Ecce and Old Earth

CHAPTER I

The sun had set. Glawen Clattuc, wet and shivering, turned away from the ocean and ran up Wansey Way through the twilight. Arriving at Clattuc House, he pushed through the front portal and into the reception hall. Here, to his annoyance, he discovered Spanchetta Clattuc, at the foot of the grand staircase.

Spanchetta stopped short to take critical note of his condition. Tonight she had draped her own majestic torso in a dramatic gown of striped scarlet and black taffeta, with a black vest and silver slippers. A rope of black pearls wound round and round her great turban of dark curls; black pearls depended from her ears. Spanchetta paused only an instant to look Glawen up and down, then with averted eyes and curled lip she swept off toward the refectory.

Glawen proceeded to the chambers he shared with his father Scharde Clattuc. He immediately stepped from his dank garments, bathed under a hot shower and started to dress in dry clothes but was interrupted by the chime of the telephone. Glawen called out: “Speak!"

The face of Bodwyn Wook appeared on the screen. In a sour voice he said: “The sun has long since set. Surely you have read Floreste's letter. I expected your call."

Glawen gave a hollow laugh. “I have seen only two sentences of the letter. Apparently my father is alive.”

That is good news. Why were you delayed?"

“There was trouble on the beach, which ended up in the surf. I survived. Kirdy drowned.”

Bodwyn Wook clapped his hands to his forehead. “Tell me no more the news is disturbing! He was a Wook."

“In any event, I was just about to call you.”

Bodwyn Wook heaved a sigh. “We will report an accidental drowning and forget the whole slackening affair. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir."

"I am not altogether easy with your conduct. You should have expected such an attack.”

“So I did, sir, which is why I went to the beach. Kirdy hated the ocean and I thought that he would stand clear. In the end, he died the death he dreaded most."

"Hmf,”said Bodwyn Wook. "You have a callous nature. Suppose he shot you from ambush, and destroyed Floreste's letter: what then?"

“That would not be Kirdy's way. He wanted me to look into his face while he killed me."

"And if Kirdy altered his custom, for this particular occasion?”

Glawen considered, then gave a small shrug. “Your reprimand, in that case, would be well deserved."

“Hmf,” said Bodwyn Wook with a grimace. “I am severe, certainly, but I have never gone so far as to reprimand a corpse." He leaned back in his chair. “We need take the matter no further. Bring the letter to my office and we will read it together.”

“Very well, sir.”

Glawen started to leave the chambers, but stopped short with his hand on the doorknob. He reflected a moment, then turned back and went to the side-room which served as utility room and office. Here he made a copy of Floreste's letter. The copy he folded and placed in a drawer; the original he tucked into his pocket, then departed.

Ten minutes later Glawen arrived at the Bureau B offices on the second floor of the New Agency, and was immediately admitted into Bodwyn Wook's private chambers. As usual, Bodwyn Wook sat in his massive leather upholstered chair. He held out his hand. “If you please.” Glawen gave him the letter. Bodwyn Wook waved his hand toward a chair. “Sit.”

Glawen obeyed the instruction. Bodwyn Wook extracted the letter from its envelope, and began to read aloud using a nasal drone not at all in accord with the extravagances and felicities of Floreste’s language.

The letter was discursive and sometimes rambled off into an explication of Floreste’s philosophy. He expressed pro forma contrition for his deeds, but the words lacked conviction and Floreste seemed to intend the letter as a justification for his activities. “There is no question, and I state this positively,” wrote Floreste. “I am one of the few persons who may properly profess the designation ‘Overman’; there are few indeed like me! In any case, ordinary strictures of common morality should not apply, least they interfere with my supreme creativity. Alas! I still am like a fish in a tank, swimming with other fish, and I must obey their procedures or they will nip my fins!”

Floreste agreed that his dedication to ‘ART’ had persuaded him to irregularities. “I have taken shortcuts on the long and tedious route to my goals; I have been trapped and now my fins are nipped.”

“Had I to do it all over again.” mused Floreste, “I surely would have been more careful! Of course it is often possible to gain the accolades of Society even while one is arrogantly flouting and demeaning the most sacred dogmas which are in its very soul! In this respect Society is like a great cringing animal, the more you abuse it, the more it lavishes upon you. Ah well, too late now to worry about these niceties of conduct.

Floreste went on to ponder his crimes. “My offenses are difficult to weigh on an exact scale, or balance against the benefits derived from the so-called 'crimes’. The fulfillment of my great goal may well justify the sacrifice of a few futile wisps of humanity, which otherwise would have served no purpose.”

Bodwyn Wook paused to turn a page. Glawen observed: “The ‘futile wisps’ of course would not agree with Floreste”.

“Naturally not," said Bodwyn Wook. “His general thesis is certainly arguable; still, we cannot allow every vagabond dog-barber who calls himself an 'artist' to commit vile crimes while pursuing his Muse."

Floreste turned his attention to Simonetta; she had told him much about herself and the events of her lifetime. After storming from Araminta Station in a fury, she had wandered the Gaean Reach far and wide, living by her wits, marrying and remarrying, consorting and reconsorting, and in general living a self-willed adventurous life. While a member of the Monomantic Cult she met Zadine Babbs, or

'Zaa' as she called herself, and a brute of a woman named Sibil de Vella. The three banded together, became ‘Ordenes’ and assumed control of the cult.

Smonny soon tired of routines and restrictions, and abandoned the seminary. A month later she met Titus Zigonie, a small plump mam of submissive character. Titus Zigonie owned Shadow Valley Ranch on the world Rosalia, as well as a spacious Clayhacker Space yacht: attributes which Smonny found irresistible, and Titus Zigonie found himself married to Smonny almost before he realized what was happening.

A few years later Smonny visited Old Earth, where she chanced to encounter one Kelvin Kilduc, current Secretary of the Naturalist Society. During their conversation Secretary Kilduc mentioned the former secretary Frons Nisfit and his peculations. Kilduc suspected that Nisfit had gone so far as to sell the original Charter to a collector of ancient documents. “Not that it makes any difference,” Kilduc hastened to add. “The Conservancy now exists by its own momentum and will do so forever, Charter or no Charter or so I am assured."

"Of course,” said Smonny.” Naturally! I wonder with whom the wicked Nisfit dealt?"

“That is hard to say.”

Smonny made inquiries among the antiquarians and discovered one of the stolen documents. It was part of a lot sold off by a collector named Floyd Swaner. Smonny traced him down but it was too late; Floyd Swaner was dead. His heir and grandson Eustace Chilke was said to be something of a ne'er-do-well, always on the move, here and there, far and wide. His present whereabouts were unknown.

On Rosalia, labor was scare. Smonny contracted with Namour for a workforce of indentured Yips, and in such a fashion renewed her connection with Cadwal.

