THE DOGTOWN TOURIST AGENCY

by Jack Vance

CHAPTER 1

Hetzel composed a letter, writing a crisp and angular hand in black ink, with a short-nibbed pen:

Dear Madame X:

Complying with those instructions transmitted to me by messenger, I traced the person known as Casimir Wuldfache to Twisselbane on Tamar in the Nova Celeste Sector, where he arrived Ianiaro 23 Gaean, of the current year.

At Twisselbane, Vv. Wuldfache secured employment at the Fabrilankus Cafe as a waiter, using the name Carmine Daruble. Evenings he worked at the local Mirrograph when not otherwise occupied as a paid escort for ladies in need of such a service.

About three months ago he departed Tamar in company with a young woman whom I have not been able to identify. At the spaceport I circulated Vv. Wuldfache’s photograph and received information that his destination was the planet Maz, unlikely as this may seem.

I have exhausted your retainer, and will exert no further effort until further instruction reaches me.

With sincere best wishes,

Hetzel, Vv.

Hetzel addressed the letter to “Subscriber, Box 434, Ferraunce” and dropped it into an expedition slot. The case was now terminated or so he assumed. The turbulence of Madame X’s emotions would subside in due course; Casimir Wuldfache, or whatever his name, would no doubt exercise his austere blond beauty upon a succession of other impressionable ladies.

The planet Maz? How could such a place draw a man like Casimir Wuldfache? Hetzel shook his head in perplexity, then gave his attention to other matters.

* * * *

CHAPTER 2

Sir Ivon Hacaway decided to conduct personally the interview with Hetzel; the matter was too important to be entrusted to the discretion of an underling. Nor were the company offices in Ferraunce suitable for the occasion; a thousand underlings observed his every act, and Hetzel was essentially an unknown quantity, no more than a name and a reputation in a field at the questionable brink of respectability. Rather than risk a compromise of his dignity, Sir Ivon elected to manage the business in privacy at Harth Manor.

Hetzel arrived at the appointed hour, and was conducted out upon the terrace. Sir Ivon, who disliked surprises, frowned to see not the furtive ruffian he had expected but a personable dark-haired man of obvious competence and a certain calm elegance that might have done credit to a gentleman. His clothes, neutral and unobtrusive, by some trick of reversal suggested not a neutral personality but flamboyance held under careful control.

Sir Ivon gave a perfunctory nod and gestured toward a chair. “Please be seated. Perhaps you will take a cup of tea?”

“With pleasure.”

Sir Ivon touched a button, and briskly addressed himself to business. “As you must know, I am chairman of the board at Palladian Micronics. We manufacture a variety of highly intricate mechanisms: robot brains, automatic translators, psychoeidetic analogues, and the like. These articles require a vast amount of hand labor; automatic assembly is impossible, and our products are generally quite expensive.

“A most curious situation has arisen. We have our competitors, naturally; Subsikon Corporation, Pedro Gomayr Associates, Gaean Micronics, are the most important. We all market comparable products at competitive prices, and coexist with no more than the usual skulduggery. We are now being afflicted by unusual skulduggery.” Sir Ivon glanced at Hetzel to gauge the effect of his exposition, but Hetzel merely nodded politely. “Continue.”

Sir Ivon cleared his throat. “About six months ago a company known as Istagam began to market several high-cost items at prices we can’t hope to match. Naturally, my engineers have examined these products, looking for areas where economies have been made, without success. The articles are constructed at least to the standard of our own. Who is Istagam, you ask? Well, we’re asking ourselves the same question.”

From the house, pushing a teacart, came a portly woman wearing a voluminous gown of pink and black silk. Hetzel rose gallantly to his feet. “The Lady Hacaway, I take it?”

“Oh, no, sir, I’m Reinhold, the housekeeper. Please sit down; I’ll lay out the tea.”

Hetzel bowed and resumed his seat. Sir Ivon eyed him sidewise, a rather grim smile on his lips. He said, “To you this may seem a footling business: a question of a few million SLU. [SLU, Standard Labor-value Unit, the monetary unit of the Gaean Reach, defined as the value of an hour of unskilled labor under standard conditions. The unit supersedes all other monetary bases, in that it derives from the single invariable commodity of the human universe—toil.] Rather more is at stake. If Istagam expands, then we—and by ‘we’ I mean the members of the legitimate micronics industry—are in serious trouble.”

“An urgent affair, no doubt,” said Hetzel. “However, I must explain that I undertake no industrial espionage, unless the fee were truly astronomical, and even then—”

Sir Ivon held up his hand. “Hear me out,” he said testily. “The situation is extraordinary; otherwise I would simply turn the matter over to one of the large agencies. And I must remark in passing that your fee, while adequate, will be something less than astronomical. Otherwise I would do the work myself.”

Hetzel sipped tea. “I’ll certainly listen to you without prejudice.”

In a measured voice Sir Ivon continued his exposition. “Istagam distributes its products from at least three or four depots—all out to the north of Jack Chandler’s Gulf. One of these is a warehouse at an inconsequential little town known as Ultimo, on the planet Glamfyre. I don’t suppose that you’re acquainted with the place?”

“Not even superficially.”

“Well, Glamfyre is a rather bleak place, just about at the edge of the Reach. I communicated with our own district factor and asked him to make a few inquiries.” Sir Ivon brought forth a sheet of paper, which he passed across the table to Hetzel. “This is his report.”

The letter had been indited at Estance Uno, Glamfyre, a month previously by a certain Urvix Lamboros.

Hetzel read:

Sir Ivon Hacaway

Harth Manor on the Meadows

Harth, Delta Rasalhaque

Esteemed Sir:

In response to your request I journeyed to Ultimo, where I made local inquiry to this effect. Shipments were received at the Istagam warehouse on these dates, Gaean Standard Time: March 19, May 4, July 6. I thereupon made inquiries at the Ultimo spaceport, which is served by the Krugh Line, the Red Griffin Line, and occasionally the Osiris Line. Proximately before the dates mentioned above the following ships discharged cargo at Ultimo:

March 12 Paesko (Red Griffin)

March 17 Bardixon (Krugh)

May 3 Voulias (Krugh)

July 3 Cansaspara (Krugh)

I was unable to determine the previous ports of call of these vessels.

With utmost respect and with hopes for your continued patronage, I am,

Urvix Lamboros, Vv.

Hetzel returned the letter. Sir Ivon said, “I communicated with officials of the Krugh Line and learned that these three ships had taken on cargo at only one port in common.” He paused to heighten the drama of his disclosure. “That port was Axistil, on the planet Maz.”

Hetzel sat up in his chair. “Maz?”

“You seem startled,” said Sir Ivon.

“Hardly startled,” said Hetzel. “‘Surprised’ or ‘perplexed’ would be a better word. Who on Maz manufactures micronic components?”

Sir Ivon sat back in his chair. “Exactly. Who indeed? The Gomaz? Absurd. The Liss? The Olefract? Incredible. We have here a mystery of fascinating implications.”

Hetzel agreed. “The case certainly exceeds the ordinary.”

Out upon the terrace stepped a tall woman of striking appearance wearing a modish afternoon gown of brown, red, and gold pleats, with a panache of black feathers in a forehead band of black velvet. Her manner was rather imperious, and she quite ignored Hetzel, who had again risen to his feet, as, somewhat more slowly, did Sir Ivon.

“Ivon, I implore you to exert yourself,” said the woman. “Something must be done! Felicia has not yet returned from Graythorpe, and you will recall that I gave her most explicit instructions.”

“Yes, my dear,” said Sir Ivon. “I’ll deal with the matter in due course, but at this moment I am occupied with business, as you see.” He glanced toward Hetzel, hesitated, then performed a rather grudging introduction. “This is Vv. [Vv., an abbreviation for Visfer, originally Viasvar, an Ordinary of the ancient Legion of Truth; now a low-grade honorific used to address a person lacking aristocratic distinction.] Miro Hetzel, an effectuator. He will be conducting certain investigations for the consortium. Vv. Hetzel, I present the Lady Bonvenuta Hacaway.”

“I am honored to make your acquaintance,” said Hetzel.

“It is a pleasure,” said Lady Bonvenuta in a frigid voice. To Sir Ivon she said, “I insist that you have a serious talk with Felicia. There are often questionable people at Graythorpe, as you well know.”

“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 naivete. “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, in 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; 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?”

* * * *

CHAPTER 3

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 undulating plains, 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 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:

You stand at the edge of the Gaean Reach, and are about to enter Triarchic jurisdiction. Conventional behavior is required and will usually provoke no unforeseen inconveniences. It is most wise, however, to obtain a copy of Special Regulations at the Triskelion or at your hotel, and be thereby guided.

Urgent warning: never venture into enclaves of the Liss or the Olefract, at the certain risk of profoundly unpleasant consequences.

Attempt no familiarity with the indigenous Gomaz! At Axistil they are normally not aggressive; however, they react unpredictably to attempts at social intercourse. You may observe them as closely as you like, but do not touch them or attempt conversation. The Gomaz are adept telepaths; the extent, however, to which they can comprehend human thought is still a matter of conjecture.

Most important! Do not offer, present, display, barter, or sell weapons to the Gomaz! The penalty is confinement for life in the Exhibitory. There are no exceptions; the regulation is strictly enforced by the Triarchs, two of whom are Liss and Olefract. Neither sympathizes with adventurous folly or drunken bravado. If you violate this rule, your visit to Maz will surely terminate in tragedy.

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 zest 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 that 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 and unique 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 that 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 eggplant-purple foliage grew from a dim green sward. To the northeast rose the facade 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 blond 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.”

Hetzel tapped the off switch in exasperation.

He searched the directory for Sir Estevan’s home residence, without success. He telephoned the clerk at the Beyranion reception desk. “How can I get in touch with Sir Estevan Tristo? His secretary gives me no help at all.”

“She’s not allowed to help anyone. Sir Estevan has had too many problems with tourists and letters of introduction. The only place to catch him is at his office.”

“Five days from now.”

“If you’re lucky. Sir Estevan has been known to use his private entrance when he wants to avoid talking to someone.”

“He appears to be a temperamental man.”

“Decidedly so.”

The time was noon. Hetzel crossed the garden to the Beyranion’s wood-paneled dining room, which had been decorated with picturesque Gomaz artifacts: fetishes; cast-iron war helmets, spiked and crested; a stuffed gargoyle of the Shimkish Mountains. The tables and chairs had been carved from native wood; the tablecloths were soft bast, embroidered with typical emblems. Without haste Hetzel lunched on the best the house afforded, then sauntered out upon the Plaza. At the Exhibitory he paused to inspect the prisoners peering forth from their glass cells—gunrunners and weapons smugglers, who would never leave their cells alive. The pallid faces wore identical expressions of sullen passivity. Occasionally one or another exerted himself sufficiently to make an obscene gesture or display his naked backside. Hetzel recognized none of his acquaintances or former clients. All were Gaean, which Hetzel considered a significant commentary upon the human character. Men, as individuals, seemed more diverse and enterprising than their Liss or Olefract counterparts. The Gomaz, he reflected, lived by extremes peculiar to themselves.

Hetzel turned away from the Exhibitory. The prisoners—pirates, outcasts, mad gallants—awoke him to no pangs of pity. For the sake of gain they had sought to arm the Gomaz, heedless of the fact that the Gomaz, if furnished even a meager weaponry and the means to transport themselves, would go forth to attack the entire galaxy, including the worlds of the Gaean Reach, as forty-six years before they had demonstrated.

Hetzel continued across the Plaza, an expanse of such grand dimensions that the structures around the periphery loomed in the thick air like shadows. He walked in solitude, like a boat in the middle of a lonely ocean. Perhaps a dozen other dark shapes moved here and there across the silver-gray perspectives, too distant to be identified. A curious vista, thought Hetzel, strange as a dream.

The Triskelion solidified as he approached. He altered his direction in order to circle the structure, in effect entering areas in which the Liss and the Olefract exerted at least theoretical control, and certainly a psychological influence. He passed a Liss on its way to the Triskelion—a lithe dark creature in a scarlet robe—and a moment later he saw an Olefract at a somewhat greater distance. Both seemed indifferent to his presence; both affected him with a curious mixture of fascination and repugnance, for reasons he could not quite define. Returning to the Gaean frontage, Hetzel felt the lifting of a subtle oppression.

He climbed three steps, passed through a crystal portal into a lobby centering upon a triangular information desk. The Liss and Olefract sections lacked both personnel and information seekers. At the Gaean segment two clerks were more than occupied with recently arrived tourists. A burly round-faced man in a splendid, if overtight, blue-and-green uniform stood to the side, inspecting all who entered with benign contempt. Silver epaulets and silver filigree on the visor of his high-peaked cap marked him for an official of importance. He fixed Hetzel with an especially stern gaze, by some instinct recognizing a person whose business he might or might not consider legitimate.

Hetzel paid him no heed and went to the information desk. The chief clerk, a portly black-haired woman with a large lumpy nose and a nasal accent, pursued her duties with little grace or patience: “No, sir; the Triarch can’t be seen. … I don’t care what you heard, he definitely does not receive visitors at his home.” … “No, sir, we are not agents for organized tours; we are the staff of the Gaean administration. In Dogtown you’ll find a tourist office. They operate a number of inns in scenic regions, and they offer air cars for rent.” … “I’m sorry, madam, under no circumstances will you be allowed into the Liss sector. They are absolutely rigid in this regard… . What will they do? Who knows what happens to the people they take away —put them in zoos, perhaps.” … “In Dogtown, sir, you can buy souvenirs.” … “No, sir, not until the next session, in five days. The public is admitted.” … “You may photograph the Liss and the Olefract segments of the desk, yes, madam.”

The second clerk, a tall young man with a pale, earnest face, was less crisp and perhaps less efficient… recommend a hotel in Dogtown? Well, I don’t know. You’d be far more comfortable at the Beyranion. Don’t forget, Far Dogtown is beyond everybody’s jurisdiction. You could get killed there, and nobody would even bury you… . Yes, Dogtown itself is Gaean. But don’t wander past the green fence unless you’re an adventurer… . Actually, Far Dogtown isn’t all that bad if you keep your wits about you and carry no more than two or three SLU. Don’t drink there, and be sure not to gamble there.” … “No, sir, I have no knowledge or schedule of the Gomaz wars. They take place, certainly, and if you want to be chopped into two hundred pieces, go try to find one. That’s why the tourist agency won’t rent you an air car without a qualified guide… . That’s correct, you can’t just hire an air car and go off by yourself. It’s only for your own protection. Don’t forget, this is the end of the Reach—right here.”

The portly chief clerk spoke to Hetzel. “Yes, sir, what do you wish?”

“Are you Vvs. Felius?”

“I am she.”

“I have a rather unusual problem. I must discuss an urgent matter with Sir Estevan, but I am told that he cannot be reached.”

Vvs. Felius sniffed. “I can’t help you. If Sir Estevan doesn’t want to see people, I can’t force him to do so.”

“Certainly not. But can you suggest some dignified way I could get his attention for a few minutes?”

“Sir Estevan is a very busy man; at least, he says he is, with his reports and recommendations and all. We see him only during the sessions. The rest of the time he’s off somewhere with his lady friend, or his fiancee, whatever she’s called.” Vvs. Felius used her prominent nose to produce a disapproving sniff. “I’m sure it’s his business, of course, but he simply won’t be interfered with when he’s not in his office.”

“In that case, I suppose I’ll have to wait. Do you have at hand any informational material, especially in regard to, say, the opportunities for investment capital?”

“No. Nothing of the sort.” Vvs. Felius gave an incredulous titter. “Who would want to invest out here, away from everything?”

“Istagam seems to be doing very well.”

“Istagam? I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Hetzel nodded. “What about the Gomaz? Are they willing workers?”

“Hah! Offer them a gun and they’ll pay you all they own, but they wouldn’t work a minute for you. That’s against their pride.”

“Odd! At the hotel I saw chairs carved ostensibly by the Gomaz.”

“By the Gomaz bantlings. They put their young to toil, instead of letting them kill themselves in play wars. But full-fledged warriors work for hire? Never.”

“Interesting,” said Hetzel. “And you believe that I must wait five days to see Sir Estevan?”

“I certainly can’t suggest any other way.”

“One last question. I arranged to meet a certain Casimir Wuldfache here on Maz. Can you tell me if he has arrived?”

“I have no such information at hand. You might ask Captain Baw; he’s the commandant.” The woman indicated the burly officer in the green-and-blue uniform.

“Thank you.” Hetzel approached Captain Baw and put his question, receiving for a reply first an uninterested grunt, then: “Never heard of such a person. They come and they go. There’s a hundred down in Far Dogtown I’d like to get my hands on, I’ll tell you for certain.”

Hetzel expressed his gratitude and departed.

* * * *

North of the Exhibitory a wide road paved with what Hetzel took to be tamped gravel and crushed shell sloped away from the Plaza and down to Dogtown: the so-called Avenue of Lost Souls. A wind from off the downs blew in Hetzel’s face, smelling of smoke and peat and exhalations less familiar. Hetzel was alone on the road, and again felt the brush of dream time. … He stopped short and bent to study the road. The bits of shell and gravel of the surface were not, as he had first assumed, tamped or rolled; they quite clearly had been fitted piece by piece into cement, to form a mosaic. Hetzel looked back the way he had come, then down to Dogtown. An enormous amount of toil had been expended on this road.

Two tall spindle trees loomed over the road; Hetzel passed below and into Dogtown. The Avenue of Lost Souls broadened to become a plaza, the center of which had been dedicated to a park where grew thickets of cardinal bush, Cyprian torch, and flowering yellow acacia; under the water-green sky and against the somber downs to the north, the scarlets and lemons and golds made a peculiarly gratifying contrast. The structures surrounding lacked uniformity except for a certain easy shabbiness. Timber, marl, stucco, vitrified soil, slag bricks, all figured in the schemes of construction, which were as various as the men who had chosen to build out here at the brink of the Reach. Shops sold imported foods, hardware, and sundries; there were four or five taverns, as many hotels of greater or lesser respectability, a few business offices: exporters of Gomaz artifacts, an insurance agent, a tonsorial salon, a dealer in energetics and power pods. A relatively imposing structure of glistening pink concrete had been divided into a pair of adjoining offices. The first displayed a sign:

MAZ TOURIST ASSOCIATION

Information, Tours, Outback Accommodation

Or more familiarly, thought Hetzel, the Dogtown Tourist Agency.

The premises next door showed a more subdued facade, and was identified by an inconspicuous plaque reading:

BYRRHIS ENTERPRISES

Development and Promotion

Hetzel looked into the tourist agency, to find a similar or perhaps the same group of tourists he had encountered at the Triskelion. They crowded the counter, talking to a pretty dark-haired girl with melancholy eyes, who answered their questions with a charming mixture of reserve, good humor, and courtesy.

Hetzel stepped into the office and waited, listening with half an ear to the conversation.

“…seven inns,” said the girl. “They’re all in dramatic locations and very comfortable. At least, so I’m told; I’ve never been out to them myself.”

“We’d like to see the real Maz,” declared one of the women. “The places tourists don’t go. And we’d just love to see one of the wars. We’re not bloodthirsty or anything like that, but it must be wonderfully exciting!”

The girl smiled. “We couldn’t possibly arrange such a spectacle. In the first place, it would be dangerous. The Gomaz are very proud people. If they saw tourists, they’d halt their war and kill the tourists, and then proceed with the war.”

“Hmmf. Well, we’re not exactly tourists. We like to think of ourselves as travelers.”

“Of course.”

A man spoke, “What about these inns? If the Gomaz are that sensitive, it might be dangerous leaving Dogtown.”

“Not really,” said the girl. “The Gomaz are actually oblivious of Gaeans, unless they commit some kind of nuisance, just as you might ignore birds in a tree.”

“Can’t we visit the Gomaz castles? Like that one on the wall?”

The girl gave the woman a smiling shake of the head. “It can’t be done. But some of our inns are built in ancient Gomaz castles, and they’re really quite comfortable.”

Hetzel inspected the posters: Warriors March to Battle on Tusz Tan Steppe; The Flyers of Korasman Castle Soar and Veer; Kish Castle at Sunset; Conclave of the Jerd Nobles. Then he turned his attention back to the girl, who was no less interesting to look at than the pictures. At first glance Hetzel had thought her slight and frail, but on closer inspection he decided that she could bear up very well under a bit of playful rough-and-tumble. He moved a few steps closer to the desk. The girl turned her head and gave him a flicker of a smile. Charming, thought Hetzel.

“… all seven inns, if you have the time. We naturally arrange transportation.”

“But we can’t rent our own air car?”

“Not without one of our guides. It really wouldn’t be safe, and it’s also against Triarchic regulations.”

“Well, we’ll think it over. Which is the best tavern in Dogtown— the most typical and picturesque?”

“I think they’re pretty much alike. You might try the Last Resort, across the square.”

“Thank you.” The tourists departed. The girl looked at Hetzel. “Yes, sir?”

Hetzel approached the counter. “I don’t quite know what I want to ask you.”

“There must be something.”

“The situation is this. A friend of mine has come into some money, and now he wants to invest it. The question is: where?”

The girl laughed incredulously. “You want my advice?”

“Certainly. Unconventional ideas are best, because they haven’t occurred to anyone else. Assume that I’m about to place a million SLU in your hands. What would you do with it?”

“I’d buy a ticket out of here,” said the girl. “But that isn’t what your friend has in mind.”

“Let me put the matter this way: how could a person invest here on Maz and hope to make a profit?”

“That’s quite a problem. The only people in Dogtown who seem to make money are the tavern keepers.”

“I was thinking of enterprises on a larger scale, somewhat on the order of Istagam. In fact, where would I find the director of Istagam? I’d like to ask his advice.”

The girl gave him a curious side glance that Hetzel could not interpret She said, “That’s something I know nothing about.”

