The Dogtown Tourist Agency (2 page)

“I’ll certainly deal with the matter,” said Sir Ivon. “In the meantime, you might call Graythorpe and make your feelings known to Felicia.”

“I shall do so.” Lady Bonvenuta favored Hetzel with an inclination of the head and returned into the manor. Sir Ivon and Hetzel resumed their seats. Sir Ivon continued his exposition. “So, then—the Istagam shipments appear to derive from Maz, which seems most remarkable.”

“No question as to this. Exactly, then, what do you want me to do?”

Sir Ivon darted Hetzel a puzzled side glance, as if wondering at his naïveté. “Our first objective is information. Are the Liss or the Olefract attempting a commercial penetration of the Gaean Reach? If so, will they allow a counterflow? If not, who or what is Istagam? How does it contrive such remarkable economies?”

“This appears straightforward.”

Sir Ivon folded his hands across his belly and looked off across the vista. “I need hardly point out that Istagam represents a nuisance which ultimately must be abated. Naturally, I don’t advocate sabotage or assassination; that goes without saying. Still, your methods are your own, and they have won you an enviable reputation.”

Hetzel knit his brows. “You would seem to be saying that I have earned a reputation for murder and destruction, which you envy.”

Sir Ivon turned Hetzel a sharp look, and chose to ignore the tactless jocularity. “Another matter, which may or may not be connected with Istagam. At times I keep certain important documents here at Harth for a day or two, or as long as a week, in order to study them at my leisure. About three months ago a portfolio containing valuable marketing information was stolen from the premises. These papers would considerably benefit my competitors; to Istagam they would be invaluable. The theft was accomplished with finesse; no one saw the criminal; he left no traces, and I discovered the loss only when I opened the portfolio. I mention this matter if only to put you on your guard against Istagam. The people involved are evidently unscrupulous.”

“I will certainly take your warning to heart,” said Hetzel, “assuming that you decide to entrust this dangerous and difficult matter to me.”

Sir Ivon raised his eyes toward the sky as if in search of divine proscription against Hetzel’s avarice. He reached into his pocket and brought forth a pamphlet which he handed to Hetzel. “I have here a map of Axistil, published on Maz by the local tourist association. Axistil, as you see, is a very small community. The plaza and Triskelion are under Triarchic jurisdiction. The Gaean sector is tinted green and includes the Gaean spaceport, the Beyranion Hotel, where you will be staying, and part of the settlement known as Dogtown. Far Dogtown, on Gomaz territory, lies beyond Gaean authority and is a refuge for criminals and riffraff. The Liss sector is indicated by purple shading and includes the Liss spaceport. The Olefract sector is shown in orange stipple.” Sir Ivon became earnest and affable. “A fascinating city, so I am told. A place possibly unique in the galaxy: the juncture of three interstellar empires! Fancy that!”

“This well may be,” said Hetzel. “Now, as to my fee—”

Sir Ivon held up his hand. “Let me recapitulate. Istagam ships its products through the Gaean spaceport. Where do they originate? There would seem three possibilities. In the Liss Empire, or in the Olefract Empire, or on the planet Maz itself. In the implausible event that the Liss or the Olefract are producing trade goods and attempting to sell them across the Reach, the matter is vastly important. Both Liss and Olefract are xenophobic; they would tolerate no retaliation in kind. So then—Maz. Implausible again. The Gomaz, for all their remarkable qualities, lack discipline; it is difficult to imagine a group of Gomaz warriors occupied at an assembly line.” Sir Ivon spread out his hands. “So there you have it: a fascinating puzzle.”

“Quite so. And now, a matter of considerable importance—”

“Your fee.” Sir Ivon cleared his throat. “I am authorized to pay what I consider a most generous sum—thirty SLU per diem, plus adequate expenses, and a bonus should your work prove highly satisfactory, that is to say, should our maximum objectives be achieved.”

