Maske: Thaery (11 page)

“Finally the tourists are treated to a demonstration of the effects of the strange and wonderful chemicals derived from our remarkable indigenes.”

Jubal read of the Vertigat Caves through which tourist convoys were transported in ‘troglodyte wagons’, to a music synthesized especially for the occasion. He learned of the Haruga Tundra and the Inn of Storms far to the north, and the Great Salt Ocean, with its floating islands (propelled by submarine jets to the most scenic locations), with their comfortable air-conditioned ‘Buccaneers Lairs’.

Jubal put the brochures aside. Had Ramus Ymph come to Eiselbar to enjoy the range of touristic delights?

If not, why had he come?

Bhutra dropped behind the western horizon. The sky glowed with a sunset effulgently gold and orange.

Jubal went into the chamber, and as if by signal a man in a white smock appeared, tinkling with sprightly
chotz
. “Husler Tibit is proposing to go out for an evening promenade? Shall I anoint his head with emollient salve, and curl his hair into the popular ‘Dionysian’ style? Or may I fit Husler with a proper wig, that he may appear with a bounty of rich ringlets?”

“Thank you,” said Jubal. “My present hair is sufficient to my needs.”

“Ear-shells? Pastilles for Husler’s breath?”

“Thank you, nothing.”

The man in the white smock departed; a young woman in pantaloons of glossy yellow silk and a scant criss-cross bodice appeared. “Husler is fatigued; I would suggest a massage to arrange his muscles.”

“No, thank you.”

“Ah! The room is quiet and dispirited; allow me to bring music to Husler.” She went to the bed-stand and the room reverberated with sound.

Jubal called out, “Thank you; however I am just going out!”

“If Husler requires a charming lady escort, he need merely press the white button.”

“I see. And what is this black button, and this red button, and this green button?”

“Instructions are contained in the manual yonder.”

“I will bear this in mind.”

As Jubal departed the hotel the doorman stepped forward. “Husler has forgotten his
chotz
!” He twitched the dial to Jubal’s music-box. “For a serene evening such as this, why not
Receptivity
?”

“Why not, indeed?”

“Pleasant hours, Husler Tibit.”

Jubal proceeded along the boulevard. Occasionally conveyances drifted past, and as often carryalls loaded with tour groups of precisely forty persons, bound to one or another resort for an evening of pleasure.

With nothing better to do, Jubal kept a careful watch for Ramus Ymph, going so far as to examine customers at sidewalk cafés, mechanical game-rooms, souvenir emporiums and clown gardens. Many of these establishments, he noted, were arranged so as to accommodate groups, or modules, of forty persons, the number of persons in the standard tour group.

In tour group or alone, Ramus Ymph was nowhere to be seen.

Jubal returned to the Gandolfo in a disconsolate mood, his music-box playing
Pensive Dreams
. He rode the lift to his room, switched off the music, undressed and, reclining on the couch, fell asleep.

Jubal stirred, stretched his legs. A sensor, detecting the motion, switched on the music and the room became bright with diffused sunlight. Jubal showered and ate breakfast. His mind was made up; during sleep he had arrived at a decision.

His single hope of discovering Ramus Ymph resided in a judicious use of the photograph. The logical starting point for an inquiry was the Tourist Reception Center.

Jubal set his music-box to
Skylark Song
and departed the hotel. A conveyance wafted him along the boulevard to the Tourist Center.

Jubal entered the dome. He waited his opportunity, then approached the young woman with whom he had spoken previously. After a brief flicker of uncertainty, she recognized him. “Good day, Husler! You are enjoying your visit?”

“To a certain extent. I am troubled because I can’t locate my friend.”

“A pity! We certainly don’t want dreary faces on the streets of Kyash. You must seek diligently!”

“Yes, that is why I am here.” Jubal tossed the photograph to the counter. “If you were to recall advising him…”

The young woman examined the photograph with a negligent smile. “Even so, Husler, our rules prevent us from imparting information.”

“Well, let me ask you this: do you recognize the photograph?”

“Since you ask, I seem to recall such a person approaching this desk. So handsome a man impinges upon the memory.”

“Would you be good enough to make inquiries of your colleagues? There is no rule concerning the exchange of information among yourselves.”

“That is true. Well, what’s the harm? Now, as I recall…” She took the photograph to the clerk next along the counter who examined the photograph first casually, then with interest. She nodded, and gestured across the room toward the display racks, then turned and looked sharply toward Jubal. The two spoke earnestly and finally the young woman returned to Jubal. “My colleague says that I am definitely mistaken and that we are under no conditions allowed to discuss our patrons.”

“Very well,” said Jubal. “I appreciate your courtesy.” He departed the counter, and going to a news-stand pretended to study the periodicals on display.

The second clerk had recognized Ramus Ymph. She was an older woman, with gaunt cheeks and great masses of russet hair: not a person to overstep either the letter or spirit of official regulations.

Jubal sauntered to the wall-cases and became interested in a display of amethyst brooches, each carved with a toboggan and the legend ‘Memento of Ririjin’. A case containing glazed ceramic representations of slimes next claimed his attention, then a perfume counter offering attars from the northern deserts. Case by case, counter by counter, Jubal worked his way around the room, finally arriving at that section toward which the woman at the information counter had gestured. With keen interest Jubal examined the contents of the racks; in some manner they concerned Ramus Ymph.