“Surely you’re aware of Istagam’s existence?”

“That, and not much more. But why don’t you talk to Vv. Byrrhis? He’s far more expert than I am on such subjects.” She looked toward a door that connected to the adjoining office. “But I don’t think he’s in just now.”

“What are Vv. Byrrhis’ enterprises? Or is he a broker?”

“Vv. Byrrhis has his fingers in almost everything: tourist agency, back-country inns, air-car rental. He also operates Maz Transport for the Triarchy.”

“Maz Transport?”

“Just old air buses that bring Gomaz into Axistil and back to their castles. It’s a free service; the Gomaz wouldn’t use it if they had to pay.”

“The Gomaz haven’t adapted to a money economy, then.”

“They haven’t adapted to anything.” The girl reached to a shelf and brought forth a pamphlet, which she presented to Hetzel. He glanced at the title: The Warriors of Maz. “Thank you,” said Hetzel. “When do you expect Vv. Byrrhis in his office?”

“I’m not sure. He comes and goes. You can always telephone.”

A new group of tourists entered the office; Hetzel departed. He sauntered around the square, looking in shop windows, then stepped into the Last Resort for a mug of ale. Here he ruminated over his findings to date, which were few and could be expressed very simply:

1. Sir Estevan Tristo went to extraordinary lengths to avoid casual visitors.

2. If Vv. Byrrhis were not directly involved in Istagam, he almost certainly knew everything there was to know about it.

3. The clerk at the tourist agency was not the sort of person one might expect to find in a settlement at the end of the Reach.

Hetzel brought forth the pamphlet the girl had given him: The Warriors of Maz. On the cover appeared a sketch labeled: “A Flyer of Castle Korasmus.” The Gomaz stood on a parapet, wings of withe and membrane attached to his back. The caption read: “Under favorable conditions the Gomaz flyer can soar in the dense air of Maz. He is able to flap the wings by thrusting his legs and manipulating the forward ribs with his arms. In general, however, the flyer swoops down from the heights to attack his enemy.”

The Gomaz, Hetzel learned, were an ancient race, culturally static across a period of perhaps a million years. They showed a generally anthropomorphic configuration, after which, similarity to the human race dwindled. The Gomaz skeleton, partly internal, partly external, was formed of a tough, flexible siliceous cartilage reinforced with fibers of calcium-magnesium-carbophosphate, which on exposure to air hardened into a tough white chitin; this material sheathed their heads and formed the substance of three parallel crests that each sept carved into distinctive patterns of spikes, denticles, and barbs.

As an individual, the Gomaz was typically unpredictable, captious, mercurial, with personal gratification as his primary motivation. Yet in this aspect of himself he merely reflected the character of his sept, to which he was telepathically linked. He was the sept, the sept was himself. While the sept lived, the warrior could not die, hence his absolute fearlessness, and the Gomaz warrior thereby became in human terms a creature of paradox, reconciling as he did total personal autonomy to total identification with a social institution.

The Gomaz wars were of three varieties: wars of hate, which were in the minority; wars of rivalry, economic necessity, or territorial control; wars that no xenologist or sociologist or journalist could resist calling “wars of love.” The Gomaz were monosexual and reproduced by implanting zygotes in the bodies of vanquished enemies, apparently to their mutual exaltation, which the victor augmented by eating a nubbin of a gland at the back of the vanquished warrior’s neck. This gland yielded the hormone chir which stimulated growth in the bantlings and martial zeal in the adult warrior. The thought of chir dominated the lives of the Gomaz. The bantlings in their mock battles ingested the chir of those they had bested and killed; in the adult battles the warriors performed the same act and were thereby exalted, strengthened, and endowed with a mysterious mana; chir conceivably fertilized the zygotes.

The Gomaz used a few glyphs and symbolic objects, but knew neither a written language nor other than the most primitive mathematics, for which telepathic facility was held to blame.

Geison Weirie, the renegade Gaean, had discovered Maz sixty years before, and had recruited a force of Gomaz warriors for use as shock troops against Sercey, his native planet. The Gomaz, quickly grasping the potentialities of Gaean weaponry, subordinated Weirie and his band of cutthroats to their own purposes; they captured a fleet of space ships and set forth to conquer the universe. Their raids took them into the hitherto unknown empires of the Liss and the Olefract; eventually, forces of the three empires, acting in concert, destroyed the Gomaz fleet, captured Geison Weirie, built the Exhibitory to hold him, and placed a permanent injunctive agency of three parts upon Maz to prevent future irruptions. The Gomaz returned to their previous mode of existence, paying the Triarchy the ultimate insult of indifference.

Hetzel glanced through the rest of the pamphlet, which listed the septs, described their peculiarities, and located their home castles on a map of Maz. The Gomaz language, which they used in conjunction with emotional keys or colorations transmitted by telepathy, consisted of whistles, grindings, and squawks incomprehensible to both the Gaean ear and mind. Communication with the Gomaz was achieved through the use of micronic translators.

Gomaz weapons were few: a three-foot staff attached to a ten-foot bola, to assist in trapping the enemy; tongs worked by motions of the forearm; harpoons of three flexible barbs; a short heavy sword. Elite warriors employed wings to hover and swoop; on the rare occasions when a castle was to be stormed, the Gomaz built siege engines of great ingenuity. For transport they used wagons pulled by domesticated reptiles; their diet consisted of substances gathered or harvested by the bantlings, who performed all the work of the sept.

Hetzel returned the pamphlet to his pocket and called for a second mug of ale. He asked the bartender, “At a guess, how many local people work for Istagam?”

“Istagam? Who’s he?”

“The Istagam Manufacturing Company.”

“Never heard of it. Ask Byrrhis, across the square; he knows everything.”

Hetzel finished the ale and went out into the street. The bartender’s advice had much to recommend it, and if Vv. Byrrhis were unavailable, he could always put further inquiries to the dark-haired girl in the tourist office.

Hetzel crossed the square to Byrrhis Enterprises and tried the door, which, somewhat to his surprise, opened. Hetzel stepped inside.

At a desk, speaking into the telephone, sat a stocky man with a square, muscular face and a mane of lank black hair parted in the middle and cut square above the ears, in a style currently fashionable among the planets of the Fayence Stream. Byrrhis’ nose was long and straight; his eyes were small and steady; his chin was massive. He wore a loose shirt of embroidered green velvet, breeches of purple-and-yellow-striped whipcord, and a fine scarf of white silk knotted to the side of his neck. The garments were informal, almost festive; the man’s expression was agreeable enough; his voice was soft and pleasant as he spoke into the telephone: “… very much the same idea… . Exactly. I’ve got a visitor; I’ll call you back.”

Byrrhis rose to his feet and performed a conventionally polite salute. “What can I do for you?”

Hetzel thought that Byrrhis had terminated his telephone call somewhat abruptly. “Quite honestly, I don’t know. I’ve been asked to inquire as to the possibility of local investment, and it might be that you prefer to keep such information to yourself.”

Byrrhis acknowledged the pleasantry with a smile. “Not at all. Quite frankly, there isn’t a great deal of scope out here for investment. The tourist business isn’t all that big and may not get much bigger. Maz is no longer the novelty it used to be.”

“What about import and export? Will the Gomaz buy Gaean goods?”

“What we can sell them, they don’t want. What they do want, we’re not permitted to bring in. And then, there’s the matter of payment. They don’t have any means of payment, except a few handicrafts and war helmets. Not much chance for any large-scale operation.”

“What of Istagam? It seems to be doing well.”

Byrrhis responded with easy facility. “That’s an affair I know nothing about. It appears to be some sort of transshipment operation. Maz, of course, levies no taxes, which might mean a great deal to some struggling new business.”

“You’re probably right. What about minerals?”

“Nothing to speak of. The Gomaz take up some bog iron, but the deposits are pretty well used up. The Gomaz have been working them for a million years, more or less. Maz is essentially a worn-out planet.”

“What about business with the Liss? Or the Olefract?”

Byrrhis gave a sour chuckle. “Are you joking?”

“Naturally not. Trade is a normal condition, provided that both parties are able to profit.”

“The Liss are xenophobic to the point of obsession. The Olefract are incomprehensible. We can deal with the Gomaz easier—far easier. Did you notice the road up to the Plaza? The Kish and the Dyads sent out five thousand bantlings, and the road was finished in three weeks. We paid them in pneumatic wheels for their wagons. But there’s no money to be made selling roads on Maz. If I had money to invest, I’d go to Vaire on Lusbarren and trawl for angelfish. Do you know what they fetch a pound at Banacre?”

“I know they’re expensive. At a guess, two SLU a pound.”

“That’s close. And at Vaire, just off the Dal coast, they swim in shoals.”

“It’s an idea to bear in mind. I understand that you operate the air-car-rental service.”

“That’s correct. It’s a miserable business, what with maintenance and downtime and Triarch directives. A new one just came through: I can’t rent an air car unless I get prior clearance from the Triarch. Some tourists decided to visit the Disik castle and barely escaped with their lives.”

Hetzel frowned. “I need a clearance from Sir Estevan Tristo before I can hire an air car?”

“That’s correct.”

“I’ll get one this evening, if you’ll direct me to his house.”

“Ha ha! You can’t put salt on Sir Estevan’s tail quite so easily. He performs official tasks only at the Triskelion.”

“I’m in no great hurry. One more question: where can I locate Casimir Wuldfache?”

Byrrhis’ face became absolutely impassive. “I am not acquainted with the gentleman.” He looked at his watch. “Sorry, I’ve got an appointment.”

Hetzel rose to his feet. “Thanks for the information.” He went out into the square. The tourist agency was dark; the girl had gone home—wherever home might be. Hetzel returned up the Avenue of Lost Souls. Sunset was close at hand. Khis showed as an orange spark low behind the western murk; the Plaza was dim and eerie. Hetzel found it easy to imagine himself a wraith wandering a dead landscape… . He was not wholly satisfied with the events of the day. He had been forced to ask questions, and thereby identify himself as a curious man. If Istagam were illicit, he must have sent tremors through the organization, and he might well encounter a reaction. Personal violence could not be excluded. Out on the Plaza, Hetzel felt isolated and vulnerable; he quickened his pace. The Exhibitory loomed ahead; the prisoners could not be distinguished. Two dark figures stood silently nearby; they watched Hetzel pass but made no attempt to intercept him. Liss? Olefract? Gomaz? Gaeans? Their nature could not be distinguished through the gloom.

* * * *

With nothing better to do, Hetzel loitered over his dinner. As he was about to leave the dining room, a thin man in a suit of soft gabardine came quietly into the room. Hetzel studied him a moment or two, then went over to his table. “May I join you for a moment?”

“Certainly.”

“You are the hotel’s security officer?”

The man in gray showed a faint smile. “Is it so obvious? My official title is ‘night manager.’ My name is Kerch.”

“I am Miro Hetzel.”

“Miro Hetzel… . Somewhere I have heard the name.”

“Perhaps you’ll answer a few questions for me. Discreet questions, of course.”

“You might get discreet answers.”

“My business concerns itself with an entity—a society, a business, a group—known as Istagam. Have you heard the name mentioned?”

“No, I believe not. What is the function of this so-called ‘entity’?”

“Apparently it uses the Axistil spaceport to export complicated and expensive machinery into the Reach. There’s been speculation that Maz might function as a depot or staging area for goods produced outside the Reach.”

“I know nothing about such an enterprise. The hotel occupies most of my attention.”

“Surprising!” said Hetzel. “The Beyranion appears absolutely placid.”

“So it is, at the moment. But consider: a walk of only ten or fifteen minutes separates our clientele from the population of Far Dogtown. Is it unpredictable that the foxes occasionally raid the chickenyard? I recommend that you entrust your valuables to the hotel strongbox —especially if you are out in the annex, our most vulnerable area.”

“I will be sure to do so,” said Hetzel. “But surely you take precautions?”

“Indeed we do. Our detection devices are carefully maintained, and as often as not, the thief is apprehended.”

“And then?”

“There is an investigation. The guilty individual is assigned counsel, who holds a preliminary hearing with the prosecuting official. He is then tried and adjudged. He is allowed to appeal his sentence, and recommendations for leniency are carefully considered, after which an appropriate penalty is imposed.”

“This seems a complicated operation for such a small environment.”

“Not at all,” said Kerch. “I comprise all these functions within myself. I investigate, I prosecute, I judge, I sentence, I execute the sentence and occasionally the criminal. The process often requires no more than five minutes.”

“The procedure seems efficient and definite,” said Hetzel. “May I order a bottle of wine for our joint consumption?”

“Why not?” said Kerch. “I find myself in congenial company, and there is no better occasion upon which to drink.”

* * * *

CHAPTER 4

In regard to Istagam, Hetzel capitulated the possibilities:

I. Istagam manufactured its products:

1. Within the Gaean Reach

2. Outside the Gaean Reach

3. Upon the planet Maz.

II. Istagam was an operation:

1. Illicit

2. Licit but clandestine

3. Licit, with the operators indifferent to either secrecy or notoriety.

III. The operators of Istagam:

1. Would use any means whatever to discourage investigation

2. Would use misdirection and deceit to discourage investigation

3. Were indifferent to investigation.

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 1-3, 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 Oloe, 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 that 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 windowsill.

* * * *

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 coerced 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 forecourt. 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 spoke in annoyance, “Just a minute; we don’t really 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.”

* * * *

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 reexamine 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 overlarge 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.”

Gidion Dirby laughed again, a hoarse, hacking sound. “There can’t be two of me. Sometimes I doubt if there’s even one.”

Hetzel hazarded a shot in the dark. “Istagam has dealt unfairly with you.”

Gidion Dirby cut short his mirth. “Istagam? Why Istagam?” He seemed concerned and puzzled.

“You don’t know?”

“Of course I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”

Hetzel reached a decision. He rose to his feet. “Come along with me. At the Beyranion, Captain Baw can make no demands upon either of us.”

Dirby made no move. He blinked across the Plaza, then looked back at Hetzel. “Why?”

“I want to hear your story as a coherent unit, especially in regard to your dealings with Istagam.”

Dirby grunted and rose to his feet. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

They moved off toward the Beyranion.

* * * *

CHAPTER 5

Upon entering the suite, Hetzel indicated the bathroom. “Clean yourself. Drop your clothes down the chute.”

Gidion Dirby grumbled something without conviction and went into the bathroom. Hetzel telephoned for a barber and fresh garments.

In due course Gidion Dirby stood in the center of the room clean, shorn, shaved, and dressed in clean clothes. Only his surly expression remained. Hetzel surveyed him with qualified approval. “You’re a different person. Without risk you could return to the Triskelion and assassinate Vvs. Felius.”

Gidion Dirby ignored the rather mordant pleasantry. He inspected himself in a mirror. “I haven’t looked at myself like this for … I don’t know how long. Months, I suppose.”

Waiters appeared with a catering cart and laid out a meal. Gidion Dirby ate with an appetite he made no effort to conceal and drank more than half a bottle of green wine.

Hetzel presently asked, “What, in general, are your plans?”

“What good are plans? I have none. The police are looking for me.

“Not too diligently, perhaps.”

Gidion Dirby looked up, suddenly alert. “Why do you say that?”

“Isn’t it strange that an assassin could kill two Triarchs while Captain Baw looked on, then run away unscathed? I may, of course, be overestimating Captain Baw’s competence.”

“I’m not an assassin,” said Gidion Dirby in a flat voice. “Why did you bring me here?”

“I am interested in Istagam. I want to hear what you can tell me. It’s that simple.”

“Not all that simple. You are a police official?”

“No.”

Dirby’s voice became sarcastic. “A philanthropist. An amateur of oddities?”

“I am an effectuator,” said Hetzel.

“It makes no difference, in any case. I have no secrets.” He took a gulp of wine. “Very well, I’ll tell you what happened to me. You can believe me or not; it’s all the same. My home is Thrope on the planet Cicely. My father owns an estate on one of the northern islands—Huldice, if you happen to know Cicely. It’s a quiet place where nothing ever happens except the turn of the crops and the hussade championships, and even our hussade is stately and we denude no sheirls, more’s the pity… . To be brief, I grew up to wanderlust, and when I left Dagglesby University I took a job with the Blue Arrow Line as supercargo. At Wolden Port, on Arbello, we picked up cargo for Maz —perhaps some of this very wine we drink now.”

“Not this wine. This is Medlin-Esterhazy, from Saint Wilmin.”

Dirby made an impatient gesture. “We discharged our cargo at the spaceport yonder and took aboard a new cargo of crated merchandise. The consignee was Istagam at Twisselbane on Tamar.”

“Twisselbane? And there you met Casimir Wuldfache? Or Carmine Daruble?”

“I met neither. We discharged cargo, and then I went across town to the Pleasure Gardens, where I met a beautiful girl with dark hair and a wonderful soft voice. Her name was Eljiano. She had just arrived in town from one of the backlands, or so she told me. I fell in love with her, and one thing led to another, and two days later I woke up with no money and no Eljiano. When I managed to get myself to the spaceport, my ship was gone and far away.

“A man came up to me and asked if I wanted to earn some easy money. I asked, ‘How much and how easy?’ This was my second mistake. My first was at the Pleasure Gardens. The man said his name was Banghart and his game was smuggling. Well, I needed money, and I agreed to the proposition. We loaded an old barrel of a hulk with unmarked crates, and they might have been the same crates we had brought away from Maz, except that they were far heavier. But I knew that Istagam was somehow connected with the affair. Banghart told me nothing.

“We took off on the hulk and presently stood off a planet surrounded by an orange nimbus. Banghart identified the planet as Dys, wherever that is. We discharged our cargo by moonlight, on an island in a swamp.”

“Dys has no orange nimbus,” said Hetzel.

Gidion Dirby paid him no heed. “Banghart approached the planet with great caution, and I believe he was waiting for a signal, because all of a sudden we dropped like a stone down to the night side. We landed on an island in a swamp and all night long discharged cargo by hand, under a beautiful big full moon, green as a gooseberry.”

“Dys has no moon,” said Hetzel.

Dirby nodded. “We were here on Maz. When the hold was empty, Banghart told me that I had to stay and guard the cargo, that I was to be sent out on another job. I complained, but in a reasonable voice, because I had nothing to back up my arguments. I said, ‘Yes, Mr. Banghart, certainly, Mr. Banghart, I’ll really guard this shipment.’ The ship left. I was sure I was going to be killed, so I climbed a tree and hid in the branches.

“I began to think. I watched the moon; it was big and round and green and I knew then that I was back on Maz. The crates must certainly contain weapons for the Gomaz. I could see that my chances were poor. If the Gomaz caught me, they’d kill me; if the Triarchy patrol caught me, they’d seal me into the top floor of the Exhibitory.

“The moonlight was too green and dim to see by. I sat in the tree until daylight; then I climbed to the ground. The day was overcast and almost as dim as the night, but I noticed a path leading off across the swamp, with timbers laid across the worst spots.

“Even now I hesitated. Banghart had told me to guard the cargo, and I was deathly afraid of him. I still am. Worse now. But I finally decided to try the path. I walked about two hours. I had a few minor adventures, but no real emergencies, and I finally came to dry land. A stone fence ran along the shore. By this time nothing seemed strange. The path led to a gate, and here a man waited, and this is where the story starts to become insane. I’m not insane, mind you; it’s just what happened to me. This man was tall and as handsome as Avatar Gisrod. He wore a white robe, a white turban, a veil of white gauze embroidered with black pearls. He seemed to be expecting me. I said, ‘Good morning, sir, can you direct me to civilization?’

“He said, ‘Of course. Step over here.’ He took me to a tent. ‘Just wait inside.’

“I said I’d just as soon wait outside in the open; he just pointed into the tent. I went in, and that’s all I remember; Handsome must have had put-out gas waiting for me.” Gidion Dirby heaved a sad sigh.

“I came back to life in a large bare room. There were no doors or windows. The floor measured twelve paces in one direction, fourteen and a half in the other. The ceiling was high; I could barely see it. I must have been unconscious for two or three days; my beard had grown; I was weak and thirsty. There was a chair, a table, a couch, all built of rough timber, but I wasn’t overly critical.” Dirby paused. “What do you think of the story so far?”

“I haven’t thought. I’m just listening. Offhand, there doesn’t seem any relationship between its various phases.”

Dirby could not restrain a grim smile. “Quite right. Where does it start? When I left Dagglesby University? When I first came to Maz? At the Pleasure Gardens? When I took up with Banghart? Or has this always been my destiny? This is a most important question.”

Hetzel said, “Perhaps I lack perceptiveness …”

Dirby showed no impatience. “The point is this… . But, no. I’ll just go on with the story. It’s quite absurd, don’t you think?”

Hetzel refilled the goblets. “There may be a pattern not yet evident to either of us.”

Dirby shrugged, to indicate that he cared nothing one way or the other. “I looked around the room. Light came from two high fixtures. The walls were white plastic. The floor was covered with a gray composition. Across one end of the room was a platform, as high as my waist and four feet wide—a stage, with flush doors at both sides. On the table was a jug. It seemed to hold water, and I drank. The water had an odd flavor, and after a few minutes I was bent over with stomach cramps. I decided that I had been poisoned, and I was ready to die. But I vomited instead, time after time, until I was too weak to vomit anymore. Then I crawled to the couch and went to sleep.

“When I awoke, I felt better. The room looked exactly as before, except that someone had kindly cleaned up the vomit, and on the table beside the jug was a photograph of Handsome. Something nagged at my mind. Was I in the same room? The walls were pale yellow instead of white. I stood up, and I was still hungry and thirsty. On the stage I noticed a tray with bread, cheese, fruit, and a glass mug full of beer. I looked at it a minute. Maybe it was poisoned, like the water. I decided I didn’t care; I’d just as soon be poisoned as starve. I picked up the bread and cheese. It was rubber. The beer was some sort of gel. At the bottom of the mug I found a photograph of a man winking at me—Handsome.

