Ecce and Old Earth (4 page)

“So little time is left to me! Were I to live I would compose a heroic ballet, for three principals, representing Smonny, Spanchetta and Namour! Ah, the stately evolutions of my principals I see the patterns clearly; they swing, whirl, come and go, with the awful Justice of Fate! The music I hear in my mind's ear; it is poignant indeed, and the costumes are extraordinary! So goes the dance! The three figures project sentience, and conduct their perambulations with care. I see them now: they circle and go, up-stage and down, mincing and preening, each at his proper gait. How shall the finale be resolved?

It is all a bagatelle. Why should I trouble my poor mind over such a question? I shall not be here to direct the production.”

Again Bodwyn Wook paused in his reading. “Perhaps we should have allowed Floreste time to complete this last production it sounds fascinating!”

“I find it tiresome, “said Glawen.

“You are either too young or too practical for such appreciation. Floreste's mind seethes with intriguing notions.”

“He takes a long time getting to the point: that is certain.”

“Aha! Not from Floreste's viewpoint. This is his testament: his entire reason for being. This is not casual frivolity that you hear but a wail of utter grief.” Bodwyn Wook returned to the letter. “I shall read on. Perhaps he is now in the mood to recite a fact or two."

Floreste's tone was indeed somewhat flatter. Before Glawens return to Araminta Station, Floreste had visited Yipton to plan a new round of entertainments. Thurben Island could no longer be used, and another more convenient location must be selected. During a conversation, Titus Pompo, loose-tongued by reason of too many Trelawny Sloshes, revealed that Smonny had at last settled an old score. She had captured Scharde Clattuc, confiscated his flyer, and taken him to her prison. Titus gravely shook his head. Scharde would pay dearly for the prideful attitudes which had cost Smonny such grief! As the flyer, it represented partial compensation for the flyers destroyed by the Bureau B raid. After drinking from his goblet, Titus Pompo asserted that it would not be the last flyer so confiscated!

“We will see about that” said Bodwyn Wook.

Scharde had been taken to the strangest of all prisons where 'out was in' and 'in was out’. The prisoners were at liberty to attempt escape whenever the mood came on them.

Bodwyn Wook paused in his reading to pour out two mugs of ale.

“That is a strange prison,” said Glawen. “Where could it be located?”

“Let us proceed. Floreste is perhaps a bit absentminded, but I suspect that he will not omit this important detail.”

Bodwyn Wook read on. Almost at once Floreste identified the unique prison as the dead volcano Shattorak at the center of Ecce: an ancient cone rising two thousand feet above the swamps and jungles. The prisoners occupied a strip outside the stockade which encircled the summit and protected the prison officials. The jungle grew high up the slopes; the prisoners slept in tree-houses or behind makeshift stockades to avoid the predators from the jungle. By reason of Smonny's vindictiveness, Scharde had not been killed out of hand.

Titus Pompo, now thoroughly drunk, went on to reveal that five flyers were concealed at Shattorak, together with a cache of weapons. From time to time, when Smonny wished to travel off-world, Titus Pompo's Clayhacker space yacht landed upon Shattorak, taking care to avoid the Araminta Station radar. Titus Pompo was quite content with his pleasant routines at Yipton: an amplitude of rich food; sloshes, slings, punches and toddles; incessant massaging and stroking worked upon him by Yip maidens.

"That is all I know" wrote Floreste. “Despite my happy relations with Araminta Station where I had hoped to build my great monument, I felt, rightly or wrongly, that I should not betray Titus Pompo's drunken confidences, for this reason: they would surely be revealed of themselves soon and without my intercession. You may consider this qualm weak-minded and maudlin. You will insist that ‘right is right' and any deviation or skulkery or failure to bear the burdens of virtue are ‘not right'. At this moment I shall not disagree.

“To make a feeble demonstration on my own behalf I will point out that I am not utterly faithless. As best I could, I paid my obligation to Namour, who would not have done the same for me. Of all men, he probably deserves consideration the least, and he is no less guilty than I. Still, in my lonely and foolish way, I have kept faith and allowed him time to make good his flight. I trust that he never troubles Araminta Station again, since it is a place dear to my heart, where I planned the Araminta Center for the Performing Arts: the new Orpheum. I have transgressed, but so I justify my peccancies.

