by Jack Vance
Sir Mathor, in his turn, took no pains to hide his surprise at the quality and style of his visitors. He asked: “You are from Araminta Station on Cadwal? A remote place, well past the back of beyond. What brings you here?”
“I mentioned to Sir Lonas that we are representatives of our Bureau B,” said Glawen. “I am Captain Glawen Clattuc; this is my associate, Sergeant Kirdy Wook. Here are our credentials.”
Sir Mathor waved them aside. His manner was still puzzled, if somewhat amused. “You are clearly a young man of candor; I have no doubt you are telling the exact truth. I merely wonder what you want of me.”
“Unless someone assumed your identity, you and Sir Lonas recently visited Araminta Station. We wish to inquire into the circumstances of this visit. May we sit, or do you prefer that we stand?”
“Sorry, indeed! A shocking lapse of courtesy! Sit, by all means!”
Sir Mathor pointed to a sofa; Glawen and Kirdy seated themselves, but Sir Mathor paced slowly back and forth in front of them: three steps in each direction. Finally he came to a halt. “My recent visit to Araminta Station, you say. Are you sure of your facts?”
“You may be confident as to our professionalism, sir. We are, as a matter of fact, IPCC affiliates. You used a fictitious name at Araminta Hotel, but this is neither unusual nor actionable, and certainly is not the reason for our visit.”
“Most extraordinary,” said Sir Mathor. “l am totally perplexed.”
“That is quite all right, sir,” said Glawen. “It is only necessary that we understand the situation. I hope that you are willing to discuss the matter with us in full detail.”
Sir Mathor threw himself into a low deeply cushioned chair. He leaned back, thrust out his legs. He looked to the side, where Sir Lonas stood quietly, hands clasped behind his back. “Lonas, would you be kind enough to bring us refreshment: perhaps some of that excellent Yellow Frost? I’ll have the same.”
Sir Lonas nodded and moved away. Sir Mathor turned his attention back to Glawen and Kirdy. “Now, then: suppose you tell me exactly what sort of information you are after.”
“About two months ago you went to Yipton and thence on an excursion to Thurben Island. There you engaged in activities which are illegal: both on Cadwal and across the Gaean Reach.”
Sir Mathor threw back his head and laughed: a musical metallic sound conveying no trace of humor. “And you have come to take me into custody?”
Glawen shook his head. “We are not quite that naive, Sir Mathor. Still, there is nothing to laugh about. These crimes have ugly names.”
“Yes, yes. Ugly words often describe healthy processes.” Sir Mathor watched as Sir Lonas served around goblets of frozen punch. He spoke as if casually: “Tell me this: have you discussed this affair with other parties to the excursion?”
Glawen responded politely: “Proper procedure requires that I ask my questions in an orderly fashion. Still, I might ask: what difference does it make?”
Sir Mathor’s composure at last showed a crack. “A great difference indeed! If you want information: yes, I will give it to you, so long as you do not approach these other folk. Not just yet.”
“I suggest that you tell me the facts. Start with how you became aware of the excursion.”
Sir Mathor heaved a sigh. “I’d feel happier talking to you if I knew your objectives. It seems to me - now I am just musing - that if you were only anxious to punish the folk on the excursion you would have immediately lodged a case with the IPCC. Extortion? Blackmail? This doesn’t seem to be your game, which of course is sheer wasted effort in any case. What, then? Who are you after?”
Glawen said: “Please don’t discover mysteries where none exist. We are outraged by the affair. We would like to punish everyone involved, particularly those close to home. In all candor, you do not seem the sort of person who would want to identify himself with such a sickly episode.”
“You are quite right. I have far more urgent matters on my mind.” Sir Mathor paused and tapped his chin with his fingers. “I’m not quite sure how to handle this matter.” He hitched himself up in the chair. “You may or may not be aware that here on Natrice we are fighting a quiet but desperate war with an enemy who outnumbers us twenty to one. If it comes to violence we will suffer enormous damage. It is no exaggeration to say that our very survival is at stake - and we will use any weapon which comes to hand.”
“Ah,” said Glawen. “I am beginning to understand. You refer to the Sanart Scientists?”
