Lurulu by Jack Vance Page B

Serle. He pondered. “But not good enough.” He spoke into his telephone.
    The screen brightened to reveal a somber, black-browed face. “Urban Zangwill here.”
    “I am Commander Skahy Serle, at the IPCC office.”
    Zangwill studied Serle’s image. “I have not had the pleasure of meeting you before. How may I be of service?”
    Serle smiled. “I am about to inform you of something which you may find unusual, but I am sure that in your lifetime you have adapted to many odd circumstances.”
    Zangwill responded cautiously: “I suppose that this is true.”
    “Then you will have no difficulty with the following fact. This morning, as you sat relaxing in your office, you drifted off into what is called a fugue, or a kind of day-dream. At this time you may have a vague recollection that two IPCC operatives spoke to you in relation to a certain houseboat; am I right?”
    Zangwill’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement. “I do not quite understand the thrust of your remarks.”
    “It is no mystery. During your day-dream, you fabricated a hallucinatory event. I now assure you that no such operatives appeared at your yard, and that for the sake of your mental health you should totally dismiss such peculiar dream-figments from your mind. Even as we speak, I am sure that these notions have disappeared — especially if someone should ask a foolish question. Am I clear on this?”
    Zangwill’s heavy mouth twitched. “In short, if someone asks about your operatives, I am to forget that they ever existed.”
    “More than that! How can you forget a fact which has never existed?”
    Zangwill licked his lips. “I see that it would not be possible.”
    “Correct!” Serle examined Zangwill’s face with attention. “In general, how is your memory?”
    Zangwill took time to consider. “I believe that it is good.”
    “Excellent! Therefore, if you do not recall a visit by anyone this morning, such event failed to exist.”
    “That would be my conclusion; yes indeed!”
    “And you do not recall any such event?”
    Zangwill grimaced. “No; I fear not.”
    “If anyone shows an interest in this hypothetical occasion, communicate with me immediately, and I will put matters right. I may say that your cooperation has established you in the good graces of the IPCC.”
    Zangwill showed a wry smile. “That is good news.”
    The screen went blank. Serle, frowning at some unwelcome thought, asked Maloof: “I assume that you learned the exact location of the Maijaro ?”
    Maloof responded without emphasis. “I took the coordinates from Zangwill’s map.” He recited numbers.
    Serle brought out a map of the second continent and spread it upon his desk. Maloof repeated the numbers; Serle traced the coordinates and marked the intersection. “The Maijaro is here where the river passes close under the Sumberlin Ridge.” He studied the map. “Upstream about eight miles is a small village. Its name is ‘Pengelly’, being the term for a local crowlike bird; otherwise it seems of little importance.” He reached into a drawer, brought out a reference book, found relevant information and read: “Pengelly: a village of considerable antiquity on the Suametta River, with a population of about four hundred, occupied principally with fishing and agriculture. Pengelly figures to a small extent in historical lore and at one time was the lair of the bandit Rasselbane. The single structure of importance is the ‘Iron Crow Inn’.” Serle put the book aside. “And there you have it. The Maijaro lies at anchor on the Suametta, with your mother and Cavke drowsing away the hours. Cavke will not surrender gracefully. Apart from setting the houseboat on fire, how will you proceed?”
    “There is no lack of options,” said Maloof. “We might dress as fishermen and try to sell Cavke some fish. We might present ourselves as river police looking for a stolen houseboat. During the night we could transfer the anchor line to a tree on the shore; the current