Namour and Smonny evolved a wonderful new scheme. Calyactus, Oomphaw of Yipton, had become old and foolish. Namour persuaded him to visit Rosalia for medical treatments which would renew his youth. At Shadow Valley Ranch Calyactus was poisoned; Titus Zigonie, calling himself Titus Pompo, became Oomphaw in his stead.

Smonny's investigators finally discovered Eustace Chilke working as a tour-bus operator at Seven Cities on John Prestons World. As soon as possible Smonny introduced herself to Chilke and hired him to supervise Shadow Valley Ranch. She finally decided to marry him, but Chilke politely declined the honor. Smonny became peevish and dismissed Chilke from his position. Namour ultimately look him to Araminta Station.

Smonny and Namour are an amazing pair," wrote Floreste. “Nether have any scruples whatever, though Namour likes to pose as a gentleman of culture, and for a fact is a personable fellow, with many odd competences. He can force his body to obey the steel of his will. Think! He has acted the role of complaisant lover for both Spanchetta and Smonny, managing both affairs aplomb. Namour, if for no other reason than your superb daring, I salute you!

“So little time is left to me! Were I to live I would compose a heroic ballet, for three principals, representing Smonny, Spanchetta and Namour! Ah, the stately evolutions of my principals I see the patterns clearly; they swing, whirl, come and go, with the awful Justice of Fate! The music I hear in my mind's ear; it is poignant indeed, and the costumes are extraordinary! So goes the dance! The three figures project sentience, and conduct their perambulations with care. I see them now: they circle and go, up-stage and down, mincing and preening, each at his proper gait. How shall the finale be resolved?

It is all a bagatelle. Why should I trouble my poor mind over such a question? I shall not be here to direct the production.”

Again Bodwyn Wook paused in his reading. “Perhaps we should have allowed Floreste time to complete this last production it sounds fascinating!”

“I find it tiresome, “said Glawen.

“You are either too young or too practical for such appreciation. Floreste's mind seethes with intriguing notions.”

“He takes a long time getting to the point: that is certain.”

“Aha! Not from Floreste's viewpoint. This is his testament: his entire reason for being. This is not casual frivolity that you hear but a wail of utter grief.” Bodwyn Wook returned to the letter. “I shall read on. Perhaps he is now in the mood to recite a fact or two."

Floreste's tone was indeed somewhat flatter. Before Glawens return to Araminta Station, Floreste had visited Yipton to plan a new round of entertainments. Thurben Island could no longer be used, and another more convenient location must be selected. During a conversation, Titus Pompo, loose-tongued by reason of too many Trelawny Sloshes, revealed that Smonny had at last settled an old score. She had captured Scharde Clattuc, confiscated his flyer, and taken him to her prison. Titus gravely shook his head. Scharde would pay dearly for the prideful attitudes which had cost Smonny such grief! As the flyer, it represented partial compensation for the flyers destroyed by the Bureau B raid. After drinking from his goblet, Titus Pompo asserted that it would not be the last flyer so confiscated!

“We will see about that” said Bodwyn Wook.

Scharde had been taken to the strangest of all prisons where 'out was in' and 'in was out’. The prisoners were at liberty to attempt escape whenever the mood came on them.

Bodwyn Wook paused in his reading to pour out two mugs of ale.

“That is a strange prison,” said Glawen. “Where could it be located?”

“Let us proceed. Floreste is perhaps a bit absentminded, but I suspect that he will not omit this important detail.”

Bodwyn Wook read on. Almost at once Floreste identified the unique prison as the dead volcano Shattorak at the center of Ecce: an ancient cone rising two thousand feet above the swamps and jungles. The prisoners occupied a strip outside the stockade which encircled the summit and protected the prison officials. The jungle grew high up the slopes; the prisoners slept in tree-houses or behind makeshift stockades to avoid the predators from the jungle. By reason of Smonny's vindictiveness, Scharde had not been killed out of hand.

Titus Pompo, now thoroughly drunk, went on to reveal that five flyers were concealed at Shattorak, together with a cache of weapons. From time to time, when Smonny wished to travel off-world, Titus Pompo's Clayhacker space yacht landed upon Shattorak, taking care to avoid the Araminta Station radar. Titus Pompo was quite content with his pleasant routines at Yipton: an amplitude of rich food; sloshes, slings, punches and toddles; incessant massaging and stroking worked upon him by Yip maidens.

"That is all I know" wrote Floreste. “Despite my happy relations with Araminta Station where I had hoped to build my great monument, I felt, rightly or wrongly, that I should not betray Titus Pompo's drunken confidences, for this reason: they would surely be revealed of themselves soon and without my intercession. You may consider this qualm weak-minded and maudlin. You will insist that ‘right is right' and any deviation or skulkery or failure to bear the burdens of virtue are ‘not right'. At this moment I shall not disagree.

“To make a feeble demonstration on my own behalf I will point out that I am not utterly faithless. As best I could, I paid my obligation to Namour, who would not have done the same for me. Of all men, he probably deserves consideration the least, and he is no less guilty than I. Still, in my lonely and foolish way, I have kept faith and allowed him time to make good his flight. I trust that he never troubles Araminta Station again, since it is a place dear to my heart, where I planned the Araminta Center for the Performing Arts: the new Orpheum. I have transgressed, but so I justify my peccancies.

“It is too late for tears of penitence. They would not in any case carry conviction — not even to myself. Still, when all is said and done, I see that I die not so much for my venality as for my folly. These are the most dismal words known to man: “Ah, what might have been, had only I been wiser!”

“Such is my apologia. Take it or leave it as you will. I am overcome by weariness and a great sadness; I can write no more.”

Wook placed the letter carefully down upon his desk. “So much for Floreste. He has declared himself. If nothing else, he knew how to contrive exquisite excuses for himself. But to proceed. The situation is complex and we carefully consider our response. Yes, Glawen? You have an opinion?"

“We should strike Shattorak at once."

“Why so?”

“To rescue my father, of course!"

Bodwyn Wook nodded sagely. “That concept is at least simple and uncomplicated: so much can be said for it."

"That’s good to hear. Where does the idea go wrong?"

“It is a reflex, prompted by Clattuc emotion rather than cool Wook intellect.” Glawen growled something under his breath which Bodwyn Wook ignored. “I remind you that Bureau B is essentially an administrative agency, which has been pressed to perform quasi-military functions only by default. At best, we can deploy two or three dozen operatives: all highly trained, valuable men. There are how many Yips? Who knows? Sixty thousand? Eighty thousand? A hundred thousand? Far too many.”

“Now then. Floreste mentions five flyers at Shattorak: several more than I would have expected. We can put at seven or eight flyers into the air, none heavily armed. Shattorak is no doubt defended by ground weapons. We strike boldly at Shattorak. In the worst case, we could take losses that would destroy Bureau B, and next week the Yips would swarm across to the Foreshore. And in the best case? We must reckon with Smonny's spies. We might storm over to Shattorak, land in force, and discover no fine jail, no flyer depot, nothing but corpses. No Scharde, no flyers, nothing, just failure.”

