Araminta Station (55 page)

“In that case, yes.” Kirdy’s voice again was dead and mechanical. Glawen heaved a deep sigh. He could do no more, except hope to finish the investigation at speed and as speedily return to Araminta Station.

The two finished their lunch in silence. Glawen rose from the table. “I must ask a few more questions at the travel agencies. You can come with me or wait in the lobby, as you like.”

“I’ll come with you.”

The two walked down the Parade to the Phlodoric Agency. Sirrah Kyrbs, sitting at his desk, looked up with a slack face. He rose and greeted them with a stiff bow. “May I be of service?”

“I hope so, sir. This is my colleague, Sergeant Kirdy Wook. I have a few more questions, if I may again impose upon your patience.”

“I will surely respond as the law directs, within such limits as may be dictated by discretion.”

“You need have no fears. Your information will be kept in strict confidence.”

“Ask on.”

“Is the name ‘Sir Mathor Borph’ known to you?”

“Naturally. Sir Mathor is one of our valued patrons.”

“What of Sir Lonas Medlyn?”

“I know the name. His family is perhaps less estimable than that of Sir Mathor.”

“I understand that both Sir Mathor and Sir Lonas recently traveled off-world. No doubt you made the necessary arrangements?”

“Sir, I may not, in all responsibility, discuss the affairs of other clients.”

“I fear that to some extent you must put aside your scruples,” said Glawen. “This is an official police inquiry. It is your duty, and it also serves the best interests of your firm, to assist us. Additionally, your remarks will be regarded as confidential.”

“Hm. How do I advance the interests of my firm by engaging in unwise volubility?”

“I need not describe the coercive powers of the IPCC. But, obviously, Phlodorus could not survive if transport companies refused to honor tickets issued by the agency.”

“Hm. Allow me to see your credentials.”

“Certainly.” Glawen produced his documents, and Kirdy did likewise. “You will notice that we are full IPCC affiliates.”

Sirrah Kyrbs shrugged and returned the documents. “The IPCC is not held in high esteem on Natrice: no doubt a survival from the attitudes of the first settlers. Indeed, we lack a permanent IPCC office here on Natrice. Well, no matter. It is neither here nor there. I will try to answer any reasonable question.”

“Thank you. I take it you did sell tickets to Sir Mathor and Sir Lonas?”

“It is hardly a secret. Several months ago Sir Mathor and Sir Lonas took passage for Cadwal, aboard the Perseian Lines’
Alphecca Sword-Stone
.”

Glawen nodded. “So far, so good. Now, what of six Sanart Scientists? Their names would be -”

Sirrah Kyrbs made a small gesture. “I know the group, and I am surprised that they chose to travel on what would seem a frivolous occasion. These persons, as you may know, often adhere to fixed opinions.”

“And they also purchased their tickets through you?”

“Not in person. I sold a block of six tickets, in their names, to a young lady who described herself as their representative.”

“This young lady: how did she identify herself?”

“She did not trouble to do so. I took her for an off-world person, of no great connection - definitely not a Sanart Scientist.”

“Was she a guest here at the hotel?”

“I think not. She wanted the tickets at once, so that she need not make another trip to pick them up.”

“You have no clue, then, as to her identity?”

“None. She paid the account in cash and I dismissed the matter from my mind, except for a moment of amusement when I thought of the Scientists and the Patrunes traveling together to the same destination, and I wondered if they would speak.”

“A curious situation,” said Glawen.

“We see many such in our business, and it is not our place to speculate upon who goes where with whom, if you catch my meaning.”

“Oh, definitely.”

“I can tell you no more. If you require further information, I suggest that you consult the principles.”

“That is an excellent idea,” said Glawen. “I should have thought of it myself. Where will I find Sir Mathor and Sir Lonas?”

Sirrah Kyrbs gave a small grimace. “I had the Scientists in mind. The Patrunes can vouchsafe no information whatever; they bought only their own tickets.”

“All is grist for the mill,” said Glawen. “We will put a few casual questions to Sir Mathor, and perhaps he will be able to clear up the entire affair.”

Sirrah Kyrbs cleared his throat, looked all around the room, clasped his hands behind his back and leaned toward Glawen. “I confess to curiosity. What is the nature of this so-called affair?”

