The Dogtown Tourist Agency (21 page)

“Should he not call himself Faurence Dacre?”

“The question is one of principle. My wife and her first spouse were united informally. Witt law stipulates the mother’s name for the yield of such unions. Faurence has flouted this law, ignoring the wishes of his mother; he rejects both ‘Keurboom’ and ‘Woxonoy’ in favor of the name carried by his footloose father…”

Two hours after his interview with Lord Keurboom, Hetzel boarded the passenger ship
Sobranad
, bound for Gietersmond. Arriving at Narghuys in the middle of the night, he went directly to the Cosmolux Hotel across Prater Huss Square. After assuring himself of accommodation he returned to the square and went to an outdoor café, half-concealed by the wares of all-night flower vendors. The waiter brought him a carafe of local wine and a sizzling dish of sausages. At times,
thought Hetzel, the perquisites of his occupation were notably agreeable. Gietersmond was to be preferred to Wittenmond, so he decided. The air seemed more bracing; the skies spread with a farther, wider, higher arch; the winds blew (so it seemed) with less constraint. Hetzel wondered about the composition of the two atmospheres. A higher concentration of oxygen? A different mix of inert gases? More or less carbon dioxide, or ozone, or nitrous oxide, or gases more rare and dilute? Such variations produced subtle psychological displacements, which across the years would accumulate.

A people’s soul was pictured in its architecture: such was the aphorism of the ancient sage Unspiek, Baron Bodissey. To Hetzel’s mind it carried conviction. The structures of Narghuys could never be considered austere, or simple, or spare; still they seemed less elaborate than those of Diestl. The Witts emphasized intricacy at the expense of integration. No curve related to any other curve; variousness held precedence over unity; no texture was repeated if human ingenuity could conceive another.

The folk of Narghuys, using a similar battery of motifs, achieved a surprisingly different effect. The structures of Narghuys displayed less idiosyncrasy and more style; curves were less opulent, and a logical correlation frequently united the various parts and aspects of a building. The differences in architecture mirrored the different preoccupations of the people. The Witts traded; the Giets engineered, designed, crafted. The Witts sold goods; the Giets sold expertise. The Giet technical academies were famous across the Reach; the Giet shops and laboratories produced a constant stream of innovative products, not necessarily all of practical value, which the Witts were glad to sell.
*

Immediately after breakfast Hetzel took himself to the Narghuys Academy of Medical Sciences. A direct approach, so he had found, sometimes yielded as much information as a week’s subterfuge. He went directly to the Information Counter and addressed himself to the clerk: a personable young woman in dark blue and white uniform.

“I am interested in the career of Dr. Faurence Dacre, who trained here,” said Hetzel. “Who would I consult in this regard? Conceivably you?”

The clerk smiled; Hetzel’s admiration seemed to cause her no distress. “How is the name spelled?” Receiving the information she touched buttons and dials, but the screen remained blank. She shook her head. “No references. Other folk also have inquired, so I see.”

“Perhaps he used the name Woxonoy—Faurence Woxonoy.”

“‘Faurence Woxonoy’?” She busied herself with the screen. “He studied here for eight years: until twelve years ago, actually.”

“And then where did he go?”

“I don’t know, sir; the information isn’t here. You had best make inquiries of his old provost.”

“Very well; who would that be?”

The clerk checked the record. “Dr. Aartemus. I’m afraid that he is occupied until this afternoon.”

“Perhaps you will make an appointment for me. My name is Miro Hetzel.”

“Certainly, sir. Shall I say in connection with Dr. Faurence Woxonoy?”

“If you like.”

At the appointed hour Hetzel entered the chambers of Dr. Aartemus, to discover a thin gray man of no great stature, with a pale broad forehead under a coarse gray stubble of hair. His expression, so it seemed to Hetzel, was at once sagacious, tolerant and sardonic; when he stood up, Hetzel saw that he was lame. “‘Physician, heal thyself!’” intoned Dr. Aartemus. “Luckily the physician of today can heed the injunction—if he chooses. I do not so choose. I am supported by tireless metal which never causes inconvenience. I fear neither fallen arches, ingrown toenails, itch, callus, chafe, scale, nor any of a thousand disturbances. I am not a selfish man; if you like I will on this instant amputate your own legs.”

Hetzel smilingly shook his head. “I am not the faddist you apparently believe me to be.”

“As you wish. I believe that you have a question to put to me?”