“I made up my mind to be stoic. Someone was watching me—a lunatic, or a sadist, or Handsome, or all three. I’d give him no satisfaction. I turned away and went to sit down in the chair. It gave me an electric shock. With great dignity I went to the cot. It was sopping wet. I sat on the table. A few minutes later I looked back at the stage, and the tray had been moved. Somehow it looked different. I sat for a moment or two, then leisurely got up to investigate. This time the food was real. I brought it back to the table and ate. Without thinking, I was sitting in the chair. As soon as I remembered, I began to expect another shock, but nothing happened. This, incidentally, was how I was fed during my entire stay. Sometimes the food was real, more often not. The intervals were irregular. I never knew when I would be fed.” Dirby gave a sad laugh. “When the waiters brought in our meal, I half-expected it to be rubber, and I would not have been surprised.”

“It seems that you were the victim of a careful and systematic persecution.”

“Call it what you like. The food trick was trivial compared to what else went on; after a while, I hardly thought about it. I was never shocked again, incidentally. I always half-expected it. And after that first jug of water, the food never poisoned me again.

“When I finished that first meal, I looked at the back wall, which was blue. I was sure all the walls had been yellow. I began to wonder if I were insane after all. The walls kept changing colors—never when I looked at them: white, yellow, green, blue, occasionally brown or gray. I learned to dislike brown and gray, because they usually—not always—meant that something unpleasant was about to happen.”

“A very strange proceeding,” mused Hetzel. “Perhaps some sort of experiment?”

“That’s what I thought at first. I changed my mind… . The first few days, nothing much happened, except the rubber food and the walls changing color. Once, when I lay on the cot it tossed me out; another time, the chair collapsed. Occasionally I’d hear small noises behind my back, noises very near—a footstep, a whisper, a giggle. Then there was Handsome. One day the walls turned gray. When I noticed the stage, I saw that a doorway had opened at the back to show a long hall. At the far end, a man appeared. He wore Old Shalkho costume—tight breeches of white velvet, a pink-and-blue jacket with gold tassels, a ruffled cravat. He was a tall, strong man, very stately in his manner, very handsome. He came to the edge of the stage and looked toward me—not at me, but toward me—with a peculiar expression I can’t describe: amused, bored, supercilious. He said, ‘You’re making yourself quite comfortable. Too comfortable. We’ll see to that.’

“I called out, ‘Why are you keeping me here? I’ve done nothing to you!’ He paid no attention. He said, ‘You must think more intently.’ I said, ‘I’ve been thinking about everything there is to think about.’

“Again he paid no attention. ‘Perhaps you’re lonely, perhaps you’d like some company. Well, why not?’ And out on the stage ran a dozen beasts, like weasels, with spiked tails and long fangs and prongs growing from their elbows. They ran at me squealing and hissing. I climbed up on the table and kicked them back when they jumped. Handsome watched from the doorway, with an absolutely quiet expression—not even smiling. Two or three times the weasels almost had me; then they gave up and began to roam the room. When one came close, I jumped on it and crushed it to the floor, and I finally killed them all. Handsome had gone away long ago.

“I piled the dead things in a corner and went to look at the doorway where he had stood. The wall seemed solid, so here was another mystery, although now mysteries were simply ordinary events—a way of life, so to speak. Still, if Handsome wanted me to think, he had his way with me, because I did little else.

“I wondered why they worked such elaborate pranks. Revenge? Except for my sad little smuggling exploit, I had lived a blameless life. An experiment with my sanity? They could have proceeded much more harshly. Mistaken identity? Possibly. Or perhaps I was in the hands of some mad prankster who enjoyed practical jokes. Nothing seemed reasonable.”

“And did you see Handsome again?”

“I did indeed, and the back wall turned gray before every time, although sometimes it turned gray and Handsome never appeared. But other things happened, silly, strange things. One day I heard a fanfare, then music, and a troupe of trained birds ran out on the stage. They danced and ran in circles and jumped over each other and marched back and forth; then they all turned somersaults off the stage. The music became a caterwauling, blatting and clanging and thumping; then it stopped. I heard a girl giggling, and then there was silence. The girl sounded like Eljiano, even though I knew this to be impossible. Then I thought: impossible? Nothing was impossible.

“About an hour later, the lights went out, and the room was pitch dark. A minute or two passed; then a tremendous green flash filled the room, and a clap of noise. I was startled and almost fell out of the cot. I lay in the dark expecting another flash, but after five minutes the usual lights turned on.

“A jailer began to appear in the room—a creature half-man and half-woman. His right side was masculine; his left side was female. He—I’ll call it a ‘he’—never spoke, and I never spoke. He’d walk around the room, look here and there, wink and grimace, perform some silly caper, and go. He came about five times; then I never saw him again. But one time I awoke and found three naked girls crawling around the room on their hands and knees. When they saw I was awake, they ran out of the room. One of them was Eljiano—I think. I’m not sure. About this time my meals began to appear in articles of the most extraordinary shape and size: a tiny bowl with an enormous lopsided spoon; a ten-gallon kettle twisted into a half-spiral, with a bit of cheese at the bottom; tangles of tubes and bulbs in which I was served my drink; a tray half an inch across and three feet long holding three peas. I found these amusing rather than otherwise, though I never had enough to eat.

“The lights went out a second time, and I lay on the couch waiting for another flash of green light, but this time the ceiling billowed with luminous gas. It dissipated, and there was a view out over my old home at Thrope. It changed to other landscapes of the neighborhood, and then others that I couldn’t recognize. All these pictures were distorted; they all shuddered and quivered and crawled. My own face appeared, then the top of my head. Two hands cut away my scalp with a saw, and there was my brain. A tiny naked girl appeared—I think it was Eljiano. She climbed over the rim of the skull and ran back and forth across the brain. Eljiano ran away; the picture changed and became a calm stern face—Handsome. Mind you, this was not a dream. My dreams during this time were havens of normality… . The lights went on. I sat up on the couch and yawned and stretched, as if I were accustomed to such visions. I’d now decided that Handsome was deliberately trying to drive me insane. I still think so.”

Hetzel made a gesture that might have signified almost anything; Dirby turned on him a resentful scowl. “Other incidents occurred. The sounds behind me—whispers and giggles. About every third day the lights would gradually go dim, and I’d start to wonder why I couldn’t see; was I going blind? Then they’d play music—a simple tune that would meander through all kinds of meaningless phrases and never resolve, or go through a hundred repetitions. And of course, Handsome. He came twice more to the doorway that opened on the stage, and once I turned around, and there he stood in the room with me. He wore a different costume—a suit of silver scales, a silver morion with cusps across his cheeks, a nasal protecting his nose, and three silver spikes at his forehead. He spoke to me. ‘Hello, Gidion Dirby.’

“I said, ‘So you know my name.’

“‘Of course I know your name!’

“‘I thought you might be making a mistake.’

” ‘I never make mistakes.’

“‘Then why are you keeping me here?’

” ‘Because I choose to do so.’ He went to the table. “This must be your breakfast. Are you hungry?’ He took the lid off the pot, and there was the contents of my commode—or somebody else’s commode. When I looked down, he turned the pot over my head, then left by the door at the side of the stage.

“I cleaned myself up as well as I could, and went to sit on the couch. Presently I became drowsy and fell asleep, and when I woke up, I was in a new and different place—a bench outside a building of iron and glass, which I saw to be the Maz space depot. I sat for a few minutes gathering my wits. Could it be that I was free? No one paid any attention to me. I checked my pockets and my pouch: there was nothing but a few coins and a zap gun; no papers.

“A guard came up to me and asked what I was up to; I told him I was waiting for a ship. He asked for identification; I said I’d lost my papers. In that case I’d have to get new papers from the Gaean Triarch. Luckily for me, so he said, the session was just starting, and he set me off along the avenue to the Triskelion. I went into the lobby. A big red-faced official asked what I wanted. I said I must see the Gaean Triarch on urgent business. He took me into a chamber with three desks. There were three Gomaz ahead of me. The security officer led me to one of the desks and said, ‘This man claims urgent business with you.’ To me he said, ‘This is Sir Estevan Tristo; state your business.’ But I couldn’t state anything, because this was Handsome. He looked at me, and I looked at him. Then I just turned and walked away, too confused even to talk. Behind me I heard zaps going off. I looked around. Handsome had dropped behind his desk, and there was a great deal of shouting. I saw that two of the Gomaz were on the floor. The official made a dive for me, but I knocked him down and ran out the side door. I had nowhere to go, so I ran across the Plaza and sat down on the bench, and there you found me. I see now that I was wrong running away; I should have stayed and told the truth. Mind search would have proved me out. … Of course, they might have shot me first and asked questions later. Maybe I acted correctly.”

“Not really,” said Hetzel. “You should have continued down to Dogtown. Far Dogtown, that is. Sitting in the Plaza, you’re fair game for Captain Baw. Even a confused pseudo-lunatic should know better than to pose invitingly before the Exhibitory. Why did you stop there?”

Dirby’s face became dark and sullen. “I don’t know. I saw a bench, and I sat down. Must I explain everything?”

Hetzel ignored the question. “You suffered a perplexing experience. At least, from your point of view. Sir Estevan is definitely Handsome?”

“I’d know his face among ten thousand.”

“And he recognized you?”

“He said nothing. His face showed nothing. But he must have recognized me.”

* * * *

CHAPTER 6

Hetzel went to the window and stood looking out over the Plaza. Dirby slumped back in his chair and stared morosely down into the goblet.

Hetzel turned back to Dirby. “You are still carrying the zap gun?”

Dirby brought it forth; Hetzel examined the charge meter, slid out the power cell, examined the meter once more. “It shows a charge, but the cell is dead. The meter has been jammed.” He tossed the gun aside. “I assume that you were meant to be captured. Some element of the plan went wrong. You escaped. Or were allowed to escape.”

Dirby frowned. “So … what do I do now?”

“Send a message to your father. Ask him to send out legal aid and a Gaean marshal as quickly as possible. Then, don’t stir from the premises of the Beyranion, or you’ll be subject to the jurisdiction of the Triskelion. If you were put on trial now, your chances would be poor.”

“Mind search would prove that I’m telling the truth,” Dirby muttered.

“Mind search would prove that you subscribe to a maniac’s dream in which Sir Estevan Tristo is your persecutor. You would be declared criminally insane and guilty of murder.”

Dirby growled. “Either way, I lose.”

“You don’t have a chance unless you can corroborate your story.”

“Very well. You’re an effectuator. Effect an investigation.”

Hetzel reflected a moment. “I have other commitments. There might be a conflict of interest. Still, on the other hand, I might be able to sell the same work twice, which is all to the good. I presume you intend to pay me?”

Dirby looked up with a rather unpleasant sneer. “With what? I don’t have a zink. [Zink, a coin representative of a man-minute, the hundredth part of an SLU. Gaean time is based upon the standard day of Earth, subdivided into twenty-four hours, after ancient tradition. A minute is the hundredth part of an hour; a second is the hundredth part of a minute.] If you’re worried, I’ll make out a draft upon my father’s bank, which he will certainly honor.”

“We’ll discuss this in due course. But first an understanding. I commit myself only to investigation. I undertake neither to assert your innocence nor to defend your guilt. You must secure legal representation elsewhere. Is this agreeable?”

Dirby gave an indifferent shrug. “Whatever you say. I’m in no position to argue.”

“By any chance are you acquainted with a certain Casimir Wuldfache? No? What about Carmine Daruble? I’d like you to examine a photograph …” Hetzel stopped short. His wallet, with eighty-five SLU and the photograph of Casimir Wuldfache, had been stolen from him. “Well, no matter.”

A chime sounded. Hetzel went to the door and slid it open, to reveal two men—the first a ponderous and immaculate gentleman whom Hetzel recognized for the hotel manager, and Kerch, the hotel security officer.

“I am Aeolus Shult, manager of the Beyranion,” said the large man in a dry, precise voice. “This is Nello Kerch, our security officer. May we come in?”

Hetzel stood back; Shult and Kerch entered the room. Hetzel said, “Allow me to introduce my guest, Vv. Gidion Dirby.”

Shult refused to acknowledge the introduction. Kerch gave Dirby an uninterested nod. “I am here in connection with Vv. Dirby,” said Shult. “Unfortunately, I must ask him to depart the premises at once.”

“This is a curious demand,” said Hetzel.

“Not at all. I have received notice to the effect that Vv. Dirby has committed a serious crime, namely, the assassination of two dignitaries. The Beyranion cannot function as a sanctuary for criminals.”

“Vv. Dirby does not fit this description,” said Hetzel. “He tells me that he is innocent of wrongdoing. Furthermore, he is not a casual intruder upon the premises; he is here as my guest.”

Shult’s face became obdurate. “Captain Baw of the Gaean Security Force has made a specific statement. He identifies Vv. Dirby as the assassin.”

“This is more puzzling than ever. Captain Baw told me that he merely heard the shots. Who made the identification?”

“Captain Baw vouchsafed no details.”

“But details are the gist of the matter. Several other persons were present when the assassinations occurred, including three Gomaz, two of whom were killed.”

“I cannot judge any of this,” said Shult. “Captain Baw is waiting in my office; he insists that I expel Vv. Dirby into his custody.”

“You would thereby set a very dangerous precedent,” said Hetzel. “Do you want Captain Baw appearing every few days to demand one or another of your guests, who for some reason or another has annoyed the Triarchs? Or the Liss authorities? Or the Olefract? They have rights equal and equivalent to Captain Baw.”

Kerch said, “Vv. Hetzel is quite right on this score.”

Shult pursed his lips. “Naturally, I want nothing of the sort. Still, my responsibility extends only to patrons of the hotel.”

“I have already pointed out that Vv. Dirby is my guest.”

“He is not registered as such.”

“That is irrelevant. I have rented a suite of rooms, not a single occupancy; I have the right to entertain as many guests as I wish. Now, there is another point that you have not considered. The Triskelion is a special entity, and not subject to Gaean law. The Beyranion Hotel is very definitely subject to Gaean law. Vv. Dirby has been proved guilty of nothing. If you irresponsibly turn him over to Captain Baw, and should he thereby suffer harm, you are liable for damages and a punitive fine, perhaps ten or twenty million SLU. You are treading upon exceedingly thin legal ice.”

Shult now exhibited signs of nervousness. He glanced at Kerch, who merely shrugged and turned away. “This is all very well, but I still cannot allow myself to harbor an assassin.”

“Who says he is an assassin?”

“Well … Captain Baw.”

“I suggest that you ask Captain Baw to assemble his witnesses and his evidence and bring everything here, and then we can decide upon Vv. Dirby’s guilt or innocence. Even then, you are not obliged to respond. We stand on Gaean territory; yonder is a joint jurisdiction of three races, two of whom are alien. Under no circumstances can you allow yourself to be intimidated by Captain Baw.”

Aeolus Shult heaved a deep sigh. “There is something in what you say. We must always act with due regard for Gaean justice.” He gave Hetzel a doleful salute and departed, followed by Kerch.

After several moments Dirby spoke. “So … I’m a prisoner at the Beyranion.”

“Until you prove yourself innocent.”

Dirby lapsed into mulish silence. Fifteen minutes passed. The telephone chimed. Hetzel touched the audio button. The screen lit up to display the tea-rose delicacy of Sir Estevan’s blond receptionist. “Hetzel speaking.”

“This is the office of the Gaean Triarch. Sir Estevan Tristo regrets that he was unable to meet with you earlier today; however, he is free now and requests that you call at his office.”

“Now?”

“If it is convenient.”

Hetzel reflected a moment. “Please connect me with Sir Estevan.”

“Just a minute, sir. Will you be good enough to press your video button?”

“When Sir Estevan comes on.”

“Very good, sir.”

The screen brightened, to show a keen-featured face. Dirby came forward and stared intently at the image. He nodded to Hetzel. “That’s Handsome.”

Hetzel touched the video button. Sir Estevan said, “You are Vv. Miro Hetzel, who called at the Triskelion earlier today?”

“Quite correct, sir.”

“I would be pleased to see you now, if you are at liberty.”

“That is kind of you. However, another matter must be taken into consideration.”

“You refer to Gidion Dirby?”

Hetzel nodded. “I would like to call on you, but I do not care to be seized as soon as I leave the Beyranion and held on some trumped-up charge. If this is to be the case, I would prefer that you came here to see me.”

Sir Estevan smiled a wintry smile. “Let me check with the commandant.”

The screen went blank. Hetzel switched off the audio and looked at Dirby. “So that’s Handsome.”

Dirby nodded. “His hair is different. He wears it more formally.”

“What of his voice?”

Dirby hesitated. “It’s somewhat different. Considerably different, in fact.”

“Has it occurred to you that on the two occasions you saw Handsome at close hand he wore first a veil and then a morion that concealed a good part of his face? On the other occasions, he stood in a doorway in a section of wall where no doorway existed.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“That your experience of Handsome for the most part was a projected image, and that the voice might or might not have been his own.”

Dirby scowled. “So that Handsome wasn’t out there at all.”

“It seems that diligent efforts were made to arouse your antagonism against Sir Estevan.”

Dirby laughed. “Then they bring me here to the Triskelion, give me a dead zap, and show me Sir Estevan. Why all this?”

“Two Triarchs were killed—an Olefract and a Liss. It would be more difficult to arouse animosity against these two.”

Dirby shook his head. “I don’t understand it.”

“I don’t understand it either,” said Hetzel. “You call him Handsome. I call him Casimir Wuldfache.”

Sir Estevan returned to the screen. Hetzel restored the sound. “I have conferred with Captain Baw,” said Sir Estevan. “Understandably, he is anxious for information.”

“All of us share this anxiety, including Gidion Dirby. For instance, he would like to know why you turned a pot of ordure over his head.”

Sir Estevan Tristo raised his eyebrows. He reached out and made an adjustment on the clarity control. “I don’t believe I heard your remarks correctly.”

“No matter,” said Hetzel. “I want only your assurance that if I leave the hotel I won’t be subjected to inconvenience.”

“If you transgress our laws, or if you have done so, you will face the ordinary consequences. However, Captain Baw tells me that to the best of his knowledge you have committed no such acts.”

“I then have your explicit assurance that I will not be arrested?”

“Not unless you commit a crime.”

“Very well,” said Hetzel. “I’ll risk it.”

* * * *

CHAPTER 7

Hetzel set off across the Plaza toward the murky outline of the Triskelion. He observed no persons in the blue-and-green uniform of the Gaean Security Patrol, and when he arrived at the Triskelion, the officer on duty paid him no extraordinary attention. Captain Baw was not in evidence.

Hetzel approached the Gaean section of the reception desk. The Liss and Olefract sides of the triangle, as usual, were vacant. Vv. Kylo, who was on duty alone, directed Hetzel to a door across the lobby. Hetzel entered an antechamber where Sir Estevan’s pretty blond receptionist sat at a desk. The telephone image failed to do justice to the girl. Her coloring, thought Hetzel, was exquisite—pale-blond hair like winter sunlight, flower-petal skin, features delicate, almost overrefined, as if she derived from generations of aesthetes and aristocrats. For Hetzel’s taste she was perhaps too sensitive, too fastidious and meticulous, and perhaps humorless as well; nevertheless, she added a great deal of tone to Sir Estevan’s office.

“Vv. Hetzel? This way, please.”

Sir Estevan arose from his desk to meet Hetzel—a man tall and stern, but undeniably handsome. He was, thought Hetzel, older than Casimir Wuldfache. The resemblance, though strong, dissipated somewhat upon close inspection.

Sir Estevan indicated a chair, and seated himself. “You are an almost obsessively cautious man.”

“Captain Baw’s zeal compels such an obsession,” said Hetzel.

Sir Estevan allowed himself a faint smile. “I think you referred to Gidion Dirby as your client?”

“By no means. His situation interests me, and I am acting informally as his adviser. He is not my client. The distinction is important.”

“You were previously acquainted?”

“I met him for the first time today. His predicament attracted my attention, and the story he tells aroused my professional interest.”

“I see. May I inquire your profession?”

“I am an effectuator, of a specialized sort—in fact, something of a dilettante. I rescue distressed maidens, I undertake interesting missions, I search for lost fortunes.”

“In which of these categories does Gidion Dirby fit?”

“He is hardly a maiden in distress,” said Hetzel. “Nonetheless, I am attempting to protect him from his enemies.”

Sir Estevan laughed his chilly laugh. “And who protects the enemies against Gidion Dirby?”

“I wish to discuss this matter with you. First, do you believe Gidion Dirby to be the assassin?”

“I see no other possibility, nor does Captain Baw. Consult him; he was much closer to the action.”

“You did not observe Dirby shoot his gun?”

“No. Captain Baw obscured my view. I heard the sound of the pellets; I saw two Gomaz killed, and dropped behind my desk. Essentially, I saw nothing of what happened.”

“You never saw Vv. Dirby at all?”

“Not clearly.”

“Did you recognize him when you saw his face in the view plate?”

“No, he is a stranger to me.”

“Why should he—or anyone else, for that matter—attempt to assassinate the Triarchs?”

Sir Estevan leaned back in his chair. “I assume that the murderer was and is insane. There is no other explanation. The deed is absolutely pointless.”

“What if the surviving Gomaz were the assassin?”

Sir Estevan shook his head. “It is not the nature of the Gomaz to assassinate. He kills for his own private reasons—’lusts’ might be the applicable word; otherwise, he is neither violent nor murderous, unless he is molested.”

“You have apparently made a close study of the Gomaz.”

“Naturally; why else am I here?”

“The Liss and the Olefract share your interest?”

Sir Estevan shrugged. “We have little communication between us. Certainly no informal contacts. The Liss are suspicious and hostile; the Olefract are contemptuous and hostile. But still no reason to kill their Triarchs.”

“And how will they react?”

