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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sjambak, by Jack Vance
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 30002 ***</div>
<div class="figl"><img src="images/001.png" width="372" height="550" alt="" title="" /></div>
<div class="hd1"><p><big><i>Wilbur Murphy sought romance, excitement, and an impossible
Horseman of Space. With polite smiles, the planet frustrated
him at every turn—until he found them all the hard way!</i></big></p></div>
<h1><span class="sp1">SJAMBAK</span></h1>
<h2>By Jack Vance</h2>
<p class="hd1"><small>Illustrated by VIRGIL FINLAY</small></p>
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Howard Frayberg</span>, Production
Director of <i>Know Your
Universe!</i>, was a man of sudden unpredictable
moods; and Sam Catlin,
the show's Continuity Editor,
had learned to expect the worst.</p>
<p>"Sam," said Frayberg, "regarding
the show last night...." He paused
to seek the proper words, and Catlin
relaxed. Frayberg's frame of
mind was merely critical. "Sam,
we're in a rut. What's worse, the
show's dull!"</p>
<p>Sam Catlin shrugged, not committing
himself.</p>
<p>"<i>Seaweed Processors of Alphard
IX</i>—who cares about seaweed?"</p>
<p>"It's factual stuff," said Sam, defensive
but not wanting to go too
far out on a limb. "We bring 'em
everything—color, fact, romance,
sight, sound, smell.... Next week,
it's the Ball Expedition to the Mixtup
Mountains on Gropus."</p>
<p>Frayberg leaned forward. "Sam,
we're working the wrong slant on
this stuff.... We've got to loosen
up, sock 'em! Shift our ground!
Give 'em the old human angle—glamor,
mystery, thrills!"</p>
<p>Sam Catlin curled his lips. "I got
just what you want."</p>
<p>"Yeah? Show me."</p>
<p>Catlin reached into his waste
basket. "I filed this just ten minutes
ago...." He smoothed out the
pages. "'Sequence idea, by Wilbur
Murphy. Investigate "Horseman of
Space," the man who rides up to
meet incoming space-ships.'"</p>
<p>Frayberg tilted his head to the
side. "Rides up on a <i>horse</i>?"</p>
<p>"That's what Wilbur Murphy
says."</p>
<p>"How far up?"</p>
<p>"Does it make any difference?"</p>
<p>"No—I guess not."</p>
<p>"Well, for your information, it's
up ten thousand, twenty thousand
miles. He waves to the pilot, takes
off his hat to the passengers, then
rides back down."</p>
<p>"And where does all this take
place?"</p>
<p>"On—on—" Catlin frowned. "I
can write it, but I can't pronounce
it." He printed on his scratch-screen:
CIRGAMESÇ.</p>
<p>"Sirgamesk," read Frayberg.</p>
<p>Catlin shook his head. "That's
what it looks like—but those consonants
are all aspirated gutturals.
It's more like 'Hrrghameshgrrh'."</p>
<p>"Where did Murphy get this
tip?"</p>
<p>"I didn't bother to ask."</p>
<p>"Well," mused Frayberg, "we
could always do a show on strange
superstitions. Is Murphy around?"</p>
<p>"He's explaining his expense account
to Shifkin."</p>
<p>"Get him in here; let's talk to
him."</p>
<hr />
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Wilbur Murphy</span> had a
blond crew-cut, a broad
freckled nose, and a serious sidelong
squint. He looked from his
crumpled sequence idea to Catlin
and Frayberg. "Didn't like it, eh?"</p>
<p>"We thought the emphasis should
be a little different," explained Catlin.
"Instead of 'The Space Horseman,'
we'd give it the working title,
'Odd Superstitions of Hrrghameshgrrh'."</p>
<p>"Oh, hell!" said Frayberg. "Call
it Sirgamesk."</p>
<p>"Anyway," said Catlin, "that's
the angle."</p>
<p>"But it's not superstition," said
Murphy.</p>
<p>"Oh, come, Wilbur ..."</p>
<p>"I got this for sheer sober-sided
fact. A man rides a horse up to
meet the incoming ships!"</p>
<p>"Where did you get this wild
fable?"</p>
<p>"My brother-in-law is purser
on the <i>Celestial Traveller</i>. At Riker's
Planet they make connection
with the feeder line out of Cirgamesç."</p>
<p>"Wait a minute," said Catlin.
"How did you pronounce that?"</p>
<p>"Cirgamesç. The steward on the
shuttle-ship gave out this story, and
my brother-in-law passed it along to
me."</p>
<p>"Somebody's pulling somebody's
leg."</p>
<p>"My brother-in-law wasn't, and
the steward was cold sober."</p>
<p>"They've been eating <i>bhang</i>.
Sirgamesk is a Javanese planet,
isn't it?"</p>
<p>"Javanese, Arab, Malay."</p>
<p>"Then they took a <i>bhang</i> supply
with them, and <i>hashish</i>, <i>chat</i>, and
a few other sociable herbs."</p>
<p>"Well, this horseman isn't any
drug-dream."</p>
<p>"No? What is it?"</p>
<p>"So far as I know it's a man on
a horse."</p>
<p>"Ten thousand miles up? In a
vacuum?"</p>
<p>"Exactly."</p>
<p>"No space-suit?"</p>
<p>"That's the story."</p>
<p>Catlin and Frayberg looked at
each other.</p>
<p>"Well, Wilbur," Catlin began.</p>
<p>Frayberg interrupted. "What we
can use, Wilbur, is a sequence on
Sirgamesk superstition. Emphasis
on voodoo or witchcraft—naked
girls dancing—stuff with roots in
Earth, but now typically Sirgamesk.
Lots of color. Secret rite stuff...."</p>
<p>"Not much room on Cirgamesç
for secret rites."</p>
<p>"It's a big planet, isn't it?"</p>
<p>"Not quite as big as Mars.
There's no atmosphere. The settlers
live in mountain valleys, with air-tight
lids over 'em."</p>
<p>Catlin flipped the pages of
<i>Thumbnail Sketches of the Inhabited
Worlds</i>. "Says here there's
ancient ruins millions of years old.
When the atmosphere went, the
population went with it."</p>
<p>Frayberg became animated.
"There's lots of material out there!
Go get it, Wilbur! Life! Sex! Excitement!
Mystery!"</p>
<p>"Okay," said Wilbur Murphy.</p>
<p>"But lay off this horseman-in-space.
There <i>is</i> a limit to public
credulity, and don't you let anyone
tell you different."</p>
<hr />
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Cirgamesç</span> hung outside the
port, twenty thousand miles
ahead. The steward leaned over
Wilbur Murphy's shoulder and
pointed a long brown finger. "It
was right out there, sir. He came
riding up—"</p>
<p>"What kind of a man was it?
Strange-looking?"</p>
<p>"No. He was Cirgameski."</p>
<p>"Oh. You saw him with your
own eyes, eh?"</p>
<p>The steward bowed, and his loose
white mantle fell forward. "Exactly,
sir."</p>
<p>"No helmet, no space-suit?"</p>
<p>"He wore a short Singhalût vest
and pantaloons and a yellow Hadrasi
hat. No more."</p>
<p>"And the horse?"</p>
<p>"Ah, the horse! There's a different
matter."</p>
<p>"Different how?"</p>
<p>"I can't describe the horse. I was
intent on the man."</p>
<p>"Did you recognize him?"</p>
<p>"By the brow of Lord Allah, it's
well not to look too closely when
such matters occur."</p>
<p>"Then—you <i>did</i> recognize him!"</p>
<p>"I must be at my task, sir."</p>
<p>Murphy frowned in vexation at
the steward's retreating back, then
bent over his camera to check the
tape-feed. If anything appeared
now, and his eyes could see it, the
two-hundred million audience of
<i>Know Your Universe!</i> could see it
with him.</p>
<p>When he looked up, Murphy
made a frantic grab for the stanchion,
then relaxed. Cirgamesç had
taken the Great Twitch. It was an
illusion, a psychological quirk. One
instant the planet lay ahead; then
a man winked or turned away, and
when he looked back, "ahead" had
become "below"; the planet had
swung an astonishing ninety degrees
across the sky, and they were <i>falling</i>!</p>
<p>Murphy leaned against the stanchion.
