The Dogtown Tourist Agency (5 page)

In regard to Istagam, Hetzel capitulated the possibilities:

Hetzel considered the permutations of the listed concepts, hoping that some course of action applicable to all might suggest itself, and this in fact was the case. He discovered that he had very little choice but to wait for the next session of the Triarchy, at which he could interview Sir Estevan Tristo.

Meanwhile, supposing propositions I-3, II-1, and III-1 to be accurate, he could reasonably expect that a certain degree of uneasiness must be affecting the operators of Istagam, and he must conduct himself accordingly.

Hetzel enjoyed three days of leisure. He breakfasted in his sitting room, lunched in the Beyranion garden, took his evening meal in the hotel dining room. He strolled about the plaza, looked across the frontier into the Liss and Olefract sectors, explored Dogtown, and at all times he attended to the promptings of his subconscious. Once or twice he was tempted to investigate Far Dogtown, but decided that here, if anywhere, the risk might be real.

At the northwest corner of the plaza was the Maz Transport depot. According to Kerch, anyone might freely ride the carriers, but he might not debark at any of the castle stations. Additionally, the adventurous passenger must be prepared to tolerate the unpleasant odor of the Gomaz. The carriers were slow, the routes indirect, the seats uncomfortable. The pilots of these carriers, thought Hetzel, might well provide meaningful items of information, and on the afternoon before the Triarchic session, he went to the landing plat and waited while the afternoon carrier landed.

Three Gomaz alighted: tall chieftains magnificent in capes of black leather and ropes of braided green feathers. They wore cast-iron war helmets with three rows of spiked crests accentuating their own crests of white bone. Wonderful, terrible creatures, thought Hetzel as he watched them stalk off across the plaza. They were certainly more desirable as allies than enemies: a concept upon which the Triarchy was based, each party more fearful of conspiracy than of the Gomaz themselves.

The pilot refused even to listen to Hetzel’s questions. “Ask at the tourist agency,” he said. “They’ve got all that information. I’m busy and I’m late; excuse me.”

Hetzel shrugged and moved away. For want of any better destination, he strolled down the Avenue of Lost Souls into Dogtown. The girl in the tourist office might be leaving at about this time, and if he met her on the street, who knows what might ensue?

The trifle of shiny tinsel which was the dwarf star Khis had dropped behind a field of herringbone cirrus, gray-green on the green sky; the light was rather poor, and Hetzel did not immediately recognize the man who stepped from Byrrhis’ office. Hetzel halted, stared, then ran forward. He called out, “Casimir! Casimir Wuldfache!”

The man—Casimir Wuldfache?—hesitated not a step. He turned into the road leading to Far Dogtown, and when Hetzel reached the corner he was nowhere to be seen.

Hetzel retraced his steps. The tourist agency was dark; the door into the premises of Byrrhis Enterprises was closed, and no one responded to his knock.

Hetzel returned up the Avenue of Lost Souls, and around the edge of the plaza to the Beyranion.

On the morrow: the Triarchic session, and the meeting, or interview, or confrontation—whatever it might be—with Sir Estevan Tristo.

Hetzel awoke in the dark. What was the time? Midnight? The green moon Oloë, a great gibbous ellipsoid, almost filled the frame of the window. What had awakened him?

Hetzel searched his recollection: a gnawing sound, a faint scratching, somehow sinister…Hetzel listened. Only silence. Now a quiet sigh, almost inaudible. Hetzel lay still a moment, gathering his
wits. The air seemed stale, a trifle acrid. Hetzel swung his legs to the floor, stumbled from his bed and out into the sitting room. Here the air also seemed acrid. He ran to the door; it refused to open. To the back window he tottered on legs which felt numb. He threw open the pane and the wind from off the downs blew into his face. Hetzel gasped, inhaled, exhaled, clearing his lungs. His senses swam; he leaned on the window-sill.

Hetzel awoke to find himself back in bed. Morning sunlight slanted through the window; on a chair nearby sat a nurse. Hetzel rubbed his head, which throbbed and ached. Dreary recollections drifted into his mind. Death-gas? Sleep-gas? Murder? Robbery? Revenge?

The nurse leaned over him and held a goblet to his mouth. “Can you drink? You’ll feel better.”

