Araminta Station (62 page)

Kirdy looked off across the room toward the poster. “It’s clear enough, but –”

“No buts about it. If all goes well, we will be leaving for home the day after tomorrow on the
Camulke
. When the Mummers return to Araminta station you can see them as much as you like. But not now. This is most definite. Come along; I must buy my ticket and I want to ask some questions of the manager.”

The ticket window was open. Glawen bought a round-trip ticket to Pogan’s Point, then asked the young woman who now serviced the ticket window: “What is the manager’s name?”

“Arno Rorp. He’s in the side office.”

Glawen went to the side office and finding the door open, stepped inside. At a desk sat a thin suave gentleman of middle age with smooth gray hair immaculately coiffed, and a mustache even more neatly trimmed. Glawen introduced himself, displayed the Perfection of Joy brochure and asked how it had arrived at the Alien Dance and Arts Salon.

Arno Rorp looked wryly down at the brochure. “Frankly, this is not the sort of material we normally handle. But - well, I was persuaded. For a fact, it seems little more offensive than many of our Zonk posters.”

“How many of these brochures were you allotted?”

“Three dozen. Most went to the idly curious, but they’ve generated some small custom from a rather unlikely source.”

“The Zubenites?”

“Quite so. How did you know? But I forget; these excursions take place on Cadwal.”

“No longer,” said Glawen. “Who approached you originally?”

“In connection with the excursions? A rather engaging young woman, off-world, not out of the top drawer, I should say.”

“Did she leave a name?”

“Ogmo Enterprises, nothing more.”

“Did anyone else appear, representing Ogmo Enterprises: a man, for instance?”

“Never.”

“Please step over here a moment.” Glawen took Arno Rorp to the poster advertising Floreste and his Mummers.

“Ah, yes,” said Rorp. “The Mummers. They put on a most entertaining show.”

“Look at these photographs,” said Glawen. “Are any of the faces known to you?”

“Yes indeed,” said Rorp. “Most odd! This is the young woman who brought in the brochures.” He squinted at the caption.

“Drusilla. So that’s her name.”

Glawen took the poster from the wall. “I want you to write your signature on her photograph. Then in this blank space, write: ‘My signature designates the person who distributed Perfection of Joy brochures.’ Then sign your name again.”

“Hm. Will this act involve me in lawsuits, angry correspondence, physical violence?”

“Not at all. Trouble comes when you fail to cooperate with the police.”

Arno Rorp winced. “Please say no more.” He wrote as directed.

“Most likely you will hear no more of this,” said Glawen. “In the meantime, please do not mention my inquiries, in case you see this young woman again.”

“As you wish, sir.”

Glawen and Kirdy set off across the plaza toward the hotel, with the great bland disk of Zonk’s Star now low in the west. Zonklight had a curious quality, thought Glawen: pale and soft, yet fluent as if with the ability to seep around corners and flood into crevices. It also seemed to enhance dark colors: the maroons and umbers, dark greens and indigos, while shadows were blacker than black.

Kirdy showed no disposition to speak; glancing sidelong, Glawen saw Kirdy’s face to be set in strong stern lines. Glawen said: “Finally Ogmo Enterprises has a name.”

Kirdy gave a noncommittal grunt.

“I suppose it’s no great surprise,” said Glawen. “I’ve long had a feeling that events were leading in this direction.”

“Of course,” said Kirdy indifferently. “I thought you knew all along.”

“Did you?”

Kirdy shrugged. “The affair is over and done with. I say, let it rest in peace.”

“That’s not the way things happen,” said Glawen. “It’s also another reason why I don’t want you fraternizing and gossiping with the Mummers. They must not know of our investigation.”

“I still don’t see what difference it makes.”

“You can’t be that dense. If Drusilla knows that we can link her with a set of crimes, she’ll simply disappear, and we’ll never know what she can tell us about her confederates. Don’t forget that she is married to Arles.”

Kirdy gave a contemptuous snort. “Are you accusing Arles as well?”

“Accusations can wait until we return to Araminta Station.”

A few steps farther Kirdy made a tentative suggestion: “We could visit the Mummers but still keep a close tongue in our heads.”

Glawen sighed. “If you think that I am mishandling this investigation, make a report to Bodwyn Wook. Until then, you are under my orders, and I have made them absolutely clear. If you disobey, I will instantly expel you from Bureau B.”

