Ecce and Old Earth

CHAPTER IX

The Halcyon Travel Bureau occupied a glass-enclosed office to the side of the Hotel Cansaspara lobby. A placard read:

Halcyon Travel Bureau

Travel services of every description.

TOURS, EXCURSIONS, EXPEDITIONS

Visit the far-flung backlands in comfort and safety. See the real Nion! Study the habits of mysterious peoples and observe their orgiastic rites! Dine under the hurtling moons at the Feast of a Thousand Folds, or enjoy a sumptuous service of your own familiar cuisine!

ONCE IN A LIFETIME CHANCE!

TRANSPORT GUIDES INFORMATION

Glawen entered the office. At the desk sat a tall dark-haired woman, handsome, trim of figure and clearly of off-world origin. A plaque on her desk read:

T. DYTZEN

Agent on duty.

She spoke: “Sir? Can I be of help?"

“I hope so," said Glawen. He seated himself in the chair beside the desk. “What is the best connection to Moonway? I want to get there in a hurry — now if not sooner”.

T. Dytzen smiled. “Have you been long on Nion?"

“I arrived just today.”

T. Dytzen nodded. “Before the week is out, you will stop using words like 'hurry' and 'soon' and 'immediately’. Well, let us see what can be done." T. Dytzen worked her information screen, “There are a number of carriers, but none are large-scale or well organized. Semi-Express is the only line keeping to a schedule, but you have just missed the evening flight; it left at twenty-nine twenty. It puts down at Port Frank Medich, and arrives at Moonway about twelve o'clock; that is to say, local dusk at Moonway. I mention this just to give you an idea of flight-time.”

“I see. What else is available?"

T. Dytzen consulted the screen. “At thirty-two forty the regular Blue Arrow service leaves Tanjaree, but it makes six local stops and arrives at Moonway tomorrow at twenty-six o'clock."

“What else do you have?”

T. Dytzen proposed several other services which sooner or later put into Moonway. “These are for the most part air-vans, not too fast, with a passenger capacity of thirty or forty. They are cheap to operate and make a tolerable profit for the owners, but essentially there is not enough traffic to support fast service to these outlying camps and villages. So you use what is available and call it 'adventure’. The tourists complain very little.”

“Can I hire a flitter? One way or another, I must get out to Moonway and fast."

T. Dytzen gave her head a dubious shake. “I don’t quite know what to tell you. There is little choice between Murk’s Deluxe and Sky-waft. I cannot recommend either. Murk’s vehicles — I have heard them called 'contraptions' — are not dependable and those at Sky-waft are no better; in fact they may be worse. Neither will rent a vehicle without a pilot, to make sure the tourist does not decide to fly over Tangting Forest. Still, if you like, I will call Murk's to find what they have on hand.”

“Please do."

T. Dytzen touched telephone buttons, which presently induced a surly response. “What do you want, then? I was sound asleep.”

“Strange,” said T. Dytzen. “Your advertisement says: “Expert service, night and day; we never sleep!”

“That only happens when we have vehicles to rent.”

“And now you have none?”

“I have two, but they are in service.”

“The advertisement states that Murk’s Deluxe maintains a fleet of a dozen vehicles of several types.”

“That is an old advertisement. Call some other day, if you will." The telephone screen went blank.

T. Dytzen told Glawen: “I expected nothing more. Still, for the sake of perseverance I will call Sky-waft.” She touched telephone buttons. There was no response whatever.

“Sky-waft appears to have closed for the day,” said T. Dytzen. Tomorrow I will ask why its advertisement reads: ‘DEPENDABLE! VIGILANT! ALWAYS ON THE JOB!'." She ruminated. “Perhaps your best recourse is the provincial Mail Service at eleven o'clock during the forenoon. It makes a number of stops, as many as seven or eight, and arrives at Moonway about noon local time — which is to say close on thirty-seven or thirty-eight o'clock.”

“Are there no other aircraft? What about private vehicles? Or freight services? There must be someone making deliveries around the outback."

“So there are,” said T. Dytzen. She looked in a directory. “Most of the offices will be closed at this time.”

“There might be a schedule of departures at the port.”

T. Dytzen gave a noncommittal nod and tapped the call buttons. She spoke, was transferred to another office, spoke again, waited and spoke to a third individual. After a brief conversation, she turned from the telephone to Glawen. “You are in luck. All-world Cargoes is making deliveries in the Moonway sector. The carrier departs Bay 14 at the spaceport in about half an hour. I spoke with the pilot; he says he will take you out for twenty sols. Is that satisfactory? It's about what you would pay on the Semi-Express.”

”I’m agreeable to the price, but when does he arrive?"

T. Dytzen spoke a few words into the telephone, then turned back to Glawen. “Arrival is an hour or so later than Semi-Express time.”

“Sign me aboard.”

T. Dytzen spoke a few more words, then turned away from the telephone. “Go directly out upon Bay 14 and stand by the front of the carrier. Don’t be conspicuous or tell anyone what you are doing. The pilot will approach you. My fee, incidentally is five sols.”