Hetzel drank the potion and indeed felt somewhat better. He focused his eyes on his watch. Today the Triarchy met in executive session…In consternation he saw the time, and thrust himself up into a sitting position. The nurse expostulated. “Please, Vv. Hetzel, you must rest!”

“It’s more important that I get to the Triskelion. Where are my clothes?”

The nurse ran to the telephone while Hetzel thrust his stiff limbs into his garments. Kerch appeared. “You seem to be alive.”

“Yes, I’m alive. I’ve got to get over to the Triskelion.”

“Easy then. Do you feel capable?”

“Not altogether. What happened to me?”

“Gas—I don’t know what kind. They came into your rooms and set off alarms, but they escaped out the back window. Are you missing any valuables?”

“My money is in the hotel safe, with most of my papers. My wallet is missing, with about a hundred SLU and a few documents. Nothing important.”

“You are lucky.”

Hetzel bathed his face in cold water, drank another cup of the nurse’s potion, drew a few deep breaths. The throbbing in his head had subsided; he felt weak and limp, but capable of ordinary activity. Perhaps robbery had been the motive for last night’s incursion, perhaps someone had not wanted him at the Triarchic session. Too bad for his assailants. They had gained small loot and he would attend the session. Somewhat late, perhaps, but he would be there. He assured Kerch and the nurse of his viability and set off across the plaza, trotting, then walking.

The Triskelion loomed above him. Hetzel referred to his watch. If the session began punctually, on the hour, he would be late. He mounted the three wide steps, crossed the fore-court. As he reached to push open the crystal portal, it slid abruptly wide, and Hetzel was thrust aside by the furious passage of a Gomaz warrior. Hetzel received an instant impression of a pinched face of polished bone, black optic balls blazing with an inner star; he sensed the creature’s rancid odor then it was gone in a jangle of chain and medals, striding off across the plaza. Hetzel looked after it, thinking to recognize one of the Gomaz who had alighted from the carrier on the previous evening. Where were its fellows? Odd, thought Hetzel. Why should the creature act in this fashion?

He continued into the central lobby and immediately sensed stress and excitement. At the Gaean leg of the reception desk, portly Vvs. Felius stood quivering and pale; the young man leaned forward, peering toward a curved flight of stairs.

Hetzel approached. “I came to attend the session,” he told the young man. “I hope I’m not too late.”

Vvs. Felius emitted a choking, half-hysterical laugh. “Too late, ha ha! Too late indeed! There’ll be no session now! No more sessions ever; they’ve all been killed!”

The young man muttered: “Come now, Vvs. Felius; control yourself.”

“No, Vv. Kylo, let me be; it’s all so terrible!”

“What’s this?” asked Hetzel. “Who’s been killed?”

“The Triarchs—all! Poor Sir Estevan, ah, poor man!”

Vv. Kylo spoke in annoyance. “Just a minute; we don’t really know what’s happened. There’s Captain Baw; he’ll tell us the facts.”

Vvs. Felius called out, “Captain Baw, oh Captain Baw! Whatever in the world has happened?”

Captain Baw, his round face pink and purposeful, his mouth coiled into a rosebud, paused by the desk. “Assassination, that’s what’s happened.”

“Oh, Captain Baw, how dreadful! And who—?”

“The Liss and Olefract Triarchs—both struck down, and a pair of Gomaz as well.”

“Ah! aliens all. But what of Sir Estevan?”

“I called a warning to him; he dropped behind his desk and escaped by the flicker of an eyelash.”

“Great Praise!” cawed Vvs. Felius, rolling up her eyes. “I vow a thousand pastilles for the Sacred Arch!”

Vv. Kylo said, “Vow the pastilles instead to Captain Baw; he seems to have been the hero of the occasion.”

“I did no more than my duty,” declared Captain Baw. “I’d do as much ten times a day.”

“One fact is yet unclear,” said Hetzel. “Who was the assassin?”

Captain Baw turned Hetzel a head-to-toe glance under raised eyebrows. He clearly had forgotten their previous meeting. Noting neither opulent garments nor aristocratic insignia, he began to formulate a curt reply, then meeting the gray clarity of Hetzel’s gaze, he cleared his throat and rendered a rather more respectful response. “The assassin was a crazy young Gaean: a vagabond with a grudge, a sectarian, a cultist. In my affable innocence I took him into the chamber and now you can imagine my remorse!”