"'The Great Twitch'," he
muttered to himself, "I'd like to
get <i>that</i> on two hundred million
screens!"</p>
<p>Several hours passed. Cirgamesç
grew. The Sampan Range rose up
like a dark scab; the valley sultanates
of Singhalût, Hadra, New
Batavia, and Boeng-Bohôt showed
like glistening chicken-tracks; the
Great Rift Colony of Sundaman
stretched down through the foothills
like the trail of a slug.</p>
<p>A loudspeaker voice rattled the
ship. "Attention passengers for
Singhalût and other points on Cirgamesç!
Kindly prepare your luggage
for disembarkation. Customs
at Singhalût are extremely thorough.
Passengers are warned to take
no weapons, drugs or explosives
ashore. This is important!"</p>
<hr />
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">The warning</span> turned out to
be an understatement. Murphy
was plied with questions. He suffered
search of an intimate nature.
He was three-dimensionally X-rayed
with a range of frequencies
calculated to excite fluorescence in
whatever object he might have
secreted in his stomach, in a hollow
bone, or under a layer of flesh.</p>
<p>His luggage was explored with
similar minute attention, and
Murphy rescued his cameras with
difficulty. "What're you so damn
anxious about? I don't have drugs;
I don't have contraband ..."</p>
<p>"It's guns, your excellency. Guns,
weapons, explosives ..."</p>
<p>"I don't have any guns."</p>
<p>"But these objects here?"</p>
<p>"They're cameras. They record
pictures and sounds and smells."</p>
<p>The inspector seized the cases
with a glittering smile of triumph.
"They resemble no cameras of my
experience; I fear I shall have to
impound ..."</p>
<p>A young man in loose white
pantaloons, a pink vest, pale green
cravat and a complex black turban
strolled up. The inspector made a
swift obeisance, with arms spread
wide. "Excellency."</p>
<p>The young man raised two fingers.
"You may find it possible to
spare Mr. Murphy any unnecessary
formality."</p>
<p>"As your Excellency recommends...."
The inspector nimbly
repacked Murphy's belongings,
while the young man looked on benignly.</p>
<p>Murphy covertly inspected his
face. The skin was smooth, the color
of the rising moon; the eyes were
narrow, dark, superficially placid.
The effect was of silken punctilio
with hot ruby blood close beneath.</p>
<p>Satisfied with the inspector's
zeal, he turned to Murphy. "Allow
me to introduce myself, Tuan
Murphy. I am Ali-Tomás, of the
House of Singhalût, and my father
the Sultan begs you to accept our
poor hospitality."</p>
<p>"Why, thank you," said Murphy.
"This is a very pleasant surprise."</p>
<p>"If you will allow me to conduct
you...." He turned to the inspector.
"Mr. Murphy's luggage to the
palace."</p>
<hr />
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Murphy</span> accompanied Ali-Tomás
into the outside light,
fitting his own quick step to the
prince's feline saunter. This is coming
it pretty soft, he said to himself.
I'll have a magnificent suite, with
bowls of fruit and gin pahits, not
to mention two or three silken girls
with skin like rich cream bringing
me towels in the shower.... Well,
well, well, it's not so bad working
for <i>Know Your Universe!</i> after all!
I suppose I ought to unlimber my
camera....</p>
<p>Prince Ali-Tomás watched him
with interest. "And what is the
audience of <i>Know Your Universe!</i>?"</p>
<p>"We call 'em 'participants'."</p>
<p>"Expressive. And how many
participants do you serve?"</p>
<p>"Oh, the Bowdler Index rises and
falls. We've got about two hundred
million screens, with five hundred
million participants."</p>
<p>"Fascinating! And tell me—how
do you record smells?"</p>
<p>Murphy displayed the odor recorder
on the side of the camera,
with its gelatinous track which fixed
the molecular design.</p>
<p>"And the odors recreated—they
are like the originals?"</p>
<p>"Pretty close. Never exact, but
none of the participants knows the
difference. Sometimes the synthetic
odor is an improvement."</p>
<p>"Astounding!" murmured the
prince.</p>
<p>"And sometimes ... Well, Carson
Tenlake went out to get the myrrh-blossoms
on Venus. It was a hot
day—as days usually are on Venus—and
a long climb. When the show
was run off, there was more smell
of Carson than of flowers."</p>
<p>Prince Ali-Tomás laughed politely.
"We turn through here."</p>
<p>They came out into a compound
paved with red, green and white
tiles. Beneath the valley roof was a
sinuous trough, full of haze and
warmth and golden light. As far in
either direction as the eye could
reach, the hillsides were terraced,
barred in various shades of green.
Spattering the valley floor were tall
canvas pavilions, tents, booths, shelters.</p>
<p>"Naturally," said Prince Ali-Tomás,
"we hope that you and your
participants will enjoy Singhalût.
It is a truism that, in order to import,
we must export; we wish to
encourage a pleasurable response
to the 'Made in Singhalût' tag on
our <i>batiks</i>, carvings, lacquers."</p>
<p>They rolled quietly across the
square in a surface-car displaying
the House emblem. Murphy rested
against deep, cool cushions. "Your
inspectors are pretty careful about
weapons."</p>
<p>Ali-Tomás smiled complacently.
"Our existence is ordered and
peaceful. You may be familiar with
the concept of <i>adak</i>?"</p>
<p>"I don't think so."</p>
<p>"A word, an idea from old Earth.
Every living act is ordered by ritual.
But our heritage is passionate—and
when unyielding <i>adak</i> stands
in the way of an irresistible emotion,
there is turbulence, sometimes
even killing."</p>
<p>"An <i>amok</i>."</p>
<p>"Exactly. It is as well that the
<i>amok</i> has no weapons other than
his knife. Otherwise he would kill
twenty where now he kills one."</p>
<p>The car rolled along a narrow
avenue, scattering pedestrians to
either side like the bow of a boat
spreading foam. The men wore
loose white pantaloons and a short
open vest; the women wore only
the pantaloons.</p>
<p>"Handsome set of people," remarked
Murphy.</p>
<p>Ali-Tomás again smiled complacently.
"I'm sure Singhalût will
present an inspiring and beautiful
spectacle for your program."</p>
<p>Murphy remembered the keynote
to Howard Frayberg's instructions:
"<i>Excitement! Sex! Mystery!</i>" Frayberg
cared little for inspiration or
beauty. "I imagine," he said casually,
"that you celebrate a number of
interesting festivals? Colorful dancing?