Glawen was still dissatisfied. "That does not sound like the best case to me.”

“Only under the terms of your proposal.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“First, consideration of our options. Second, reconnaissance. Third, attack, with full stealth.” He brought an image to the wall screen. “There you see Shattorak, a mere pimple on the swamp. It is of course two thousand feet high. The river to the south is the Vertes.” The image expanded, to provide a view across the summit of Shattorak: a sterile expanse, slightly disk-shaped, surfaced with coarse grey sand and ledges of black rock. A pond of copper-blue water occupied the center. "The area is about ten acres,” said Bodwyn Wook. “The picture is at least a hundred years old; I don’t think we have been there since.”

“It looks hot.”

"So it does, and so it is. I will shift the perspective. You will notice a strip about two hundred yards wide surrounding the summit where the incline begins. The ground is still barren except for a few large trees. These are evidently where the prisoners sleep. Below the jungle begins. If Floreste is correct, the prisoners reside around the strip, and are free to escape across the swamp whenever they like.”

Glawen studied the image in silence.

“We must scout the terrain with care, and only then proceed,” said Bodwyn Wook. “Are we agreed?”

“Yes,” said Glawen. “We are agreed.”

Bodwyn Wook went on. “I am puzzled by Floreste’s references to Chilke. It appears that he is here at Araminta Station only by reason of Smonny’s scheming to find and control the Charter. I wonder too about the Society on Old Earth: why are they not taking steps to locate the lost documents?"

“There are not many members left, so I am told.”

“Are they indifferent to the Conservancy? That is hard to believe. Who is the current Secretary?”

Glawen responded cautiously: "I think that he is a cousin of the Conservator, named Pirie Tamm.”

“Indeed! Did not the Tamm girl go off to Earth?”

"So she did.”

“Well then! Since-uh, what is her name?”

“Wayness.”

“Just so. Since Wayness is present on Old Earth, perhaps she can help us in regard to the missing documents from the Society archives. Write her and suggest that she make a few inquiries into this matter. Emphasize that she should be absolutely discreet, and give out no clue as to her objectives. For a fact, I can see where this might develop into an important issue.”

Glawen nodded thoughtfully. “As a matter of fact, Wayness is already making such inquiries.”

“Ah ha! What has she learned, if anything?”

“I don’t know. I have had no letters from her.”

Bodwyn Wook raised his eyebrows. “She has not written you?"

“I’m sure she has written. But I have never received her letters."

“Odd. The doorman at Clattuc House has probably tucked them behind his wine-cooler.”

“That is a possibility, though I'm beginning to suspect another person entirely. In any event, I think that as soon as we deal with Shattorak, I should take advice from Chilke, then go to Earth to look for these documents.”

“Hmf yes. Ahem. First things first, which means Shattorak. In due course we will talk further on the subject.” Bodwyn Wook picked up Floreste's letter. “I will take charge of this.”

Glawen made no complaint, and departed the New Agency. He ran back to Clattuc House at a purposeful trot and pushed through the front portal. To the side were a pair of small chambers occupied by Alarion co-Clattuc, the head, doorman, together with an antechamber where, if necessary, he could overlook comings and goings. Alarion’s duties included receipt of incoming mail, sorting and delivering parcels, letters and inter-House memoranda to the designated apartments.

Glawen touched a bell-button and Alarion appeared from his private rooms: a white-hatred man, thin and bent, whose only vanity would seem to be a small goatee. “Good evening, Glawen! What can I do for you this evening?"

“You might enlighten me regarding some letters which should have arrived for me from Old Earth.”

“I can only inform you as to what I know of my certain knowledge,” said Alarion. “You would not want me to fabricate tales of non-existent parcels and messages engraved on gold tablets delivered by the archangel Sersimanthes.”

“I take it that nothing of that sort has arrived?"

Alarion glanced over his shoulder toward his sorting table. "No, Glawen. Nor anything else."

“As you know, I was away from the Station for several months. During this time I should have received a number of letters from off-world; yet I cannot find them. Do you remember any such letters arriving during my absence?"

Alarion said slowly: “I seem to recall such letters. They were delivered to your chambers, even after Scharde met with his accident. As always, I dropped the letters into the door-slot. Then, of course, Arles moved into your rooms for a time, but surely he took proper care of your mail. No doubt the letters are tucked away somewhere."

“No doubt,” said Glawen. “Thank you for the information."

Glawen became aware that he was ravenously hungry: no surprise, since he had not eaten since morning. In the refectory he made a hurried meal on dark bread, beans and cucumbers, then went up to his apartments. He seated himself before the telephone. He touched buttons, but in response was treated to a crisp official voice: “You are making a restricted call, and cannot be connected without authorization."

“I am Captain Glawen Clattuc, Bureau B. That is sufficient authorization.”

“Sorry, Captain Clattuc. Your name is not on the list.”

“Then put it on the list! Check with Bodwyn Wook if you like.”

A moment passed. The voice spoke again. “Your name is now on the list, sir. To whom do you wish the connection?”

“Arles Clattuc.”

Five minutes passed before Arles heavy face peered hopefully into the screen. At the sight of Glawen, the hope gave way to a scowl. “What do you want, Glawen? I thought It was something important. This place is bad enough without harassment from you.”

"It might get worse, Arles, depending upon what happened to my mail."

"Your mail?”

“Yes, my mail. It was delivered to my chambers and now it’s gone. What happened to it?"

Arles voice rose in pitch as he focused his mind upon the unexpected problem. He responded peevishly: "I don't remember any mail. There was just a lot of trash. The place was a pig-pen when we moved in."

Glawen gave a savage laugh. “If you threw away my mail, you'll be breaking rocks a lot longer than eighty-five days! Think seriously, Arles”

“No need to take that tone with me! If there was mail, it probably got bundled up into your other stuff and stored in a box.”

"I have been through my boxes and I have found no letters. Why? Because you opened them and read them."

“Nonsense! Not purposely, at least if I saw mail with the name ‘Clattuc’ on it, I might have automatically glanced at it.”

"Then what?”

“I told you: I don’t remember!"

"Did you give it to your mother to read?"

Arles licked his lips. “She might have picked it up, in order to take care of it."

"And she read it in front of you!"

“I did not say that. Anyway, I wouldn't remember. I don’t keep a watch on my mother. Is that all you wanted to say?"

“Not quite, but it will do until I find what happened to my letters." Glawen broke the connection. For a moment he stood in the center of the room brooding. Then he changed into his official Bureau B jacket and cap and took himself down the corridor to Spanchetta’s apartments.

