Gregory paused on the sidewalk under a large oak growing yellow and red as demanded by November. He rechecked the address he had scrawled on the edge of that morning's news sheet, found it to be correct, and opened the gate.
It was an ancient mansion, three stories of stuccoed elegance, blinding white in the clear morning. The wide porch felt cool, shaded as it was by the overhang and dozens of dangling plants. Gregory pulled the porcelain knob set into the wall and heard a muffled chime inside.
When she opened the door, Gregory felt instantly inadequate in his faded blue jump suit. Her delicate brown eyes fluttered as she took him in, her hair was a pleasing disarray of large black ringlets, and she carried about her the irresistible odor of fresh book paper.
"Yes?" she asked.
No. This was not right. "I, uh, I am sorry," Gregory stammered. "I had asked at the, uh, shelter, and they gave me this address. I was expecting a manservant. Name of Billister. I am told he is a little shorter than I. Slender?"
She smiled, and Gregory began to sweat. "My name is Glacoń," she said, pushing the screen door open. "Please follow me." Gregory wondered how she could be so trusting.
The foyer was a mosaic of large, polished clay tiles, and the high ceilings were timbered with dark-stained oak. Down the central hallway, they passed a series of niches scooped out of the wall, each of them bearing a stone statue. Nude women, mostly. Gregory blushed.
Glacoń opened a set of double doors, held up a finger indicating that he should wait, and then disappeared behind them. After a moment's conversation in the room beyond, she opened the doors wide, stepped politely around Gregory, and vanished.
Inside, a young man sat behind a heavy desk, back-dropped by sentries of leather bound books. A ledger was open on the desk, and its master was holding a fountain pen aloft as if he were in mid-calculation. The man was dark skinned, head and face shaved clean. He wore a pristine, starched cotton blouse with a burgundy string tie. His forehead pressed up quizzically as he regarded his guest.
"The name is Gregory, with the new Government. I am inquiring after a man name of Billister, a Rafer house boy, in just this summer from Thomas Island."
The dark man set his pen in its holder patiently. "I am Billister. I was born a Rafer, started as house boy, but since I have taken employment here"—he cast up his hands in good-natured dismay at the study packed with books and files—"my duties quickly expanded." He motioned for his surprised guest to take the stuffed chair near the desk.
Gregory began his pitch before he had even settled into the comfortably worn leather. "I am in charge of recruiting for a Government expedition—a project for which you are especially qualified, if my sources are correct. Am I right—that you are fluent in several languages? Rafer? Spanish? French?"
"Mmm. And Latin. And don't forget English."
Gregory laughed, and he felt more at ease. "Aside from that, you also grew up among seafarers on Thomas Island and are well acquainted with Big Tom and his men. . .."
A shroud of ill mood fell over his host's face.
Billister spoke evenly, almost angrily: "Please get to the point. What is this"—he waved his left hand airily—"expedition?"
"Um. Well. As you know, the new Government has just formally declared itself, although it has in fact been in place and effecting its policy changes for some months. Well, in opposition to the Monitor's paranoia, it has been decided that we must see what has become of the civilizations overseas. It is quite likely that we will encounter people who can instantly advance our technology by decades. Can you imagine—having the medical knowlege amassed by the ancients, for instance? Or mechanical flight?"
Billister rolled his eyes. "Flight? Not possible."
"No. Not legal. Until now. The inventor Cred Faiging has been commissioned to study the science of aircraft."
"And you want to cross the Big Ocean somehow—flap your wings, perhaps. . .."
"No, in a large ship, which is being built by Big Tom."
"And Big Tom will captain?"
"Um, yes—at his insistence, as you might suspect. And also by default. Who else could captain such a vessel?"
Billister sighed. "There are tempting facets to your invitation, Mr. Gregory. But I must ask you to consider a few details that would make me a bad choice for your expedition: That it was Big Tom who killed my mother when I was an infant. That I grew up a servant in his household, and that this summer he sold me as a common red-legger to pick tobacco."