The section appeared devoted to textiles: silks with many-colored lusters of the sort favored by the Eisels; chemises with scenes and mottos; small souvenir wall-hangings, embroidered with views of the Ririjin Mountains; schematic maps of the Jewel Lakes. Perhaps Ramus Ymph had purchased one of these decorated shirts? Nearby hung a pair of rugs, loomed in glowing tones of blue, purple, green and black, in patterns of near-microscopic intricacy. Jubal bent close, felt the nap, examined the knotting. Djan rugs. Of very good, but not the best, quality. Nonetheless, superb rugs, and how did they arrive at Kyash except through the agency of Ramus Ymph?

Jubal strolled on, and feigned fascinated interest in a set of cosmetic cases. In due course, the sales-clerk, observing Jubal’s interest, stepped from his office and approached.

“Charming items, are they not, Husler? The material is a beautiful synthetic produced here at Kyash through the instrumentality of our wonderful catalysts. The price is a mere nine SVU.”

Jubal made an ambiguous sound. “And these pantaloons—they seem rather striking.”

“They will fit you to perfection. The color becomes you, as well.”

“Are they made here at Kyash?”

“Yes, most of what we sell is local produce.”

“Those two rugs are interesting articles. Are they local?”

“No, as a matter of fact, they are from a world out around the Reach. Meticulous work, but rather dull for our tastes, and perhaps not the best quality.”

“You surprise me. I am ignorant in these matters and I assumed them to be made very carefully.”

“Carefully made, yes; but our local rugs are better. We use a flat resilient matrix containing entrapped air bubbles. It is called ‘iseflin’. Designs of choice are printed upon this material; the resultant rug is inexpensive, durable and decorative. The two rugs yonder are survivals from the hand-craft days.”

“And how did you obtain such odd specimens?”

“They were placed here by a certain Husler Arphenteil who deals in exotic rugs. I warned him that his price was far too high, that they would never sell in competition with our good Eisel floor coverings, but he was insistent.”

“I might be interested in one of them as a curio, if the price were right.”

“He asks six hundred SVU apiece.”

“What! For those small dull scraps?” Jubal made a quick calculation. At Wysrod such rugs would sell for perhaps three hundred toldecks. If an SVU and a toldeck were of equal value, Ramus Ymph was pricing his rugs high. He said in a scornful voice, “In a reckless moment I might pay twenty SVU, but no more.”

The clerk shrugged. “Husler Arphenteil envisions no such reduction.”

“Perhaps yes, perhaps no, I will consult him. Where is he to be found?”

“I have no idea, Husler. He appears at irregular intervals.”

“The rugs will never sell at his price. How long have they been on display?”

“Almost six months. They arouse little interest, and of those who inquire, everyone is appalled by the price.”

“I will keep my eyes open for Husler Arphenteil. You don’t know his usual hotel? Or anyone through whom he might be reached?”

“I’m afraid not, Husler.”

Jubal departed the Center before he aroused the suspicions of the woman at the information counter, who already had been eyeing him sidelong.

At a garden café Jubal seated himself under a sprawling shagwort. Half an hour he sat musing over a decanter of wine punch. At last: traces left by Ramus Ymph! They were no less perplexing than the total absence of clues. The Ymphs were not poverty-stricken; why should Ramus Ymph demean his caste by involving himself in trade?

Jubal called for a Kyash directory. He consulted the section labeled:
Floor coverings: rugs, carpets and iseflin
. If Ramus Ymph had attempted to deal at one rug outlet, he might well try his luck with others.

He summoned a conveyance and coding the first address into the director was wafted away down the boulevard. Jubal sat back and watched the passing scenery. Suddenly surfeited with
Skylark Song
, he switched to
Bold and Daring Enterprise
.

The conveyance halted beside a pavilion under a green-glass dome. A white and orange sign read:

The Emporium of Total Comfort,
where furnishings for home, office,
or sport-place may be purchased.

Jubal drew several deep breaths to calm his nerves. Slightly increasing the volume of
Bold and Daring Enterprise
, he alighted from the conveyance, crossed the walkway with a firm tread and entered the pavilion.

No large selection of goods was on display. In booths around the periphery clerks caused holographic projections to appear before those customers who preferred to make their choices at the display room rather than in their own apartments. A table displayed materials: fabricoid, iseflin, metallite, sklam, in assorted colors and textures, and a rack supported the rugs themselves: sheets of elaborately embellished iseflin and a single small Djan rug.

Jubal looked about the premises and fixed upon a portly little man notable for his great pyramidal mass of auburn ringlets. His
chotz
was both complex and ponderous: a sequence of droning chords, knit together by a fluttering of pipings and warblings. Jubal asked: “You are the manager of this establishment?”

“I am Director Kliffets.”

“Yes, that is the name Husler Arphenteil mentioned. He wants to know how many more rugs you will require.”

