Ecce and Old Earth

CHAPTER VII

Wayness rode the omnibus from Tzem to Draczeny, and apparently was not followed. At Draczeny she changed to a slideway car and was conveyed at great speed to the west.

Late in the afternoon the car halted at Pagnitz, a transfer station on the route which continued all the way across the continent to Ambeules. Wayness pretended to ignore the stop; then, at the last possible instant, jumped to the station platform. For a moment she stood watching to see if anyone else had altered his or her plans at the last minute, but no one had done so — specifically no plump little man in a dark suit with a black mustache like a smudge across his pallid face.

Wayness took looking at the Inn of the Three Rivers. From her room she telephoned Pirie Tamm at Fair Winds. Pirie Tamm spoke cordially: "Aha, Wayness It is good to hear your voice! Where are you calling from?”

“At the moment I am at Castaing, but I am leaving at once for Maudry and the Historical Library. I will call you as soon as possible.”

“Very well; I won’t keep you on the line. Until tomorrow. “Half an hour later Wayness placed a second call to Pirie Tamm at the bank in Yssinges.

The circumstances had made him testy. “I never thought I would see the day when I distrusted my own telephone! It’s a damned outrage!”

“I'm sorry, Uncle Pirie. I know that I am causing no end of trouble.”

Pirie Tamm held up his hand. ”Nonsense girl! You are doing nothing of the sort of the sort. It’s the uncertainty I find galling! I have had experts in to check out the entire system but they have found nothing. They also guarantee nothing. There are too many ways to tap into a system, so we must continue to take precautions, at least for the time. Now then, what have you been doing?”

As succinctly as possible Wayness told of her activities. "I am now on the way to Trieste where I hope to find Xantief, whoever he is."

Pirie Tamm gave a deprecatory grunt, the better to mask his feelings. “It seems, then, that you have climbed — or is it descended? — another rung on the ladder. Either way, should we consider this an achievement?”

"I hope so. The ladder is already longer than I might like."

“Hmf, yes indeed. Stand by a moment while I look into the directory. We'll pick up a line on this fellow.”

Wayness waited. A minute passed and another. Pirie Tamm’s face returned to the screen. " 'Alcide Xantief’: this is his nature. There is a business address, no more: Via Malthus 26,Trieste Old Port. He is listed as a dealer in ‘Arcana,’ which means whatever you want it to mean.”

Wayness made a note of the address. “I wish I could rid myself of the conviction that I was being followed.”

"Ha! Perhaps you are, for a fact, being followed and this is the basis of your conviction.”

Wayness gave a cheerless laugh. ”But I don’t see anyone. I just imagine things, like dark figures stepping back into the shadows when I turn to look. I wonder if I might not be neurotic."

“I hardly think so,“ said Pirie Tamm. “You have good reason to be nervous.”

"So I keep telling myself. But it is no great comfort. I would prefer to be neurotic, I think, with nothing to fear."

"Certain kinds of surveillance are hard to avoid,” said Pirie Tamm. “You probably know of tracer buttons and tags.” And he suggested several procedures of avoidance. ”Like the telephone experts, I guarantee nothing."

“I'll do what I can,” said Wayness. “Goodbye for now, Uncle Pirie.”

During the evening, Wayness bathed, washed her hair, scrubbed her shoes, handbag and suitcase in order to remove any radiant substance which might have been sprayed or smeared upon them. She laundered her cloak and outer garments and made sure that no spy cell or tracer button had been affixed to the hem of her cloak. In the morning she used all the ploys suggested by Pirie Tamm and others of her own contrivance to elude any possible follower or flying spy cell, and at last set off for Trieste by subterranean slideway.

At noon she arrived at the Trieste Central Depot, which served New Trieste, north of the Carso, one of the few remaining urban areas still dominated by the Technic Paradigms: a checkerboard of concrete and glass shapes, rectilinear and identical save for the numbers on the flat roofs. The ‘Technic Paradigms' had been applied to New Trieste, and thereafter rejected almost everywhere else on Earth in favor of construction less intellectual and less brutally efficient.

From the Central Depot, Wayness rode by subway ten miles south to the old Trieste station: a structure of black iron webbing and opal-green glass covering five acres of transit terminals, markets, cafes and a cheerful animation of porters, school children, wandering musicals, persons arriving and departing.

At a kiosk Wayness bought a map, which she took to a cafe by a pair of flower stalls. While she lunched on mussels in a bright red sauce redolent of garlic and rosemary she studied the map. On the front page the editor had included an instruction:

“If you would know the secrets of Old Trieste, which are many, then you must come upon them reverentially and gradually, not like a fat man jumping into a swimming pool, but rather as a devout acolyte approaching the altar.”

