Throy (17 page)

“Naturally not. Do you take me for a fool?”

“For payment, of course.”

The Yip looked over the two cases, which were of no great size. “How much payment?”

“Half a sol should be adequate.”

The Yip turned back to the dragon’s-eye tree. Over his shoulder he said indifferently: “A sol.”

“A sol, for both cases, from here to the hotel, now and in our company, not lagging behind or sitting down to rest along the way.”

“I should charge you extra, for impudence,” said the Yip.

He thought for a moment, but found nothing inherently unreasonable in Chilke’s proposal. “Give me the money first.”

“Ha ha! Now who takes whom for a fool? You shall be paid at the hotel.”

“It seems that I must trust your good faith,” grumbled the Yip. “It is always thus, and perhaps here is the reason why we are a down-trodden race.”

          “You are a down-trodden race because you are lazy,” said Chilke.

“If I am lazy and you are not, how is it that I am carrying your baggage while you walk light-foot?”

For a moment or two Chilke deigned no explanation of the seeming paradox; then he said: “If you knew anything about the laws of economics, you would not ask such a banal question.”

“That is as may be.”

The three set off toward Port Mona, across a landscape grand in its desolation, if melancholy, by reason of high skies, far horizons and the beer-colored sunlight. A mile to the north a dozen gigantic thrum-trees stood in a line, lonely and isolated; the intervening waste was grown over with tufts of sedge and a low plant with pulpy pink heart-shaped leaves exuding a tart dry scent. To the south, a cluster of three conical peaks thrust high into the sky.

Glawen asked the Yip: “Where do you live?”

“Our camp is back yonder.”

“How long have you been here?”

“I can’t tell you, exactly. Years, perhaps.”

“You have built good houses for yourselves?”

“Adequately good. If the wind blows away the roof, there is always new grass to be had for the plucking.”

The three arrived at Port Mona, passing first through a district of upper-status bungalows, built of local timber to a quaint and angular architecture, then past a miscellaneity of structures: weathered cottages, warehouses and workshops, all somewhat dingy and unprepossessing. The road curved to the south, crossed a dry watercourse and after another fifty yards entered the central square.

The town was so quiet as to seem torpid. No vehicles moved along the streets. The folk who chanced to be

abroad walked with no sense of purpose, as if their thoughts were far away.

North of the square the two tourist hotels, the Multiflor and the Darsovie Inn, created an enclave of elegance strikingly at odds with the otherwise sober environs of Port Mona. Both stood five stories high and were surmounted by domes of brass mesh and glass; both were surrounded by lush gardens of ylang-ylang trees, dark cypress, jasmine, almirantes, stellar flamboyants. The gardens were illuminated by soft green, blue and white lights and emitted entrancing floral odors.

Elsewhere around the square were shops, agencies, markets, the concrete structure housing the Factor’s Association. At the southern side of the square was a third hotel: Whipsnade House, a rambling irregular structure built of dark timber with a rickety two-story gallery along the front. Glawen also noted an unobtrusive structure of rock-melt and glass which displayed the blue and white symbol of the IPCC. He would be expected to pay the local staff a courtesy call as soon as possible; such was IPCC protocol, which ordinarily Glawen would have found unobjectionable. But now the presence of himself and Chilke would arouse curiosity, which might prove inconvenient. On the other hand, if he neglected convention, he could expect no instant cooperation in the event of emergency. He decided to call at the IPCC offices the first thing in the morning.

The sun had settled behind a scud of high clouds. The sky showed the clear pure lavender for which Rosalia was famous. Chilke indicated the two hotels at the north side of the square. “They are quite nice, so I have been told, but the prices are imaginative. At Whipsnade House, the floors creak and snoring in bed is prohibited, but here is where ranchers put up when they come to town.”

Glawen and Chilke took lodging at the Whipsnade House, then went out to drink beer on the gallery.

Twilight came to Port Mona. The square was quiet, traversed only by a few shopkeepers trudging homeward.

Glawen looked around the square. “I don’t see any cafés, or public saloons, or restaurants, or music halls.”

“That is factor policy. They consider Port Mona a commercial depot, a port of entry for the tourists. Everything else is incidental.”

“It’s a cheerless place.”

Chilke agreed. “The young people leave as soon as they can. There is always a labor shortage.”

“Namour had a good idea. The Yips’ aversion to toil cost him a lot of money.”