A maid responded to the bell and conducted him into the reception parlor an octagonal chamber furnished with a central octagonal settee upholstered in green silk. In four alcoves four cinnabar urns displayed tall bouquets of purple lilies. Spanchetta stepped into the room. Tonight she had elected to dramatize her majestic big-bosomed torso in a gown of lusterless black, unadorned by so much as a silver button. The hem brushed the floor; long sleeves draped her arms; her hair lofted above her scalp in an amazing pyramidal pile of black curls almost a foot high, and she had toned her skin stark white. For five seconds she stood in the doorway, staring at Glawen with eyes glinting like slivers of black glass, then advanced into the room. “What is your business here, that you come dressed in your toy uniform?”

“The uniform is official and I am here on an official investigation.”

Spanchetta gave a mocking laugh. “And of what am I accused on this occasion?"

“I wish to question you, in regard to the purloining and wrongful sequestration of mail — namely, the mail which arrived for me during my absence.”

Spanchetta made a scornful gesture. “What should I know of your mail?”

“I have been in communication with Arles. Unless you produce the mail at once, I shall order an instant search of the premises. In this case you will be subject to criminal charges whether the mail is found or whether it is not found, since the testimony of Arles has established that the mail was given into your custody."

Spanchetta reflected a moment, then turned away and started from the room. Glawen followed on her heels. Spanchetta stopped short, and snapped over her shoulder: you are invading a private domicile. That is a notable offense.

“Not under circumstances such as this. I want to see where you have been keeping the letters. Also I don’t care to cool my heels an hour or so in the reception parlor while you go about your affairs.”

Spanchetta managed a grim-smile and turned away. In the corridor she stopped by a tall armoire. From one of the drawers she took a packet of letters secured with string. “This is what you are looking for. I forgot about them; it is as simple as that.”

Glawen leafed through the letters which numbered four. All had been opened. Spanchetta watched without comment.

Glawen could think of nothing to say which could adequately express his outrage. He heaved a deep sigh. “You may be hearing more from me in this matter.”

Spanchetta’s silence was insulting. Glawen turned on his heel and departed, that he might not say or do anything to compromise his dignity. The maid politely opened the door Glawen stalked through and out into the corridor.

Glawen returned to his own chambers, and stood in the middle of the siting room, seething with fury. Spanchetta’s conduct was worse than intolerable; it was indescribable. As always, after Spanchetta had performed one of her characteristic offenses, there seemed no reasonable or dignified recourse. Time and time again the rueful remark had been made: “Spanchetta is Spanchetta! She is like a natural force; there is no coping with her just leave her be; that is the only way."

Glawen looked down at the letters he clutched in his hand. All had been opened and carelessly resealed, with no regard for his sensibilities; it was as if they had been violated and befouled. There was nothing he could do about it, since he could not throw the letters away. He must accept the humiliation.

“I must be practical,” said Glawen. He went to the couch and flung himself down. One by one he examined the letters.

The first had been posted from Andromeda 6011 IV the junction where Wayness would transfer to an Explorer Route packet for the remainder of her voyage to old Earth. The second and third letters had been mailed from Yssinges, a village near Shillaway on Earth; the fourth from Mirky Porod in Draczeny.

Glawen read the letters quickly, one after the other, then read them more slowly a second time. In the first letter she wrote of her journey along the Wisp to Port Blue Lamp on Andromeda 6011 IV. The second letter announced her arrival upon Old Earth. She spoke of Pirie Tamm and his quaint old house near Yssinges. Little had changed since her last visit, and she felt almost as if she were coming home. Pirie Tamm had been saddened to hear of Milo's death and had expressed deep concern over the state of affairs existent upon Cadwal. "Uncle Pirie is Secretary of the Society somewhat against his will. He is not interested in talking Society business with me, and perhaps thinks me too curious, even something of a nuisance. Why, he seems to wonder, should I, at my age, be so concerned with old documents and their whereabouts? At times he has been almost sharp and I must move carefully. It seems to me he wants to sweep the whole problem under the rug, on the theory that if he pretends the problem does not exist it will go away. Uncle Pirie, so I fear, is not aging gracefully."

Wayness wrote guardedly of her 'researches' and the obstacles and barriers she constantly found in her way. Other circumstances she found not only puzzling but also somewhat frightening — the more so that she could not identify them or convince herself of their reality. Old Earth, wrote Wayness somberly, was in many ways as sweet and fresh and innocent as it might have been during the archaic ages, but sometimes it seemed dank and dark and steeped in mystery. Wayness would very much have welcomed Glawen’s company, for a number of reasons.

“Don’t worry,” said Glawen to the letter. “As soon as soon can be, I'll be on my way!”

In the third letter Wayness expressed concern over the lack of news from Glawen. She spoke even more cautiously than before of her ’researches’, which, so she hinted, might well take her into far parts of the world. “The odd events I mentioned still occur” wrote Wayness. “I am almost certain that — but no, I won’t write it; I won’t even think it.”

Glawen grimaced. “What can be happening? Why is she not more careful? At least until I arrive?”

The fourth letter was short and the most despairing of all, and only the postmark, at Draczeny in the Moholc indicated her activity. “I won’t write again until I hear from you! Either my letters or yours have gone astray, or something awful has happened to you!” She included no return address, writing only: “I am leaving here tomorrow, though as of this instant I am not quite sure where I will go. As soon as I know something definite, I will communicate with my father, and he will let you know. I do not dare tell you anything more specific for fear that these letters might fall into the wrong hands.”

Spanchetta’s hands were certainly wrong enough, thought Glawen. The letters made no specific references which might compromise Wayness’ 'researches’, although many of her guarded allusions might well intrigue a person of Spanchetta's cast of mind.

Wayness made a single reference to the Charter, but in connection with the moribund Naturalist Society. A harmless reference, thought Glawen. She wrote sadly of Pirie Tamm’s disillusionment with the entire Conservationist concept, whose time, so he felt, had come and gone — at least in the case of Cadwal, where generations of over flexible Naturalists, in the name of expediency, had allowed circumstances to reach their present difficult stage.

“Uncle Pirie is pessimistic,“ wrote Wayness. “He feels that the Conservationists on Cadwal must protect the Charter with their own strength, since the current Naturalist Society has neither the force nor the will to assist. I have heard him declare that Conservancy, by its innate nature, can only be a transitory phase in the life-cycle of a world such as Cadwal. I tried to argue with him, pointing out that there is no intrinsic reason why a rational administration guided by a strong Charter cannot maintain Conservancy forever, and that the current problems on Cadwal arise from what amounts to the sloth and avarice of the former administrators: they wanted a plentiful source of cheap labor and so allowed the Yips to remain on Lutwen Atoll in clear violation of the Charter, and it is this generation which must finally bite the bullet and set matters right. How? Obviously the Yips must be transferred from Cadwal to an equivalent or better off-world location: a hard, costly and nervous process, and at the moment beyond our capacity. Uncle Pirie listens only with half an ear, as if my well-reasoned projections were the babblings of a naïve child. Poor Uncle Pirie I wish he were more cheerful! Most of all, I wish you were here.”