Unique customs?"</p>
<p>Ali-Tomás shook his head. "To
the contrary. We left our superstitions
and ancestor-worship back
on Earth. We are quiet Mohammedans
and indulge in very little
festivity. Perhaps here is the reason
for <i>amoks</i> and sjambaks."</p>
<p>"Sjambaks?"</p>
<p>"We are not proud of them. You
will hear sly rumor, and it is better
that I arm you beforehand with
truth."</p>
<p>"What is a sjambak?"</p>
<p>"They are bandits, flouters of
authority. I will show you one presently."</p>
<p>"I heard," said Murphy, "of a
man riding a horse up to meet the
space-ships. What would account
for a story like that?"</p>
<p>"It can have no possible basis,"
said Prince Ali-Tomás. "We have
no horses on Cirgamesç. None
whatever."</p>
<p>"But ..."</p>
<p>"The veriest idle talk. Such nonsense
will have no interest for your
intelligent participants."</p>
<p>The car rolled into a square a
hundred yards on a side, lined
with luxuriant banana palms. Opposite
was an enormous pavilion of
gold and violet silk, with a dozen
peaked gables casting various
changing sheens. In the center of
the square a twenty-foot pole supported
a cage about two feet wide,
three feet long, and four feet high.</p>
<p>Inside this cage crouched a naked
man.</p>
<p>The car rolled past. Prince Ali-Tomás
waved an idle hand. The
caged man glared down from
bloodshot eyes. "That," said Ali-Tomás,
"is a sjambak. As you see,"
a faint note of apology entered his
voice, "we attempt to discourage
them."</p>
<p>"What's that metal object on his
chest?"</p>
<p>"The mark of his trade. By that
you may know all sjambak. In
these unsettled times only we of the
House may cover our chests—all
others must show themselves and
declare themselves true Singhalûsi."</p>
<p>Murphy said tentatively, "I must
come back here and photograph
that cage."</p>
<p>Ali-Tomás smilingly shook his
head. "I will show you our farms,
our vines and orchards. Your participants
will enjoy these; they have
no interest in the dolor of an ignoble
sjambak."</p>
<p>"Well," said Murphy, "our aim
is a well-rounded production. We
want to show the farmers at work,
the members of the great House at
their responsibilities, as well as the
deserved fate of wrongdoers."</p>
<p>"Exactly. For every sjambak
there are ten thousand industrious
Singhalûsi. It follows then that only
one ten-thousandth part of your
film should be devoted to this infamous
minority."</p>
<p>"About three-tenths of a second,
eh?"</p>
<p>"No more than they deserve."</p>
<p>"You don't know my Production
Director. His name is Howard
Frayberg, and ..."</p>
<hr />
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Howard Frayberg</span> was
deep in conference with Sam
Catlin, under the influence of what
Catlin called his philosophic kick.
It was the phase which Catlin
feared most.</p>
<p>"Sam," said Frayberg, "do you
know the danger of this business?"</p>
<p>"Ulcers," Catlin replied promptly.</p>
<p>Frayberg shook his head. "We've
got an occupational disease to fight—progressive
mental myopia."</p>
<p>"Speak for yourself," said Catlin.</p>
<p>"Consider. We sit in this office.
We think we know what kind of
show we want. We send out our
staff to get it. We're signing the
checks, so back it comes the way
we asked for it. We look at it, hear
it, smell it—and pretty soon we believe
it: our version of the universe,
full-blown from our brains like
Minerva stepping out of Zeus. You
see what I mean?"</p>
<p>"I understand the words."</p>
<p>"We've got our own picture of
what's going on. We ask for it, we
get it. It builds up and up—and
finally we're like mice in a trap
built of our own ideas. We cannibalize
our own brains."</p>
<p>"Nobody'll ever accuse you of being
stingy with a metaphor."</p>
<p>"Sam, let's have the truth. How
many times have you been off
Earth?"</p>
<p>"I went to Mars once. And I
spent a couple of weeks at Aristillus
Resort on the Moon."</p>
<p>Frayberg leaned back in his chair
as if shocked. "And we're supposed
to be a couple of learned planetologists!"</p>
<p>Catlin made grumbling noise in
his throat. "I haven't been around
the zodiac, so what? You sneezed
a few minutes ago and I said
<i>gesundheit</i>, but I don't have any
doctor's degree."</p>
<p>"There comes a time in a man's
life," said Frayberg, "when he wants
to take stock, get a new perspective."</p>
<p>"Relax, Howard, relax."</p>
<p>"In our case it means taking out
our preconceived ideas, looking at
them, checking our illusions against
reality."</p>
<p>"Are you serious about this?"</p>
<p>"Another thing," said Frayberg,
"I want to check up a little. Shifkin
says the expense accounts are
frightful. But he can't fight it.
When Keeler says he paid ten
munits for a loaf of bread on Nekkar
IV, who's gonna call him on
it?"</p>
<p>"Hell, let him eat bread! That's
cheaper than making a safari
around the cluster, spot-checking
the super-markets."</p>
<p>Frayberg paid no heed. He
touched a button; a three-foot
sphere full of glistening motes appeared.
Earth was at the center,
with thin red lines, the scheduled
space-ship routes, radiating out in
all directions.</p>
<p>"Let's see what kind of circle
we can make," said Frayberg.
"Gower's here at Canopus, Keeler's
over here at Blue Moon, Wilbur
Murphy's at Sirgamesk ..."</p>
<p>"Don't forget," muttered Catlin,
"we got a show to put on."</p>
<p>"We've got material for a year,"
scoffed Frayberg. "Get hold of
Space-Lines. We'll start with Sirgamesk,
and see what Wilbur
Murphy's up to."</p>
<hr />
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Wilbur Murphy</span> was being
presented to the Sultan of
Singhalût by the Prince Ali-Tomás.
The Sultan, a small mild man of
seventy, sat crosslegged on an enormous
pink and green air-cushion.
"Be at your ease, Mr. Murphy. We
dispense with as much protocol here
as practicable." The Sultan had a
dry clipped voice and the air of a
rather harassed corporation executive.
"I understand you represent
Earth-Central Home Screen Network?"</p>
<p>"I'm a staff photographer for the
<i>Know Your Universe!</i> show."</p>
<p>"We export a great deal to
Earth," mused the Sultan, "but not
as much as we'd like. We're very
pleased with your interest in us,
and naturally we want to help you
in every way possible. Tomorrow
the Keeper of the Archives will
present a series of charts analyzing
our economy. Ali-Tomás shall personally
conduct you through the
fish-hatcheries. We want you to
know we're doing a great job out
here on Singhalût."</p>
<p>"I'm sure you are," said Murphy
uncomfortably. "However, that
isn't quite the stuff I want."</p>
<p>"No? Just where do your desires
lie?"</p>
<p>Ali-Tomás said delicately. "Mr.
Murphy took a rather profound interest
in the sjambak displayed in
the square."</p>
<p>"Oh. And you explained that
these renegades could hold no interest
for serious students of our
planet?"</p>
<p>Murphy started to explain that
clustered around two hundred million
screens tuned to <i>Know Your
Universe!</i> were four or five hundred
million participants, the
greater part of them neither serious
nor students. The Sultan cut in
decisively. "I will now impart something
truly interesting. We Singhalûsi
are making preparations to
reclaim four more valleys, with an
added area of six hundred thousand
acres! I shall put my physiographic
models at your disposal;
you may use them to the fullest extent!"</p>
<p>"I'll be pleased for the opportunity,"
declared Murphy. "But tomorrow
I'd like to prowl around
the valley, meet your people, observe
their customs, religious rites,
courtships, funerals ..."</p>
<p>The Sultan pulled a sour face.
"We are ditch-water dull. Festivals
are celebrated quietly in the home;
there is small religious fervor;
courtships are consummated by
family contract. I fear you will find
little sensational material here in
Singhalût."</p>
<p>"You have no temple dances?"
asked Murphy. "No fire-walkers,
snake-charmers—voodoo?"</p>
<p>The Sultan smiled patronizingly.
"We came out here to Cirgamesç to
escape the ancient superstitions.
Our lives are calm, orderly. Even
the <i>amoks</i> have practically disappeared."</p>
<p>"But the sjambaks—"</p>
<p>"Negligible."</p>
<p>"Well," said Murphy, "I'd like
to visit some of these ancient
cities."</p>
<p>"I advise against it," declared
the Sultan. "They are shards,
weathered stone. There are no inscriptions,
no art. There is no stimulation
in dead stone. Now. Tomorrow
I will hear a report on hybrid
soybean plantings in the Upper
Kam District. You will want to
be present."</p>
<hr />
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Murphy's suite</span> matched
or even excelled his expectation.
He had four rooms and a private
garden enclosed by a thicket
of bamboo. His bathroom walls
were slabs of glossy actinolite, inlaid
with cinnabar, jade, galena,
pyrite and blue malachite, in representations
of fantastic birds. His
bedroom was a tent thirty feet high.