— A. Bellors Foxtehude.

Wayness unfolded the map and after a puzzled glance or two decided that she was holding it upside down. She turned it about, but nothing was clarified; she had evidently been holding it correctly in the first place. Again she reversed the map, to what must be the proper orientation, with the Adriatic Sea on the right hand. For several minutes she studied the tangle of marks. According to the legend, they indicated streets, major and minor cartels, incidental waterways, alleys, bridges, special walkways, squares, plazas, promenades and major edifices. Each Item was identified by a printed super-or sub-script, and it seemed that the shortest streets had been assigned the longest names. Wayness looked from right to left in bewilderment and was about to return to the kiosk for a less challenging map when she noticed Via Malthus, on the western bank of the Canal Bartolo Seppi, in the Porto Vecchio district.

Wayness folded the map and looked around the cafe. She discovered no portly waxen-skinned gentleman with a black mustache, and no one else seemed to be paying her any unusual attention. Unobtrusively she departed the cafe and the shelter of the station, to find the sun hidden behind scudding gray clouds and a raw wind blowing in from the Adriatic.

Wayness stood for a moment, skirts flapping against her legs, then ran to a cab rank and approached the driver of a three-wheeled cab, of a sort which seemed to be in general use. She showed the driver her map, pointed out Via Malthus and explained that she wanted to be taken to a hotel nearby. The driver responded confidently: “The Old Port is charming! I will take you to the Hotel Sirenuse. You will find it both convenient and agreeable, nor are its charges a confiscation.”

Wayness climbed into the cab and was whirled away through Old Trieste: a city of unique character, built half on a narrow apron of land under the stony hills and half on piles driven into the Adriatic. Canal of dark water flowed everywhere, washing the foundations of the tall narrow houses. A dark mysterious city, thought Wayness.

By slants this way and that, by sudden darts over humped bridges, into the Plaza Dalmatio by the Via Condottiere and out by the Via Strada, went the cab, with Wayness unable trace the course on her map so that if the driver were inserting a mile or two into the route she had no sure way of knowing. At last the cab swung into the Via Severin, crossed the Canal Flacco by the Ponte Fidelius and into a district of crabbed streets and crooked canals, below a gaunt skyline of a thousand odd angles and shapes. This was the Porto Vecchio hard by the wharves: a district silent by night but bustling by day with the movement of the locals and the surge of tourists, in and out, predictable as tides.

The Way of the Ten Pantologues ran beside the Bartolo Seppi Canal, and was lined with bistros, cafes, flower stalls, booths selling fried clams and potatoes in paper packets. Along the side streets dim little shops dealt in specialty merchandise: curios, off-world artifacts, incunabula; rare weapons and musical instruments pitched in every key imaginable. Certain shops specialized in puzzles, cryptography, inscriptions in unknown languages; others sold coins, glass insects, autographs, minerals mined from the substance of dead stars. Still other shops purveyed softer stuff: dolls costumed in the styles of many times and places, also dolls cleverly programmed to perform acts polite and acts not at all polite. Spice shops vended condiments and scents, oils and esters, of an interesting sort; confectioneries sold cakes and bonbons available nowhere else on Earth, as well as dried fruits, syrups and glazes. A variety of shops displayed models of ships ancient trains and automobiles; while others specialized in models of spaceships.

The cab driver took Wayness to the Hotel Sirenuse, a sprawling old hulk devoid of architectural grace, which had expanded over the centuries, annex by annex and now occupied the entire area between the Way of the Ten Pantologues and the Adriatic shore. Wayness was assigned a high ceilinged chamber at the back of the second floor. The room was cheerful enough, with pink and blue floral wallpaper, a crystal chandelier and glass doors giving upon a small balcony. Another door opened into a bathroom equipped with fixtures of playfully rococo design. On a buffet Wayness found the telephone screen, several books, including a truncated edition of Baron Bodissey’s monumental ten volumes: LIFE; also TALES OF OLD TRIESIE, by Fia della Rema; THE TAXONOMY OF DEMONS, by Miris Ovic. There was also a menu from the hotel restaurant, a basket of green grapes and a decanter of red wine on a tray, along with two goblets.

Wayness ate a grape, poured herself half a glass of red wine and went out upon the balcony. She saw, almost directly below, the rotting old wharf, creaking to the slow Adriatic swells. Half a dozen fishing boats were moored alongside. Beyond was sky and sea, with veils of gray rain sweeping across the water. To the north, her view was circumscribed by a dark blur of shoreline, which disappeared entirely, behind the rain, at the edge of vision. For several minutes Wayness stood on the balcony, sipping the tart red wine. The damp wind blew into her face, bringing the scent of the wharf. This was Old Earth in one of its truest manifestations, she thought. Nowhere out among the stars would there be found a panorama like this. The wind blew fresh. Wayness drained the goblet, turned back into the room, closed the glass doors. She bathed, changed into gray-tan trousers tight at the hips, loose below the knees, gathered at the ankles, which she wore with a neat black jacket. After consideration, she put through a call to Fair Winds, and half an hour later was speaking with Pirie Tamm at the bank.