“It is, in essence, a complicated blackmailing scheme. The Patrunes might have been victimized had we not taken decisive steps.”

“I see. Although the Patrunes, of all folk, would be difficult to blackmail. They are a law to themselves - which is one reason the IPCC is not represented on Natrice. The Patrunes mete out their own justice, regardless of all else. Since the Sanart Scientists do the same, you can understand that friction and hostility often occur.”

“Where would we find Sir Mathor and Sir Lonas?”

“Sir Mathor naturally inhabits the historic Borph estate out of Halcyon, across the Mirling. Sir Lonas, so I understand, is his boon companion and aide, and shares his residence.”

“And how do we go to the Borph estate?”

“It is simple enough. You fly the Mirling to Halcyon, hire a cab and ride thirty miles or so along the shore. The flyer leaves every half hour, so if you make the connection, the trip will require about an hour and a half, or two hours at the most. It is probably too late to attempt the trip today.”

“That is my opinion also,” said Glawen. “Now; one final word. We want to find Sir Mathor at home when we call, and if he knew we were coming he might make himself unavailable. You have no plans to call Sir Mathor, thinking to do him a favor?”

Sirrah Kyrbs smiled grimly. “I intend to isolate myself as far as possible from this business.”

“That is prudent.”

“I will go so far as to advise you. You will need a hat, against the rays of Blaise, and because it is proper outdoor wear. You will find a selection of hats in your room. The broad-brimmed white skimmer is appropriate for daytime journeys.”

“Thank you, both for the advice and the information.”

Chapter VII, Part 3

Glawen and Kirdy passed the remainder of the afternoon in idle pursuits. They wandered through the shops along the Parade, watched the activity at the hotel swimming pool, inspected the periodicals in the reading room and late in the afternoon retired to the saloon-lounge for a sundowner. An hour later they went up to their rooms to change clothes for dinner: a convention rigorously enforced at the Hotel Rolinda.

Glawen found proper garments laid out for him, the hotel valet having looked through his luggage to discover nothing suitable. Glawen surveyed the garments: trousers of glossy black woven floss, a dark saffron blouse, a deep scarlet coat with black facings, short in front, swallow-tailed in back, a two-inch black headband with a pair of modish ornaments of fine silver wire trembling above, like insect antennae.

When Glawen had dressed, he stood an indecisive moment, then abruptly left the room and descended to the lobby. He seated himself where he could watch the ever-fascinating movement of the other guests, and composed himself to wait.

Twenty minutes passed before Kirdy appeared, looking uncomfortable and somewhat gauche in the formal garments, as if they were a size too small. His mouth was compressed, presumably by reason of annoyance at Glawen’s failure to consult Kirdy in regard to his movements.

Glawen made no comment. He rose to his feet and in stiff silence the two crossed the vast expanses of the lobby and went out into the garden restaurant.

Tonight they were seated at a table ten yards deep into the foliage, in illusory but convincing and totally pleasant isolation. A blue-green luminosity pervaded the area, apparently deriving from the foliage itself. Glawen theorized that a fluorescent substance had been mingled with the vegetable saps and serums, then stimulated to luminosity by radiation from a high source.

Glawen and Kirdy sat on intricately patterned brown, black and white cushions in fan-backed chairs of woven rattan, of a style originated thousands of years before in the ancient Orient of Old Earth, and the rattan squeaked and creaked to their movements. A cloth of black, brown and white covered the table; the implements were carved from wood. Red orchids dangled overhead; to the side a cluster of white lobelia blooms glowed with an ivory-white light. Music, of that style known as Old Gitanesque, barely audible, waxed and waned as if carried by a breeze from a site of distant revelry.

Kirdy found the restaurant and its appurtenances impressive. “Competent brains have been at work! They have created a romantic and dramatic ambience! All tinsel, fakery and nonsense, of course - but well-done!”

“That’s how it seems to me,” said Glawen, wondering what this new aspect of Kirdy might signify, if anything. “But it’s genuine fakery, and not imitation.”

“Exactly so!” declared Kirdy in a large rich voice. “Through human dedication the place is transformed from a mishmash to a thing in itself! I will go so far as to call it a true work of art, since it answers all the critical questions. It is artificial, and uses natural elements to transcend Nature - which is the very definition of art. Do you agree?”

