Araminta Station (61 page)

When Glawen turned to leave, Kirdy jumped to his feet and followed. He caught up with Glawen just outside the main portal. “Aha!” said Glawen. “You weren’t able to sleep?”

“Something like that,” said Kirdy grimly.

The two walked around the plaza. Kirdy compared the area unfavorably with the central square at Soumjiana. “Look! Right and left, in all directions! You will find not a single sausage grill!”

“Sausages are not in style this season.”

“That must be the answer. Ugh! What a dreary place! I have never liked Tassadero. Zonk’s Star is a sorry excuse for a sun!” Kirdy squinted contemptuously up toward Zonk’s Star. “It is infested with mildew. Such light cannot be healthy.”

“It’s just light. Not much of it, of course.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. I have had it on good authority that Zonklight includes a peculiar vibration found nowhere else. It rots the teeth and does odd things to the fingernails.”

“Where did you hear this?”

“Floreste learned this and much more from a scientist who had studied the subject in depth.”

“I saw no such information in the tourist brochure. They said: ‘Zonk’s Star floats through the sky like an enormous pearl, shimmering and wavering through a hundred subtle colors. The distances of Tassadero are particularly charming’ or words to that effect.”

“That’s pure bosh! They are howling liars, these tourist blokes.”

Glawen had no comment to make. The two arrived at the IPCC offices. Upon entering they found themselves in a large room furnished with four desks and a line of heavy settees, durable if lacking in style. At the moment the room was empty of staff except for a young woman working at a desk. She was tall, slender, with short ash-blond hair, and a look of easy competence. She wore the regulation uniform which made no concessions to gender save in cut: dark blue blouse with red piping, dark blue breeches and black ankleboots. Two white stars at each shoulder indicated her rank. She measured Glawen and Kirdy with two swift glances and spoke in a crisp neutral voice: impersonal but far from unpleasant.

“Sirs? Do you have business with us?”

“Nothing urgent,” said Glawen. “I am Captain Clattuc and this is Sergeant Wook; we are affiliates from Araminta Station on Cadwal; we thought it proper to let you know that we were in the neighborhood.”

“A very good idea! I’ll turn you over to Commander Plock, who will want to meet you. Will you come this way? There is no great formality around here.”

She took the two to a side office and spoke through the doorway: “Off-world visitors, Commander: Captain Clattuc and Sergeant Wook, from Cadwal.”

Commander Plock jumped to his feet: a tall man, broad of shoulder, narrow of hip, with short thick black hair, glowing hazel eyes and features of jutting bone and corded cartilage. Odd! thought Glawen; Plock looked anything but a slave to regulation. Plock pointed to chairs. “Be seated, if you will. You are Captain Clattuc and this is Sergeant Wook, correct?”

“Correct, sir.”

“This is your first time on Tassadero?”

“For me it is,” said Glawen. “Kirdy has been here before, with Floreste’s Mummers.”

“And what are your impressions, so far?”

“Fexelburg is a lively place, certainly. The folk dress with great care and the car drivers are all dedicated musicians. The police would seem to be extremely alert. Even suspicious. Almost as soon as we arrived at the hotel, Inspectors Barch and Tanaquil were on hand to pay their respects.”

“Almost insulting,” said Plock. “On your next visit use more expressive titles: ‘Plenipotentiary High Exterminator Clattuc,’ ‘Supreme Warlord of the Araminta Armies Wook’: something of the sort. Then they will send a more dignified delegation out to learn your business - which I assume is of a professional nature?”

“I’ll be glad to explain, if you have the time.”

“If Barch and Tanaquil took the time, I guess I can do the same. Proceed.”

Glawen explained the circumstances which had brought Kirdy and himself to Tassadero. Like Barch and Tanaquil, Plock was puzzled. “Why the Zubenites? I’d expect such antics of the Fexels. Announce a fashionable, very expensive, new way to fornicate and they would fight to thrust their money at you.”

“This is more or less what I heard from Barch and Tanaquil. They were cordial enough and spoke of full cooperation; but I don’t think it means much. They want us to stay away from Lutwiler Country - that is the impression I get -  Lutwiler Country is dangerous, so they say, without law of any kind.”

“Gaean law operates everywhere,” said Plock. “Barch and Tanaquil know this as well as I do.”