Glawen telephoned Riverview House, and brought the face of Egon Tamm to the screen. "Glawen Clattuc here. I have just now read the letters Wayness wrote me from Earth. Spanchetta had intercepted them and laid them aside. She had no intention of giving them to me.”

Egon Tamm shook his head in amazement. “What a strange woman! Why should she do something like that?”

“It indicates her contempt for anything connected with me or my father.”

“It still verges upon the irrational. Every day the world becomes more perplexing. Wayness confuses me; her conduct is beyond my understanding. But she refuses to confide in me, on the grounds that I could not conscientiously keep my mouth shut.” Egon Tamm turned a searching gaze upon Glawen. “What of you? Surely you must have some clue as to what is going on!”

Glawen sidestepped the question. “I have no idea where she is or what she is doing. She has had no letters from me — for a very good reason, of course — so she is not writing until she hears from me.”

“I have had no recent letters. She tells me nothing in any case. Still, I sense a force, or pressure, pushing her where she really does not want to go. She is much too young and inexperienced for any serious trouble. I am deeply concerned.”

Glawen said in a subdued voice: “I have much the same feeling.”

”Why is she so secretive?"

“Evidently she has learned something which would cause damage if it were generally known. Indeed, if I might make a suggestion?”

“Suggest all you like”

“It might be best if neither of us should so much as speculate regarding Wayness in public.”

“That is an interesting idea, which I do not totally understand. Still I will take it to heart — though I am baffled by what could have so aroused the girl and taken her so far away. Our problems are undeniably real, but they are here on Cadwal!”

Glawen said uncomfortably: “I am certain that she has good reasons for whatever she is doing.”

“No doubt her next letter may supply a few more details.”

“And include her current address, or so I hope. Speaking of letters, I imagine that Bodwyn Wook told you of Floreste's final testament. “

“He reported its gist and recommended that I study it in detail. In fact — first, let me explain conditions at Riverview House. Every year I must endure official scrutiny of my affairs by a pair of wardens. This year the two wardens are Wilder Fergus and Dame Clytie Vergence, whom I think you will remember and her nephew Julian Bohost is here also.”

“I remember them well.”

“They are unforgettable. I have other unusual guests. 'Unusual,' that is, in the context of Riverview House. They are Lewyn Barduys and his traveling companion, a creature of many distinctions who uses the name ‘Flitz’.”

“ 'Flitz'?”

“No more, no less. Barduys is a man of wealth, and can afford such frivolities. I know nothing about him, except that he seems to be a friend of Dame Clytie.”

“Dame Clytie is her usual self?”

“Even more so. She has elevated Titus Pompo to the stature of a folk hero-a noble and selfless revolutionary champion of the oppressed.”

“She is serious?”

“Quite serious.”

Glawen smiled thoughtfully. “Floreste discusses Titus Pompo in some detail.”

“I would like to hear this letter,” said Egon Tamm. “My guests might also be interested. Perhaps you would join us for lunch tomorrow and read the letter aloud.”

“I will be happy to do so.”

“Good! Until tomorrow, then, a bit before noon.”

In the morning Glawen telephoned the airport and was connected to Chilke. "Good morning, Glawen," said Chilke. "What is on your mind?"

“I would like a few words with you, at your convenience.”

“One time is as good as another."

"I'll be there at once.”

Arriving at the airport, Glawen went to the glass-walled office at the side of the hangar. Here he found Chilke: a man of invincible nonchalance, a veteran of a thousand escapades, some creditable. Chilke was sturdy and heavy-shouldered, of middle stature, with a blunt-featured face, an unruly mat of dust-colored curls and cheeks roped with cartilage.

Chilke stood by a side-table, pouring tea into a mug. He looked over his shoulder. “Sit down, Glawen. Will you have some tea?"

“If you please.”

Chilke poured out another mug. “This is the authentic stuff, from the far hills of Old Earth, not just some local seaweed." Chilke settled himself into his chair. “What brings you out so early?”

Glawen looked through the glass panes of the partition and across the hangar. “Can we talk without being overheard?”

“I think so. No one has his ear pressed to the door. That's a feature of glass walls. Any odd conduct makes you conspicuous."

“What about microphones?”

Chilke swung around and turned knobs to bring a wild wailing music from a speaker. “That should jam any microphone within hearing range, so long as you don’t try to sing. Now what is it that is so secret?"

“This is the copy of a letter Floreste wrote yesterday afternoon. He says that my father is still alive. He also mentions you." Glawen gave the letter to Chilke. “Read it for yourself."

Chilke took the letter, leaned back in his chair and read. Halfway through he looked up. "Isn't it amazing? Smonny still thinks I own a great hoard of Grandpa Swaner's valuables.”

“It’s only amazing if you don’t. And you don’t?”

“I hardly think so.”

“Have you ever made an inventory of the estate?"

Chilke shook his head. “Why bother? It’s just refuse cluttering up the barn. Smonny knows this very well; she's burgled the place four times.”

“You're sure it was Smonny”

"No one else has showed any interest in the stuff. I wish she would take herself in hand. It makes me nervous to be the object of her avarice, or affection, or wrath-whatever it is." Chilke returned to the letter. He finished, mused a moment, then tossed the letter back to Glawen. "Now you want to rush out and rescue your father.”

“Something like that.”

“And Bodwyn Wook is joining you on the mission?”

“I doubt it. He is a bit over-cautious.”

“I suspect for good reason.”

Glawen shrugged. “He is convinced that Shattorak is defended and that an attack from the air would cost us five or six flyers and half of the staff.”

"You call that over-caution? I call it common sense.”

“A raid would not need to come down from above. We could land a force somewhere on the slope of Shattorak and attack from the side. He still sees difficulties.”

"So do I.” said Chilke. “Where would the flyers land? In the jungle?"

“There must be open areas.”

“So it might be. First we would need to alter the landing gear of all our flyers, which would be duly noted by the spies". They would also give notice of our departure and Smonny would have five hundred Yips waiting for us."

“I thought you had chased out all your spies?”

Chilke held out his hands in a gesture of helpless and injured innocence. "What happens when I need to hire mechanics? I use what I find. I know I have spies, just like a dog knows it has fleas. I even know who they are. There's one of my prime candidates yonder, working on the carry-all door: a magnificent specimen by the name of Benjamie.”

Looking toward the carry-all, Glawen observed a tall young man of superb physique, flawless features, coal black hair and clear bronze skin. Glawen watched him a moment, then asked: “What makes you think he's a spy?”

"He works hard, obeys all orders, smiles more than necessary, and watches everything which is going on. That’s how I pick out all the spies: they work the hardest and give the least trouble-aside from their crimes, of course. If I were a deep-dyed cynic, I might try to hire all spies."

Glawen had been watching Benjamie. “He doesn't look like a typical spy."

“Perhaps not. He looks even less like a typical worker. I've always felt in my bones it was Benjamie who laid the trap for your father."

