1

Clarges, the last metropolis of the world, stretched thirty miles along the north shore of the Chant River, not far above the broadening of the Chant into its estuary.

Clarges was an ancient city; structures, monuments, manors, old taverns, docks and warehouses two or even three thousand years old were common. The citizens of the Reach cherished these links with the past, drawing from them an unconscious comfort, a mystical sense of identification with the continuity of the city. The unique variation of the free-enterprise system by which they lived, however, urged them to innovation; as a result Clarges was a curious medley of the hoary and the novel, and the citizens -- in this as in other ways -- suffered the pull of opposing emotions.

There never had been such a city as Clarges for grandeur and somber beauty. From the Mercery rose towers like tourmaline crystals, tall enough to intercept passing clouds; surrounding were great shops, theaters and apartment blocks; then came the suburbs, the industrial purlieus, the nondescript backlands extending out past the range of vision. The best residential areas -- Balliasse, Eardiston, Vandoon, Temple Cloud -- occupied hillsides north and south overlooking the river. Everywhere was motion, the quiver of vitality, the sense of human effort. A million windows flickered in the sunlight, vehicles darkened the boulevards, shoals of aircraft meshed along the avenues of the air. Men and women walked briskly along the streets to their destinations, wasting no time.

Across the river lay Glade County, a wasteland, drab, flat and dreary, without use or habitation, where nothing grew except stunted willows and rust-colored rushes. Glade County had no reason for being except the fact that it included the six hundred acres of Carnevalle.

Against the dismal background of Glade County, Carnevalle blazed like a flower on a slag-heap. Its six hundred acres held a treasure of color, of pageantry, of spectacular devices for diversion and thrill and catharsis.

In Clarges itself life was confined to the activity of men. Carnevalle knew a life of its own. In the morning there was silence. At noon the swish of cleaning equipment and an occasional footstep might be heard. In the afternoon Carnevalle came to life, preening and shuddering like a new butterfly. When the sun sank there was a momentary lull, then a swift surge into such vitality and emotion as to deny the very concept of oblivion.

Around the periphery swung the comet-cars of the Grand Pyroteck: the Sangreal Rubloon, the Golden Gloriana, the Mystic Emeraud, the Melancthon and the Ultra Lazuli, each a different color, each casting a different glow from its flaming train. The pavilions gave off prismatic refractions; the pagodas dripped molten liquid; a myriad lumes floated like a haze of fireflies. Along the avenues, through the alleys and lanes, the crowds streamed and shifted. To the sounds of the thrill-rides, to the hiss and thwashh when the cars of the Grand Pyroteck passed over, to the calls of barkers and hucksters, to the tones of plangent zither, hoarse accordion, chiming zovelle, plaintive lemurka, bright ectreen, were added the shuffle of a hundred thousand feet, the undertone of excitement, cries of shock and surprise and delight.

As the night went on, the intoxication of Carnevalle became a thing in itself. The celebrants pressed through the noise, the hundred horns and musics; they breathed aromatic dusts and pastel fogs; they wore costumes and headgear and masks; restraints were brittle films, to be broken with pleasure. They explored the strange and the curious, toyed with vertigo and paroxysm, tested the versatility of the human nerve.

Midnight at Carnevalle saw the peak of tumult. Compunction no longer existed; virtue and vice had no meaning. At times the outbursts of laughter became wild weeping, but this quickly subsided and was in the nature of a spiritual orgasm. As the night grew dim, the crowds became slower, more hesitant; costumes were in disorder, masks were discarded. Men and women, sleepy, wan, stupefied, stumbled into the drops of the tube-system to be whisked home, everywhere from Balliasse to Brayertown, from manse to one-room apartment. All five phyle came to Carnevalle: Brood, Wedge, Third, Verge and Amaranth, as well as the glarks. They mingled without calculation or envy; they came to Carnevalle to forget the rigors and strains of existence. They came, they spent their money, and -- much more precious than money -- they spent the moments of their lives.

2

A man in a brass mask stood in a booth before the House of Life, calling out to the crowd. Lumes the shape of infinity symbols drifted around his head; above him towered an ideal version of the life-chart, the bright lifeline rising through the phyle levels in a perfect half-parabola.

The man in the brass mask spoke in a voice of great urgency. "Friends, whatever your phyle, attend me! Do you value life a florin's worth? Will endless years be yours? Enter the House of Life! You will bless Didactor Moncure and his remarkable methods!"

He touched a relay; a low sound issued from a hidden source, hoarse and throbbing, rising in pitch and intensity.

"Slope! Slope! Come into the House of Life, up with your slope! Let Didactor Moncure analyze your future! Learn the methods, the techniques! Only a florin for the House of Life!"

The sound rose through the octaves, building a sense of uneasiness and instability, and shrilled at last into inaudibility. The man in the booth spoke in a soothing tone; if the sound represented the tensions of existence, the man and his voice meant security and control.