“I see you arrived in safety,” said Pirie Tamm. “Were you followed?”

“I don’t think so. But I can't be sure."

“So, what now?”

“I’ll be going off to see Xantief. His shop is not too far away. If I learn anything definite, I will call you. If not, I may wait a bit. Even when I don’t say anything, I'm afraid that the call might be traced.”

“Hmf,” grunted Pirie Tamm. “So far as I know, that is not possible.”

“Probably not. I suppose that you have had no word from Julian, or anyone else?”

“Nothing from Julian, but a letter from your parents arrived this morning. Shall I read it?”

“Please do!”

The letter told her of Glawen’s homecoming, Floreste’s disgrace and execution, and Glawen’s absence in a solitary expedition to Shattorak on Ecce, from which, at the time or writing, Glawen had not yet returned.

Wayness was not cheered by the letter. “I worry a great deal about Glawen,” she told Pirie Tamm. “He is utterly reckless when he thinks something needs to be done."

“You are fond of him?”

"Very much indeed."

"He is a lucky fellow.”

“It's nice of you to say so, Uncle Pirie, but I am lucky too — if he survives."

“At the moment it's better that you worry about yourself. I imagine Glawen Clattuc would agree with me.”

"I suppose he would. Goodbye then, Uncle Pirie.”

Wayness descended to the lobby. The hotel was busy; folk came and went in a steady stream; others made rendezvous with friends. Wayness looked here and there, but recognized no one.

The time was now three o'clock of a rather dank and misty afternoon. Wayness left the hotel and set out along the Way of the Ten Pantologues. Thin layers of fog floated across the hills and down over the slopes. Wisps, mists and dreary odors rose from the Bartolo Seppi Canal. The landscape was a collage of abstract shapes, black, brown, and gray.

Wayness was gradually diverted from her thoughts by a tickling at the back of her neck. Could it be that once again she was being followed? Either this was so, or she had developed a vexing obsession. She stopped short and pretended interest in the window display of a candlemaker’s shop, meanwhile watching sidelong back over her shoulder. As usual, she saw nothing to nourish her suspicions.

Still dissatisfied, she turned and walked back the way she had come, taking note of those whom she passed. No one seemed at all familiar — but still, that plump little man, bald with the cherubic pink face: could he have worn a black wig, a false mustache and skin-coloring to deceive her? It was possible. And that broad-shouldered young tourist, moon-faced, with the long yellow hair could that conceivably be the sinister young footman who had called himself Baro? Wayness grimaced. Nowadays anything was possible, and disguise was a fine art, what with flexible masks and lenses which altered not only the color but also the shape of eyes. Recognition no longer counted for much, and the only definite way to identify a follower was by his conduct.

Wayness decided to put her theories to the test. She ducked into a dark little alley, then, ten feet along, stepped into an entry where she was hidden from view.

Time passed: five minutes, ten minutes. Nothing of importance occurred. No one entered the alley nor so much as paused to look along its length. Wayness began to suspect that her nerves were issuing false alarms. She left her place of concealment and returned to the Way of the Ten Pantologues. A tall spare women wearing a black gown, with black hair gathered into a tight bun, stood nearby. She took note of Wayness and instantly raised her eyebrows in scorn, then sniffed swung about and marched away. Odd! thought Wayness. But perhaps not so odd. The woman might have assumed that Wayness had gone into the alley in order to relieve herself.

There was, to Wayness' knowledge, no correct or approved method for explaining a mistake of this sort. Further, if Wayness had misinterpreted the woman's conduct, the explanations, no matter how delicately put, could very easily become complicated.

Wayness departed the scene at the best speed she could manage with dignity.

Another two hundred yards along, the Way brought her to the conflux of the Bartolo Seppi Canal with the Canal Daciano. A bridge, the Ponte Orsini, conveyed the Way over the Canal Daciano, where the Way met Via Malthus. Wayness turned to her right and walked slowly. Fifty yards along she came upon a dim little shop with a modest sign above the door. On a black ground faded gold cursive read:

Xantief

ARCANA

The door was locked; the shop was empty. Wayness stood back and compressed her lips in annoyance. "Curse it all!” muttered Wayness to herself. “Does he think I have come all this way just to stand outside his door in the rain?” And indeed, the mist had become a drizzle.