"But you have no proof.”

"If I had proof, Benjamie would not be grinning so cheerfully.”

“Well, so long as Benjamie is not watching, this is what I have in mind." Glawen explained his concept. Chilke listened dubiously. "At this end, the notion is feasible, but I can't turn a tap without clearance from Bodwyn Wook."

Glawen gave a sour nod. “That is what I thought you'd say. Very well; I'll go this very minute and put my case to him."

Glawen hurried up Wansey Way to the New Agency, only to be informed by Hilda, the vinegary office manager, that Bodwyn Wook had not yet put in an appearance. Hilda was suspicious and resentful of Glawen. She felt that he enjoyed too many perquisites. “You’ll have to wait, just like everybody else," said Hilda.

Glawen cooled his heels for an hour before Bodwyn Wook’s arrival. Ignoring Glawen, he stopped by Hilda’s desk to mutter a few terse words, then-marched past Glawen looking neither to right nor to left.

Glawen waited another ten minutes, then told Hilda: “You may announce to the superintendent that captain Glawen Clattuc has arrived and wishes a word with him.”

“He knows you're here.”

“I can’t wait much longer.”

“Oh?" demanded Hilda sarcastically. “You have an important engagement elsewhere?”

“The Conservator has invited me to lunch at Riverview House.”

Hilda grimaced. She spoke into the mesh of the transceiver.

“Glawen is becoming restive."

Bodwyn Wook’s voice came as a harsh mumble. Hilda turned to Glawen. “You can go on in.”

Glawen marched with dignity into the inner office. Bodwyn Wook looked up from his desk and jerked his thumb toward a chair. Be seated, please. What is all this about you and the Conservator?”

“I had to tell that woman something; otherwise she would keep me sitting bolt upright all day. It's clear that she dislikes me intensely. “

“Wrong!" declared Bodwyn Wook. “She adores you but is afraid to show it.”

"I find that hard to believe,” said Glawen.

“No matter let us not waste time discussing Hilda and her megrims. Why are you here? Do you have something new to tell me? If not, go away.”

Glawen spoke in a controlled voice. “I would like to ask your plans in regard to Shattorak.”

Bodwyn Wook said briskly. “The matter has been taken under advisement. As of this instant, no decisions have been made.”

Glawen raised-his eyebrows as if in surprise. “I should think haste would be a priority.”

“We have a dozen priorities. Among other incidentals, I would very much like to destroy Titus Pompo's space yacht — or, even better, capture it.''

“But you are planning no immediate action to rescue my father?”

Bodwyn Wook flung his lank arms into the air. “Do I plan a hell-roaring swoop upon Shattorak in full force? Not today and not tomorrow.”

''What is your thinking?”

“Have I not explained? We want to survey the ground with stealth and caution. That is how we do it at Bureau B, where intellect dominates hysteria! Some of the time, at least."

“I have an idea which seems to accord with your plans."

“Ha hah!” If it entails a private assault, replete with Clattuc flair and insolence, save your breath. We can spare no flyers for any such madcap excursion.''

“I intend nothing so rash, sir, and I would not use one of the Bureau flyers.”

“You plan to walk and swim?"

“No, sir. There is an old Skyrie utility flyer at the back of the airport. The superstructure is cut away; in fact it is no more than a flying platform. Chilke sometimes uses it to carry freight down to Cape Journal. It is suitable for what I have in mind.”

“Which is, specifically what?"

“I would approach Ecce at sea level, fly up the Vertes River to the foot of Shattorak, secure the Skyrie and proceed up the slope to the prison. There I would reconnoiter."

“My dear Glawen, your proposal is as like to horrid suicide as two peas in a pod.”

Glawen smilingly shook his head, "I hope not."

“How can you avoid it? The beasts are savage."

"Chilke will help me equip the Skyrie."

“Aha! So you have taken Chilke into your confidence."

“Necessarily. We will install floats and a canopy over the front section, also a pair of G-ZR guns, on swivels.”

“And after you set down the Skyrie, what then? Do you think you can simply saunter up the hill? The jungle is as evil as the swamp.”

“According to the references, the creatures become torpid during the afternoon.”

“Because of the heat. You will go torpid, as well.”

“I'll load the small swamp crawler on the afterdeck of the Skyrie. It might make the climb up Shattorak easier, perhaps safer.”

“Words like 'easy' and 'safe' don’t apply on Ecce.”

Glawen looked off out the window. “I hope to survive.”

“I hope so too,“ said Bodwyn Wook.

“Then you will approve the plan?”

“Not so fast. Assume you are able to climb Shattorak, what then?”

“I'll arrive at the prison strip outside the stockade. With luck, I'll find my father at once, and we will return down the hill with as little commotion as possible. If his absence is noticed, it will be assumed that he tried to escape across the jungle."

Bodwyn Wook gave a disparaging grunt. “That is the optimum case. You might be detected, or trip some kind of alarm."

“The same would be true of any attempt at reconnaissance."

Bodwyn Wook shook his head. “Scharde is a lucky man. If I were captured, I wonder who would come for me.”

"I would, sir.”

“Very well, Glawen. I see that you are determined to have your way. Use prudence. Do not challenge unfavorable odds. Clattuc élan is useless on Mount Shattorak. Secondly, if you cannot rescue your father, bring away another person who can supply us with information.”

“Very well, sir. What of radio communication?”

“We don’t have peepers[5].There has never before been any need for such things. You must do without. Now then, what else?"

“You might call Chilke and mention that he is to proceed on the Skyrie.”

“Very well. Anything more?”

“You should know that Egon Tamm has invited me to Riverview House. He wants me to read Floreste's letter to Dame Clytie Vergence and some of the other LPFers.”

“Hmf. You have become quite the society man. I suppose you want a copy of the letter."

“I already have one, sir.”

“That is all, Glawen! Be off with you!”

Shortly before noon Glawen arrived at Riverview House, where he was admitted into the shadowy front hall by Egon Tamm himself. In the last few months, so it seemed to Glawen, Egon had aged perceptibly. Gray dusted the dark hair at his temples; his clear olive complexion had taken on an ivory pallor. He greeted Glawen in more than ordinary cordiality. “In all candor, Glawen, I am not enjoying my present company. I find it difficult to maintain my official detachment.”

“Dame Clytie is evidently in good form.”

“The best! She is at it now, pacing up and down the parlor, exposing criminals, issuing manifestoes, and generally expounding her new pantology. Julian calls out, ‘Hear, hear!’, from time to time and tries one debonair attitude after another, so that Flitz will notice him. Lewyn Barduys listens with half an ear. I cannot guess what he is thinking; his mind is opaque. Warden Fergus and Dame Larica are both staid and proper, and sit in dignified silence. I am not anxious to draw Dame Clytie’s fire, so I too am discreet.”

"Warden Ballinder is not on hand, then?”

“Unfortunately not. Dame Clytie ranges the field unchallenged."