Hetzel sat frozen with wonder. “Surely you are joking!”

“Let us not bore each other with spurious histrionics,” said Sir Ivon. “Your circumstances are known to me: you are a clever man, with the soul of a nomad and pretensions beyond your class. You are currently living at a rather disreputable inn, which suggests—”

Hetzel said: “You have not achieved eminence through tact or flattery, so much is clear. But your attitude clears the air, in that I can now freely state my opinion of the commercial mentality—”

“My time is too valuable to be spent on impudence or psychoanalysis,” said Sir Ivon. “Now then, let us—”

“A moment,” said Hetzel. “I am normally too proud to haggle, but I must meet you on your own ground. You put forward a ridiculous figure. I could counter with another as unreal, but I prefer to state my minimum requirements at the beginning.”

“Such as what?”

“You have come to me because you know my reputation for subtlety, resource, and competence; you want to derive the beneficial use of these qualities. They do not come cheap. You may write your contract to the tune of a hundred SLU per standard Gaean day, plus a cash advance of five thousand SLU for necessary expenses and an open draft upon the bank at Axistil should additional sums be required, plus a bonus of five thousand SLU should the investigation be completed to your satisfaction within the month, with the clear understanding that ‘investigation’ does not include murder, theft, destruction, or suicide, unless necessary.”

Sir Ivon’s face became pink. “I never conceived demands so capricious as these! Certain of your remarks have merit, and I might be willing to adjust my preliminary figure—”

The conversation continued an hour before a final understanding was reached; and Hetzel agreed to depart at once for Maz, at the edge of the Gaean Reach.

Sir Ivon, once more composed, gave Hetzel final instructions. “The Gaean representative at the Triarchy is Sir Estevan Tristo. I suggest that you immediately introduce yourself and explain your purposes; there is no reason why he should not give you all aid possible.”

“In cases such as this,” said Hetzel, “the obvious and reasonable courses of action are usually the least productive. However, I must start somewhere; why not with Sir Estevan Tristo?”

Maz, a small world submerged under a heavy atmosphere, swung around the white dwarf sun Khis, in company with a large frigid moon. A nimbus of smoky orange, unique in Hetzel’s experience, surrounded Maz, nor had he ever seen a moon so bland, blank, and featureless: a globe of frosted silver.

The passenger packet
Emma Noaker
of the Barbanic Line made the required rendezvous with the Triarchic patrol ships. The Liss and the Olefract vessels drifted above and to the side, and all the passengers craned their necks to study the artifacts of these exotic transgalactic intelligences, who allowed so little to be known of themselves. From the Gaean corvette came a pilot to take the
Emma Noaker
down to Axistil and to ensure against the landing of illicit weapons.

Down dropped the packet. The landscape of Maz was that of an ancient world: a half-dozen shallow seas, a few ranges of low hills separated by swamps or peneplains, with sluggish rivers meandering here and there like the veins on the back of an old man’s hand.

Axistil, headquarters of the Triarchic superintendency, occupied a site on a low plateau somewhat to the north of the equator. Halfway into the morning, local time, the
Emma Noaker
grounded at the Gaean spaceport half a mile east of the Triskelion. Landing formalities were brief; in company with thirty or forty other Gaeans, mostly tourists, Hetzel was passed into the depot. He immediately telephoned the Beyranion Hotel to confirm his reservation, and learned that he had been assigned their choicest accommodations, a suite in the garden annex, at a rate considerably higher than he would have been content to pay had he been settling his own account. A carryall from the Beyranion was on hand; Hetzel entrusted his valise to the driver and set out on foot along the Last Mile, toward the plaza of the Triarchy.

A world eerily beautiful, thought Hetzel. To look up at the sky was like looking off into sea-green water. Halfway along its morning arc the white star Khis glittered like a sequin. To the left a wasteland mounded with tall hummocks of moss faded into haze; to the right, a similar landscape sloped down into that nondescript clutter of shacks, huts and a few substantial buildings of whitewashed marl known as Dogtown. Ahead, the structures of Axistil, blurred by the haze, were perceived only as a set of unlikely silhouettes.

