Free Lurulu by Jack Vance Page A

with chains. While we pondered the best way to deal with him, he squirmed free and fled into the forest. We fell to the ground and chewed stones. Five days of mourning were decreed: one day for the lost girls, three days for the loss of Orlo, and a final day to curse the great and only god for his apathy and whom we now reject as a turncoat. Now you will understand why we have questioned you in such detail.”
    Maloof assented. “You have our total sympathy.”
    Cargus broke his silence. “That is not enough! You claim that you will capture Orlo Cavke, and so it may be. When you have him in your custody, you must undertake to return him to Krenke, where we will provide him a suitable home-coming.”
    Maloof shook his head, smiling apologetically. “We cannot make such a commitment, which might be impossible for us to implement. I can only say that, if we capture him and if it is practical, we will turn him over to you. Any other promise I could make would be meaningless.”
    The three Krenks turned back to the bar. They drained the beer from their tankards, then turned toward the door and departed the inn.
    Maloof and Myron paused long enough to give Jodel a polite farewell, then also departed the inn. For a moment they stood before the Three Feathers. They looked a last time up the high street, then marched over the iron bridge, crossed the parking yard to their flitter.
    They rose through the low overcast and broke out into sunlight. With the autopilot set, they flew back over the landscapes of Fluter toward Coro-Coro.

Chapter III
    1
    The flitter arrived at the Coro-Coro spaceport during the soft Fluter dusk. Aboard the Glicca , Wingo and Schwatzendale sat at the galley table making a meal of bread, sardines and onions. Maloof and Myron joined the repast, and told of their visit to Krenke. Wingo and Schwatzendale were suitably impressed.
    “Strange!” mused Wingo. “One would think that, after so many years, they might have evolved a cuisine more subtle than what you have described.”
    Schwatzendale pointed out that Wingo’s theories were ad hoc and relativistic, since Wingo had no information as to the gastronomical standards of two thousand years previously. “For all we know, they subsisted on grass.”
    Wingo ignored the remark. “Conceivably each village of Fluter has developed a unique cuisine.” He pondered a moment. “Hmm. A student of anthropology might find here scope for an interesting monograph.” He brought a pot of tea and a plate of fruit tarts to the table, then he and Schwatzendale recounted their own exploits of the day. They had passed the afternoon on the O-Shar-Shan terrace, where Wingo had captured a number of vivid mood-impressions for his monumental ‘Pageant of the Gaean Race’.
    “The terrace is a vast reservoir of material,” said Wingo. “I give special attention to the ladies! Each has gone to great lengths to make herself supreme. Gentlemen are also on hand, naturally, but in general, they lack a certain éclat. The terrace has become an avenue of almost transcendental mystique. Tourists are permeated by this extraordinary afflatus and come to think of themselves as a privileged elite, free to indulge in whatever extravagance occurs to them.”
    Wingo gave a rueful laugh. “It is ironic that when I encountered a truly startling circumstance, I failed to record the event, and I will regret the lapse forever.”
    Wingo paused for reflection. Maloof became impatient. “Please be more explicit! We sit here on tenterhooks while you reminisce.”
    “Sorry,” said Wingo. “I shall try to be more direct. When we arrived at the terrace, Schwatzendale went off on affairs of his own, while I found a table beside an ornamental planting and for a time was busy capturing mood-impressions. Then I put my equipment aside and sat at my ease drinking rum punch. Suddenly at a nearby table, half-hidden by the planting, I noticed what I had unaccountably missed before: a pair of young ladies,