by Jack Vance
Wayness demurely seated herself. “I am Wayness Tamm.”
The conversion proceeded. Wayness presently inquired about caves in the mountains and legends of Inca gold. “It would be fun to find a great box of treasure.”
Evan looked over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t dare mention Professor Solomon, if Irena Portils were within hearing distance. But I think she has gone home for the day.”
“Who is Professor Solomon and who is Irena Portils?”
"Aha!" said Evan. “There you touch upon one of our most notorious scandals.”
“Tell me about it. I like scandals.”
Evan once again looked over his shoulder. “Irena Portils is part of the staff. As I understand it, she was once a dancer or some such thing, and went off-world with a troupe of entertainers. She returned married to an archeologist named Professor Solomon, who declared himself to be famous everywhere. He made a good impression and became one of the town dignitaries.”
"One evening, at a dinner party with friends, Professor Solomon seemed to become convivial and perhaps a trifle indiscreet. In strict confidence he told his friends he had come upon an old map which located a secret cave in which the conquistadores had hidden a treasure of newly minted gold doubloons. ‘Probably just a mare’s nest,’ said Professor Solomon, ‘but interesting all the same.’”
“A day or two later Professor Solomon slipped away into the mountains. His friends, as soon as they learned of his absence, put discretion aside and told everyone of Professor Solomon’s gold.”
“A month passed, and Professor Solomon returned. When his friends pressed him for information, he reluctantly showed them four gold doubloons, and said that he needed a few special tools to dig away the debris which now covered the chest. Shortly thereafter he disappeared again.”
“The news of his discovery excited a great deal of interest and also avarice. When Professor Solomon returned with four hundred doubloons, he was besieged with offers from collectors. He allowed several of the doubloons to be assayed, which diminished their value, so no one was surprised when he refused to test any of the others. One day at noon precisely he sold the doubloons. Swarms of excited collectors came swearing and screaming and waving their money in the air. Professor Solomon sold the doubloons in parcels of ten, and all four hundred were gone before the hour was over. Then Professor Solomon thanked the collectors for their interest, and said he was off to explore another cave which might yield an even greater treasure of Inca emeralds. He departed, amid acclaim and congratulations. This time he took Irena Portils with him.”
"Peace returned to Pombareales, but not for long. A few days later it became known that the collectors had all paid very large sums for doubloons stamped from lead, then plated over with a thin wash of gold. Their value was negligible.”
"Collectors are not a fatalistic lot. Consternation gave way to outrage and fury even none intense than the previous enthusiasm."
"So what happened?”
"Nothing. If Professor Solomon had been dragged from his hiding place, pelted with stones, hanged, drawn, quartered, then burnt alive at the stake, and afterwards whipped to within an inch of his life, and finally crucified upside down and forced to pay back all his debts at compound interest, the emotions might have been soothed. But he was nowhere to be found, and to this day no one has suggested amnesty for Professor Solomon. As for Irena Portils, she returned after a few years with her two children.
She claimed that Professor Solomon had deserted her. Further, she declared that she knew nothing of the swindle, and she wanted only to be left alone. No one could prove her complicity, though they tried hard enough. After a while Irena came to work at the library. The years went by and that is how things stand today.”
“And where is Professor Solomon? Do you think she keeps in touch with him?”
Evan smiled a chilly half-smile. “I don’t know. I would never dare to ask. She keeps herself to herself.”
“Has she no friends?”
"None, so far as I know. At the library, she does her work, she manages to speak politely when necessary, but she seems only half-focused, as if her thoughts were far away. Sometimes her tensions are so strong that everyone near becomes edgy. It’s as if great storms were raging inside her, and she were holding herself together only with effort."
“How odd.”
"Very odd, I would not like to be near if ever she lets go.”
'Hm.” Evan's remarks were discouraging. Irena Portils was her only link to Adrian Moncurio and by one means or another must be cultivated. Wayness said tentatively: "If I come to the library tomorrow, perhaps I will meet her.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Evan looked at her in surprise. “Why would you want to meet her?"
