Watchers of the Dark (10 page)

“Where are we going?”

“To meet the Dark. That’s the one good thing that’s come out of all this. At least I have a general idea of where it is.”

“Of course not. The poor chap has no manners at all, but he’s such a charming person that it’s impossible to feel resentful toward him. His arriving first at symposiums is almost becoming a tradition. I should have remembered. I’m sorry I hissed at you.”

“I forgive you, dear. Did you apologize for my absence?”

“I told him you were preening. He said it was unthinkable that you should rush a task that produces such pleasing results.”

“Tsk!” she murmured. “He
is
charming. Why didn’t you ever invite him before?”

“I never had business with him before. By the way—he has an associate with him. A Gula Schlu. It might be a good idea for you to become acquainted with her.”

“An associate? Is there a relationship?”

“They’re of a kind, or at least nearly so, but I don’t think she’s his mate. He has no wife. There may be an opportunity for one of the daughters. He has prospered amazingly.”

“Surely he wouldn’t be attending a symposium with his mate! I mean—his manners couldn’t be
that
bad. Would it be appropriate to introduce a few of the daughters to him?”

Gul Azfel arched himself meditatively. “Perhaps later. Take care to do it discreetly. Gula Dalg was disgustingly open about it at that little fete I attended last term. And Gul Darr asked—you’ll never believe this—he asked if she were accepting bids on them. She collapsed on the spot—literally. I haven’t heard such laughter in a leash of periods. Old E-Wusk practically exploded. It nearly broke up the party.”

“I’ll be discreet,” she promised. “Perhaps I can arrange it so he
asks
for introductions. He sounds like a delightful person. I can’t wait to meet him.”

“I left him in the aquarium,” Gul Azfel said. “He looked at the tank of pwisqs, and said, ‘I see that some of the guests have already arrived.’”

Gula Azfel twittered shrilly and hurried off to finish preening. Gul Azfel curled up comfortably while his mate adjusted his tail ribbons.

“She’ll manage discreetly,” his mate said bitterly. “She’ll manage discreetly for
her
daughters. Yours will be the last on Yorlq to find husbands.”

“Now don’t worry. Marriage is just a business proposition, and I’m a trader—and a good one. Don’t you forget that. I’m capable of a little discretion myself.”

* * * *

Darzek leered at the pwisqs, who leered back at him. Miss Schlupe was contemplating a trio of equally repulsive creatures in the next tank. “Do they have interesting habits, or what?” she asked. “He certainly doesn’t collect them for their beauty.”

“He may. I’ve been trying to evolve a philosophy of non-beauty, strictly as a matter of self-preservation. I began by wondering if there was an ultimate degree of ugliness that would verge on the beautiful, but it didn’t work out. Long before a thing becomes that ugly, it gets so repulsive that I can’t stand it.”

“I suppose that goes for the people, too.”

“It does.”

“I wish you’d left me home. I’m perfectly satisfied to run your office for you. I’d rather leave the socializing to you.”

Darzek shook his head. “I need you, Schluppy. I can’t cover even a small party as thoroughly as I should, and no matter how hard I try, I just can’t seem to get next to people. I can’t penetrate all this grotesqueness and find out what they’re really like. Their society is appallingly superficial, if not downright frivolous, but I’m certain that the people aren’t.”

“Could the frivolity be a cover-up?”

Darzek shrugged. “I don’t know. No one ever gets angry, or even excited. They act as if they’re bored stiff without knowing it I’ve made a character of myself by cracking a joke now and then, and from their reactions you’d think I’d invented the institution. The only other person who makes jokes is an old rascal named E-Wusk, and his humor is about as subtle as a charge of dynamite. If he ever discovers the pie-in-the-face and the fat-man-on-a-banana-peel routines, social life on Yorlq will be ruined.”

“I’m just an emotional female,” Miss Schlupe said sadly. “I can’t take some of these monsters—especially the snake-types. Either I’ll laugh at the wrong time, or I’ll be sick. I’m afraid I’ll blight your business connections.”

“You will not. You will observe in your own inimitable fashion, and we’ll compare notes later.”

“If you say so. Will they all speak
large-talk?”

