The Collected Stories of Vernor Vinge (7 page)

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Authors: Vernor Vinge

BOOK: The Collected Stories of Vernor Vinge
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I pulled my attention away from the landscape. It was the most hostile
I’d seen by Prentice. And somehow it was familiar. I often got that “seen-before” feeling with Howard’s stuff—though usually his landscapes provoked awe rather than fear. The picture would have been even more impressive if it had been painted on a single canvas rather than split up on separate ones.
Then I noticed the picture reader at the end of the bench. We use pic readers to program images directly into the logic of a computer. This is an expensive procedure since it preempts a lot of the computer’s circuits. It’s usually simpler to keep pictorial information on tape, but sometimes we want the computer to operate directly and continuously on information in a picture—to alter a perspective, say—and we have to use the reader.
A horrible suspicion was forming in my mind. I picked up one of the paintings and laid it on the flat glass plate at the top of the reader. It fit perfectly. Now I knew why all the paintings were the same size.
Forgetting Su, I reached up and pulled a heavy notebook off the shelf above the bench. I had to snoop. I had to find some legitimate excuse for the man I now suspected.
The notebook was a motion study. We use them when we have to program the computer on changing spatial rotations—as with complicated machinery; the computer has to know the position of every part of the machine at every instant in order to predict performance and detect bugs. The interior page was titled:
Vol
.
XIX—Hand Technik.
I riffled through the pages. There were thousands of rough sketches showing the human hand in every position. Beside each sketch was a numerical description of the motion from that position to the next.
volume XIX
? Why, Prentice must have a separate notebook for facial expressions, a notebook for every class of motion! And it was all set for programming. His project—whatever it was—was huge. He must have been planning this for years. From the evidence in the lab it was certainly big enough to cost seventy hours of 4D5 time. Prentice was the rat all right. But why had he embezzled the time? And what had he done with it?
There was a noise from the doorway. Arnold looked up from the picture he had been admiring and said cheerfully, “Hi, Howard!”
“Hello.” Prentice set his briefcase on the bench and hung up his jacket. Then he turned to look at me. “This is my private office, Bob,” he said mildly.
I didn’t bite. I was too mad for subtlety. “Prentice, you’ve got some explaining to do.” I gestured at the paintings and the picture reader.
“Someone’s been stealing 4D5 time, and I think it’s you.”
Prentice glanced at Su. “So you finally ran a cross-audit, eh, Arnold? Well, I knew I wouldn’t have more than a year. I got what I gambled for.”
Su looked even more surprised than I felt. Prentice had spent a whole year concealing the fraud, and now he was calmly confessing.
“Just what was worth four million dollars of Royce’s time?” I snapped.
“Would you like to see?” He did not wait for an answer. “I’ve got one of the last tapes right here.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a TV tape cartridge.
“Moira and I have always been appalled by the fact that so many art forms are beyond the means of a single artist. Take the film industry: most movies cost many millions of dollars and require the services of hundreds of artists—actors, directors, photographers.” Prentice threaded the tape through the multiple heads of the videotape recorder. You’d think he had invited us over for home movies. The gall of the man. I didn’t stop him though. I suppose I was curious. What could be worth a ruined career to Prentice?
“Anyway,” he continued, “back around 1957, I saw a way to give filmmaking to the individual artist. Since then, everything Moira and I have done has been directed toward this goal. At first we didn’t realize how complicated the job was and how far computers had to go before they could help us with what we wanted. But I got my degree, and we kept at it.” He hooked the tape into the reception cartridge and snapped the cover into place. “With the aid of the 4D5 we’ve animated one of the great novels of the twentieth century.”
“You’ve used the 4D5 to make a cartoon!” Arnold was obviously fascinated by the concept. He had completely forgotten that Prentice was talking about a crime.
For the first time since he had entered the lab, Prentice seemed annoyed. “Yes, I guess it is a cartoon—like da Vinci’s Mona Lisa is a doodle. Cut the lights, will you, Arnold?”
The lights went out, and Prentice turned on the recorder. The TV screen on the wall came alive. I gasped.