Gregory wiped his moist chin. "It is an unavoidable matter of circumstance," he said, "that with whatever crew we assemble, there will be a considerable amount of personal animosity to overcome. Whether you join us or not."
Billister stood, squinting in thought, and paced to a large map on one wall. He clasped his hands behind his back and studied the map's details—or, more accurately, the missing details.
It was hand drawn and hand colored, showing a swath of continent 2,500 miles wide. The brown shading represented the two vertical ribs of mountain range, one east and one west. Green showed the inhabitable lands, and amber depicted the radiation fields. The land mass was flanked by two Big Oceans (perhaps the same body of water—who could know?). To the far north were the woodlands and then the wastelands of ice. To the far south the amber radiation fields, depicted with dubious accuracy, were so dominant as to make exploration there of questionable value.
Beyond the oceans, there were no details on the map, save for a Rafer inscription on the eastern edge. Billister pointed to the markings and translated for Gregory: "Here be monsters."
Gregory frowned. "Surely you have more faith that humans survived in the other lands," he said.
Billister laughed. "I suppose that I do. In a moment of idleness I penned that, but I did so in my native language because I was not sure that the casual observer would realize that it was a joke." He waved a hand vaguely at the map. "The cartographer, by the way, might be of interest to you—H. Fenstemacher Lapp, down on Zealander Street. The best. Any captain what sails outa Chautown harbor would ask for his charts first. A natural instinct, he has."
Billister returned to his desk chair, where he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose for a long, silent meditation. "Add to my previously stated reservations," Billister finally said, "the fact that my personal circumstances in Chautown are more favorable than ever before in my life. I started work here as house boy, ya, but rapidly fell into better service for the merchant who owns this premises. Oh, the linguistics help a little with any kind of trade, but he's found me invaluable now for my accounting abilities. And best of all—well, you have met his daughter, Glacoń. My fiancee."
"No!"
Billister smiled. "Yes. Fiancee."
Gregory stood slowly, sensing defeat.
"And the island?" Billister asked timidly. "How are—"
"Big Tom—powder crazy, worse than ever. Last I saw him he was talking to a stuffed cat in the garden shed."
"Talking to a stuffed cat? As one would with a Cantilou?"
"Ya," Gregory replied, surprised. "He called it that—Cantilou."
"Hmph, brain rot. Big Tom used to ask me to tell him all of the Cantilou legends, the Rafer myths about the lion with the head of a boy. After that he grew maniacal about the garden shed—wouldn't let us in, went there to blow the steam off, we thought. Like the powder, the fabled Cantilou is best left alone."
Gregory turned for the door.
Billister toyed with his fountain pen. "If you have been on Thomas Island with Big Tom," he said, "uh, you might know how things are with one of his wives—Moori?"
Gregory's face sagged even more. "Moori, hmph. Ya, she's fine. I got her off the island, brought her here. . .."
Billister's eyebrows rose. "To Chautown?"
"Ya. But she won't see me now. Seems to have caught the attention of a wealthy clothier—Lasalle, something like that."
"Ah. Probably Lesoli." Billister cleared his throat sympathetically. "Well, if you are in need of a linguist, I have a recommendation—although he, too, has little love for your shipbuilder Big Tom. He's right there on Thomas Island, a waterfront hermit name of Saple."
Gregory's brow wrinkled at the name. "The beach hermit, Jersey Saple? He knows languages—ones what might be of use on the other side?"
"A mile west of the docks," Billister said, seeming fond of the memory, "little shack set back from the water. Even knows Rafer. Taught 'im myself."
Gregory nodded goodbye to Glacoń as unlustfully as he could and turned to descend the porch steps. When he hit the yard, he felt a sharp pang as if the sunlight were a dagger thrust between his eyes. He stopped, hunched his shoulders, and pinched his brow between thumb and fingers. Sweat suddenly drenched his body like a sticky shower. As the pain subsided into a dull throb, he hoped these headaches would be a temporary malady.