Araminta Station (56 page)

4.
   
You may issue the following orders: “Go faster.” “Go slower.” “Stop.” “Change destination to such-and-such a place.” Other directions are unnecessary. Vehicle will proceed at what it calculates to be the most appropriate speed along the most expeditious route. Please do not abuse the equipment.

“That seems simple enough,” said Glawen. He selected a low-slung two-seater protected from the Blaiselight by a bubble of dark green glass. Kirdy, however, hung back and frowned down at the vehicle. “This is not wise.”

Glawen looked at him in wonder. “Why not?”

“These cars cannot be trusted. They are guided by brains taken from cadavers. That is what we learned from unimpeachable sources when we were Mummers. Nor were the brains necessarily the freshest.”

Glawen gave an incredulous laugh. “Where did you hear that?”

“I had it on good authority; I forget just where. Perhaps Arles, who is seldom fooled.”

“In this case, he must have been joking. These are obviously guided by simple computers.”

“Are you sure of your facts?”

“Of course.”

Kirdy still hung back. In exasperation Glawen asked: “Now what is the trouble?”

“In the first place, that car is too small. The seats are cramped. I feel that we should hire a proper cab with a proper driver, who will do exactly as we wish. These vehicles are impervious to human desires; they do as they think best, even if it means tipping us into the sea.”

“I’m not worried,” said Glawen. “If it starts to misbehave, we merely need say ‘Stop!’ Here is a four-seater; you can have two seats to yourself. Either get aboard or wait here for me, just as you like.”

Kirdy muttered under his breath and gingerly climbed aboard the four-seater. “This is an absurd system. Everything is absurd. The whole Gaean Reach is topsy-turvy, including you, with your weird ideas and codfish grin.”

Glawen’s smile, which he had thought to be friendly and affable, froze on his face. He boarded the vehicle. A voice issued from a mesh on the front panel: “Welcome, sirs and ladies!”

“You see!” said Kirdy in a voice of vindication. “That thing doesn’t even know what sort of people we are!”

The voice said: “Two persons are aboard. Are there more to come?”

“No.” said Glawen.

“What is your destination?”

“The residence of Sir Mathor Borph, about thirty miles east along the shore road.”

“The exact distance is 29.68 miles,” said the voice. “One-way fare is three sols. Round-trip fare is five sols. One or the other fee is now payable. Waiting time is one sol per hour. You may deposit as much money as you wish. A refund of the excess will be made.”

Kirdy muttered: “Instruct the thing to drive carefully.”

The vehicle asked: “Are you ready to depart? If so, say ‘Ready.’”

“Ready.”

The vehicle slid out into the road and made several turnings. “It never understood our directions!” said Kirdy in disgust. “It is clearly confused.”

“I think not,” said Glawen. “It is taking us to the shore highway by the best route.”

A moment later the car swung out upon a broad avenue paralleling the coast and immediately accelerated to a speed which caused Kirdy to protest.

Glawen paid him no heed and gradually Kirdy relaxed, although there were still aspects to the mission which he could not approve. “Sir Mathor does not know that we are coming. It is considered rude to call without an appointment.”

“We are Bureau B agents; we don’t need to be polite.”

“Nonetheless we should have notified Sir Mathor in advance; after all, he is a Patrune. Then, if he did not want to see us, he could have told us not to come.”

“I want to see him regardless of his wishes. I came to Natrice for that purpose.”

“He may be very terse - even rude.”

“To a Clattuc and a Wook? Not likely.”

“He may not know of our pedigree.”

“If necessary, you may inform him, but in a kindly manner, so as not to hurt his feelings.”

“Bah,” growled Kirdy. “I never know when you are serious.”

“That would seem to indicate good mental health. This trip may be sound therapy after all.”

Kirdy had no comment to make. The two rode in silence through a landscape of mixed tropical vegetation, cultivated groves, areas of rampant jungle with trees standing three hundred feet tall, overshadowed by giant dendrons holding parasols of maroon foliage another two hundred feet higher. At intervals gaps in the foliage allowed glimpses of the Mirling, lavender-blue under the hazy Blaiselight. Occasional side roads led seaward to the estates of one or another Patrune, each guarded by a high wall.

The vehicle presently veered from the highway into one of the side roads and halted under a portiere. “This is the specified destination. Do you wish to return at once?”

“No. Wait.”

“Waiting charges are one sol per hour, payable in advance. Excess payment will be refunded.”