Two walls were dark green fabric;
a third was golden rust; the fourth
opened upon the private garden.</p>
<p>Murphy's bed was a pink and
yellow creation ten feet square, soft
as cobweb, smelling of rose sandalwood.
Carved black lacquer tubs
held fruit; two dozen wines, liquors,
syrups, essences flowed at a
touch from as many ebony spigots.</p>
<p>The garden centered on a pool of
cool water, very pleasant in the
hothouse climate of Singhalût. The
only shortcoming was the lack of
the lovely young servitors Murphy
had envisioned. He took it upon
himself to repair this lack, and in a
shady wine-house behind the palace,
called the Barangipan, he
made the acquaintance of a girl-musician
named Soek Panjoebang.
He found her enticing tones of
quavering sweetness from the
<i>gamelan</i>, an instrument well-loved
in Old Bali. Soek Panjoebang had
the delicate features and transparent
skin of Sumatra, the supple
long limbs of Arabia and in a pair
of wide and golden eyes a heritage
from somewhere in Celtic Europe.
Murphy bought her a goblet of
frozen shavings, each a different
perfume, while he himself drank
white rice-beer. Soek Panjoebang
displayed an intense interest in the
ways of Earth, and Murphy found
it hard to guide the conversation.
"Weelbrrr," she said. "Such a funny
name, Weelbrrr. Do you think
I could play the <i>gamelan</i> in the
great cities, the great palaces of
Earth?"</p>
<p>"Sure. There's no law against
<i>gamelans</i>."</p>
<p>"You talk so funny, Weelbrrr. I
like to hear you talk."</p>
<p>"I suppose you get kinda bored
here in Singhalût?"</p>
<p>She shrugged. "Life is pleasant,
but it concerns with little things.
We have no great adventures. We
grow flowers, we play the <i>gamelan</i>."
She eyed him archly sidelong.
"We love.... We sleep...."</p>
<p>Murphy grinned. "You run
<i>amok</i>."</p>
<p>"No, no, no. That is no more."</p>
<p>"Not since the sjambaks, eh?"</p>
<p>"The sjambaks are bad. But better
than <i>amok</i>. When a man feels
the knot forming around his chest,
he no longer takes his kris and runs
down the street—he becomes sjambak."</p>
<p>This was getting interesting.
"Where does he go? What does he
do?"</p>
<p>"He robs."</p>
<p>"Who does he rob? What does
he do with his loot?"</p>
<p>She leaned toward him. "It is
not well to talk of them."</p>
<p>"Why not?"</p>
<p>"The Sultan does not wish it.
Everywhere are listeners. When
one talks sjambak, the Sultan's
ears rise, like the points on a cat."</p>
<p>"Suppose they do—what's the
difference? I've got a legitimate interest.
I saw one of them in that
cage out there. That's torture. I
want to know about it."</p>
<p>"He is very bad. He opened the
monorail car and the air rushed
out. Forty-two Singhalûsi and
Hadrasi bloated and blew up."</p>
<p>"And what happened to the
sjambak?"</p>
<p>"He took all the gold and money
and jewels and ran away."</p>
<p>"Ran where?"</p>
<p>"Out across Great Pharasang
Plain. But he was a fool. He came
back to Singhalût for his wife; he
was caught and set up for all people
to look at, so they might tell
each other, 'thus it is for sjambaks.'"</p>
<p>"Where do the sjambaks hide
out?"</p>
<p>"Oh," she looked vaguely around
the room, "out on the plains. In
the mountains."</p>
<p>"They must have some shelter—an
air-dome."</p>
<p>"No. The Sultan would send out
his patrol-boat and destroy them.
They roam quietly. They hide
among the rocks and tend their
oxygen stills. Sometimes they visit
the old cities."</p>
<p>"I wonder," said Murphy, staring
into his beer, "could it be sjambaks
who ride horses up to meet the
space-ship?"</p>
<p>Soek Panjoebang knit her black
eyebrows, as if preoccupied.</p>
<p>"That's what brought me out
here," Murphy went on. "This
story of a man riding a horse out
in space."</p>
<p>"Ridiculous; we have no horses
in Cirgamesç."</p>
<p>"All right, the steward won't
swear to the horse. Suppose the
man was up there on foot or riding
a bicycle. But the steward recognized
the man."</p>
<p>"Who was this man, pray?"</p>
<p>"The steward clammed up....
The name would have been just
noise to me, anyway."</p>
<p>"<i>I</i> might recognize the name...."</p>
<p>"Ask him yourself. The ship's
still out at the field."</p>
<p>She shook her head slowly, holding
her golden eyes on his face. "I
do not care to attract the attention
of either steward, sjambak—or Sultan."</p>
<p>Murphy said impatiently. "In
any event, it's not who—but <i>how</i>.
How does the man breathe? Vacuum
sucks a man's lungs up out of
his mouth, bursts his stomach, his
ears...."</p>
<p>"We have excellent doctors,"
said Soek Panjoebang shuddering,
"but alas! I am not one of them."</p>
<hr />
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Murphy looked</span> at her
sharply. Her voice held the
plangent sweetness of her instrument,
with additional overtones of
mockery. "There must be some kind
of invisible dome around him, holding
in air," said Murphy.</p>
<p>"And what if there is?"</p>
<p>"It's something new, and if it is,
I want to find out about it."</p>
<p>Soek smiled languidly. "You are
so typical an old-lander—worried,
frowning, dynamic. You should relax,
cultivate <i>napaû</i>, enjoy life as
we do here in Singhalût."</p>
<p>"What's <i>napaû</i>?"</p>
<p>"It's our philosophy, where we
find meaning and life and beauty
in every aspect of the world."</p>
<p>"That sjambak in the cage
could do with a little less <i>napaû</i>
right now."</p>
<p>"No doubt he is unhappy," she
agreed.</p>
<p>"Unhappy! He's being tortured!"</p>
<p>"He broke the Sultan's law. His
life is no longer his own. It belongs
to Singhalût. If the Sultan wishes
to use it to warn other wrongdoers,
the fact that the man suffers
is of small interest."</p>
<p>"If they all wear that metal ornament,
how can they hope to hide
out?" He glanced at her own bare
bosom.</p>
<p>"They appear by night—slip
through the streets like ghosts...."
She looked in turn at Murphy's
loose shirt. "You will notice persons
brushing up against you, feeling
you," she laid her hand along
his breast, "and when this happens
you will know they are agents of the
Sultan, because only strangers and
the House may wear shirts. But
now, let me sing to you—a song
from the Old Land, old Java. You
will not understand the tongue, but
no other words so join the voice of
the <i>gamelan</i>."</p>
<hr />
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">"This is</span> the gravy-train," said
Murphy. "Instead of a garden
suite with a private pool, I
usually sleep in a bubble-tent, with
nothing to eat but condensed food."</p>
<p>Soek Panjoebang flung the water
out of her sleek black hair. "Perhaps,
Weelbrrr, you will regret leaving
Cirgamesç?"</p>
<p>"Well," he looked up to the transparent
roof, barely visible where the
sunlight collected and refracted, "I
don't particularly like being shut up
like a bird in an aviary.... Mildly
claustrophobic, I guess."</p>
<p>After breakfast, drinking thick
coffee from tiny silver cups, Murphy
looked long and reflectively at Soek
Panjoebang.</p>
<p>"What are you thinking, Weelbrrr?"</p>
<p>Murphy drained his coffee. "I'm
thinking that I'd better be getting
to work."</p>
<p>"And what do you do?"</p>
<p>"First I'm going to shoot the palace,
and you sitting here in the garden
playing your <i>gamelan</i>."</p>
<p>"But Weelbrrr—not <i>me</i>!"</p>
<p>"You're a part of the universe,
rather an interesting part. Then I'll
take the square...."</p>
<p>"And the sjambak?"</p>
<p>A quiet voice spoke from behind.
