Lurulu (5 page)

“I asked: ‘What do you make of the tattoo on his neck?’

“‘It is either a status symbol, or it identifies his place of origin.’

“There was nothing more he could tell me. I expressed my thanks and returned to the
Glicca
. I now knew where my mother could be found. Her money would keep her safe, so I reasoned. Tremaine could not get at her capital, but her annuity nevertheless was a substantial sum, and was in effect her insurance policy.

“For a time the transport business kept us across the Reach and far away from Fluter. We drifted here and there, but one day we settled upon the Coro-Coro spaceport. We would remain for three days only.

“I spent one of these days with the senior official in the Office of Entry Formalities. Together we searched the files, but there was no record of either the man who called himself ‘Tremaine’ or my mother. The official was not altogether surprised. He told me, rather reluctantly, that certain rogues and blackguards avoided the immigration laws by arranging to be set down a mile or so out in the wilderness, then walking into town. This was a serious offense, he told me, and the perpetrators, if apprehended, were liable to penalties of the third order, since they were violating the basic canon of Flaut law: namely, the statutes controlling the population. Without valid entry permits, they were in constant danger of being taken up by a Civil Agent. This would be the case if they tried to book into a hotel.

“I asked: ‘What if they use forged documents?’

“‘Possible,’ he admitted, ‘but such documents must be renewed monthly, which would soon arouse attention. After two or three such renewals the permit would be voided and the guilty person — would suffer the appropriate penalties.’”

Myron grimaced. “It seems rather extreme.”

“Not when you know Flaut history. During their ‘Terrible Times’ they learned to accept death as the all-purpose punishment for any mistake whatsoever. It was easy and there was no quibbling.

“The next day I went to the IPCC office. The commanding officer was Captain Harms, a crusty old veteran who had been sent out to rusticate at Coro-Coro, a post considered a safe and comfortable sinecure where the agent in charge could do no great damage. His assistant was an innocuous young lieutenant who had learned to exert no twitch of initiative for fear of Captain Harms’ displeasure.

“I found Captain Harms sitting at his desk. He was in fact a man of formidable aspect, with the broad chest and thin legs of a pouter pigeon. His face had been weathered pinkish-brown, against which bristling white eyebrows, ferocious blue eyes, an ungovernable tuft of white hair and a bristling white mustache made a fine contrast.

“I introduced myself and explained my problem. As I expected, he produced a dozen reasons why the IPCC could not stir its majestic bulk to interfere in the local jurisdiction. I told him that Tremaine almost certainly had killed my father and that the safety of my mother was at risk. Harms declared that these factors were extraneous to the case, and that I should report my suspicions to the Civil Agents. I explained that, by so doing, I would be exposing my mother to a penalty of the third order. Harms shrugged, implying that she should have foreseen the eventuality before she indulged in a criminal act. I mentioned Tremaine’s tattoo. Harms said that it identified his native village. He could not help in this regard since he had no list or compendium of the Flaut tattoos. For such information I might apply to the Office of Civil Dispositions, or the Bureau of Vital Statistics, or the Population Registry. I bade Captain Harms farewell and left the agency. The next day I followed his suggestion. I presented myself first to the Office of Civil Dispositions. After two hours they referred me to the Population Registry, where after another two hours I was told that the information could most easily be had at the Office of Vital Statistics. After another wait I learned that the clerk who might have this information had gone off to a houseboat for a two-week vacation, and nothing could be done until her return. They suggested that I make inquiries at the Bureau for Archaeological Research, but by this time I was certain that they were playing a game with me. I returned to the
Glicca
in a very bad mood.

“On the next day we departed Fluter. But now the
Glicca
is back and I will resume where I left off.”

“So there you have it. Is it lurulu?” Maloof smiled. “Not exactly; in fact, not even close.” He surveyed Myron. “Now that you understand the program, do you still care to participate?”

“Certainly! But I have a question or two. First, how do you plan to proceed?”

Maloof shrugged. “I wish I had a clever strategy, but I expect that I will do as before, which means trudging around, asking questions until someone decides to answer. The clerk at Vital Statistics may now be back from the houseboat.”