Glawen pushed five sols into the receptacle.

“The car will await your orders for five hours. Please specify a code name to ensure your priority of use.”

“Spanchetta,” said Glawen.

“For five hours this vehicle is reserved to the use of Spanchetta,” intoned the car.

Kirdy looked at Glawen in disfavor. “Why did you give out that name?”

“It was the first name that entered my mind.”

“Hmmf,” sniffed Kirdy. “I hope that we will not be obliged to prove our identity.”

“I’m not worried. Now: listen carefully. These are your instructions. Do not intervene in the conversation unless I ask you a direct question. If I make an inaccurate statement, do not correct me, because I may have a purpose in mind. Show neither antagonism nor cordiality; maintain a proper detachment, even though we are showered with abuse. Do not admire any ladies who may be present. In general, behave like a genuine Wook of Wook House!”

“I am inclined to resent these instructions,” muttered Kirdy.

“I don’t mind in the slightest. Resent all you like, so long as you do as I ask.”

“I don’t know if I can keep them all straight. Behave like a Wook, shower no abuse, admire the ladies -”

“I’ll go over it again,” said Glawen. He repeated his instructions. “Is it all clear?”

“Naturally,” said Kirdy. “After all, I am not a sergeant at Bureau B for nothing.”

“Good.” Glawen went to the portal and pressed a button. A voice said: “Sirs, please state your names and your business.”

“We are Glawen Clattuc and Kirdy Wook, of Bureau B, at Araminta Station on Cadwal. We wish to consult Sir Mathor Borph on a matter of importance.”

“Are you expected?”

“No.”

“A moment, if you please. Your names will be announced.”

Three minutes passed. Kirdy began to fidget. “Clearly -”

The portal slid aside. A tall man of impressive muscular development, dark-skinned, with white hair and pale gray eyes, stood in the opening. He inspected the two visitors with dispassionate care. “You are natives of Cadwal?”

“That is correct, sir.”

“What is your purpose here?”

“Are you Sir Mathor?”

“I am Sir Lonas Medlyn.”

“Our business is primarily with Sir Mathor.”

“Are you business agents, or solicitors, or religious evangelists?”

“We are none of those.”

“Come, if you please.”

Sir Lonas moved off along a path paved with tablets of white shell-stone. Glawen and Kirdy followed: under flowering trees, across a pond by a low bridge and up to a cluster of wide low domes. A door slid aside; Sir Lonas ushered the two into a circular foyer, and signified that they were to wait. He disappeared through a portal. Glawen and Kirdy looked in awe about the foyer. A dozen nymphs carved in marble stood on pedestals around the periphery of the room; the alabaster floor was innocent of ornamentation. From the ceiling by a thread of silver wire hung a sphere of crystal two feet in diameter, of hypnotic clarity.

Sir Lonas returned. “You may come.” He led the two into a space wide past any quick or intuitive sensation of its scope. At the far end of the room glass panels looked out across a terrace to a swimming pool, shaded under a high flat shell of gray glass. Shining through this glass, the light of Blaise was refracted around the sea-blue central disk into concentric rings of color: carmine, bitter green, purple, dark blue, light acid blue, burnt orange, pink. A dozen folk of various ages splashed in the pool; as many more sat grouped in the shade of parasols.

Sir Lonas went out to speak to Sir Mathor: a man of early maturity, tall, with short gray-blond hair, regular features and good physique, who at once jumped to his feet and came into the great parlor. He halted a dozen feet from Glawen and Kirdy, to give each a measured inspection. Glawen thought to perceive a person confident, easy of disposition, somewhat self-indulgent but without obvious or ostentatious quirks of character. Sir Mathor, indeed, while handsome, alert and equipped with perfect social poise, seemed on the whole quite ordinary.

Sir Mathor, in his turn, took no pains to hide his surprise at the quality and style of his visitors. He asked: “You are from Araminta Station on Cadwal? A remote place, well past the back of beyond. What brings you here?”

“I mentioned to Sir Lonas that we are representatives of our Bureau B,” said Glawen. “I am Captain Glawen Clattuc; this is my associate, Sergeant Kirdy Wook. Here are our credentials.”

Sir Mathor waved them aside. His manner was still puzzled, if somewhat amused. “You are clearly a young man of candor; I have no doubt you are telling the exact truth. I merely wonder what you want of me.”