Night. The landscape with the purple flowers
. But what a difference. This was a window on another world. If I had felt uneasy looking at the paintings, I felt terror now. Three tiny figures struggled up the side of the valley. Suddenly I knew why this scene was familiar. Prentice had animated Tolkien’s
Lord of the Rings
! If you’ve ever taken high school English (and if you haven’t, I’ll hire you—my ego needs someone in this outfit with less education than I have), I’m sure you’ve read Tolkien’s book. We were watching the scene where Frodo, Samwise, and Gollum come up the stairs to Kirth Ungol past the fortress Minas Morgul—the skull thing in the valley. Prentice’s version was much more realistic and fearsome than anything I had ever imagined.
I realized Prentice was still talking. “Moira and I worked thirty years
on the paintings, the motion studies, the script, the sound track; but without the 4D5 to integrate what we had created, we’d be left with a warehouse full of paintings and notebooks.”
The three figures stopped to rest. Our viewpoint moved in for a close-up. The three were arguing in low, frightened tones. Now I knew why Prentice’s portraits were expressionless; they were the patterns on which Prentice, through the 4D5, imposed emotion and movement.
This was no cartoon. The figures were fine portraits, come alive to argue in whispers. I could see Frodo’s blank resignation, the fear in Samwise, the glittery green of Gollum’s eyes as he fought with the other two. Yet it was all a synthesis of oil paintings and motion studies—the product of Howard’s genius and the 4D5’s analysis. Without a break in continuity, the “camera” dollied back to reveal the ancient stone stair that stretched high into the mountains. The three stood up and continued their long climb toward Shelob’s Lair.
Click. The tape ended. Prentice turned on the lights. I sat dazed for a second, trying to bring myself back to the real world.
“That tape is just five minutes long,” said Prentice. “The whole animation is more than four hours.”
Su recovered first. “My God, Howard. That’s tremendous. It’s the greatest advance in art technique in fifty years.”
“At least,” agreed Prentice. “Now, anything a writer or painter can imagine can be staged.”
“Sure,” I said sarcastically, “as long as the painter is willing to steal four million dollars of computer time.”
Prentice turned to me. “Not really, Bob. Computer time is only expensive because of the scarcity of 4D5-class computers and the number of problems that can’t be solved except by the 4D5. On the basis of past progress, I’ll wager that in five years you’ll be selling computers as good as the 4D5 for less than ten thousand dollars. Anybody who really wants an animator will be able to have one.”
“And you just couldn’t wait.”
He smiled, “That’s right. I’ve waited thirty years. I don’t know if I’ll be around for another five.”
“Well, I’m going to make you wish you’d taken the chance. When I get done with you, there’ll be nothing left for the Tolkien estate to pick over.”
Arnold broke in, “Just a second, Boss.”
I turned on him angrily, “Look Su, can’t you understand? Prentice has
stolen
four million dollars of
my money
!” My voice rose half an octave.
“It’s your money I’m talking about, Chief. Did you ever see
Fantasia
or
Magica
?”
“Disney’s feature-length animation? Yes.”
“Do you have any idea what they cost?”
“Don’t play games, Arnold. I know you’re an expert. How much?”
“Fantasia
was made way back in 1940. It cost Disney more than two million dollars. But when they got around to
Magica
thirty-five years later, the price tag had risen to twenty-seven million dollars, even though
Magica
is a much poorer job. Nowadays, almost any mainline picture—whether animation or with real actors—costs more than ten million dollars. Howard’s actually discovered a
cheap
way of making films.”
“Why didn’t you just ask for the time then?” I asked Prentice.
Howard looked stubborn. He has his own peculiar brand of integrity. “Bob, do you honestly believe you would’ve said yes? I’m an artist. I may be a good researcher, but that was a means to an end. Moira and I had to do this, even though I knew it’d hurt Royce in the short run.”
“Chief, it doesn’t matter whether Howard planned this to help you or not. The point is, he’s dropped a fortune in your lap.”
When Arnold put it that way … Four million dollars wasn’t too bad for a topnotch movie, and if Howard had had organized help, besides his wife, it might have cost a lot less. It would be at least eight years before we miniaturized computers like the 4D5 for the consumer market. Until then, filmmaking would remain the prerogative of the large organization. It had taken Howard years to perfect this technique, so we were way ahead of potential competition. Figuratively speaking, we were standing on the ground floor of a whole new industry.
