The SF Hall of Fame Volume Two B (83 page)

A few moments later Rolver's boat likewise pulled in
alongside the dock. Through the window Thissell saw Rolver, wearing his usual
Tarn-Bird, climb to the dock. Here he was met by a man in a yellow-tufted Sand
Tiger mask, who played a formal accompaniment on his
gomapard
to
whatever message he brought Rolver.

Rolver seemed surprised and disturbed. After a moment's
thought he manipulated his own
gomapard,
and as he sang, he indicated
This-sell's houseboat. Then, bowing, he went on his way.

The man in the Sand Tiger mask climbed with rather heavy
dignity to the float and rapped on the bulwark of Thissell's houseboat.

Thissell presented himself. Sirenese etiquette did not
demand that he invite a casual visitor aboard, so he merely struck an
interrogation on his
zachinko.

The Sand Tiger played his
gomapard
and sang,
"Dawn over the bay of Fan is customarily a splendid occasion; the sky is
white with yellow and green colors; when Mireille rises, the mists burn and
writhe like flames. He who sings derives a greater enjoyment from the hour when
the floating corpse of an out-worlder does not appear to mar the serenity of
the view."

Thissell's
zachinko
gave off a startled interrogation
almost of its own accord; the Sand Tiger bowed with dignity. "The singer
acknowledges no peer in steadfastness of disposition; however, he does not care
to be plagued by the antics of a dissatisfied ghost. He therefore has ordered
his slaves to attach a thong to the ankle of the corpse, and while we have
conversed they have linked the corpse to the stern of your houseboat. You will
wish to administer whatever rites are prescribed in the Out-world. He who sings
wishes you a good morning and now departs."

Thissell rushed to the stern of his houseboat. There,
near-naked and mask-less, floated the body of a mature man, supported by air
trapped in his pantaloons.

Thissell studied the dead face, which seemed characterless
and vapid—perhaps in direct consequence of the mask-wearing habit. The body
appeared of medium stature and weight, and Thissell estimated the age as between
forty-five and fifty. The hair was nondescript brown, the features bloated by
the water. There was nothing to indicate how the man had died.

This must be Haxo Angmark, thought Thissell. Who else could
it be? Mathew Kershaul? Why not? Thissell asked himself uneasily. Rolver and
Welibus had already disembarked and gone about their business. He searched
across the bay to locate Kershaul's houseboat, and discovered it already tying
up to the dock. Even as he watched, Kershaul jumped ashore, wearing his Cave-Owl
mask.

He seemed in an abstracted mood, for he passed Thissell's
houseboat without lifting his eyes from the dock.

Thissell turned back to the corpse. Angmark, then, beyond a
doubt.  Had  not three men disembarked from the houseboats of Rolver, Welibus
and Kershaul, wearing masks characteristic of these men? Obviously, the corpse
of Angmark . . . The easy solution refused to sit quiet in Thissell's mind.
Kershaul had pointed out that another out-worlder would be quickly identified.
How else could Angmark maintain himself unless he . . . Thissell brushed the
thought aside. The corpse was obviously Angmark.

And yet . . .

Thissell summoned his slaves, gave orders that a suitable
container be brought to the dock, that the corpse be transferred therein, and conveyed
to a suitable place of repose. The slaves showed no enthusiasm for the task and
Thissell was forced to thunder forcefully, if not skillfully, on the
hymerkin
to emphasize his orders.

He walked along the dock, turned up the esplanade, passed
the office of Cristofer Welibus and set out along the pleasant little lane to
the landing field.

When he arrived, he found that Rolver had not yet made an
appearance. An over-slave, given status by a yellow rosette on his black cloth
mask, asked how he might be of service. Thissell stated that he wished to
dispatch a message to Polypolis.

There was no difficulty here, declared the slave. If
Thissell would set forth his message in clear block-print it would be
dispatched immediately.

Thissell wrote:

OUT-WORLDER FOUND DEAD, POSSIBLY ANGMARK. AGE 48, MEDIUM
PHYSIQUE, BROWN HAIR. OTHER MEANS OF IDENTIFICATION LACKING. AWAIT
ACKNOWLEDGMENT AND/OR INSTRUCTIONS.