“If Namour collected his fee up front, then it was the ranchers who lost their money not Namour - and of course that was the way it was.”

Glawen ruminated upon the circumstances. “If Barduys still feels that he has been swindled, and if he is of a hard and vengeful temperament, then his interest in Namour and the Yips is explained. He wants revenge and he wants his money back.”

“On the other hand, if he is of a philosophical nature, he has long ago laughed off the whole silly business,” said Chilke. “Now he is concerned with a new project. On Tyr Gog he notices changes in the Yip mentality, and he tells himself that if it can happen on Tyr Gog, why not elsewhere? So he comes to Rosalia to investigate other Yip colonies, and his actions are explained.”

“Rosalia is a long way to come just to look at a few Yips.”

“Then why did he trouble to visit the village on Rhea?”

“There was something he wanted to find out. Five minutes was enough. He saw that when Yips took up with

strong-willed women of the country, they started to work and build good houses. Barduys saw all he wanted to see and set off for Rosalia. He is probably here now.”

“I can think of two ways to find him,” said Chilke. “We can search here and there at random, or we can solve the problem through the use of pure logic.”

“I’d be willing to try the second method if I knew where to start.”

“We go back to the village on Rhea. Flitz told Barduys not to worry about Namour, since they would find him on Rosalia. I take this to mean that they were already on their way to Rosalia, but for reasons not connected with Namour. I can’t believe that they would come this far just to look at some more Yips. So - what else is on Rosalia? The answer is: ‘Shadow Valley Ranch,’ also Smonny and Titus Zigonie, perhaps Namour as well. Logic has supplied a clue.”

“It is almost too easy,” said Glawen. “What could Barduys possibly want at Shadow Valley Ranch?”

“That is why we are here: to ask questions.”

“Hmf,” said Glawen. “Asking Barduys questions is easy. Finding him is less easy. Forcing him to answer may not be easy at all.”

Chilke said thoughtfully. “While you are dealing with Barduys, I will undertake to question Flitz. It is a challenging task, but I think I am up to it.”

Glawen asked: “Are you acquainted with the old fable called ‘Belling the Cat’?”

Chilke nodded. “My mother was a great one for fables. Why do you ask?”

“If someone wants to question Flitz, first he must arrange that she does not snub him.”

In the morning Glawen and Chilke visited the IPCC agency. The senior officer, Adam Wincutz, received them with muted courtesy carefully devoid of curiosity. Wincutz was thin, all bone and sinew, with a long bony head, sandy hair and opaque blue eyes.

Glawen explained their presence by referring to Namour. The Cadwal Constabulary, so he stated, was dissatisfied with certain phases of Namour’s conduct. It was considered likely that he had taken refuge on Rosalia. Glawen wondered if Wincutz had any knowledge of Namour or his activities.

Wincutz seemed only politely interested in the case. “I have heard the name ‘Namour’ mentioned. He brought in several contingents of laborers from some benighted place at the back of nowhere.”

“That place was the Cadwal Conservancy,” said Glawen stiffly.

          “Ah? In any case, the program came to naught. The Yips decamped from the ranches to which they had been assigned.”

          “Do you recall which ranches took contingents?”

          “There were only three or four. Honeyflower took a gang; Stronsi took a couple gangs. Baramond took a gang and Shadow Valley might have tried as many as three; in fact, there are a few Yips at Shadow Valley to this day. But in general the Yips drifted off like ghosts and the ranchers had no recourse.”

          “They failed to complain to the IPCC?”

“They had nothing to complain about. Namour guaranteed nothing. He delivered the merchandise; thereafter the Yips were supposed to work.”

“And where are the Yips now?”

“The Honeyflower Yips have a settlement near Tooneytown on Ottilie. The Stronsi Yips moved down into the Mystic Islands. The Shadow Valley Yips have a camp near Lipwillow on the Big Muddy River, on La Mar. The Baramond Yips live in grass shanties just past the spaceport, near Faney’s Marsh.”

“One final matter,” said Glawen. “Namour seems to have brought over a thousand Yips to Rosalia. Is there any record as to their identities: a roster of those in each gang, for instance.”

          “We have no such roster here,” said Wincutz. “But I have no doubt that the Factor’s Association took such a list from Namour. In what names are you interested?”

“‘Catterline’ and ‘Selious.’”

“One moment,” said Wincutz. He turned to his communicator and the face of a woman appeared on the screen. “Wincutz here, at the IPCC. Please check through the entry lists for two names, both Yip: ‘Catterline’ and ‘Selious.’