Glawen returned to the Novial Hotel, where he found the clerk once again at his post. He checked out, to the clerk’s indignation. “Have all our meticulous efforts gone for naught?”

“I don’t have time to explain,” said Glawen. “But two facts are certain. Pharisse will rise in the morning and you will never see me again.”

Glawen went at best speed to the spaceport. At the canteen he bought packets of biscuits, cheese, salted fish, pickles, and four flasks of imported beer, then went out upon the freight dock. He found Bay 14, where a cargo carrier of medium size had been loaded and made ready for departure. He went to stand in the shadows near the control cupola.

Five minutes later a tall thin man wearing a short-sleeved work suit came down the dock, walking with a loose and easy stride which Glawen thought might indicate a correspondingly easy temperament. He looked to be about Glawen’s age, with cropped flax-yellow hair, guileless blue eyes, features of no particular distinction. He halted in front of Glawen. “I am Rak Wrinch, and I drive this vehicle. Do you have something for me?”

"Just some money.”

“That will do nicely.”

Glawen paid over twenty sols.

Wrinch looked up and down the dock. “Jump up into the cab, and keep out of sight."

Five minutes later the carrier lifted from the spaceport and started up through the night toward its cruising altitude. Overhead drifted the moons of Nion, lambent globes of many soft shades and sizes, sometimes eclipsing, sometimes seeming to race, sometimes rollicking like happy children. Glawen thought that it might be easy to attach mystical meaning to their interplay.

Wrinch verified what Glawen had already assumed: that he was an off-worlder from Kyper Clty on Sylvanus. He looked sidelong at Glawen. “You've never been there?”

“Never,” said Glawen. “Sylvanus is one of the many worlds I know nothing about, except that it is somewhere in Virgo.”

“True. It’s not so bad a place, as worlds go. Every year the Bang-bird Festival draws in tourists from everywhere.

You must have heard of the Bang-bird races.”

“I'm afraid not."

“These creatures are called 'birds' only out of politeness. Mix up a dragon, an ostrich and a devil and you have a bang-bird. They stand twelve feet high, walk on two legs, with long necks and tall heads; they are vicious unless treated carefully when young, and are not stupid. Still, they are useless for anything but saddle-animals, and every year they run the Grand Champion Races at Kyper City. The riders are a special caste and religious, since they are almost always killed by the birds in the end. But the rider who wins the Grand Race becomes a great celebrity, with much money, and never rides again.”

“The races must be quite a sight.”

“Indeed. There are always two or three riders thrown, and then there is turmoil while the birds stop to kill the riders, whom they hate, so the tourists always go away in awe. Where is your home?”

“Araminta Station on Cadwal, at the back of Perseus."

“I never heard of Cadwal either.” He refused Glawen’s offer of food. “I ate before departure.”

“What time will we arrive at Moonway?”

“You are in a hurry?”

“I would like to arrive before the Semi-Express, if possible."

“Out of the question, I must put down at Port Klank to discharge three pumps for the water system. After Port Klank, by rights I should make for Yellow Blossom, then Moonway, but I suppose I could call at Moonway first and then cut north to Yellow Blossom. That would save an hour or two.”

“And time of arrival?”

“About fourteen o'clock. How is that?”

“It will have to do.”

Wrinch looked curiously at Glawen. “Have you been there before?"

“No.”

“It is a fascinating place. The Standing Stones are sometimes called monuments to ancient heroes, but they are more; they represent the ancient heroes themselves: personalities which have never died. During certain lunar patterns they come out and play the old games again. Tourists who are caught out among the Stones at these times are killed at once, though ordinarily the Shadowmen are a quiet lot, without much to say. The moons control their emotions. If the tourists fail to follow the rules which are posted for them, their throats are cut.”

Glawen found his eyes growing heavy; he had missed much sleep. At the back of the cab were a pair of settees; Glawen stretched out on one and, after checking the auto-pilot, Wrinch laid his long frame down on the other. The two slept, and the carrier flew alone through the night. Glawen was wakened by a jar and a thud; he raised himself to find daylight outside and Pharisse several hours high. The carrier had landed upon the spongy surface of a small plateau. To the west, north and south spread a wide landscape of other such plateaus, rising above the intervening sea bottom. To the east, and near the carrier, a dozen concrete buildings stood in a line, facing what appeared to be experimental plots of off-world vegetation.

Wrinch had already jumped down from the cupola, to see to the delivery of his freight. With three other men he went to the rear of the carrier; the doors were opened, several items of cargo were unloaded with the help of a small lift-truck; then the doors were slammed shut and, after a moment of conversation, Wrinch climbed back into the cupola. He made marks on his manifest, adjusted the auto-pilot, and once again the carrier took to the air.

