Night Lamp by Jack Vance Page A

that they have ended.”
    Maihac leaned back in his chair and looked off across the plaza. He asked: “You don’t hear this voice anymore?”
    “I don’t think so. Sometimes I feel a tingle in the air, like coming into a room where someone has just spoken.”
    “That’s good news,” said Maihac. He rose to his feet. “I must be getting back to work.”
    Maihac left the table. Jaro watched the erect figure cross the plaza and disappear into the terminal. For a time Jaro sat pondering Maihac’s strange conduct. It was more than simple surprise; Maihac had been shaken.
    Jaro returned to Merriehew thoroughly surfeited with mystery.
    Time passed, and Jaro had no further word from Maihac, nor had Maihac shown himself at Merriehew. Perhaps he had not been invited? Jaro thought he knew what had happened. Maihac, from the Fath’s purview, was no longer identifiable either with esoteric music or arcane instruments. Maihac now worked at the space terminal; he had cruised far and wide through space, and the Faths feared his influence over Jaro. If a role model were needed, they preferred that it should be Hilyer Fath, not Tawn Maihac, who was not only a spaceman but far from a pacifist.
    Jaro smiled a thin sad smile. It was all quite clear. The Faths, benevolent and loving though they might be, were impressing upon him the guidance he neither needed nor wanted. Jaro knew that Maihac liked him; as soon as possible he would seek him out and try to probe deeper into the tantalizing mysteries of which Maihac was now a part.
    In the morning he returned to school, and focused his mind upon his studies, as if invoking a hermetic discipline upon himself. During the lunch hour he passed Hanafer Glackenshaw in the central courtyard. Hanafer glanced at him, his mind elsewhere, but not so far that he could not spare a sneer and a sniff, to indicate the persistence of his old disdain. Jaro went his way without change of expression.
    It was an unpleasant situation. Hanafer’s contempt might dissipate, or it might prompt him to actions which Jaro could not ignore. What then? What if Hanafer became so offensive that Jaro felt impelled to fight? It would not accord with the teaching of the Faths. They would remind him that no law compelled him to strike another human being and hurt him, no matter what the provocation; high ethical doctrine required that Jaro politely announce his abhorrence of violence, excuse himself and walk away from the unpleasant affair. In this fashion, said the Faths, he would inculcate shame and contrition in his adversaries, and bring to himself the joy of a deed well done. Once again Jaro’s mouth twitched in that sad half smile. The Faths had never allowed him to undertake physical education courses involving pugilism or combat of any sort; as a result, in the event of attack, he would be at considerable disadvantage, and Hanafer no doubt would thrash him soundly.
    Jaro was annoyed by this notion. His deficiency might cause him serious embarrassment, if it were not repaired.
    During the afternoon of the first day of the new term, Jaro visited the library, where he borrowed a volume describing various methods of hand-to-hand combat. He left the library and went to sit on a concrete bench in the courtyard, to peruse his acquisition. He became aware that someone had settled upon the far end of the bench. It was the notorious Skirlet Hutsenreiter, whose status as a Clam Muffin was so exalted that she gave not a thought to comporture. She sat sidewise, one leg tucked up under the other, one arm along the back of the bench, the other in her lap, achieving a negligent elegance which Jaro could not help but notice before returning to his book.
    A moment passed. Jaro glanced aside, to find Skirlet studying him intently, bright gray eyes alight with intelligence. A casual tangle of short dark locks framed her face; and as usual, she wore whatever had been closest to hand: today a blue peasant’s jacket, a size too large,