“Unless someone assumed your identity, you and Sir Lonas recently visited Araminta Station. We wish to inquire into the circumstances of this visit. May we sit, or do you prefer that we stand?”

“Sorry, indeed! A shocking lapse of courtesy! Sit, by all means!”

Sir Mathor pointed to a sofa; Glawen and Kirdy seated themselves, but Sir Mathor paced slowly back and forth in front of them: three steps in each direction. Finally he came to a halt. “My recent visit to Araminta Station, you say. Are you sure of your facts?”

“You may be confident as to our professionalism, sir. We are, as a matter of fact, IPCC affiliates. You used a fictitious name at Araminta Hotel, but this is neither unusual nor actionable, and certainly is not the reason for our visit.”

“Most extraordinary,” said Sir Mathor. “l am totally perplexed.”

“That is quite all right, sir,” said Glawen. “It is only necessary that we understand the situation. I hope that you are willing to discuss the matter with us in full detail.”

Sir Mathor threw himself into a low deeply cushioned chair. He leaned back, thrust out his legs. He looked to the side, where Sir Lonas stood quietly, hands clasped behind his back. “Lonas, would you be kind enough to bring us refreshment: perhaps some of that excellent Yellow Frost? I’ll have the same.”

Sir Lonas nodded and moved away. Sir Mathor turned his attention back to Glawen and Kirdy. “Now, then: suppose you tell me exactly what sort of information you are after.”

“About two months ago you went to Yipton and thence on an excursion to Thurben Island. There you engaged in activities which are illegal: both on Cadwal and across the Gaean Reach.”

Sir Mathor threw back his head and laughed: a musical metallic sound conveying no trace of humor. “And you have come to take me into custody?”

Glawen shook his head. “We are not quite that naive, Sir Mathor. Still, there is nothing to laugh about. These crimes have ugly names.”

“Yes, yes. Ugly words often describe healthy processes.” Sir Mathor watched as Sir Lonas served around goblets of frozen punch. He spoke as if casually: “Tell me this: have you discussed this affair with other parties to the excursion?”

Glawen responded politely: “Proper procedure requires that I ask my questions in an orderly fashion. Still, I might ask: what difference does it make?”

Sir Mathor’s composure at last showed a crack. “A great difference indeed! If you want information: yes, I will give it to you, so long as you do not approach these other folk. Not just yet.”

“I suggest that you tell me the facts. Start with how you became aware of the excursion.”

Sir Mathor heaved a sigh. “I’d feel happier talking to you if I knew your objectives. It seems to me - now I am just musing - that if you were only anxious to punish the folk on the excursion you would have immediately lodged a case with the IPCC. Extortion? Blackmail? This doesn’t seem to be your game, which of course is sheer wasted effort in any case. What, then? Who are you after?”

Glawen said: “Please don’t discover mysteries where none exist. We are outraged by the affair. We would like to punish everyone involved, particularly those close to home. In all candor, you do not seem the sort of person who would want to identify himself with such a sickly episode.”

“You are quite right. I have far more urgent matters on my mind.” Sir Mathor paused and tapped his chin with his fingers. “I’m not quite sure how to handle this matter.” He hitched himself up in the chair. “You may or may not be aware that here on Natrice we are fighting a quiet but desperate war with an enemy who outnumbers us twenty to one. If it comes to violence we will suffer enormous damage. It is no exaggeration to say that our very survival is at stake - and we will use any weapon which comes to hand.”

“Ah,” said Glawen. “I am beginning to understand. You refer to the Sanart Scientists?”

“I refer to one of their factions: the so-called Ideationists. These folk are fanatics who make a virtue out of severity. In the past they have attacked us financially, philosophically and verbally, none of which troubles us. Recently gangs of anonymous raiders have come down from the Wild Counties and attacked us by night, killing and depredating.

“There is our predicament. Our enemy is motivated by his ‘Idea,’ which is not inherently ignoble. Its virtues are self-evident; where is a force more violent than that which is generated by a surfeit of virtue? How does one fight virtue? With depravity? Is depravity, after all, any better than virtue? Arguable. At the very least, depravity allows the practitioner a variety of options. Personally, I advocate neither extreme. I merely want to live my life out in placid self-indulgence. Yet here I sit, at this moment, caught up by these Sanart passions. They want me to embrace their Idea. I resist; I am forced into an uncomfortable posture of self-defense and worry. The sweetness of my soul has gone rancid; I am pushed willy-nilly into a condition of hatred.