“True, in connection with a certain Faurence Woxonoy, who now calls himself Dr. Faurence Dacre. I am anxious to locate him.”

“You are not alone,” said Dr. Aartemus. “Over the years I have had several similar inquiries.” He leaned back in his chair. “Normally our rules are rigid; we tend to discretion, if for no other reason than self-protection. We never recommend any of our graduates, although we cheerfully provide information as to those who have failed their courses. The case of Faurence Woxonoy, or Dacre, if you prefer, is different. He was a brilliant student with a genuinely innovative mind; still, he failed certain of his courses and was not graduated.”

“Indeed! But he practices medicine without a qualm. Is this proper?”

“It is realistic. The Gaean Reach comprises countless communities; each must apply its own standards. A graduate of Podmarsh School of Medicine at Sek Sek on Wicker would not be allowed to treat a case of hiccups here on Gietersmond. On the other hand, though Faurence Dacre failed here at Narghuys, he went forth superbly equipped to practice anywhere across the Reach.”

“In that case, why was he not graduated?”

“To state the matter succinctly, he cheated. I—better to say, we—discredited him for deficiencies of the personality rather than those of technique. He had no need to cheat. He merely took exception to certain of my remarks and set himself to demonstrate that he could achieve honors in my class without performing any of my assignments. I watched him the whole of the term; after all, I am not a stupid man. I bided my time, because I recognized that a small setback, a small reprimand, would make no impression on him. All term he falsified his work, by a variety of ingenious means. I was more experienced and more ingenious. On the last day I spoke to the class, which incidentally was a very good class; I had been forced to send only five persons down for further work. ‘I congratulate you,’ I told them. ‘All have done excellent work. Except one. That one is Faurence Woxonoy who, for reasons best known to himself, has cheated consistently throughout the term.’ I now exhibited on the demonstration screen the various incidents which I had recorded. The class of course was greatly amused. Halfway through my demonstration Woxonoy rose to his feet and left the room.”

Hetzel grunted. “After that what happened to him?”

“I have no sure knowledge. I heard that he had gone to work in the Southern Torpeltines, at a place called Masmodo.” Dr. Aartemus spoke into a mesh. “Who has the practice at Masmodo, on Jamus Amaha?”

A voice came back. “Dr. Leuvil, now retired. The nearest active practitioner would be at Kroust.”

“Thank you.” Dr. Aartemus returned to Hetzel. “Jamus Amaha is the wildest area of the planet—only half-civilized, really.”

Hetzel reflected a moment. “Perhaps, sir, you would do me the favor of calling Dr. Leuvil, to inquire after Dr. Dacre.”

Dr. Aartemus raised his eyes to the ceiling, then shrugged. He worked buttons on his communicator but elicited only a set of fretful buzzing sounds. A woman at last appeared on the screen. “Masmodo operator.”

“I am trying to raise Dr. Leuvil,” said Aartemus. “I have had no success whatever.”

“Dr. Leuvil is retired; he no longer answers the communicator. Try Dr. Winke on Doubtful Island.”

“One moment. Can you get a message to Dr. Leuvil? Please notify him that Dr. Aartemus at Narghuys is waiting to speak to him.”

The operator grudgingly acknowledged that such a process was possible. “Just a moment, if you please.”

Five minutes later the screen crackled and flared; amidst slowly expanding sets of green halations appeared the face of a blonde young woman in a limp nurse’s uniform. Her face was round and peevishly pretty, if somewhat fleshy. “Who is calling? Doctor who?”

“Dr. Aartemus, of Narghuys Medical Sciences. I’d like a word with Dr. Leuvil.”

“Is he expecting a call from you?”

“I think not; however—”

“You are an old friend?”

“I think not; however—”

“Then Dr. Leuvil will not speak with you.”

“Surely this is most surly of him! I am a colleague—neither a bill collector nor a charity patient!”

“I’m sorry, Doctor. My orders have been made very clear to me.”

“Very well then. Please ask Dr. Leuvil if he knows the whereabouts of Dr. Faurence Dacre, or Dr. Faurence Woxonoy, as he might have called himself?”

The nurse gave a mincing little laugh. “I am certain that he will discuss Dr. Dacre with neither you nor anyone else.”

“Do you yourself know Dr. Dacre?”

“Yes indeed.”

“Can you tell me where he is now?”

The nurse shook her head. “I couldn’t even guess.”