Director Kliffets raised his eyebrows and his pale blue eyes seemed to bulge. “More rugs? I have not yet sold the rug yonder. Everyone is aghast at the price. I told Husler Arphenteil as much myself, not ten days ago. Did he not inform you?”

“He was hoping that affairs might have changed for the better. Also, I am authorized to offer you more favorable prices. I have here a schedule…” Jubal drew some papers from his pocket, and as if by chance came upon the photograph. “Here is our friend now.” He displayed the photograph to Director Kliffets.

“Or was he wearing his mustache when you saw him?”

Director Kliffets was not interested in photographs. “No, he was as in the representation. Now, as to the new schedule of prices—”

“I seem to have left it at my hotel. You can inquire of Husler Arphenteil, if you like. I suppose you have his current address?”

“No. He is a man of reserve, and his
chotz
is somewhat self-important. In my opinion Husler Arphenteil’s desires exceed his capabilities.”

“Indeed? Why do you say that? Not that I disagree with you.”

Director Kliffets pointed to an agency across the boulevard. “Only persons of important wealth patronize the Intersol Company. His conduct does not suggest that sort of wealth.”

Jubal leaned forward. “I will tell you something in confidence. Husler Arphenteil derives from a family in decayed circumstances. As a child he became accustomed to the best, but now he cannot achieve his goals.”

Director Kliffets nodded. “This would accord with my personal observations; I am a keen student of the human personality.”

“So much is evident. What price has Husler Arphenteil placed on his rug?”

“Four hundred SVU. Quite unreasonable, when a delightful iseflin carpet may be had for a tenth as much.

Who cares that the fibers in Husler Arphenteil’s rug have been knotted by hand? That the dyes are vitalized by the magic of shamans? That the fibers must be plucked one at a time, from four different sources? Does a person’s foot need to know all this, as it treads the rug? Are the colors brighter for this reason? Quite the reverse! Notice the gaiety of yonder iseflin, in contrast to the purple murk of Husler Arphenteil’s rug.”

“Tastes differ,” said Jubal. “Husler Arphenteil mentioned none of his plans?”

“No, he is not confiding, even though, during our interview, he switched
chotz
to
Comrades Together
.”

“He is at times difficult,” Jubal agreed. “Allow me to offer you a confidential hint—but you must never reveal it to Husler Arphenteil—in fact you had better not mention that I have been here. Is this agreed?”

“Certainly.”

“Then—first I should ask, when do you expect to see him next?”

Director Kliffets thoughtfully puffed out his cheeks. “He was indefinite. In fact, I gather the impression that he has lost interest in his rugs. On our first meeting he was most enthusiastic, but now he seems—not precisely indifferent, but as if his thoughts are elsewhere: perhaps Intersol and its marvellous toys. But what is this confidential hint?”

“It is this. If you demand twenty percent more commission than he now allows you, he will accede.

Grudgingly perhaps, but you must be firm.”

Director Kliffets nodded glumly. “All very well, but what good is a commission on an unsaleable item?

He must price his merchandise competitively; then conceivably he might hope to sell one or two.”

“He is as much a mystery to me as he is to you. Did he say nothing which might reveal his future plans?”

“No. He is a man of almost contemptuous reserve.”

“I know this all too well. It has been a pleasure talking to you. Remember, you have not seen me!”

“Agreed and understood!”

“Goodby then. I think I’ll just look into Intersol myself, and acquaint myself with Husler Arphenteil’s latest fad.”

Jubal stepped out into the yellow sun-blaze. The walkway cast a blue-black bar of shadow along the sand below; slimes wandered here and there ingesting the myrophode filaments which were their principal sustenance. Smaller parasitic creatures, riding their backs, gnawed at ruffles, drilled holes into the dorsal tissue, implanted sucking tendrils. Jubal watched a moment, marveling at the variegated colors: pale green with black ruffles, brown-purple with white spots, gray stippled with vermilion. He dropped a pebble; those slimes nearby darted with astonishing speed to the pebble, apparently attracted by the vibration of impact. They nudged the pebble, then, finding nothing either to attract or to excite, wandered away.

Jubal became oppressed by Bhutra’s glare, so different from the cool clear light of Mora. It surrounded him, dazzled his eyes, started perspiration from his forehead and neck. He crossed the boulevard, followed a walkway through a garden of black cactus, and gratefully stepped into the shade of Intersol’s green and white dome. He was instantly aware that he had entered an environment of affluence.

Sumptuous yellow plush furniture was arranged around a floor of transparent black glass which glittered with constellations to represent the night sky of Old Earth. A counter supported a dozen space-yacht models, and photoscape panels along the walls depicted famous Gaean cities. At a desk sat the Intersol agent studying a prospectus.

The agent rose to his feet—a middle-aged man wearing a decorous maroon wig, a mustard-ocher jacket belled over maroon trousers; his music was a subdued murmur, without egoistic insistence. “How may I serve you, Husler?”

“A friend recommended that I visit your premises, and I decided to do so.”

“I am delighted to hear as much.” The sentiments, so the agent’s manner suggested, were more formal than heart-felt. With the experience of many years he had gauged the weight of Jubal’s purse, and saw no reason for effusive cordiality. “In what precisely are you interested?”