“We have at least one advantage,” said Myron. “Tremaine will not know that we are looking for him.”

“True.”

“And if we find him — what then?”

“Much depends upon circumstances.”

Myron rose to his feet. “I’m ready when you are.”

Maloof also stood erect. “Wear a dark jacket. We are anthropologists from Aetna University on Sansevere. And don’t forget your hat.”

Chapter II

Excerpt from
Handbook To The Planets
:

FLUTER: T
HE
T
ERRIBLE
T
IMES

Visitors to this most beautiful of worlds are ordinarily ignorant of a dark episode in Fluter’s past. When they learn the facts, more often than not the information is received with polite incredulity, or more intelligently, as just another scar on the body of Gaean history. Nevertheless, here is an outline of the events which occurred on Fluter at that time.

The original settlers came in reaction to the insufferable overcrowding of their native world-city, Coreon on Ergard. They made population control the first and most stringent law of the land. As the centuries passed the strictures gradually relaxed and memory of Coreon became dim. The spectre of overcrowding once again cast a dreary shadow over the land and fervor for reviving the old statutes increased — rather hysterically, so it seems now. At the first Conclave for Population Readjustment, the old laws were emphatically renewed. Zealots ruled the day; proposals for gradual retrenchment were shouted down in favor of immediacy. Each village was assigned an index indicating by how far its population must be reduced to stay within the norms; killing became an ordinary affair. First to go were the aged and the infirm, along with the feeble-minded or anyone considered deficient in some regard. Family feuded with family; the elderly and even the middle-aged walked abroad at their peril. Ambush became a fine art, but the elderly suffered most until they organized themselves into fearsome gangs: the ‘Silver Ghosts’, who skulked through shadows seeking children and wailing babies, whose brains they dashed out against a rock. When at last the roster of the village declined below the index, and the need for slaughter was gone, furtive killing persisted, from habit and from engendered hatred.

Eventually equilibrium returned. Population control was everywhere rigidly enforced through regulation of procreation, fertility, elimination of abnormal children, and abortion, producing more or less the same conditions we find in the Flaut villages today.

The question is often asked: where was the IPCC during these bad times? It has been asserted that the IPCC was indifferent; such was not the case. In sheer point of fact the IPCC could function effectively only if it occupied each of the Flaut villages and Coro-Coro. A force of at least fifty thousand field agents would have been needed for the operation, resulting in a program so complex as to be unacceptable. When the Flauts became surfeited with killing, they would stop of their own accord. And so it happened.

1

The IPCC at Coro-Coro kept a low profile. In the main there was little need for a strong presence. All manifestations of local control aroused resentment in the Civil Agents, who exerted a soft but implacable influence by which order and discipline were imposed upon the folk of Fluter, in a manner adequate to the needs of a civilized society. On several occasions the Civil Agent demanded that the IPCC remove its office from Coro-Coro: requests to which the IPCC responded by constructing a new headquarters of obvious permanence, situated near the O-Shar-Shan circus.

Maloof and Myron set off along tree-shaded Pomare Boulevard, walking under dangling white blossoms from which drifted a barely perceptible and so tantalizing musky-sweet perfume. They might also have jumped aboard one of the picturesque open-sided omnibuses which plied the boulevard, long high-wheeled charabancs carrying tourists and Flauts alike between the spaceport and the O-Shar-Shan circus.

The two passed the Labor Exchange. Lined up at the counter were the pilgrims receiving referrals to potential employers. None showed enthusiasm toward the prospect of employment. Cooner, dissatisfied with his referral, stood leaning over the counter, half-prancing with indignation, angrily waving his referral in the air, trying to catch the attention of the clerk who gave him a glance of mild wonder before turning back to his work.

Maloof and Myron continued along the boulevard and presently passed the office of the Tarquin Transit Agency. In the adjacent yard rental vehicles were ranked: flitters, resembling disheveled winged insects built of bamboo and membrane, of local manufacture except for the imported power units. Each was unique, built to the dictates of possibly amateur designers. The wheeled vehicles, known locally as ‘skitters’, like the flitters, were of ad hoc construction, with struts, frames and braces installed where the builder thought they would do the most good. Some were decorated with arrays of banderoles, others with bouquets of artificial flowers. At the back of the lot several lordly way-cars were ranked, awaiting the pleasure of those who wished to roam the wilderness in comfort, if not luxury. The firm also announced itself as agent for the rental of houseboats moored in every river and waterway of Fluter.

