The Fanciers & Realizers MEGAPACK

by Phyllis Ann Karr

  “And our boy Withycombe’s had plenty of experience with lawyers, hasn’t he? Lawyers sucking poor saps dry with false hopes. Lawyers bearbaiting honest witnesses into bloody shreds before the audience of the court. Lawyers—”

  “Speaking from experience, M. Hammersmith? Or from anticipation about what the defense will do to you if they find out about your breaking and entering Apex’s condo for a totally unauthorized search?”

  “Don’t call the kettle black, Dragon Lady. You weren’t all that slow to reap the rewards of my dirty work.”

  “I’m just reminding you that this is only a starting point, and a shaky one at that.” The needletrain was slowing. Lestrade spoke quickly. “We need solid evidence, and we need to get it by legal means, without traceable reference to what we’ve obtained illegally.” She was glad she finished voicing her thought before the train came to its stop beneath Reno. Otherwise it would have looked as if she’d taken advantage of the conversational break forced by stopping and disembarking to mull over her comeback.

  * * * *

  Nevada had traditions to uphold. Not only were every kind of gambling, almost every kind of prostitution, and a round dozen of the so-called milder drugs from marihuana to peyotesim all fully legalized, there were no state guidelines at all to regulate night illumination, and the “Great Free Western State” had even wangled itself a special exemption from Federal illumination guidelaws. There were some blocs of dark counties on the other side of the state, but Reno by night could be measurably brighter than Reno by day. Lestrade had heard that Vegas was even worse.

  “Blasted state doesn’t have any stungun licensing laws, either,” she muttered, blinking in the glare of the street outside the needletrain station. It was only with grumbling reluctance that Nevada had legislated a few minimal guiderules for licenses to operate firearms, and Nevada’s pollies and ammunition dealers were said to wink at them. The way they winked at speeding and other personal vehicle violations. Year after year Nevada had the highest traffic fatality list on the continent. For several decades from the Great Reform to the 2030s, this state had even abolished drivers’ licenses.

  “I know this burg, Sergeant,” said Hammersmith, gesturing past the line of taxis to the rentacar stalls. “No reason we should pay one of those hucksters gyp tips for taxiing us around.”

  “Yes, there is. Your blood alcohol level is too high. You’ve been nipping all evening.”

  “Nevada don’t care about stuff like that, why should you and me?”

  “Nevada issues drivers’ licenses to pre-1900 fanciers, too. I say leave the driving to a sober local who’s used to Reno traffic.”

  “Your department picking up the expense tab?”

  She looked at him levelly. “Not for chasing down clues obtained by illegal means.”

  “Then come on and lemme treat you to an economy rentawreck.”

  “One condition.”

  “Say what?”

  “Tonight, and every other time I judge you’ve had one too many, I drive.”

  He shrugged, mumbled something, gestured “Follow me” with his left arm, and strode over to the rentacars.

  She joined him at her leisure, reading a little of the grafitti scrawled in glopaint over the sides of the stalls. About half of it grunchtalked rentacars. There were several “Help a fellow human earn an honest living” hands pointing back to the taxi stand.

  By the time she got to the first stall with a car in it, her opposite number had already given the rentacomp the data it demanded on how long he’d want the car and for what estimated distances.

  He slapped his unicredit card into place on the screen and pressed his right thumbprint onto the flashing oval beside the card ledge. The computer mulled it over for about six seconds before scrolling a red “TRANSACTION REFUSED” notice across the screen.

  “What the double H?” exclaimed the private detective.

  “Good show of surprise, M. Hammersmith,” Lestrade told him. “You sounded almost like you hadn’t expected it might happen.”

  “Blasted machines!” He gave the unit a heavy, open-handed slap.

  “Watch it, boy,” she remarked. “Reno may have laws against battering computers.”

  “Dratted thing’s glitching. Look at all those spangles the screen’s been giving us. No wonder it couldn’t read my thumbprint right.”

  “Any place but Nevada, it’d ask for a puff of your breath, too.”

  He stepped aside. “All right, Dragon Lady. You’re gonna drive tonight, you try talking sense to this blamed machine.”