“Why, I spoke to that very man!” cried Vvs. Felius. “To think of it! It gives one an utter qualm! He wore no proper tokens, although he was so disheveled that they would never have been seen. Bold as a baron, he asked for Sir Estevan, and I sent him over to Captain Baw; why, he might have killed all of us!”

“And what of this mad cultist? He is in custody?”

Captain Baw spoke tersely. “He escaped. By now he’s safe in Far Dogtown.”

Vv. Kylo uttered a rather tactless sound of astonishment. “Escaped? With you right beside him?”

Captain Baw puffed out his cheeks and stared across the chamber. He spoke in a measured voice: “I was not at his very side; I had stepped forward to attract Sir Estevan’s attention. After the shots there was confusion, and at first I thought to blame the Gomaz until I saw that two of his fellows were down. By this time the assassin was halfway to Dogtown, curse his heels. Never fear, we’ll winkle him out by one trick or another, or maybe arrange his demise. I assure you, he’ll not escape so easily.”

“A sad affair,” said Hetzel. He spoke to Vvs. Felius: “Inasmuch as my business with Sir Estevan is urgent, I prefer to see him now, rather than wait for another session of the Triarchy.”

Vvs. Felius said in a haughty voice: “Sir Estevan is certainly too shaken to conduct business at this moment.”

“Why not consult Sir Estevan on this score? I suspect that he has more fortitude than you give him credit for.”

With a sniff, Vvs. Felius spoke into a mesh. She listened to the quiet reply, and, vindicated, turned back to Hetzel. “Sir Estevan is seeing no one today. I’m sorry, sir.”

Hetzel stood on the great Gaean porch, wondering what to do next, and not particularly anxious to do anything. In the aftermath of last night’s adventure his legs were flaccid, his throat felt raw, his head seemed to expand and contract as he breathed. Had he been dosed with sleep-gas? Or death-gas? It would be interesting to know. The ramifications and possibilities were too large to grasp. Speculation at the moment was futile.

Hetzel descended the steps to the plaza and moved off in the general direction of the Beyranion. He passed beside the Exhibitory and on sudden thought halted to re-examine the apathetic faces. None bore the semblance of Casimir Wuldfache. No surprise, of course, especially if that man he had glimpsed the previous evening had for a fact been Wuldfache.

Hetzel turned away. On a bench nearby sat an unkempt young man in ragged garments and scuffed ankle-boots. Matted blond hair and a half-grown beard blurred his rather prominent and over-large features, but failed to disguise an expression of rage and hate. Hetzel halted to look the man over and received a lambent blue glare for his pains.

Hetzel asked, “May I share the bench with you?”

“Do as you like.”

Hetzel seated himself. The man smelled of sweat and filth. “My name is Miro Hetzel.”

The young man returned only a surly grunt. Hetzel inquired, “And your name is—?”

“None of your affair.” A few seconds later he blurted, “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

“As I say, I am Miro Hetzel. What do I want with you? Perhaps only a few minutes of idle conversation.”

“I do not care to talk to you.”

“As you wish. But you should know that a man approximating your description has just committed a serious crime. Unless the actual criminal is captured you would be wise to prepare yourself for inconvenience.”

For a moment it appeared that the man would make no reply. Then, in a rasping voice he asked: “Are you the police? If so, look elsewhere for your criminal.”

“I am not connected with the police. May I ask your name?”

“Gidion Dirby.”

“Have you just paid a visit to the Triskelion?”

“You might call it that.”

“During this visit, did you expunge two of the Triarchs?”

Gidion Dirby spoke in a wondering voice: “Two Triarchs? Which two?”

“The Liss and the Olefract.”

Gidion Dirby laughed softly and leaned back upon the bench.

“The news comes as no great shock,” Hetzel observed.

“I was supposed to kill the Gaean,” said Gidion Dirby. “The plan went wrong. After all that work, after all that effort…”

“The more you explain, the less I understand,” said Hetzel. “In simple language: why did you disregard this complicated plan and kill the aliens instead of Sir Estevan?”

“What are you saying? I killed no one whatever. Not that I wouldn’t like to.”

Hetzel said thoughtfully: “The description of the assassin—a man vehement, dirty, and wild—is not too much different from your own.”