“You don’t have the authority.”

“Just test me out, and see for yourself. You are not so disoriented as to misunderstand the meaning of an official order.”

“I don’t like official orders.”

“Too bad.”

“Not really. I’ve always done what I wanted, official orders or none.”

The two walked on in silence. Arriving in the lobby of the Lambervoilles, Glawen made an amicable suggestion: “Let’s look into the lounge and try out the virtue of the local ale.”

Kirdy asked a sarcastic question: “Is that an official order?”

“Not at all,” said Glawen. “I would like to hear your appraisal of the case as it now stands.”

“Why not?” asked Kirdy. “Talk is cheap.”

The two went into the lounge and took seats in deep leather chairs before a fireplace, and were served ale of good quality in tall glass beakers. “So then,” said Glawen. “Who is guilty and who is innocent? Have you formed any opinions?”

“First of all, I wonder why you want to go out to Pogan’s Point. You have learned who distributed the brochures.”

“So far, so good,” said Glawen. “But I have an uncomfortable feeling that we have only seen the tip of the iceberg. For instance, Sibil wore a tattoo on her forehead.”

“What of that? I’ve heard of ladies with port and starboard running lights tattooed on their bottoms.”

“No matter. These women with tattooed foreheads are mysterious.”

“There are more than one?”

“Yes. One such woman had strange dealings with Chilke. Something is going on which neither he nor I understand. Namour may be involved, and I’d like to find out why, how, when and where.”

“Bah,” muttered Kirdy. “The folk at Pogan’s Point don’t know Namour.”

“Probably not. I can’t so much as guess what they know - but I want to find out. And tomorrow is an excellent opportunity.”

“We could put the time to better use,” grumbled Kirdy.

“How?”

“By visiting Diamonte and the Mummers, of course!”

Glawen said in a strained voice: “I’ve already explained three times and given three sets of explicit orders that I don’t want you to visit the Mummers. You know my reasons. Don’t you remember?”

“I remember your words, but they carry no great conviction.”

“In that case, why should I trouble to explain anything to you? Now, for possibly the fourth and certainty the last time, I issue these clear, definite and direct orders: Do not communicate with the Mummers! Do not go near them! Do not speak to, listen to, look at, signal to, send messages to the Mummers, their representatives or any members of their entourage. Do not attend any performances. In short, have nothing whatever to do with the Mummers! Have I forgotten anything? If so, include it as part of the orders. I can’t be any more definite. Am I correct in this?”

“Eh? Yes indeed. I’ll have more of this excellent ale.”

“Tomorrow,” said Glawen, “I will be leaving early for Pogan’s Point. You must sit in the lobby or in your room, but make sure the desk clerk knows where you are. If I am not back tomorrow evening, communicate with the IPCC. Did you hear me?”

Kirdy smiled: a curious smile, thought Glawen, of full poise and wisdom. “I heard your words. I understand them at all levels of my mind.”

“Then I will say no more. I am going out now to a bookshop and buy some books, so that I may learn something about the Zubenites. Either come with me, or wait here or go up to your room and sleep.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Kirdy.

Chapter VIII

Chapter VIII, Part 1

Glawen arrived early at the Alien Dance and Arts Travel Salon, to find the eastbound omnibus already on hand and apparently packed to capacity, with rows of pallid big-eyed faces peering from the windows. Glawen surveyed the scene with displeasure. This bus and its contents in no respect resembled the bus of the travel poster. Glawen congratulated himself on his foresight in securing a reserved seat, inasmuch as the bus seemed not only loaded but overloaded.

There was no help for it, he thought, and boarded the bus by the entry at the front end. For a moment he stood looking down the ranks of passengers, all dressed alike in gowns of fust and all burdened with parcels.

The driver was not accustomed to such indecision; he held out his hand and spoke crisply: “Give me your ticket, if you please. That is the rule, if you want to ride. If you do not, please descend from the bus.”

“I definitely want to ride,” said Glawen. “In fact, my seat is first-class reserved. Here is my ticket; please show me to my place.”

The driver gave the ticket a cursory glance. “Yes, all is correct. This is a valid ticket.”

“And which is the first-class section?”