"A visitor, Tuan Murphy."</p>
<p>Murphy turned his head. "Bring
him in." He looked back to Soek
Panjoebang. She was on her feet.</p>
<p>"It is necessary that I go."</p>
<p>"When will I see you?"</p>
<p>"Tonight—at the Barangipan."</p>
<hr />
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">The quiet voice</span> said, "Mr.
Rube Trimmer, Tuan."</p>
<p>Trimmer was small and middle-aged,
with thin shoulders and a
paunch. He carried himself with a
hell-raising swagger, left over from
a time twenty years gone. His skin
had the waxy look of lost floridity,
his tuft of white hair was coarse
and thin, his eyelids hung in the
off-side droop that amateur physiognomists
like to associate with
guile.</p>
<p>"I'm Resident Director of the
Import-Export Bank," said Trimmer.
"Heard you were here and
thought I'd pay my respects."</p>
<p>"I suppose you don't see many
strangers."</p>
<p>"Not too many—there's nothing
much to bring 'em. Cirgamesç isn't
a comfortable tourist planet. Too
confined, shut in. A man with a
sensitive psyche goes nuts pretty
easy here."</p>
<p>"Yeah," said Murphy. "I was
thinking the same thing this morning.
That dome begins to give a
man the willies. How do the natives
stand it? Or do they?"</p>
<p>Trimmer pulled out a cigar case.
Murphy refused the offer.</p>
<p>"Local tobacco," said Trimmer.
"Very good." He lit up thoughtfully.
"Well, you might say that the
Cirgameski are schizophrenic.
They've got the docile Javanese
blood, plus the Arabian élan. The
Javanese part is on top, but every
once in a while you see a flash of
arrogance.... You never know.
I've been out here nine years and
I'm still a stranger." He puffed on
his cigar, studied Murphy with his
careful eyes. "You work for <i>Know
Your Universe!</i>, I hear."</p>
<p>"Yeah. I'm one of the leg men."</p>
<p>"Must be a great job."</p>
<p>"A man sees a lot of the galaxy,
and he runs into queer tales, like
this sjambak stuff."</p>
<p>Trimmer nodded without surprise.
"My advice to you, Murphy,
is lay off the sjambaks. They're not
healthy around here."</p>
<p>Murphy was startled by the
bluntness. "What's the big mystery
about these sjambaks?"</p>
<p>Trimmer looked around the
room. "This place is bugged."</p>
<p>"I found two pick-ups and
plugged 'em," said Murphy.</p>
<p>Trimmer laughed. "Those were
just plants. They hide 'em where a
man might just barely spot 'em.
You can't catch the real ones.
They're woven into the cloth—pressure-sensitive
wires."</p>
<p>Murphy looked critically at the
cloth walls.</p>
<p>"Don't let it worry you," said
Trimmer. "They listen more out of
habit than anything else. If you're
fussy we'll go for a walk."</p>
<p>The road led past the palace into
the country. Murphy and Trimmer
sauntered along a placid river, overgrown
with lily pads, swarming
with large white ducks.</p>
<p>"This sjambak business," said
Murphy. "Everybody talks around
it. You can't pin anybody down."</p>
<p>"Including me," said Trimmer.
"I'm more or less privileged around
here. The Sultan finances his reclamation
through the bank, on the
basis of my reports. But there's
more to Singhalût than the Sultan."</p>
<p>"Namely?"</p>
<p>Trimmer waved his cigar waggishly.
"Now we're getting in where
I don't like to talk. I'll give you a
hint. Prince Ali thinks roofing-in
more valleys is a waste of money,
when there's Hadra and New Batavia
and Sundaman so close."</p>
<p>"You mean—armed conquest?"</p>
<p>Trimmer laughed. "You said it,
not me."</p>
<p>"They can't carry on much of a
war—unless the soldiers commute
by monorail."</p>
<p>"Maybe Prince Ali thinks he's
got the answer."</p>
<p>"Sjambaks?"</p>
<p>"I didn't say it," said Trimmer
blandly.</p>
<p>Murphy grinned. After a moment
he said. "I picked up with a
girl named Soek Panjoebang who
plays the <i>gamelan</i>. I suppose she's
working for either the Sultan or
Prince Ali. Do you know which?"</p>
<p>Trimmer's eyes sparkled. He
shook his head. "Might be either
one. There's a way to find out."</p>
<p>"Yeah?"</p>
<p>"Get her off where you're sure
there's no spy-cells. Tell her two
things—one for Ali, the other for
the Sultan. Whichever one reacts
you know you've got her tagged."</p>
<p>"For instance?"</p>
<p>"Well, for instance she learns that
you can rig up a hypnotic ray from
a flashlight battery, a piece of
bamboo, and a few lengths of wire.
That'll get Ali in an awful sweat.
He can't get weapons. None at all.
And for the Sultan," Trimmer was
warming up to his intrigue, chewing
on his cigar with gusto, "tell her
you're on to a catalyst that turns
clay into aluminum and oxygen in
the presence of sunlight. The Sultan
would sell his right leg for
something like that. He tries hard
for Singhalût and Cirgamesç."</p>
<p>"And Ali?"</p>
<p>Trimmer hesitated. "I never said
what I'm gonna say. Don't forget—I
never said it."</p>
<p>"Okay, you never said it."</p>
<p>"Ever hear of a <i>jehad</i>?"</p>
<p>"Mohammedan holy wars."</p>
<p>"Believe it or not, Ali wants a
<i>jehad</i>."</p>
<p>"Sounds kinda fantastic."</p>
<p>"Sure it's fantastic. Don't forget,
I never said anything about it. But
suppose someone—strictly unofficial,
of course—let the idea percolate
around the Peace Office back
home."</p>
<p>"Ah," said Murphy. "That's why
you came to see me."</p>
<hr />
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Trimmer turned</span> a look of
injured innocence. "Now, Murphy,
you're a little unfair. I'm a
friendly guy. Of course I don't like
to see the bank lose what we've got
tied up in the Sultan."</p>
<p>"Why don't you send in a report
yourself?"</p>
<p>"I have! But when they hear the
same thing from you, a <i>Know Your
Universe!</i> man, they might make a
move."</p>
<p>Murphy nodded.</p>
<p>"Well, we understand each
other," said Trimmer heartily,
"and everything's clear."</p>
<p>"Not entirely. How's Ali going to
launch a <i>jehad</i> when he doesn't
have any weapons, no warships, no
supplies?"</p>
<p>"Now," said Trimmer, "we're
getting into the realm of supposition."
He paused, looked behind
him. A farmer pushing a rotary
tiller, bowed politely, trundled
ahead. Behind was a young man in
a black turban, gold earrings, a
black and red vest, white pantaloons,
black curl-toed slippers. He
bowed, started past. Trimmer held
up his hand. "Don't waste your
time up there; we're going back in
a few minutes."</p>
<p>"Thank you, Tuan."</p>
<p>"Who are you reporting to? The
Sultan or Prince Ali?"</p>
<p>"The Tuan is sure to pierce the
veil of my evasions. I shall not dissemble.
I am the Sultan's man."</p>
<p>Trimmer nodded. "Now, if you'll
kindly remove to about a hundred
yards, where your whisper pick-up
won't work."</p>
<p>"By your leave, I go." He retreated
without haste.</p>
<p>"He's almost certainly working
for Ali," said Trimmer.</p>
<p>"Not a very subtle lie."</p>
<p>"Oh, yes—third level. He figured
I'd take it second level."</p>
<p>"How's that again?"</p>
<p>"Naturally I wouldn't believe
him. He knew I knew that he knew
it. So when he said 'Sultan', I'd
think he wouldn't lie simply, but
that he'd lie double—that he actually
was working for the Sultan."</p>
<p>Murphy laughed. "Suppose he
told you a fourth-level lie?"</p>
<p>"It starts to be a toss-up pretty
soon," Trimmer admitted. "I don't
think he gives me credit for that
much subtlety.... What are you
doing the rest of the day?"</p>
<p>"Taking footage. Do you know
where I can find some picturesque
rites? Mystical dances, human sacrifice?
