Night Lamp (35 page)

After an hour of brooding. Skirl decided that the treatment accorded her by the bank had exceeded tolerable limits of disrespect. She telephoned the Clam Muffin Committee and described the offensive events. The bank, so she declared, in its contempt for herself and her status, was gnawing away the very foundations of civilized society.

The chairman of the committee asked her to compose herself for a brief period, while he set matters straight. Ten minutes later he called back to announce that the bank recognized its mistake, and now extended its apologies. The bank would be pleased if Skirl, at her convenience, would see fit to return to Sassoon Ayry, where she could secure all her belongings, at her leisure. The bank’s personnel would be on hand to render all assistance.

Skirl thanked the chairman and said that, as always, it was a wonderful thing to be a Clam Muffin, to which the chairman agreed.

Jaro and Skirl at once drove to Sassoon Ayry, where they discovered a new spirit of cooperation. Skirl packed the most desirable elements of her wardrobe, then ranged the house gathering such objects as might be considered keepsakes, along with her father’s collection of ancient Kolosti miniatures, and a fossil trilobite from Old Earth. Skirl and Jaro returned to Merriehew. Jaro carried the cases into the house and up to the bedroom now being used by Skirl. Jaro went off about his own affairs, while Skirl gratefully unpacked her clothes and changed into a dark green frock. For a moment she stood before a mirror, studying her reflection. She took up a brush and ordered the loose curls. She looked at herself again. Something was different; something had changed. Was it better, or worse? She could not be sure.

Thoughtfully, Skirl turned away from the mirror. She went downstairs to the sitting room. Jaro glanced at her, then looked again, more intently. “You look remarkably pretty! What have you done to yourself?”

“I changed my clothes and brushed my hair. Also, I’m no longer angry with the bankers.”

“Something has made a difference in you,” said Jaro. “What it is, I can’t understand. Maybe it’s because—” he hesitated. “But no matter.”

Skirl looked at him suspiciously, then said, “I believe that you have problems which you are trying to solve.”

“Correct. I want to find out where the Faths first came upon me.”

“Ah yes. They never told you.”

“Never, to the best of my recollection. Whenever I asked, they’d only laugh and say that it was a place far away and not important.”

“What could be their motive?”

“Simple enough. They wanted me to take a degree at the Institute, and join the faculty. Above all, I must not become a spaceman and go careening off in search of my past.”

“That seems a bit high-handed.”

Jaro nodded. “Still, they wanted the best for me.”

“I suppose you have searched their records?”

Jaro described the scope of his efforts. “I found nothing.”

Skirl nodded sagely. “You need the services of a trained effectuator.”

“Probably so. Have you any suggestions?”

“I might take on the case if the fee were adequate.”

“The fee, sorry to say, is not adequate. In fact, it is nonexistent.”

“No matter,” said Skirl. “It’s about what I expected. I’ll take on the case in the name of good public relations. So relax! Your troubles are over.”

“I hope so—but I doubt it. Hilyer did his work well. I have searched everywhere.”

“You probably looked in all the wrong places, while the facts were climbing your leg.”

“We shall see,” said Jaro. “Where do you want to start?”

“First, I’ll ask some questions.”

“Ask away.”

“Where did you search?”

“I studied their records. The journal for the year in question is missing. I looked through notes, invoices, receipts, authorizations, souvenirs, restaurant menus—still nothing. I cleaned out the attic. I discovered that no one has thrown away anything for a hundred years. I found horticultural records, Althea’s schoolwork, broken chairs—but no accounts of off-world travel. I went through Hilyer’s workshop inch by inch; I examined every book in the library. I searched all the likely places, then all the unlikely places. Still nothing. Not a breath, not a whisper. I checked through the journals all over again, looking for obscure references. Again—nothing.”

“You may have overlooked a hint or a secret allusion.”

“It’s possible—but I think not.”

“I’ll start with the journals.”

Jaro shrugged. “As you like. I’m afraid you’ll find it pointless.”

“There must be something left.”

“Hilyer was a methodical genius. So far as I can tell, he overlooked nothing.”

“I’ll see what I can make of it.”

Jaro left Skirl to her work. He found Maihac on the porch and began to speak of the various efforts to acquire Merriehew: Forby Mildoon, Lyssel and her unconventional methods, Abel Silking, and his threats.

