Araminta Station

by Jack Vance

  “Not much more. Apparently he knew of the route she would take, and planned to waylay her – though those plans were probably made on short notice.”

  “That’s the way it feels to me. So then, our attention turns to the truck.”

  “It certainly should be carefully examined.”

  “That is a good job for you.”

  * * *

  Chapter II, Part 6

  The week after Parilia was somber and quiet. The wine buyers were gone, their purchases choking the holds of every departing ship. Tourists had also moved on, including the Clattuc houseguests: some home to far worlds, others to the wilderness lodges, still others by ferry across three hundred miles of ocean to Yipton: a destination as exotic as any. Here they would test the semibarbaric appointments of Arkady Inn, or explore the labyrinthine bazaars, or ride by gondola along the surprising canals, or look from a balcony across the Stewery. And others still might test the options available at the Pussycat Palace.

  At Bureau B inquiries into the disappearance of Sessily Veder continued without cessation, taking precedence over all but the sea patrols along the Marmion littoral.

  Surveillance of the Yip compound was delegated to special squads of the militia. Kirdy Wook was reassigned to Bureau B; Arles, however, was still required to trudge a nightly stint, to his intense dissatisfaction.

  Glawen had become obsessed with the investigation, and could think of nothing else. Even his interest in food was lost and only Scharde’s concerned insistence prompted him to eat.

  Glawen had clung to the hope that Sessily might still be alive, that for some inscrutable reason she had changed from butterfly wings into a new costume; then, so disguised, had taken herself off to a secret place from which, sooner or later, she would either return or send news of herself - until Scharde reported Zamian’s testimony.

  Zamian’s account shattered all such hope; there could be little doubt but what Sessily had come to a violent end, and Glawen’s viscera crawled with hatred for the person responsible.

  What had happened to the body?

  The question had not lacked answers, including immersion in river, lagoon, ocean; destruction by chemical, fire; maceration, implosion, ionic disassociation; levitation by balloon, tornado or the clutch of a giant night-flying gambril down from the Maughrim Mountains. In each hypothesis one or more flaws had been discovered and the problem still hung in the air.

  Upon hearing of Zamian’s disclosures, Glawen immediately asked: “What of the truck? Has anyone gone to look at it?”

  I’m on my way now,” said Scharde. I thought you might like to join me.”

  “Yes. I would indeed.”

  “Come along, then.”

  The time was middle afternoon of a blustery cool day; from the northeast came a keen wind to chase shreds and tatters of a broken overcast out to sea. Scharde and Glawen drove to the end of Wansey Way, around the Orpheum and inland along a dirt road leading eastward, first across garden plots, paddies, orchards and fields, then into a region of gentle slopes and swales planted to vineyards. Something less than a mile from the Station, the Joint Winery occupied the top of a low rise: a group of gray-brown concrete structures, inconspicuous in the context of the landscape, and of little distinction otherwise.

  At the Joint Winery, secondary yields from the six wineries were blended by Master Oenologist Nion co-Offaw, to produce wines of good character, suitable both for home consumption and for export.

  Where the garden plots gave way to the vineyards Scharde stopped the car. “This ground has been examined foot by foot, not once but twice, out to a quarter mile from the road. That’s considered double the maximum distance a man could carry a body, perform a burial and return to the road within the time strictures. In my opinion it exceeds the maximum by a factor of four, rather than two.”

  “That’s only a bit more than a hundred yards.”

  “A hundred yards in the dark, carrying a body and tools, leaving no tracks or marks? I’d call that incredible in itself.”

  “The whole affair is incredible,” muttered Glawen. “How could anyone destroy poor little Sessily?”

  “Aha! But when she was destroyed she was glorious wonderful Sessily, too beautiful for her own good, and someone felt impelled to pluck the highest fruit from the Tree of Life. I suspect that he regrets nothing”

  “Not until we catch him, at any rate.”

  “He’ll regret getting caught,” said Scharde. “No doubt as to that.”

  “The winery has been searched, of course?”

  “I searched it myself. She’s not there: not in any closet, bin, vat, cubbyhole, on the roof or under the foundations. Nion is a crusty old devil, so don’t expect cordiality. Also, just to be difficult, he pretends to be deaf.”

  Scharde put the car into motion; the two continued along the road, which presently veered, climbed a gentle slope and ended in front of the winery.

  Scharde halted the car; the two alighted and took stock of the surroundings. The front façade of the winery rose in front of them. A tall door stood open, allowing a glimpse of the shadowed interior: a row of tall vats, oddments of machinery, the gleam of piping. About fifty feet to the side, Nion’s truck was parked under a tree.

  Scharde and Glawen went to the open door and looked into the winery, to discover Nion in the seat of a mobile lift, loading wine casks into a modular shipping case. The two came forward and stood politely waiting until Nion should choose to take note of them.

  Nion flicked a sidewise glance toward them, but worked until he came to an optimally convenient opportunity to stop. Then he swung around in the seat, appraised his visitors, and at last grudgingly stepped down to the floor: a man well into middle age, stocky of frame, ruddy of face, with coarse russet-gray hair, narrow red-brown eyes under bristling eyebrows. He asked in a barely courteous voice: “What is it this time? I have nothing to do with your mysteries.”