“I refer to one of their factions: the so-called Ideationists. These folk are fanatics who make a virtue out of severity. In the past they have attacked us financially, philosophically and verbally, none of which troubles us. Recently gangs of anonymous raiders have come down from the Wild Counties and attacked us by night, killing and depredating.
“There is our predicament. Our enemy is motivated by his ‘Idea,’ which is not inherently ignoble. Its virtues are self-evident; where is a force more violent than that which is generated by a surfeit of virtue? How does one fight virtue? With depravity? Is depravity, after all, any better than virtue? Arguable. At the very least, depravity allows the practitioner a variety of options. Personally, I advocate neither extreme. I merely want to live my life out in placid self-indulgence. Yet here I sit, at this moment, caught up by these Sanart passions. They want me to embrace their Idea. I resist; I am forced into an uncomfortable posture of self-defense and worry. The sweetness of my soul has gone rancid; I am pushed willy-nilly into a condition of hatred.
“So then: what does one do? He sits himself in his chair to think - as I do now. He stimulates his mind with Yellow Frost - as I do now.” Sir Mathor drank from his goblet. “I say: are you gentlemen not drinking?”
“It is neither proper nor wise to drink on duty,” said Glawen. “At best it lends a false air of good fellowship to the inquiry. At worst the drink will contain drugs or poison. This is not just a neurotic obsession; I would be interested to watch while you or Sir Lonas drank from these goblets.”
Sir Mathor laughed. “Whatever the case, we ponder how we must deal with the Sanart Scientists. We do not want to destroy them. We will be happy if they moderate their fervor and allow us to live our shiftless, idle, ignoble, but thoroughly enjoyable lives.
“To this end we have chosen a scheme to confuse and demoralize our enemies, so that in the end they too may learn the evils of frivolity and the wicked enticements of lassitude. We hope to achieve this goal by demonstrating the hypocrisy and secret immorality of the most flagrant Ideationists.
“Knowing this much, all must now be clear to you. We selected the six most ardent Scientists: I arranged that they received passage vouchers to Cadwal, along with the notice that the Conservator wanted to merge the Idea into Conservationist ideology; would the six eminent Scientists care to attend a colloquium, all expenses paid, on Cadwal?
“Needless to say, the six Scientists accepted, and the rest you know.”
“And on Thurben Island the Scientists behaved as you hoped?”
“They were superb. We dosed them well with anti-inhibitors; all restraint was gone. They did spectacular deeds, which were carefully recorded.
“And so, in a state of confusion, the six Scientists returned to the Lanklands. They were aware that something untoward had happened and none could remember the details of the colloquium, and all were assured that the strong wines of Cadwal had made them drunk. On the return trip they could talk only about the dangers latent in the grape, and each wanted all the others to apologize. As for the record, we have arranged for its showing at next week’s Synod. The impact will be tremendous.”
“The delegates may well guess the truth.”
“Most will prefer to believe the scandal. Even among the skeptics, the images will linger forever and contradict a million homilies.”
“He is right,” declared Kirdy in a deep voice.
“The Patrunes will be allowed to show such material at a Synod?” asked Glawen.
&
nbsp; Sir Mathor smiled at some private thought. “I can tell you this: firm arrangements have been made. The record will be made abundantly public. The matter even now is out of our hands.” Sir Mathor relaxed back in his chair. “So now you know all.”
“Not quite all. At the very start, how did you learn of the Thurben Island excursions?”
Sir Mathor frowned thoughtfully. “I hardly know. Small talk at a party, something of the sort.”
“I don’t see how that is possible. Your excursion was the first. Two others followed.”
“Indeed? I stand corrected. It makes no great difference now; it’s all in the past.”
“Not quite. The folk who organized the excursions are still at large.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you there.”
“Surely you remember who arranged the parties?”
“I bought the tickets from the agency. Later I spoke to a very personable young woman, and she made arrangements with me. Later still a man telephoned to say that he had delivered the invitations and the tickets and that the six Ideationists had accepted.”
“What was his name? What did he look like?”
“I really can’t say; I never saw him.”