He addressed the message to Castel Cromartin at Polypolis
and handed it to the over-slave. A moment later he heard the characteristic
sputter of trans-space discharge.

An hour passed. Rolver made no appearance. Thissell paced
restlessly back and forth in front of the office. There was no telling how long
he would have to wait: trans-space transmission time varied unpredictably.
Sometimes the message snapped through in microseconds; sometimes it wandered
through unknowable regions for hours; and there were several authenticated
examples of messages being received before they had been transmitted.

Another half-hour passed, and Rolver finally arrived,
wearing his customary Tarn-Bird. Coincidentally Thissell heard the hiss of the
incoming message.

Rolver seemed surprised to see Thissell. "What brings
you out so early?"

Thissell explained. "It concerns the body which you referred
to me this morning. I'm communicating with my superiors about it."

Rolver raised his head and listened to the sound of the
incoming message. "You seem to be getting an answer. I'd better attend to
it."

"Why bother?" asked Thissell. "Your slave seems
efficient."

"It's my job," declared Rolver. "I'm
responsible for the accurate transmission and receipt of all space-grams."

"I'll come with you," said Thissell. "I've
always wanted to watch the operation of the equipment."

"I'm afraid that's irregular," said Rolver. He
went to the door which led into the inner compartment. "I'll have your
message in a moment."

Thissell protested, but Rolver ignored him and went into the
inner office.

Five minutes later he reappeared, carrying a small yellow
envelope. "Not too good news," he announced with unconvincing
commiseration.

Thissell glumly opened the envelope. The message read:

BODY NOT ANGMARK. ANGMARK HAS BLACK HAIR. WHY DID YOU NOT
MEET LANDING. SERIOUS INFRACTION, HIGHLY DISSATISFIED. RETURN TO POLYPOLIS NEXT
OPPORTUNITY.

CASTEL CROMARTIN

Thissell put the message in his pocket. "Incidentally,
may I inquire the color of your hair?"

Rolver played a surprised little trill on his
kiv.
"I'm
quite blond. Why do you ask?"

"Mere curiosity."

Rolver played another run on the
kiv.
"Now I
understand. My dear fellow, what a suspicious nature you have! Look!" He
turned and parted the folds of his mask at the nape of his neck. Thissell saw
that Rolver was blond indeed.

"Are you reassured?" asked Rolver jocularly.

"Oh, indeed," said Thissell. "Incidentally,
have you another mask you could lend me? I'm sick of this Moon Moth."

"I'm afraid not," said Rolver. "But you need
merely go into a mask-maker's shop and make a selection."

"Yes, of course," said Thissell. He took his leave
of Rolver and returned along the trail to Fan. Passing Welibus' office he
hesitated, then turned in. Today Welibus wore a dazzling confection of green
glass prisms and silver beads, a mask Thissell had never seen before.

Welibus greeted him cautiously to the accompaniment of a
kiv.
"Good morning, Ser Moon Moth."

"I won't take too much of your time," said
Thissell, "but I have a rather personal question to put to you. What color
is your hair?"

Welibus hesitated a fraction of a second, then turned his
back, lifted the flap of his mask. Thissell saw heavy black ringlets.
"Does that answer your question?" inquired Welibus.

"Completely," said Thissell. He crossed the
esplanade, went out on the dock to Kershaul's houseboat. Kershaul greeted him
without enthusiasm, and invited him aboard with a resigned wave of the hand.

"A question I'd like to ask," said Thissell;
"What color is your hair?"

Kershaul laughed woefully. "What little remains is
black. Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity."

"Come, come," said Kershaul with an unaccustomed
bluffness. "There's more to it than that."

Thissell, feeling the need of counsel, admitted as much.
"Here's the situation. A dead out-worlder was found in the harbor this
morning. His hair was brown. I'm not entirely certain, but the chances are-let
me see, yes, two out of three that Angmark's hair is black."

Kershaul pulled at the Cave-Owl's goatee. "How do you
arrive at that probability?"

"The information came to me through Rolver's hands. He
has blond hair. If Angmark has assumed Rolver's identity, he would naturally
alter the information which came to me this morning. Both you and Welibus admit
to black hair."

"Hm," said Kershaul. "Let me see if I follow
your line of reasoning. You feel that Haxo Angmark has killed either Rolver,
Welibus or myself and assumed the dead man's identity. Right?"