"Everyone possesses a brain, all nearly identical. Why then are some Brood, some Wedge, others Third, Verge and Amaranth?"

He leaned forward as if to make a dramatic revelation. "The secret of life is technique! Didactor Moncure teaches technique! Is infinity worth a florin? Come, then -- enter the House of Life!"

A number of passersby paid their florin and crowded through the entrance. At last the House was full.

The man in the brass mask stepped down from the booth. A hand grasped his arm; he whirled with savage speed. The person who had accosted him fell back.

"Waylock, you startle me! It's only me -- Basil."

"So I see," said Gavin Waylock shortly. Basil Thinkoup, short and plump, was costumed as a mythical bird in a flouncing jacket of metallic green fronds. Red and gray scales covered his legs; black plumes ringed his face like the petals of a flower. If he perceived Waylock's lack of affability, he chose to ignore it.

"I had expected to hear from you," said Basil Thinkoup. "I thought you might have been moved by our last conversation--"

Waylock shook his head. "I wouldn't be suited to such an occupation."

"But your future!" protested Basil Thinkoup. "Really, it's a paradox that you go on urging others to their most intense efforts, and remain a glark yourself."

Waylock shrugged. "All in good time."

"'All in good time'! The precious years pass and your slope lies flat!"

"I have my plans; I prepare myself."

"While others advance! A poor policy, Gavin!"

"Let me tell you a secret," said Waylock. "You'll speak no word to anyone?"

Basil Thinkoup was aggrieved. "Haven't I proved myself? For seven years--"

"One month short of seven years. When this month passes -- then I will register in Brood."

"I'm delighted to hear this! Come, we'll drink a glass of wine to your success!"

"I have to watch my booth."

Basil shook his head, and the effort made him stagger; it was evident that he was partially intoxicated. "You puzzle me, Gavin. Seven years and now--"

"Almost seven years."

Basil Thinkoup blinked. "Seven years more, seven years less -- I'm still puzzled."

"Every man's a puzzle. I'm an exercise in simplicity -- if you only knew me."

Basil Thinkoup let that pass. "Come see me at Balliasse Palliatory." He leaned close to Waylock and the plumes around his face brushed the brass mask. "I'm trying some rather novel methods," he said in a confidential voice. "If they succeed, there is ample slope for us both, and I'd like to repay the debt I owe to you, at least in some measure."

Waylock laughed; the sound echoed behind the brass. "The smallest of debts, Basil."

"Not at all!" cried Basil. "If it weren't for your impetus, where would I be? Still aboard the Amprodex."

Waylock made a deprecatory motion. Seven years before, he and Basil had been shipmates aboard the fruit-barge Amprodex. The captain, Hesper Wellsey, was a large man with a long black mustache and the disposition of a rhinoceros. His phyle was Wedge, and his best efforts had failed to raise him into Third. He took no pleasure in the ten years that Wedge had given him; instead, he felt rage and humiliation. With the barge entering the estuary of the Chant and the towers of the Mercery rising through the haze, Hesper Wellsey went cattop. He grabbed a fire ax, cut an engineer in two, smashed the windows of the mess hall, then started for the reactor house, intending to batter in the safety lock, smash the moderator and blast the barge twenty miles in all directions.

There was no one to stop him. The crew, horrified by the desecration of life, fled to the fantail. Waylock, teeth chattering, had gone forward hoping for a chance to drop upon Wellsey's back, but he glimpsed the ghastly ax and his knees gave way. Leaning against the rail, he saw Basil Thinkoup step from his quarters, look up and down the deck, then approach Wellsey, who swung the ax. Basil jumped back, ducked and dodged, talking pleasantly. Wellsey flung the ax, and failing to split Basil's face, succumbed to the opposite phase of the syndrome and collapsed on the deck.

Waylock came forward, stared at the stiff figure. "Whatever you did, it's a miracle!" He laughed weakly. "You'd make slope fast at a palliatory!"

Basil looked at him doubtfully. "Are you serious?"

"I am indeed."

Basil sighed and shook his head. "I don't have the background."

Waylock said, "You don't need background, only agility and good wind. They chase you till they wear themselves out. You've got it in you, Basil Thinkoup!"

Basil shook his head uncertainly. "I'd like to think so."

"Try, by all means."

Basil had tried and in five years broke into Wedge. His gratitude to Waylock was boundless. Now, standing before the House of Life, he clapped Waylock on the back. "Come see me at the Palliatory! After all, I'm Assistant Psychopathist -- we'll contrive to start you up slope. Nothing grand at first, but you'll develop."

Waylock's laugh was sardonic. "Serving the cattos as a kickball -- that's not for me, Basil." He climbed back into his booth, pushing up through the swarm of infinity symbols. His cornet voice rang out. "Raise your slope! Didactor Moncure holds the key to life! Read his tracts, apply his tonics, enroll for the regimen! Slope, slope, slope!"

Copyright © 1956, 1990 by Jack Vance