“That was Port Klank,” said Wrinch. “Some agronomists from Earth, either visionaries or madmen, are trying to grow terrestrial flora on a soil which is essentially pure pold. They claim the chemistry is right; that no toxic metals are present, only the macro-molecules typical of metamorphosed pold. So they use bacteria to break down these molecules, along with the viruses of Nion and experimental soil conditioners. They claim that in ten years each of these plateaus will look like a forested island instead of what you see today.”

“What about water?”

“There’s plenty of sub-surface water. I just delivered three high-pressure pumps. There is also a vast reservoir of water in the pold itself. Some of the scientists talk about rain and rivers and the seas coming back, but that is far in the future — I hope. Planetary engineers make me nervous.”

The day went by. Pharisse moved westward, its own motion augmented by the eastward movement of the carrier. At ten o'clock Pharisse sank behind the horizon. The long dusk faded through golden apricot and plum, and finally all color disappeared, leaving the night to the moons. At first there were three. Wrinch named them off: “Lilimel, Garuun, Seis. I know them all. The Shadowmen are the real experts. They stand and point, and suddenly something happens — another moon appears, or one moon passes under another and they all groan or hiss or fall down on their knees. One day I made a delivery and something happened among the moons and they started to attack a fat old tourist who had done nothing except come out of the hotel and stand on the porch. He ran inside and hid in the lounge. The Shadowmen told the manager that he would be cut into eight pieces if he ever showed himself again, so he left at once. It appears that while on a guided walk among the Standing Stones the old tourist went behind one of the stones to urinate. No one had known until the moons identified the culprit.”

The night advanced. Three more moons entered the sky: Zosmei, Maltasar, Yanaz, according to Wrinch. Glawen gave them scant attention. “Relax,” said Wrinch. “'We are making good time. I can't get any more out of this old cow. Anyway, we're almost there.”

Glawen looked down toward the land below. “Is that the Plain of Standing Stones?”

“Not yet.” Wrinch pointed to the east. “Here comes Sigil. The Shadowmen believe that if Sigil eclipses Ninka, on that instant the universe will come to an end. That isn’t a bad bet, since Sigil orbits well out past Ninka.”

Time passed. Glawen sat forward on the edge of the seat. Wrinch finally said: “We are now over the Plain of Standing Stones. See those lights off to the left? That’s the camp of the Western Tribe. In a minute you should see the lights of Moonway. There are three hotels. The Moonway is the best. Do you have reservations?”

“No.”

“The Moonway naturally tends to fill up first. Still it’s worth a try. Now you can see the lights."

"What about you? Will you be stopping over?”

“My schedule won’t allow it. I'll cut up to Yellow Blossom, then continue around."

“Maybe I'll see you back in Tanjaree.”

“I hope so. You know where to find me.”

The carrier slanted down toward Moonway. Wrinch pointed out Moonway Hotel. “It's the big place at the center. The colored lights are on entertainers’ wagons; there are always three or four troupes parked at Moonway. They cavort and do mad tricks and amuse the hotel guests, so they are tolerated.”

The carrier landed. As soon as Wrinch opened the cupola door, Glawen took his travel bag and jumped to the ground. “Thank you, and goodbye.”

“Goodbye and good luck.”

Glawen half-walked half-ran toward the Moonway Hotel: a massive structure of concrete and glass, more or less regular after the architectural canons of Nion which rejected flat surfaces and hard edges, and accepted verticality only because, in its absence, the building would fall down. To right and left extended two-story residential wings, with a garden terrace surmounting the main structure, where patrons of the hotel dined under festoons of dim green and blue fairy-lights. Not far from the hotel entrance three of the nomad wagons had been stationed, each as gaudy and garish as any Glawen had seen in Tanjaree. To the side vagabonds sat at their ease, drinking pold beer from tall misshapen crocks, while iron pots hanging on tripods bubbled over fires. At the sight of Glawen, a number of urchins ran out to join him. Mistaking Glawen’s accelerated pace as a desire for exercise, they called out: “We'll race you, sir, for some money! See? All of us carry money! We will run you a fine race!”

“No thanks,” said Glawen. “No race today. “

“We’ll run backwards! How can you lose? Are you a fast runner, sir?”

“I'm very slow. You must race with your fathers, or grandmothers."

“Ha, ha! No chance; if we won, they would beat us!"

"Too bad," panted Glawen.

“We will race with each other. Give us money for a prize! We will carry your burden!” The largest tried to snatch away Glawen’s travel bag. Glawen held the bag high. “I need no help. Go play elsewhere.”

The urchins ignored his instructions. They surrounded him, running backwards just in front, plucking at his sleeves, hooting and jeering. “Coward! Do you fear to race?”

“He runs like a fat old lady.” “He has long thin toes; that's why he wears funny shoes.” "Oh, he's a strange one!”

From one of the tables a large bewhiskered man jumped to his feet and came forward. “Leave off, you vermin! Can't you see the gentleman is not amused!” He addressed Glawen. “Sorry for the annoyance, sir! Children have no manners nowadays! Still, they are easily pleased; if you toss them a few coins they would never call you 'skink' or 'tight-gut' again!”