“Reasonably enough, or so I imagine. If Dirby is deranged, they’ll accept the killing as an aberrated act.”

“Assuming that Dirby is indeed the killer.”

“There’s no other possibility.”

“Captain Baw was in the chamber.”

“Ridiculous. Why should he perform such an act?”

“Why should Gidion Dirby?”

“Insanity.”

“Perhaps Baw is insane.”

“Rubbish.”

Hetzel indicated a door. “This leads into the Triarchic chamber?”

“It does.”

“Your receptionist at all times had the door under observation?”

“She certainly would have noticed someone standing here shooting at me.”

“Perhaps someone was hidden in the chamber?”

“Impossible. I was fifteen minutes early into the chamber. No one was hidden there.”

“Well, then … what about yourself?”

Sir Estevan showed his cold smile. “I’d prefer to fix the guilt on Gidion Dirby, or the Gomaz, or even Baw, for that matter.”

“And the Gomaz—why were they here?”

“They had no opportunity to explain themselves.”

“Won’t this assassination cause problems? Raids? Demonstrations?”

“Probably not. The Gomaz are linked telepathically to the unitary consciousness of their sept, and they are not disturbed by death. This is an element of their ferocity.” Sir Estevan tossed a pamphlet across his desk. “Read this, if you’re interested in the Gomaz.”

“Thank you.” The pamphlet was entitled The Gomaz Warriors of SJZ-BEA-1545 (Maz), Prepared by the Hannenborg Institute for Xenological Research. He inspected the diagram on the cover. “Two hundred and twenty-nine septs. The Gomaz who visited you this morning—what was their sept?”

“Ubaikh.” Sir Estevan gave his fingers an impatient twitch. “Surely you did not come here to discuss the Gomaz?”

Hetzel opened his mouth to mention Istagam, then had second thoughts. It might be wise to secure an air-car-use permit for reasons other than investigating Istagam. “At the moment, I am preoccupied with Gidion Dirby and his extraordinary plight.”

“What is so extraordinary about it?”

“I would like you to hear Gidion Dirby’s story from his own mouth. Could you step over to the Beyranion for a few minutes?”

“I’d prefer that you give me the gist of it here.”

“Gidion Dirby declares that he was held captive and subjected to a number of fantastic tricks; you were the chief trickmaster, and terminated the proceedings by turning a chamber pot over his head.”

Sir Estevan grinned. “I deny this.”

“You have never seen Gidion Dirby previous to today?”

“Never, to my knowledge.”

“Are you familiar with a long corridor with blue-and-white-tile walls and an arched white ceiling?”

“Certainly. Such a corridor connects the loggia of my residence to the morning room. Why do you ask?”

“This hall figures in Gidion Dirby’s account, and it tends to authenticate his story.”

Sir Estevan considered. “If Dirby is innocent, then either I or Captain Baw must be guilty of murder. Or conceivably my secretary, Zaressa, if your imagination can cope with the image of her standing in that doorway and gunning down a Liss, an Olefract, and two Gomaz.”

“If Dirby is innocent, then you, Captain Baw, Zaressa, or the Gomaz must be guilty. I agree to this.”

“It would be most tiresome,” said Sir Estevan, “especially since the Gomaz must be removed from the list. Far better that an addle-brained zealot be declared the assassin, whether he is guilty, as I believe him to be, or not.”

“Dirby might concede this point of view,” said Hetzel, “if he were granted safe-conduct away from Maz and recompensed for his inconvenience. At the moment, he is annoyed and unhappy, and he is anxious to bring the facts to light.”

“This, of course, is his option. How does he propose to perform the illumination?”

“The Gomaz was present; why not question him?”

Sir Estevan leaned back in his chair and pondered. “Gomaz make poor witnesses. They are unresponsive—contemptuously unresponsive, I should say—to our laws and customs. They will say what they wish to say, and no more. It is impossible to coerce a Gomaz, and it is also impossible to appeal, shall we say, to his better nature.”

“Incidentally, what was their business with the Triarchy?”

“Before a statement could be made, the assassinations occurred.”

Hetzel thought to detect evasiveness. “Did they not state their business for your agenda?”

“No.” Sir Estevan’s reply was curt.

“And you yourself do not know what their business might have been?”

“I would not care to speculate.”

“From Dirby’s point of view, the surviving Gomaz is a prime witness. It would seem that if a Gomaz testified at all, he would speak the truth.”

“The truth as he saw it. By no means the truth as we see it.”

“Still, in all fairness, we should hear what he has to tell us.”

Sir Estevan hesitated a moment, then took up a schedule, which he studied a moment. He punched a button on his telephone. The screen became bright; a face looked forth; a voice spoke. “Maz Transport. Yes, Sir Estevan.”

“Has the Route Five carrier left on schedule?”

“Yes, sir, half an hour ago.”

“How many passengers were aboard?”

“One moment, sir… . Seven passengers: two Kaikash, two Iron-bellies, a Ubaikh, an Aqzh, and a Yellow Hellion.”

“Look out into the corral. Do you see any Ubaikh?”

“It’s empty, sir. Everyone left on the transport.”

“Thank you.” Sir Estevan switched off the screen. “The Gomaz has returned to his castle, and must be considered inaccessible.”

“Not necessarily. I can be on hand when the carrier puts him down, and interview him there.”

“Hmmf.” Sir Estevan studied Hetzel a long ten seconds. “How will you communicate with him?”

“You must have a suitable translator.”

“Naturally. A valuable piece of equipment.”

“I’ll post bond on it, if you wish.”

“That’s not necessary. Zaressa will get it for you. You can rent an air car from the tourist agency in Dogtown.” He scribbled a note, handed it to Hetzel. “That’s your permit. They’ll send one of their personnel with you; that’s our invariable rule, to keep inexperienced people out of trouble. Maz is a dangerous planet, and naturally you go out at your own risk. The agency man will know how to find the Ubaikh depot. Don’t go near the castle; they’ll kill you. At the depot you’re safe enough.” He looked at the schedule. “You’ve got ample time. The carrier won’t arrive at Ubaikh until tomorrow afternoon. I’ll want to look over the tape of the interview; is that understood?”

“Certainly. Now, one other matter …”

Sir Estevan glanced at his watch. “I’m a bit pressed for time.”

“I came here to Maz to inquire about Istagam, as the concern is known. My principals are concerned by Istagam’s low prices; they fear that the Liss and the Olefract are using Maz as a port of entry from which to flood the Gaean markets.”

Sir Estevan’s lip curled. “You can assure them otherwise. Neither Liss nor Olefract want contact with the Gaeans, or with each other.”

“Then who or what is Istagam?”

Sir Estevan spoke almost primly. “I have heard the word mentioned, and I believe that there is no illegality involved. You may so inform your principals, and they will have to trim their sails to the wind.”

“Can you identify the directors of Istagam, or tell me anything about their mode of operation?”

“I’m sorry, sir; this is a matter that I can’t discuss.”

“On what grounds?”

“Caprice,” said Sir Estevan. “That’s as good a reason as any. I’m sorry that I now must terminate our discussion.”

Hetzel rose to his feet. “Thank you for your courtesy. It has been a pleasure talking with you.”

“Bring me back the translator tape; I’ll want to check it over.”

“I’ll be sure to do so.”

* * * *

Captain Baw stood three inches taller than Hetzel; his shoulders, chest, and abdomen bulged with muscle; his round, flat face was cold and wary. He rose briskly to his feet when Hetzel entered his office, and stood sternly erect during the period of the interview.

“You are Captain Baw, I believe.”

“I am he.”

“Sir Estevan suggested that I consult you, in order to clarify exactly what happened this morning.”

“Very good, then, consult away.”

“You were present when the killings occurred?”

“I was indeed.”

“What was the precise sequence of events?”

“I brought in a man named Gidion Dirby, who claimed urgent business with Sir Estevan. As I stepped forward to attract Sir Estevan’s attention, he produced a gun and opened fire.”

“You saw him shoot the gun?”

“He stood behind me, from where the shots originated.”

“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 a 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.”

* * * *

CHAPTER 8

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 that 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 that 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 that 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 newsstand 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.

Hetzel continued. His instincts were right more often than not, and if he were indeed being trailed, the fact should come as no surprise. Hetzel was nonetheless displeased. To be followed elsewhere in the Reach might indicate simple curiosity; in Far Dogtown, such attention might mean death.

The road passed under a wooden archway; Far Dogtown became Dogtown, where Gaean law prevailed. Hetzel proceeded to the central square, and paused again to look behind him. Nothing, except the street and a few individuals out upon their errands. Hetzel strolled around the square and proceeded past the office of tourist information, to a shop offering Gomaz boneware for sale. He sidled quickly into the dim interior. He could not be certain, but a dark form might have stepped into the acacia grove that occupied the center of the square.

The proprietor approached—a frail old man in a white smock with lens cups over his eyes. “What would you care to examine, sir?”

“These bowls here—what is their worth?”

“Aha! These are adult Zoum skulls, with palladium rims and a palladium foot. Excellent craftsmanship, as you can see. The material is dense as stone, and of course has been carefully cleaned and sterilized. Think what a conversation you’ll have when you serve your guests their broth! The price for a dozen is a hundred and fifty SLU.”

“A bit more than I care to pay,” said Hetzel. “Can’t I outrage my guests more cheaply?”

“Well, yes, of course. These ladles are fashioned from the skulls of Voulash bantlings. Their play wars are as deadly as the efforts of the adults, as perhaps you know.”

No one had emerged from the acacia grove. Hetzel disliked such uncertainty. The ambience of Far Dogtown no doubt had stimulated him to hypersensitivity.

“… back scratchers are the shins and toes of very young bantlings, a clever and unusual article.”

“Thank you. I will keep your recommendations in mind.” Hetzel gave the square a last inspection. He stepped forth and walked to the office of tourist information.

At the counter stood the same young woman to whom he had spoken previously. Today she wore breeches of beige velvet gathered at the ankles, a dark-brown jacket with gold brocade, a gold fillet to confine her dark hair. Hetzel thought that she recognized him, but her voice was institutionally polite. “Yes, sir; can I be of help?”

“Are you able to produce an astronomical almanac?”

“An astronomical almanac, sir?”

“Any information relating to the movement of the sun, the moon, and Maz in their orbits should be sufficient.”

“This little calendar shows the phases of the moon. Will that help you?”

“I’m afraid not.” Hetzel gave the sketch a cursory glance. “Just a minute; let me reconsider. The plane of the orbit of the moon appears to cut the plane of Maz’s orbit at right angles.”

“Yes; it’s quite unusual, so I’m told.”

In such a case, Hetzel reflected, the moon would be at full when it crossed the plane of Maz’s orbit directly behind Maz in relation to the sun. Hetzel checked the calendar and noted the date of this occurrence. On this date, Gidion Dirby had sat on a swamp island with the moon approximately halfway up the southern sky. Since the moon at this instant had been very close to the plane of Maz’s orbit, the latitude of the swamp island would be approximately 45deg North, plus or minus the tilt of the ecliptic plane.

“Perhaps,” said Hetzel, “you have a reference book that might provide general information in regard to Maz?”

The girl produced a pamphlet. “If you explained what you wanted to know, I might provide the answer.”

“You might,” said Hetzel, “but more likely not. Let me see, now. The Maz year is 441 days, each of 21.74 standard hours. The plane of rotation is inclined twelve degrees to the plane of the ecliptic …” Hetzel returned to the calendar. “What is considered the middle of summer and the middle of winter?”

“We don’t have much of either. It’s mostly a wet season in summer and a dry season in winter. It’s now fall, and we’re well into the dry period, lucky for you. When it rains, it rains a torrent. The calendar uses the standard month names—only here the months are ten days longer than they were at home on Varsilla.”

“Varsilla! The world of nine blue oceans and ten thousand sea peaks and eleven million islands.”

“And twelve billion sand flies and sixteen billion glass nettles, and twenty billion tourist villas. So you know Varsilla?”

“Not well.”

“Have you visited Palestria on Jailand?”

“I never had occasion to leave Meyness.”

“That’s a pity; Jailand is so beautiful and placid. Too placid, I used to think. But I wish I were there now. I’m bored with Maz. Anyway, Iulian is summer there, and summer here. The months naturally don’t come at the same time.”

Hetzel studied the calendar. The summer solstice occurred about the first day of Iulian. It appeared, then, that the moon had reached full almost exactly at the autumnal equinox. Hence there would be neither subtraction nor addition of degrees, and the swamp island, if Dirby’s estimate were accurate, must be found somewhere near latitude 45deg North.

The girl was watching Hetzel curiously. “Have you reached an important decision?” Her mouth showed an impish twitch.

“So!” said Hetzel. “You consider me solemn and foolish!”

“Of course not! I never think thus of tourists!”

Hetzel merely raised his eyebrows. “Can you show me a large-scale map of Maz, preferably a Mercator projection?”

“Of course.” She touched a dial and pressed a button; on the hard white surface of the wall appeared a map as tall as Hetzel and twelve feet wide. “Is that satisfactory?”

“Excellent. Where is Dogtown?”

The girl put her finger on the map. “Here.” She looked over her shoulder. “Excuse me a moment.” She went back to the desk to deal with a pair of. tourists in white suits and wide-brimmed white hats with souvenir emblems pinned to the ribbons.

“Where can we see the Gomaz warriors in a real battle?” asked the man. “I’m hoping to get some shots for a travelogue.”

The girl smiled politely. “Battles aren’t all that easy. The Gomaz refuse to keep us informed. Very churlish of them, of course.”

“Oh, dear,” said the woman. “We promised everyone we’d bring back films. I understand we’re not allowed in the tribal castles?”

“I’m afraid that is so. But we’ve remodeled a number of ancient castles into very comfortable inns, which I’m told are very typical. I’ve never visited one myself.”

“Can’t you arrange to find a battle for us? I very much wanted to film an authentic Gomaz war.”

The girl smilingly shook her head. “You’d probably be killed if you ventured that close.”

“Where would you say we have the best chance of seeing a good battle?”

“I don’t know what a good one would be like,” said the girl, “or a bad one either, for that matter. It’s probably just a matter of luck— ‘misfortune’ might be a better word, because these affairs are very dangerous.”

Hetzel found latitude 45deg North. He traced it over oceans, mountains, uplands, and moors. A thousand miles north of Axistil, a river flowing down from the northern moors wandered out upon a flatland and dissipated into a thousand trickles and rills. This was the Great Kykh-Kych Swamp. Hetzel inspected it carefully. Nearby, he noticed a black dot.

The tourists departed. A door from the adjoining office opened, and a burly man looked forth—Byrrhis. Today he wore a modish suit of dark-green twill, with a black-and-scarlet cravat. “Janika, I’m leaving for the day. Transfer any calls to my villa.”

“Yes, Vv. Byrrhis.”

“Mind you, lock up well. Don’t forget the back windows.”

“Yes, Vv. Byrrhis, I’ll be careful.”

Byrrhis gave Hetzel a friendly nod, which might or might not have connoted recognition. He retreated into his office, evidently planning to leave by a different exit.

Hetzel asked, “What did he call you?”

“Janika.”

“Is that your name?”

“It’s short for my girl-name, which most people consider rather queer—Lljiano. Two L’s sounded on your side teeth. It’s an old Hiulak name.”

“I didn’t know the Hiulaks settled on Varsilla.”

“They didn’t. My father’s name is Reyes; he’s part Maljin and part White Drasthanyi. He met my mother on Fanuche and brought her back to Varsilla. And she’s a quarter Semric, which makes me something of a mongrel.”

“A very healthy-looking mongrel.”

“Where are you from?”

“I was born on Old Earth. My name is Miro Hetzel. I am told that I come of decadent stock because all the enterprising persons long ago immigrated to the stars.”

“You don’t seem decadent; you seem quite ordinary.”

“I’m sure you intend a compliment.”

“Of a sort.” Janika laughed. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I think so. What are these red stars?”

“They’re the sites of the touristic inns—all picturesque and comfortable, so I’m told. I’ve never visited any of them.”

“And what is this black circle?”

“You’ll see several of them on the map. They’re ruins that are especially quaint, where Vv. Byrrhis wants to establish new inns.”

“The others do well?”

“Moderately well. Lots of tourists insist upon a Gomaz war, which we can’t produce. Of course, we’ve never tried, but I doubt if the Gomaz would take kindly to the idea.”

“The Gomaz are a humorless lot. I understand that I can rent an air car through this office.”

“It’s the only agency in Dogtown. You must have a clearance from Sir Estevan Tristo, and you must be accompanied by an official guide, to prevent you from smuggling weapons or selling the air car.”

“I have the clearance, and also a good idea. Why don’t you come along as the official guide?”

“Me? I couldn’t stop you from smuggling weapons.”

“That’s a restriction I’ll agree to right now—no smuggling.”

“Well … it sounds pleasant. When did you have in mind?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I’m supposed to work tomorrow, but that’s no real problem. A substitute could take over. Where did you plan to go?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Off in this direction, I suppose; we could have lunch at this inn.”

“That’s Black Cliff Castle, which is supposed to be very dramatic. But it’s a long way off.” She glanced sidewise at Hetzel. “It’s actually more than a one-day trip.”

“All the better. Book a couple rooms for us, then we won’t need to rush. Are you doubtful? Of your job? Or of me?”

” ‘Doubt’ is not quite the word.” Janika laughed rather nervously.

“Caution? Apprehension?”

“No, none of these… . Oh, well, why not? I haven’t been out of Dogtown in all the time I’ve been here. Vv. Byrrhis can fire me if he wants; I don’t really care.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Only three months, and just about ready to think ‘why not?’ again and go back to Varsilla.”

“Is Vv. Byrrhis so harsh a taskmaster?”

“He has his crotchets.” Janika put on as prim and stern an expression as her features were capable of forming. “I must insist that I pay my own expenses.”

“Just as you like,” said Hetzel. “The only person to profit will be a certain Sir Ivon Hacaway, who can well bear the expense.”

* * * *

Hetzel returned to the Plaza by way of the Avenue of Lost Souls. The time was early evening; the sky swam with violet and pale-green murk. He crossed the dim Plaza to the Beyranion Hotel, and found Dirby in the lobby, sitting quietly in a lounge chair with a journal. Dirby looked up with mingled suspicion and curiosity. “What have you learned in Dogtown?”

Hetzel evaded the question. “You’ve never been there?”

“When I was here on the Tarinthia I went down for an evening or two. I’ve seen better places.”

Hetzel nodded agreement. “Still, there’s a special atmosphere to Dogtown: vain regrets, lost causes—they hang in the air like smoke.”

“If I ever get away,” muttered Dirby, “I’m going back to Thrope. I’ll work my father’s loquat orchard and never again look at the sky.”

“Perhaps I’ll join you there,” said Hetzel. “Especially if you find yourself unable to pay my fee.”

“I’ll pay you off in loquats if necessary.” Dirby’s eyes gleamed with malicious humor, which Hetzel found at least preferable to sulkiness and self-pity.

“Tomorrow I fly out into the back country,” said Hetzel. “I’ll be gone a day or two; you’ll have to fend for yourself until I get back.”

“Be as mysterious as you like,” Dirby grumbled, once more his usual self. “I’m in no position to complain.”

* * * *

CHAPTER 9

Hetzel arrived at the transport depot early in the morning, to find that Janika had already arranged the rental of an air car. “It’s an old Ray Standard, and it’s supposed to be dependable.”

“There’s nothing a bit faster? We have considerable ground to cover.”

“There’s a new Hemus Cloudhopper, but it’s more expensive.”

“Money means nothing,” said Hetzel. “Let’s take the Hemus.”

“They want to be paid in advance in case we kill ourselves: twenty SLU for two days, which includes insurance and energy.”

Hetzel paid the account. They climbed into the air car. Hetzel checked out the controls and energy level, then took the vehicle aloft. “Did Vv. Byrrhis make any difficulty about letting you off?”

“Nothing to speak of. I told him that I wanted to take a friend out to Black Cliff Inn, and that was that.”

Axistil and its environs became a set of unlikely patterns on the heave and fall of the downs. Hetzel brought a map to the navigation screen and established a course due north. “I want to investigate the Great Kykh-Kych Swamp,” said Hetzel in response to Janika’s questioning glance. “I don’t know what I’ll find—in fact, I don’t know what I’m looking for. But if I don’t go, I’ll never know.”

“You are a mysterious man, and mysteries are exasperating,” said Janika. “I myself have no secrets whatever.”

Hetzel wondered how much credence could be placed in this remark. Today she wore a short-sleeved blouse of soft-gray cloth trimmed with black piping, black trousers, and jaunty ankle boots—a costume that made the most of her supple figure. She wore no ornaments except a black ribbon binding her hair. An exceedingly attractive young woman, thought Hetzel, fresh and clean-looking, with an air of simplicity that was both charming and suspect.

“Why are you looking at me so intently?” she asked. “Is my nose red?”

“I marvel at your confidence. After all, I’m a stranger to you, and out here beyond the Reach, a stranger is usually a depraved murderer, or a sadistic fiend, or worse.”

Janika laughed, perhaps a trifle uneasily. “Inside or outside the Reach—what’s the difference?”

“You don’t have too much to fear,” said Hetzel. “I’m far too gallant for my own good, although only an Olefract could fail to notice that you are extremely pretty. You make a stimulating companion for a trip like this one.”

“What kind of a trip is a trip like this one? We intend to prove the innocence of one of your former lovers, and save him from the Exhibitory.”

“You astonish me! My ‘former lovers’ are all far away, living the most torpid lives imaginable. I wonder which of them you refer to, and how he managed to get into such mischief.”

“This one is a certain Gidion Dirby.”

Janika frowned. “Gidion Dirby?”

“Yes. A blond young man, obstinate, wrongheaded, seething with emotion. So he is now. Three months ago he might have been a different person entirely.”

“I remember Gidion Dirby, but our acquaintance was … well, almost casual. Certainly so, from my point of view.”