“Hmf,” said Glawen. “Maybe my appearance will distract her."

Egon Tamm smiled. “Floreste’s letter will distract her. You brought the letter, I hope?”

“It is in my pocket.”

"Come along then. It is almost time for lunch.”

The two passed through an arched passage into a large airy parlor with tall windows to south and west overlooking a wide expanse of lagoon. The walls were enameled white, as was the celling save for the ceiling beams which retained their natural age-darkened color. Three rugs patterned in green, black, white and russet lay on the floor; couches and chairs were upholstered in dull green twill. On the back wall shelves and cabinets displayed a marvelous variety of curios, oddments and artifacts representing the collections of a hundred previous Conservators. At the western end of the room a table — against which Julian Bohost leaned in a carefully debonair posture — supported books, periodicals and a bouquet of pink flowers in a bowl glazed pale blue-green celadon.

Six persons occupied the room. Dame Clytie paced the floor, hands clasped behind her back, and Julian leaned against the table. By the window sat a young woman with smooth silver hair and flawless features, absorbed in her own thoughts and paying Julian not the slightest attention. She wore skintight silver trousers, a short loose black shirt and black sandals on bare feet. Beside her stood a man of middle stature or a trifle less, short-necked and compact of physique, with narrow pale gray eyes and a short blunt nose on a small bald bony head. Warden Furgus and Dame Larica Fergus sat stiffly on a couch, watching Dame Clytie with the expressions of birds watching a snake. Both were middle-aged, and wore the somber garments of Stroma.

Dame Clytie marched back and forth, head lowered. “ — inevitable and necessary! Not everyone will be pleased, but what of that? We have already discounted their emotions. The progressive tide — ” She halted in mid-stride to stare at Glawen. “Halloo! What have we here?”

Julian Bohost, leaning against the table, a goblet of wine to his lips, lofted his eyebrows high. “By the nine gods and the seventeen devils It is Glawen, the brave Clattuc who guards us from the Yips!”

Glawen paid no heed. Egon Tamm introduced first the middle-aged couple. “The Warden Wilder Furgus and Dame Larica Furgus.” Glawen bowed politely. Egon Tamm proceeded. “Yonder is Flitz, glistening in the sunlight.” Flitz glanced aside from the corner of her eye, then returned to a contemplation of her black sandals.

Egon Tamm continued. "Beside Flitz stands her close friend and business associate Lewyn Barduys. They are currently the guests of Dame Clytie at Stroma.”

Barduys gave Glawen a courteous salute. Glawen saw that Barduys was not, after all, bald; that a short fine stubble of flaxen hair covered his scalp. His movements were deft and decisive; he seemed antiseptically clean.

After her first startled comment, Dame Clytie had gone to look stonily from the window. Egon Tamm asked gently: "Dame Clytie, I wonder if you remember Captain Clattuc? You met once before, I believe."

“Of course I remember him. He is a member of the local constabulary, or whatever it is called.”

Glawen smiled politely. “Usually it is known as Bureau B. Actually, we are an IPCC affiliate.”

“Indeed Julian, is this your understanding”

“I have heard something to this effect.”

“Odd. It was my understanding that the IPCC imposed stringent standards upon its personnel."

“Your information is correct," said Glawen. “You will be relieved to learn that Bureau B operatives, if anything, are over-qualified.”

Julian laughed. “My dear Aunt Clytie, I do believe that you blundered into a trap.”

Dame Clytie grunted. “I am singularly indifferent. She turned away.”

Julian called out "What brings you here, Glawen? The main attraction is missing — somewhere on Earth, so we are told. Do you know where?"

“I came to visit the Conservator and Dame Cora,” said Glawen. "Finding you and Dame Clytie here is a pleasant surprise.”

“Nicely spoken! But you evaded my question.”

“In regard to Wayness? So far as I know, she is visiting her uncle Pirie Tamm at Yssinges."

“I see.” Julian sipped from his goblet. “Cora Tamm tells me that you too have been junketing off-world on a holiday.”

"I traveled off-world: yes, on official business."

Julian laughed. “Certainly that is how it will be on the expense vouchers."

“I hope so. I would be outraged if I were asked to pay for what went on.”

“Then the trip was not a success?”

“I accomplished my mission and escaped with my life. I discovered that the impresario Floreste had been involved in horrid crimes. Floreste is now dead. My mission was a success.”

Dame Clytie demanded: “You killed Floreste, your most noteworthy artist?"

“I did not kill him personally. A lethal vapor was admitted into his cell. As a matter of fact, Floreste made me the trustee of his estate."

“I find that most remarkable."

Glawen nodded. “He explains himself in a letter — which also discusses Titus Pompo in some detail. The two were acquainted.”

“Really! I would like to see this letter."

“I have it with me, as a matter of fact. After lunch I will read it."

Dame Clytie held out her hand. “I will glance at it now, you please."

Glawen smiled and shook his head. “Certain parts are confidential.”

Dame Clytie turned away and once again started to pace. “The letter can tell us nothing we do not already know. Titus Pompo is a patient man, but his patience has limits. A great tragedy is in the offing, unless we take action!”

“Quite right," said Glawen.

Dame Clytie darted him a suspicious glance. “For this I will propose a trial or pilot resettlement program at the next full plenum.”

"It would be premature,” said Glawen. “Several practical matters stand in the way."

“And these are?”

“First of all, we can't resettle the Yips until we find a world able to accept and absorb them. Transport is also a problem.” Dame Clytie stared incredulously. “You cannot be serious."

“Of course I am serious. For the Yips it will be a dislocation, but there is no alternative.”

”The alternative is settlement along the Marmion Foreshore, to be followed by a system of universal Democracy."

She turned to Egon Tamm. "Do you not agree?”

Warden Fergus spoke indignantly: “You are aware that the Conservator must uphold the Charter!"

"We must deal with the facts of life,” snapped Dame Clytie. “The LPF insists upon democratic reform; no one of good will can oppose us!"

Dame Larica Fergus responded sharply: “I oppose you, right enough, and I especially deplore Peefer hypocrisy!"

Dame Clytie blinked in angry perplexity. "How then am I a hypocrite? Are not my feelings plain enough?"

"Of course, and why not? The Peefers are already planning the great estates they will claim for themselves once the Charter is broken.”

“That remark is irresponsible and tendentious!” cried Dame Clytie. “Further, it is calumny!"

"Still, it is true! I have heard such talk myself! Julian Bohost, your nephew, has mentioned several areas he considers pleasant.”

Julian said smoothly: “Truly, Dame Larica, you make much out of nothing — what is, at worst, idle talk."

Dame Clytie stated: “The point is not germane to the main issue, and should not be raised.”

"Why not, when the Peefers intend to destroy the Conservancy? It is no wonder you side with the Yips."

Julian said: “Truly, Dame Furgus, you have it all wrong. Members of the LPF party — not 'Peefers', if you don’t mind — are practical idealists! We believe in first things first! Before we cook soup, we make sure we have a pot!”