Glawen rose to his feet; Kirdy did the same, somewhat more slowly. Glawen said: “For now, that is all we need. Perhaps you will hear no more from us, but that is for my superiors to decide.”
“They knew you were coming to see me?”
“Of course.”
“Where are they staying?”
“They are at Araminta Station.”
“Oh! So now: what are your plans?”
“As I explained, our main concern is to identify the principals of Ogmo Enterprises. You do not seem inclined to help us, so we must continue our inquiries elsewhere.”
Sir Mathor pulled thoughtfully at his chin. “Really. And where is ‘elsewhere’?”
“I can’t undertake to answer your questions, sir.”
“I suspect that you intend to inquire of the Ideationists as to the man who brought them their tickets.”
“Certainly. Why not, if it will identify this man for us?”
“For several reasons,” said Sir Mathor in a voice of sweet reason. “First of all, I do not want him identified; I would be both embarrassed and inconvenienced. Secondly, I cannot trust your discretion, with the Synod coming up so soon.” He pulled himself to his feet and turned his head. “Eh, Lonas? Am I not right? They shouldn’t do this, should they?”
“I should certainly think not.”
Sir Mathor said to Glawen and Kirdy: “Gentlemen, I feared from the very first that it might come to this. Mind you, I hoped and proposed possibilities to myself; I weighed this against that even as we sat talking. Always I reverted to the bitter facts. Lonas, where has your thinking taken you?”
“The facts are bitter.”
“See to it, quickly and quietly, so as not to disturb our friends. Gentlemen, in an instant you will be wandering the land behind the stars. If only you could send back news of these blessed regions! But no doubt you will be dazed by the beauty of it all.” Sir Mathor’s voice was soft and soothing. Sir Lonas came forward, one long stride, another.
Kirdy gave a sudden hoarse yell: a sound of choked raving fury. While Sir Mathor stood aghast, Kirdy struck with his massive fist; it hit with the impact of a club. Sir Mathor’s face went queerly askew, his eyes rolling up to show only the whites. A metal object dropped from his hand: a small gun. Glawen scooped it up as Kirdy turned on the startled Sir Lonas, who stood a foot taller than himself and outweighed him a hundred pounds. Kirdy seized Sir Lonas’ coarse black hair, pulled the great head to one side and chopped at the neck. Sir Lonas stumbled into a chair and fell heavily backward, kicking out in a frenzy as Kirdy, moaning and keening, tried to find a way to jump on the thrashing body. Sir Lonas twined his legs around Kirdy’s waist; Kirdy hammered at the stern handsome face, but now Sir Lonas bore Kirdy down to the floor and began to strangle him. Glawen stepped forward and fired a pellet into the back of Sir Lonas’ head.
Kirdy jumped panting to his feet. Glawen looked out across the terrace. No one had heeded the events in the parlor.
Kirdy peered down at Sir Mathor. “He’s dead,” he said in wonderment. “I broke open his head. My hand hurts.”
“Quick,” said Glawen. “We must drag them over here, into this side room.”
The strength of both was needed to pull Sir Lonas across the floor, each to an ankle. Glawen straightened the rumpled rug and picked up an overturned chair. Let’s go.”
The two ran from the house, and climbed aboard the waiting vehicle. It spoke: “State the name in which this car is reserved.”
Kirdy looked anxiously at Glawen. “Do you remember? I’ve forgotten. It was something odd.”
For a terrible instant the name eluded Glawen as well. He cried out: “Spanchetta!”
The vehicle took them back to the Halcyon airport, where they were forced to wait twenty nerve-racking minutes before the flyer departed for Poinciana.
As they flew above the Mirling, Glawen considered what had happened. Neither he nor Kirdy had attracted attention on the route to the Borph estate; there could be no reason to associate them with the two deaths. Indeed, the Patrunes would be sure to blame a gang of Sanart terrorists. Still, on the day previously they had mentioned the names “Sir Mathor Borph” and “Sir Lonas Medlyn” to someone. Who? The manager at the Phlodoric Travel Agency. As soon as the news of Sir Mathor’s death reached his ears, he would inevitably reach for the telephone and call the police. “I have an incident to report, which may or may not be relevant to your case.” So the conversation would begin, and within the hour the police would take Glawen Clattuc and Kirdy Wook, of Araminta Station, Cadwal, into custody. On Natrice, Patrunes defined the law and its application. “IPCC affiliation” would be contemptuously ignored.