Hetzel looked down across the landscape—a savanna carpeted with green-black furze and clots of spike trees. In the far-eastern distance a glimmer of sea was visible, then a blur of atmospheric murk. Hetzel asked, “How did you happen to meet Gidion Dirby?”

“First,” said Janika, “tell me what he’s done, and also why you’re so mysterious.”

“Gidion Dirby is suspected of assassinating two Triarchs. I am not so much mysterious as confused and suspicious.”

“Confused about what? And who are you suspicious of? Me? I haven’t done anything.”

“I’m confused about Istagam … and why there is so much secrecy involved. Presumably the reason is money. I’m suspicious because effectuators are paid to be suspicious, and I’m an effectuator. A high-class and expensive effectuator, needless to say. I’m suspicious of you because you were associated with Gidion Dirby on Tamar, and here you are on Maz.”

“Sheer coincidence,” said Janika.

“Possibly. Why were you on Tamar?”

“Tamar was where my money took me when I left Varsilla. I worked for a week in the Central Market at Twisselbane, and I worked another week in what they call their Pageant of the Foam, because it paid quite well. I had to dance and pose with not too many clothes on—occasionally none at all. While we were rehearsing, I met Gidion Dirby, who told me he was a spaceman, and lonely.”

“Like all spacemen.”

“I saw him a few times, and he became … well … possessive. Apparently he had fallen in love with me, and I was having trouble enough with one of the directors of the pageant. So I stopped seeing Gidion Dirby. I worked a week at the pageant, and some friends introduced me to Vv. Byrrhis, who mentioned that the Maz Tourist Agency needed a receptionist. I was only too pleased to leave the pageant and Director Swince. Vv. Byrrhis made me sign a six-month contract and gave me a ticket to Maz, and here I am.”

“You never saw Gidion Dirby again?”

“I’d almost forgotten him until just now.”

“Very odd.” They flew over an arm of the sea, a leaden expanse glistening with a green luster. “You’ve been here how long?”

“About three months.”

“With another three months to go on your contract. Then what?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll have enough money to go almost anywhere. I’d like to visit Earth.”

“You might be disappointed. Earth is a most subtle world. Very few outworlders feel at ease on Old Earth, unless they have friends there.”

Janika turned him an arch side glance. “Will you be there?”

“I couldn’t tell you where I’ll be a week from now.”

“Don’t you ever want to settle down somewhere?”

“I’ve thought about it. Gidion Dirby has invited me to his father’s loquat orchard.”

Janika made a sound of scornful amusement. “Gidion Dirby. You came to Maz on his account?”

“No. I came to learn something about Istagam. But the two matters might be connected.”

Janika said, “Perhaps I’ll become an effectuator. It seems like fun. One always stays in the best hotels and meets interesting people like myself, and there’s always a Sir Ivon Hacaway to pay the bills.”

“It’s not always like this.”

“And what takes us out toward the Great Kykh-Kych Swamp? Gidion Dirby business or Istagam?”

“Both. And then there’s another most peculiar element to the case, by the name of Casimir Wuldfache.”

The name seemed to mean nothing to Janika. For a period they rode in silence over a sprawling range of ancient basalt mountains, black crags protruding like rotten stumps from maroon detritus. Janika pointed. “Look yonder—the castle of the Viszt.” She took up binoculars. “Warriors are returning from a campaign, probably against the Shimrod, and the tourists have been cheated again.” She passed the binoculars to Hetzel and showed him where to look.

White skull faces bobbed and blinked under crested helmets of cast iron; aprons of black leather swung to the motion of the legs. To the rear rolled six wagons pulled by ten-legged reptiles, loaded with objects Hetzel could not identify.

“The Viszts are flyers,” said Janika. “The wagons carry their wings. They climb the mountains, put on their wings, and glide on the updrafts. Then, when they locate their enemies—I can’t think of a better word—they swoop down and attack.”

“Curious creatures.”

“You know how they breed, or mate?”

“Sir Estevan gave me a pamphlet. In fact, you did too. I know that they are ambisexual, and that they go out to war in order to breed.”

“It seems a dreary life,” Janika reflected. “They kill for love, and they die for love—all in a frenzy.”

“They probably consider our love life rather dull,” said Hetzel.

“My love life is rather dull,” said Janika. “Vv. Swince, Gidion Dirby, Vv. Byrrhis.”

“Have patience. Somewhere among the twenty-eight trillion folk of the Gaean Reach is Vv. Right.”

“Half of them are women, luckily. That cuts down the search by half.” Janika took up the binoculars. “I might as well take a look out over the swamp right now. There might be some kind of a fugitive or a divorce out there.”

“What do you see?” asked Hetzel.

“Nothing. Not even a Gomaz, whom I wouldn’t consider anyway.”

They flew above a land of rolling moors with tarns of dark water in the hollows. Ahead, the course of the Dz River lay in languid curves and loops; beyond spread the Great Kykh-Kych Swamp. Hetzel examined the chart with attention.

Janika asked, “What are you looking for?”

“An island five miles or so from the north shore, where Gidion Dirby was marooned by a man named Banghart. Have you ever heard that name, incidentally?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Three islands are possible. This one to the east”—Hetzel indicated the chart—”this one in the center, and this to the west. The center island is closest to the black circle on the chart.”

“That’s the castle of the old Kanitze sept, which was wiped out by the Ubaikh two hundred years ago, and Kykh-Kych Inn, which is now closed down.”

“We’re coming in over the east island. Look for a path leading to the mainland.”

Hetzel circled the island—a hummock of twenty acres, crowned with a copse of iron trees and the tall rattling canes known as “galan-gal.” There was no area suitable for discharge of cargo; no path led away to the mainland.

The central island lay twenty miles north—an area somewhat larger, with a level meadow marked and scarred as if by the arrival and departure of vehicles.

Hetzel hovered over the meadow. “This is the place.” He pointed. “That iron tree yonder—there Dirby passed the night … And there—the path leading to the shore! Here we pick up the thread of Dirby’s adventures. Shall we land?”

“We’re not supposed to land except in authorized locations,” said Janika. “That’s the rule, but it’s not always obeyed.”

Hetzel glanced at his watch. “We don’t have all that much time if we want to meet the Ubaikh at transport depot. So … we’d better fly on.”

Janika looked at him in astonishment. “We’re to meet whom?”

“The Ubaikh who witnessed the assassinations. If we want to learn the identity of the killer, he’s the obvious person to ask.”

“Suppose he says it was Gidion Dirby?”

“I don’t think he will. But I intend to ask him, no matter what he says.”

“You seem very zealous all of a sudden.”

“Yes, the mood strikes me once in a while.”

Janika looked down at the swamp, now only a few hundred feet below: an expanse of black slime; various tufts of reeds, lung-plant, white whisker; wandering rivulets of dark water. The path slanted this way and that, following a series of slanted quartzite outcrops. “If I knew what you were looking for, I could look too.”

Hetzel pointed to the dun-colored loom of mainland ahead. “Look for a stone wall. Gidion Dirby found a stone wall and a gate and Sir Estevan Tristo waiting for him. Except it probably wasn’t Sir Estevan. More likely Casimir Wuldfache.”

Janika looked through the binoculars. “I see the wall and the gate. I don’t see either Sir Estevan or Casimir Wolf-face, whatever his name is. Now I can see the old Kanitze castle.”

“This is where Gidion Dirby passed several memorable months, or so I suspect. He described some of his adventures to me. His chair ejected him to the floor. Sir Estevan emptied a chamber pot over his head. He observed you dancing upon the surface of his brain without any clothes on.”

“One thing you can take as certain,” said Janika. “I have never danced upon Gidion Dirby’s brain.”

“No question about this. You were evidently filmed at the Pageant of Foam on Tamar and the sequences adapted to the circumstances here. Almost certainly, Casimir Wuldfache turned the pot over Dirby’s head, since Sir Estevan denies doing so. All in all a curious set of experiences.”

“Unless Dirby is a madman, as I once suspected.”

They approached the cyclopean bulk of the ruined Kanitze castle. The roof across the vast central keep had long since rotted away; the seven peripheral towers had tumbled to broken stubs surrounded by detritus. The tower at the far western edge of the complex had been fitted with a new roof and structurally refurbished—evidently the disused tourist inn.

Hetzel allowed the air car to drift quietly above the castle while he looked down through binoculars. He stared so long and so intently that Janika at last inquired, “What do you see?”

“Nothing very definite,” said Hetzel. He put the binoculars in the rack and looked down at the ruined castle. In the shadows of the central keep he had observed a stack of crates, protected from the weather by a shroud of transparent membrane. Up from the castle rose a fume of danger, quivering like hot air.

“I don’t dare to land,” Hetzel muttered. “In fact, I feel the urgent desire to leave, before someone or something destroys us.” He jerked the air car into motion; they skidded away to the west.

Janika looked back at the receding ruins. “This isn’t quite the placid excursion I had expected.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought you.”

“I’m not complaining. … So long as I escape with my life.”

The castle of the extinct Kanitze became a dark smudge and disappeared into the murk.

“The rest of the trip should be relatively uneventful. The Ubaikh depot is safe ground, or so I’m told.”

“The Olefract or the Liss patrol might think you’re trying to sell weapons, and kill you.”

“I’ve got Sir Estevan’s translator. If necessary, I can explain.”

“Not to the Liss. They believe what they see, and they’re most suspicious.”

“Well … they probably won’t see us.”

“I hope not.”

* * * *

The depot stood on a pebbly plain beside a white-and-orange target a hundred yards in diameter. Mountain shadows loomed above the north horizon; to west and east the plain extended into the blur of the sky. To the south, two miles from the depot, stood the castle of the Ubaikh sept—like the Kanitze ruins, a bulk of awesome proportions. Parapets surrounded the central keep; an inner tower rose another hundred feet to a squat roof of sullen maroon tiles. Seven barbicans, taller and more slender than those of the Kanitze ruins, guarded the keep, each joined to the parapets by an arched buttress. The area under the castle flickered with motion—Gomaz, and Gomaz bantlings at their routines and drills. Wagons rolled along an east road and a west road, loaded with what Hetzel took to be provender. There seemed to be flapping black forms in the air surrounding the outer towers. Down, down the figures drifted, darting, wheeling, diving, and swooping, occasionally, by dint of furious effort, gaining altitude before once more gliding.

Hetzel dropped the air car to the ground beside the depot. “We’ve got something less than an hour to wait, if the carrier is on schedule.”

Half an hour passed. Across the sky came the carrier—an ellipsoidal compartment supported on four pulsor pods. It dropped to a landing at the exact center of the orange-and-white target. The entry port slid open; steps unfolded; a single figure disembarked. The carrier paused a moment, like a resting insect, then swept off at a slant to the south. Hetzel meanwhile had approached the Ubaikh with the language translator.

The Ubaikh paused to assess the situation, wattles distended but uncolored. He wore an iron collar, which appeared to indicate status, and carried a sword of pounded iron in a harness over his back. Hetzel halted ten feet from the Ubaikh—as close as he dared approach.

The Ubaikh’s wattles remained a pallid white, with a network of pulsing green veins, indicating simple antagonism.

Hetzel spoke into the translator. “You have just now returned from Axistil.” The instrument produced a set of hisses and squeaks, fluting up into inaudibility and down again.

The Ubaikh stood rigid, the white bone of his face immobile, the eyes glowing like black gems. Hetzel wondered whether it might be taking telepathic counsel with its fellows in the castle.

The Ubaikh hissed, clicked, squeaked; the translator printed out on the tape: “I have visited Axistil.”

“What did you do there?”

“I yield no information.”

Hetzel grimaced in frustration. “I have come far to talk to you, a noble and notable Ubaikh warrior.”

The translator evidently failed to reproduce the exact implications of Hetzel’s remark, for the Ubaikh emitted a hiss which the tape merely identified in red italics as “anger.” The Ubaikh said, “My rank is high, and more than high: I am a chieftain. Did you come to traduce me in the very shadow of my castle?”

“Not at all,” said Hetzel hastily. “There has been a misunderstanding. I came respectfully to request information of you.”

“I yield no information.”

“I will express my appreciation with a metal tool.”

“Your bargains are worthless, like all Gaean bargains.” Words appeared on the tape faster than Hetzel could read them. “The Gomaz were defeated by metal and energy, not by courage. It indicates weakness that the Gaeans and Olefract and Liss hide in metal cells and send forth mechanical objects to fight for them. The Gomaz are strong warriors, the Ubaikh are supreme. They often defeat the Kzyk, whom the Gaeans choose to favor. The Gaeans are deceitful. The Ubaikh demand equal access to the secrets of metal and energy. Since we are denied, the Kzyk must suffer a Class III ‘Rivalry’ war, to the detriment of our long ages of love and war love and war esteem. The Liss and the Olefract are intractable cowards. The Gaeans are cowards, traitors, and lie mongers. The Kzyk will never profit from the scandal of their activities. Bantlings and striplings must be tested and trained. The Kzyk will become a race of diseased monsters, sapped of strength, unworthy of love, but the Ubaikh will destroy the sept. We too are anxious for the secrets of metal and energy, but we will never become suppliants.”

The spate of words ended abruptly. Hetzel made what he thought might be a conciliatory statement: “The Triarchy intends justice for the noble Ubaikh sept.”

The Ubaikh’s wattles became mottled with green patches. Hetzel watched in fascination. The Ubaikh produced sounds, and the translator printed out a new storm of words. “The remark is empty of meaning. The Gomaz are constrained by strength of metal and bite of energy. Otherwise we would bring a Class III war upon our enemies. The Triarchy is a monument to pusillanimity. Will the Triarchs dare to fight any of us? They sit in fear.”

“The Triarchs were killed before they could deal with your business. Two of your companions were killed as well.”

The Ubaikh stood silently.

Hetzel said, “The killer of these individuals has wronged us all. Will you return to Axistil and help to apprehend the criminal?”

“I will never return to Axistil. The Triarchs are excellently killed. The Gomaz are an oppressed folk; their current status is a tragedy. Let the Gaeans teach all Gomaz the secrets of fire and metal, rather than just the Kzyk, then all will join to defeat the mutual enemy. Be off with you; this is the vicinity of the superlative Ubaikh sept. I would grind you to a powder if I did not fear your weapons.” The creature turned and stalked away.

The Gomaz were an obstinate race, thought Hetzel. He returned to the air car.

Janika asked, “Well, who killed the Triarchs?”

“He wouldn’t tell me anything except that he approved of the whole affair.” Hetzel took the air car aloft.

“Now where?”

“Where are the Kzyk territories?”

“A hundred miles north, more or less. Beyond the Shimkish Mountains yonder.”

Hetzel studied the chart, then considered the sun, which hung halfway down the western sky. He turned the car toward the Black Cliff Inn, and Janika relaxed into her seat.

“What do you want with the Kzyk?”

Hetzel passed her the translator tape. “It’s more or less a tirade on the sins of the Gaeans.”

Janika read the tape. “It sounds as if he went to Axistil to protest favors to the Kzyk.”

“And why should the Kzyk get special treatment?”

“I don’t know,” said Janika.

“I don’t know either. But it might be Istagam.”

* * * *

CHAPTER 10

The Black Cliff Inn hung half over the brink of a mighty basalt scarp, under a complex of titanic ruins. Below spread a landscape that might have been contrived by a mad poet: a sodden moor clotted with turf of an unreal magenta, clumped with black water willow and an occasional eruption of extravagantly tall and frail galangal reeds glistening like silver threads.

Hetzel came out upon the terrace, to find a dozen other guests taking refreshment and enjoying the smoky-green sunset. He seated himself at a table and ordered a beaker of pomegranate punch with two stone-and-silver goblets. The perquisites of his occupation were occasionally most pleasant, thought Hetzel. The air drifting up from the plain brought a musky reek of moss and galangal and a dozen unnamable balsams. From far across the moor, thin, high-pitched calls shivered the quiet, and once a distant ululation evoked so much mystery and solitude that the hair rose at the back of Hetzel’s neck.

Janika slipped into the chair beside him. She wore a soft white frock and had combed her hair into lustrous loose curls. A most appealing creature, thought Hetzel, and quite probably as careless and candid as she appeared. He poured her a goblet of punch. “Sunset at the Black Cliff Inn is a remarkable occasion, and Vv. Byrrhis is a remarkable man for having created all this.”

“No doubt about that,” said Janika in an even voice. “Vv. Byrrhis is a remarkable man.”

“These inns—how many are there? Six? Seven? … They represent considerable capital. I wonder how Byrrhis financed such an operation.”

Janika gave her fingers a flick to indicate her lack of interest in the matter. “I’m not supposed to know anything about it—and actually, I don’t. But … it’s well known that Sir Estevan Tristo is very wealthy.”

“It seems a chancy investment,” said Hetzel. “There’s no possibility of firm title to the real estate.”

“Vv. Byrrhis has as good title as anyone else. The Gomaz don’t object; ruined castles are taboo. Black Cliff is famous for sunsets,” said Janika. “And tonight we’ll see ghosts.”

“Ghosts? Are you serious?”

“Of course. The Gomaz call the plain yonder the Place of Wandering Dreams.”

“Do persons other than the Gomaz see the ghosts?”

“Certainly. A few dull souls see only wisps of marsh gas, or white-veiled night crakes, but no one believes such drab nonsense.”

Other guests came out on the terrace. “The inn must be almost full,” said Hetzel. “I suspect that Vv. Byrrhis is coining money.”

“I don’t know. He seems harried and anxious most of the time. I suspect that he isn’t as prosperous as he would like to be, but who is?”

“Certainly not I.”

“Suppose you solved this case brilliantly and Gidion Dirby gave you a million-SLU bonus—what would you do with it?”

“More likely a million loquats from Gidion Dirby. From Sir Ivon Hacaway …” Hetzel gave his head a rueful shake. “First I have to solve the case.” He brought forth the translator tape and studied it a moment. “The tirade includes a few scintillas of information, no doubt by mistake. Someone is teaching the Kzyk ‘secrets of fire and metal.’ Who? Why? Istagam naturally comes to mind. The Kzyk provide labor and are paid off in technology, which I presume to be illegal. The Ubaikh object. The Liss and the Olefract are also certain to object, so their Triarchs are killed off for this reason. Just speculation, of course.”

“A rather frightening speculation.” Janika looked uneasily up and down the terrace.

Hetzel put away the tape. “Tomorrow we’ll visit the Kzyk, or at least look them over. But now let’s talk of something more interesting. Lljiano Reyes of Varsilla, for instance.”

“I don’t want to talk about me… . Though, for a fact… . well, I’d better not say it.”

“You’ve aroused my curiosity.”

“It’s not all that interesting. When I wanted to leave Palestria, everyone said I was foolish and perverse, which may be true. But tonight at the Black Cliff Inn is what I wanted to find.” She made an exasperated gesture. “I know I’m not making myself clear. But look, up there hangs the green moon, and here we sit looking out over the Place of Wandering Dreams, waiting for ghosts and drinking pomegranate punch. At home I’d be doing something ordinary. No green moon, no pomegranate punch, no ghosts.”

Hetzel had no comment to make; for a period they sat in silence.

Across the moon floated a gaunt black shape on slow-beating wings. “There’s a ghost now,” said Hetzel.

“I don’t think so. Ghosts don’t fly like that… . It’s too long and frail for a gargoyle… . It’s probably a black angel.”

“And what’s a black angel?”

“If I’m right, it’s the thing we just saw.”

Hetzel rose to his feet. “Hunger is confusing both of us. I suggest that we have our dinner.”

Within the ruins of the central tower, six iron legs supported a stone disk forty feet in diameter—the adjunct to some ancient Gomaz rite. At the center a post of twisted black iron rose twelve feet, to fracture into several black iron branches tipped with small clusters of yellow flames—luminous fruits on a grotesque tree. Hetzel and Janika mounted iron steps; a steward in green-and-black livery conducted them to a table spread with white linen, laid with silver and crystal.

Hetzel looked up to see open sky, with wan moonlight slanting in against the northern wall. “And in bad weather, what then?”

“In the rainy season we send people south to the Andantinai Desert, where they can see the volcanoes and carrier kites and the Great Cairn. Vv. Byrrhis has thought of everything.”

“Vv. Byrrhis is a very resourceful man, and no doubt very stimulating to work with.”

Janika laughed. “He wanted to take me out to Golgath Inn on the Plain of Skulls, but I thought better of it, and he hasn’t been stimulating since. If he knew I were here with you, he’d be furious. Or so I suppose. Even on so innocent an occasion.”

Vv. Byrrhis’ emotional problems seemed remote and inconsequential. “Whom does he think you’re here with?”

“He didn’t ask. I didn’t specify.”

The steward served a salad of native herbs, which Hetzel found pleasantly tart; a ragout of ingredients beyond conjecture; thin cakes of crisp bread; two flasks of imported Zenc wine, the first yellow, the second dark amber swimming with an oily violet luster.

Janika performed the conventional Zenc wine ceremony, pouring half a goblet of dark, wiping away the luster with a square of soft fabric, and immediately filling the goblet with yellow.

“Except for the wine, everything is Maz produce,” Janika said. “When I first arrived, I thought everything tasted of moss and hardly ate anything; now I’m much more tolerant. But I still think of Varsilla sea bakes and pepper pots and yams stuffed with mulberries… Let’s take our dessert out on the terrace and look for ghosts.”

The dessert, a pale-green sherbet, was served with goblets of a pungent hot brew steeped from the bark of a desert shrub. For an hour they stood on the terrace over the plain. They heard far wistful calls and soft secret hooting, but saw no ghosts. Janika presently went off to bed. Hetzel drank another cup of tea, and once more considered the translator tape.

