The Dogtown Tourist Agency (9 page)

“What of the Gomaz? They stood behind you as well.”

“Gomaz are not allowed to carry guns.”

“Assume that through some unusual circumstance, one of the Gomaz did in fact carry a gun—what then?”

“First: he would not kill in cold blood. Second: he would not kill his fellows. Third: he would not depart without making a thorough job of it.”

“What happened to the weapon?”

“I have no information in this regard. You must put the question to Gidion Dirby.”

“As a matter of fact, I have done so. Somewhat to his surprise, he did find a gun in his pocket. The cells were discharged and the contacts were corroded. The gun has not been fired for months. What do you say to that?”

In a voice of long-suffering patience, Captain Baw replied, “Sir, it is not my place to argue with you. Ask your questions of fact; I will respond as well as I can.”

“You state that you did not actually see the gun being fired.”

Baw lowered his eyelids, and his eyes became such narrow lines of leaden gristle that Hetzel wondered how he could see. “I will merely assert, sir, that the shots came from the vicinity of Gidion Dirby. I glimpsed the action from the corner of my eye; I was somewhat preoccupied with the Gomaz, who had become restless and upset.”

“Why did you not immediately rush forth and capture Gidion Dirby?”

“My first duty was to Sir Estevan. I assured myself that he was not seriously hurt, and had a brief discussion with him. Then, when I went to seek Vv. Dirby, he was nowhere to be seen. I assumed that he had taken himself to Far Dogtown, where we lack jurisdiction.”

“You might have caught him, had you hurried.”

“Perhaps so, sir, but there was no basis on which I might have arrested him, and this was the subject of my discussion with Sir Estevan. Dirby’s shots killed a Liss in Liss territory, an Olefract in Olefract territory, and no one has bothered to pass a law against killing Gomaz. The shoe is on the other foot. We have no formal extradition procedures with either Liss or Olefract, nor have they as yet made any representations to us.”

“All this seems highly abstract,” said Hetzel. “I would expect that when you observe a man killing two Triarchs, you would capture him first and worry about charges later.”

Baw condescended a small smile. “This procedure might be feasible within the Reach. You do not understand how carefully we must deal with the Liss and Olefract. We adhere to the exact letter of our contract; they do the same with us. Only in this way can we accommodate each other.”

“So, then, what is Dirby’s status as of this moment?”

“We have issued a complaint of misdemeanor against Gidion Dirby, asserting that he fired weapons during official proceedings of the Triarchy and disrupted the session.”

“This is not the statement you made to Aeolus Shult, at the Beyranion.”

“At the Beyranion I have no official status. I can use unofficial language and perform unofficial acts, such as laying hold of Dirby and dragging him out on the plaza to where I could arrest him.”

“On misdemeanor charges?”

“Exactly.”

“What is the penalty for such an offense?”

“He must be adjudged.”

“By whom?”

“In connection with small crimes, I generally act as magistrate.”

“And how do you adjudge Gidion Dirby?”

“Guilty.”

“And his penalty?”

Captain Baw’s thinking had not proceeded so far. “I must consult the statutes.”

“Why not do so now? I will pay the fine.”

Captain Baw made a brusque gesture. “If you think to pay some trifling sum in Gidion Dirby’s name and win him away free and guiltless, you are mistaken.”

“You have done this much yourself.”

Captain Baw’s mouth became a loose O of indignant astonishment. “How so?”

“You have tried and adjudged him of firing shots in the Triarchy chamber, and found him guilty. Regardless of his guilt or innocence, a man may not be twice held to account for the same charges.”

Captain Baw’s face began to turn pink. He spoke in a heavy voice. “This interpretation will not carry weight, I assure you.”

“I thought not,” said Hetzel.

“There may be an additional charge, such as felonious attack upon the life of Sir Estevan Tristo.”

“How can this be? Only four shots were fired, and four individuals were killed!” This remark was casual essay; Hetzel had no notion whatever as to how many shots had been fired.

“The number of shots fired is not germane,” said Baw laboriously. “Gidion Dirby must surrender himself at once, or seriously compromise his position.”