I've got to work up some
glamor and exotic lore."</p>
<p>"There's this sjambak in the
cage. That's about as close to the
medieval as you'll find anywhere in
Earth Commonwealth."</p>
<p>"Speaking of sjambaks ..."</p>
<p>"No time," said Trimmer. "Got
to get back. Drop in at my office—right
down the square from the
palace."</p>
<hr />
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Murphy returned</span> to his
suite. The shadowy figure of
his room servant said, "His Highness
the Sultan desires the Tuan's
attendance in the Cascade Garden."</p>
<p>"Thank you," said Murphy. "As
soon as I load my camera."</p>
<p>The Cascade Room was an open
patio in front of an artificial waterfall.
The Sultan was pacing back
and forth, wearing dusty khaki puttees,
brown plastic boots, a yellow
polo shirt. He carried a twig which
he used as a riding crop, slapping
his boots as he walked. He turned
his head as Murphy appeared,
pointed his twig at a wicker bench.</p>
<p>"I pray you sit down, Mr. Murphy."
He paced once up and back.
"How is your suite? You find it to
your liking?"</p>
<p>"Very much so."</p>
<p>"Excellent," said the Sultan.
"You do me honor with your presence."</p>
<p>Murphy waited patiently.</p>
<p>"I understand that you had a
visitor this morning," said the Sultan.</p>
<p>"Yes. Mr. Trimmer."</p>
<p>"May I inquire the nature of the
conversation?"</p>
<p>"It was of a personal nature,"
said Murphy, rather more shortly
than he meant.</p>
<p>The Sultan nodded wistfully. "A
Singhalûsi would have wasted an
hour telling me half-truths—distorted
enough to confuse, but not
sufficiently inaccurate to anger me
if I had a spy-cell on him all the
time."</p>
<p>Murphy grinned. "A Singhalûsi
has to live here the rest of his life."</p>
<p>A servant wheeled a frosted cabinet
before them, placed goblets
under two spigots, withdrew. The
Sultan cleared his throat. "Trimmer
is an excellent fellow, but unbelievably
loquacious."</p>
<p>Murphy drew himself two inches
of chilled rosy-pale liquor. The Sultan
slapped his boots with the twig.
"Undoubtedly he confided all my
private business to you, or at least
as much as I have allowed him to
learn."</p>
<p>"Well—he spoke of your hope to
increase the compass of Singhalût."</p>
<p>"That, my friend, is no hope; it's
absolute necessity. Our population
density is fifteen hundred to the
square mile. We must expand or
smother. There'll be too little food
to eat, too little oxygen to breathe."</p>
<p>Murphy suddenly came to life. "I
could make that idea the theme of
my feature! Singhalût Dilemma:
Expand or Perish!"</p>
<p>"No, that would be inadvisable,
inapplicable."</p>
<p>Murphy was not convinced. "It
sounds like a natural."</p>
<p>The Sultan smiled. "I'll impart
an item of confidential information—although
Trimmer no doubt
has preceded me with it." He gave
his boots an irritated whack. "To
expand I need funds. Funds are
best secured in an atmosphere of
calm and confidence. The implication
of emergency would be disastrous
to my aims."</p>
<p>"Well," said Murphy, "I see
your position."</p>
<p>The Sultan glanced at Murphy
sidelong. "Anticipating your cooperation,
my Minister of Propaganda
has arranged an hour's program,
stressing our progressive social attitude,
our prosperity and financial
prospects ..."</p>
<p>"But, Sultan ..."</p>
<p>"Well?"</p>
<p>"I can't allow your Minister of
Propaganda to use me and <i>Know
Your Universe!</i> as a kind of investment
brochure."</p>
<p>The Sultan nodded wearily. "I
expected you to take that attitude....
Well—what do you yourself
have in mind?"</p>
<p>"I've been looking for something
to tie to," said Murphy. "I think
it's going to be the dramatic contrast
between the ruined cities and
the new domed valleys. How the
Earth settlers succeeded where the
ancient people failed to meet the
challenge of the dissipating atmosphere."</p>
<p>"Well," the Sultan said grudgingly,
"that's not too bad."</p>
<p>"Today I want to take some
shots of the palace, the dome, the
city, the paddies, groves, orchards,
farms. Tomorrow I'm taking a trip
out to one of the ruins."</p>
<p>"I see," said the Sultan. "Then
you won't need my charts and statistics?"</p>
<p>"Well, Sultan, I could film the
stuff your Propaganda Minister
cooked up, and I could take it back
to Earth. Howard Frayberg or Sam
Catlin would tear into it, rip it
apart, lard in some head-hunting, a
little cannibalism and temple prostitution,
and you'd never know you
were watching Singhalût. You'd
scream with horror, and I'd be
fired."</p>
<p>"In that case," said the Sultan,
"I will leave you to the dictates of
your conscience."</p>
<hr />
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Howard Frayberg</span> looked
around the gray landscape of
Riker's Planet, gazed out over the
roaring black Mogador Ocean.
"Sam, I think there's a story out
there."</p>
<p>Sam Catlin shivered inside his
electrically heated glass overcoat.
"Out on that ocean? It's full of
man-eating plesiosaurs—horrible
things forty feet long."</p>
<p>"Suppose we worked something
out on the line of Moby Dick? <i>The
White Monster of the Mogador
Ocean.</i> We'd set sail in a catamaran—"</p>
<p>"Us?"</p>
<p>"No," said Frayberg impatiently.
"Of course not us. Two or three of
the staff. They'd sail out there, look
over these gray and red monsters,
maybe fake a fight or two, but all
the time they're after the legendary
white one. How's it sound?"</p>
<p>"I don't think we pay our men
enough money."</p>
<p>"Wilbur Murphy might do it.
He's willing to look for a man riding
a horse up to meet his space-ships."</p>
<p>"He might draw the line at a
white plesiosaur riding up to meet
his catamaran."</p>
<p>Frayberg turned away. "Somebody's
got to have ideas around
here...."</p>
<p>"We'd better head back to the
space-port," said Catlin. "We got
two hours to make the Sirgamesk
shuttle."</p>
<hr />
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Wilbur Murphy</span> sat in the
Barangipan, watching marionettes
performing to xylophone,
castanet, gong and <i>gamelan</i>. The
drama had its roots in proto-historic
Mohenjō-Darō. It had filtered
down through ancient India, medieval
Burma, Malaya, across the
Straits of Malacca to Sumatra and
Java; from modern Java across
space to Cirgamesç, five thousand
years of time, two hundred light-years
of space. Somewhere along
the route it had met and assimilated
modern technology. Magnetic
beams controlled arms, legs and
bodies, guided the poses and posturings.
The manipulator's face, by
agency of clip, wire, radio control
and minuscule selsyn, projected his
scowl, smile, sneer or grimace to
the peaked little face he controlled.
The language was that of Old Java,
which perhaps a third of the spectators
understood. This portion did
not include Murphy, and when
the performance ended he was no
wiser than at the start.</p>
<p>Soek Panjoebang slipped into the
seat beside Murphy. She wore musician's
garb: a sarong of brown,
blue, and black <i>batik</i>, and a fantastic
headdress of tiny silver bells.
She greeted him with enthusiasm.</p>
<p>"Weelbrrr! I saw you watching...."</p>
<p>"It was very interesting."</p>
<p>"Ah, yes." She sighed. "Weelbrrr,
you take me with you back to
Earth? You make me a great picturama
star, please, Weelbrrr?"</p>
<p>"Well, I don't know about that."</p>
<p>"I behave very well, Weelbrrr."
She nuzzled his shoulder, looked
soulfully up with her shiny yellow-hazel
eyes. Murphy nearly forgot
the experiment he intended to perform.</p>
<p>"What did you do today, Weelbrrr?