“I see no reason to disagree,” said Glawen. This particular version of Kirdy seemed rather like that pompous, philosophical Kirdy of five years before. “Of course, I’ve heard other definitions. Everyone seems to have a definition or two tucked away for occasions such as this.”

“Indeed? What is yours?”

“For the moment it slips my mind. Baron Bodissey uses ‘art’ as a synonym for ‘claptrap’ - but I may be quoting him out of context. He’d probably endorse your notion of the restaurant as an art form. For a fact, I don’t see why it doesn’t qualify.”

Kirdy had lost interest in the idea. He gave his head that now-familiar shake of wistful recollection. “When I was a Mummer I never guessed that places like this existed. Floreste knew, but he kept us Mummers in the dark.”

Ha, thought Glawen. Kirdy’s analytical phase had been superseded by what Glawen thought of as “the autobiographer.”

“We hardly knew which planet we were on,” mused Kirdy. “The hotels always smelled strangely, of indecisive antiseptic, and were either too hot or too cold. The food was always bad – although here on Natrice, we’d sometimes play a party at one of the Patrune houses and they always fed us fine delicacies. Ah! Those were good feasts!” Kirdy grinned at the recollection. “At places like Mirlview House, things were far different. We’d be served fried porridge with boiled greens, or steamed dogfish with curds, or pickled squash and tripes. At least no one was tempted to overeat – not even Arles, who spent all his pocket money on sweets. Still, we had merry times.” Kirdy looked at Glawen in speculation. “You never were a Mummer: I wonder why.”

“I have none of the right skills.”

“No more did I, or Arles. Floreste made us into Primordials and Ogres and Thunder-demons, where no great skill was required. Yes, those were good times! No doubt it’s much the same now. Different faces, different voices, but the same larks and laughter.” Kirdy’s expression became remote and soft. “Of course I couldn’t perform worth a whisker anymore.”

Kirdy continued with his memories until Glawen became bored and changed the subject. “Tomorrow should be an important day.”

“I hope we learn more than we did today.”

“Today wasn’t a total loss. We discovered another actor in the drama.”

“Oh? Who is that?

“A young off-world woman who buys tickets to Cadwal in blocks of six.”

“You should call her an ‘actress’ in the drama, not an ‘actor.’”

“I want to know her name; her gender can wait. Who can she be? Perhaps Sir Mathor will know.”

Kirdy grunted. “Sir Mathor won’t tell you whether it’s day or night – that’s my guess. IPCC means nothing to the Patrunes; they make their own law.”

“We shall see,” said Glawen.

In the morning Glawen dressed with care, using his own garments rather than the casual local wear furnished by the hotel.

Kirdy knocked on the door; Glawen admitted him. Kirdy had dressed in the local garments and looked at Glawen in perplexity. “I can rely on you always for perversity! Will you kindly explain why you act this way?”

“Are you referring to my clothes? Perversity has nothing to do with it.”

“Do you plan to explain?”

“Certainly. The Patrunes have no great opinion of the locals; we’ll get more serious attention if we approach Sir Mathor in our own clothes.”

Kirdy blinked and reflected. “Do you know, I think you are right. Give me two minutes, and I’ll change.”

“Very well,” said Glawen. “This time only I’ll wait for you. But hurry.”

Immediately after breakfast, Glawen and Kirdy rode the omnibus to the airport. They boarded a flyer and were whisked off over the Mirling, to land at Halcyon after a flight of half an hour.

The time was now midmorning. A milky overcast swathed the sky; Blaise, a great blue pearl, seemed to swim with films of prismatic light: orchid, rose, pale green.

At the exit from the Halcyon airport Glawen and Kirdy found a cab rank where vehicles controlled by internal computer systems were on hand for those persons requiring transportation.

A placard provided instructions:

1.
   
Select a vehicle. Board this vehicle and be seated.

2.
   
The control mechanism will request that you state your destination. Respond in this fashion: “The residence of such and such a person” or “The offices of such and such an enterprise.” Usually this will suffice.

3.
   
A fee will be quoted; drop coins into the proper slots. Pay for waiting time in advance. The vehicle will refund any surplus.