Araminta Station (50 page)

“The concept lacks merit,” declared Alvary Irling. “It is not my business to collect your ransoms for you.”

“To the contrary!” said Bodwyn Wook. “It is a noble and expeditious idea, and simplifies the entire transaction.”

“Perhaps from your point of view. I am a banker, not an altruist.”

“Has it ever been any different?” asked Bodwyn Wook. “The terms are mutually contradictory.”

“I know nothing of these persons; they show me no collateral, and I have no assurance of repayment.”

“Sit down at the table and make out promissory notes. For you it should be all in a day’s work, with even the possibility of profit to enliven your task.”

“This is irregular, inconvenient and bad business,” grumbled Alvary Irling. “A thousand difficulties lie in ambush ahead.”

“Not at all,” said Bodwyn Wook. “Prepare a draft upon your bank to the sum of six million and six thousand sols, and we will transmit it through the ordinary channels. As soon as the money is in our hands, the doors of the jail will open before you.”

Scharde asked: “What is the name of your bank?”

“I am the Bank of Mircea.”

“A solid institution!” said Bodwyn Wook. “Under happier circumstances it would be a pleasure doing business with you. Before you leave us, I may consult you in regard to my investments.”

Chapter VI, Part 5

Glawen stood by the Hotel Araminta registration desk, considering the persons present in the lobby. A large contingent had just arrived aboard the Perseian Lines’ packet
Sublume Overdyn
e; was it possible that some of these apparently polite and well-behaved folk held vouchers which would entitle them to a “Perfection of Joy” excursion on Thurben Island?

He studied first one group, then another. They need not be exclusively male; according to Saffin, Sibil had planned to entertain a party of four men and four women. Anyone traveling to Yipton might be considered a suspect.

These persons should not be hard to isolate. Visitors to Yipton already were examined to ensure that they carried no hard currency; the search might well be extended to include Perfection of Joy vouchers.

And then? Glawen turned away. These decisions happily were not his to make.

Glawen went to the manager’s office and carefully studied the guest register, making such notes as he thought necessary.

The work required two hours. When he had finished he left the hotel and set out for the Old Arbor. Here he would meet his father, who had been making similar investigations at the spaceport terminal.

As Glawen passed the airstrip hangar he was hailed by Chilke. “Where are you bound for?”

“The Old Arbor.”

“I’ll stroll along with you, if there’s no objection’“

“None whatever.”

The two walked along the beach road, then turned up Wansey Way. “I’ve been wanting to consult with you,” said Chilke. “There’s something gnawing at my mind.”

“If there’s something wrong, I didn’t do it.”

“It’s something wrong I once did. Your father let fall a few words about Thurben Island and he mentioned a big bad-tempered lady by the name of Sibil.”

“I remember her very well.”

“According to Scharde, who took the information from you, this Sibil wore a black tattoo on her forehead: a two-pronged fork with the points turned in toward each other.”

“That’s my impression. I had only one good look, but it sticks with me.”

“All this is very odd,” said Chilke. “I can’t begin to understand what is going on.”

“How so?”

After a moment Chilke said: “I seem to recall telling you, a few years back, how I happened to arrive at Araminta Station.”

“So you did, although I don’t remember the details, I’m ashamed to say. Namour was involved, as I recall. You worked on a ranch where the lady in charge wanted to marry you.”

“That’s close enough. Do you recall how I described the lady?”

“Not really. I think you said she was tall and big and somewhat portly.”

“That’s true, so far is it goes. Also she had white skin, and a tattoo on her forehead: a two-prong fork, with the points bent in toward each other.”

“And you suspect that she might be Sibil?”

“Not having seen Sibil, I can’t say. But I know something for sure: it wasn’t just coincidence that brought me here to Araminta Station. But if not coincidence, then what, and why? Namely, why me, Eustace Chilke? If I asked Namour, he’d laugh in my face.”

“No doubt you’re right. It staggers me to think of the things Namour knows and keeps to himself.”

Chilke laughed. “Namour is a marvel. But I’m interested in what this Sibil lady looked like, other than that she was big, mean and tattooed.”