You look at all the pretty
girls?"</p>
<p>"Nope. I ran footage. Got the
palace, climbed the ridge up to the
condensation vanes. I never knew
there was so much water in the air
till I saw the stream pouring off
those vanes! And <i>hot</i>!"</p>
<p>"We have much sunlight; it
makes the rice grow."</p>
<p>"The Sultan ought to put some
of that excess light to work.
There's a secret process.... Well,
I'd better not say."</p>
<p>"Oh come, Weelbrrr! Tell me
your secrets!"</p>
<p>"It's not much of a secret. Just
a catalyst that separates clay into
aluminum and oxygen when sunlight
shines on it."</p>
<p>Soek's eyebrows rose, poised in
place like a seagull riding the wind.
"Weelbrrr! I did not know you for
a man of learning!"</p>
<p>"Oh, you thought I was just a
bum, eh? Good enough to make
picturama stars out of <i>gamelan</i>
players, but no special genius...."</p>
<p>"No, no, Weelbrrr."</p>
<p>"I know lots of tricks. I can take
a flashlight battery, a piece of copper
foil, a few transistors and bamboo
tube and turn out a paralyzer
gun that'll stop a man cold in his
tracks. And you know how much it
costs?"</p>
<p>"No, Weelbrrr. How much?"</p>
<p>"Ten cents. It wears out after
two or three months, but what's
the difference? I make 'em as a
hobby—turn out two or three an
hour."</p>
<p>"Weelbrrr! You're a man of marvels!
Hello! We will drink!"</p>
<p>And Murphy settled back in the
wicker chair, sipping his rice beer.</p>
<hr />
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">"Today</span>," said Murphy, "I get
into a space-suit, and ride
out to the ruins in the plain. Ghatamipol,
I think they're called. Like
to come?"</p>
<p>"No, Weelbrrr." Soek Panjoebang
looked off into the garden,
her hands busy tucking a flower
into her hair. A few minutes later
she said, "Why must you waste
your time among the rocks? There
are better things to do and see.
And it might well be—dangerous."
She murmured the last word off-handedly.</p>
<p>"Danger? From the sjambaks?"</p>
<p>"Yes, perhaps."</p>
<p>"The Sultan's giving me a guard.
Twenty men with crossbows."</p>
<p>"The sjambaks carry shields."</p>
<p>"Why should they risk their lives
attacking me?"</p>
<p>Soek Panjoebang shrugged. After
a moment she rose to her feet.
"Goodbye, Weelbrrr."</p>
<p>"Goodbye? Isn't this rather
abrupt? Won't I see you tonight?"</p>
<p>"If so be Allah's will."</p>
<p>Murphy looked after the lithe
swaying figure. She paused, plucked
a yellow flower, looked over her
shoulder. Her eyes, yellow as the
flower, lucent as water-jewels, held
his. Her face was utterly expressionless.
She turned, tossed away
the flower with a jaunty gesture,
and continued, her shoulders
swinging.</p>
<p>Murphy breathed deeply. She
might have made picturama at
that....</p>
<p>One hour later he met his escort
at the valley gate. They were
dressed in space-suits for the plains,
twenty men with sullen faces. The
trip to Ghatamipol clearly was not
to their liking. Murphy climbed into
his own suit, checked the oxygen
pressure gauge, the seal at his collar.
"All ready, boys?"</p>
<p>No one spoke. The silence drew
out. The gatekeeper, on hand to
let the party out, snickered.
"They're all ready, Tuan."</p>
<p>"Well," said Murphy, "let's go
then."</p>
<p>Outside the gate Murphy made
a second check of his equipment.
No leaks in his suit. Inside pressure:
14.6. Outside pressure: zero. His
twenty guards morosely inspected
their crossbows and slim swords.</p>
<p>The white ruins of Ghatamipol
lay five miles across Pharasang
Plain. The horizon was clear, the
sun was high, the sky was black.</p>
<p>Murphy's radio hummed. Someone
said sharply, "Look! There it
goes!" He wheeled around; his
guards had halted, and were pointing.
He saw a fleet something vanishing
into the distance.</p>
<p>"Let's go," said Murphy.
"There's nothing out there."</p>
<p>"Sjambak."</p>
<p>"Well, there's only one of them."</p>
<p>"Where one walks, others follow."</p>
<p>"That's why the twenty of you
are here."</p>
<p>"It is madness! Challenging the
sjambaks!"</p>
<p>"What is gained?" another argued.</p>
<p>"I'll be the judge of that," said
Murphy, and set off along the
plain. The warriors reluctantly followed,
muttering to each other
over their radio intercoms.</p>
<hr />
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">The eroded</span> city walls rose
above them, occupied more
and more of the sky. The platoon
leader said in an angry voice, "We
have gone far enough."</p>
<p>"You're under my orders," said
Murphy. "We're going through
the gate." He punched the button
on his camera and passed under
the monstrous portal.</p>
<p>The city was frailer stuff than
the wall, and had succumbed to the
thin storms which had raged a million
years after the passing of life.
Murphy marvelled at the scope of
the ruins. Virgin archaeological
territory! No telling what a few
weeks digging might turn up. Murphy
considered his expense account.
Shifkin was the obstacle.</p>
<p>There'd be tremendous prestige
and publicity for <i>Know Your Universe!</i>
if Murphy uncovered a
tomb, a library, works of art. The
Sultan would gladly provide diggers.
They were a sturdy enough
people; they could make quite a
showing in a week, if they were
able to put aside their superstitions,
fears and dreads.</p>
<p>Murphy sized one of them up
from the corner of his eye. He sat
on a sunny slab of rock, and if he
felt uneasy he concealed it quite
successfully. In fact, thought Murphy,
he appeared completely relaxed.
Maybe the problem of securing
diggers was a minor one after
all....</p>
<p>And here was an odd sidelight
on the Singhalûsi character. Once
clear of the valley the man openly
wore his shirt, a fine loose garment
of electric blue, in defiance of the
Sultan's edict. Of course out here
he might be cold....</p>
<p>Murphy felt his own skin crawling.
How could he be cold? How
could he be alive? Where was his
space-suit? He lounged on the rock,
grinning sardonically at Murphy.
He wore heavy sandals, a black
turban, loose breeches, the blue
shirt. Nothing more.</p>
<p>Where were the others?</p>
<p>Murphy turned a feverish glance
over his shoulder. A good three
miles distant, bounding and leaping
toward Singhalût, were twenty
desperate figures. They all wore
space-suits. This man here ... A
sjambak? A wizard? A hallucination?</p>
<hr />
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">The creature</span> rose to his
feet, strode springily toward
Murphy. He carried a crossbow and
a sword, like those of Murphy's
fleet-footed guards. But he wore no
space-suit. Could there be breathable
traces of an atmosphere? Murphy
glanced at his gauge. Outside
pressure: zero.</p>
<p>Two other men appeared, moving
with long elastic steps. Their
eyes were bright, their faces flushed.
They came up to Murphy, took his
arm. They were solid, corporeal.
They had no invisible force fields
around their heads.</p>
<p>Murphy jerked his arm free.
"Let go of me, damn it!" But they
certainly couldn't hear him through
the vacuum.</p>
<p>He glanced over his shoulder.
The first man held his naked blade
a foot or two behind Murphy's
bulging space-suit. Murphy made
no further resistance. He punched
the button on his camera to automatic.
It would now run for several
hours, recording one hundred
pictures per second, a thousand to
the inch.</p>
<p>The sjambaks led Murphy two
hundred yards to a metal door.
They opened it, pushed Murphy
inside, banged it shut. Murphy felt
the vibration through his shoes,
heard a gradually waxing hum. His
gauge showed an outside pressure
of 5, 10, 12, 14, 14.5. An inner
door opened. Hands pulled Murphy
in, unclamped his dome.</p>
<p>"Just what's going on here?"
demanded Murphy angrily.</p>
<p>Prince Ali-Tomás pointed to a
table. Murphy saw a flashlight battery,
aluminum foil, wire, a transistor
kit, metal tubing, tools, a few
other odds and ends.</p>
<p>"There it is," said Prince Ali-Tomás.
