The Dogtown Tourist Agency (23 page)

“Through here.” Ottile ushered him into a room which occupied half of the entire structure. “What do you think of this?”

Hetzel, who had been expecting one or two modest pieces of special equipment, looked back and forth in wonder. The chamber had been divided into bays, each housing a specialized mechanism of obvious value. Ottile nodded wisely at Hetzel’s marveling comments. “Look at this thing here—I don’t know its name, but it’s used during operations. The doctor stands nowhere near the patient, but in this booth. This mask fits over his head. By pushing his head forward he magnifies his field of vision; by drawing back he reduces it. His hands and arms fit into these gauntlets; the motions of his fingers control miniaturized tools; with the foot pedals he selects his equipment. With clear and magnified vision, with perfectly controlled tools in his nerveless grip, the doctor performs delicate operations with ease. If he wants to work internally, he puts a pellet into the body which he guides through stomach and intestines by magnetic beams. Meanwhile it transmits back a picture of what it sees. At any particular spot the pellet can discharge medicine or heat, or work with small tools; then it is brought back out of the body.”

“Marvellous,” said Hetzel. “And this affair?”

“Something to do with eyes, so I have been told: a machine for cutting and indexing optic nerves between retina and brain, for eye transplants.”

“Remarkable! And here?”

Ottile giggled. “It’s a baby compressor, to help mothers in labor.” She explained the functioning of the mechanism.

“Ingenious. And over here…”

Ottile said: “Oh, let’s not talk about these ridiculous machines.” She billowed forward and Hetzel was trapped between the wall and a gurney. “It’s wonderful to meet a sympathetic man,” murmured Ottile. “Sometimes I feel as if life is passing me by…”

A peremptory rap-rap-rap at the door. Hetzel darted away to safety. “Who’s there?” called Ottile in a brassy voice.

“It’s Zerpette. Is that you, Ottile? What are you up to this time of night?”

Ottile surged toward the door, but Hetzel outpaced her and flung it wide. “Come in, come in!”

Zerpette stood in the light, blinking crossly. “And what is your business here?”

“I am inspecting the dispensary. Is Dr. Leuvil still awake?”

Zerpette backed away from the door. Hetzel, looking past her, saw a gaunt shape on the verandah silhouetted against the light from within. He pushed past Zerpette, crossed the street, stood at the foot of the stairs. “Dr. Leuvil?”

“Young man, I have retired from practice. I give no interviews; I do not care for conversation.” The voice was low, plangent, harsh.

“Nevertheless,” said Hetzel, “you are a member of the human race, and presumably not irresponsible. I wish to locate Faurence Dacre, and in all civility you might supply me his address.”

The gray face thrust even further forward; the milk-gray eyes peered at Hetzel. “Who are you? What do you want with Dr. Dacre?”

“I am Miro Hetzel. The name will mean nothing to you. I am an effectuator. Faurence Dacre has done my client harm. I wish to effect a remedy.”

“Only this, and I will say no more. Dr. Dacre is a brilliant man. He made his mark here at Masmodo and then departed. He confided no hint of his plans to anyone; he left no address, nor have any of us received the slightest indication as to his present whereabouts. This is all I can tell you.”

Hetzel watched the stooped figure shuffle into the house. Zerpette slipped in after him. Hetzel turned slowly around to find himself alone. Ottile, sensing the elusiveness of Hetzel’s manner, had departed.

Hetzel descended the main street, past the hotel to the waterfront. After a cautious appraisal of the area he walked out along the creaking docks to Dongg’s Tavern, from which issued a grinding music of electric stringed instruments, punctuated by nasal howls of simulated emotion. Hetzel entered the tavern.

A dozen Arsh sat hunched over iron pots of beer. Behind the bar Impie stood languid and aloof.

Hetzel went to a corner of the bar and presently Impie condescended to glance in his direction.

“Yes sir?”—her voice as flat as yesterday’s beer.

Hetzel said: “I’ll have another of those rum punches, despite your sister’s opinion of them.”

Impie raised her invisible eyebrows. “Ottile? What does she know about it?”

“Nothing really. She had very odd ideas.”

Impie looked away and sniffed. “An avalanche of sheer femininity. That’s how someone once described her.”

“She is overwhelming, for a fact. Who is ‘Sabin Cru’?”

“One of the Arsh. What of him?”

“An Arsh? Ah, well.”

