Ecce and Old Earth tcc-2

by Jack Vance

  But I hear Madame Lenk! You had best tell her what has happened while I am here to corroborate the tale.”

  "No fear this time,” said Lenk with a sour grin. "She heard you calling on the telephone. I don’t see how you managed it without rousing the Countess.”

  “I spoke softly, if you remember. And she was snoring to outdistance the thunder. There was no problem.”

  “Yes, of course. Perhaps I should have called Baro. I'm sure he could give a good account of himself.”

  “Perhaps so. Still, the fewer who know, the better.”

  In the morning all proceeded according to routine. As soon as possible, Wayness rescued the key ring, restored the proper key to its place, then went out on the lawn. Ten minutes later she returned triumphantly with the keys.

  Countess Ottilie was only moderately pleased. “It is what you should have done last night, to save nine hours of anxiety" I slept not a wink."

  While Baro was occupied grooming the dogs Wayness departed Mirky Porod. She rode the omnibus into Tzem. From the telephone in The Iron Pig she called Mirky Porod. Lenk appeared on the screen and stared slack-jawed at Wayness' image. "Marya? What are you up to?”

  "Mr. Lenk, it is a complicated matter and I am sorry to leave you so abruptly, but I received an urgent message which I can't ignore. I have called to say goodbye. Please make my explanations to the Countess.”

  "But she will be shattered! She has come to depend on you, just like all the rest of us!”

  "I am sorry, Mr. Lenk, but now I see the omnibus and I must go.”

  CHAPTER VII

  I.

  Wayness rode the omnibus from Tzem to Draczeny, and apparently was not followed. At Draczeny she changed to a slideway car and was conveyed at great speed to the west.

  Late in the afternoon the car halted at Pagnitz, a transfer station on the route which continued all the way across the continent to Ambeules. Wayness pretended to ignore the stop; then, at the last possible instant, jumped to the station platform. For a moment she stood watching to see if anyone else had altered his or her plans at the last minute, but no one had done so — specifically no plump little man in a dark suit with a black mustache like a smudge across his pallid face.

  Wayness took looking at the Inn of the Three Rivers. From her room she telephoned Pirie Tamm at Fair Winds. Pirie Tamm spoke cordially: "Aha, Wayness It is good to hear your voice! Where are you calling from?”

  “At the moment I am at Castaing, but I am leaving at once for Maudry and the Historical Library. I will call you as soon as possible.”

  “Very well; I won’t keep you on the line. Until tomorrow. “Half an hour later Wayness placed a second call to Pirie Tamm at the bank in Yssinges.

  The circumstances had made him testy. “I never thought I would see the day when I distrusted my own telephone! It’s a damned outrage!”

  “I'm sorry, Uncle Pirie. I know that I am causing no end of trouble.”

  Pirie Tamm held up his hand. ”Nonsense girl! You are doing nothing of the sort of the sort. It’s the uncertainty I find galling! I have had experts in to check out the entire system but they have found nothing. They also guarantee nothing. There are too many ways to tap into a system, so we must continue to take precautions, at least for the time. Now then, what have you been doing?”

  As succinctly as possible Wayness told of her activities. "I am now on the way to Trieste where I hope to find Xantief, whoever he is."

  Pirie Tamm gave a deprecatory grunt, the better to mask his feelings. “It seems, then, that you have climbed — or is it descended? — another rung on the ladder. Either way, should we consider this an achievement?”

  "I hope so. The ladder is already longer than I might like."

  “Hmf, yes indeed. Stand by a moment while I look into the directory. We'll pick up a line on this fellow.”

  Wayness waited. A minute passed and another. Pirie Tamm’s face returned to the screen. " 'Alcide Xantief’: this is his nature. There is a business address, no more: Via Malthus 26,Trieste Old Port. He is listed as a dealer in ‘Arcana,’ which means whatever you want it to mean.”

  Wayness made a note of the address. “I wish I could rid myself of the conviction that I was being followed.”

  "Ha! Perhaps you are, for a fact, being followed and this is the basis of your conviction.”

  Wayness gave a cheerless laugh. ”But I don’t see anyone. I just imagine things, like dark figures stepping back into the shadows when I turn to look. I wonder if I might not be neurotic."