“I don't mind at all,” said Glawen. “Excuse me; I am in a hurry." He continued toward the hotel. The vagabond shrugged, kicked the children out of his way and returned to his beer.

Entering the Moonway, Glawen found himself in a spacious lobby with a high ceiling. A sleek young clerk, apparently an off-worlder, presided over the registration desk. He took note of Glawen’s scuffed travel bag with raised eyebrows and a fastidious droop to his mouth. His voice, however, was impeccably correct: “I am sorry, sir, but unless you have a reservation, I cannot offer you accommodation. We are booked solid. I suggest that you try either the Magic Jade, or the Maudley, though I believe that they are also full."

“I'll see about accommodation later,” said Glawen. “My first need is for information.” He placed a sol on the counter, the clerk pretended not to notice. “Perhaps you can help me.”

“I will do my best, sir.”

“Do you keep records of incoming telephone calls, specifically, a call from Tanjaree which would have arrived early this morning?”

“We keep no such records, sir; they would serve no purpose.”

Glawen grimaced. "Were you on duty at about twenty-eight o'clock this morning?“

“No, sir. I came on duty at ten o'clock this afternoon."

“Who was on duty then?”

“That would be Mr. Stensel, sir.”

“I would like a few words with him, and at once. The matter is rather urgent.”

The clerk went to his telephone, spoke a few soft words, listened and turned back to Glawen. “Mr. Stensel is just finishing his supper. If you will go to the couch yonder, to the side of the clock, Mr. Stensel will join you almost immediately.”

“Thank you." Glawen went to the designated couch and seated himself.

The lobby was a cheerful airy place, despite the ponderous construction of the walls. Rugs, striped black, white, red, blue and green, covered the floor; the ceiling, thirty feet above, had been decorated with motifs of the Shadowmen: patterns of barbaric extravagance and passion, somehow kept under restraint. A panel suspended over the registration desk displayed colored disks representing the moons currently in the sky. They appeared low to the left of the panel, rose to the height of their arc and curved down to disappear off to the right.

Three minutes passed. A plump little man, balding and brisk, dressed only slightly less formally than the clerk on duty, approached. “I am Mr. Stensel. I understand that you have a question or two?”

“So I do. Sit down, if you please.”

Mr. Stensel seated himself on the couch. “Now then: how may I help you, sir?”

“You were on duty this morning at twenty-eight o'clock?"

“That is correct, sir it is my regular shift."

“Do you remember a telephone call from Tanjaree at about this time?”

“Hm.” Mr. Stensel appeared to cogitate. “This is the kind of detail that quickly becomes lost."

Glawen gave him two sols, and Mr. Stensel smiled.

“Strange how money lubricates the memory. Yes; I remember the call; indeed, I recognized the caller, since he telephones often. It was Mr. Melvish Keebles."

"Right. To whom did he speak?”

To one of our long-term guests, Mr. Adrian Moncurio the archaeologist. You may have heard of him, since he is quite well known.”

“You did not overhear the conversation?”

"No, sir. That is not proper conduct, under any circumstances. Another gentleman asked me the same questions only a trifle more than an hour ago, and I told him the same.”

Glawen’s heart sank. “Did this other gentleman give his name?”

“No, sir.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was nicely dressed, of good appearance, and exceedingly pleasant, so I thought.”

Glawen brought out another two sols. “You have been most helpful. Where can I find Mr. Moncurio?”

“He occupies Suite A, which opens onto the front veranda. Leave the lobby, turn to the right. Suite A is at the end. You may or may not find Mr. Moncurio on the premises, since he keeps odd hours, and sometimes goes out to explore among the Stones when the moons are favorable. He is highly skilled in such matters, and can judge the moons to a nicely. Otherwise, he would long ago have been killed.”

“Are the moons right hour?”

Mr. Stensel looked toward the panel. “As to that, I can't say, since I have never studied the subject."

“Thank you.” Glawen left the lobby, turned to the right and ran to the end of the veranda, where he found Suite A. Glimmers of light seeped past the window-blinds. Glawen took heart; it appeared that someone was at home. He pressed the bell button.

A minute passed, while Glawen’s tension mounted. From within came the sound of slow movement. The door slid aside; in the opening stood a dark-hatred full-figured woman of no great stature. Despite the incursions of middle age, she still commanded elements of youthful charm. Her thick hair was cut short and square around her head in a style prompted either by high fashion or by stark practicality. She examined Glawen with bright black eyes. "Yes, sir?”

“Is Mr. Moncurio in?” Glawen was annoyed to hear the anxious catch in his voice.

The woman shook her head and Glawen’s heart sank once again. “He's out in the field, doing his archaeology.” She stepped to the doorway, looked right and left down the verandah, then turned back to Glawen. “I can't understand his popularity. Suddenly, everyone must see Professor Moncurio, and no one will wait."

“Where can I find him? It is very important!”

“He is out in the Stones somewhere. The moons for a change are good. I suspect he's off down Row Fourteen. Are you another archaeologist?"