Impie leaned across the counter, eyes sparkling. “What do you mean ‘Ah, well’?”

“Nothing, really. Dr. Dacre must have been an impressive fellow. If Sabin Cru had not died—”

“Who said Sabin had died?”

“He isn’t dead? Does Dr. Dacre still look after him?”

“How would I know?” asked Impie crossly.

“I was given to understand that you were acquainted with both Dr. Dacre and Sabin Cru.”

“I am not acquainted with any Arsh.”

“Naturally not. How does Sabin Cru support himself now?”

“You’d have to ask his mother.”

“Ottile said he was with Dr. Dacre.”

“Hah!” Impie’s laugh was rich with scorn. “What would she know?”

“The mother doesn’t live with you then?”

Impie’s face worked in a peculiar fashion as the emotions of wonder, fury, and incredulity warred with each other. She glared speechless at Hetzel, and finally said: “Are you a lunatic? What is wrong with you to say such a stupid thing?”

“Sorry,” said Hetzel in a subdued voice. “I misunderstood. To tell the truth I wasn’t really listening to the—”

Impie’s face was now congested. “Sabin Cru’s mother is named Farucas. She lives ten miles down the coast. Go there yourself! You will see!”

“I’m sure it was a mistake. Where can I find Dr. Dacre? I’ll straighten it all out once and for all.”

“You and your Dr. Dacre!” screamed Impie, breaking a bottle on the counter. “You and he can—”

Hetzel rose to his feet, and departed Dongg’s Tavern. Impie’s tirade gradually diminished as he returned across the swaying piers to the shore.

In the morning Freitzke served Hetzel his breakfast. Hetzel decided that in all likelihood she knew nothing of Faurence Dacre; after all, Zerpette’s turn was next. He crossed the tree-shaded main street to the post office and sent a telegram to Conwit Clent at Dandyl Villa, Junis, Cassander, Thesse:

Hetzel descended the main street to the waterfront and walked out upon the pier, where he stopped to consider a fishing boat with red, white and black Arsh symbols painted around the gunwales.

An Arsh in a loose white shirt and black trousers crouched in the cockpit, fitting a new section of coaming.

“Is this boat for hire?” asked Hetzel.

The Arsh rose to his feet and wiping his hands on his breeches, surveyed Hetzel with care. “Well then, Merner
*
, where do you want to go?”

“Ten or fifteen miles along the coast, perhaps as far as Tinkum’s Bar. Does it matter?”

“Not particularly. Jump aboard then, Merner, let’s get underway.”

“Not so fast. We have not yet settled upon a price.”

Negotiations required several minutes, but at last Hetzel jumped down into the boat.

The converter sighed; electrified water surged back from drive strips; the boat angled among the piers, rounded the breakwater, and slid out upon the slow swells of the Mondial Ocean. “Now where, Merner?” asked the Arsh.

“I am a journalist,” Hetzel explained. “I have been assigned to write an article upon Dr. Dacre and his work. Are you acquainted with him?”

“Not at all.”

“What of Sabin Cru—do you know him?”

“He should have been drowned. It is bad luck to nurture half a corpse: you may so inform your readers.”

“I will make a note,” said Hetzel. “I am informed that Sabin Cru now lives with his mother Farucas.”

“I was there when Impie informed you,” said the boatman. “She told you of a great deal more.”

“She has a gift for expression,” said Hetzel. “So then, take me to the house of Farucas.”

“As you like.”

Alongside white beaches drove the boat, past slanting coconut palms, purple and mauve gangee, pink jorgiana, lianas trailing a hundred feet of white trumpet blossoms. The boat slid across turquoise tinted shallows and dark blue depths; looking over the side Hetzel saw all manner of sea life: white globes and black ribbons; needles of blue fire darting and stopping; a snow-white fish ten feet long with a wedge-shaped knob of a head four feet across; a creature which the boatman named a sea scrag, somewhat like a fifteen-foot scorpion, with pincers at each end; uncountable small fish.

The boatman pointed. “Tinkum’s Bar; Farucas’ house.”

The house stood on a graded flat among fruit trees and a line of coco palms: a structure of crystallized sand, far more substantial than Hetzel had expected. From the verandah an Arsh woman watched the boat. Hetzel asked, “Is that Farucas?”

“There she stands.”

“Let’s go in.”