  “I hardly think so,“ said Pirie Tamm. “You have good reason to be nervous.”

  "So I keep telling myself. But it is no great comfort. I would prefer to be neurotic, I think, with nothing to fear."

  "Certain kinds of surveillance are hard to avoid,” said Pirie Tamm. “You probably know of tracer buttons and tags.” And he suggested several procedures of avoidance. ”Like the telephone experts, I guarantee nothing."

  “I'll do what I can,” said Wayness. “Goodbye for now, Uncle Pirie.”

  During the evening, Wayness bathed, washed her hair, scrubbed her shoes, handbag and suitcase in order to remove any radiant substance which might have been sprayed or smeared upon them. She laundered her cloak and outer garments and made sure that no spy cell or tracer button had been affixed to the hem of her cloak. In the morning she used all the ploys suggested by Pirie Tamm and others of her own contrivance to elude any possible follower or flying spy cell, and at last set off for Trieste by subterranean slideway.

  At noon she arrived at the Trieste Central Depot, which served New Trieste, north of the Carso, one of the few remaining urban areas still dominated by the Technic Paradigms: a checkerboard of concrete and glass shapes, rectilinear and identical save for the numbers on the flat roofs. The ‘Technic Paradigms' had been applied to New Trieste, and thereafter rejected almost everywhere else on Earth in favor of construction less intellectual and less brutally efficient.

  From the Central Depot, Wayness rode by subway ten miles south to the old Trieste station: a structure of black iron webbing and opal-green glass covering five acres of transit terminals, markets, cafes and a cheerful animation of porters, school children, wandering musicals, persons arriving and departing.

  At a kiosk Wayness bought a map, which she took to a cafe by a pair of flower stalls. While she lunched on mussels in a bright red sauce redolent of garlic and rosemary she studied the map. On the front page the editor had included an instruction:

  “If you would know the secrets of Old Trieste, which are many, then you must come upon them reverentially and gradually, not like a fat man jumping into a swimming pool, but rather as a devout acolyte approaching the altar.”

  — A. Bellors Foxtehude.

  Wayness unfolded the map and after a puzzled glance or two decided that she was holding it upside down. She turned it about, but nothing was clarified; she had evidently been holding it correctly in the first place. Again she reversed the map, to what must be the proper orientation, with the Adriatic Sea on the right hand. For several minutes she studied the tangle of marks. According to the legend, they indicated streets, major and minor cartels, incidental waterways, alleys, bridges, special walkways, squares, plazas, promenades and major edifices. Each Item was identified by a printed super-or sub-script, and it seemed that the shortest streets had been assigned the longest names. Wayness looked from right to left in bewilderment and was about to return to the kiosk for a less challenging map when she noticed Via Malthus, on the western bank of the Canal Bartolo Seppi, in the Porto Vecchio district.

  Wayness folded the map and looked around the cafe. She discovered no portly waxen-skinned gentleman with a black mustache, and no one else seemed to be paying her any unusual attention. Unobtrusively she departed the cafe and the shelter of the station, to find the sun hidden behind scudding gray clouds and a raw wind blowing in from the Adriatic.

  Wayness stood for a moment, skirts flapping against her legs, then ran to a ca
b rank and approached the driver of a three-wheeled cab, of a sort which seemed to be in general use. She showed the driver her map, pointed out Via Malthus and explained that she wanted to be taken to a hotel nearby. The driver responded confidently: “The Old Port is charming! I will take you to the Hotel Sirenuse. You will find it both convenient and agreeable, nor are its charges a confiscation.”

  Wayness climbed into the cab and was whirled away through Old Trieste: a city of unique character, built half on a narrow apron of land under the stony hills and half on piles driven into the Adriatic. Canal of dark water flowed everywhere, washing the foundations of the tall narrow houses. A dark mysterious city, thought Wayness.

  By slants this way and that, by sudden darts over humped bridges, into the Plaza Dalmatio by the Via Condottiere and out by the Via Strada, went the cab, with Wayness unable trace the course on her map so that if the driver were inserting a mile or two into the route she had no sure way of knowing. At last the cab swung into the Via Severin, crossed the Canal Flacco by the Ponte Fidelius and into a district of crabbed streets and crooked canals, below a gaunt skyline of a thousand odd angles and shapes. This was the Porto Vecchio hard by the wharves: a district silent by night but bustling by day with the movement of the locals and the surge of tourists, in and out, predictable as tides.