Su saw that I was swayed. “Well?”
“Well,” I said grudgingly, “I guess we’re in the movie business.” I didn’t realize how true I spoke till we got that first Oscar.
For years, I have been fascinated by Fredric Brown’s short story, “Letter to a Phoenix.” What if a lone human survived beyond his civilization, and the next, and the next? Brown’s protagonist was nearly immortal. A similar effect could be achieved by an ordinary human, using some kind of suspended animation. What motive could such a traveler have—beyond crazed curiosity? Perhaps I could have a merchant who traded across time intead of space. But my merchant could move in only one direction … and the problem of estimating “consumer demand” at the next port would be truly enormous.
I worked off and on with the idea in the late 1960s; I had part of the story written, but I couldn’t push it through to an ending. I put the story aside, and this turned out to be the most clever thing I could have done.
From 1972 to 1979 I was married to Joan D. Vinge. Of course, we talked about our various projects all the time; it was a great pleasure to scheme with such a good writer. Yet for all our plot discussions, only once did we collaborate on a story: I showed Joan my “merchant out of time” fragment and told her my plans for how the story might end. We chatted it up, decided that a story “frame” was needed to hold the loose parts together. (I think this is one of the few times either of us has used that device.) Joan wrote the frame and the latter part of “The Peddler’s Apprentice,” then rewrote my draft. The result appears below. Keep in mind that up to a certain point I was writing (with some later revision by Joan), and after that it is Joan’s writing. Can you spot the break?
L
ord Buckry I of Fyffe lounged on his throne, watching his two youngest sons engaged in mock battle in the empty Audience Hall. The daggers were wooden but the rivalry was real, and the smaller boy was at a disadvantage. Lord Buckry tugged on a heavy gold earring; thin, brown-haired Hanaban was his private favorite. The boy took after his father both in appearance and turn of mind.
The lord of the Flatlands was a tall man, his own unkempt brown hair graying now at the temples. The blue eyes in his lean, foxlike face still perceived with disconcerting sharpness, though years of experience kept his own thoughts hidden. More than twenty years had passed since he had won control of his lands; he had not kept his precarious place as lord so long without good reason.
Now his eyes flashed rare approval as Hanaban cried. “Trace, look
there!” and, as his brother turned, distracted, whacked him soundly on the chest.
“Gotcha!” Hanaban shrieked delightedly. Trace grimaced with disgust.
Their father chuckled, but his face changed suddenly as the sound of a commotion outside the chamber reached him. The heavy, windowed doors at the far end of the room burst open; the Flatlander courier shook off guards, crossed the high-ceilinged, echoing chamber and flung himself into a bow, his rifle clattering on the floor. “Your lordship!”
Lord Buckry snapped his fingers; his gaping children silently fled the room. “Get up,” he said impatiently. “What in tarnation is this?”
“Your lordship.” The courier raised a dusty face, wincing mentally at his lord’s Highland drawl. “There’s word the sea kingdoms have raised another army. They’re crossing the coast mountains, and—”
“That ain’t possible. We cleaned them out not half a year since.”
“They’ve a lot of folk along the coast, your lordship.” The horseman stood apologetically. “And Jayley Sharkstooth’s made a pact this time with the Southlands.”
Lord Buckry stiffened. “They’ve been at each other’s throats long as I can remember.” He frowned, pulling at his earring. “Only thing they’ve got in common is—me. Damn!”
He listened distractedly to the rider’s report, then stood abruptly, dismissing the man as an afterthought. As the heavy doors of the hall slid shut he was already striding toward the elevator, past the shaft of the ballistic vehicle exit, unused for more than thirty years. His soft-soled Highlander boots made no sound on the cold polished floor.
From the parapet of his castle he could survey a wide stretch of his domain, the rich, utterly flat farmlands of the hundred-mile-wide valley—the lands the South and West were hungry for. The fields were dark now with turned earth, ready for the spring planting; it was no time to be calling up an army. He was sure his enemies were aware of that. The day was exceptionally clear, and at the eastern reaches of his sight he could make out the grayed purple wall of the mountains: the Highlands, that held his birthplace—and something more important to him now.