Maloof and Myron continued along the boulevard, almost brushed by the white dangling blossoms. They came to the Pingis Tavern and stopped short to appraise the rustic structure. Maloof mused: “It is early, of course, but I wonder if Wingo and Schwatzendale might have paused here to test the local ale. This is a subject they always find of interest.”

“Not unlikely,” said Myron. “The idea would certainly occur to them.”

Without further words the two climbed the three steps to the porch and entered the tavern. Halting, they surveyed the dim interior. Behind the bar was a bartender of middle age; in a corner two old women sat engrossed in a game of some sort.

Maloof asked the bartender: “Have our friends looked in this morning? One is plump, round-faced, with a rather pink complexion and going bald. He would be wearing a pale brown cloak. The other is dark-haired and nervous, wearing a shirt of striking green and black diaper pattern, so that he seems a harlequin.”

The bartender placed both hands on the bar and frowned toward the old women, then his face cleared into remembrance. “Two gentlemen stepped in this morning. One was sturdy, with a kind pink face. The other was all elbows and knees, with eyes that looked in two directions at once.” He grinned and shook his head, caught up by some marvelous recollection. “Now I recall everything. They drank three tankards each of Number Three Pooncho Punch. Despite my earnest advice, they called for a fourth tankard, which they consumed. They are now resting in the back room; in due course they will arouse themselves and manfully set out to face what remains of the day. I could have given them a gill each of the Number Four Pooncho, but I thought better of it. The Four sometimes has startling effects. While you wait, will you each take a Pooncho to foster your own vigor?”

“At this moment, no,” said Maloof. “Perhaps the next time we pass. You say that our friends are resting in comfort?”

“Just so. They are as limp as dead eels.”

Thus reassured Maloof and Myron left the tavern. Not far ahead the boulevard entered O-Shar-Shan circus, across from the wonderful O-Shar-Shan terrace, where tourists wearing their most splendid regalia sat under gay parasols drinking fizzes, punches and toddies from tall bamboo mugs. They were on hand early, to see and be seen. In modes of feigned languor and sophisticated indifference, they covertly studied the folk at nearby tables, speculating as to their places of origin, social status and moral standards. From time to time charabancs stopped before the terrace. Passengers disembarked, others were loaded aboard, and the charabanc set off on a new sortie into the wilderness.

Around the circus skitters of a dozen sorts rolled, veering in and out of the usual traffic patterns, careening from lane to lane, high wheels whirring and thumping. The drivers sat proudly erect in the approved posture, regarding other drivers with disdain as if questioning their competence. The three-wheelers appealed to persons of feckless disposition who rode high behind the two after-wheels, with the third wheel on a boom thrust forward like an instrument of attack. Vanities were raised aloft on struts clamped to the forward boom: a peacock’s fan, a winged cherub blowing a clarion, a grotesque head with features articulated to contort in hideous grimaces as the vehicle moved along. The drivers tended to be critical of each other, and easily became outraged by faulty or intemperate techniques. They called out advice, often waving their arms to indicate the nature of the other’s mistake, which usually evoked responsive comments and significant gestures.

A few yards short of the circus a walkway led off under tall yews to an impressive stone structure. A vertical line of bronze capitals beside the door read: IPCC. At the approach of Maloof and Myron the door slid aside and after they had entered, slid softly shut.

The two stood in a large high-ceilinged chamber which, like the exterior, conveyed a sense of uncompromising certitude. The walls were washed severely white and were unadorned except for the IPCC starburst emblem high on the back wall. The floor was paved with pale grey tile; there was a functional minimum of austere furniture. Behind the desk sat a man who might have been purposely selected for the office itself. He was in his early maturity, with dark golden hair and intelligent blue eyes. A plaque on his desk identified him as ‘Captain Skahy Serle’. He rose to his feet and waited as Maloof and Myron approached, then indicated chairs. “Good morning, gentlemen; be seated, if you will.”