A most complicated situation, he reflected, with the parts not merely contradictory but apparently unrelated. High stakes were obviously involved; no one would go to such lengths to motivate Gidion Dirby for trivial reasons. And how strange that Casimir Wuldfache, whom he had traced to Twisselbane on Tamar for Madame X, should now play a role in the Dirby-Istagam affair. Coincidence? Hetzel gave his head a dubious shake. The unmistakable reek of danger hung in the air; persons who had evolved such elaborate schemes would hardly balk at a life or two; perhaps they had already killed a Liss, an Olefract, and two Ubaikh Gomaz. Double vigilance was necessary; he must guard Janika as well as himself.

During the night Hetzel was aroused by the muted whine of an energy converter. He went to the window and looked out through the night. Across the sky, dim in the light of the low green moon, drifted the shape of a receding air car. Odd, thought Hetzel. Odd indeed.

* * * *

In the pale light of morning, Hetzel and Janika breakfasted on the terrace. Janika seemed wan and thoughtful, and Hetzel wondered at her somber face. He asked, “Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough.”

“You seem very pensive this morning.”

“I don’t want to go back to Dogtown and the tourist agency.”

“We’ve got to go back to Dogtown,” said Hetzel. “But you don’t have to go back to the tourist agency.”

“I signed a six-month contract. I’d lose half of what I’ve got coming if I quit now.”

Hetzel sipped his tea. “Since you don’t like Dogtown, where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Varsilla?”

“Oh … sooner or later. But not just now. I don’t know what I want to do. I guess I’m just in a bad mood.”

Hetzel thought a few moments. “Vv. Byrrhis might let you break the contract.”

“I don’t think so. He’s made jocular remarks that weren’t really funny. But maybe I’ll quit anyway.”

“Vv. Byrrhis might be more cooperative than you expect. He’d get no benefit from a sulky or apathetic receptionist. In the second place … But why anticipate events?”

Janika took Hetzel’s hand and squeezed it. “I feel more cheerful already.”

Hetzel settled the account. Janika made a tentative effort to pay half of the bill, which Hetzel refused to allow, citing the generosity of his client, Sir Ivon Hacaway. They went out to the landing stage and climbed into the Hemus Cloudhopper. “Good-bye, Black Cliff Inn,” said Hetzel. He looked at Janika. “Why the long face?”

“I don’t like to say good-bye to anything.”

“You’re as sentimental as Gidion Dirby,” said Hetzel. He took the air car aloft. “Now to Axistil by way of Kzyk castle. If we’re lucky, we’ll catch a glimpse of Istagam.”

Janika showed no enthusiasm for the detour. “There won’t be much to see from the air, and it’s worth our lives to land.”

“We won’t take chances, especially since a visit to the Triskelion will probably clear things up.”

“Oh? What will you find there?”

“The agenda, or the calendar, whatever it’s called, of the Triarchs. I want to learn how long ago the Ubaikh scheduled their visit.”

“That doesn’t seem too important.”

“There you’re wrong. It’s the critical element in the entire case, or so I believe.” Hetzel examined the chart. “We fly north across the Ubaikh domain, over the Shimkish Mountains, and down across this … what is it called? The Steppe of Long Bones?”

“Because of a great battle a thousand years ago. The Ubaikh, the Kzyk, and the Aqzh fought the Hissau. It was a ‘Hate’ war, because the Hissau are nomads and pariahs who waylay bantlings of other septs while they’re trying to reach their home castles after being born. … If burrowing out of a corpse could be called ‘birth.’”

“How do the bantlings find their way home?”

“Telepathy. Only about a third survive the trip.”

“It seems a harsh system,” Hetzel reflected. “And the Gomaz would seem cruel and harsh, at least in human terms.”

“Because we’re not fused telepathically into a single entity.”

“Exactly. They probably consider us strange and cruel too, for reasons equally irrational… . There’s the Ubaikh castle, over to the west.”

Janika looked through the binoculars. “Troops are leaving the castle. They’re marching off somewhere—perhaps against the Kzyks. Or the Kaikash, or the Aqzh.”

The Ubaikh castle disappeared astern; ahead loomed the Shimkish Mountains—black shards above a tumble of pale-green and brown velvet. Beyond lay a plain of featureless gray-blue murk—the Steppe of Long Bones, which slowly expanded to fill half the horizon. … A sound from the engines attracted Hetzel’s attention. The pulsors had become audible, whirring at the highest level of audibility, then gradually sighing down the scale. Hetzel stared in consternation at the energy gauge.

Janika noticed his expression. “What’s the trouble?”

“No more energy. The batteries are dead.”

“But the gauge shows half a charge!”

“Either it’s broken or somebody disconnected the conduit and then killed the batteries. In either case, we’re going down.”

“But we’re miles away from anywhere!”

“We’ve got the radio.” Hetzel manipulated the dial. “We don’t seem to have a radio, after all.”

“But what could have happened? These cars are supposed to be carefully serviced!”

Hetzel recalled the air car he had glimpsed the night before. “Someone has decided that we’ve lived long enough. He left us just enough charge to get well away from the inn.”

The air car floated down upon the wind-scoured pebbles of the Steppe of Long Bones. The two sat in silence. Hetzel studied the chart. “We’re about here. Ubaikh castle is forty miles across the mountains. Kzyk castle is sixty miles northwest. Our best chance would seem to be the Ubaikh transport station on the other side of the mountains. The mountains are harder, but we should find water. There’s no water on the steppe.”

Janika chewed her lip. “The radio can’t be fixed?”

Hetzel removed the case. One glance at the broken plates was enough. “The radio is done. If you like, you can stay with the car while I go for help. It might be easier for you.”

“I’d rather come with you.”

“I’d rather you did too.” Hetzel scowled down at the chart. “If we had flown south from Black Cliff Inn, back toward Axistil, we’d have come down in the middle of the Kykh-Kych Swamp, with no chance whatever.”

“We don’t have much chance out here.”

“Forty miles isn’t all that bad—two or three days’ hike, depending upon the terrain. What kind of wild beasts might we find?”

Janika looked around the sky. “Gargoyles live in the mountains. They prey on baby Gomaz, but if they’re hungry, they’ll attack anything. At night the lalu come out. Last night you could hear them out on the plain. And we might see ixxen—the white foxes of Maz. They’re blind, but they run in packs of two or three hundred. They’re dreadful creatures; they capture baby Gomaz and raise them to be ixxen, so sometimes you’ll look out on the plain and see naked Gomaz running on all fours, and they’re the eyes for the pack until the pack decides to tear them apart. If we meet any Gomaz, they could consider us field prey and kill us.”

Hetzel rummaged through the various storage compartments in hopes of locating a spare power cell, but vainly; he found nothing. Descending to the ground, he searched the horizons. Solitude everywhere. He checked the charts once more, then pointed toward the mountains. “There’s a pass directly under that double-pronged peak. From there we should see a ridge that runs a few miles south of the Ubaikh castle. We won’t get lost. With luck we’ll make forty miles in two days, provided we’re not killed; I’m carrying two pistols, a knife, and ten grenades. We’ve got a good chance for survival. I’ll bring the translator in case we encounter any stray Gomaz. Since there’s no point in delay, we might as well get started. If you’ve got spare boots, you’d better bring them. Also your cloak.”

“I’m ready.”

They set out to the south, across a spongy turf of black lichen. Puffs of dark dust rose behind them; their footprints were clearly defined.

“Ixxen will follow if they come on the tracks. It’s said that they sense the warmth even after days.”

Hetzel took her hand; her fingers closed on his. “I’m certain that we’ll reach Axistil safely, and you can be sure that the folk on Varsilla would marvel to see you now—tramping across the Steppe of Long Bones in company with a vagabond like myself.”

“I don’t think I’m fated to die just yet… . Who would do such a thing to us?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“No. Gidion Dirby? Unlikely. The Ubaikh? He would never think of such an exploit, and he knows nothing of air cars.”

“What of Vv. Byrrhis?”

Janika’s mouth fell open. “Why should he bear us malice? Because of me?”

“Perhaps.”

“I can’t believe it. And never forget, the air car belongs to the tourist agency, which is to say, Vv. Byrrhis, and he loves his SLU.”

“In due course all will be made known. Meanwhile, if you see anything edible, by all means point it out.”

“I’m hardly an authority on such things. I’ve heard that just about everything is poisonous.”

“We can travel two days, or three or four, if necessary, without food.”

Janika said nothing. They walked on in silence. Hetzel reflected that all his residual oddments of suspicion in regard to the girl might be dismissed; she would hardly subject herself to hardship of such magnitude. On the other hand, if she were the accomplice of Vv. Byrrhis, he might well elect to rid himself of her as well as Hetzel.

The sun rose toward the zenith; by insensible degrees the Shimkish peaks and ridges came to dominate the sky. Meanwhile, terrain grew ever more difficult: from pebbles and sand and fields of black lichen, to low slopes grown with prickle bush and black waxweed, and the outlying spurs of the foothills.

Three hours of climbing brought them to the crest of a ridge, where they rested and looked back the way they had come. Janika leaned against Hetzel; he put his arm around her. “Are you tired?”

“It’s something I’ve decided not to think about.”

“Very sensible. We’ve come a good distance.” He looked through the binoculars northward over the steppe. “I can’t see the air car anymore.”

Janika pointed off across the distance. “Look over there. Something is moving; I can’t make out what it is.”

“Gomaz—marching in a column with four wagons. They’re heading in our general direction, but to the west.”

“They’d be Kzyks,” said Janika. “Out patrolling, or maybe off to raid the Ubaikh, or one of the septs west of the Ubaikh; I forget what they call themselves. How many do you see?”

“Too many to count. Several hundred, at a guess… . We’d better get moving.”

For a period the way was easy, up the ridge, then across a narrow plateau. Beyond rose the main bulk of the Shimkish Mountains, with the landmark crag prominent.

At a freshet of water they drank, then continued to climb, now resting frequently.

“It’ll be easier coming down the other side,” said Hetzel, “and a lot faster.”

“If we ever reach the top. I’m starting to worry about the next ten steps.”

“We’d better go on before our muscles stiffen. Like you, I’m not accustomed to this mountain climbing.”

* * * *

The sun moved around the sky. Two hours before sunset, Hetzel and Janika toiled up from a vine-choked ravine and out on an upland meadow, watered by a small stream. Gasping, sweating, smarting from scratches, stings, and bites, they sank down upon a flat rock. A sward of small heart-shaped leaves carpeted the meadow. A hundred yards east stood a forest of growths that for the most part Hetzel could not name: a few bloodwoods, with trunks dark red, and clotted black foliage; purple tree ferns; clumps of giant galangal reeds. A quarter-mile west stood an even denser forest of bloodwoods. Certain areas of the meadow had been trampled, and an odd reek hung in the air—an odor musky and foul, which Hetzel associated with organic decay, although nothing dead was immediately visible.

From time to time on their way up the mountainside they had glimpsed wild creatures: bounding black weasels, all eyes, hair, and fangs; a long, low creature like a headless armadillo, creeping on a hundred short legs; white grasshopperlike rodents, with heads uncomfortably similar to the crested white skulls of the Gomaz. A torpid reptile twenty feet long had watched them pass with an uncanny semblance of intelligence. In the ravine they had disturbed a shoal of flying snakes—pale, fragile creatures sliding through the air on long lateral frills. They had seen neither ixxen nor bantlings, and nothing but thorns and insects had caused them discomfort. Hetzel now noticed a dozen square-winged shapes wheeling through the air, with heads drooping on long muscular necks—gargoyles. They had glided down from a high crag, to swoop and circle a hundred feet above the eastward forest. Most unpleasant creatures, thought Hetzel. Their flight, so he noted, seemed to be bringing them closer to the meadow.

Hetzel now became aware of a strange strident sound, shrilling up and down, in and out of audibility, to a complex cadence that Hetzel could not quite grasp. He knew at once what the sound portended.

“Gomaz!” whispered Janika. “They’re coming toward us!”

Hetzel leaped to his feet; he looked this way and that for a covert. The ravine from which they had only just emerged would serve; more appealing was a tooth of rock a few yards north, a little crag of rotten basalt, luxuriantly grown over with iron plant He took Janika’s hand; they scrambled up the crag and threw themselves flat on the crest under the massive black leaves.

At the same instant, the Gomaz emerged from the east forest—a column four abreast, marching to a skew-legged goose step. At the east bank of the stream the Gomaz halted; the ululating whine of their song diminished into inaudibility. They broke ranks and went to wade in the stream.

Janika whispered in Hetzel’s ear, “They’re Ubaikh—a war party.”

Hetzel peered down at the Gomaz. “How do you know they’re Ubaikh?”

“By the helmets. Look! See that one standing off to the side? Isn’t he the one who just returned from Axistil?”

“I don’t know. They all look alike to me.”

“He’s the same one. He’s still wearing that iron collar and carrying a steel sword.”

The Gomaz climbed from the water and reformed ranks, but made no move to proceed. Overhead soared the gargoyles, long necks bent low.

Hetzel pointed to the forest of bloodwoods at the western end of the meadow. “More gargoyles!”

A second band of Gomaz marched into view, singing their own wavering, whining polyphony, followed by a train of four wagons. “The Kzyk,” Janika whispered. “The same band we saw this morning!”

The Kzyk marched forward as if the Ubaikh were invisible. At the edge of the stream they broke ranks, as the Ubaikh had done, and waded into the water. The Ubaikh stood rigid and motionless, and presently the Kzyk returned to the west bank of the stream and reformed ranks; they too stood stiff and stern.

Three minutes passed, during which, so far as Hetzel could see, neither Ubaikh nor Kzyk twitched a muscle. Then from the Kzyk ranks a warrior stepped forth. He paced up and down along the west bank of the stream with an odd strutting motion, raising high a leg, extending and placing it upon the ground with exaggerated delicacy.

From the Ubaikh ranks came a warrior, who strutted in similar fashion along the east bank of the stream.

Three more Kzyk came forth, to perform a set of bizarre postures, of a significance totally incomprehensible to Hetzel. Three Ubaikh performed in similar postures on the east bank. “It must be a kind of war dance,” Hetzel whispered.

“War dance or love dance.”

On each side of the stream, while the white sequin of sun sank down the darkening green sky and the wind sighed through the bloodwood trees, the Gomaz warriors strutted and postured, swayed, dipped, and jerked. They began to sing—at first a whisper, then a fluting louder and more intense, then a throbbing wail, which sent chills up and down Hetzel’s skin. Janika shuddered and closed her eyes and pressed close against Hetzel.

The song vibrated up and out of audibility, then stopped short. The silence creaked with tension. The striders and dancers wheeled quietly back to their ranks.

The engagement began. Warriors leaped the stream, their jaws clattering together, to confront an opponent. Each feinted, ducked, dodged, attempting to grip his adversary on the neck, with the mandibles now protruding from his jaw sockets.

Hetzel turned away his eyes; the spectacle was awful and wonderful; screams of passionate woe, wails of exaltation, tore at his brain. Janika lay shuddering; he put his arm around her and kissed her face, then drew away aghast; had he been swept away on a telepathic torrent? He lay stiff, clenching his mind against the tides of murderous erotic fervor.

Victors began to appear—those who had gripped their opponents’ necks, either to cut a nerve or inject a hormone, for suddenly the defeated warrior became submissive, while the victor implanted its spawn into the victim’s thorax, then ate the nubbin at the back of the limp creature’s throat.

The battle ended; from the meadow came a new sound, half-moan, half-sigh. Of the original combatants, half remained alive. Originally there had been more Kzyk than Ubaikh, as was now the case, but the Kzyk showed no disposition to attack the survivors, who included—so Hetzel was pleased to see—the chieftain who had witnessed the assassinations at the Triskelion. Overhead, the gargoyles circled, then one by one wheeled off and flapped away to the crags. “When the war is fought for hate,” said Janika, “there are no survivors among the losers, and the gargoyles carry off the corpses. But the Ubaikh and the Kzyk will leave guards until the infants break out into the air.” She looked at Hetzel in consternation. “What about us? How will we get away?”

“If necessary, I have my gun,” said Hetzel. “We’ll have to spend the night up here. There’s probably no better place, in any event.”

A moment or two went by. Janika looked sidewise toward Hetzel. “A little while ago you kissed me.”

“So I did.”

“Then you stopped.”

“I was afraid that the Gomaz telepathy was getting to me. It didn’t seem dignified. There’s no telepathy now, of course.” Hetzel kissed her again.

“I’m tired and dirty and miserable,” said Janika. “I undoubtedly look awful.”

“The formality in our relationship seems to be breaking down,” said Hetzel. “What would they say in Varsilla if they could see you now?”

“I can’t imagine. … I don’t want to imagine…

* * * *

CHAPTER 11

The night was long and dreary. Hetzel and Janika, wrapped in their cloaks, slept the sleep of exhaustion. At dawn they awoke cramped and sore and chilled. Hetzel peered out over the meadow. The Ubaikh huddled east of the stream; the Kzyk had formed a similar group to the west. With the coming of daylight, they brought forward their wagons and unloaded caldrons of food. The Ubaikh crossed the stream, and ate on even terms with the Kzyks, then returned to where they had passed the night. For a few minutes they wandered the meadow, examining the corpses of the previous evening’s battle; then they began a colloquy, half telepathic, half through the medium of whistles and trills. The Ubaikh chieftain seemed to present a fervent exhortation. The Kzyks also deliberated together, then began to whistle derisively at the Ubaikh, who became stiff and haughty. The chieftain began strutting and stalking, but to a quicker pulse than on the evening previously. No longer did the warriors seem to preen; they moved curtly; their gestures were harsh and emphatic. The singing started—staccato phrases, shrill and domineering. Down from the crags came the gargoyles, to soar with drooping necks, peering intently at the events below.

The singing halted; the warriors formed ranks as before. Hetzel suddenly jerked to his feet.

“They’ll see you!” said Janika.

“I can’t let that Ubaikh get killed. He’s the only dependable witness. Also, I like the look of those wagons. Come on down; hurry, before they start to fight.”

They scrambled down the back side of the crag. Hetzel stepped out upon the meadow. “Halt!” He spoke into the translator, with the volume at full. “The battle must cease. Break your ranks. Obey me, because I have weapons to kill all here and leave all corpses for the gargoyles.” Hetzel raised his hand to the sky; one, two, three gargoyles exploded in gouts of purple flame and black smoke. A few charred fragments fell to the ground.

Hetzel pointed to the Ubaikh chieftain. “You must come with me. I will tolerate no more of your unrealistic arrogance. We will ride in the Kzyk wagons. They will take us to the Kzyk transport depot. Kzyk, prepare to march. Ubaikh, disperse; return to your castle. But both sides may leave guards to protect the bantlings.” Hetzel turned and signaled to Janika. “Come.”

The Gomaz had stood rigid as stone statues. Hetzel pointed to the chief. “You must come with me. Cross the stream and stand by the wagons.”

The Ubaikh chieftain made a set of shrill, furious sounds, which the translator was unable to paraphrase. Hetzel took a step forward. “I am impatient. Ubaikh, disperse! Return to your castle! And you” —he pointed to the Ubaikh chieftain—”cross the stream!”

The air was full of resentful whistles. A Kzyk chieftain emitted an angry scream. The translator tape printed: “Who are you to give such orders?”

“I am a Gaean overlord! I have come to investigate the problems of the Gomaz. I need this Ubaikh chieftain as my witness; I cannot allow his death at this time.”

“I would not have been killed,” declared the chieftain. “I intended to slaughter two dozen Kzyk and void upon their carcasses.”

“You must postpone this exploit,” said Hetzel. “To the wagons; smartly, now!”

The Ubaikh and the Kzyk stared at each other, indecisive and crestfallen. Hetzel said, “Who does not wish to obey me? Let him step forward!”

Neither Ubaikh nor Kzyk moved. Hetzel pointed his gun and destroyed two corpses—a Ubaikh and a Kzyk. A wail of awe and horror arose from the Gomaz. “To the wagons,” said Hetzel.

The Ubaikh chieftain trudged ungraciously to the Kzyk wagon. The remaining Ubaikh moved across the meadow and stood in a restless group. The Kzyk, without hesitation, formed ranks and marched westward. Hetzel, Janika, and the Ubaikh chieftain climbed upon a wagon, which lurched off after the warriors. “This is somewhat better than walking,” said Hetzel.

“I agree,” said Janika.

The wagon rolled down from the heights, with the Ubaikh crouched in surly silence. Suddenly it hissed forth a set of emphatic polysyllables. Hetzel looked at the translator printout, which read: “Since alien creatures came to Maz, events go topsy-turvy. In the old days, conditions were better.”

“Events still go well enough for the Gomaz,” said Hetzel. “If they had not gone forth on a mission of conquest, they would not now be subject to control.”

“Easy for you to say,” was the response. “We conquer because this is our style of life. We do as we must.”

“We defend ourselves for the same reason. You can be thankful that we have not destroyed the Gomaz race, as the Liss would prefer. The Gaeans are not callous murderers; hence, I ask your aid in fixing guilt upon the Triskelion assassin.”

“It is a trivial matter.”

“Who, then, was the assassin.”

“A Gaean.”

“But which Gaean?”

“I do not know.”

“Then how do you know it’s a Gaean?”

“I can show the fact, and then my duty to you is complete; no more need be said.”

The Kzyk warriors uttered sudden screams of excitement. Hetzel stood up in the wagon, but saw only the Shimkish slopes and the stony gray steppe. The Kzyk goaded the draft worms; the wagons rumbled and bounded along the trail, the worms humping and collapsing; humping, collapsing; humping, collapsing.

Hetzel spoke a question into the translator: “Why the sudden excitement?”

“They have now discovered the Ubaikh plot.”

“What plot?”

“Last night we feinted a raid in force over the Shimkish, to entice their most”—here the translator underlined the word “virile” in red— “away from the castle, while our greatest forces raided the traitors’ castle. The Kzyk have now divined the plan. They hurry to defend their castle; this is a Class III war, to the extinction.”