  “We have had some new information,” said Scharde. “It now appears that the criminal used the winery truck during your absence, probably to transport the girl’s body.”

  Nion started to utter an automatic snort of derision, stopped short, scowled and reflected a moment, then gave a heavy shrug, jerked his head back. “As to that, I can tell you nothing. If it’s true, they have a great audacity, using my truck for their dirty business.”

  Glawen started to speak, then, at a glance from Scharde, held his tongue. Scharde asked: “Earlier that evening you brought three casks of wine down from the winery?”

  “That I did, at the specific request of the wine steward. He is the man to question on that score, and if that’s all you’re wanting know, I’ll get back to my work.”

  Scharde paid no heed. “You backed the truck against the dock to unload the casks?”

  Nion stared at Scharde in astonishment. “Surely, man, you can’t be so dense as all that! Would there be any other way?”

  Scharde smiled grimly. “Very well. I take it, then, that you backed the truck against the dock. When you returned, which according to your statement was after midnight, did you find the truck as you left it?”

  Nion blinked. “Now as I think on it, some sky-larking fool had jockeyed it about, and finished off his prank by nosing it in against the dock. I would have taught him tricks if I had caught him at it.”

  Scharde smiled once again. “Did you find any indication as to who might have played the trick? Any oddment or piece of property in the truck?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Have you used the truck since that night?”

  “Indeed I have! Every day I deliver a module - that’s four casks in a shipping case, mind you - down to the spaceport. Sometimes more when there’s a ship to be laden. Now, then, is there more you want to know?”

  “We’ll have a look at the truck.”

  “As you like.”

  Scharde and Glawen returned outside and went to the truck. Scharde glanced briefly into the control compartment, which was discouragingly sta
rk and clean. “We’ll find nothing here.”

  Glawen had pulled aside the canvas curtain at the back, allowing light to play into the empty cargo space. An inch-thick carpet of elastic sponge covered the bed, with a pair of planks four feet apart running the length of the bed, apparently to accommodate the wheels of a loading dolly.

  Scharde jumped up into the cargo space and looked about. Almost immediately he noticed stains at the center of the bed, halfway between the two lengthwise planks. Scharde bent his head and examined the stains. They were dark red in color and might be blood. Without comment he went to the forward end of the bed; dropping to his hands and knees, he examined the floor area inch by inch. Glawen also noticed the stains, but held his tongue. With nothing better to do, he looked about the control cab but found nothing of interest, and returned around to the rear, just in time to see Scharde pluck some sort of object from where it had caught on the splintered inner edge of the left-hand plank. He asked: “What have you found?”

  “Hair,” said Scharde laconically, and continued his search.

  Glawen could no longer tolerate inactivity. He climbed up into the cargo space, and began his own search in an area Scharde so far had neglected: the crack, or seam, where the elastic sponge met the side panel. Before long he made a discovery of his own and gave a sad exclamation.

  Scharde looked around. “What did you find?”

  Glawen held up a black and orange fragment. “A bit of butterfly wing.”

  Scharde took the bright wisp and placed it into an envelope.

  “There’s no longer much doubt about the time and place.”

  “Just the who.”

  The two searched half an hour or so longer and Scharde found another tuft of matted fiber but nothing else of obvious significance. Descending to the ground, they examined their findings: the wing fragment and the tufts of coarse brown hair. “Not much,” said Scharde. “But still better than nothing. Perhaps we’d better have another word with Nion.”

  Glawen looked dubiously toward the winery. “He doesn’t seem too interested in helping us.”

  “We’ll still give him a try. The trail must lead somewhere.”

  The two returned to the winery. Nion, standing in the doorway, observed their approach without display of emotion. He asked as they drew near: “What have you found, if anything?”

  Scharde displayed the articles taken from the truck bed. “Do these mean anything to you?”

  “The colored bit would seem to be part of the girl’s costume. The other stuff: I don’t recognize it, offhand.”

  “You don’t use a rug, or sacking, or any such material?”

  “I do not.”

  “Very well. We’ll just take another look into the winery.”

  Nion shrugged and stood aside. “What do you hope to find? You’ve been through the place like a bad smell, into vats and all.”

  “True. But somewhere, somehow, we’re missing something.”

  “How so?”

  “This is the end of the trail. She was murdered in the truck. When you came for the truck, it had been moved and the body was gone. Time is limited; the body apparently was not buried; we would have markings in the soil, and the road shows the truck went no farther than the winery. What happened to the body?”

  “I can’t help you. Search as you like.”

  Scharde and Glawen stepped through the doorway and into the winery, with Nion coming behind. Ten vats loomed above them, five to either side, each vat painted a different color, and a console at each vat to control operations and supply information. During Scharde’s previous visit, Nion had pumped dry each vat in turn, revealing no trace of Sessily.

  Nion noticed Scharde’s obvious interest in the vats. He asked gruffly: “What now? Must I pump my vats again? I waste a gallon of good wine every time I pump over a vat.”

  “Are your gauges so accurate?”