“You’ve covered the main points. She had a man’s shoulders, big heavy hips and a big belly, all muscle, but no bust to speak of: just two shrunken bags which she tried to ignore. She had a long jaw, sunken cheeks, a long low nose that might have been broken once upon a time in a fight. Her skin was white as chalk, and her mouth was just a gray mark. Her hair? It was sandy brown and stiff, like a scrub brush. All taken with all, I’d call her middling-ugly, and she smelled bad to boot.”

“That doesn’t sound much like Madame Zigonie, tattoo and big arse regardless. She had a round face with round cheeks and a fine bust, not to mention reddish-black curls.”

“The hair could have been a wig.”

“I don’t think so. I’m satisfied Sibil was someone else. You should try to find out where ladies wear that kind of tattoo.”

“That’s a good idea. We’ll call IPCC Information; we’re affiliates, as I guess you know.”

“That makes you a full-fledged IPCC agent. People take that rank seriously around the Reach.” Chilke came to a halt. “I’ve learned what I wanted, so I’ll get back to work.”

Glawen went on to the Old Arbor. Scharde had not yet arrived. He seated himself at a table to the side, in the dappled shade of the foliage. He ordered a dish of salted fish and a flask of the Diffin Soft Green Elixir, and settled himself to wait.

Time passed. Glawen ordered another flask of wine and, leaning forward, tilted the goblet back and forth, sending films of light swirling through the pale green liquid.

An expanse of russet satin obtruded across his vision. Slowly he raised his eyes, knowing full well what to expect: a black vest embroidered with purple birds in green vines, a thick white neck, a large face from which black eyes glittered like fire opals and, surmounting all, a great tumble of dark curls, constrained by some mysterious means in a quasi-cylindrical shape, although recently Spanchetta had taken to wearing roguish little curls down over each ear.

Spanchetta inspected Glawen with heavy jocosity, only partially masking dislike and disapproval. Glawen stared back like a bird hypnotized by a snake.

Spanchetta asked: “Is this how the Bureau B types toil away the hours? I see that I am attached to the wrong bureau. I too enjoy my rest.”

“You are making a mistake,” said Glawen politely. “I am here by order of my superiors. Despite appearances, I am hard at work.”

Spanchetta gave a curt nod. “Since you have nothing better to do, perhaps you will provide me some information.”

“I will do my best. Do you care to sit?”

Spanchetta settled into a chair across the table. “Explain, if you will, the secrecy which now pervades Bureau B. Everyone knows that something is in the air, but no one troubles to elucidate. Why, then, pray tell me, all this furtive activity?”

Glawen smilingly shook his head. “You put me at a disadvantage. I cannot properly answer you.”

“Certainly you can! Did you not hear my question? Have you lost the use of your tongue?”

“Assume,” said Glawen, “that these secrets existed. Assume that for some reason they had been confided to me. In such a case, I would not be allowed to reveal my knowledge to everyone who casually put a question to me. This is a hypothetical case, of course; still, if you wish to set your mind at ease, why not make your inquiries of Bodwyn Wook?”

Spanchetta made a contemptuous sound. “You are very verbose; uncharacteristically, I must say. It is more than noticeable. How much wine have you consumed, as you sit here working?”

“Not a great deal. May I order a flask for you?”

“Thank you, no. I must shortly return to my own work, and it would not do to stagger into my office singing and dancing, as seems perfectly acceptable at Bureau B.”

In order to change the subject, and for lack of a better topic, Glawen asked: “How goes it with Arles? Have you had news? Or are his activities also classified ‘secret’?”

Before Spanchetta could blurt a response, Scharde approached the table. He seated himself and looked quizzically at Spanchetta. “Are you just coming or just going? Or will you join us in a cup or two of wine?”

Spanchetta hesitated, then with great dignity acquiesced to the invitation. “I have been trying to learn the meaning of the muted whispers and furtive signals which are prevalent every time two or more Bureau B people get together. Glawen has found a clever means to evade questions; he proposes all sorts of hypotheses and conundrums, and while I am puzzling out the answers, he changes the subject. Perhaps you have a wider range of discretion.”

“I hope so. In sheer point of fact, there is much to preoccupy us nowadays, what with events on Stroma and Titus Pompo ever more of a nuisance. We are about to lose patience with him.”

Glawen said blandly: “Just as you came up, Spanchetta was about to report the latest news of Arles.”

“That is not quite accurate,” said Spanchetta with a sniff. “I have had no news.”

