Planet of Adventure Omnibus (52 page)

Anacho,
usually nerveless, now became edgy, searching the sky, peering down at the
ground, scrutinizing the knobs and bubbles, the patches of brown fur and
vermilion velvet, the quivering mirrors which served as instruments. “We
approach the Dirdir realm,” he said. “We will veer north to the First Sea, then
bear west to Khorai, where we must leave the sky-car and travel the Zoga’ar zum
Fulkash am
[xi]
to Maust. Then ... the Carabas.”

OVER THE
GREAT Stone Desert flew the sky-car, parallel to the black and red peaks of the
Zopal Range, over parched dust-flats, fields of broken rock, dunes of dark pink
sand, a single oasis surrounded by plumes of white smoke-tree.

Late in the
afternoon a windstorm drove lion-colored rolls of dust across the landscape,
submerging Carina 4269 in murk. Anacho swung the sky-car north. Presently a
black-blue line on the horizon indicated the First Sea.

Anacho
immediately landed the sky-car upon the barrens, some ten miles short of the
sea.

“Khorai is
yet hours ahead; best not to arrive after dark. The Khors are a suspicious
folk, and flourish their knives at a harsh word. At night they strike without
provocation.”

“These are
the folk who will guard our sky-car?”

“What thief
would be mad enough to trouble the Khors?”

Reith looked
around the waste. “I prefer supper at the Glass Blower’s Inn to nothing
whatever.”

“Ha!” said
Anacho. “In the Carabas you will recall the silence and peace of this night
with longing.”

The three
bedded themselves down into the sand. The night was dark and brilliantly clear.
Directly overhead burned the constellation Clari, within which, unseen to the
eye, glimmered the Sun. Would he ever again see Earth? Reith wondered. How
often then would he lie under the night sky looking up into Argo Navis for the
invisible brown sun Carina 4269 and its dim planet Tschai?

A flicker
inside the sky-car attracted his attention: he went to look and found a mesh of
orange lines wavering across the radar screen.

Five minutes
later it disappeared, leaving Reith with a sense of chill and desolation.

In the
morning the sun rose at the edge of the flat plain in a sky
uncharacteristically clear and transparent, so that each small irregularity,
each pebble, left a long black shadow. Taking the sky-car into the air, Anacho
flew low to the ground; he too had noticed the orange flicker of the night
before. The waste became less forbidding: clumps of stunted smoke-tree
appeared, and presently black dendron and bladderbush.

They reached
the First Sea and swung west, following the shoreline. They passed over
villages: huddles of dull brown brick with conical roofs of black iron, beside
copses of enormous dyan trees, which Anacho declared to be sacred groves.
Rickety piers like dead centipedes sprawled out into the dark water;
double-ended boats of black wood were drawn up the beach. Looking through the
scanscope Reith noted men and women with mustard-yellow skins. They wore black
gowns and tall black hats; as the sky-car passed over they looked up without
friendliness.

“Khors,”
stated Anacho. “Strange folk with secret ways. They are different by day and by
night-at least this is the report. Each individual owns two souls which come
and go with dawn and sunset, so that each is two different persons. Peculiar
tales are told.” He pointed ahead. “Notice the shore, where it draws back into
a funnel.”

Reith,
looking in the direction indicated, saw one of the now familiar dyan copses and
a huddle of dull brown huts with black iron roofs. From a small compound a road
led south over the rolling hills toward the Carabas.

Anacho said, “Behold
the sacred grove of the Khors, in which, so it is said, souls are exchanged.
Yonder you see the caravan terminus and the road to Maust. I dare not take the
sky-car further; hence we must land and make our way to Maust as ordinary
sequin-takers, which is not necessarily a disadvantage.”

“And when we
return will the sky-car still be here?”

Anacho
pointed down to the harbor. “Notice the boats at anchor.”

Looking
through his scanscope Reith observed three or four dozen boats of every
description.

“Those boats,”
said Anacho, “brought sequin-takers to Khorai--from Coad, Hedaijha, the Low
Isles, from the Second Sea and the Third Sea. If the owners return within a
year, they sail from Khorai and to their homes. If within the year they do not
return, the boat becomes the property of the harbor-master. No doubt we can
arrange the same contract.”