“The entire accommodation is first class. You have reserved for yourself the privilege of sitting where you like.”

“That is not my understanding! The ticket designates a seat for my use; someone else is sitting there now.”

The driver gave Glawen a questioning look. “The ‘privilege’ is for everyone, not just for you alone! There are no elitists on the steppes!”

“All very well,” said Glawen. “Still, I hold a ticket, which presumably guarantees me a seat. Where shall I sit?”

The driver glanced over his shoulder. “Offhand, I can’t say. Why not try the rear bench.”

Glawen went to the back of the bus, and thrust himself into a crevice between a pair of stout Zubenites. For convenience they had piled their parcels on the seat and resisted Glawen’s intrusion, sprawling their legs apart and slumping their soft torsos as flaccidly as possible, but Glawen only thrust and squirmed the more vigorously, eliciting mournful mutters from the Zubenites.

At last, with poor grace, they transferred a few of their parcels to the rack provided for the purpose. Seeing how the land lay, Glawen abandoned tact and thrust himself all the way back into the seat. The Zubenites groaned as if in pain. One cried out: “Mercy, dearest brother! Take pity on our poor natural bones!”

Glawen spoke in a severe voice: “Why is that bundle on the seat beside you? Put it up on the rack and we’ll all have more room.”

“It would be wasted effort, since I travel only to Flicken. Still, if you insist, it seems that I must oblige you.”

“You should have put it there in the first place.”

“Ah, dear brother! That is not the proper way.”

Glawen saw no need to argue the point. He took stock of his fellow passengers, who seemed equally divided between men and women, though often the distinction was hard to make. All wore the same garment: a hooded smock, baggy breeches tucked into long black stockings, long pointed black shoes. The hoods were thrown back, revealing stubbles of coarse black hair. Faces were large, round and white, with large moist eyes and long noses flattened at the tips. Glawen found no mystery in the lack of crossbreeding between Zubenite and the other races of Tassadero.

The driver found no reason to wait for more passengers. He started up the omnibus and drove out of Fexelburg, along a road which led eastward across the steppe.

The scenery quickly became uninteresting. With nothing better to do, Glawen began to watch his fellow passengers, with some casual notion of analyzing their thought processes from a study of their unconscious mannerisms. He met no success; the Zubenites sat staring torpidly into space, not even troubling to look out the windows. Perhaps, thought Glawen, they were all pondering the subtle disciplines of Monomantic Syntoraxis.

Probably not. Unless he was greatly mistaken, these folk were neither High nor Low Adepts, but small farmers, lacking all interest in philosophy.

On the previous evening Glawen had glanced through the
Syntoractic Primer
and now he thought to put his theory to the test. He spoke to the Zubenite on his right: “Sir, I notice what might seem to be an ambiguity in the arrangement of the Natural Doctrines. Tesseractic Conjunctions properly should precede Doctrine of Thresis and Anathresis. Have you formed an opinion on this topic?”

“Dearest brother, I cannot speak to you today, since I do not know what you are talking about.”

“That answers my question,” said Glawen. He gave his attention to the landscape: a plain which seemed to extend forever, given accent and perspective by solitary frooks, standing at distant intervals. Far to the north a line of low hills melted into the haze.

Somewhere out there was Zonk’s Tomb, if the legends were to be believed. Glawen wondered if Inspectors Barch and Tanaquil on their holidays participated in the great treasure hunt. Most likely not, he decided.

In due course the bus arrived at Flicken: a village already deep in Lutwiler Country, consisting of a few drab cottages, a mechanic’s shop and Keelums’ General Store, which advertised:

Supplies for the Treasure-hunter

Food and lodging Available

The bus halted in front of the store long enough to discharge passengers, including the portly Zubenite sitting next to Glawen.

As he lifted his parcel from the rack he turned Glawen a reproachful look, as if to say: “Now, at last, do you understand the nuisance you have made of yourself?”

Glawen returned a cool and measured nod of farewell, but received no acknowledgment of the courtesy.

The bus proceeded east and, as Zonk’s Star reached the meridian, entered a region cultivated to garden crops and cereals. Ahead rose the great black crag of Pogan’s Point and a few minutes later the bus entered the town which spread away from the base of the crag. Peering from the window, Glawen glimpsed the seminary, a massive stone structure built halfway up the crag.