The worms became tired and slackened their pace; the Kzyk warriors loped ahead, kicking up puffs of dust behind their thrusting feet, and presently were lost to view among the moss hummocks, which here gave variety to the bleak landscape.

At noon the wagon stopped at an oasis, a pond of muddy water surrounded by a copse of rag trees and a few stunted galangals. A wind blew from the south, flogging the black rag shreds; the galangals snapped and clattered. Hetzel and Janika descended from the wagon and walked down to the pond. The surrounding mud showed hundreds of small spiked footprints, where ixxen had swarmed the previous evening.

Hetzel and Janika fastidiously skirted the pond, both thirsty but loath to drink, for the pond exhaled a sweet-foul odor. The Kzyk teamsters showed no restraint; they plunged into the water, wallowed, soaked, and drank without compunction, and further soiled the water. They were joined by the Ubaikh chieftain. Hetzel looked at Janika. “How thirsty are you?”

“Not that thirsty.”

“I guess I’m not either.”

The wagons proceeded into the northeast. The Shimkish Mountains were gone; the steppe extended bare and featureless in all directions until it joined the sky.

Hetzel went to confer with the Kzyk teamster. “Where is the transport depot that served the Kzyk?”

“It is near the castle.”

“Take us to the transport depot.”

“Your command is understood.”

“Do you travel by night?”

“Naturally; but slowly. The worms will wish to rest.”

“How long before we arrive?”

“Midmorning tomorrow. I fear that we shall miss the fighting.”

“There will, no doubt, be another occasion.”

“So I would presume.”

Hetzel returned to Janika. “We spend tonight in the wagon. No doubt you’re hungry.”

“When I think of what there is to eat—not too hungry.”

“When we return to Axistil, we will dine at the Beyranion, and order all the things you like the best.”

“That will be nice.”

Hetzel appraised the Ubaikh, speculating whether he might choose to attack during the darkness in the hope of possessing himself of Hetzel’s weapons. From the human standpoint, this would seem a strong possibility, but such an act might be alien to the Gomaz psychology. In any event, wariness was certainly warranted.

* * * *

Shortly before sunset, the wagon arrived at another water hole, and this time Hetzel and Janika abandoned all compunction and drank.

The sun sank; the sky displayed a few muted colors—lilac and apple green, a band of purple; then came the long dim dusk, then night. Hetzel drew his gun and held it pointed at the Ubaikh, who never so much as shifted his position. Janika dozed, then slept until moonrise, when she awoke with a jerk, perplexed to find herself in a wagon rolling across the Steppe of Long Bones. For an hour she kept watch while Hetzel slept, and when the wagons halted, he awoke. Something huge and manlike stood off in the moonlight, a being twenty feet high with the bony white head and carapace of a Gomaz. It uttered a chattering whinny, then lumbered off to the south. “An ogre!” whispered Janika. “I’ve heard about them; I never thought I’d see one. They’re supposed to be ferocious.”

The wagons continued once more. The great green moon lifted into the sky, making the steppe a place of eerie beauty. Hetzel dozed again; he awoke to find Janika asleep, her head in his lap, and the Ubaikh as before.

Nighttime waned; a streak of submarine light appeared in the east; the sun appeared, rising behind a range of distant hills.

The Kzyk set the worms into a more rapid motion; the wagons rumbled across the steppe and presently entered an area cultivated with pod plants and fruit bushes. The wagons turned upon a gravel road, which slanted up the hillside. At the crest, the Kzyk castle came into view—a magnificent quatrefoil keep surrounded by a ring of slender spires, joined to the keep by high walkways. The Ubaikh attack had already been launched; the areas to the south and west of the castle seethed with activity.

In the middle distance, four tall gantries rose indistinct in the murk. Hetzel was unable to divine their purpose. Siege machines? They seemed too frail, too tall, too top-heavy for any such use. Between the gantries and the castle, a mass of warriors eddied and swirled in movement too complex for any immediate comprehension.

At the foot of the slope stood the transport station, a structure identical to that beside the Ubaikh castle.

The wagons rolled down the hill, suddenly silent and easy on the heavy lichenlike turf. The Kzyk teamsters paid no heed to the Ubaikh army, nor did the Ubaikh chieftain; they exercised to the full that Gomaz attribute transliterated as kxis’sh—a lordly and contemptuous disregard for circumstances below one’s dignity to notice.

Hetzel began to apprehend the evolutions of the army, as whole platoons performed the strutting display of ostentatious challenge and aggressive sexuality that Hetzel had observed on the Shimkish meadow. Every element of the army, in turn, so displayed itself, then returned to the rear. Meanwhile, the great wooden gantries moved closer to Kzyk castle, sliding on timber rollers.

The wagon halted by the transport station; Hetzel, Janika, and the Ubaikh chieftain alighted. The wagons proceeded toward the Kzyk castle, passing within fifty yards of the posturing Ubaikh warriors. Each party ignored the others.

The front of the depot displayed a placard printed in those red-and-black ideograms developed by men to communicate with the Gomaz. Janika puzzled out the significance of the marks. “We’re in luck—I think. The carrier arrives at middle afternoon on alternate days, and unless I’ve miscalculated, today is the day. What time is it now?”

“Just about noon.”

“I feel as if we’ve been gone months. I won’t say that I’ve regretted this adventure, but I’ll be glad to see civilization again. I’ll enjoy a bath.”

“I’ll enjoy arriving alive,” said Hetzel. “To the dismay of our enemies.”

“Enemies?”

“There must be at least two, one of whom is almost certainly Vv. Byrrhis, or—as Gidion Dirby knew him—Banghart. Then, there is Casimir Wuldfache.”

“Yes. This mysterious Casimir Wuldfache. Who is he?”

“He is a component of one of the strangest coincidences in human history. With trillions upon trillions of persons across the Gaean Reach, why should Casimir Wuldfache appear in two successive cases? I will enjoy talking to him… . Another matter occurs to me. If the Ubaikh destroy the Kzyk and their castle, then Istagam will also be destroyed—whereupon my responsibilities on Maz are dissolved.”

“And then you’d be leaving? With poor Dirby in the Exhibitory?”

“Naturally, that matter would have to be clarified. … I can’t understand the purpose of those wooden towers. They must be offensive machines of some sort.”

The great gantries were brought forward and ranged in a half-circle fifty yards from the Kzyk castle, and it could now be seen that they stood as tall as or taller than the outer towers. The strutting bands of Ubaikh formed themselves into rigid formations. On the castle parapets, the Kzyk stood quiet.

Janika hunched her shoulders. “I don’t think I’m telepathic … but something is happening that I can almost feel, or hear… . It’s as if they’re singing, or reciting some terrible ode.”

“There go the Ubaikh up the towers.”

“They’re the flyers. On the top platform they’ll strap on their wings. The Kzyk are waiting.”

The Kzyk flew first. Over the parapets, launched by some invisible device, came a dark shape soaring on wings of black membrane. The flyer convulsed his legs, kicked; the wings twisted and flapped; the flyer swung in an arc, to gain altitude where the west wind was deflected upward by the castle wall and a curving ramp below.

Another Kzyk flyer darted into the sky, and another and another; seven flyers soared in the air current hurled aloft by the ramp.

One of these now laid back his wings and darted down upon a Ubaikh captain. From the Ubaikh ranks came a rising scream. The captain swung around, apprised himself of his peril. He seized a lance, butted it into the soil, and pointed it toward the Kzyk, who wheeled away and soared off into the upflow of air and presently regained his altitude.

The Ubaikh flyers launched themselves from their towers and entered the updraft; in the air over the parapets occurred a dozen small battles, each flyer hacking at the body or the head of his adversary, but never at the vulnerable wings. Occasionally a pair grappled, tearing and stabbing at each other, to topple slowly head-over-heels toward the ground in a fluttering, flapping confusion of arms, legs, and wings, disengaging at the last possible instant, and sometimes not at all.

Ubaikh flyers landed upon the parapets to do battle with the Kzyk defenders; others settled upon the buttresses joining the outer towers to the keep, where the Kzyk struggled to thrust them off.

For an hour the air battle raged; the Kzyk defenders repelling the Ubaikh attackers, and the sward became littered with corpses. The wind was rising; the flyers soared and wheeled, rising to great heights, then lunging upon their opponents.

Tattered clouds began to fleet across the sky; in the west a bank of black clouds flared with lightning. The flyers were hurled downwind, toppling head-over-heels, and no more flyers were launched. The Ubaikh pushed the gantries closer to the castle and tilted them to lean upon the buttresses, where they served as great ladders. The Ubaikh warriors clambered up, swarmed across the buttresses, leaped down upon the parapets. From the towers, the Kzyk counterattacked, toppling the gantries to the ground. Battles raged along the parapets, then all the Ubaikh were torn apart, and their corpses thrown to the ground.

From a cloud overhead, a spout of white light struck the Kzyk castle; another, then a third; three smoking holes gaped into the structure, and Kzyk came swarming forth like frantic insects.

Janika gasped. “What terrible lightning!”

Hetzel stared in wonder up at the cloud that had discharged such awesome bolts of energy. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed motion; he looked to where a black air car floated over the crest of the hill. It spat a projectile into the cloud, then darted aside and away.

The cloud flickered to a blast of internal orange fire; down like a dead bird dropped a black hull, twisted and burned. The design was strange to Hetzel. He looked at Janika.

“The Liss patrol boat.”

Within the Liss craft, backup mechanisms took effect; the boat slid out of its fall and swerved off to the west. From its bow came another spout of white dazzle; the air car was outlined in coruscations, and fell behind the hill. The Liss ship limped off to the west. It jerked ahead, stopped short, then turned up its stern and jerked down at great speed, to bury itself into the hillside.

The Ubaikh and Kzyk were now fighting a desperate war, from which all gallantry and punctilio had disappeared. Out from the castle swarmed hundreds of Kzyk, outnumbering the Ubaikh by two to one; the Ubaikh fell back.

“Here comes the transport from Axistil,” said Janika in a faint voice.

The carrier descended from the sky to the landing. A pair of Kzyk disembarked, to examine the combat and the ravaged castle with calm and critical gazes.

Hetzel, Janika, and the Ubaikh chieftain boarded the carrier. Hetzel went to speak to the pilot. The carrier rose from the depot, and at Hetzel’s direction slid low over the hill. The air car lay smoldering on the turf. Hetzel and the pilot jumped to the ground and went to inspect the wreck. Inside the cage of twisted metal could be seen a body: contorted, burned, but still recognizable—a man Hetzel had never seen but knew very well. “So much for Casimir Wuldfache,” said Hetzel. “He died for Istagam.”

* * * *

CHAPTER 12

The carrier flew north along the shore of the Frigid Ocean, then swung southwest, flying through the night, while Hetzel and Janika dozed and the Ubaikh chieftain sat sternly erect. At dawn the carrier arrived at the Axistil depot, at the far corner of the Plaza. Four Gomaz passengers alighted, then the Ubaikh, finally Hetzel and Janika, limping with fatigue. “Civilization,” said Hetzel. “Axistil is the end of nowhere, but right now it looks like home. Are you coming to the Beyranion for breakfast? Your old friend Gidion Dirby will be on hand.”

Janika made a wry grimace. “I don’t want to see Gidion Dirby. Roseland Residential is just yonder. First I’m going to take a hot bath, then I’ll resign from the tourist agency, and then I’m going to bed for the rest of the day. I hope Zaressa hasn’t used all the hot water.”

“Tonight, then, at the Beyranion.”

“Thank you for the wonderful time. And I’ll see you tonight.”

Hetzel watched her until she turned down the Avenue of Lost Souls. The Ubaikh stamped and hissed, a formidable spectacle in his five-pronged cast-iron helmet, black vest studded with iron bosses, and dangling black iron sword. Hetzel spoke into the translator. “Today should see the finish of this unpleasant affair, which will gratify all of us except the assassins.”

The Ubaikh replied; the printout read: “Aliens are overtimorous. They fear death. They lack patriotism.” The word “patriotism” was printed in red and underlined, to indicate approximation. “Why waste so much anguish over a few killings, especially since those expunged were not your own kind?”

“The situation is more complex than you imagine,” said Hetzel. “In any event, your part in this matter will soon be accomplished, and you will be at liberty to return to your castle.”

“The sooner the better. Let us proceed.”

“We must wait an hour or two.”

“Another example of Gaean frivolity! All night we hurtle through the air at great speed in order to arrive at Axistil; now you delay. The Gomaz are direct and precise.”

“Delay is sometimes unavoidable. I will take you to the famous Beyranion Hotel, a lavish castle of the Gaeans, where I intend to honor you with a gift or two.” He set off across the Plaza. The Ubaikh uttered a peevish hiss and strode after him, irons clanking, and so purposefully that Hetzel cringed back in alarm; then, recovering his poise, he turned and led the way to the Beyranion, where, to his relief, no one was yet astir.

Making sounds of reluctance and distaste, the Ubaikh entered Hetzel’s rooms. Gidion Dirby was nowhere to be seen; Hetzel was hardly surprised. Dirby, in his present frame of mind, must be considered unpredictable.

Hetzel motioned to the couch. “Rest upon this piece of furniture. I have decided to offer you several gifts, to compensate for your inconvenience.” He went to his luggage and brought forth a hand lamp and an assault knife with a proteum edge. Hetzel explained the operation of the lamp and gave a warning in regard to the knife: “Take great care! The edge is invisible; it will cut anything it touches. You can slice your iron sword as if it were a withe!”

The Ubaikh uttered sibilant sounds. The printout read: “This is an act of appeasement, which has been noted with approval.”

Gomaz for “thanks,” thought Hetzel. He said, “I now plan to bathe and change my garments. As soon as possible thereafter, we will transact our business.”

“I am impatient to depart without delay.”

“There will be as little delay as possible. Rest yourself. Please do not test the knife upon the furnishings of this room. Do you want to look at a picture book?”

“Negative.”

* * * *

Hetzel, clean and in fresh garments, returned to the sitting room. The Ubaikh apparently had not shifted position. Hetzel asked, “Do you require food or refreshment?”

“Negative.”

Hetzel dropped into a chair. The hot water had worked to soporific effect; his eyelids drooped. He looked at his watch: At least an hour until he could expect to find Sir Estevan at the Triskelion. He spoke into the translator. “Why did the Ubaikh attack the Kzyk in a ‘war of hate’?”

“The Kzyk have allied themselves with the Gaeans. They have agreed to an ignoble collaboration, in return for supplies of ‘man-stuff’—printed in red, to indicate paraphrase of an untranslatable word—”and the Gaeans teach them to construct energy weapons. In five years the Kzyk will roam Maz in overpowering hordes; their bantlings will carry guns and fly like gargoyles and destroy our bantlings; the Kzyk will dominate the world, unless the Ubaikh destroy them now, alone, or in coalition with other loyal septs.”

“And what is ‘man-stuff?”

“I have spoken enough to the Gaean enemy. I will say no more.”

Hetzel sat back in the chair. Where was Gidion Dirby? If the Liss or the Olefract were aware of his identity—and according to Sir Estevan, they knew everything that transpired both at the Triskelion and at the Beyranion Hotel—then Gidion Dirby might well encounter unpleasantness in Dogtown. Or even at the Beyranion itself, which was by no means invulnerable to intrusion, as Hetzel himself could testify. Dirby might have been sleep-gassed and taken away, never to be seen again.

The telephone chimed. Hetzel jerked up from the chair. He touched buttons; Janika looked forth from the screen. Her face was haggard with fatigue and horror. She spoke in a husky voice. “Vv. Byrrhis is dead! There have been thieves!”

“Where are you calling from?”

“I’m at the agency.”

“What are you doing there?”

“I came down to quit my job; I want to leave Axistil. I don’t care about the money, and Vv. Byrrhis is lying dead on the floor.” Her voice rose a quavering octave.

Hetzel thought a moment. “How was he killed?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do you know thieves were responsible?”

“The safe is open; his wallet is on the floor.”

“And there’s no money left?”

“Nothing, so far as I can see. What should I do?”

“I suppose you’d better call the Dogtown marshal. There’s not much else you can do.”

“I don’t want to be involved; I don’t want to answer questions; I just want to run away and leave.”

“The old man in the curio shop undoubtedly saw you arrive, and if you don’t make a report, they’ll think you’re involved. Call the marshal and tell the truth. You have nothing to hide.”

“That’s true. Very well. I wish you were here representing me instead of Gidion Dirby.”

“I’ll finish with Dirby today, and Istagam as well, or so I hope. Then I can devote my full attention to you.”

“Unless I’m in the Dogtown jail.”

“I’ll telephone you as soon as I finish at the Triskelion. If I can’t get you at home or the agency, I’ll try the jail. You’d better call the marshal right now.”

Janika gave a wan assent, and the screen went blank. Hetzel turned around, to see Gidion Dirby coming in through the door. He stopped short, looking in bemusement from Hetzel to the Ubaikh. “Who’s this?” asked Dirby. “A new client?”

Hetzel made no reply. Dirby came farther into the room. Hetzel thought that he seemed flushed and excited, tumescent with some unidentifiable emotion. Pride? Triumph? Hetzel asked sourly, “How much did you take from him?”

Dirby jerked back a bit, as if he had encountered an invisible wall. He attempted carelessness. “From whom?”

“Byrrhis.”

Dirby’s mouth sagged a trifle, then curved into a tight smile. “You mean Banghart.”

“Whatever his name is.”

“Worried about your fee?”

“Not at all.”

“Perhaps you should be worried. You haven’t done much.”

“First of all,” said Hetzel, “I listened to you. Second, I prevented Aeolus Shult from turning you over to Captain Baw. Third, I’ve found a witness to the assassinations.” He nodded toward the Ubaikh. “If you’re innocent, he’ll testify as much. So, once again: how much did you take from Byrrhis, or Banghart?”

“It’s not really your affair,” said Dirby. “Whatever I took, he owes me.

“Two thousand SLU is the receptionist’s salary. A thousand is my fee. The rest of the money, I’m not concerned about.”

Dirby’s face became sullen. “The rest doesn’t amount to very much. What do I get out of all this? Don’t forget, I have a claim too!”

“Need I remind you,” said Hetzel, “that this ‘claim’ is what you hoped to earn from your smuggling activities? And that you’ve just murdered a man to gain control of the money?”

“I murdered no one,” snapped Dirby. “I was walking down the street; I looked into the tourist agency, and there was Banghart, big as life. I went in, and one word led to another. He went for his gun, and I twisted his neck. I won and took the money he was carrying.”

Hetzel waited.

Reluctantly Dirby said, “It was a bit more than five thousand.”

Hetzel waited.

Dirby growled under his breath and brought forth his wallet. He counted out notes, tossed them on the table. “There’s three thousand. Pay off the receptionist; the rest is your fee.”

“Thank you,” said Hetzel. “By now Sir Estevan will be at the Triskelion, and we will undertake to clarify the circumstances of the assassinations.”

Hetzel went to the telephone, punched buttons. The screen became decorated with the flower-petal face of Zaressa Lurling. Hetzel heard Gidion Dirby mutter in amazement.

“Connect me, please, with Sir Estevan.”

Zaressa’s face became professionally blank. “Sir Estevan is occupied; he won’t be able to see you today.”

“Tell him Vv. Hetzel wants to speak to him; tell him that I have urgent information in regard to the recent assassinations.”

“I’m sorry, Vv. Hetzel. Sir Estevan definitely does not wish to be disturbed.”

“Regardless, you must intrude upon his relaxation. He gave me instructions to communicate with him as soon as possible. Tell him that the Ubaikh who witnessed the assassinations is on hand and has agreed to provide information.”

Zaressa’s mouth quavered in uncertainty. “I’m not supposed to bother Sir Estevan; why not discuss the matter later in the day with Captain Baw?”

“Young woman,” said Hetzel, “I am calling at Sir Estevan’s own express request! Connect me at once!”

“I can’t interrupt him now. He’s busy with Captain Baw.”

“You must interrupt him because I’m now on my way to the Triskelion, with Gidion Dirby and the Ubaikh. We will arrive in five minutes, and Sir Estevan is anxious to see us.” Hetzel flicked off the screen and blew out his breath. “I’ve never seen such obduracy! Is she a machine? Does Sir Estevan beat her when she makes a mistake? Is she determined to insulate Sir Estevan from the realities of life? Is she simply stupid?”

“I’ve seen that girl before,” said Gidion Dirby in a thick voice. “Sometimes, when I was a captive, I’d wake up to find a girl crawling around the room on her hands and knees. This was the girl.”

“Really!” said Hetzel. “How can you be sure? The girl wore a domino, I thought you said.”

“I still recognize her.”

Hetzel made a sound of annoyance. “We want fewer complications, not more.”

“It’s not necessarily a complication.”

“Perhaps not. After all, Sir Estevan was filmed in the corridor of his private villa, no doubt by Byrrhis… . Well, let’s get on with our principal business.”

Dirby rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps I’d better wait here until matters are settled. I don’t care to risk Captain Baw.”

“If you’re innocent, you don’t need to worry.”

“Oh, I’m innocent, no fear of that.”

“Then you must come. I want to set up conditions exactly as they were—”

“A reenactment.”

“A reenactment, precisely.”

Dirby shrugged. “Just as you say. If Captain Baw claps me into the Exhibitory, you’ve got to get me out.” He walked toward the door. Hetzel stepped forward, grappled Dirby with one arm, felt in Dirby’s pouch with the other, and withdrew a gun. Dirby wrenched himself free, face contorted. He started to fling himself upon Hetzel; then, seeing Hetzel’s face—the arrogant, down-drooping mouth, the cold gray gaze—and noting the gun held negligently ready, he backed away.

Hetzel said politely, “I merely want to make sure that I, not you, control the situation. Come along, then.”

* * * *

CHAPTER 13

The three walked across the vast gray-silver Plaza. The sun hung halfway up the green sky; the day seemed clearer than usual, and the eccentric architecture of the Triskelion was manifest.