Reith made no
arguments against the scheme, and Anacho dropped the sky-car toward the beach.

“Remember,”
Anacho warned, “the Khors are a sensitive people. Do not speak to them; pay
them no heed except from necessity, in which case you must use the fewest
possible words. They consider garrulity a crime against nature. Do not stand
upwind of a Khor, nor if possible downwind; such acts are symbolic of
antagonism. Never acknowledge the presence of a woman; do not look toward their
children-they will suspect you of laying a curse; and above all ignore the
sacred grove. Their weapon is the iron dart which they throw with astonishing
accuracy; they are a dangerous people.”

“I hope I
remember everything,” said Reith.

The sky-car
landed upon the dry shingle; seconds later a great gaunt brown-skinned man,
with deep-sunk eyes, concave cheeks, a crag of a nose, came running forward,
his coarse brown smock flapping. “Are you for the Carabas, the dreadful
Carabas?”

Reith gave a
cautious assent: “This is our design.”

“Sell me your
sky-car! Four times I have entered the Zone, creeping from rock to rock; now I
have my sequins. Sell me your sky-car, so that I may return to Holangar.”

“Unfortunately
we will need the sky-car upon our return,” said Reith.

“I offer you
sequins, purple sequins!”

“They mean
nothing to us; we go to find sequins of our own.”

The gaunt man
gave a gesture of emotion too wild to be expressed in words and lunged off down
the beach. A pair of Khors now approached: men somewhat slender and delicate of
physique, wearing black gowns and cylindrical black hats which gave the
illusion of height. The mustard-yellow faces were grave and still, the noses
thin and small, the ears fragile shells. Fine black hair grew up rather than
down, to be contained within the tall hat. They seemed to Reith a stream of
humanity as divergent as the Chaschmen-perhaps a distinct species.

The older of
the two spoke in a thin soft voice: “Why are you here?”

“We go to
take sequins,” said Anacho. “We hope to leave the sky-car in your care.”

“You must
pay. The sky-car is a valuable device.”

“So much the
better for you should we fail to return. We can pay nothing.”

“If you
return, you must pay.”

“No, no
payment. Do not insist or we will fly directly to Maust.”

The
mustard-yellow faces showed no quiver of emotion. “Very well, but we allow you
only to the month Temas.”

“Only three
months? Too short a period! Give us until the end of Meumas, or better Azaimas.”

“Until
Meumas. Your sky-car will be secure against all but those from whom you stole
it.”

“It will be
totally secure; we are not thieves.”

“So be it.
Until the first day of Meumas, on the precise instant.”

The three
took their possessions and walked through Khorai, to the caravan terminus.
Under an open shed a motor-wagon was being prepared for a journey, with a dozen
men of as many races standing by. The three made arrangements for passage, and
an hour later departed Khorai, along the road south to Maust.

*    *     *

Over barren
hills and dry swales rolled the motor-wagon, halting for the night at a hostel
operated by an order of white-faced women. They were either members of an
orgiastic religious sect or simple prostitutes; long after Reith, Anacho and
Traz had stretched out upon the benches which served as beds, drunken shouts and
wild laughter came from the smoky common room.

In the
morning the common room was dim and quiet, reeking with spilled wine and the
smoke of dead lamps. Men huddled face-down over tables, or sprawled along
benches, their faces the color of ash. The women of the place entered, now
harsh-voiced and peremptory, with cauldrons of thin yellow goulash. The men
stirred and groaned, somberly ate from earthenware bowls and staggered out to
the motorwagon, which presently set forth to the south.

By noon Maust
appeared in the distance: a jumble of tall narrow buildings with high gables
and crooked roof-lines, built of dark timber and age-blackened tile. Beyond, a
barren plain extended to the dim Hills of Recall. Running boys came out to meet
the motor-wagon. They shouted slogans and held up signs and banners: “Sequin-takers
attention! Kobo Hux will sell one of his excellent sequin-detectors.” “Formulate
your plans at the Inn of Purple Lights.” “Weapons, puffpads, maps, digging
implements from Sag the Mercantilist are eminently useful.” “Do not grope at
random; the Seer Garzu divines the location of large purple nodes.” “Flee the
Dirdir with all possible agility; use supple boots provided by Awalko.” “Your
last thoughts will be pleasant if, before death, you first consume the euphoric
tablets formulated by Laus the Thaumaturge.” “Enjoy a jolly respite, before
entering the Zone, at the Platform of Merriment.”