"Get to work. Let's see one
of these paralysis weapons you
boast of."</p>
<p>"Just like that, eh?"</p>
<p>"Just like that."</p>
<p>"What do you want 'em for?"</p>
<p>"Does it matter?"</p>
<p>"I'd like to know." Murphy was
conscious of his camera, recording
sight, sound, odor.</p>
<p>"I lead an army," said Ali-Tomás,
"but they march without
weapons. Give me weapons! I will
carry the word to Hadra, to New
Batavia, to Sundaman, to Boeng-Bohôt!"</p>
<p>"How? Why?"</p>
<p>"It is enough that I will it.
Again, I beg of you ..." He indicated
the table.</p>
<p>Murphy laughed. "I've got myself
in a fine mess. Suppose I don't
make this weapon for you?"</p>
<p>"You'll remain until you do, under
increasingly difficult conditions."</p>
<p>"I'll be here a long time."</p>
<p>"If such is the case," said Ali-Tomás,
"we must make our arrangements
for your care on a long-term
basis."</p>
<p>Ali made a gesture. Hands seized
Murphy's shoulders. A respirator
was held to his nostrils. He thought
of his camera, and he could have
laughed. Mystery! Excitement!
Thrills! Dramatic sequence for
<i>Know Your Universe!</i> Staff-man
murdered by fanatics! The crime
recorded on his own camera! See
the blood, hear his death-rattle,
smell the poison!</p>
<p>The vapor choked him. <i>What a
break! What a sequence!</i></p>
<hr />
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">"Sirgamesk</span>," said Howard
Frayberg, "bigger and brighter
every minute."</p>
<p>"It must've been just about in
here," said Catlin, "that Wilbur's
horseback rider appeared."</p>
<p>"That's right! Steward!"</p>
<p>"Yes, sir?"</p>
<p>"We're about twenty thousand
miles out, aren't we?"</p>
<p>"About fifteen thousand, sir."</p>
<p>"Sidereal Cavalry! What an idea!
I wonder how Wilbur's making out
on his superstition angle?"</p>
<p>Sam Catlin, watching out the
window, said in a tight voice,
"Why not ask him yourself?"</p>
<p>"Eh?"</p>
<p>"Ask him for yourself! There he
is—outside, riding some kind of
critter...."</p>
<p>"It's a ghost," whispered Frayberg.
"A man without a space-suit....
There's no such thing!"</p>
<p>"He sees us.... Look...."</p>
<p>Murphy was staring at them,
and his surprise seemed equal to
their own. He waved his hand. Catlin
gingerly waved back.</p>
<p>Said Frayberg, "That's not a
horse he's riding. It's a combination
ram-jet and kiddie car with
stirrups!"</p>
<p>"He's coming aboard the ship,"
said Catlin. "That's the entrance
port down there...."</p>
<hr />
<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Wilbur Murphy</span> sat in the
captain's stateroom, taking
careful breaths of air.</p>
<p>"How are you now?" asked
Frayberg.</p>
<p>"Fine. A little sore in the lungs."</p>
<p>"I shouldn't wonder," the ship's
doctor growled. "I never saw anything
like it."</p>
<p>"How does it feel out there, Wilbur?"
Catlin asked.</p>
<p>"It feels awful lonesome and
empty. And the breath seeping up
out of your lungs, never going in—that's
a funny feeling. And you
miss the air blowing on your skin.
I never realized it before. Air feels
like—like silk, like whipped cream—it's
got texture...."</p>
<p>"But aren't you cold? Space is
supposed to be absolute zero!"</p>
<p>"Space is nothing. It's not hot
and it's not cold. When you're in
the sunlight you get warm. It's better
in the shade. You don't lose any
heat by air convection, but radiation
and sweat evaporation keep
you comfortably cool."</p>
<p>"I still can't understand it," said
Frayberg. "This Prince Ali, he's a
kind of a rebel, eh?"</p>
<p>"I don't blame him in a way. A
normal man living under those
domes has to let off steam somehow.
Prince Ali decided to go out
crusading. I think he would have
made it too—at least on Cirgamesç."</p>
<p>"Certainly there are many more
men inside the domes...."</p>
<p>"When it comes to fighting," said
Murphy, "a sjambak can lick
twenty men in space-suits. A little
nick doesn't hurt him, but a little
nick bursts open a space-suit, and
the man inside comes apart."</p>
<p>"Well," said the Captain. "I
imagine the Peace Office will send
out a team to put things in order
now."</p>
<p>Catlin asked, "What happened
when you woke up from the chloroform?"</p>
<p>"Well, nothing very much. I felt
this attachment on my chest, but
didn't think much about it. Still
kinda woozy. I was halfway
through decompression. They keep
a man there eight hours, drop pressure
on him two pounds an hour,
nice and slow so he don't get the
bends."</p>
<p>"Was this the same place they
took you, when you met Ali?"</p>
<p>"Yeah, that was their decompression
chamber. They had to make a
sjambak out of me; there wasn't
anywhere else they could keep me.
Well, pretty soon my head cleared,
and I saw this apparatus stuck to
my chest." He poked at the mechanism
on the table. "I saw the oxygen
tank, I saw the blood running
through the plastic pipes—blue
from me to that carburetor arrangement,
red on the way back
in—and I figured out the whole arrangement.
Carbon dioxide still exhales
up through your lungs, but
the vein back to the left auricle is
routed through the carburetor and
supercharged with oxygen. A man
doesn't need to breathe. The carburetor
flushes his blood with oxygen,
the decompression tank adjusts
him to the lack of air-pressure.
There's only one thing to look
out for; that's not to touch anything
with your naked flesh. If it's
in the sunshine it's blazing hot; if
it's in the shade it's cold enough to
cut. Otherwise you're free as a
bird."</p>
<p>"But—how did you get away?"</p>
<p>"I saw those little rocket-bikes,
and began figuring. I couldn't go
back to Singhalût; I'd be lynched
on sight as a sjambak. I couldn't fly
to another planet—the bikes don't
carry enough fuel.</p>
<p>"I knew when the ship would be
coming in, so I figured I'd fly up to
meet it. I told the guard I was going
outside a minute, and I got on
one of the rocket-bikes. There was
nothing much to it."</p>
<p>"Well," said Frayberg, "it's a
great feature, Wilbur—a great film!
Maybe we can stretch it into two
hours."</p>
<p>"There's one thing bothering
me," said Catlin. "Who did the
steward see up here the first time?"</p>
<p>Murphy shrugged. "It might
have been somebody up here skylarking.
A little too much oxygen
and you start cutting all kinds of
capers. Or it might have been
someone who decided he had
enough crusading.</p>
<p>"There's a sjambak in a cage,
right in the middle of Singhalût.
Prince Ali walks past; they look at
each other eye to eye. Ali smiles a
little and walks on. Suppose this
sjambak tried to escape to the ship.
He's taken aboard, turned over to
the Sultan and the Sultan makes an
example of him...."</p>
<p>"What'll the Sultan do to Ali?"</p>
<p>Murphy shook his head. "If I
were Ali I'd disappear."</p>
<p>A loudspeaker turned on. "Attention
all passengers. We have just
passed through quarantine. Passengers
may now disembark. Important:
no weapons or explosives allowed
on Singhalût!"</p>
<p>"This is where I came in," said
Murphy.</p>
<p class="hd2">THE END</p>
<div class="trn"><div class="figt"><a href="images/002-2.jpg"><img src="images/002-1.jpg" width="280" height="200" alt="" title="" /></a></div>
<p><big><b>Transcriber's Note:</b></big></p>
<p>This etext was produced from <i>If Worlds of Science Fiction</i> July 1953.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.</p></div>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 30002 ***</div>
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