The dry wind ruffled his hair as he looked back across thirty years; his sunburned hands tightened on the seamless, ancient green-blackness of the parapet. “Damn you, Mr. Jagged,” he said to the wind. “Where’s your magic when I
need
it?”
THE PEDDLER CAME TO DARKWOOD CORNERS FROM THE EAST, ON WIM Buckry’s seventeenth birthday. It was early summer, and Wim could still see sun flashing on snow up on the pine-wooded hill that towered above the Corners; the snowpack in the higher hills was melting at last,
sluicing down gullies that stood dry through most of the year, changing Littlebig Creek into a cold, singing torrent tearing at the earth below the cabins on the north side of the road. Even a week ago the East Pass had lain under more than thirty feet of snow.
Something like silence came over the townspeople as they saw the peddler dragging his cart down the east road toward the Corners. His wagon was nearly ten feet tall and fifteen long, with carved, brightpainted wooden sides that bent sharply out over the wheels to meet a gabled roof. Wim gaped in wonder as he saw those wheels, spindly as willow wood yet over five feet across. Under the cart’s weight they sank half a foot and more into the mud of the road, but cut through the mud without resistance, without leaving a rut.
Even so, the peddler was bent nearly double with the effort of pulling his load. The fellow was short and heavy, with skin a good deal darker than Wim had ever seen. His pointed black beard jutted at a determined angle as he staggered along the rutted track, up to his ankles in mud. Above his calves the tooled leather of his leggings gleamed black and clean. Several scrofulous dogs nosed warily around him as he plodded down the center of the road; he ignored them as he ignored the staring townsfolk.
Wim shoved his empty mug back at Ounze Rumpster, sitting nearest the tavern door. “More,” he said. Ounze swore, got up from the steps, and disappeared into the tavern.
Wim’s attention never left the peddler for an instant. As the dark man reached the widening in the road at the center of town, he pulled his wagon into the muddy morass where the Widow Henley’s house had stood until the Littlebig Creek dragged it to destruction. The stranger had everyone’s attention now. Even the town’s smith had left his fire, and stood in his doorway gazing down the street at the peddler.
The peddler turned his back on them as he kicked an arresting gear down from the rear of the painted wagon and let it settle into the mud. He returned to the front of the cart and moved a small wheel set in the wood paneling: a narrow blue pennant sprouted from the peak of the gable and fluttered briskly; crisp and metallic, a pinging melody came from the wagon. That sound emptied the tavern and brought the remainder of the Corners’ population onto the street. Ounze Rumpster nearly fell down the wooden steps in his haste to see the source of the music; he sat down heavily, handing the refilled mug to Wim. Wim ignored him.
As the peddler turned back to the crowd the eerie music stopped, and the creek sounded loud in the silence. Then the little man’s surprising bass voice rumbled out at them, “Jagit Katchetooriantz is my name, and fine wrought goods is my trade. Needles, adze-heads, blades—you need
’em?” He pulled a latch on the wagon’s wall and a panel swung out from its side, revealing rows of shining knifeblades and needles so fine Wim could see only glitter where they caught the sunlight. “Step right on up, folks. Take a look, take a feel. Tell me what they might be worth to you.” There was no need to repeat the invitation—in seconds he was surrounded. As the townspeople closed around him, he mounted a small step set in the side of the wagon, so that he could still be seen over the crowd.
Wim’s boys were on their feet; but he sat motionless, his sharp face intent. “Set down,” he said, just loudly enough. “Your eyes is near busting out of your heads. They’d skin us right fast if we try anything here. There’s too many. Set!” He gave the nearest of them, Bathecar Henley, a sideways kick in the shin; they all sat. “Gimme that big ring of yours, Sothead.”
Ounze Rumpster’s younger brother glared at him, then extended his jeweled fist from a filthy woolen cuff. “How come you’re so feisty of a sudden, Wim?” He dropped the ring peevishly into the other’s hand. Wim turned away without comment, passing the massive chunk of gold to Bathecar’s plump, fair girlfriend.
“All right, Emmy, you just take yourself over to that wagon and see about buying us some knifeblades—not too long, say about so.” He stretched his fingers. “And find out how they’re fastened on the rack.”