“Of course. But you would be wise to avoid the
efa.
They’re a clan of maf-cousins, whatever that is. They have a nasty habit of vomiting from one of their stomachs to the other.”

Gula Azfel hurried in breathlessly and sought to regale them with cheerful comment about those charming creatures, the pwisqs. It seemed that in mating season the male swallowed the female whole, and a term or so later, when he became aware of the fact that his offspring were escaping from his mouth, he regurgitated her.

“This would seem to impose a hardship upon the occasional female who is unfertile,” Darzek observed politely.

Gula Azfel tittered and led them back to the reception room. The pwisqs, for all their robust peculiarities, offered a severely limited field for polite conversation, and when finally the next guests glided from the transmitter Gula Azfel met them with obvious relief.

The newcomers greeted Darzek with an unrestrained enthusiasm that on Earth would have been reserved for long-lost brothers. When finally he succeeded in detaching himself, he said quietly to Miss Schlupe, “For some reason not properly understood by anyone, it is considered bad manners to arrive first at a party. There is also a definite limit as to how late one can arrive without being unspeakably rude. It puts the guests in a magnificent dilemma. One of the reasons I’m so popular is that I always arrive precisely on time. I remain blithely innocent of offense, and the other guests don’t have to risk the embarrassment of arriving late to avoid the embarrassment of arriving early. Watch the transmitter, and see how their faces light up when they see me.”

“Those who have faces,” Miss Schlupe said. “What’s happened to the host?”

“He’s not supposed to appear until all the guests have arrived.”

The reception room was kept at low illumination for the convenience of nocturnals, and as a result the other guests soon moved away in search of a brighter atmosphere. Darzek, having started Miss Schlupe on a whirl of formal introductions, began his own rounds.

In the shimmering aquaroom several guests were already dancing. They glided over the water with breathtaking grace and agility. Grotesquely fashioned bodies whirled in dazzling pirouettes, wove group patterns, performed magnificent, leaping solos. Darzek, who was willing to try anything once, had tried it—once. He lost his balance at the first stride, toppled into the water, and nearly drowned while trying to release himself from the gas-filled floats that enclosed his feet.

Whereupon he salvaged something from an acutely embarrassing situation by performing an
underwater
ballet that quickly reduced spectators and dancers to quivering hysterics. That marvelously amusing Gul Darr! He had to invent a rare water allergy that enabled him to decline, with regret, all requests for a repeat performance.

He skirted the pool, taking careful note of the dancers so that he could compliment them later. At the far side he joined a small group of spectators, several of them resting from dancing. They greeted him with a warmth tinged warily with apprehension; they never knew quite what to expect from the mysterious Gul Darr.

Frequently Darzek did not know what to expect from himself, but on this occasion he was not socializing. He produced a small phial and addressed himself to a veteran trader.

“By your leave, Gul Kaln, a minute favor. Would you sample this oil for me?”

Gul Kaln delivered the curious circular arm motion that served as a genuflection, extended sinuous fingers, took the phial, unstopped it. An arching filament stabbed through the opening and dangled limply, tasting. “What did you wish to know?”

Darzek prattled apologetically. He’d found two casks of the stuff in a warehouse he’d rented . . . no identifying marks, unfortunately . . . the oil had a distinctive cast to it that he didn’t recognize . . . he thought he could find a market for it if it were available in quantity . . . he’d need a continuing supply, naturally, and he wouldn’t know if one were available until he’d identified the oil.

“Distinctive,” Gul Kaln agreed, withdrawing the filament. “There isn’t anything distinguished about it, but it does have a certain individual quality.”

“That’s what I thought,” Darzek said. “Do you recognize it?”

Gul Kaln inserted the filament again, tasted, withdrew it with a snap. “No. There’s something vaguely familiar about it, but I don’t quite . . . no . . .” The filament dipped a third time, dangled, agitated the fluid gently, slipped free. “No. My most humble apologies, but I cannot help you.”

“But the apologies are mine to offer, for having troubled you,” Darzek murmured. “It is a small matter. Probably it wouldn’t have been of use to me anyway.

Gul Kaln genuflected; Darzek genuflected, included the group with a sweep of his arm, and moved away.