  The Way of the Ten Pantologues ran beside the Bartolo Seppi Canal, and was lined with bistros, cafes, flower stalls, booths selling fried clams and potatoes in paper packets. Along the side streets dim little shops dealt in specialty merchandise: curios, off-world artifacts, incunabula; rare weapons and musical instruments pitched in every key imaginable. Certain shops specialized in puzzles, cryptography, inscriptions in unknown languages; others sold coins, glass insects, autographs, minerals mined from the substance of dead stars. Still other shops purveyed softer stuff: dolls costumed in the styles of many times and places, also dolls cleverly programmed to perform acts polite and acts not at all polite. Spice shops vended condiments and scents, oils and esters, of an interesting sort; confectioneries sold cakes and bonbons available nowhere else on Earth, as well as dried fruits, syrups and glazes. A variety of shops displayed models of ships ancient trains and automobiles; while others specialized in models of spaceships.

  The cab driver took Wayness to the Hotel Sirenuse, a sprawling old hulk devoid of architectural grace, which had expanded over the centuries, annex by annex and now occupied the entire area between the Way of the Ten Pantologues and the Adriatic shore. Wayness was assigned a high ceilinged chamber at the back of the second floor. The room was cheerful enough, with pink and blue floral wallpaper, a crystal chandelier and glass doors giving upon a small balcony. Another door opened into a bathroom equipped with fixtures of playfully rococo design. On a buffet Wayness found the telephone screen, several books, including a truncated edition of Baron Bodissey’s monumental ten volumes: LIFE; also TALES OF OLD TRIESIE, by Fia della Rema; THE TAXONOMY OF DEMONS, by Miris Ovic. There was also a menu from the hotel restaurant, a basket of green grapes and a decanter of red wine on a tray, along with two goblets.

  Wayness ate a grape, poured herself half a glass of red wine and went out upon the balcony. She saw, almost directly below, the rotting old wharf, creaking to the slow Adriatic swells. Half a dozen fishing boats were moored alongside. Beyond was sky and sea, with veils of gray rain sweeping across the water. To the north, her view was circumscribed by a dark blur of shoreline, which disappeared entirely, behind the rain, at the edge of vision. For several minutes Wayness stood on the balcony, sipping the tart red wine. The damp wind blew into her face, bringing the scent of the wharf. This was Old Earth in one of its truest manifestations, she thought. Nowhere out among the stars would there be found a panorama like this. The wind blew fresh. Wayness drained the goblet, turned back into the room, closed the glass doors. She bathed, changed into gray-tan trousers tight at the hips, loose below the knees, gathered at the ankles, which she wore with a neat black jacket. After consideration, she put through a call to Fair Winds, and half an hour later was speaking with Pirie Tamm at the bank.

  “I see you arrived in safety,” said Pirie Tamm. “Were you followed?”

  “I don’t think so. But I can't be sure."

  “So, what now?”

  “I’ll be going off to see Xantief. His shop is not too far away. If I learn anything definite, I will call you. If not, I may wait a bit. Even when I don’t say anything, I'm afraid that the call might be traced.”

  “Hmf,” grunted Pirie Tamm. “So far as I know, that is not possible.”

  “Probably not. I suppose that you have had no word from Julian, or anyone else?”

  “Nothing from Julian, but a letter from your parents arrived this morning. Shall I read it?”

  “Please do!”

  The letter told her of Glawen’s homecoming, Floreste’s disgrace and execution, and Glawen’s absence in a solitary expedition to Shattorak on Ecce, from which, at the time or writing, Glawen had not yet returned.

  Wayness was not cheered by the letter. “I worry a great deal about Glawen,” she told Pirie Tamm. “He is utterly reckless when he thinks something needs to be done."

  “You are fond of him?”

  "Very much indeed."

  "He is a lucky fellow.”

  “It's nice of you to say so, Uncle Pirie, but I am lucky too — if he survives."

  “At the moment it's better that you worry about yourself. I imagine Glawen Clattuc would agree with me.”