Thissell looked at him in surprise. "You yourself
emphasized that Angmark could not set up another out-world establishment
without revealing himself! Don't you remember?"

"Oh, certainly. To continue. Rolver delivered a message
to you stating that Angmark was dark, and announced himself to be blond."

"Yes. Can you verify this? I mean for the old
Rolver?"

"No," said Kershaul sadly. "I've seen neither
Rolver nor Welibus without their masks."

"If Rolver is not Angmark," Thissell mused,
"if Angmark indeed has black hair, then both you and Welibus come under
suspicion."

"Very interesting," said Kershaul. He examined
Thissell warily. "For that matter, you yourself might be Angmark. What
color is your hair?"

"Brown," said Thissell curtly. He lifted the gray
fur of the Moon Moth mask at the back of his head.

"But you might be deceiving me as to the text of the
message," Kershaul put forward.

"I'm not," said Thissell wearily. "You can
check with Rolver if you care to."

Kershaul shook his head. "Unnecessary. I believe you.
But another matter: what of voices? You've heard all of us before and after
Angmark arrived. Isn't there some indication there?"

"No. I'm so alert for any evidence of change that you
all sound rather different. And the masks muffle your voices."

Kershaul tugged the goatee. "I don't see any immediate
solution to the problem." He chuckled. "In any event, need there be?
Before Angmark's advent, there were Rolver, Welibus, Kershaul and Thissell.
Now—for all practical purposes—there are still Rolver, Welibus, Kershaul and
Thissell. Who is to say that the new member may not be an improvement upon the
old?"

"An interesting thought," agreed Thissell,
"but it so happens that I have a personal interest in identifying Angmark.
My career is at stake."

"I see," murmured Kershaul. "The situation
then becomes an issue between yourself and Angmark."

"You won't help me?"

"Not actively. I've become pervaded with Sirenese
individualism.

I think you'll find that Rolver and Welibus will respond
similarly." He sighed. "All of us have been here too long."

Thissell stood deep in thought. Kershaul waited patiently a
moment, then said, "Do you have any further questions?"

"No," said Thissell. "I have merely a favor
to ask you."

"I'll oblige if I possibly can," Kershaul replied
courteously.

"Give me, or lend me, one of your slaves, for a week or
two."

Kershaul played an exclamation of amusement on the
ganga.
"I hardly like to part with my slaves; they know me and my ways—"

"As soon as I catch Angmark you'll have him back."

"Very well," said Kershaul. He rattled a summons
on his
hymerkin,
and a slave appeared. "Anthony," sang
Kershaul, "you are to go with Ser Thissell and serve him for a short
period."

The slave bowed, without pleasure.

Thissell took Anthony to his houseboat, and questioned him
at length, noting certain of the responses upon a chart. He then enjoined
Anthony to say nothing of what had passed, and consigned him to the care of
Toby and Rex. He gave further instructions to move the houseboat away from the
dock and allow no one aboard until his return.

He set forth once more along the way to the landing field,
and found Rolver at a lunch of spiced fish, shredded bark of the salad tree,
and a bowl of native currants. Rolver clapped an order on the
hymerkin,
and
a slave set a place for Thissell. "And how are the investigations
proceeding?"

"I'd hardly like to claim any progress," said
Thissell. "I assume that I can count on your help?"

Rolver laughed briefly. "You have my good wishes."

"More concretely," said Thissell, "I'd like
to borrow a slave from you. Temporarily."

Rolver paused in his eating. "Whatever for?"

"I'd rather not explain," said Thissell. "But
you can be sure that I make no idle request."

Without graciousness Rolver summoned a slave and consigned
him to Thissell's service.

On the way back to his houseboat, Thissell stopped at
Welibus' office.

Welibus looked up from his work. "Good afternoon, Ser
Thissell."

Thissell came directly to the point. "Ser Welibus, will
you lend me a slave for a few days?"

Welibus hesitated, then shrugged. "Why not?" He
clacked his
hymerkin;
a slave appeared. "Is he satisfactory? Or
would you prefer a young female?" He chuckled rather offensively, to
Thissell's way of thinking.

"He'll do very well. I'll return him in a few
days."

"No hurry." Welibus made an easy gesture and
returned to his work.