“I said something to this effect, but they paid no great attention.”

“For a fact there is no local law in Lutwiler Country. Justice lacks refinement, and operates at a basic level. In Lutwiler Country I use the title ‘executive adjudicant’ because I am forced to be policeman, judge, prosecutor, defender and public executioner all at once, without so much as changing hats.”

Kirdy asked: “What crimes take you out on the steppes?”

“Almost anything you can imagine. Every few years a nomad turns bandit and becomes rather nasty. He burns ranch houses, kills tourists, kicks dogs, throws babies into the purple ooze and generally makes a fuss. The IPCC is then called upon to abate the nuisance. That means lonesome days and bitter nights out on the steppe, looking for fire with my infrared sensor. When I find the bandit, I chat with him a few minutes, then I find him guilty and shoot him. That is the way things go in the Outer Countries, including Lutwiler.”

“Inspector Barch said the Fexelburg police will guard tourists, if necessary.”

“Just so. They wanted us to take on the job; we told them that if they fitted out caravans and sent tourists out into the Far Countries, then protection became their responsibility. If we had to deal with it, tourists would not be allowed out of Fexelburg unless they hired their own armed escort.”

“The IPCC is not popular with the Fexelburg police.”

Plock threw back his head and laughed. “We’ve had our difficulties. The upper echelons do well for themselves. A year or so back a certain Rees Angker formed a ‘citizens’ watch’ to look into police peculation. He disappeared one night and was never seen again. The citizens’ watch got the message and disbanded. We offered to investigate, but the Fexelburg police refused our help. When we persisted, they ordered us to close down our office, as it was not needed. We agreed and prepared to move out. There was an incidental technicality: our business, the protection of interstellar commerce, became impractical without a local IPCC presence. For this reason there would be no more ships arriving at Fexelburg spaceport and they might as well close it down, starting the day after our departure, and we were already packing to leave. Ah! What satisfying outcries! We were assured that it was all a mistake, that we were both needed and loved! They sold us this building at half its value where before we paid an exorbitant rent, and we were exempted from all taxes. So it worked out well.”

“And that was the end to it?”

“Not quite. We demanded the resignation of the Chief High Commander of Police and the two High Commanders responsible for the disappearance of Rees Angker. Presto! It was done! They graciously renounced their titles, but operated as before. One day someone - don’t ask me his name - flew these three gentlemen out into Varmoose Country and put them down on Wasty Steppe, exactly halfway around the planet. Each was given a handkerchief, a small bottle of mouthwash and a change of underwear, and allowed to go his way. Doubtless they carved out interesting new careers for themselves. So then: are the Fexelburg police now foursquare and incorruptible? I think not. They still do as they like, but rather more discreetly, since they know that we are watching.”

“Well, it seems that we must take our chances with Lutwiler Country,” said Glawen. “What is the best way to go?”

“If you hire a car, the driver will scorch like a maniac and never stop playing tunes. The omnibus makes three trips a day in each direction. You can go out in the morning, make your inquiries - which I suspect will be futile - and return in the evening. The depot is just around the plaza, in front of the AD&A travel agency. It might be a good idea to get your tickets now, as the buses tend to fill up.”

Glawen and Kirdy rose to their feet. “One last word, and most important,” said Plock. “The IPCC, unlike the Fexelburg police, goes anywhere, especially to help one of its own. I advise you to work out a fail-safe system of some sort, where one of you is always within reach of a telephone. Then, if anything goes wrong, use this system to notify us, and we will do our best to put things right.”

“There are telephones in Lutwiler Country?”

“Hm,” said Plock. “Not many. At Flicken Junction, halfway along the route, and also at Pogan’s Point, but nothing in between.”

“We’ll work something out,” said Glawen. “Thank you for your advice.”

Glawen and Kirdy continued around the plaza searching in vain for the AD&A travel agency. Finally they put inquiries to a passerby, who gave them a quizzical look and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “You’re standing directly in front of the place.”

“Oh! Excuse our stupidity!” Turning, Glawen studied the sign which advertised the premises of the Alien Dance and Arts Travel Salon.

Kirdy stared up the sidewalk. “That man took an offensive tone with us. I am tempted to speak with him and perhaps kick his stomach.”

“Not today,” said Glawen briskly. “We don’t have the time.”

“It wouldn’t take all that long.”