He had seen Gul Kaln perform that taste test a dozen times. Nine samples the trader had recognized; three he had not. But never did he dip the filament more than once.

Gul Kaln was lying.

Thoughtfully Darzek made his way through scattered groups of guests and entered the next room. Old E-Wusk sprawled in a far corner in a tangle of arms and legs, looking as pious as a cathedral and just about as immovable. Darzek had a genuine measure of affection for the old rascal. E-Wusk was the one creature he’d met on a dozen worlds whose laughter had a human quality, the ring of authentic jollity, of the sheer joy of merriment.

“Gul Darr!” E-Wusk chortled, waving at Darzek over an admiring circle of young undertraders. “Have you been—oh, ho ho—water dancing?”

“No,” Darzek said gravely. “For that I wait until I have sufficient thirst.”

“Oh, ho ho!” E-Wusk’s enormous abdomen heaved and quivered.

Darzek waited politely and then extended the phial. “By your leave, Gul E-Wusk, a minute favor. Would you sample this?”

Darzek found Miss Schlupe seated at the entrance to the dark room, the special room maintained for nocturnal guests, deeply engrossed in conversation with a voice that emerged from its dim interior. It was a soft voice, and—a genuine rarity, this—musical.

“Gul Darr,” Miss Schlupe said, “this is Gul Rhinzl.”

“I have heard many complimentary things about Gul Darr,” the voice murmured.

Darzek genuflected politely, keeping to himself the fact that the name Rhinzl held a special fascination for him. He had compiled a list of nine traders whose relationship with the Dark was, if not suspicious, at least singular, and Rhinzl was the only one on the list whom he had never met. In the depths of the dark room his appearance was shrouded in shadow, but still conveyed the impression of a truly exquisite ugliness.

At the first opportunity Darzek produced his phial.

“I have very little experience of oils,” Rhinzl said, “but I am honored to share my feeble knowledge with Gul Darr.”

An arm elongated out of the dimness; a circular hand unfolded to take the phial. Rhinzl removed the stopper, sniffed delicately, tasted. “This I do not recognize. I would gladly make inquiries for you.”

“Thank you, no. I fear that it is much too rare an oil for my purpose.”

Rhinzl politely changed the subject and began to talk of flowers. Unlike most traders, he had a hobby. He cultivated exotic plants and blooms, especially night specimens, and he delighted in displaying his collection to such cultured and perceptive friends as Gul Darr and Gula Schlu. He began to inventory his prize specimens, and Darzek felt mildly relieved when Gula Azfel came looking for him. He had some carefully composed questions for Gul Rhinzl, but they would have to wait. They weren’t the sort of questions that could be inserted into a conversation about flowers.

He was expecting Gula Azfel, for he had seen her quietly coaching her daughters. “I’ve been neglecting my hostess,” he said with feigned remorse. He took his leave of Rhinzl and allowed Gula Azfel to lead him away.

He sensed a conflicting strategy in the Azfel family. Gula Azfel’s daughters were in full display, feathers preened and ribboned, snouts polished. Gul Azfel’s daughters were highly conspicuous by their absence, but their father had cornered Darzek earlier in the evening to suggest a joint enterprise that promised large profit for small risk.

Female-like, Gula Azfel was overly emphasizing the feminine qualities of her daughters; her husband was subtly stressing the business connections of his. After a hard night’s work Darzek thought he’d earned a laugh, and he was more than willing to go along with either of them.

Adroitly Gula Azfel shepherded him through the room where her daughters were waiting, tense with excitement. Darzek, spellbound with their beauty, begged to be introduced and spent the next half hour regaling the girls with compliments while Gula Azfel faded simperingly into the background.

Finally Miss Schlupe caught his eye from the doorway, and he excused himself.

“Can you drop the Casanova bit long enough to tell me when we eat?” she asked.

“We don’t. No hostess would be idiotic enough to try to serve a banquet to a mixed crowd like this one. It would require almost as many different dishes as there are guests. If they’re hungry they can go to the dining room and order food with a service transmitter, but very few guests bother. Parties are for scintillating conversation and group entertainments. Eating is something anyone can do in private, so why waste valuable party time on it?”