Vvs. Felius and Vv. Kylo stood on duty behind the Gaean desk. Vvs. Felius, observing Gidion Dirby and the Ubaikh, leaned back with bulging eyes and a trembling jaw. Hetzel went directly to Sir Estevan’s office. Vvs. Felius called out indignantly, but Hetzel paid no attention.

Sir Estevan himself stood in the outer office, standing by Zaressa’s desk with his hand on her shoulder. Zaressa’s face was pink and her eyes were wet. Sir Estevan appeared to be consoling her. He looked at Hetzel with unsympathetic eyes. “I can’t quite condone your hectoring of my secretary.”

“She has exaggerated my offense,” said Hetzel. “I did no more than insist upon seeing you. I have here the Ubaikh who witnessed the assassinations, and here is Gidion Dirby, who was also present. Hopefully, we will be able to discover the truth of the situation.”

Sir Estevan seemed uninterested in Hetzel’s remarks. “Quite frankly, I’m bored with the whole matter. So far as I’m concerned, the matter can rest in abeyance.”

Gidion Dirby uttered a caw of savage laughter. “I don’t want to let the matter rest! You accused me and sent your pet porpoise out to arrest me; let’s hear what the witness has to say.”

Sir Estevan gazed at Dirby without expression, then turned to Hetzel. “I have just received news that Vv. Byrrhis has been murdered. What do you know of this?”

“I am an effectuator,” said Hetzel. “If you want me to perform an investigation, I may or may not be able to help you, depending upon the fee. Vv. Dirby hired me to bring the facts of the Triskelion assassinations to light, and this is my single concern. I suggest that you summon Captain Baw. We can then step into the chamber and allow the Ubaikh to indicate the source of the shots.”

Sir Estevan gave a stony shrug. “I don’t care to participate in any such demonstration. The Liss and the Olefract are the aggrieved parties. Perform your demonstrations before them.”

“In that case,” cried Dirby, “why did you send Baw to arrest me?”

“Captain Baw undertook the arrest on his own initiative.”

“As I see the situation,” said Hetzel, “the Liss and the Olefract Triarchs were killed because they were about to hear a complaint against Istagam, which they would have been only too glad to act upon. Given the circumstances of Gidion Dirby’s detention and your unwillingness to investigate this matter, I believe that Gidion Dirby has grounds for legal action. Unless you cooperate now, it will appear that you are attempting to cover up for Istagam, presumably because you are profiting from the operation.”

“Totally false,” said Sir Estevan. “As I remarked to you, Istagam is an altruistic enterprise organized by Vv. Byrrhis. The Gomaz work productively instead of killing each other; they learn the rudiments of civilized knowledge in return. Istagam profits have built the magnificent tourist-agency inns. Neither I nor Vv. Byrrhis have cause for shame.”

Dirby said brassily, “Don’t be too sure of that. Who turned the chamber pot over my head? Do you think I’ve forgotten? Not much! Give me the opportunity, and I’ll do the same for you.”

Sir Estevan gave a snort of chilly humor. “I suggest that you keep a civil tongue in your head. You’re now in the jurisdiction of the Triarchy; I can easily turn you over to the Liss and the Olefract, and you can vent your impudence upon them.”

“You would certainly be exceeding your authority,” said Hetzel. “Either you, as the Gaean Triarch, are aggrieved, or you are not aggrieved. You can’t have it both ways. If you are not aggrieved, you have no right to inconvenience Vv. Dirby.”

“If nothing else,” said Sir Estevan, “the Gaeans have suffered embarrassment and ruinous loss of face. At the minimum, I am justified in believing that Dirby attempted murder upon me.”

“This is sheer speculation.”

“Captain Baw was witness to the circumstance.”

“Suppose, for the sake of argument, that Captain Baw shot the Triarchs himself. He would then be certain to blame the crime upon Gidion Dirby; do you agree?”

“Ridiculous,” said Sir Estevan. “Why should Baw kill the Triarchs?”

“The same question applies to Dirby. Why should he kill the Triarchs?”

“I couldn’t say. Perhaps he is deranged.”

“So you want to arrest a crazy man and turn him over to the Liss and the Olefract?”

Sir Estevan showed signs of boredom. “Criminality is a kind of insanity; criminals are punished under Gaean law; hence, under Gaean law, insane persons suffer punishment. How crazy is Dirby? I have no idea. He looks sane enough now.”

“So does Captain Baw. So do you. No doubt the Ubaikh appears sane.”

“Exactly what are you suggesting?” demanded Sir Estevan.

“I suggest that you look before you leap. Have you spoken to Vv. Dirby; have you heard his account?”

“No; it is really irrelevant. The facts are as they are.”

“Vv. Dirby,” said Hetzel, “be good enough to repeat to Sir Estevan what you told me.”

Dirby gave his head a mulish shake. “Let him put me under arrest; I’ll tell my tale in court, and let him squirm.”

“If you don’t tell him,” said Hetzel, “I will.”

“Do as you like; it’s the same to me.”

Hetzel said, “As accurately as I can recall, these are the circumstances.” He presented a brief outline of Dirby’s experiences. “It is clear that Vv. Dirby is a victim rather than a criminal. The question becomes: who in actual fact is the assassin? We can resolve the mystery in ten minutes, and it seems important to do so.”

“Important to whom?” inquired Sir Estevan in a cool voice. “As I say, the grievance is not mine.”

“The grievance is mine!” snarled Dirby. “For all I know, you’re the murderer yourself. I’ll get the Gaean marshal in and turn all the facts over to him!”

Sir Estevan threw up his arms in a fatalistic gesture. “Very well, let’s make an end to it.” He stepped into the lobby and signaled Captain Baw, who stood in glowering colloquy with Vvs. Felius. All marched into the Chamber of Triarchs. Sir Estevan went to the chair of the Gaean Triarch. “Captain Baw, please dispose these people as before.”

“Very well. The Ubaikh stood here. Over here … come stand here, there’s a good lad! I’d just come in through the side door with Dirby. He was about here, and I’d started across the room. I was about here when I heard the sound of shots.” He addressed Sir Estevan. “Would this accord with your recollection, sir?”

“Yes.” Sir Estevan seemed limp and dispirited. “Close enough.”

“Close enough,” said Dirby.

Hetzel spoke to the Ubaikh through the translator. “This is approximately the state of affairs when the shots were fired. Do you agree?”

The printout read: “I agree.”

“Very well, then—who fired the shots?”

Hetzel read the printout. “He says he doesn’t know.”

“‘He doesn’t know’! I thought you said that he would testify!”

Hetzel spoke to the Ubaikh. “Explain your remark, if you will. You heard the shots; you saw where they came from—but you can’t specify the individual who fired them?”

“The shots came from here.” The Ubaikh indicated the door leading into Sir Estevan’s private office. “The door opened; the shots were fired; the door was shut. I have told you what I know, and I will now return to the Ubaikh domain.” He stalked from the chamber.

Dirby uttered a shout of vindictive glee. He took a step toward Captain Baw, but Hetzel interposed himself. “You are now exculpated,” said Hetzel. “You are free to come and go. Why not return to Thrope and rest for a period? You have had a harrowing experience.”

Dirby grinned. “Quite correct, and no doubt I’ll do just that.” He darted a final glance toward Sir Estevan, then turned on his heel and left the chamber.

“And now—from sheer curiosity—who was in your office?”

“When I left, the office was empty.”

“In that case, Zaressa Lurling would seem to be the guilty individual.”

“Impossible! Can you imagine her aiming and firing a gun?”

Hetzel shrugged. “Stranger things have happened. You had no inkling of this?”

Sir Estevan made no response. He looked toward his office. “I suppose now we must pursue the matter to its bitter limit.” He went to the door, thrust it aside. Zaressa Lurling was nowhere to be seen. Vvs. Felius sat at the reception desk. “Zaressa became ill,” said Vvs. Felius. “She asked me to take her place and went home.”

Sir Estevan stood stiff and rigid. Hetzel asked, “Vvs. Felius, do you recall the events just prior to the assassination?”

“I certainly do.”

“Did Vv. Byrrhis, or anyone else, go into Sir Estevan’s office?”

“Absolutely not. No one came but yourself and that Dirby fellow.”

“Thank you. I don’t think you need remain any longer.”

Vvs. Felius gave Hetzel a glare and looked at Sir Estevan. “Do you need me, Sir Estevan?”

“No, thank you, Vvs. Felius. You may go.”

Vvs. Felius haughtily left the room. Sir Estevan sat heavily down in a chair.

“So, then … Zaressa either fired the shots, or else she admitted the assassin through your private entrance. As to her motives we can only speculate. In any event, she shares the guilt of the murderer, either Wuldfache or Byrrhis. His identity is irrelevant; both are dead. I suspect Wuldfache, and I assume that Zaressa was enamored of him.”

“Yes,” groaned Sir Estevan. “No doubt. … I admit that I suspected her guilt … and I did not care to learn the truth.”

“You apparently take a more than casual interest in Zaressa Lurling.”

“This is nothing that concerns you.”

“As you say, the matter is irrelevant. Byrrhis was the architect of the affair. He understood the enormous profits latent in Istagam, even over a relatively short period. He also knew that opposition was sure to materialize from you, from the Liss and Olefract Triarchs, or from all three. He prepared to neutralize the opposition, and brought Dirby to Maz. In order for Dirby to appear a convincing assassin, he must be supplied with motivation, hence his processing, which Byrrhis no doubt found amusing. He was aided by Casimir Wuldfache, whose adventures are a saga in themselves.

“At the old Kanitze castle, Dirby was conditioned, and his mind loaded with a whole catalog of insane events. But Dirby himself was not insane and could emphatically affirm the reality of these events. The more he asserted, the more insane he would seem; any alienist would declare him hyperparanoid. Even better, his ravings would be corroborated by mind search, which, after all, gauges only subjective authenticity.

“So, then: Byrrhis has contrived a subtle, complex, but flexible plan. If and when complaints are made in regard to Istagam, the Liss and Olefract Triarchs will be killed, and Istagam is given another year, perhaps longer; and Sir Estevan becomes a person who by a hair’s breadth has escaped assassination at the hands of a paranoid wanderer.

“But what of Sir Estevan? He must also be induced to ignore the activities of Istagam. Sir Estevan is a proud and obstinate man. How can he be so persuaded? He must be subjected to blackmail. Conditions have now been created whereby Sir Estevan can convincingly appear to be nefarious, base, and foolish. If he jibs or balks, Byrrhis, safely in Dogtown or off-planet, makes public the circumstances surrounding the assassinations and claims Sir Estevan to be his collaborator. Dirby’s hallucinations are certified as reality. You, Sir Estevan, have performed these absurd tricks, you have turned the chamber pot over Dirby’s head, and you become a figure of contempt and ridicule across the Gaean Reach; your dignity and reputation are lost forever. Hence, you are in no position to thwart Vv. Byrrhis’ schemes.”

For a moment Sir Estevan’s face remained still—a mask, classically handsome, the golden hair curling down upon his ears, the chin strong and set. What transpired behind the mask, Hetzel could only guess. Sir Estevan might be possessed of a honed and intricate intelligence, or he might be blank and dull.

“Remarkable,” said Sir Estevan coldly. “But I am not so concerned with public ‘contempt and ridicule’ as you suppose. Secondly, the Kzyk have lost their zest for knowledge. They are not interested in orthography and double-entry bookkeeping; they want guns and pulsors and machinery to level their enemies’ castles, which Byrrhis, for all his cleverness, dared not supply.”

“Byrrhis was ready to supply a commodity equally valuable,” said Hetzel. “Virility hormone—chir. He brought down a cargo of chemical, which now is stored in Kanitze castle, unless I am much mistaken. The Kzyk would work without cessation for this material; chir is the stuff they value most. Indeed, Byrrhis imported such a remarkable quantity of the material, I suspect that he planned to establish a whole chain of Istagams across the various continents. A year or two of such enterprise, and Vv. Byrrhis could retire a very wealthy man indeed.”

Sir Estevan turned away. “I don’t care to hear any more.”

“From sheer curiosity—what will you do with Zaressa Lurling?”

“I will ask her to leave Maz on the next ship and never return. The crime was not committed against a Gaean, and I can do no more, even if I wanted to do so.”

* * * *

CHAPTER 14

Hetzel returned across the glimmering gray Plaza to the Beyranion Hotel. He had achieved his goals; he had earned an adequate fee, but the circumstances provided him no great satisfaction. For the hundredth time he wondered about the quality of his profession. Were greed, hate, lust, and cruelty to disappear, there would be little work for effectuators… . Maz was by no means a cheerful world. He would be relieved to see it dwindle astern.

In the Beyranion dining room he took an early lunch, then went to his rooms and telephoned the spaceport. The Xanthine, a packet of the Argo Navis Line, departed Axistil on the morrow; Hetzel made reservations for passage.

He poured himself a goblet of Baltranck cordial, added a splash of soda. Dirby, so he noted, had made valiant inroads upon the flask during his sojourn. Well, why not? A surly fellow, Gidion Dirby, who had learned neither wisdom nor tolerance nor generosity from his vicissitudes: the usual order of things. Tragedy was not necessarily ennobling; travail weakened the soul more often than it gave strength. On the whole, Dirby might be considered an average human being. Hetzel decided that he bore Dirby no ill will. Casimir Wuldfache? Byrrhis? Hetzel felt emotion neither one way nor the other. His mood, he thought, was extraordinarily flat. Since the confrontation at the Triskelion he had done nothing but brood. The explanation, of course, was obvious: fatigue and numbness after the events at Black Cliff Inn, in the Shimkish Mountains, on the Steppe of Long Bones. As he sat sipping the cordial, the circumstances seemed fragile and unreal, dreams.

A chime at the door announced a visitor. Hetzel slid to the sideboard, took up his weapon, and looked around at the windows. Visits in the aftermath of cases often presaged dire happenings. He went sidling and wary to the door, touched the viewplate, to reveal the face of Sir Estevan Tristo.

Hetzel slid the door aside. Sir Estevan came slowly into the room. He presented, thought Hetzel, a most untypical and dispirited appearance. His skin showed the color of putty; his yellow hair seemed wilted. Without waiting for an invitation, Sir Estevan lowered himself into a chair. Hetzel poured a second goblet of Baltranck and soda and handed it to Sir Estevan.

“Thank you.” Sir Estevan swirled the liquid around the glass and stared down into the cusps of reflected light. He looked up at Hetzel. “You wonder why I am here.”

“Not at all. You want to talk to me.”

Sir Estevan showed a wan smile and tasted the cordial. “Quite true. As you divined, I took an extraordinary interest in Zaressa, and now I find myself in a rather maudlin state. Life now seems very grim, very grim indeed.”

“I can appreciate this,” said Hetzel. “Zaressa was a most charming creature.”

Sir Estevan set the goblet upon the table. “Byrrhis encountered her at Twisselbane on Tamar, apparently under rather sordid circumstances. He sent her out here and recommended that I give her a job. I became enamored; I transferred Vvs. Felius to the reception desk and installed Zaressa as my secretary, and she quickly made herself indispensable. Meanwhile, of course, she was plotting with the unspeakable Byrrhis.” Sir Estevan picked up the goblet and drank. “But now, poor thing, I forgive her everything; she is paying very dearly for her offense.”

“Indeed? I thought you had merely instructed her to leave Maz.”

“So I did; this was her intention. I mentioned to you that Liss and Olefract both are able to eavesdrop on my offices. They knew as soon as we that Zaressa was involved in the assassinations. Zaressa went to her rooms to pack. She was accosted by two men, taken to a vehicle, and delivered to the Liss. Her roommate communicated with me; I made an urgent protest, but to no avail. They sent her away in a Liss ship. She’ll never see another human being in whatever span of life remains to her.”

Hetzel made a small grimace. Both men sat quiet, watching colors shift and change in their goblets.

Sir Estevan had departed. Hetzel sat for a period in silent reflection. Then he telephoned the Roseland Residence. Janika was not in her rooms. Hetzel wondered as to where she might be.

Five minutes later she rang the chime at his door. Hetzel let her in. Her eyes were red, her face was swollen with tears. “Have you heard what happened to Zaressa?”

Hetzel put his arm around her shoulder and stroked her hair. “Sir Estevan told me.”

“I want to leave Maz; I never want to come back.”

“There’s a packet leaving tomorrow. I reserved passage for you.”

“Thank you. Where does it take us?”

“Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere.”

“That can easily be arranged.” Hetzel lifted the flask that once had contained Baltranck and that now was dry. “Do you care for an aperitif? We can sit out in the garden and have the waiter bring us something refreshing.”

“That sounds pleasant. Let me go wash my face. I’m sure I look ridiculous. But when I think of Zaressa, I go to pieces.”

* * * *

They sat at a table where they could watch the glittering flakelet of a sun drift down the sky. Across the Plaza the Triskelion loomed through the murk. “This is a terrible world,” said Janika. “I’ll never forget it; I’ll never be gay and careless again. Do you know, it might as easily have been me as Zaressa; I might easily have done just what she did. How would she know that Casimir Wuldfache planned to shoot the Triarchs?”

“So … Vv. Byrrhis wasn’t guilty after all.”

Janika gave a scornful laugh. “He’d never have taken the risk. And Zaressa would never have opened the door for him. For Casimir Wuldfache she’d do anything. Even in Twisselbane she yearned for him. He preferred me; I couldn’t tolerate him, and so both Casimir and Zaressa hated me.”

“Casimir Wuldfache, oddly enough, is responsible for my being here now.”

“Oh? How so?”

“At first I thought it a coincidence, but now—”

Footsteps sounded; Gidion Dirby sauntered up the path. He gave an astounded gasp and stopped short, staring at Janika with eyes bulging from his face. “What are you doing here?”

* * * *

CHAPTER 15

As before, Sir Ivon Hacaway received Hetzel on the terrace of Harth Manor. Hetzel had already presented a brief report by telephone, and Sir Ivon’s manner was far more affable than on the previous occasion.

Hetzel described his activities in detail and rendered his expense account, in regard to which Sir Ivon gave a rueful smile. “My honor, but you do yourself well!”

“I saw no need to stint,” said Hetzel. “I do high-quality work under high-quality conditions. There remains a single matter to discuss—the bonus that you offered for decisive effectuation. Istagam is no longer in existence, and nothing could be more definite than this.”

Sir Ivon’s face clouded. “I hardly see the need for any larger outlay.”

“As you wish. I can earn a rather smaller sum by writing an article for the micronics trade journal, describing the possibilities for a new, better-organized Istagam. After all, it never was and is not now illegal to employ Gomaz labor, and chir is cheap.”

Sir Ivon gave a weary sigh and brought out his checkbook. “A thousand SLU will be sufficient, and I will make it my business to see that chir is declared contraband.”

“Two thousand would better convey your appreciation. However, I’ll settle for fifteen hundred, and I believe that Sir Estevan Tristo has already placed an embargo on chir. Still …”

Sir Ivon glumly wrote the check. Hetzel expressed gratitude, wished Sir Ivon good health, and took his leave. He went to the front of the manor, rang the chime, and when the footman opened the door, requested a word with Lady Bonvenuta. He was conducted into the library, where Lady Bonvenuta shortly appeared. At the sight of Hetzel she halted, raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

“I am Miro Hetzel, to whom a friend of yours, a certain Madame X, entrusted a trifle of confidential business.”

Lady Bonvenuta touched her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I’m afraid I know of no such Madame X.”

“She was anxious to locate a gentleman by the name of Casimir Wuldfache, and I am pleased to report that I have details on his present whereabouts.”

“Indeed?” Her voice was more frosty than ever.

“First, I must inform you that Casimir Wuldfache took advantage of Madame X and her friendship with you and rifled Sir Ivon’s file of private papers. This will come as a great shock to you.”

“Why, yes. Of course. But, then… well, I think I know the Madame X to whom you refer. She will want to learn where this Casimir Wuldfache can be found.”

“The information reached me as an incidental to another effectuation, and I will not require payment, especially as Casimir Wuldfache is dead.”

“Dead!” Lady Bonvenuta blinked and clutched at a chair with bejeweled fingers.

“Dead as a doornail. I myself saw his corpse on the Steppe of Long Bones, north of Axistil, on the planet Maz, where he had been engaged in business. May I ask you a question?”

“This is shocking news! What is your question?”

“A rather trivial matter. Did you recommend me to Sir Ivon, or did he remark to you that I was an efficient and dependable effectuator?”

“I heard him discuss you with one of his friends, and I passed the recommendation on to Madame X.”

“Thank you,” said Hetzel. “The chain of circumstances is now complete. My best regards to Madame X, and I hope that the news regarding Vv. Wuldfache will not distress her.”

“I hardly think so. It was a matter of business. I will telephone her at this minute. Good day, Vv. Hetzel.”

“Good day, Lady Bonvenuta. It has been a pleasure to meet you.”

* * * *

Jack Vance writes:

This is the first tale concerned, with the adventures of Miro Hetzel, the effectuator, the second being “Freitzke’s Turn,” also destined for Bob Silverberg. There will probably be others; in fact among my notes I discover the following: “Miro Hetzel receives a commission to locate an unidentified man on an unknown world before he commits an undefined act.” No doubt a modus operandi will suggest itself; if not, Miro Hetzel must suffer his first failure.

In regard to “The Dogtown Tourist Agency,” I have no particular comments to make. The less a writer discusses his work—and himself —the better. The master chef slaughters no chickens in the dining room; the doctor writes prescriptions in Latin; the magician hides his hinges, mirrors, and trapdoors with the utmost care. Recently I read of a surgeon who, after performing a complicated abortion, displayed to the ex-mother the fetus in a jar of formaldehyde. The woman went into hysterics and sued him, and I believe collected. No writer has yet been haled into court on similar grounds, but the day may arrive.