“I can't call now” grumbled Keebles. “It's the wrong time of day.” He glanced at the wall clock. “Also, I have another appointment. Come back this evening, at sunset or a bit later. It still may not be a convenient hour to call, but nothing is convenient on this cursed world, and I still can't fathom the thirty-seven hour days."
V.
Glawen walked back along Crippet Alley, pondering his interview with Melvish Keebles. Everything considered, the affair had gone about as well as could have been hoped, even though Keebles had left him in a state of nerve-wracking suspense.
Nonetheless, he had made progress, of a sort. Keebles had agreed to telephone the other party to the transaction, tacitly acknowledging the presence of this person upon Nion. Glawen wondered whether the admission had been an indiscretion which Keebles had regretted. If so, it indicated a carelessness which surely was not characteristic of Keebles. If not, the significance could only be that Keebles considered the business trivial, with little prospect of profit for himself and this seemed the most likely explanation. As for the other party to the transaction, it could hardly be anyone other than Keebles' long-time associate, now collecting tanglets out on the Plain of Standing Stones – a dangerous business, according to the woman who seemed to serve as Keebles' clerk, though perhaps she might be another of the wives he married so casually.
Crippet Alley expanded into a square, than narrowed again. More folk were abroad than before: for the most part the slight delicate-featured natives of Tanjaree, with here and there a man or a woman from one of the outer districts, of markedly different physiognomy and costume, in Tanjaree that they might visit the markets. No one paid Glawen the slightest heed; he might have been invisible for all the attention he aroused.
The long afternoon lay ahead. Glawen returned to the Novial Hotel. In the lobby the clerk leaned forward upon the counter. “The dining room is now prepared for the mid-afternoon service. Shall I announce that you will shortly be on hand to take your pold?”
Glawen stopped short. Mid-afternoon service? How many meals were consumed during the course of a thirty-seven hour day? Breakfast, lunch, dinner, mid-morning and mid-afternoon services, at the very least. What happened during the long hungry nineteen-hour nights? (8) Glawen temporarily put the question from his mind. At the moment, he was hungry. “I doubt if I am ready for pold," he told the clerk. “Is standard cuisine available?”
“Naturally! A certain class of tourist will take nothing else, which is a pity, since pold gratifies, sustains and lubricates. It is wholesome and cannot be defeated. Still, you may eat as you like."
"In that case I will take the risk.”
In the restaurant Glawen was handed the Tourist's Menu, from which he made a selection. As an unsolicited side dish, he was served a slab of pale cream-yellow pold which, when he tasted it, yielded a bland nutty flavor. He found no incentive to linger in the dining room and as soon as possible went out upon the avenue. The time was still early afternoon. Pharisse seemed welded to a spot on the sky. To east and west the pale daylight moons eased unobtrusively along their tracks. Across the lake the domes and spires of Old Town shimmered its reflection on the surface of the water.
Glawen went to sit on a bench. The Plain of Standing Stones, according to Keebles' clerk, was halfway around the world. Noon at Tanjaree was midnight on the Plain of Standing Stones, and dusk, correspondingly, would be early morning, so that it became clear why Keebles felt impelled to delay his telephone call.
Glawen brought out the packet of information folders he had received at the tourist information office, from which he took a map of Nion in Mercator projection, printed is a variety of colors. Vertical lines created thirty-seven segments, corresponding to the thirty-seven hours and fifteen minutes of the sidereal day. The origin – 0 o’clock, or midnight – passed through Tanjaree.
Nions surface area was roughly four times that of Earth: a disparity magnified by the absence of oceans and large seas. Colors indicated physiographic detail: gray for dry sea bottom, olive green for water fields, blue for open water, pink for vast steppes. Clots of population surrounded the three principal cities: Tanjaree; Sirmegosto, six thousand miles south and east; Tyl Toc, four thousand miles due west. Additionally, there were several dozen isolated towns scattered across the planet, including many tourist destinations: Hooktown, near the Tangting Forest; Moonway on the Plain of Standing Stones; Whipple’s Camp, under the Scintic Crag; also a spatter of even smaller villages. Black lines connecting the populated areas were identified as ‘nomad routes’.