“Sure, Wim.” She rose from the steps and minced away across the muddy road toward the crowd at the peddler’s wagon. Wim grimaced, reflecting that the red knit dress Bathecar had bought her was perhaps too small.
The peddler’s spiel continued, all but drowning out the sound of Littlebig Creek: “Just try your blades ’gin mine, friends. Go ahead. Nary a scratch you’ve made on mine, see? Now how much is it worth, friends? I’ll take gold, silver. Or craft items. And I need a horse—lost my own, coming down those blamed trails.” He waved toward the East Pass. The townspeople were packed tightly together now as each of them tried for a chance to test the gleaming metal, and to make some bid that would catch the peddler’s fancy. Emmy wriggled expertly into the mass; in seconds Wim could see her red dress right at the front of the crowd. She was happily fondling the merchandise, competing with the rest for the stranger’s attention.
Hanaban Kroy shifted his bulk on the hard wooden step. “Three gold pigs says that outlander is from down west. He just come in from the east to set us all to talking. Nobody makes knives like them east of the pass.”
Wim nodded slightly. “Could be.” He watched the peddler and fingered the thick gold earring half-hidden in his shaggy brown hair.
Across the road, the merchant was engaged in a four-way bidding session. Many of the townsfolk wanted to trade furs, or crossbows, but Jagit Katchetooriantz wasn’t interested. This narrowed his potential clientele considerably. Even as he argued avidly with those below him, his quick dark eyes flickered up and down the street, took in the gang by the tavern, impaled Wim for a long, cold instant.
The peddler lifted several blades off the rack and handed them down, apparently receiving metal in return. Emmy got at least two. Then he raised his arms for quiet. “Folks, I’m really sorry for dropping in so sudden, when you all wasn’t ready for me. Let’s us quit now and try again tomorrow, when you can bring what you have to trade. I might even take on some furs. And bring horses, too, if you want to. Seein’ as how I’m in need of one, I’ll give two, maybe three adze-heads for a good horse or mule. All right?”
It wasn’t. Several frustrated townsfolk tried to pry merchandise off the rack. Wim noticed that they were unsuccessful. The merchant pulled the lanyard at the front of the cart and the rack turned inward, returning carved wood paneling to the outside. As the crowd thinned, Wim saw Emmy, clutching two knives and a piece of print cloth, still talking earnestly to the peddler.
The peddler took a silvery chain from around his waist, passed it through the wheels of his cart and then around a nearby tree. Then he followed Emmy back across the road.
Ounze Rumpster snorted. “That sure is a teensy ketter. Betcha we would bust it right easy.”
“Could be …” Wim nodded again, not listening. Anger turned his eyes to blue ice as Emmy led the peddler right to the tavern steps.
“Oh, Bathecar, just lookit the fine needles Mr. Ketchatoor sold me.”
Sothead struggled to his feet. “You stupid little—little—We told you to buy knives. Knives! And you used my ring to buy needles!” He grabbed the cloth from Emmy’s hands and began ripping it up.
“Hey—!” Emmy began to pound him in useless fury, clawing after her prize. “Bathecar, make him stop!” Bathecar and Ounze pulled Sothead down, retrieved needles and cloth. Emmy pouted, “Big lout.”
Wim frowned and drank, his attention fixed on the peddler. The dark man stood looking from one gang member to another, hands loosely at his sides, smiling faintly; the calm black eyes missed nothing. Eyes like that didn’t belong in the face of a fat peddler. Wim shifted uncomfortably, gnawed by sudden uncertainty. He shook it off. How many chances did you get up here, to try a contest where the outcome wasn’t sure—He stood and thrust out his hand. “Wim Buckry’s the name, Mr. Ketchatoor. Sorry about Sothead; he’s drunk all the time, ’truth.”
The peddler had to reach up slightly to shake his hand. “Folks mostly
call me Jagit. Pleased to meet you. Miss Emmy here tells me you and your men sometimes hire out to protect folks such as me.”
Behind him, Bathecar Henley was open-mouthed. Emmy simpered; every so often, she proved that she was not as stupid as she looked. Wim nodded judiciously. “We do, and it’s surely worth it to have our service. There’s a sight of thieves in these hills, but most of them will back down from six good bows.” He glanced at Sothead. “Five good bows.”

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