I asked her if she was acquainted with a Toop Zherev of Balwinder Sound, adding that I believed he was in flambords. She said she said he was a supplier of the hotel's kitchens. Asked about Osk Rievor, she gently bit her lower lip as she consulted her memory, then said she did not think she had met the man, though she was sure she had heard the name. But she was only recently arrived on Great Gallowan, having decided to work her way along The Spray for a few years, taking whatever jobs she found wherever she alighted, before returning to her home planet of Gary Thompson's World and settling down to domesticity with a couple of agreeable spouses.
"But I may not stay here much more," she said, demonstrating the tendency to confide easily in strangers that is the mark of her world's natives. "These Thoonians are deliberately inoffensive, yet there is a curious smugness beneath their lack of ostentation. After a while, it grates."
I returned her to the subject of Zherev and Rievor.
"You might ask Bleban, the chief cook," she said. "He buys all our flambords. They are his signature dish."
"What do you think of them?"
"Spicy foods are not to my taste. I have not tried them."
"I believe I will," I said.
I visited my room and used the refresher, then went back down to the lobby. I acquired some brochures from a rack near the front desk and sat down to learn about Great Gallowan and the Thoon. I could have used my integrator to access the local connectivity, but I had decided against that method; I had already caused some kind of alarm among officialdom by asking Baltaz Thoring about my two quarries, and it was possible that any queries I made would be intercepted and parsed. This was a peaceful world, but my travels along The Spray had taught me that while some planets were tranquil by virtue of their easygoing citizenry, others relied on an intrusive and efficient regulatory apparatus. I did not care to spend an indefinite period being grilled by experts.
The brochures were informative about novel sights a traveler might care to see and experiences that could make a trip to the Thoon live in memory. Sport fishing was recommended only to the adventurous. The more sedate visitor could hike up into the inland hills to see an extensive system of caves that contained colorful stalagmites and stalactites of immense size. Higher up were alpine meadows carpeted with delicate flowers and dotted by pristine pools of crystal water. The beaches were wide and plentiful, but visitors were advised to read and heed all signage.
As I read, my integrator sat upon my shoulder and scanned the texts. When we were finished I said, "What do you notice about the writing?"
"There is nothing remarkable about it," it said.
"Exactly," I said.
It twitched its tail so that the fur tickled the back of my neck. "You are being obscure."
"I will explain. Pamphlets that are intended to lure casual travelers to visit attractions tend to overstate their charms and uniqueness. These do not. They are merely factual, without fuss or fanfare."
"What does it signify?"
"It would be premature to say."
I felt the twitch again, sharper this time. "You mean," my assistant said, "you have no idea."
"Let us go to lunch. I am interested to discover what flambords taste like."
The dining salon was presided over by a mature Thoonian in a simple costume of sandals, trousers and smock, each of a single muted color. He exuded an aura of dignity and accomplishment.
After perusing the menu, I said, "Are you Bleban, the distinguished chef?"
"I am. My staff are resting before the dinner prep."
I told him that I was an amateur gastronome who was always interested in new tastes. "These flambords," I said, "they are a local dish? I've only just heard of them."
I learned that flambords were filter feeders, and that the taste of their flesh could be affected by their diet. Over scores of generations, flambord farmers along the Thoon coast had bred up varieties of the creatures that could tolerate a lifelong intake of flavorsome substances, especially those that were peppery hot to the palate.
"Toop Zherev's flambords," I said, "are they among the hottest?"
"They are," he said, "though I thought you said you had only just heard of them."
"You may have misunderstood," I said. "I believe Zherev and I have an acquaintance in common: Osk Rievor. Would you know where I might find him?"
I watched to see if the name conjured the same suspicion in the chef as it had in Baltaz Thoring. It did not. Bleban rubbed the area beneath his lower lip and said, "I think I have heard Toop speak of him -- at least the name has lodged in my memory -- but I am sure we have not met."
"No matter," I said, "bring on the flambords!" To accompany this change of subject I made an enthusiastically flamboyant gesture that I had seen gourmets use at eateries like Xanthoulian's in Olkney, to indicate that I had decided on what I would eat and looked forward to the experience. The chef stepped back from the table as if I had performed an unmannerly act, then recovered his aplomb and went to the kitchen.
He returned with a salver of sauces and small rounds of bread, indicating that it was customary to enliven the palate with a mixture of tastes before the entree. At his recommendation, I ordered a half-bottle of the local wine and sat back to await developments.
I had chosen a corner table from which I could see the entire dining room and beyond, through an archway, into the lobby. I even had a view of the hotel's front doors. The dining room was sparsely peopled, the time being between the second and third meals of the day. The other diners were offworlders: a loud-voiced quartet of Hauserians, in hard-heeled boots and broad hats, sat surrounded by sea-fishing gear, chaffing each other about who had already caught what and what the catches would be when next they went out; an elderly couple, rotund and cozy with each other, were sampling from a great round platter of fishcakes and battered vegetables, conversing softly in the unmistakable slurred accent of Shemzee; and a young man in the far corner, bent over a notebook in which he would write, then pause, then write some more, wore the bulky coat and many-pocketed trousers of a Trevelyan on his Year Adrift.