  "I suppose he would. Goodbye then, Uncle Pirie.”

  Wayness descended to the lobby. The hotel was busy; folk came and went in a steady stream; others made rendezvous with friends. Wayness looked here and there, but recognized no one.

  The time was now three o'clock of a rather dank and misty afternoon. Wayness left the hotel and set out along the Way of the Ten Pantologues. Thin layers of fog floated across the hills and down over the slopes. Wisps, mists and dreary odors rose from the Bartolo Seppi Canal. The landscape was a collage of abstract shapes, black, brown, and gray.

  Wayness was gradually diverted from her thoughts by a tickling at the back of her neck. Could it be that once again she was being followed? Either this was so, or she had developed a vexing obsession. She stopped short and pretended interest in the window display of a candlemaker’s shop, meanwhile watching sidelong back over her shoulder. As usual, she saw nothing to nourish her suspicions.

  Still dissatisfied, she turned and walked back the way she had come, taking note of those whom she passed. No one seemed at all familiar — but still, that plump little man, bald with the cherubic pink face: could he have worn a black wig, a false mustache and skin-coloring to deceive her? It was possible. And that broad-shouldered young tourist, moon-faced, with the long yellow hair could that conceivably be the sinister young footman who had called himself Baro? Wayness grimaced. Nowadays anything was possible, and disguise was a fine art, what with flexible masks and lenses which altered not only the color but also the shape of eyes. Recognition no longer counted for much, and the only definite way to identify a follower was by his conduct.

  Wayness decided to put her theories to the test. She ducked into a dark little alley, then, ten feet along, stepped into an entry where she was hidden from view.

  Time passed: five minutes, ten minutes. Nothing of importance occurred. No one entered the alley nor so much as paused to look along its length. Wayness began to suspect that her nerves were issuing false alarms. She left her place of concealment and returned to the Way of the Ten Pantologues. A tall spare women wearing a black gown, with black hair gathered into a tight bun, stood nearby. She took note of Wayness and instantly raised her eyebrows in scorn, then sniffed swung about and marched away. Odd! thought Wayness. But perhaps not so odd. The woman might have assumed that Wayness had gone into the alley in order to relieve herself.

  There was, to Wayness' knowledge, no correct or approved method for explaining a mistake of this sort. Further, if Wayness had m
isinterpreted the woman's conduct, the explanations, no matter how delicately put, could very easily become complicated.

  Wayness departed the scene at the best speed she could manage with dignity.

  Another two hundred yards along, the Way brought her to the conflux of the Bartolo Seppi Canal with the Canal Daciano. A bridge, the Ponte Orsini, conveyed the Way over the Canal Daciano, where the Way met Via Malthus. Wayness turned to her right and walked slowly. Fifty yards along she came upon a dim little shop with a modest sign above the door. On a black ground faded gold cursive read:

  Xantief

  ARCANA

  The door was locked; the shop was empty. Wayness stood back and compressed her lips in annoyance. "Curse it all!” muttered Wayness to herself. “Does he think I have come all this way just to stand outside his door in the rain?” And indeed, the mist had become a drizzle.

  Wayness tried to look through the glass panes of the door, but saw nothing. It was possible that Xantief had stepped out for a moment and might soon return. Hunching her shoulders against the drizzle, she glanced at the shop to the right, which sold pomanders compounded from off-world herbs. The shop to the left specialized in jade medallions, about three inches in diameter, or possibly, they were buckles.

  Wayness sauntered to the far end of the Via Malthus, where it debouched upon the wharf. She paused, looked back along the street. No one seemed interested in her movements. She returned up Via Malthus and halted by the shop which sold the jade medallions. A sign in the door read:

  ALVINA IS IN!

  Enter

  Wayness pushed open the door and went into the shop. At a desk to the side sat a thin middle-aged woman with a jaunty short-billed fisherman's cap pulled down over russet-gray curls. She wore a heavy pullover of dark gray knit, a gray twill skirt with bright gray-green eyes she glanced sidelong at Wayness. “I see that you are new to Trieste, and never expected the rain."

  Wayness gave a rueful laugh. "It took me by surprise. But I came to visit the shop next door which is closed. Do you know Mr. Xantief's business hours?”