"I suppose I am interested in unusual people,” said Wayness lamely.
“She doesn’t come in tomorrow. It’s the day the doctor calls on her children. He sees them every week. Also, Irena works in the back room. You would not meet her in any case."
"It is no great matter.”
Evan smiled wistfully. “I could hope that you would be coming back regardless of Irena.”
"Possibly,” said Wayness. It seemed likely that she would in the end need someone's help. Evan? It would be cruel to exploit him. Still, as she had already noted, to make an omelet, at least one egg must be broken.
“If I have the opportunity, I'll come by again.”
Wayness returned to the hotel. The outdoor café fronting on the square was now animated with young business folk, groups of upper class matrons, ranchers and their spouses in town for an afternoons shopping. Wayness seated herself at a vacant table and ordered tea and nutcake. The wind had died; the sun shone warm. By raising her head and looking far off toward the west, she could see the loom of the Andes. Had it not been for her concerns, Wayness would have found the occasions very pleasant.
For want of any better occupation, Wayness pushed the teapot to the side, brought out paper and pen, and wrote another letter to her father and mother.
She concluded: “I find myself involved in a gigantic game of paper chase, played to occasionally unpleasant rules. At the moment I am hard against a certain Irena Portils, who stands between me and Adrian Moncurio (an old friend of Uncle Pirie, by some strange chance, or perhaps it is not so strange after all). This information, incidentally, is highly confidential, and must not be discussed with anyone but Glawen, for whom I hopefully enclose another note. Sooner or later I suppose I will discover what has been happening.”
In her note to Glawen, she again mentioned Irena Portils. "I don’t know how to approach her. She seems to be hyper-neurotic, whatever that means.”
"I wish this business were over. I find myself continually confused and baffled; I am walking around inside a kaleidoscope.”
“But I am not really complaining. When I look back I can actually find cause for encouragement. Step by step, inch by inch, I make progress. I must repeat that I am not at all pleased with Julian. He may or may not be a murderer, but he is many other things.”
“In regard to Irena Portils, I must use my ingenuity, and find some way to make her acquaintance. I don’t think that the library provides any real opportunity, but this seems to be her only contact with the outside world. Except for the doctor who visits her children every week. I wonder if something could be effected from this direction. I must think about this. As always, I wish you were here with me, and I also hope that you receive this letter.”
In this hope Wayness would be denied. By the time the letter arrived at Araminta Station, Glawen had already departed and was on his way to Earth.
Wayness took the letters to the nearby post office, returned to the hotel and went up to her room. She bathed. Then, thinking to resuscitate her morale, she dressed in one of her most attractive evening costumes: a soft black tunic and a skirt striped black and mustard-ocher. With her mood only slightly improved, she went down to the hotel restaurant for her dinner.
Wayness din
ed without haste on lamb chops and asparagus. By the time she had finished, twilight had arrived, to bring the young folk of Pombareales out for the evening promenade. Girls strolled clockwise around the square; the young men went counter-clockwise, the groups exchanging salutes and repartee as they passed each other. Some of the young men issued compliments; others feigned heart attacks or a convulsion in response to the impact of so much beauty. The most fervent bravos of all uttered passionate outcries, such as: 'Ay-yi-yi!’ or ‘Ahay! I am turning inside out!’ or ‘What exquisiteness!’ or ‘Caray! I have been ravished!" The girls ignored such excesses, sometimes with disdain, but none desisted from the promenade. Wayness went out to the café and seated herself at a table in the shadows. She ordered coffee and watched the moon rise into the Patagonian sky. Her presence did not go unnoticed; she was approached several times by socially inclined young men. One proposed that they visit the Cantina La Dolorosita for music and dancing; another wanted to order a pitcher of pisco punch so that they might drink and talk philosophy; a third invited Wayness to go riding with him in his fast car. They would speed across the pampas in the light of the full moon. “You will be intoxicated by the freedom and space!" he told her.
“That sounds nice," said Wayness. “But what if the car broke down, or you became ill, or something else happened and I had to walk back to Pombareales?”