  She looked at him and shook her head. “I’ve voted all along to use the local taxi service.”

  Grumbling something else, he turned his back on her, hunched up his shoulders, and went on to the next rentacar stall. She stood where she was and waited long enough to see the next screen scroll its big red letters at him. This time he kicked the computer post. Fortunately, it was solid and well grounded, designed to take such abuse. Lestrade turned and strolled back to the taxi stand.

  The driver she got was grateful and reasonably polite, in a picturesque, Reno-slanging way. But his style of driving made her think that Dave Click had missed his calling and should have been a Nevada cabbie.

  Chapter

  “And Kelly Avocado—no, Alvarado—Green,” Corwin said in conclusion, “was the one who drowned both himself and one of his escorts in the ocean on the way to an island hotel.”

  “You’re sure it was the ocean?” said M. Parkinson. “There are Free Spirit Lodge on an island of the same name in Lake Superior, and Quietwater on an artificial island in a Texas reservoir. As far as I have been able to tabulate, The Escapee Who Drowned is told more often about Quietwater than any other island hotel.”

  Corwin shook his head. “No, as told to me, it was neither of those establishments. Although, now I think of it, I could hardly take my solemn oath that the word ‘ocean’ was mentioned.”

  “There are Valhalla Island off the northwest coast. Tropical Moon near the Hawaiis, and Razzmatazz just off the Lesser L.A. Basin.”

  “The Tropical Moon. Among three such distinctive names, there can be no mnemonic mistake.”

  “The Tropical Moon, eh? Thank your lordship.” The manager bent to his pocket notecom.

  Corwin took another sip of cognac and gazed once more around the high-ceilinged dining hall, the creams and ivories of the interior decoration gone a pleasing deep-twilight blue relieved by pools of candleglow.

  Hummingbird Hill kept up the revival of the old custom of segregation for after-dinner conversation. Though no longer dictated, as it was in the old novels, by gender lines, it frequently fell out that way, as Corwin had observed now and again in some social circles Outside. This evening, somewhat to his surprise, M. Magadance had left for the drawing room along with Lady Larghetta and M. Klipspringer even as the fruit and nut trays were removed. Her stated reason was plausible enough: she had remarked, in formulistic phrases, that the departure of his Mistress of Ritual signaled and symbolized Lord Moan’s personal freedom from prescribed ceremony for the remainder of the night.

  It also left M. Bluehair, who was laughing at a distant table with Dr. Macumber and M.’s Logefeil and Stock, to be the sole representative of womanhood in the dining hall. Even the two waitresses—a young embezzler and a middle-aged kidnapper who insisted, respectively, upon the callers “M. Marchbanks” and “Peggy”—had vanished with the used dessert dishes, leaving one waiter, the elderly but spry pickpocket M. Onyememezu, to serve postprandial drinks and coffee as desired.

  On the other hand, Jorum Walker had gone to the drawing room along with the three ladies. Corwin assumed that, even as coffee was available along with various liqueurs in the dining hall, so various liqueurs, and liquors of the “harder” species as well, were available along with coffee and tea in the drawing room. He envisioned M. Walker settl
ing back with half a liter straight into a corner easy chair and intruding on the ladies’ conversation not one whit.

  Chief Running Stag had also left immediately after the last food course, but not in the direction of the drawing room. Rather, he had exited by one of the French doors, presumably to commune with the Great Spirit by night.

  M.’s Withycombe and Of The Light still remained, sitting at a third table, forming, as it might seem from above, the third point of a somewhat lopsided parallelogram with the other two occupied tables, M. Onyenemezu’s beverage bar serving as the fourth point, and numerous empty tables between and around. Why so many more tables than needed? Corwin could only suppose that it was to accommodate every guest if each of them desired to be alone at a separate table.

  Parkinson said, “It’s told less often about the Tropical Moon than about any other island hotel.”

  “Perhaps I ought to add that the story as told me was immediately corroborated by…another member of my escort.” Inwardly, Corwin flinched. He had almost said, “reporter,” remembering barely in time that it might well rouse suspicion if he were known to have been hobnobbing on friendly terms with any newsmonger just before coming inside.