Glawen found the Plain of standing Stones in the segment marked '18’, halfway around the world. Here was the town Moonway, the William Schulz Buttes to the north and the Gerhart Pastels to the south.
Glawen studied the map for a few moments, then folded it and replaced it in his pocket. He rose from the bench and walked along the avenue to a bookseller’s shop near the Cansaspara Hotel. He bought a tourist's guide, entitled:
NION: WHERE TO GO, WHAT TO DO!
Also, where not to go and what not to do, if you value your life and sanity. (Yes: Sanity. See section on Gangril pold).
Nearby was an outdoor cafe. Glawen found a table somewhat to the side and seated himself. The other patrons were for the most part off-worlders: tourists chattering and remarking upon the contradictions of Tanjaree, in their estimation a place forlorn and shabby, but truly exotic and of course incomprehensible. Some recounted their experiences with pold; others excitedly spoke of that excursion to the Tangting Forest and its mind numbing inhabitants. In the sky Pharisse seemed to hang steady and still among its retinue of moons.
Glawen started to read is the tourist guide, but was interrupted by the arrival of a waiter wearing a maroon uniform with a flowing black cravat. “Your order, sir?”
Glawen looked up from his book. “What is available?”
"We offer a full range of potations, sir. They are listed here, on the menu.” He indicated a card and started to turn away.
“Wait!” cried Glawen. “What is a ‘Tympanese Tonic’?"
“It is a local beverage, sir, with mildly stimulating effects."
“It is derived from pold?"
“Yes, sir."
“What is ‘Meteor Fuel’?"
“It is another mild stimulant, sir, and is sometimes taken before foot races.”
"Also, derived from – "
“A different sort of pold, sir."
“The lady yonder what is she drinking?”
“That is our 'Corpse Reviver’. It is a secret recipe of the Gangrils and is popular among tourists with modernistic views.”
“I see. What about these "Teas imported from Earth”? Are they also pold?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir."
“You may bring me a pot of green tea, if you please."
Glawen returned to the guidebook and found a section entitled: ‘The Plain of Standing Stones’. He read:
One cannot think of the Standing Stones without reference to the Shadowmen, who to this day lurk is the neighborhood. They are aptly named, if only because they are little more than shadows of their remarkable progenitors, each of whom strove incessantly for honor and devoted his life to the performance of mighty deeds. The Shadowmen of today are somber, taciturn, intensely superstitious, and so introverted as to be impenetrable. Etiquette guides each phase of his life, so that he seems overwhelmed by its minutiae, and his conduct is predictable. The casual visitor to Moonway, who chances to come upon one of the Shadowmen during the course of his excursion, will see a person stolid as a rock, and quite imperturbable. But let the visitor make no mistake: this aloof gentleman will cut his throat without a qualm if he finds the tourist tampering with his sacred objects. Still, do not be deterred from a visit to the Standing Stones; they are remarkable, and you will be safe so long as you conform to the regulations.
The Shadowmen of today must be viewed is the perspective of their history. It is a melancholy record: the textbook case of isolated Gaean settlers who, over the centuries, have developed a unique society with intricate conventions. These conventions become ever more elaborate and generate ever greater intricacy until eventually they control, dominate and finally strangle the society, which thereupon becomes moribund. The process always bewilders the casual observer who contrasts the Golden Age of the society with its contemporary squalor. Most often the process is associated with a powerful religion and an insensate priesthood; in the case of the Shadowmen, the compulsive force was the glory to be won by excellence at the great game.
Two thousand years ago the society reached its zenith. The population was divided into four septs: North, East, South and West. Four or five thousand stones had been erected by champions to mark their graves. Which came first: the Games or the Stones is a matter of conjecture and is in any case irrelevant. The Games began as demonstrations of agility and speed, in which young men raced a dangerous course across the tops of the stones. Presently the races began to include contact – shoving, tripping, wrestling – as valid ploys in the winning of races. Next, came the Iron Races, which were not so much races across the tops of the stones as complicated strategies involving leaps, runs, swordplay. Skill in the use of weapons became as important as agility. The Games had always engendered passions: the four septs now found themselves involved in blood feuds and vendettas, which consumed much of their energies.