‘Just a moment.” The woman turned away, then reappeared. “No such names are listed.”

“Then, definitely, they are not on Rosalia?”

“Not unless they have made an illegal entry, which is unlikely.”

          “Thank you.” Wincutz turned to Glawen. “That is the best information to hand.”

“I am much obliged to you,” said Glawen.

Chapter 5, Part III

Glawen and Chilke rented a flitter at the spaceport, on the theory that they would be less conspicuous than if they proceeded about their investigations in the Fortunatus. Upon leaving Port Mona, they flew west by north – above marshes tufted with red and black reeds, small ponds and water-meadows; over a line of rolling hills, then a long lake glittering and winking in the amber sunlight. Trees began to appear: Smoke-trees of amazing stature, standing alone or in disciplined groups; then dense forests of featherwoods, bilbobs, chulastics and thrums which covered the landscape with an intricately detailed carpet of black, brown and tan foliage.

Chilke called attention to a towering tree with masses of small rectangular leaves shimmering in waves of dark red, pale red and vermilion. “That is a pilkardia, but it is usually called an ‘oh-my-god tree.’”

“What an odd name!”

Chilke nodded. “You can’t see them from here, but the tree is thick with tree-waifs. They mix fiber and gum and some other ingredients to make their famous stink-balls. Sometimes guests at the ranches go wandering through the forests, admiring the stately beauty of the trees. They are warned not to loiter under the pilkardias.”

The flitter left Eclin behind and flew out over the Corybantic Ocean, with the sun gaining upon them very slowly. At local noon the coast of La Mar smudged the horizon. A few moments later the flitter crossed a long wavering white line, where surf foamed over an outlying reef. A strip of teal-blue lagoon passed below, then a white beach, then an expanse of jungle, which after a hundred miles broke against a tectonic thrust which pushed high an arid plateau.

Over red gulches and yellow gullies, bluffs banded tan, yellow and rust, flats of bare stone and drifts of mustard-ocher sand slid the flitter. Glawen found the landscape bleak yet disturbingly beautiful. He asked: “Is all this part of somebody’s ranch?”

“Probably not,” said Chilke. “There is still wilderness for sale, if the Factors find you reliable and suitably sensitive to caste distinctions. You, as a Clattuc, would have no problem on this score. Ten thousand sols would buy you this entire plateau.”

“And then: what would I do with it?”

“You could enjoy the solitude, or you might wish to study the wind-waifs.”

          Glawen looked across the arid expanse. “I don’t see any wind-waifs at the moment.”

“If you were down there after dark, sitting at a campfire, they would come to toss pebbles and make strange sounds. If a tourist is lost they play tricks. I’ve heard all manner of tales.”

          “What do they look like?”

“Nobody agrees on this, and cameras won’t focus on their images.”

“Very odd,” said Glawen.

The plateau came to an abrupt end at the brink of a great scarp half a mile high, with rolling plains beyond. Chilke indicated a river meandering lazily westward. “That’s the Big Muddy. It’s almost like coming home.”

The flitter slid across the sky. An hour passed and the town Lipwillow appeared below: a straggle of ramshackle structures along the riverbank, built of tough featherwood timber, weathered to a pleasant grayed tan. The largest structure was a sprawling hotel, with a gallery across its front, like that of Whipsnade House at Port Mona. There were also shops, agencies, a post office and a number of modest dwellings. A long pier, supported by a hundred spindly poles extended into the river, with a deck and a shack at the end; Chilke identified the shack as ‘Poolie’s Place,’ a saloon. Half a mile downstream, a number of huts had been built, using driftwood, plaques of bark and fragments of miscellaneous material scavenged from Lipwillow’s rubbish dump.

As the flitter descended upon Lipwillow, Chilke could not restrain his reminiscences of Poolie’s Place. It was where he had first met Namour after his departure from Shadow Valley Ranch. Madame Zigonie had paid Chilke none of his wages, and Chilke had arrived at Lipwillow with barely enough money to pay for a pint of beer. Learning of Chilke’s plight, Namour had become sympathetic, and had gone so far as to offer Chilke a job at Araminta Station. Chilke had considered Namour a prince among men. Now he was not so sure. “Still,” said Chilke, “if we meet Namour in Poolie’s, I will buy him a beer, for old times’ sake.”