The
motor-wagon halted in a compound at the edge of Maust. The passengers alighted
into a crowd of bawling men, urgent boys, grimacing girls, each with a new
proffer. Reith, Traz and Anacho pushed through the throng, avoiding as best
they could the hands which reached to grasp them and their possessions.

They entered
a narrow street running between tall, age darkened structures, the beer-colored
sunlight barely penetrating to the street. Certain of the houses sold gear and
implements conceivably useful to the sequin-taker: grading kits, camouflage,
spoor eliminators, tongs, forks, bars, monoculars, maps, guides, talismans and
prayer powders. From other houses came the clash of cymbals, a raucous honking
of oboes, accompanied by calls of drunken exaltation. Certain of the buildings
catered to gamblers; others functioned as inns, with restaurants occupying the
ground floor. Everywhere lay the weight of antiquity, even to the dry aromatic
odor of the air. Stones had been polished by the casual touch of hands;
interior timbers were dark and waxy; the old brown tiles showed a subtle luster
to glancing light.

At the back
of the central plaza stood a spacious hostelry, which appeared to offer
comfortable accommodation and which Anacho favored, though Traz grumbled at
what he considered excessive and unnecessary luxury. “Must we pay the price of
a leap-horse merely to sleep the night?” he complained. “We have passed a dozen
inns more to my taste.”

“In due
course you will learn to appreciate the civilized niceties,” said Anacho
indulgently. “Come, let us see what is offered within.”

Through a
portal of carved wood they entered the foyer. Chandeliers fashioned to
represent sequin-clusters hung from the ceiling; a magnificent rug, black of
field with a taupe border and five starbursts of scarlet and ocher, cushioned
the tile floor.

A majordomo
approached to inquire their needs. Anacho spoke for three chambers, clean
linen, baths and unguents. “And what do you demand in the way of tariff?”

“For such
accommodation each must pay a hundred sequins
[xii]
per day,” replied the majordomo.

Traz gave an
exclamation of shock; even Anacho was moved to protest. “What?” he exclaimed. “For
three modest chambers, you demand three hundred sequins? Have you no sense of
proportion? The charges are outrageous.”

The majordomo
gave his head a curt inclination. “Sir, this is the famous Alawan Inn, at the
threshold of the Carabas. Our patrons never begrudge themselves; they go forth
either for wealth or the experience of a Dirdir intestine. What then a few
sequins more or less? If you are unable to pay our fees I suggest the Den of
Restful Repose or the Black Zone Inn. Notice, however, that the tariff includes
access to a buffet of good-quality victuals as well as a library of charts,
guides and technical advice, not to mention the services of an expert
consultant.”

“All very
well,” said Reith. “First we will look into the Black Zone Inn, and one or two
other establishments.”

The Black
Zone Inn occupied the loft above a gambling establishment. The Den of Restful
Repose was a cold barracks a hundred yards north of town, beside a refuse dump.

After
inspecting several other hospices the three returned to the Alawan, where by
dint of furious haggling they managed to secure a somewhat lower rate, which
they were forced to pay in advance.

After a meal
of stewed hackrod and mealcake, the three repaired to the library, at the back
of the second floor. The side wall displayed a great map of the Zone; shelves
held pamphlets, portfolios, compilations. The consultant, a small sad-eyed man,
sat to the side and responded to questions in a confidential whisper. The three
passed the afternoon studying the physiography of the Zone, the tracks of
successful and unsuccessful ventures, the statistical distribution of Dirdir
kills. Of those who entered the Zone, something under two-thirds returned, with
an average gain of sequins to the value of about six hundred. “The figures here
are somewhat misleading,” Anacho stated. “They include the fringe-runners who
never venture more than half a mile into the Zone. The takers who work the
hills and the far slopes account for most of the deaths and most of the wealth.”