“When I look back, I get angry,” said Jaro. “They planned to befuddle the poor foolish nimp, so that he would sell his property for a song. Then, after they had turned him out upon Katzvold Road, they would whipsaw Gilfong Rute and squeeze him out of his Glitterway spaceyacht. Abel Silking’s offer was better, but it included threats. I am not pleased with any of these people.”

“I don’t think Silking will try to carry out his threats, especially after we introduce him to Gaing Neitzbeck.”

Feeling somewhat more cheerful, Jaro went to check on Skirl’s progress. He found her disconsolately sorting through a file of miscellaneous papers which he had already examined several times. “What have you learned?”

“Nothing. Hilyer seems to have been cold-blooded and very determined to get the better of you.”

“I don’t want to remember Hilyer like that.”

“Perhaps I’m not very charitable.” She pointed to the shelf. “There is the journal for the year before you were found, and the journal for the year after. They are numbered ‘25’ and ’27.’ Number ’26,’ the journal for the year in question is missing.”

“It is probably part of the parcel Imbald is holding for me, should I come to my senses and register at the Institute.”

Skirl turned away from the cabinet. “You’re right. Hilyer was thorough. I’ve seen enough of his empty notebooks.”

“There may be something at the Institute which Maihac missed. But enough for now. It’s time to set out our first banquet. Gaing Neitzbeck will be on hand. Are you a good cook?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ll cook, and you set the table, banquet-style. Althea’s best tablecloths are in yonder cupboard; the crockery is in the kitchen cabinet.”

“Very well,” said Skirl. “What are you planning to cook?”

“Stew.”

“That sounds nice. Perhaps someday you’ll teach me how to cook.”

“Certainly. Stew is easy. You put things into a pot, add water and boil. When everything is done, add salt, pepper and serve. It’s an infallible recipe.”

Skirl went to the cupboard. She selected a cheerful blue—and red-checked cloth, spread it over the table. She set out dishes to match and brought down one of Althea’s candelabra, of a color and design she thought appropriate to the setting.

When Gaing arrived, the company took seats around the table. Dinner was served by candlelight: a salad of garden greens, stew, bread and olives, along with two bottles of Hilyer’s Emilione Red dinner wine. Skirl dined with good appetite, but she had little to say and seemed preoccupied by private thoughts. They were evidently entertaining since Skirl had trouble repressing the grin which from time to time threatened to break through her mask of solemnity. Jaro watched her narrowly, wondering what might be the secret joke.

Maihac refilled goblets around the table and leaned back in his chair. “One field of inquiry remains: the faculty at the Institute.”

Jaro said gloomily, “I’ve already asked. No one remembers what the Faths were doing twelve years ago.”

“In that case we seem to have reached a dead end.”

Skirl said carelessly, “It might be useful to consult the effectuator, whom you hired to solve the problem—at quite a low fee, I might add.”

Jaro looked at her in sudden suspicion. “You have the answer? Is that why you’ve been grinning?”

“Perhaps.”

“Tell us! Don’t keep us in suspense!”

Skirl sipped from her goblet of wine before responding. Then: “The place is called ‘Sronk,’ on the world Camberwell.”

“Really! And how did you find that out?”

“First deduction, then induction.”

“Come now! Surely there is more to it than that?”

“Well, yes. When I took the candelabra down from the shelf, I noticed on the bottom a label, with a number and a name—in this case ‘21’ and ‘Dank Wallow, Mauberley.’ After thinking a bit, I went to the cabinet and took out the journal numbered ‘21.’ I found a reference to the world Mauberly and the village ‘Dank Wallow’ almost at once. I went back to the shelf and looked at the bottom of each candelabra until I found a label with the number ‘26.’ The place cited was ‘Sronk’ and the world ‘Camberwell.’ So there you have it.”

The communicator, when connected with the Institute library, produced information regarding the world Camberwell, including physical characteristics, several maps, a description of the indigenous flora and fauna, information regarding the peoples of Camberwell, the towns and their populations as well as a brief historical survey. The principal spaceport was beside the town Tanzig, ten miles south of the River Blass. Sronk was indicated about forty miles east of Tanzig, across the Wyching Hills.