The wine came and I sampled it, finding it more than drinkable. Only then did I taste the bread and sauces. I had learned never to put strange food into my mouth before arranging for something with which to wash out the cavity. With a full glass ready to hand, I dipped a piece of bread into a small tub of whitish paste and discovered a savory tartness. The thick red liquid in the next container was picklish-sweet, the green jelly was sour, and the yellow stuff in the shallow dish was fiery enough to make my eyes water while its vapors scorched my sinuses. I reached for the wine and doused the worst of the flames, then dabbed at my wet eyes until vision returned.
My integrator was speaking softly in my ear. "Regard the new arrival."
I reached for another piece of bread briefly lifting my eyes long enough to register that a thin man with hooded eyes had taken up a position at a table near the door. "Did he come in through the outer doors?" I said.
"Yes."
"Good," I said. "Now I can enjoy lunch."
"What about me?" said my assistant.
"Have some bread," I said, handing it a piece, "but I'd avoid the yellow sauce."
The flambords came, steaming and piled high on a platter, ringed by a melange of grains and legumes. The heat of the yellow appetizer had forewarned me, and though the shellfish were high on the scale of the most incendiary dishes I had ever inflicted upon my lips and tongue, I found that judicious sips of wine and regular palate-cleansings with morsels of bread allowed for a truly memorable meal.
My assistant chewed a piece of bread that I had dipped in the red sauce and kept an eye on the newcomer for me. He had the look of a Thoonian, especially the understated cut and color of his clothing. It seemed that either current fashion or -- and this I thought more likely -- deep-seated cultural norms required the people of the region not to make any display that brought attention to themselves. I cast a glance or two toward the object of my suspicions
and saw that when he was not doing the same to me, he was regarding the Hauserians with undisguised distaste.
"Do you detect any surveillance devices?" I whispered to my integrator while wiping my lips with a napkin.
"No," it murmured.
"Then this is passive observation."
"More bread and sauce," it said and for a moment the non-sequitur confused me. I was still not used to having my assistant's recently acquired bodily needs interrupt our professional relationship. I handed it another slice dipped in the red stuff.
"Unless," it said, chewing noisily, "two others are outside with a large sack, waiting for this fellow to come up behind and push you in."
"He does not look the type," I said. Indeed, as I watched him watch the Hauserians, I deduced that he was not the kind to rush into confrontation with those who offended his mores. Instead, he would probably craft arch and acid phrases with which to regale his friends far behind the offworlders' backs. I could not entirely fault that strategy: a great deal of self-confidence, not to mention superb physical strength and excellent coordination, was a minimum requirement for anyone who contemplated directing even the mildest insults toward four Hauserians.
I had made good progress with the flambords and now a gangly young man came to clear away the appetizer platter and to ask if all was to my satisfaction. I assured him that it was, again executing a gesture that vividly expressed a sense of brio; again, the young man seemed startled by the motion. I believed that I had found a thread that might reward a good tugging.
"The flambords were all that I had been led to expect and more," I said. "I would be interested to visit Zherev's station to see how they are produced."
"You might be disappointed," he said. "You would see rows of mesh containers stacked one atop each other in the shallows, surrounded by a fence to keep out the hungries."
"Hungries?" I said, and heard a description of a voracious predator, all mouth and maw, possessed of an indiscriminate appetite. If I had gone down to the beach I would have encountered warning signs and graphic images of what had befallen those who had ignored the advice.
I thanked the young man for the information, then moved two fingers in a manner that suggested he lean closer so that we could confer in private. He bent toward me and I said, in a hoarse whisper, "Actually, it is not Zherev's flambords that interest me."
I then closed and opened one eye, tapped the side of my nose with an index finger and raised and lowered my eyebrows two or three times. Then I breathed one word. "Derogation."
I watched his reaction, saw surprise, mild alarm, and an air of distaste that he politely sought to conceal. He straightened and brought his features under control. "I have nothing to do with that," he said.
"Of course not," I said, "but you know that Toop Zherev has a lot to do with it."
"He is a reliable supplier of flambords," he said. "That is the extent of our relationship."
"You also know that Osk Rievor is involved."
"I am not involved."
I believed I had gained enough understanding of Thoonian culture to tweak a nerve. "You think you are better than them?"
Bleban looked flustered, as if I had accused him of unseemly habits. "Not at all. They have their views, I have mine. Still, it seems an odd way to. . ." He broke off.
"Please go on," I said. "Your opinions interest me."
"I've said enough," he said. "Too much, in fact. Will there be anything else?"
"Directions to Toop Zherev's station?" I said.
"Simply follow the beach road north until you see a small white building with a flat roof." He hefted the platter and turned away, then stopped and turned back; I saw that his reluctance to speak was being overcome by innate good manners. "But you would be wasting your time to seek him there today."
"Thank you," I said. "Then where should I look?"