“His mind is now on other matters; he wouldn’t understand his punishment. Come; let us look into the AD&A, as they call it.”

The two passed through doors strikingly fabricated from concentric bands of purple and black glass, with a central starburst formed from crimson and blue-green shards. They stood ankle-deep in black carpet, at the center of a large waiting room. Vivid posters decorated the walls; directly before them was a business counter and a window with a sign reading “Omnibus Tickets.” .

A poster to the side depicted a large glossy omnibus halted on the road in the middle of a beautiful bucolic countryside. The omnibus seemed almost empty; from the window leaned a smiling tourist couple conversing with a pair of charming bright-eyed children who stood beside the omnibus. The small girl was depicted in the act of offering a bouquet of wildflowers to the lady tourist; the boy pointed excitedly across the fields to a column of purple ooze in the distance. A caption read:

Explore wondrous Tassadero by omnibus!

Safe! Comfortable! Convenient!

Buy your ticket here.

The window was closed. Glawen went to the counter. A young woman sat working the keys of a business machine and paid him no heed. In a courteous voice Glawen asked: “Can you sell me an omnibus ticket?”

The young woman glanced at Glawen, running her eyes up and down his garments. “At the window, sir. Can’t you read the sign?”

“The window is closed.”

“I know. I closed it myself.”

“You will open it yourself?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“In eleven minutes.”

“You will then sell me a ticket?”

“I will do my very best, sir.”

“In that case I’ll wait.”

“As you like, sir.”

Glawen wandered off to look at the travel posters. A large number of these dealt with Zab Zonk, the episodes of his career and his unclaimed treasure.

VISIT VIVID TASSADERO

read the heading on one poster, which depicted Zonk decapitating an adversary with a ruby-encrusted blue metal scimitar, while in the background maidens peered with awe and delight into cases overflowing with gems.

A smaller caption at the bottom of the poster read:

Will it be you who finds this treasure?

Another poster showed Zonk with a group of adoring maidens in postures of abject submission, while Zonk indulgently caressed the head of a particularly choice blue-eyed blonde. The caption read:

Zab Zonk enjoys his wealth, and well he should.

Who will enjoy it next?

Come to Tassadero and give it a try!

Another poster displayed a tourist opening a door upon a room full of luminous jewels. The caption read:

The immured treasures of Zab Zonk

might be yours alone!

Among the pamphlets on a table Glawen noticed a brochure bound in purple velvet with a drawing in gold ink of a nude girl, standing half turned away, looking over her shoulder as if out of the picture. The title read:

PERFECTION OF JOY:

It is attainable.

“Well, well,” said Glawen, “what have we here?” He started to take the brochure to the counter, but at this moment Kirdy uttered a poignant cry mixed of surprise and gladness. “Come here at once! Look at this!”

Glawen put the brochure in his pocket and joined Kirdy by the wall. With a trembling forefinger Kirdy tapped a poster. “The Mummers are in town! We must go find them at once! Look! Here are their pictures! There is Arles, and there Glostor and Malory and Favlissa and Mullin and Dorre; I see them all! And Floreste himself! Ah, good old Floreste!”

“The last time you mentioned Floreste he was ‘an avaricious old bastard’!”

“No matter! What a wonderful coincidence! Just when things seem utterly dismal, something like this turns up!”

Glawen examined the poster, which, along with photographs of Floreste and the Mummers, listed some of their programs and their schedule for the coming weeks. “You did not read the date correctly. They will not be here for another two days. They are now playing a town called Diamonte.”

“Then we shall go to Diamonte! It is the only thing to do! Think how surprised they’ll be to see us! Think of the festival we’ll all enjoy!”

“Kirdy, step over here, if you will.” Glawen led the suddenly scowling Kirdy to a quiet part of the room. “Listen closely, and listen carefully,” said Glawen, “so that I need not repeat myself. We are not visiting the Mummers at Diamonte or anywhere else. Tomorrow I am going to Pogan’s Point to find out something about Sibil, who gave Pogan’s Point as her address. It may be a bit chancy, if the others out there are anything at all like Sibil. For this reason I want you to remain at the hotel, either in your room or in the lobby. I expect no trouble, but if I am not back tomorrow evening then you must get in touch with Plock at the IPCC. Is this all perfectly clear?”