“No. Is there anyone who could help me find him?”

The woman gave a sad laugh. “Not I, for sure, with my poor legs. But he won’t go far, since he must be back before Shan goes down, which is less than two hours.”

The woman pointed toward a pale blue moon. "When Shan sets, the Shadowmen will come in a rush, looking for throats to cut."

“Where is Row Fourteen?”

“Simple! Go down Column Five, which is the aisle yonder, count fourteen rows. Then turn to the left and go three or four columns, and Adrian should be nearby. If not, don’t go looking for him! The stones are confusing in the moonlight; you might easily lose your way. The pold is already black with spilled blood.”

“Thanks, I'll be careful.” Glawen started away. The woman called after him: “Watch for the others; remind them of the time!”

Glawen approached the Standing Stones. They loomed above him, twenty feet or so tall, massive in the moonlight. He entered Column Five; to either side the ranks receded and finally disappeared into the blur of mingled moonlight and darkness.

Glawen went at a half-run down Column Five, counting rows. At Row Eight he stopped to listen. The only sound was the flux of blood in his own ears. He continued: a shadow moving among the other shadows. At Row Twelve he stopped again, straining to hear sounds which might guide him.

Had his senses deceived him? Had he heard a voice? If so, it had been soft and diffident, as if wanting to make itself known, yet fearful of being overheard. Odd!

Glawen hurried aside into Row Twelve and ran on long stealthy steps past three ranks of stones, to Column Eight. He stopped again to listen. Silence! An ominous sign. If a friend had come out to join Moncurio, there would be conversation, or so it would seem. He set off down the column. Almost at once the call came again, as low-pitched and wary as before. The stones muffled sound; Glawen could not fix on the direction of the voice, or its distance; still it did not seem far.

Glawen went along the row to Column Nine, and turned to the right. Two more rows would bring him to Fourteen. He must not lose himself among the stones! Step by step he went forward. There were presences near, baleful and alert. Something came running through the dark to pounce on his back; he swung around. Nothing was there. His nerves had fooled him. He stood staring in all directions, listening for another call, or noise: anything he could fix upon.

It came: from near at hand a sudden laugh, an unpleasant roar, mocking and triumphant. Then came a babble of voices, a thud of sinister import; after a few breathless instants — a cry of awful fury.

Glawen put aside caution and ran toward the sounds. After a few feet, he halted to orient himself. He heard hurrying footsteps; looking along the column he saw a human shape. It approached at a peculiar lurching gait. Suddenly, with a sobbing gasp of frustration, it stopped short, bent low, made a hurled adjustment; then, free of its former restraint, ran forward and collided full into Glawen. Nine of the nineteen moons illuminated a stricken face. Glawen cried in amazement: “Wayness!”

She stared up, first in shock, then in incredulous joy. "Glawen! I can't believe that it's you!" She turned, looked over her shoulder. “Baro is back there: he's a murderer! He dropped Moncurio into a tomb and left him for the Shadowmen. He caught me and said I was more interesting alive than dead and started to undress me. I hit him with a spade and he fell down. I tried to run away but I could not run fast with my trousers down around my ankles.” She darted another glance over her shoulder. “We had best go to the hotel for help! Baro is a devil!”

From between the stones a shape darker than the shadows moved forward into the light of the moons. Glawen recognized the man he had glimpsed in Crippet Alley and at the Cansaspara café.

Wayness gave a soft cry of distress. “It’s too late.”

The man came slowly forward. He halted ten feet away. Some trick of posture or perhaps his supercilious grin stirred recollections in Glawen’s mind and he knew the man’s identity. “It's Benjamie the spy! Benjamie the traitor!"

Benjamie laughed. “Of course! And you are the noble and pure Glawen Clattuc. I sent your father to Shattorak! I suppose you are annoyed with me.”

“Very much so.”

Benjamie came a step closer. Glawen wondered what he was carrying behind his back. “So here we are," said Benjamie, “You and I, and now we shall see who is the better man: nice good Glawen or bad Benn Barr! And pretty Wayness will rejoice with whomever is alive at the end!"

Glawen somberly considered Benjamie, who stood an inch taller than himself and was heavier by twenty pounds.” Benjamie was quick and light footed; his confidence was superb.

Glawen told Wayness: "Run back to the hotel. As soon as you're well away, I'll get clear of this fellow and join you."

“But Glawen! What if — ” She could not bring herself to finish.

“If you hurry, there should be time to help Moncurio before Shan goes down. As for Benjamie, I will do what needs to be done."