  As it was, M. Parkinson remarked, “Preconcerted effort, of course. They’d be sure to agree ahead of time which versions to feed your lordship.” He doubtless considered Lord Moan something of a gullible fish, but that was marginally preferable to his suspecting the truth.

  “Of course. My mind was preoccupied with matters of greater personal moment. I rejoice that I have remembered as much material for your scholarship as I have. But one thing perplexes me, M. Parkinson. How is it that all these suicide attempts are reported as taking place outside the various walls? It would seem to me a vastly more simple affair to hang oneself or open one’s vein in the safe privacy of one’s hotel rooms.”

  “Interesting point, your lordship. Don’t think it hasn’t come under discussion. For one thing, remember the pollies were feeding you a string of cautionary fables to explain their excessive security precautions—to justify the discomfort they were putting you to.”

  It was indelicate of the manager to mention that discomfort. Corwin signified his aloofness by closing his eyes briefly, and sipping more cognac.

  M. Parkinson went on, “There have been a couple of suicides and suicide attempts inside, usually of permanent clockround staff members. But many fewer than you might expect. With some actual, documented episode lying at the base of approximately one quarter of the pollies’ folklore of attempted escapes and suicides en route,—applying Stith Botkin’s adjustment formula for one actual incident inspiring more than one story—there’ve still been many more such episodes outside than inside. One of the favorite theories is that trying it outside adds much greater dimensions of symbolic enlargement and effective rebellion against the system, as well as the slim possibility, in some cases, of actual escape. Doing it inside amounts to a simple admission of defeat. There may also be a related element of peer bonding—doing it inside suggests rejection of one’s fellows, where doing it outside signifies direct defiance of the police and legal system. And then, as you may have seen already, life is so luxurious here, on so many levels, that it can seem a bit wasteful just to leave it cold. That’s why most of the stories and almost all the actual incidents have to do with people on their way inside for the first time.”

  Corwin was wondering whether the time might be ripe for working the dialogue round to a discussion of murder within the walls of a security hotel, but Parkinson unconsciously forestalled him by adding,

  “And then, too, a lot of hotels have their own private method of defusing the suicidal impulse. One we don’t let on about to the pollies and other Mud Dwellers. It isn’t my own department, so I’ll let M.’s Of The Light and Withycombe tell you.” Looking across to the table of those he had just named, he lifted his notecom and tabbed it off in their sight, slipping the keywand back into its side-rings.

  Obviously they had been awaiting a signal, for both of them rose at once, Withycombe with his brandy and Of The Light with his ice water, and came over to Corwin’s table. “We come to join you, Brother Earl,” said Of The Light. “In many senses of the verb ‘to join.’”

  They had established at luncheon that Paul Of The Light refused to address anyone by any title, especially any fanciful personal title, of earthly pomp and circumstance. He was, however, willing to substitute “Earl” for a first name when speaking to Lord Moan.

  Corwin extended the fingers of one hand to indicate the empty chairs. The newcomers sat, Withycombe across from him and Of The Light at his left. At his right, Parkinson pocketed his notecom and leaned back, folding his hands across his midriff like some complacent old alderman.

  Of The Light resumed, “In other words, we bring you a road map to personal salvation.”

  “Or at least,” said Withycombe, “an invitation to unlimited sauna baths for the soul.”

  Here it comes, thought Corwin. What quaint ways of—

  Another voice cut into his thoughts: “In other words, they’ve come to offer your lordship pain.”

  Engrossed as he’d been with Withycombe and Of The Light, Corwin had never noticed the quiet approach of this third man, who now stood behind his chair. With an effort, he made up for his initial start by turning his head very slowly and flicking his gaze upward with the least possible tilting of his chin. He had recognized the voice correctly. The man of the quiet step was indeed John Stock, alias Secret Agent 009.

  “I was just going,” said Parkinson, unfolding his hands and getting up.