“Well spoken, Julian” declared Dame Clytie. "I have never heard such weird and wonderful accusations!”

Julian performed an airy flourish of the wine glass. "In a world of infinite choices, anything is possible. All things flow, nothing is fixed.”

Lewyn Barduys looked at Flitz. “Julian is talking high abstraction. Are you confused?"

“No."

“Are you are acquainted with these ideas?"

“I wasn’t listening. “

Julian drew back in shock. “What a pity and what a loss. You have missed several of my most inspirational dictums!”

“Perhaps you will repeat them another time."

Egon Tamm said: “I notice that Dame Cora has summoned us to lunch. She will prefer that we desist from politics during our meal.”

The party trooped out upon the tree-shaded terrace: a structure of dark swamp-elm planks built out over the water of the lagoon. On a table laid with pale green cloth, settings of green and blue faience had been arranged, along with tall goblets of swirled dark red glass.

Dame Cora seated her guests with amiable disregard for their antipathies, so that Glawen found himself beside Dame Clytie and across from Julian, with Dame Cora herself at his left.

Conversation was initially tentative, touching on a variety of casual topics, although Dame Clytie for the most part maintained a glum silence. Julian inquired again in regard to Wayness. “When is she expected home?”

“The girl is a total puzzle," said Dame Cora. "She declares herself homesick, still she seems to have no schedule or timetable. Evidently her research is keeping her occupied.”

Barduys asked: “Into what kind of research is she involved?"

“I gather she is studying conservancies of the past, trying to learn why some were successful and others failed.”

“Interesting,” said Barduys. “It would seem a large project.”

“That is my feeling, “said Dame Cora.

Egon Tamm said: “Still, it can do no harm, and she will learn a great deal. I feel that everyone who is able to do so should make a pilgrimage to Old Earth during his lifetime."

“Earth is the source of all true culture,” said Dame Cora.

Dame Clytie sat in a bleak monotone: “I fear that Old Earth is tired, decadent, and morally bankrupt."

"I think you are overstating the case, “said Dame Cora. “I am acquainted with Pirie Tamm and he is neither decadent nor immoral, and if he is tired, it is because he is old.”

Julian tapped his goblet with a spoon to command attention. “I have arrived at the opinion that anything said about Old Earth is both true and false at the same time. I would like to visit Old Earth myself."

Egon Tamm spoke to Barduys. “What is your opinion?"

"I seldom form opinions about anything, or anyone, or anywhere," said Barduys. “If nothing else, I reduce the risk of issuing absurd pronouncements."

Julian compressed his lips. “Still, experienced travelers know the difference between one place and another. That is known as ‘discrimination’.''

"Perhaps you are right. What do you say, Flitz?”

"You may pour me some more wine."

"Sensible, though the message is latent."

Dame Cora asked Barduys: “I gather, then, that you have visited Earth?”

“Yes indeed on many occasions."

Dame Cora gave her head a wondering shake. “I am surprised that you and, ah, 'Flitz' found your way out to this remote little backwater at the end of the Wisp."

“We are essentially tourists. Cadwal is not without a reputation for the quaint and unique."

“And what sort of business do you generally pursue?"

"In the main, I am an old-fashioned entrepreneur, assisted to a large extent by Flitz. She is highly astute.”

Everyone turned to look at Flitz, who laughed, showing beautiful white teeth.

Dame Cora asked: “And 'Flitz', for a fact, is the only name you use?"

Flitz nodded. “That is all.”

Barduys explained: "Flitz has discovered that a single name meets her needs and sees no reason to burden herself with a set of redundant and unnecessary syllables."

“ 'Flitz' is an unusual name,” said Dame Cora. “I wonder as to its derivation.”

Julian asked Flitz: “Was your name originally 'Fittzenpoof' or something of the sort?”

Flitz slid a brief sidelong stare toward Julian. “No.” She returned to the contemplation of her goblet.

Dame Cora addressed Barduys. “Do you have some special area of business in which you are most interested?”

“To some extent,” said Barduys. “For a time I was occupied with the logic of public transport, and I became involved in the construction of submarine transit-tubes. Recently I have taken a fancy to what I call ‘theme' inns and hostelries.”

“We have several of these here and there around Deucas,” said Egon Tamm. “We call them 'wilderness lodges’.''

“If time permits I will visit some of these," said Barduys.

“I have already examined the Araminta Hotel. Sad to say, it lacks interest, and is even a bit archaic.”

“Like everything else at Araminta Station,” sniffed Dame Clytie.

Glawen said: “The hotel, for a fact, is something of an outrage. It was put together in bits and pieces, an annex at a time. Eventually, we'll build another, but I expect that the new Orpheum will come first, if only because Floreste collected a good part of the financing.”

Egon Tamm said to Glawen: "Perhaps now is as good a time as any to read Floreste's letter.”

“Certainly, if anyone is interested.”

“I am interested,” said Dame Clytie.

“I also.” said Julian.

"Just as you like.” Glawen brought out the letter. “Some of the material I will omit, for one reason or another, but I think you will find the balance interesting.”

Dame Clytie instantly bristled. “Read the letter in its entirety if you please. I see no reason for truncations. We all either public officials or persons of the highest integrity.”

Julian said gently: “Dear Aunt Clytie, I hope it is not a case of either one or the other.”

Glawen said: “I will read as much of the letter as possible. “He opened the envelope, removed the letter, and began to read, omitting the sections dealing with Shattorak and all mention of Chilke. Julian listened with a lofty half-smile; Dame Clytie made occasional clicking sounds between her teeth. Barduys listened with polite interest, while Flitz stared off across the lagoon. Warden Fergus and Dame Larica gave occasional small exclamations of shock.

Glawen finished the letter. He folded it and replaced it in his pocket. Warden Furgus turned to Dame Clytie". And these abominable folk are your allies? You and the other Peefers are fools!”

"LPFers, if you don’t mind." murmured Julian.

Dame Clytie said heavily: "I am seldom mistaken in my appraisals of the human condition! Floreste evidently recorded events incorrectly, or wrote to the order of Bureau B. The letter may well be a bare-faced forgery.”

Egon Tamm said: “Dame Clytie, you should not utter such charges without substantiation. In effect, you are slandering Captain Clattuc.”

“Hmf. Forgery to the side, the fact remains that the statements in this letter fail to accord with my view of the case.”

Glawen asked innocently: "Are you acquainted with either Titus Zigonie or his wife Simonetta — born, I am sorry to say, a Clattuc?"

“I know neither of them personally. Their gallant conduct provides me all the evidence I require. They are clearly fighting the strong and good fight for justice and democracy.”

Glawen turned to Egon Tamm, “Sir, if you will excuse me, I must now be returning to the Station. Thank you, Dame Cora, for lunch. Glawen bowed to the others in the parlor and departed.