But not all. The rules of combat were complicated. Upon arriving at the age of fourteen the young man allowed his hair to grow long and carved a hair-buckle for himself from a nodule of fine Jade. These buckles – 'tanglets', as they were known – became more than ornaments; they were repositories of the owner's mana, and represented his manhood; they were his dearest possession. As soon as he had carved his first tanglet and had submitted it for the approval of the elders, the young man was ready for the games.
First, he must await a proper concatenation of the moons: this was all-important. The moons, their phases, cycles and positions controlled the lives of the Shadowmen. When the moons finally came to a favorable conjunction, the young man climbed upon the stones. If he were of a cautious disposition, he made his first trials against other first-tanglet youths. Usually, at worst, he would be thrown down or jump without mortal damage, though he was required to give up his tanglet to the victor, at an important ceremony and with a maximum of ceremonial pomp, at which the victor was exalted and the loser shamed. The loser, seething with bitter humiliation, must carve a new and menacing tanglet for himself.
In due course, he might become quick and skillful, and start winning tanglets, all of which he wore on the rope of hair which dangled down the back of his head. If he were conquered, or cast down, or killed, he surrendered all his tanglets and his hair rope. If, however, he were a victor and a champion, at the age of twenty he was entitled to associate with ten fellows. Together they cut ten stones from the quartzite cliffs a hundred miles to the south. These stones would then be transported across the plain, inscribed and erected. The youth by this ritual became a man, and sooner or later would be buried at the foot of his stone, along with his tanglets.
Such were the Games: first, foot races across the stones; in the end passionate challenges, killings and revenges which at last exhausted the virility of the Shadowmen and reduced their numbers to a paltry few hundred.
The Shadowmen of today wear no tanglets; however, they carve imitations which they sell to tourists, and which they insist have been dug from a secret grave known only to themselves; be warned! These articles are fraudulent an authentic tanglet is extremely valuable which fact has tempted predatory entrepreneurs from elsewhere. Usually – one might say, always – these persons are found dead among the stones with their throats cut.
At the western verge of the Standing Stones is the settlement Moonway, so-named by reason of the superstitions which still control the lives of the Shadowmen. Moonway is not so much a city as it is a combination of trading post, tourist center and village. The three hotels – the Moonway, the Jade Tanglet, the Banshee Moon – are about equivalent. The Moonways’ said to exercise greater caution against sand-fleas than the others; all may be negligent. Bring insecticide and spray your bed before retiring. Otherwise you may be roundly bitten.
NOTE: The Shadowmen are apparently mild and patient. This is only partly true, as you will learn if you molest, touch, ridicule or sometimes so much as notice a bald woman. Your throat will be cut at once; the woman has dedicated her hair to a moon-sequence for a purpose important to her. Never smile at a Shadowman; he will return your smile, and with a quick motion of his arm you will find yourself smiling from two mouths, though not with double the amusement. Further, no one will protect you or punish the Shadowman, since you will have been amply warned against improprieties, as you just have been.
A good thing to keep in mind, reflected Glawen. He relaxed in his chair and sat watching those who passed by along the avenue: off-worlders from the nearby hotels; slender chestnut-haired denizens of Tanjaree; Gangrils, sleepy-eyed, also slight of physique and with hair often of a coppery-russet, rather than chestnut, the men wearing loose long-length black breeches and colored shirts, the women in white breeches of exaggerated amplitude, black blouses and odd little green hats.
Glawen suddenly realized he had not been served his tea. The waiter who had taken his order stood nearby, looking idly off across the lake. Glawen wondered whether it was worth the effort to make an angry representation, from which, so he realized, the waiter would turn with an air of ineffable scorn and fatigue. And Glawen would seem, in the end, a red-faced expostulating boor. He considered the options open to him, and the easiest was to decide that he had not wanted tea in the first place. He adopted this course of action with a sigh of resignation, only to find that at the very same moment his tea had been served by a kitchen boy. “Walt.” said Glawen. He lifted the lid of the pot and sniffed at the contents. Tea or pold? It smelled like tea, of one variety or another. “Very well,” Glawen told the boy. "This seems to be tea.”