  Of The Light took an ice cube into his mouth and crunched it slowly. Withycombe leaned back and sipped his cognac. Corwin followed Withycombe’s example. Stock waited until the comparatively pudgy warden was halfway to the beverage bar. Then, with the merest half glance of distaste, he moved Parkinson’s abandoned coffee cup to the nearest unoccupied table, set his own liqueur glass down in its place, dusted the chair with his handkerchief, refolded and reinserted the silk square neatly in his handkerchief pocket, and sat.

  If Corwin’s heart had been beating less rapidly, he might have smiled, inwardly if not outwardly, at the tableau they must present to the gods. Four dark men, each of them, except possibly Of The Light, trying to outdo the others in sangfroid. The gods would certainly award the prize to John Stock.

  Remembering that this trio might expect him to have no prior knowledge of their Purgatory Club, he broke the silence that was probably not as long as it seemed. “Well, gentleman? Am I expected to receive your elucidation through some process of mental osmosis?”

  “We offer you,” said Of The Light, “the chance to purge your soul of every guilt, even here upon this earthly plane, by making of your vile flesh a bloody sacrifice.”

  “You make it sound not only purgative, but fatal,” Corwin remarked, with a side glance at Withycombe.

  “Not fatal, no,” Of The Light replied, bending forward with missionary zeal. “Quite the contrary, it is indefinitely renewable. And with the lustration of the spirit comes the revitalization of this sheath of sinful flesh.”

  “Not always without a bit of a struggle,” Thus airily did Withycombe dismiss his own alleged near-fatal experiences. “But the occasional soupcon of danger makes it all the more satisfying. Feeling oneself in peril of one’s own death, valves off the sense of guilt quite effectively. Sometimes for months at a stretch.”

  “Yet the death of the body is illusion,” said Of The Light. “Entirely illusion. Even more so is the danger of bodily death. All mere illusion.”

  “Before you get lost in metaphysical claptrap,” said Double Oh Nine, “they’re talking about giving you doses of good, oldfashioned torture.” Opening a monogrammed cigarette case, he extracted one stick of paper-wrapped incense, that popular prop for those who desired the aura of a heavy tobacco age without the health hazards. The incens
e curled up as gracefully as any other smoke, and fanciers in full possession of their perceptive faculties claimed to have the perception of cigarette fumes on their tongues and in their throats, even though what they actually inhaled was air through pinpricks near the mouth tip of the cylinder. Had Corwin been in fantasy mode, he would probably have perceived Stock’s incense as a true cigarette.

  “Our brother John,” Of The Light said calmly, “sees all of life on a regrettably materialistic plane.”

  “I believe in calling a spade a spade.”

  “Yes, Brother John, but you do not see that a spade can be at the same time more than a spade. In truth and in symbol, a spade can be the shining sword which purifies this wicked flesh into a meet offering for the Great Mind.”

  At least, Corwin hoped that Of The Light had said “meet,” as in “suitable,” rather than “meat,” as in “roast beef.”

  “Look, Of The Light,” Stock replied, unpocketing a small personal ashtray, “I’m not trying to talk his lordship out of it. We’ve all got our own reasons.”

  “Of course,” said Withycombe. “That’s understood. Our own individual reasons and needs. It all adds to the interest—”

  A loud burst of merriment from the other table, where M. Parkinson had carried his second coffee and taken Stock’s former place with M.’s Bluehair and Logefeil and Dr. Macumber, momentarily drew their attention.

  “One more crude and worldly joke, no doubt,” said Of The Light, and took another ice cube into his mouth.

  Corwin cleared his throat. He felt dizzy, and wondered whether simple lack of sleep, bone weariness, tension and excitation of the nerves, and knowledge that he was alone with murderers and other criminals—even the virtually invisible day employees having left the grounds—were enough to produce his condition, or whether his cognac might conceivably have been drugged. While still in reality mode, he felt all his senses drawn out into a state approaching that of Roderick Usher. He said: “Assuming that I follow your drift, gentlemen, I can see two objections to the theory that by allowing you to make some sort of bloody sacrifice to the Deity of my ‘vile flesh,’ I can purge my supposed guilt. First: if my flesh is so vile, why should not the Deity feel rather insult than gratification with the offering? Second—”