sharp green fire, decreasing toward the outer surface. He hefted it. It was unnaturally heavy. Strangely fascinating, altogether lovely. Think of it around the neck of Lynette Mason…