Benjamie gave a contemptuous laugh. “Stay here!” he told Wayness. “If you run I'll catch you.” He strode forward. Glawen saw that he was carrying a short-handled spade. “This won't take long.” He feinted, then swung the spade so that it should slash Glawen’s neck. Glawen jumped aside and pressed his back against a tall Standing Stone. Benjamie jabbed with the spade; Glawen again jerked aside; the spade rang against the stone. Glawen seized the handle; the two wrestled for possession: twisting one way, then the other, Glawen saw that Benjamie was preparing a surprise. He first wrenched and hauled with the shovel in order to set Glawen up in an exposed stance. Glawen obliged, prompting the surprise: a sudden kick to the groin. Glawen twisted his hips and slipped the kick. Grasping the foot he instantly thrust hard, to send Benjamie hopping backward. Glawen wrested away the spade, struck it down hard on Benjamie’s shoulder, and Benjamie hissed in pain. He charged like a bull, grappled Glawen, bore him back so that Glawen’s head cracked against the Standing Stone. Glawen felt sick and dazed. Benjamie drove his fist into Glawen’s cheek; Glawen struck Benjamie’s belly; it was like hitting a board.

For a few moments there was confusion: a tangle of grunting bodies, flailing arms, contorted faces. Pain and fear were forgotten; each thought only of the other’s destruction. Benjamie attempted another kick Glawen caught the leg, pulled, twisted; there was a snap and Benjamie fell over backward, his ankle broken. He raised himself slowly on his hands and toes, then lunged, and caught Glawen off-balance. Benjamie worked himself behind Glawen; thrust his forearm against Glawen’s throat. Grinning in jubilation Benjamie constricted his muscles so that Glawen’s eyes bulged and his chest pumped in vain for air.

Glawen reached back his right hand, caught Benjamie’s hair and pulled back with all of his waning strength. Benjamie made fretful noises and tried to shake the hand loose. For an instant he allowed his arm muscles to slacken. Glawen drew his head far back and askew. With his left, hand Glawen jabbed at Benjamie’s throat, at the site of a sensitive nerve. Benjamie’s grip relaxed. Glawen broke loose; gasping, he turned and with all his strength drove his knuckles into Benjamie’s larynx. He felt the crushing of cartilaginous structures; croaking and wheezing, Benjamie fell over backwards, to sit slumped against a Standing Stone, to stare at Glawen with dull bewildered eyes.

Glawen, still panting, picked up the spade. He spoke to Benjamie: “Think of Shattorak.”

Benjamie slumped back against the stone. Glawen saw that he was only half-conscious.

Wayness came forward. She watched Benjamie in fascinated horror. “Is he dead?”

“Not at the moment; he's probably in a state of shock."

“Will he survive?”

"I don’t think so. If I did, I'd break his head with the spade. Perhaps I should do it anyway.”

Wayness clutched his arm. "No, Glawen, don’t!” Then she said: "No, I don’t mean that. He can't be allowed to live."

“He's dying. In any case he can't walk, and the Shadowmen will be here before long. Where is Moncurio?”

“Back here.” Wayness led the way to an excavation, covered over with a slab of stone. “He is below the stone. It's very heavy.”

Prying with the spade and exerting all his strength, Glawen managed to slide the stone back a few inches. He called down: ”Moncurio?"

“I'm down here! Get me out! I thought you were Shadowmen.”

"Not yet."

With Wayness assisting, Glawen thrust back the stone, inch by inch, until Moncurio was able to wriggle through the gap. “Ah, air! Space! Freedom! What a wonderful feeling! I thought that I was done for!” Moncurio paused to brush dirt from his clothes. In the moonlight Glawen saw a tall robust man of late maturity, only a trifle soft in the midriff. His thick silver-gray hair matched his brisk mustache. A wide brow a nose long and straight, a well-shaped chin lent dignity to his face; his eyes, however, under drooping eyelids were large, dark and moist: the eyes of a spaniel.

Moncurio finished dusting off his clothes. He spoke with emotion: “A true miracle! I had given up hope! My life was flashing before my eyes! You two came at the most fortuitous moment!"

“It wasn’t all that fortuitous." said Glawen.

Moncurio looked at him uncomprehendingly.

Wayness said: “I came out looking for you. I saw Benjamie drop you into the hole; then he attacked me. Glawen rescued both of us. Benjamie is now lying yonder he may be dead.”

“And a good thing too!” declared Moncurio with feeling. “He wanted information; I told him everything I knew and for gratitude he pushed me into the hole. I consider him a very discourteous fellow.”

“No doubt as to that.”

Moncurio looked around the sky. “Shan slants low!” He consulted his watch. "Twenty-four minutes remain. Now then!" he said with sudden energy. “Help me cover the tomb! Otherwise the Shadowmen will become nasty minded and poison the water.”

The three set to work. Moncurio at last was satisfied. "That will have to do, since Shan is almost down and Res is under Padan. The Shadowmen know what has been going on and they are delirious with rage. It is seven minutes to the hotel. Nine minutes remain before Shan is gone.”

The three returned at a smart pace down the rows and columns. Presently they broke out into the open.

"We can't stop here, “declared Moncurio. “In five minutes Shan will be gone, but some reckless juvenile might decide to try for instant honor and cut our throats here and now, and make his peace with the moons later."

“This is a precarious place to live," observed Glawen.

“In many respects, yes,” said Moncurio. “But the true archaeologist ignores hardship. He must make sacrifices for his science!”