“I will tell him so,” said Hetzel, “and I thank you for your courtesy. But one more matter puzzles me. I identified the Gomaz as Kaikash—”

“Kaikash? Nonsense. They were Ubaikh. Kaikash wear a peaked helmet and black leggings, and they smell different. I can’t read the smells so that I know what they mean, but I can tell a Kaikash from a Ubaikh.”

“What did they want from the Triarchs?”

“The matter lies beyond my province.”

“But you know?”

“Of course I know. It is my business to know everything.”

“Sir Estevan declared that you would answer all questions freely.”

“In my opinion, Sir Estevan is far too liberal. There is no reason why we should explain official business to every astounded tourist. I will say this much: the Ubaikh consider themselves an elite. They led all the septs in the great war, and now they hold themselves first among the Gomaz, and they are always the first to complain of any and every fancied encroachment.”

“I would consider Istagam more than an encroachment,” said Hetzel. “No reasonable man could say otherwise.”

Captain Baw looked off across the room. “In this regard, there can be no discussion.”

“It is foolish to ignore a notorious reality,” said Hetzel.

“Not all that notorious,” grumbled Captain Baw. “A trivial matter, really.”

“Then why should the Ubaikh come here to complain?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care!” roared Captain Baw. “I can talk no more today!”

“Thank you, Captain Baw.”

Hetzel found Gidion Dirby sitting on a hummock of purple-black moss in that corner of the garden overlooking Dogtown. He seemed morose and preoccupied and when Hetzel approached, he turned a resentful glance over his shoulder. Gidion Dirby, thought Hetzel, was not a likable man. Still, he must be excused a certain degree of peevishness. After similar treatment, Hetzel might also become misanthropic.

Dirby asked, “Well…did you see Sir Estevan?”

“Yes. He told me nothing we don’t already know. I also spoke to Captain Baw, who seems somewhat uncertain. He tells me that the deed for which you are held liable is a simple misdemeanor. The Triarchs have never established a mutually binding legal code; no one trusts anyone else, and each party enforces its own laws upon its own subjects. Gaean interest in the missiles which killed the Liss and the Olefract ends as soon as those missiles cross the lines of jurisdiction. Killing Gomaz is not yet illegal. Hence, even had you shot the gun, your offense is a simple disorderly conduct. This is the theory. In effect, Sir Estevan might informally extradite you to the Liss or the Olefract. Though this I somehow doubt. He is a complex man, a puzzling man. He seems very confident.”

Dirby gave an inarticulate growl. “They purposely allowed me to escape, because they couldn’t risk a public trial, with mind-search evidence.”

“I’m sure of nothing,” said Hetzel. “Sir Estevan tells me that there is a long blue-and-white-tiled hall in his residence. Someone photographed him walking along this hall and adapted the film to your situation…I neglected to ask who might have so filmed him.”

“And when he turned the pot over my head—that was also a photograph?”

“That might not have been Sir Estevan. In fact, almost certainly it was Casimir Wuldfache.”

Dirby rose to his feet and stood rubbing his chin. “If my offense is just simple misdemeanor, why not go over to the Triskelion and pay a fee?”

“It’s not quite that simple. Captain Baw comprises the whole legal system in himself. He might sentence you to thirty lashes, or eighteen years in the Exhibitory, or expulsion into Liss territory. You had better remain at the Beyranion until you have legal counsel and a Gaean marshal on the job.”

“That will be a month, or maybe two months.”

“Do as you like,” said Hetzel. “Shall I continue the investigation?”

“I suppose you might as well.”

“If you turn yourself in, I’m going to stop. I can’t collect money from a dead man.”

Dirby only grunted.

Hetzel drew a deep breath and went on. “We’ve only scratched the surface of this case. Right now, at least, several matters seem important. Where is Banghart? Where is Casimir Wuldfache? Where were you confined? Is your case linked with Istagam? If so, how?”

“Don’t ask me,” said Dirby. “I’m just the turkey.”

“Does Banghart have other names or a Gaean index by which he might be traced?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“What does he look like?”

Dirby scratched his chin. “He’s older than I; stocky, with a square face and black hair. He doesn’t seem particularly impressive until he gives you orders and looks at you. He’s cold inside. He likes to dress well; in fact, he’s something of a dandy. He spoke once or twice of a place called Fallorne.”

“Fallorne is a world on the other side of the Reach. Anything else?”