The boatman made fast to a concrete pier; Hetzel jumped ashore. He climbed a path to the house. The woman apparently had not stirred from where he had seen her first. “Hello,” called Hetzel. “Are you Farucas?”

“Yes, I am Farucas.”

Hetzel joined her upon the verandah; the woman looked at him with apprehension. Like all Arsh she was squat, with heavy shoulders and short heavy legs. Her ears, already pendulous, were expanded even farther by plugs of carved vermillion; her nose hung heavy and crooked, like a faulty cucumber. “Sir, what do you want here?”

“Where is Sabin Cru?”

“He is not here,” said Farucas with prim finality.

From inside the house came a scraping sound, as of a chair being pulled across the floor. Hetzel said: “He is not here, you say. Then who makes that noise?”

Before Farucas could respond Hetzel had stepped past her and into the house.

He found himself in a long room with white plastered walls, divided into two sections by a low counter, the far end of which supported trays of mush and cooked fruit. Behind the counter stood three splendid beings a foot taller than Hetzel. Each showed a pointed parchment-white visage surmounted first by a pair of twisted gilded horns, then a crest of scarlet, gray, and orange plumes. Under the head a collar of black hair hung over the heavy thorax, while the occipital crest continued down the back. A colorful and picturesque group, thought Hetzel; the creatures would seem to merit their popular appellation: Flamboyards. They treated Hetzel to stares of haughty inquiry, then continued with their feeding. A fourth Flamboyard entered the room on the human side of the counter, to stand stock-still watching Hetzel: a creature not so tall as the others, heavier and apparently more solid, with a large near-globular head.

Farucas cried out, “As I told: these are not Sabin Cru!”

“So I see. Who paid for this expensive house?”

Farucas made a gesture. “Oh, I pay money.”

“And where did the money come from?”

“Yes; it is money.”

“Sabin Cru gives you money?”

“Yes, that is true,” said Farucas. “He is good to me.”

“And where does Sabin Cru get money?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Doctor.”

“Where is Dr. Dacre?”

“I don’t know about Doctor.”

“I want to tell him about tax, but now I talk to you.”

“I don’t know about tax.”

“No, because this is not your house! Dr. Dacre doesn’t want any old thing living here. You get out.”

“No, no! Doctor wants me to feed the Flams!”

“Oh! You take care of the Flams?”

“Yes, that is true!”

“Then you must pay the tax.”

“No tax on those things,” declared Farucas without conviction.

“That’s where you’re wrong. A very big tax is due. I am empowered to take the money.”

Farucas looked uneasily over her shoulder. “I don’t have money.”

“Then I must collect from Doctor or from Sabin Cru. Tell me where, or I must file a derogatory report!”

Farucas again looked over her shoulder, as if seeking help from the Flamboyards. The three tall individuals ate without interest, the fourth had departed the room.

Farucas said hopelessly, “I don’t know where is Doctor Dacre. Sabin is in Masmodo. He stays with old Leuvil.”

“Old Leuvil, eh? I talk to old Leuvil; he does not say Sabin is there.”

“Leuvil keep Sabin because of Doctor Dacre. They work together a long time; they are such friends.”

“Yes, that is possible.” Hetzel moved to examine a photograph on the wall. “Who is this? Could it be Sabin Cru?”

Farucas nodded pridefully. “That is now Sabin. He is happy that he is alive and well.”

Hetzel returned to the boat. The Arsh boatman cast off and turned back toward Masmodo. After a few minutes he asked in a sly voice: “Did you find Sabin Cru?”

“No. He is in Masmodo, according to his mother.”

“I could have told you that.”

“No doubt you could have,” said Hetzel. “Why did Impie tell me he was with his mother?”

“She told you to ask his mother.”

“Perhaps; I don’t remember all that accurately. What else do you know that you haven’t told me?”

“I know why Dr. Leuvil called in the Medical Inspector on Dr. Dacre.”

“And why was that?”

“Is the information worth ten SVU?”

“Probably not.”

“How much is it worth then?”

“Very hard to say.”

“Ah well, you’ll hear it free of charge from someone else. Farucas keeps three Flamboyards; did you see them?”

“Yes,” said Hetzel. “I did.”

“A rumor started that Dr. Dacre had used antirejection serum to construct Flamboyard hybrids, and Farucas was declared to be the mother. So went the story.”

“And quite a story it is, if true.”

“Merner Stipes, the Medical Inspector, made things hot for Dr. Dacre, so maybe something was going on.”