The three continued back toward the hotel. Moncurio spoke on. “It is not all romance and glory, I assure you! No profession is less forgiving! One mistake and the reputation of a lifetime is demolished! Meanwhile, the financial rewards are minimal.”

“A good tomb robber seems to do quite well," mused Wayness.

“In that regard, I have no opinion," said Moncurio with dignity.

The three reached the safe grounds surrounding the hotel complex. Far to the west, pale blue Shan sank below the edge of the old sea bottom.

Ten seconds passed. From the Stones came a wild cry of vindictive glee.

“They have found Benjamie, or Ben Barr — whatever his name,” said Moncurio. “If he was not yet dead, he is dead now.” Moncurio turned away and went to the door of Suite A. He halted and turned. “Once again, I thank you both for your help. Perhaps we will meet tomorrow and take a cup of tea on the verandah. So now: goodnight!”

“Just a moment,” said Wayness. ”We also must ask you a few questions.”

Moncurio said stiffly: “I am extremely tired; could not your questions wait?”

“And suppose you died during the night?”

Moncurio gave bleak laugh. “Your questions would be the least of my worries.”

“We won't take too much of your time,“ said Wayness. “You can rest while we talk to you.”

“I suppose I can spare you five minutes or so,” grumbled Moncurio. He opened the door; the three entered his sitting room. From the bedchamber came a woman's voice.

“Adrian? Is that you?”

"Yes, my dear! Two friends are here on a matter of business; you need not come out.''

The voice, now somewhat querulous,” said: ”I could serve tea, I suppose."

“Thank you, dear, but they will only be here a minute."

"As you like."

Moncurio turned back to Glawen and Wayness. “You undoubtedly are aware that I am Adrian Moncurio, archaeologist and social historian. I fear that I did not catch your names.”

“I am Glawen Clattuc.”

“I am Wayness Tamm. I think you know my uncle, Pirie Tamm. He lives at Fair Winds, near Shillaway.''

Moncurio was for a moment taken aback: here was a new dimension to the case. He gave Wayness a quick sidelong glance, as if to divine her motives. “Yes, of course! I know Pirie Tamm well. But what are your questions?"

Glawen asked: “Did you speak with Melvish yesterday?”

Moncurio frowned. “Why do you ask?”

“He might have mentioned Benjamie, or Ben Barr, as you knew him.”

Moncurio grimaced. “Keebles called and left a message, but I was busy out in the field. When I returned his call, I had no answer.” Moncurio dropped into a chair. “Perhaps you will tell me what this is all about.”

“Certainly. Some time ago Keebles sold you a collection of Naturalist Society documents. He said that you still might have them in your possession.”

Moncurio raised his fine gray eyebrows. “Keebles is wrong. I traded the parcel to Xantief in Trieste.”

“You looked through the parcel before you traded it?”

“Naturally I am a careful man!”

“And you kept nothing?”

“Not so much as a torn photograph.”

“What of Keebles? Did he keep anything?"

Moncurio shook his head. “This stuff was not in Keebles' line. He took it in trade from a certain Floyd Swaner, now dead. In exchange, Keebles gave Swaner a set of tanglets.” He took a green Jade medallion from a shelf, and fondled it lovingly. “This is a tanglet, which the ancient Shadowmen used to certify the glory of their champions. Nowadays tanglets are much in vogue among the collectors.” He replaced the tanglet on the shelf. “Unfortunately, they are ever harder to find."

Glawen asked: “And the Naturalist documents — you know nothing about them — for instance, where they are now”?”

“Nothing, beyond what I have told you."

After a moment Wayness heaved a sigh. “I came down the ladder, rung by rung: Gohoon Galleries to Funusti Museum to Mirky Porod to Trieste, to Casa Lucasta, and finally to Moonway.”

“I came up the ladder, from Idola on the Big Prairie to Division City to Tanjaree to Moonway?’

"Moonway is the middle rung, where we should find what we are looking for, but Moonway is as empty as the rest."

Moncurio asked: "What are you seeking? Could it be the Cadwal Charter and Grant?”

Wayness nodded sadly. They have become very important, even critical, if Cadwal is to remain a conservancy.”

Glawen asked: “Did you know they were missing?”

“When I first saw the Naturalist documents, I noticed that the Charter and the Grant were missing. Keebles never saw them, of this I am certain. All of which means that he did not receive them from Floyd Swaner.”

“This surely was Smonny Clattuc’s opinion," said Glawen. “She burgled the Chilke barn any number of times and eviscerated the stuffed moose, but never came up with anything.”

“So what could have happened to the Charter and Grant?” asked Moncurio.

“That is the mystery we are trying to solve,” said Wayness.

"Grandpa Swaner left everything to his grandson Eustace,” said Glawen. “Smonny tried to get hold of Chilke’s property in every way she could think of, including marriage, which of course Chilke avoided. Life was too short, he said. Now it seems that no one — Chilke, Smonny, Wayness, you, I, no one — knows what has happened to the Charter and the Grant."