“He had a strange way of singing. I can’t quite describe it—as if singing two tunes at once, a kind of counterpoint. I can’t think of much else.”

“Very good. Now, you were put down on a swampy island. Do you remember the weather?”

“It was just an ordinary clear night.”

“Could you see stars?”

“Not distinctly. The air blurs them out, and the moon was stark full, which concealed even more stars.”

“How high did the moon rise above the horizon? In other words, what was its maximum height in degrees?”

Dirby shrugged peevishly. “I hardly noticed. I wasn’t concerned with astronomical observations. Let me think. I don’t believe it went higher than about forty-five degrees—halfway up the sky. Don’t ask me about the sun, because I didn’t notice; in fact, I hardly saw it.”

“Very well, but you noticed where the sun rose?”

Dirby allowed himself a sour smile. “In the east.”

“In the east is correct. Now, then, on the night previously, did the moon climb the northern sky or the southern sky?”

“The southern sky. But what difference does all this make?”

“Any information might be useful. In the room where you were held, did you notice any indication of the passing days? Any difference between night and day?”

“No.”

“But you think you were held prisoner two or three months.”

“About that. I don’t really know.”

“You never heard sounds outside your room? Conversation?”

“Nothing. Never.”

“If you think of anything,” said Hetzel, “make a note of it.”

Dirby started to speak, then held his tongue. Hetzel watched him a moment. Perhaps his adventure had, for a fact, distorted his thinking processes. His perceptions must have been honed; he would experience events in terms of contrasts and extremes. All colors would seem saturated; all voices would ring with both truth and duplicity; all acts would seem pregnant with mysterious symbolism. In a certain sense, Dirby must be regarded as irresponsible. Hetzel spoke in an even voice. “Remember, do not leave the grounds of the hotel; in fact, you would be wise to stay indoors.”

Dirby’s reply confirmed his suspicions. “Wisdom doesn’t work as well as you might imagine.”

“Everything else works much worse,” said Hetzel. “I have some business in Dogtown, and I’ll be gone for an hour or two, or perhaps the rest of the afternoon. I suggest, first, that you rayogram your father, then sit quietly somewhere. Talk to the tourists. Relax. Sleep. Above all, don’t do anything to get yourself kicked out of the hotel.”

From the rear of the Beyranion Hotel a flight of rock-melt steps zigzagged down the face of a sandstone bluff, to join the road connecting the space depot and Far Dogtown. Hetzel had not yet visited this district southeast of Dogtown proper, in Gomaz territory and outside the Gaean Reach. This was the Dogtown of popular imagination, the so-called City of Nameless Men. Every other building appeared to be an inn of greater or lesser pretension, each stridently asserting its vitality with a sign or a standard, painted, sometimes crudely, sometimes artfully, in colors which gave zest to structures built of drab stone from the bluff, or planks of local wormwood, or slabs sawed from burls.

The time was now late afternoon; the folk of Far Dogtown had come forth to take a draft of beer, or a flask of wine, or a dram of spirits, at rude tables before taverns or under the acacias which grew down the center of the street. They sat alone or in small groups of twos and threes, talking in confidential mumbles punctuated with an occasional guffaw or a jocular curse, eyeing each passerby with stony, speculative gazes. Hetzel recognized garments and trinkets from half a hundred worlds. Here sat a man with hair in varnished ringlets after the fashion of Arbonetta; there sat another with the cropped ears of a Destrinary. This man with the slantwise velvet cap and the dangle of black pearls past his ear might be a starmenter from Alastor Cluster; what could bring him so far across the galaxy?

And those two girls, sisters or twins, with pale snub-nose faces and orange hair; they seemed very young to be so far from Marmonfyre. But most of the folk taking their ease at the taverns of Far Dogtown wore garments much like those of Hetzel himself—the unobtrusive dress of the galactic wanderer, who preferred to attract a minimum of attention.

The street took a jog and widened by a few yards; here was a cluster of small shops: food-markets; a pharmacy and dispensary; a haberdasher with racks of ready-to-wear garments and crates of boots, shoes, and sandals; a news-stand with journals from various sections of the Reach…Hetzel felt a sudden uneasy pang. Halting to study an offering of fraudulent identification papers and packets of counterfeit money, he managed to glance back the way he had come, but the man following him, if such there were, had stepped into a public urinal.