  “Certainly. The meters read to the tenth part of a gallon, which is important for careful blending, when even a half gallon of Diffin’s No. 4 Bitter Malvas too much or too little can affect a blend.”

  “So what is your procedure?”

  In simplest terms, I pump from the vats to the blending tank in proper proportions, to the amount of six hundred and sixty gallons, which is twelve casks, or three cases. This is a convenient batch size. I inspect the interior of each cask, the pump loads exactly fifty-five gallons of wine; I set the lid in place and the machine seals and clamps the lid to the cask. I slide away the full cask, and fill another to the number of twelve. These are held in stock over against the wall until I receive an order, when I load a shipping case appropriately and deliver it to the cargo bat at the spaceport.

  Scharde looked along the wall. “Your stock on hand is very low.”

  “There is no stock to speak of. Everything was sold during Parilia.”

  “And delivered to the spaceport?”

  “True.”

  “And shipped?”

  “I would suppose so.”

  “And one of those casks might well have contained a body?”

  Nion started to speak, then stopped short. He looked toward the blending tank and seemed to stammer under his breath. When he looked back at Scharde, his ruddy color had gone ashen. “I can assert almost definitely that this is what happened.”

  “Hm. How so?”

  “On Ort morning I filled casks from what remained in the vat, and when I was finished I discovered an overage of almost thirteen gallons.”

  Glawen turned and departed the winery. Nion and Scharde looked after him. Nion heaved a deep sigh and turned back to the blending tank. “At the time, I wondered at the error; how could it be, when my meters are accurate to a small fraction of this amount? How much did the girl weigh?”

  “Glawen could tell us, but he is not present. I would guess about a hundred pounds, or a hundred and five.”

  “She would thereby displace something less than thirteen gallons of wine, and I would find the overage, and puzzle as to its source. Now all is clear.”

  “Who would know how to fill and seal a cask?”

  Nion made a harsh wild gesture. “It could be anyone: the oenology students, those who work the six House wineries, anyone who has ever watched me at work. I will go on to say this! With these two hands I would strangle the man who so despoiled the wine! It is a sickly perversion beyond all ordinary calculation!”

  Scharde inclined his head in profound agreement. “It is a crime doubly vicious; that is true. I join you in your disgust.”

  “Will we ever capture this person?”

  “I can say only that we are making progress in our investigation. One other matter, in regard to the cask itself: can we trace it? What would be the label on the cask?”

  “It would be the Graciosa, and I have shipped fifty or sixty such casks since Parilia to a large number of destinations. It would be virtually impossible to locate the spoiled cask.”

  “The casks carry no serial number? No coding of any kind?”

  “None. Such a task would swamp me in paperwork, and serves no purpose.”

  “Not until now.”

  “It shall not happen again, not while I am alive.” Nion struck his chest with his fist. “I have been mild and guileless! I have trusted persons with suppuration and gangrene for brains. They have looked at me and breathed this air; I have displayed my secrets and given my best; still they do this to me! Never again.”

  “It is a bad situation,” said Scharde. “Still, we must not throw the good out with the bad. The innocent should not suffer for crimes of the guilty.”

  “We shall see.”

  “A final word, and here your advice will be most important. I personally see no reason to cause a great public outcry over this matter. I will recommend absolute discretion in our announcements; otherwise we will sell little of your good Graciosa for long years to come, if our winery is to become the subject of vulgar jokes.”

  Nion’s ruddy face had gone gray. “Still - sooner or
later someone will make a terrible discovery.”

  “We can only hope that it will be later rather than sooner. When the time comes, we can adjust the matter in the field, and hope that no one takes any great notice. If they do, we will blame it on warehouse bandits.”

  “Yes; that is correct,” said Nion. “Ah, me! What an affair!”

  * * *

  Chapter II, Part 7

  By order of Supervisor Bodwyn Wook, the full Bureau B roster, including captains, sergeants, junior sergeants, collateral ordinaries, and cadets gathered in the Now Agency auditorium. Promptly upon the stipulated moment Bodwyn Wook marched into the room, seated himself on the rostrum and addressed his subordinates.

  “Tonight I will report a late development in the Sessily Veder case, which puts to rest a certain amount of speculation. Because of the continuing inquiry I will take no questions; the information contained in my statement must and will suffice for the moment.

  “As everyone knows, Sessily Veder’s disappearance has puzzled us all. Now new information from certain sources has clarified the mystery. In brief outline, Sessily, after changing costume, was lured by a false message to a rendezvous, where she met a Pierrot, who escorted her to the beach, using guiles and pretexts we cannot imagine.

  “The two set off along the beach to the south. Two hours later the Pierrot returned alone. His manner, according to information, was bewildered and distrait.

  “We must accept the conclusion that someone probably known to Sessily had taken her down the beach, murdered her, and set her body adrift in the longshore currents.

  “This completes my statement. I now instruct everyone to avoid discussing the case with persons not employed by the Bureau, inasmuch as speculation, gossip and scandal will interfere with the continuing investigation. You may succinctly report what I have told you but no more. Am I clear? Persons found in violation of this order will be quite sorry.