“An interesting problem,” said Moncurio. “I can offer no clues.” He pulled at his mustache, then glanced over his shoulder toward the bedchamber. The door was slightly ajar. Moncurio quietly crossed the room, eased the door shut and returned to his previous place. “We must not disturb Carlotta with our talk. Ha hm. It seems that you have gone to great pains in your search.” He looked toward Wayness. “Did I hear you mention 'Casa Lucasta’?”

“You did.”

Moncurio phrased a question with care. “Interesting we are speaking of 'Casa Lucasta' in — I forget the name of the town."

“Pombareales.”

“Yes, of course. And how go things in that odd little corner of Old Earth?”

Wayness considered. “The folk of Patagonia have long memories. They are still on the look-out for an archaeologist named 'Professor Solomon’.”

“Bah!” Moncurio gave an uncomfortable laugh. “You are referring to a promotional scheme which went sour. The idea was to advertise a new tourist complex, but at the last minute the principals backed off, and I was left in an exposed position. It’s the old, old story from which I emerged a cynic, I can assure you!”

Wayness gave an incredulous laugh. "A tourist resort on the pampas, with wind blowing weeds back and forth?"

Moncurio nodded with dignity. “I advised against the scheme, but when everything collapsed I was left alone to face the hysteria. They accused me, if you can believe it, of larceny, swindling, fraud, chicanery and much else. I was lucky to escape.”

“That is how it seems to everyone,” said Wayness.

Moncurio ignored the remark. “You visited Casa Lucasta?"

“Often.”

“And how is Irena?"

“Irena is dead.”

Moncurio’s face sagged in dismay. “What happened to her?"

“She killed herself, after trying to kill the two children.”

Moncurio winced. “And the children: what of them?"

“They are safe. Madame Clara said that you and Irena kept them dosed with drugs.”

“That is a malicious distortion! I did the children a great service in taking them from the Gangrils. On Nion life means nothing.”

“Still, why drag them on Old Earth? That is no great favor!"!

"It was for the benefit of us all! I can easily explain, though you may not easily understand. Listen then! I learned something of the Gangril drugs — not much; just a smattering. They are able to reinforce certain functions of the brain and suppress others. Clairvoyance is ability they can enhance.”

“Now then! I am an archaeologist of not inconsiderable reputation." Moncurio put on an expression of stern and inflexible dedication. “My first responsibility is to science; I am unswerving in this regard! Still, from time to time I am able to discover hidden treasures which allow me to finance my researches.”

“Uncle Pirie describes you as a 'tomb robber’," said Wayness.

"That is a bit uncharitable,” said Moncurio. “Still, I am a practical man, and I make no bones of it. The heroes of the ancient Shadowmen were burled with their tanglets. A set of such tanglets is worth a fortune. But only one tomb in sixty yields more than three or four and only one in a hundred is a hero's tomb. To dig into a single tomb is both tiresome and dangerous; I have evaded death by inches many times. If a clairvoyant person could indicate which of the tombs contained a set of hero's tanglets, in a year we could leave Moonway forever and live in prosperity the rest of our lives. And there you have the explanation for Irena, the drugs and the two children. Irena loved money above all else; I knew that she would be fanatically faithful."

The door leading into the bedchamber burst open and Carlotta stormed out into the sitting room. “I have heard enough! Do you think me deaf, dumb and blind? I am neither a Gangril, nor a robber, nor am I 'fanatically faithful’. I am disgusted with what I have heard! You would be treated to the rough edge of my tongue if we were alone!”

“Carlotta, my dear! Let us be temperate!”

“I am being temperate. I will call you a scoundrel, a festering sore and a human jackal. That is temperance and it must suffice. I will send for my belongings tomorrow."

Carlotta marched through the front door and out into the night. The door thudded shut.

Moncurio paced back and forth, head lowered, arms clasped behind his back. “I am dogged by adversity; it must be my destiny! After travail and endless patience, not to mention expense, my plans lie in shards!” He glanced sharply at Wayness. “Who informed you of my address? Was it Clara? I have never trusted that woman!”

“Myron told me.”

“Myron?” Moncurio’s jaw dropped. “How did he know?"

Wayness shrugged. ”Clairvoyance, perhaps.”

Moncurio resumed his pacing. Glawen and Wayness rose to their feet, bade Moncurio goodbye, and followed Carlotta out into the night.

Standing by the railing at the edge of the verandah they looked toward the ghostly ranks of the Standing Stones.

“I am still frightened,” said Wayness. “I was sure that I would be killed.”

“It was a near thing. I should never have let you go off by yourself.” Glawen put his arms around her; they embraced.

Wayness spoke at last. “So — what now?”

“At the moment I can't think of anything sensible. My head seems to be whirling. I would like to find us a civilized dinner with a bottle of wine. I have had nothing to eat for days on end except some bread and cheese and a bite of pold. At the moment I don’t even have a room.”

“No problem there,” said Wayness. “I have a very nice room."