Night Lamp by Jack Vance Page A

foolhardy mission: to record the so-called “Equinoctial Signs” of the Kindred Mountain folk. This feat had never before been attempted, much less accomplished, for a good reason: it was considered suicidal. The Faths, blithe as songbirds, arrived at Plaise spaceport and took lodgings at the resthouse at Sern, in the foothills of the Kindred Mountains. Here they learned of the difficulties which made their program impossible—namely, that they would be killed on sight.
    Brash and foolish rather than courageous, the Faths ignored the warnings and contrived ruses to defeat each of the difficulties in turn. They rented a flitter and two nights before the equinox, flew down into the Kouhou Chasm and affixed thirty-two recording devices to stations along the vertical walls. By great good luck they evaded detection, whereupon the flitter would have been netted and dragged to the floor of the chasm, where the Faths would have been subjected to deeds too horrible to bear mentioning. “It makes my blood run cold whenever I think of it!” Althea shuddered. “We were young fools,” said Hilyer. “We thought that if we were caught we could simply say that we were Thanet Institute faculty, and they would make no further complaint.”
    The night of the equinox the mountain folk performed their ceremony. All night long pulses of sound reverberated up and down the chasm. On the next day the folk performed their penitential rite, and the cries so elicited rose like sad-sweet warbling.
    The Faths meanwhile laid low in Stern, passing themselves off as agronomists. While they waited, Althea had gone to rummage through a ramshackle old shop, where oddments of this and that were offered for sale. In a casual pile she noted a pair of massive copper candelabra, from which she hastily averted her eyes and went to examine what seemed to be a dented old pot. “A valuable piece,” the shopkeeper told her. “That is genuine aluminum.”
    “I’m not really interested,” said Althea. “I already have a pot.”
    “Just so. Perhaps you like those old candle-holders? Very valuable: pure copper!”
    “I don’t think so,” said Althea. “I already have a pair of candelabra, as well.”
    “Very handy if one of them broke,” argued the shopkeeper. “It is not good to be without light.”
    “True,” said Althea. “What do you want for the dirty old things?”
    “Not much. About five hundred sols.”
    Althea merely turned him a scornful look, and went to study a stone plaque, highly polished and intricately carved with glyphs. “What is this thing?”
    “It is very old. I can’t read it. They say it tells the ten human secrets: very important, I should think.”
    “Not unless you can read this odd script.”
    “Better than nothing.”
    “How much?”
    “Two hundred sols.”
    “Surely you’re joking!” cried Althea indignantly. “Do you take me for a fool?”
    “Well, seventy sols then. A great bargain: seven sols per secret!”
    “Bah. Those secrets are old and useless, even if I could read them. My price is five sols.”
    “Aiee! Must I give valuables to every crazy woman that walks into the shop?” Althea haggled long and devoutly, but the shopkeeper held to a price of forty sols.
    “The price is reprehensible!” stormed Althea. “I’ll pay it only if you include some extra pieces of lesser value: let us say, this rug and, well, why not? those candelabra.”
    Again the shopkeeper showed distress. He patted the rug which was woven in stripes of black, russet and russet-gold. “This is a fecundity rug. It is woven from the pubic hairs of virgins! The candlesticks are six thousand years old, from the cave of the first Hermit King Jon Solander. I value the three items at a thousand sols!”
    “I will pay forty sols for all.”
    The shopkeeper handed Althea a scimitar and bared his throat. “Kill me first before you dishonor me with such robbery!”
    In the end, somewhat dazed, Althea walked from the shop, carrying