Another thought augmented Glawen’s apprehensions. The police might well derive information from the hired vehicle. They would be informed that a pair of suspicious characters were in all likelihood on the flight to Poinciana, and Poinciana police might even now be waiting for the flight to arrive.
The flyer landed at the airport; the two passed unmolested through the terminal. Glawen saw no evidence of police activity.
Kirdy’s thinking appeared to be running parallel to Glawen’s. He touched Glawen’s elbow and pointed. “Look yonder.”
Glawen turned. At the adjacent spaceport he discovered the familiar hulk of the Sagittarian Ray, from which they had alighted only the day before.
“Yes,” said Glawen. “Your instincts and my logic lead to the same conclusion.”
“The passage yonder takes us into the space terminal,” said Kirdy.
Without further deliberation, the two rode a slideway into the space terminal, and went to the counter of the ticket agency. Glawen asked the clerk: “When does the Sagittarian Ray depart?”
“In just about an hour, sir.”
“And what is its next port of call?”
“Soumjiana on the planet Soum.”
“That is convenient. Are accommodations still available?”
“Definitely, sir, in either first or second class.” “We will want two single cabins, second-class.”
“Just so. I will need three hundred sols and your identity cards.”
Glawen paid over the money. The two displayed their papers and received the passage vouchers.
They moved away from the counter. Kirdy said in a grumbling voice: “Our luggage is still at the hotel.”
“Do you want to go get it?” asked Glawen. “There is time enough and the bodies probably haven’t been found yet.”
“What about you?”
“I think I’ll go aboard the ship.”
Kirdy gave his head a nervous shake. “I’ll go aboard the ship too.”
“Come along then . . . And yet -” Glawen hesitated.
“Now what?”
“There is also time to make a
telephone call.”
“What of that? Who would you be calling?”
“One or another of the Ideationists. SS. Foum, for example. I’d like to learn who brought him his ticket.”
Kirdy grunted. “Do you think he’d tell you over the telephone? He’d ask all kinds of questions, and in the end tell you nothing.”
“I also could warn him of the plot, which, all in all, seems a trifle unfair.”
“I never quite understood this plot,” said Kirdy. “Still, on the whole, the controversy seems none of our concern, one way or the other.”
Glawen heaved a sigh. “I must agree with you there. In fact, the longer I think on the matter, the more I agree.”
“Then let’s go aboard the ship.”
* * *
Chapter VII, Part 4
The stars along Mircea’s wisp, for all the drama of their glittering flow, were themselves of average size and luminosity. No exception was Vergaz, the pink-white sun in the sky of Soum.
The Sagittarian Ray slanted down upon Vergaz, oriented itself first to the orbit of Soum, then to its plane of diurnal rotation, and finally landed at the Soumjiana spaceport. Cargo and passengers, including Glawen and Kirdy, were discharged, and the Sagittarian Ray went its way down the Wisp toward the terminus at Andromeda 6011 IV.
At the space terminal Glawen inquired regarding connections to Tassadero by Zonk’s Star, a lonely and isolated system to the side of the wisp. He learned that a pair of small packets serviced the route: the Camulke, leaving in four days’ time, and the Kersnade, scheduled to depart in something over a month. Neither date was altogether convenient, if it became necessary to travel to Tassadero - unless the inquiries on Soum could be completed within four days. This possibility did not seem utterly remote, and Glawen reserved passage aboard the Camulke, to Kirdy’s instant dissatisfaction. “Why in blazes do you insist on the frantic haste? Do you never consider the wishes of anyone else? I say, let’s work at leisure and enjoy our stay! The sausages are specially good at Soumjiana.”
Glawen politely rejected Kirdy’s protest. “For all we know, time may be a critical factor in the case. If so, Bodwyn Wook would not take kindly to our loitering and eating sausages, especially at Bureau expense.”