“It is too late for tears of penitence. They would not in any case carry conviction – not even to myself. Still, when all is said and done, I see that I die not so much for my venality as for my folly. These are the most dismal words known to man: “Ah, what might have been, had only I been wiser!”

“Such is my apologia. Take it or leave it as you will. I am overcome by weariness and a great sadness; I can write no more.”

II.

Wook placed the letter carefully down upon his desk. “So much for Floreste. He has declared himself. If nothing else, he knew how to contrive exquisite excuses for himself. But to proceed. The situation is complex and we carefully consider our response. Yes, Glawen? You have an opinion?"

“We should strike Shattorak at once."

“Why so?”

“To rescue my father, of course!"

Bodwyn Wook nodded sagely. “That concept is at least simple and uncomplicated: so much can be said for it."

"That’s good to hear. Where does the idea go wrong?"

“It is a reflex, prompted by Clattuc emotion rather than cool Wook intellect.” Glawen growled something under his breath which Bodwyn Wook ignored. “I remind you that Bureau B is essentially an administrative agency, which has been pressed to perform quasi-military functions only by default. At best, we can deploy two or three dozen operatives: all highly trained, valuable men. There are how many Yips? Who knows? Sixty thousand? Eighty thousand? A hundred thousand? Far too many.”

“Now then. Floreste mentions five flyers at Shattorak: several more than I would have expected. We can put at seven or eight flyers into the air, none heavily armed. Shattorak is no doubt defended by ground weapons. We strike boldly at Shattorak. In the worst case, we could take losses that would destroy Bureau B, and next week the Yips would swarm across to the Foreshore. And in the best case? We must reckon with Smonny's spies. We might storm over to Shattorak, land in force, and discover no fine jail, no flyer depot, nothing but corpses. No Scharde, no flyers, nothing, just failure.”

Glawen was still dissatisfied. "That does not sound like the best case to me.”

“Only under the terms of your proposal.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“First, consideration of our options. Second, reconnaissance. Third, attack, with full stealth.” He brought an image to the wall screen. “There you see Shattorak, a mere pimple on the swamp. It is of course two thousand feet high. The river to the south is the Vertes.” The image expanded, to provide a view across the summit of Shattorak: a sterile expanse, slightly disk-shaped, surfaced with coarse grey sand and ledges of black rock. A pond of copper-blue water occupied the center. "The area is about ten acres,” said Bodwyn Wook. “The picture is at least a hundred years old; I don’t think we have been there since.”

“It looks hot.”

"So it does, and so it is. I will shift the perspective. You will notice a strip about two hundred yards wide surrounding the summit where the incline begins. The ground is still barren except for a few large trees. These are evidently where the prisoners sleep. Below the jungle begins. If Floreste is correct, the prisoners reside around the strip, and are free to escape across the swamp whenever they like.”

Glawen studied the image in silence.

“We must scout the terrain with care, and only then proceed,” said Bodwyn Wook. “Are we agreed?”

“Yes,” said Glawen. “We are agreed.”

Bodwyn Wook went on. “I am puzzled by Floreste’s references to Chilke. It appears that he is here at Araminta Station only by reason of Smonny’s scheming to find and control the Charter. I wonder too about the Society on Old Earth: why are they not taking steps to locate the lost documents?"

“There are not many members left, so I am told.”

“Are they indifferent to the Conservancy? That is hard to believe. Who is the current Secretary?”

Glawen responded cautiously: "I think that he is a cousin of the Conservator, named Pirie Tamm.”

“Indeed! Did not the Tamm girl go off to Earth?”

"So she did.”

“Well then! Since-uh, what is her name?”

“Wayness.”

“Just so. Since Wayness is present on Old Earth, perhaps she can help us in regard to the missing documents from the Society archives. Write her and suggest that she make a few inquiries into this matter. Emphasize that she should be absolutely discreet, and give out no clue as to her objectives. For a fact, I can see where this might develop into an important issue.”

Glawen nodded thoughtfully. “As a matter of fact, Wayness is already making such inquiries.”

“Ah ha! What has she learned, if anything?”

“I don’t know. I have had no letters from her.”

Bodwyn Wook raised his eyebrows. “She has not written you?"