“I thank you for your assistance.” Dr. Aartemus dulled his screen, swung around toward Hetzel. “So there you have it. I can do no more.”

“Dr. Aartemus, I am most grateful to you.”

To travel from Narghuys to Masmodo on Jamus Amaha entailed far more difficulty than the journey from Diestl to Narghuys. Hetzel rode south by airship to Jonder at the head of the Great
Fish River; he then boarded a local connector which stopped at every small community along the Malabar Littoral, and which finally discharged him at Cape Jaun, and thence to Paunt on Kletterer Island by ocean skimmer.

Away to the west, over the horizon and far beyond, extended the Torpeltines, a series of rocky hulks and spires, each surrounded by a fringe of beach and a few hundred yards of gangee, sprugge, magenta tea, cardenil bush, and coconut palms, these latter imported by an unknown number of stages from Old Earth. Few of the Torpeltines were inhabited by man. About half had been declared reserves for the indigenous Flamboyards; others lacked all inducement to human presence, since the sea harbored sea scrags, war eel, shatterbone and antler fish, while raptap, sword fly, corkscrew ticks and saltators infested the beaches.

At Paunt, Hetzel rented an air-car and flew five hundred miles down the chain of Torpeltines to Jamus Amaha. Masmodo, the principal settlement of the island, included a hotel, three taverns, several stores and warehouses, a small hospital or dispensary, several official offices, a boatyard, and a number of scattered residences. Rickety docks extended into the harbor, angling and dog-legging; to these docks were moored fishing boats. Enormous black sneezewood trees shaded the streets and lined the waterfront.

Hetzel landed his airboat behind the post office and secured lodging at the Great Western Hotel. The time was early afternoon. Jingkens Star, halfway down the blue purple sky, glared on the sand streets, extracted a rank resinous odor from the paper-thin sneezewood shags, gleamed and flickered along the sluggish swells which eased under the docks.

From the verandah of the hotel Hetzel surveyed the long main thoroughfare: from the waterfront, past the municipal offices facing the hotel, up the slope to the dispensary and Dr. Leuvil’s cottage nearby.

After ten minutes of reflection Hetzel walked down to the docks. A few men tinkered with their fishing gear, others squatted on short crooked legs, looking out across the harbor. An unlovely lot, thought Hetzel: squat and dumpy with narrow foreheads, heavy chins and jaws, protruding noses, pendulous ears. These were Arsh, whose forebears, escaping the Corrective Institute on Sanctissimus Island, had taken refuge in the Jamus Amaha jungles. After centuries of isolation the Arsh had become a small but definite racial singularity.
*

Hetzel walked out along one of the creaking docks, to Dongg’s Tavern at the seaward end. The interior was cool and capacious; the waterweed canes of which the walls were woven allowed a filigree of Jingkens’ light to sift across the plank floors. Three Arsh, wearing only loose crotch wraps and curl-brimmed hats with tall concave-conical peaks, crouched together drinking beer from
huge pots. They swung slantwise glances over their shoulders, which somehow seemed like sneers; then they turned and continued their guttural conversation.

Hetzel took a seat and the barmaid presently came forward: a young blonde woman, large hipped and well fleshed, her face not so much hard as impervious.

“Sir, what’s your wish?”

“Something cool and easy. What would you suggest?”

“We make a nice punch, with rum, cabinche, tartlip juice, and lemon squash.”

“Exactly right.”

With stately mien the barmaid served a greenish yellow mixture which Hetzel found pleasantly astringent. “Very nice,” he told the barmaid.

She returned a frigid nod. Her face was round, like Dr. Leuvil’s nurse; not too long ago she might also have been pretty.

Hetzel asked: “Is the weather always this warm at Masmodo?”

“Most of the year, except during rains.”

The nurse, Hetzel decided, was definitely more attractive than the barmaid, whose billows were perilously close to sheer fat, even allowing for the difference of perhaps five years in age. “Are you a native of these parts?” he asked.

The barmaid merely gave him a sour smirk, and turned away to serve another customer. Hetzel meditatively consumed the punch, then, choosing his time, ordered a second of the same. “And have one yourself.”

“Thanks, I don’t drink.”

In due course the rum punch was served. Hetzel asked: “What’s to be done around here for amusement?”

“Sit here, drink, listen to the waves. Sometimes the Arsh tell nasty stories or kill each other. That’s about the lot.”