Araminta Station (59 page)

Glawen’s last attempt at conversation had brought only an uninterested monosyllable in response; he decided against asking Kirdy’s opinion of Fexelburg and picked up the official publication of the Fexel Tourist Information Agency, a handsome volume entitled
Tourist Guide to Tassadero
. One entry described Zonk’s treasure in fulsome detail. The text went on to assure the interested treasure-hunter: “The authorities further guarantee that whoever finds this valuable hoard will realize its total value: he will be assessed no taxes, duties, deductions or special imposts.”

Kirdy had turned away from the window. “Listen to this,” said Glawen. He read the paragraph aloud. While he read, Kirdy turned back to the window. “What do you think of that?” asked Glawen.

“Most generous and truly kindly of the authorities - I don’t think.” Kirdy spoke without turning his head.

“It also says here: ‘Persons are warned not to buy maps purporting to reveal the exact location of the treasure. It is amazing how many of these maps are sold! If one is offered such a map, he should ask the vendor: “Why, instead of selling me this map, do you not go to the stipulated location and possess the treasure for yourself?” The vendor will be prepared for the question, but no matter how convincing his response, do not buy the map, as it will doubtless prove to be bogus.”

“Ha!” said Kirdy. “Arles bought such a map, from an old man who claimed to be dying and wanted some fine young fellow like Arles to enjoy the treasure. This sounded reasonable to Arles, but Floreste would not let him go out on the North Steppe to collect the treasure.”

“That seems a bit unfair. Arles could have put the wealth to good use. He might even have bought a space yacht for the Bold Lions.”

“That was his stated intention.”

Glawen returned to the Tourist Guide. He learned that the “rivers of purple ooze” were in fact colonies of purple jellyfish which slid across the steppe in columns four hundred yards long and thirty yards wide. According to the Tourist Guide, the ‘rivers of ooze” were spectacles to excite even the most blasé: “These wonderful phenomena are notable for the mystery of their being! They thrill us with their eerie beauty! But again, warnings must be cited! All is not gorgeous. The odor exuded by these great worms is quite acrid. Fastidious folk are advised to study the creatures from an upwind vantage.”
¹

Glawen, reading further, came upon an article entitled “Zab Zonk: In Song and Story,” in which Zonk’s exploits were chronicled and the dimensions of his fabulous treasure were calculated.

So far, we are dealing with what seems at least an approximation of fact [wrote the author]. Have others been as judicious? Decide for yourself, from this sampling of Zonk lore. Here is his preferred toast:

“I cry glory to Zonk, High, Full and Mighty Emperor of the Magnitudes, of Life and Death, of Now and Then, of Hither and Yon, of all things Known and Unknown, of the Universe and all the Elsewheres! Glory to Zonk! So be it. Drink.”

When signing his name, Zonk was more modest, and his handwriting was oddly delicate: “ZONK: First and last Over-man.”

From sources unknown but very remote comes this apostrophe:

“ZONK: Avatar of Phoebus, Sublimation of all Melodious Beauties, He who partakes of Uiskebaugh and Performs the Seventeen Signals of Love!”

When measured against such vistas, truth must defer, with neither apology nor regret to the far more amiable arrangements of legend.

Kirdy turned away from the window and seated himself in a chair with his legs outstretched, his head back and his gaze fixed on the ceiling. Glawen put aside the book. “What is your opinion of Tassadero?”

Kirdy responded in a monotone: “Fexelburg is not too bad. The backcountry is dreary for a fact. The ‘ooze rivers’ give off a fearful chife. I don’t much like the food anywhere. In the towns they douse everything with strange spices and odd vegetables, and I don’t believe they like it themselves, but they have to eat it because it is the new trend. One never knows what to expect and can’t recognize it after it arrives.” Kirdy gave a dreary chuckle. “The ranchers eat well enough but Floreste ruined our visit for us. That was when we saw the purple ooze.”

“What did Floreste do?”

“The rancher invited us out to his ranch and fed us royally. His wife and children wanted us to demonstrate one or two of our acts, which we were quite willing to do, but Floreste, avaricious old bastard; demanded a fee. The rancher just laughed and sent us back to Fexelburg. Everyone was fearfully vexed with Floreste. I was on the point of resigning the troupe then and there.” Kirdy gave a sad laugh. “Now I wish I had stayed on. There were no worries, no fears! Everyone knew what he must do. Sometimes, when Floreste wasn’t watching, we could sneak in and play with the girls. Some of them were sheerly beauties! What jolly times we had!”