“Ah well, Arles is probably engrossed in his own affairs,” said Scharde. He poured a goblet for Spanchetta. “I still wonder that you encouraged him to marry a collateral, and a Laverty at that.”

Spanchetta replied in a plangent voice. “I did not encourage the match. Indeed, I was astounded that Arles should take such a step without consulting me. He suspected, perhaps, that Drusilla, with her ambiguous antecedents, would not have been my first choice.”

“The hay is in the barn now,” said Scharde.

“Precisely so.” Spanchetta drank half the contents of the goblet at a gulp. She set it back down with a thump. “In any event, you are a fine one to cavil, when I recall how you misled and mistreated poor Smonny, and drove her to distraction.”

“It was a tragic case,” said Scharde. “Still, I suspect that she ended up in good shape. She was a woman of great persistence. It’s odd that you never heard from her.”

“Not altogether. Simonetta was a sensitive and truly delightful girl.”

“Something of a hellion, so I recall. Spanny and Smonny: the two of you made quite a pair.”

Spanchetta disdained comment. She drained the goblet and rose to her feet. “Not being employed in Bureau B, I find that I must go to work, none the wiser - naturally enough - for all my questions.”

Spanchetta marched away and departed the Old Arbor. Scharde brought out a notebook. “I have been to the ferry terminal, which made me a few minutes late. But no matter; I noted down a most informative list. These are just names, but we can match them against the spaceport list and the hotel list and discover the home worlds.”

“Something occurred to me while I was at the hotel. A new shipload of tourists arrived this morning. Some of them might be carrying Perfection of Joy vouchers.”

“True,” said Scharde. “I’ll mention the matter to Bodwyn Wook; maybe he’ll want to look into the possibility. For now, let’s compare our lists.”

Chapter VI, Part 6

Upon leaving the old Arbor Glawen went directly to the Bureau B offices, where he was intercepted by Hilda, the thin and astringent secretary. Hilda distrusted all Clattucs for what she felt to be their “fleering and domineering” habits; she regarded Glawen with particular suspicion, since to the typical Clattuc qualities he added another dimension of crafty and almost sinister politeness which could only be contrived. No question about it! Glawen was a master of intrigue; how else had he progressed so far and so fast in the good opinion of the supervisor? Therefore, to Glawen’s request that he be immediately allowed access to Bodwyn Wook, Hilda stated that Bodwyn Wook did not wish to be disturbed, and had issued orders to this effect - which, in a certain sense, was the case.

After Glawen had cooled his heels for an hour, Bodwyn Wook looked into the outer office and saw Glawen sitting in a chair. Bodwyn Wook jerked to a halt. “Glawen! why are you sitting so placidly? Have you nothing better to do?”

“I have indeed, sir, but your secretary prefers that I sit here in this chair.”

Bodwyn Wook raked Hilda with a cold stare. “What foolishness is this? Surely you must know that Glawen is to be sent in the moment he shows himself?”

“Your orders were explicit.”

“No matter! Interpret them with a more flexible intelligence henceforth! You have wasted everyone’s time! Come, Glawen.”

Bodwyn Wook led the way into his office and dropped into his great black chair. “What have you learned?”

Glawen placed three sheets of paper on the desk. “My father and I sorted through records at the spaceport, the hotel and the ferry. These are the names which match up with the three excursions.”

Bodwyn Wook studied the lists. “The first party would be this group from Natrice: Sir Mathor Borph and Sir Lonas Medlyn from Halcyon City; also SS. Guntil, SS. Foum, SS. Nobile, SS. Koldach, SS. Rolp and SS. Buler from Lanklands. SS.? These honorifics mystify me. What does ‘SS.’ indicate?”

“I don’t know.”

Bodwyn Wook put the Natrice sheet aside. “The second party: six folk from Tassadero, which I believe to be a planet of Zonk’s Star. Zonk, of course, was Zab Zonk the Pirate, infamous up and down the Wisp. Hmm. I see no reference to Sibil.”

“We think that she might be ‘S. Devella of Pogan’s Point.’”

“These other men derive from Lutwiler Country. What signifies this word in parentheses: ‘Zubenites’?”

“I looked up Tassadero in the reference guide. Fexelburg is the spaceport: a ‘modern, progressive city,’ according to the guide. Lutwiler Country is out on the Eastern Steppe, and is populated by members of the Zubenite sect.”