Night Lamp by Jack Vance Page B

trousers of off-white duck which lovingly fit the curves of her round rump. Jaro sighed and again went back to his book, nerves tingling to a not unpleasant excitement. In the past Skirlet had barely noticed him; now she watched his every movement. Odd! What was going on in her mind? If he spoke to her and suffered a rebuff—as was to be expected—he would become annoyed and waste time thinking bitter thoughts. He decided to have nothing to do with her.
    Skirlet seemed to divine his thinking and allowed herself a rather lofty smile.
    Jaro gathered all his dignity and sat stiffly erect. His plan was a good one: he would ignore her totally, until her attention wandered and she ran off to amuse herself elsewhere. She was mercurial; it would be two or three minutes at the most. Skirlet called out: “Hoy! You there! Hello!”
    Jaro appraised her without change of expression. She must be regarded as unpredictable, and treated with immense caution.
    Skirlet spoke again. “Are you alive or dead? Or simply comatose?”
    Jaro responded with stiff formality: “I am alive, thank you.”
    “Well said! Your name is Jaro Fath; am I right?”
    “Not altogether.”
    Skirlet was annoyed by Jaro’s evasiveness. “How so?”
    “The Faths are my foster parents.”
    “Oh? You have other names?”
    “Very likely.” Jaro looked her over. “Who are you?”
    Skirlet was taken aback. “Surely you know of me! I am Skirlet Hutsenreiter.”
    “I remember your name; it’s quite unusual.”
    Skirlet said evenly: “My name is short for ‘Shkirzaksein’ which is my mother’s country estate on Marmone, and where her palace Piri-piri is situated.”
    “That sounds very grand.”
    Skirlet nodded, rather bleakly. “It is, after a fashion. I stayed with her two years ago.” Skirlet compressed her lips, and looked off down the length of Flammarion Prospect. “I learned things I never would have learned at Thanet. I’ll never go back.”
    Skirlet slid closer along the bench. “At the moment I’m interested in you.”
    Jaro could hardly believe his ears. He stared at her dumbfounded. “You are interested in—me?”
    Skirlet nodded primly. “In you and in your conduct.” Jaro relaxed. Skirlet’s manner was amicable, and while he must guard against complacency, it was hard not to speculate as to what she had in mind. Could she suddenly need an escort for some unexpected social function? Or perhaps, out of sheer caprice, might she wish to introduce him into the exalted ranks of the Clam Muffins? Or could she conceivably—Jaro’s mind faltered at the edge of ideas wild and unthinkable, then cautiously drew back. Of course, such things happened. He eyed Skirlet dubiously. “You show very good taste. Still, I am puzzled.”
    “No matter. Do you mind if I watch you rather closely for a time?”
    “It all depends. How closely, and for how long?”
    Skirlet answered briskly, “No longer and no more closely than necessary.”
    “What about privacy?”
    “At the moment, none is needed. Now then!” Skirlet held out her hand, touched her thumb to each of her fingers in turn. “Can you do that?”
    “Of course.”
    “Show me.”
    Jaro performed the feat. “How was that?”
    “Quite good. Do it again. Again. Again.”
    “That is enough for now,” said Jaro. “I don’t want to form an annoying nervous habit.”
    Skirlet clicked her tongue in vexation. “You’ve broken the sequence. Now we’ll have to start all over.”
    “Not unless I know why.”
    Skirlet made an impatient gesture. “It is a clinical test. Deranged people start making characteristic mistakes at specific counts. I heard that you had been declared, well, just a bit crazy by the psychiatrists, and I wanted to try the experiment as soon as possible.”
    After an interval of dead silence Jaro uttered a soft syllable. Then he looked toward the sky. All was well; the world was sane again; Skirlet had not succumbed to a sudden amorous obsession. Too bad, in a way. He