Glawen asked: “Did you ever play in Lutwiler Country?”

“Lutwiler Country?” Kirdy frowned. “Wouldn’t that be the Zubenites? We never went near them. They don’t approve of such frivolity, unless it’s free.”

“Strange!” said Glawen. “Why should they trouble with Thurben Island?”

Kirdy’s interest, never too focused, became diffuse, and he returned to staring at the ceiling. Glawen gave silent thanks that the investigation was approaching its end.

In due course the
Camulke
landed at the Fexelburg spaceport. Glawen and Kirdy disembarked and were briskly passed through the entry formalities, by officials dressed in unusually natty red and blue uniforms.

The official at the alien registration counter looked critically from Glawen’s and Kirdy’s documents to their garments: He asked with polite incredulity: “You are officers accredited to the Cadwal police?”

“That is correct,” said Glawen. “We are also IPCC affiliates.”

The official was not impressed. “That means little to us. We are not great champions of the IPCC here at Fexelburg.”

“Why is that?”

“Let us say, that our priorities are different. They are long on regulation and short on flexibility. In practical cases we have yet to find them useful.”

That’s surprising! The IPCC is generally well-regarded.”

“Not in Fexelburg! Party Plock is the adjutant, or adjudicator or double commander, or some such title, and a full martinet to boot. In these parts we must be ready for anything; after all Tassadero is for the most part savage steppe! Flexibility is the watchword and devil take the rulebook. If Triple Commander Partric Plock and his cookie-pushers demur, it can’t be helped. At Fexelburg first things come first.”

“That sounds reasonable. I’ll be interested to meet this dragon Plock.”

The official turned a sour side glance at Glawen’s garments. “If you go there dressed as you are, they’ll bar you at the door and call you ‘clown’ besides.”

“Aha!” said Glawen. “I finally understand your disapproval. These are the only clothes we own. Our luggage was lost and we have not yet made replacements.”

“The sooner the better! I suggest that you put yourself into the hands of a capable haberdasher. Which is your hotel?”

“As yet we have made no choice.”

“Allow me to suggest the Lambervoilles, which offers full prestige and high style. In Fexelburg we are ultramodern in all respects, and you will find nothing dowdy or disreputable.”

“That is certainly reassuring.”

“Remember: first things first! Before you attempt Lambervoilles, dress for the public esteem. The Nouveau Salon is just across from the Lambervoilles; they will turn you out in decent style.”

“What is the most convenient transportation?”

“Leave the terminal; board the tram car. Presently you will pass a heroic statue of Zab Zonk at the murdering of Dirdie Panjeon. Alight at the next stop; you will see the Lambervoilles on the right hand and the Nouveau Cri on the left. Is all clear?”

“Quite clear and we thank you for your advice.”

The two departed the terminal. They boarded a glistening glass and black metal tram and were carried swiftly toward the center of Fexelburg. The local time was midmorning; Zonk’s Star, a large pale disk, rode halfway up the sky. To right and left spread the suburbs of Fexelburg: rows of small bungalows constructed to a jaunty architecture, each flaunting some studiously novel trick of decoration to set it apart from its neighbors. Slender black native frooks, a hundred feet tall, lined the boulevards.

The tramway swung out into a main thoroughfare, leading into the heart of Fexelburg, with private vehicles moving at speed to either side of the central tramway. The long, low, unnaturally sleek vehicles were apparently designed for ostentation rather than utility; each was enameled in vivid colors and often flew an ensign from a jack staff, displaying the insignia of the owner’s automobile club. In each vehicle, at the top of the control bar, a cluster of keys allowed the driver to play tunes to his mood as he drove, often very loudly, so that the occupants of other vehicles and casual pedestrians might also enjoy the music.

At the very least; thought Glawen, the city Fexelburg pulsed with frenetic energy.

Kirdy was still unhappy and rode with the corners of his mouth pinched in, as if at a bitter taste. Glawen wondered if he still resented leaving Soumjiana before his survey of the sausage grills had been completed. Or perhaps he had no liking for Tassadero.