"Ask the man in the corner," he said. A moment later he was through the kitchen doors and I doubted he would be back. Indeed, not long after, the young woman from the front desk came to bring the bill for my meal.
I paid and went out into the lobby and again idled at the rack of brochures. "What is the watcher doing?" I asked my assistant.
"Watching," it said, "though he has pushed his chair back and is ready to rise."
I gathered the thoughts that had been circling in my mind and brought them in for a landing. "I think I know what we are dealing with," I said.
"Do you wish to tell me?" the integrator said.
"No." I went to the outer doors and stepped out onto the porch, then descended the steps toward the footpath that bordered the road. I heard the hotel doors open and close behind me and the creak of the verandah's boards as they took the weight of the Thoonian.
I stood as if pausing for a moment's thought that then led to a decision. Abruptly, I spun on my heel and returned to the hotel, bounding up the steps and recoiling in surprise to find the thin man in my path. I drew up sharply, steadying myself by laying a hand on his upper arm.
"I am so sorry," I said, "I did not see you there. Please accept my apologies."
He mumbled something about no harm having been done and I thanked him for his consideration then proceeded into the hotel. I told the young woman at the desk that I had decided not to stay after all.
"Was something not to your satisfaction?" she said.
"All was as it should be," I assured her. "In truth, I came to sample the flambords. I am an importer of novel foodstuffs and had heard tales from other travelers. But I am afraid they would be too strenuous an experience for my clientele. So I will take myself off to Polder, where I hear they have some remarkable creamberries."
I said all of this in a hearty voice and was sure that the man on the porch, who was now lingering by the open doors, had heard it all. I offered him another apology as I went by him on my way out. I then strode briskly back to Lord Afre's yacht and soon I was far above the Thoon and standing out for the great darkness.
I traveled at moderate speed for some time, then told the ship to halt.
"What is your theory?" my assistant asked, but again I declined to answer. A mistaken theory that never went farther than its originator's mind does not count as an error. "It would be--" I began.
"Yes, yes," it cut me off. "I know the rest."
Suddenly I was aware of my other self. More than that, I was aware that he was decidedly agitated. "What is wrong?" I said, inwardly.
He did not answer for a moment. I sensed that he was gathering his thoughts. "It must have been a dream," he said. "I was in darkness and there was something unpleasant nearby. It sensed that I was there and it was reaching out for me, groping with strong hands."
Not good, I thought.
My thoughts were not audible to him unless I consciously voiced them, but he could not help sense my emotions, as I did his. "It was only a dream," he said. "I am not going mad."
I sought to mollify him. "You are more prone to emotion than I am," I said. "It makes sense that your dreams would be more colorful."
I brought the focus back to the matter of Osk Rievor. "He works from behind a screen," I said. "Lascalliot and this Zherev are his agents, while he remains but a mysterious name."
My sharer said, "That feels correct. He is at the heart of whatever is going on here."
For a moment it was like the way we had been before he emerged, when I would lay an analysis before the intuitive part of my psyche and receive a response. The process had always brought a good feeling, a sense of completeness that I realized I would never know again.
"That is not so," he said. "Our relationship stays the same."
"Except much more complex," I replied.
"That is the nature of relationships. They are dynamic, or they are moribund."
"Which are we?" I said.
"It would be premature to say," he answered.
#
We watched the shadow of night creep across the face of Great Gallowan. When the terminator line reached the T
hoon coast I instructed the Orgillous to take us back. But we did not land at the spaceport. Instead, we hovered high above the Calamitous Ocean, shielded by a tower of clouds from the point of view of anyone at our former landing point.
I activated a device that I had brought with me from my workroom and viewed its display. A map of the Thoon appeared, then a bright pinpoint of red light began pulsing between the sea and the mountains. I adjusted the settings until the scale of the map showed the spaceport and the adjacent area. The pinpoint was now positioned on a road, traveling inland at a speed much faster than a man could walk. That indicated that its source, a tiny bead stuck to the sleeve of the man who had watched me at the hotel, was proceeding by some kind of vehicle into the foothills east of the spaceport.
I had my assistant link the scanning device to the yacht's more powerful percepts. Now I saw that the thin man was riding a two-seat skimmer along a narrow road through a thinly populated rural district. Far ahead of him, the road ended at a substantial building that sat atop a low rise that was the lowest of a series of land-ripples that eventually led up to the eroded mountains that were the region's eastern boundary. I scanned the building: on a wide apron at its front, a number of vehicles were parked, with a few more coming up the winding road that led to the place. A stream of people were entering through a set of high, wide double doors.
"Our friend was left to watch and make sure we did not return," I hypothesized. "Now he is hurrying to join the rest of his cohorts."
I saw no one approaching the common destination from the heights above, so I had the ship turn off its running lights and make a wide half-circle through the night sky to bring us in from the east. Lord Afre's vessel was superbly maintained, its gravity obviators emitting only the most discreet humming as the Orgillous set itself down in a deep hollow that dimpled the slope above the large building.
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