“I’m sure she has written. But I have never received her letters."

“Odd. The doorman at Clattuc House has probably tucked them behind his wine-cooler.”

“That is a possibility, though I'm beginning to suspect another person entirely. In any event, I think that as soon as we deal with Shattorak, I should take advice from Chilke, then go to Earth to look for these documents.”

“Hmf yes. Ahem. First things first, which means Shattorak. In due course we will talk further on the subject.” Bodwyn Wook picked up Floreste's letter. “I will take charge of this.”

Glawen made no complaint, and departed the New Agency. He ran back to Clattuc House at a purposeful trot and pushed through the front portal. To the side were a pair of small chambers occupied by Alarion co-Clattuc, the head, doorman, together with an antechamber where, if necessary, he could overlook comings and goings. Alarion’s duties included receipt of incoming mail, sorting and delivering parcels, letters and inter-House memoranda to the designated apartments.

Glawen touched a bell-button and Alarion appeared from his private rooms: a white-hatred man, thin and bent, whose only vanity would seem to be a small goatee. “Good evening, Glawen! What can I do for you this evening?"

“You might enlighten me regarding some letters which should have arrived for me from Old Earth.”

“I can only inform you as to what I know of my certain knowledge,” said Alarion. “You would not want me to fabricate tales of non-existent parcels and messages engraved on gold tablets delivered by the archangel Sersimanthes.”

“I take it that nothing of that sort has arrived?"

Alarion glanced over his shoulder toward his sorting table. "No, Glawen. Nor anything else."

“As you know, I was away from the Station for several months. During this time I should have received a number of letters from off-world; yet I cannot find them. Do you remember any such letters arriving during my absence?"

Alarion said slowly: “I seem to recall such letters. They were delivered to your chambers, even after Scharde met with his accident. As always, I dropped the letters into the door-slot. Then, of course, Arles moved into your rooms for a time, but surely he took proper care of your mail. No doubt the letters are tucked away somewhere."

“No doubt,” said Glawen. “Thank you for the information."

Glawen became aware that he was ravenously hungry: no surprise, since he had not eaten since morning. In the refectory he made a hurried meal on dark bread, beans and cucumbers, then went up to his apartments. He seated himself before the telephone. He touched buttons, but in response was treated to a crisp official voice: “You are making a restricted call, and cannot be connected without authorization."

“I am Captain Glawen Clattuc, Bureau B. That is sufficient authorization.”

“Sorry, Captain Clattuc. Your name is not on the list.”

“Then put it on the list! Check with Bodwyn Wook if you like.”

A moment passed. The voice spoke again. “Your name is now on the list, sir. To whom do you wish the connection?”

“Arles Clattuc.”

Five minutes passed before Arles heavy face peered hopefully into the screen. At the sight of Glawen, the hope gave way to a scowl. “What do you want, Glawen? I thought It was something important. This place is bad enough without harassment from you.”

"It might get worse, Arles, depending upon what happened to my mail."

"Your mail?”

“Yes, my mail. It was delivered to my chambers and now it’s gone. What happened to it?"

Arles voice rose in pitch as he focused his mind upon the unexpected problem. He responded peevishly: "I don't remember any mail. There was just a lot of trash. The place was a pig-pen when we moved in."

Glawen gave a savage laugh. “If you threw away my mail, you'll be breaking rocks a lot longer than eighty-five days! Think seriously, Arles”

“No need to take that tone with me! If there was mail, it probably got bundled up into your other stuff and stored in a box.”

"I have been through my boxes and I have found no letters. Why? Because you opened them and read them."

“Nonsense! Not purposely, at least if I saw mail with the name ‘Clattuc’ on it, I might have automatically glanced at it.”

"Then what?”

“I told you: I don’t remember!"

"Did you give it to your mother to read?"

Arles licked his lips. “She might have picked it up, in order to take care of it."

"And she read it in front of you!"

“I did not say that. Anyway, I wouldn't remember. I don’t keep a watch on my mother. Is that all you wanted to say?"

“Not quite, but it will do until I find what happened to my letters." Glawen broke the connection. For a moment he stood in the center of the room brooding. Then he changed into his official Bureau B jacket and cap and took himself down the corridor to Spanchetta’s apartments.