Hetzel met no one along the way; indeed, during his entire stay, the disparity between the monumental structures of Axistil and the near-absence of a population produced a unique, almost hallucinatory quality, as if Axistil were no more than a titanic stage-setting bereft of players.

The Last Mile ended at the plaza. Here a sign read:

A rather dampening notice, thought Hetzel. The ordinary touristic pleasures all seemed punishable by death, lifetime imprisonment, or unpredictable attack. Still, this very thrill of danger no doubt accented the pleasures of a visit to Maz.

Hetzel took a step forward and thereby departed the Gaean Reach. He walked out upon the plaza, an expanse paved with silver-gray schist which seemed to give off a glimmering light of its own. To one side loomed the spires, domes, eccentric columns, and asymmetric blocks of the Triskelion: a structure designed in three segments by the architects of three races, a remarkable edifice. Beyond the Triskelion, to southwest and northwest, lay the Liss and Olefract sectors, each with its cluster of buildings. At the north side of the plaza, opposite the Triskelion, stood a pair of monuments which the three empires had conjoined to maintain: the Rock of Pain, where the Gomaz chieftains, numb with the weight of disaster, had surrendered to the Triarchy; and the multicelled slab of glass and black copper known as the Exhibitory. Both objects were encompassed within a small park, where a few trees with egg-plant purple foliage grew from a dim green sward. To the northeast rose the sober façade of the Beyranion Hotel, to which Hetzel now directed his steps.

The Beyranion Hotel and its precincts constituted the smallest independent principality within the Gaean Reach. A garden of three acres surrounded the hotel proper; to one side stood the new garden annex. Hetzel registered at the main desk and was conducted to his suite.

Hetzel discovered his quarters to be more than satisfactory. The sitting room overlooked the garden: a place of odd colors, bizarre shapes and nose-twitching scents. Black spindle-trees as tall as the hotel shaded tussocks of purple-black moss; from a pond grew clumps of horsetail with pewter stems and orange whisks. There were banks of blue geraniums, twinkling candle-blossom and Maz mint, all of which added pungency to the smoky-sour reek of the moss. Newly arrived tourists now roamed the garden, marveling at the exotic growths and unfamiliar odors. Hetzel inspected the bedroom, and discovered a view across Dogtown, which he would visit later in the day. First to business.

He went to the telephone and put a call through to the office of the Gaean Triarch at the Triskelion. The screen brightened to show the face of a delicately pretty receptionist with blonde ringlets and a rose petal complexion. She spoke in a voice cool and tinkling, like far off wind-chimes. “The office of Sir Estevan Tristo; how can we serve you?”

“My name is Miro Hetzel. I would like a few minutes with Sir Estevan at the first convenient opportunity, on a matter of considerable importance. Can I see him this afternoon?”

“What is your business, sir?”

“I require information in regard to certain conditions on Maz—”

“You may apply for information to Vvs. Felius at the Triskelion Information Desk, or at the Dogtown Tourist Agency. Sir Estevan concerns himself exclusively with Triarchic business.”

“Nonetheless, this is an important matter, and I must request a few minutes of his time.”

“Sir Estevan is not in his office at the moment; I doubt if he’ll appear until the next session of the Triarchs.”

“And when will that be?”

“Five days from now, at half-morning. After the session, he allows an occasional interview. Are you a journalist?”

“Something of the sort. Perhaps I could see him at his home?”

“No, sir.” The girl’s features, as clear and delicate as those of a child, showed neither warmth nor sympathy for Hetzel’s problems. “He conducts all public business at the Triarchic sessions.”

“Ah, but this is private business!”

“Sir Estevan makes no private appointments. After the Triarchic session he works in his office for an hour or two; perhaps he will see you then.”