“Bah!” growled the young men. “The most practical females are also the most dull; present company excepted, of course."
Wayness politely extricated herself from the invitation. She went up to her room and went to bed. She lay awake an hour, perhaps longer, looking up at the ceiling, thinking of places far and near, of persons she loved and others whom she hated. She reflected upon life, which was so new and dear to her and which someone had already tried to destroy, and of death, which presented little scope for serious analyses. Her thoughts returned to Irena Portils. She had seen the haggard face, with its clenched narrow jaw and lank loose hair a single time, but already she felt the quality of Irena’s personality.
Through the open window the sounds of the Promenade dwindled as the good obedient girls went home, and the others, perhaps, went for rides in the moonlight.
Wayness became drowsy. She had decided upon an avenue of approach to Irena Portils. It was an uncertain method which, at best, had perhaps one chance in three of getting off the ground. Still, it was better than nothing and Wayness felt a comforting intuition that she might succeed.
In the morning Wayness rose early, dressed in a gray tweed skirt, a white shirt and a dark blue jacket: a neat unobtrusive costume which might have been worn by a lesser bank clerk, or a junior teaching assistant, or even a university student of conservative views.
Wayness left her rooms and descended to the ground floor. She took her breakfast in the restaurant, then left the hotel.
The day was clear but windy, with sunlight of a pale cool color slanting into the square from the northeast. Wayness walked briskly down Calle Luneta, wind flapping at her skirt, dust swirls racing down the middle of the street. She turned up Calle Maduro and proceeded until Casa Lucasta was visible only a hundred yards ahead. Here she paused and took stock of the surroundings. Directly opposite she saw a small white house, dilapidated and untenanted, the glass broken from its windows so that they gazed, out upon the street with the bleary blank gaze of a drunkard. Wayness looked right and left, up and down the street. No one was watching. She waited for the passage of a wind-swept plume of dust, then, wrinkling her nose, ran across the street. After another furtive glance to right and left, she jumped up to the porch of the vacant house and drew back into the shadows of a shallow curtain wall. Here, sheltered from the wind, she could lurk unseen while watching to discover who approached along the street.
Wayness composed herself to wait: all day if need be, since she had no idea at what time the doctor might make his call at Casa Lucasta.
The time was close upon nine o'clock. Wayness made herself as comfortable as possible. A vehicle came along the street: a delivery truck loaded with building materials, evidently on its way to the cemetery. Another small vehicle appeared: a baker's van, delivering bread and other goods to houses along the street. A young man rode past on a motorcycle; the delivery truck returned from the cemetery. Wayness sighed and changed her position. The time was now five minutes before ten o'clock. A car of medium size painted an institutional white and black turned into Calle Maduro. This was almost certainly the car she was expecting. Jumping down from the porch, she ran to the sidewalk and as the car drew near, stepped out into the street and made urgent signals. The car slowed and halted. Wayness was relieved to find that the inscription on the side read:
INSTITUTE OF PUBLIC HEATH
— Montalvo-
ADAPTATIONAL SERVICES
She had not stopped the wrong car.
The driver and Wayness examined each other. She saw a dark-haired man of medium stature, aged perhaps thirty-three or thirty-four, sturdy of physique, with a square resolute face. Wayness thought him quite good-looking, and she also thought that he seemed reasonable and open-minded, which was good, although the rather grim set of his mouth might imply a lack of humor, which was bad. He was dressed casually, in a green pullover and tan twill trousers, indicating a lack of institutional formality, which again, from Wayness' point of view, was good. On the other hand, his expression, as he looked her over, was impersonal and analytical, which was bad, since she would be unable to melt him with an appealing smile and a bit of flirtation. Such being the case, she must accept the more difficult task of using her intelligence.
"Yes, miss?"
"You are the doctor?"
He looked her up and down. “Are you sick?”
Wayness blinked. Humor? If so, it was sardonic. She saw that she had her work cut out. “I am quite well, thank you. But still I have something important to say to you.”