The tram passed a large statue, depicting Zab Zonk in the act of executing a faithless mistress. Glawen and Kirdy alighted at the next stop, across a small plaza from the Lambervoilles Hotel, which, like every other enterprise of Fexelburg, advertised its presence with a large animated sign. Kirdy pointed to the sign with an air of excited discovery. “There it is! The Lambervoilles!

Floreste always took us to the Flinders Inn, where the nomads stay.”

“Floreste perhaps sees himself and the Mummers as nomads.”

“Come!” said Kirdy sternly. “This is not the time for jokes.”

“A thousand apologies.”

Glawen and Kirdy crossed the boulevard, dodging and running to avoid the vehicles which sped past careless of pedestrians, each driver playing a lively tune on the keys of his control bar.

A few yards around the plaza a garish animation advertised the Nouveau Cri Haberdashery. The sign depicted a man in a fusty black suit entering a doorway and immediately emerging dressed in stylish new garments. He entered again, to reappear in a different costume. Again and again the man in the black suit passed through the doorway, coming out each time in a new ensemble.

Kirdy came to a sudden halt. “Where are you going? The hotel is over here!”

Glawen looked at him in wonder. “Don’t you remember what the official at the spaceport told us?”

Kirdy scowled. He had hoped to go directly to the Lambervoilles where he might indulge himself in a warm bath and perhaps doze off for an hour or two. “We can buy clothes later.”

Glawen paid no heed, and continued around the plaza toward the Nouveau Cri, leaving Kirdy staring disconsolately toward the Lambervoilles. Kirdy suddenly became aware of Glawen’s absence. He uttered a startled yell, and ran angrily in pursuit. “You might say something before you make one of those furtive departures!”

“Sorry,” said Glawen. “I thought you had heard me.”

Kirdy merely grunted. The two entered the haberdashery. A clerk no older than themselves came forward, halted, stared at their clothes, then spoke in a voice of supercilious politeness: “Sirs? What might be your wishes?”

“We want a change or two of clothes,” said Glawen. “Nothing too elaborate; we’ll be here only a short time.”

“I can provide you both suitable outfits. What categorical dimension will you be occupying?”

Glawen shook his head in puzzlement. “These terms are not familiar to me.”

Kirdy said shortly: “It is a roundabout way of asking whether we consider ourselves gentlemen or pariahs.”

The clerk made a delicate gesture. “You are off-world persons, I see.”

“That is true.”

“So then: what might be your walk of life? It is important that your clothes reflect your social perspectives. That is a truism of the clothing industry.”

Glawen spoke haughtily: “Is it not obvious? I am a Clattuc; my friend is a Wook. That should answer your question a dozen times over.”

“I suppose it must,” said the clerk. “You seem quite definite. Well, then: to the selection. As gentlemen, you will wish to dress as gentlemen, without compromise or false economies. Let me see. For an absolutely minimum wardrobe, you will need a pair of morning suits or, better, three: casual, business and ceremonial.

Next, a suitable costume for a formal luncheon. Sportswear for afternoon recreation, which may be used for riding in a vehicle, although full and legitimate driving regalia is preferred. For afternoon social events in the company of charming ladies: what we call our pale gray bird-basher. Late afternoon social, of two levels, and dinner gear: formal and informal. All with proper accessories, and a range of hats, at least two dozen.”

Glawen held up his hand. “All this for a week’s stay?”

“A wardrobe from the Nouveau Cri will win compliments across the breadth of the Gaean Reach, certainly during the reign of this season’s fashion, which is quite distinctive.”

“The time for realism has arrived,” said Glawen. “Fit us each with an all-purpose suit that will get us into the Lambervoilles, and maybe a casual outfit or two. We won’t need anything else.”

The clerk cried out in a fluting voice of distress: “Gentlemen, I will do as you require, but consider my personal example. I honor my body and treat it with the generosity it deserves. It is washed with rainwater and pear-oil soap, then laved with Koulmoura lotion, with tincture of calisthene for the hair. Then I don the freshest of fresh linen and an absolutely proper choice of garments. I deal nicely with my body; it serves me well in return.”

“It seems a pleasant association,” said Glawen. “Still, my body is less demanding, and Kirdy’s body simply doesn’t care. Give us the garments I have ordered, not too expensive, and we’ll be happy, bodies and all.”