“The next problem is how to get there,” said Jaro. “That means money.”

“Money and time, if you use commercial transport,” said Maihac. “Camberwell is to the side of the main routes, which means the chance of bad connections at the junction ports.”

“What is needed is a spaceship,” said Jaro. “I can sell to Silking for at least thirty thousand sols, and probably somewhat more, depending upon Rute’s anxiety. How much is a Locator 11-B?”

“Anything from five thousand sols for a ship with a hole in the hull and a fused energy box, up to twenty-five or thirty thousand sols for a ship in reasonable condition. But a Locator would be cramped, and perhaps we can do better,” Maihac advised.

The telephone chimed. Jaro called: “Speak!” On the screen appeared the face of a silver-haired man of mature years, notably debonair, with regular features and a manner benign and bland. Jaro said: “Good evening, Mr. Silking.”

Abel Silking smiled in modest self-deprecation. “Perhaps it is a bit late, but I wonder if you have reflected upon the offer I made you yesterday?”

“Yes,” said Jaro.“So I have.”

“And you have decided to accept, or so I hope?”

“Not quite. I have taken advice from Mr. Tawn Maihac, and he is now acting for me. You may speak’ to him, if you like.”

Silking’s mouth lost something of its genial curve, but his tone was as suave as ever. “Of course. The terms are the same for him as they are for you.”

Maihac looked into the screen. “I am Tawn Maihac. Jaro has asked me to represent him in this matter. Your principal is Gilfong Rute?”

Silking responded cautiously: “More accurately, it would be Lumilar Vistas.”

“I see. But since I can’t deal with Lumilar Vistas, it will have to be Gilfong Rute himself. If he will appear at Merriehew tomorrow at noon, I will listen to his offer.”

Silking’s jaw dropped. “Mr. Maihac, you are issuing preposterous manifestos! I can’t take you seriously!”

“No matter. Is Gilfong Rute at hand? If so, ask him if he cares to come here tomorrow at noon. It is the only way we will deal with him.”

“Just a moment.” The screen went silent. Three minutes passed. Silking reappeared on the screen, looking a trifle ruffled. “He says that he will be there at noon.” Silking’s mouth twitched in a small painful grin. “He made some other comments, which would be pointless to transmit. Mr. Rute, I should warn you, is not kind to folk who try to take advantage of his bonhomie.”

“He needn’t worry; there won’t be much trifling here tomorrow.”

On the next day, a few minutes short of noon, a large black luxury vehicle turned into the drive and halted near the house. Two men in blue and green uniforms jumped from the front seat, looked around to assure themselves that all was secure and opened the back compartment. Abel Silking alighted, followed by Gilfong Rute. Silking and Rute advanced upon the house; the uniformed men went to stand beside the vehicle.

Jaro opened the door for them to enter, then ushered the two into the dining room and made introductions. “This is Skirl Hutsenreiter, an effectuator. This is Gaing Neitzbeck, and you have spoken to Tawn Maihac. Please be seated.”

“Thank you,” said Silking. He and Gilfong Rute seated themselves on one side of the table.

Silking said smoothly, “Now then, the situation remains the same. You have heard the Lumilar Vistas offer; we have here—”

Jaro interrupted. “Mr. Silking, you may sit here as a witness, but please do not join the conversation. We will deal directly with Mr. Rute, and your remarks will only delay us. So please be silent or, if you prefer, you may go sit in the parlor and warm yourself by the fire.”

“I will remain here,” said Silking with a cold smile.

“As you like.” Jaro turned to Rute. “You want Merriehew, and we are ready to sell. Tawn Maihac has prepared the papers we will need, and if you also are ready, there is nothing to detain us.”

Rute asked impatiently, “What papers are these?”

“Just the ordinary certificates of transfer. There are two sets: one for us and one for you.”

“Nonsense,” declared Rute. “I have the proper forms at hand. Silking, bring them out. They are ready for signature.”

“Throw them away,” said Maihac. “Our papers are better.”

“Never mind your papers,” snapped Rute. “You were made an offer of thirty thousand sols. Do you accept or do you not?”

“Certainly we accept,” said Maihac, “subject to certain conditions.”

Rute was instantly suspicious. “What conditions?”

Maihac pushed two sheets of paper across the table. “Read the documents.”