“That sounds a bit ominous. Are you sure you have the right person? I am Dr. Armand Olivano; please do not shoot me by mistake.”
Wayness held up her empty hands. “You are safe. I only want to make a suggestion which I hope you will consider wise and necessary.”
Dr. Olivano deliberated a second or two, he gave an abrupt shrug. “Since you put it like that, I can hardly refuse to listen." He opened the door. “I have an appointment up ahead, but it can wait a few minutes."
Wayness climbed into the car. “Perhaps you'll be kind enough to drive somewhere and park where we can talk."
Dr. Olivano made no protest. He turned the car about, drove back down Calle Maduro and parked in the shade of the eucalyptus trees beside the poultry cooperative. “Is this satisfactory?"
Wayness nodded. She spoke carefully: “Since I want you to take me seriously, I must start with some facts. My name is Wayness Tamm, which of course will mean nothing to you. But let me ask this: are you a conservationist, philosophically or even emotionally?”
“Of course. Who isn’t?"
Wayness made no direct response. “Are you acquainted with the Naturalist Society?”
'"There I draw a blank."
"No great matter. There is very little left now. My uncle, Pirie Tamm, is Secretary. I am Assistant Secretary. There are three or four very old members, and that's about all. A thousand years ago the Society was an important organization. It became trustee of the world Cadwal, at the end of Mircea’s Wisp at the back of Perseus, and established a permanent Conservancy. I was born on Cadwal; my father, in fact is the Conservator.”
Wayness spoke on for several minutes. As briefly as possible she described the crisis on Cadwal, her discovery that the Charter and the Grant had been lost and her attempts to find them again. “I have traced them this far."
Dr. Olivano was surprised. "Here? In Pombareales?"
“Not exactly. The next rung on the ladder is Adrian Moncurio, a professional tomb robber. At Pombareales he is known as Professor Solomon, and is famous for his lead doubloons.”
“Ah! Now I
am beginning to understand! We are closing in on Casa Lucasta!"
"So we are. Irena Portils may be Moncurio’s legal spouse, though I suspect not. Still, she is probably the only person on Earth who knows where to find him."
Dr. Olivano nodded. “What you have to say is interesting, but you may accept, as an article of faith, that Irena Portils will tell you nothing."
“That was my own feeling, after I saw her walking along the street. She seems a determined woman and under great strain."
"That is an understatement. I took her some forms to be filled out, routine inquiries regarding the family situation. The law insists upon knowing the father's address, but Madame Portils would reveal nothing. Not name, age, birthplace, occupation, or current address of her missing spouse. I pointed out that if she persisted the law might take away her children and put them in an institution. She became very agitated. “Such information is important to no one but me. He is off-world; that is enough for you to know. If you take my children I will do something terrible.” I believed her, and said that perhaps it was not necessary after all. Later I wrote in a false name and address, and everyone was satisfied. But it’s clear that Madame Portils herself is a border line case. She hides behind a mask as best she can, especially when I come to call, since I represent the awful majesty of the Institute. I know that she hates me; she can't help herself — especially since the children seem to like me."
"Can they be cured?"
“That's hard to say, since no one can define their affliction. They fluctuate; sometimes they seem almost normal; a few days later they are lost in their reveries. The girl is Lydia; she is often rational — unless she is put under stress. The boy is Myron. He can glance at a printed page and then reproduce it in any scale, large or small, letter by letter, word for word. The drawing is exact, and he seems to derive satisfaction in finishing the job — but he can't read, and he will not speak.”
"Can he speak?”
"Lydia says that he can, but is not so sure after all that it was not the wind talking to her as it often does. If the wind blows at night, she must be watched or she will climb from her window and run through the dark. This is when she becomes difficult, and must be sedated. They are a fascinating pair, and I am in awe of them. One day I set up a chess board in front of Myron. I explained the rules and we started to play. He barely glanced at the board and trounced me in twenty moves. We played again. He looked at the board only long enough to move his piece and beat me with contemptuous ease in seventeen moves. Then he became bored and lost interest."