Wayness tried to look through the glass panes of the door, but saw nothing. It was possible that Xantief had stepped out for a moment and might soon return. Hunching her shoulders against the drizzle, she glanced at the shop to the right, which sold pomanders compounded from off-world herbs. The shop to the left specialized in jade medallions, about three inches in diameter, or possibly, they were buckles.

Wayness sauntered to the far end of the Via Malthus, where it debouched upon the wharf. She paused, looked back along the street. No one seemed interested in her movements. She returned up Via Malthus and halted by the shop which sold the jade medallions. A sign in the door read:

ALVINA IS IN!

Enter

Wayness pushed open the door and went into the shop. At a desk to the side sat a thin middle-aged woman with a jaunty short-billed fisherman's cap pulled down over russet-gray curls. She wore a heavy pullover of dark gray knit, a gray twill skirt with bright gray-green eyes she glanced sidelong at Wayness. “I see that you are new to Trieste, and never expected the rain."

Wayness gave a rueful laugh. "It took me by surprise. But I came to visit the shop next door which is closed. Do you know Mr. Xantief's business hours?”

"I do indeed. He opens his door three times a week at midnight for three hours only. He will be open tonight, in case you are interested.”

Wayness’ jaw went slack. “What an absurd schedule!"

Alvina smiled. "Not when you know Xantief."

“Surely it can't be convenient for his customers! Or is he merely perverse?”

Alvina, still smiling, shook her head. “Xantief is a man of many fascinating traits. Almost incidentally, he is a crafty shopkeeper. He pretends that he does not want to sell his merchandise, the implication being that it is too good for the common ruck, and that his prices are far too low. This, of course, is nonsense — I think.”

“It is his shop, and naturally he can do as he likes with it. Even though people get sopping wet. Wayness spoke in what she thought to be a reasonable voice, but Alvina’s sensitive ear caught a nuance of emotion.

"In connection with Xantief, vexation is pointless. He is a patrician."

"I was not planning to create a disturbance,” said Wayness with dignity. “Still, I appreciate the advice.

“She went to look out the door, but the rain had started in earnest.

Alvina seemed in no hurry to be rid of her, so she asked: "Xantief has been here a long time?”

Alvina nodded. “He was born about fifty miles east in a castle. His father, the thirty-third baron, died while Xantief was still a young scholar. Xantief tells how he was called to the deathbed. The old baron told him: “My dear Alcide, we have enjoyed many years together, but now it is my time to go. I die happy, since I bequeath to you a heritage of incalculable value. First, a discriminating and certain good taste which other men will find enviable. Second, the unthinking and instinctive conviction of worth, honor and excellence, which accompanies your quality as the thirty-fourth baron. Third, you will inherit the physical assets of the barony, with all its lands, holdings and treasures, in fee singular and complete. Now then: I charge you that while my passing should be no occasion for ribaldry and merry making, neither should you grieve, since, if I am able, I will always be on hand to guard you and keep you in your hour of need.” So saying, the old man died and Xantief became the thirty-fourth baron. Since he already knew of his good taste in wine, food and women, and had never felt any doubts regarding his personal worth, his first step was to reckon up the physical assets. He found that they were not large: the moldering old castle, a few acres of limestone crags, two dozen ancient olive trees and a few goats. “Xantief made the most of his inheritance. He opened his shop, and originally stocked it with some rugs, hangings, books, paintings and bric-a-brac from his castle, and prospered from the first. That is, at least, the story he tells."

“Hm. You seem to know him well.”

“Tolerably well. Whenever he comes by during the day he drops in to look over the tanglets. He is sensitive to them and sometimes I go so far as to take his advice." Alvina gave a short laugh. “This is a curious business. Xantief may touch the tanglets and test their strength, but I am not allowed to do so, nor are you."

Wayness turned to look at the glowing green buckles, or clasps — whatever they were — on display in the window, each on a small pedestal covered with black velvet. Each was similar but notably different from all the rest.

"They are beautiful little things; jade, I suppose?"

“Nephrite, to be exact. Jadeite gives a different feel: somewhat more coarse. These are cold and unctuous, like green butter."

“What are they used for?"

“I use them to sell to collectors," said Alvina. “All authentic tanglets are antiques, and very valuable, since the only new tanglets are counterfeit."

"“What were they originally?”

“At first they were hairclasps, worn by the warriors of a far world. When a warrior killed an enemy he took the clasp and wore it on the scalp rope of his hair. In this way tanglets became trophies. The tanglets of a hero are even more; they are talismans. There are hundreds of distinctions and qualities and special terms, which make the subject rather fascinating, when you acquire some of the lore. Only a finite number are authentic tanglets, despite the efforts of counterfeiters, and each one is annotated and named and attributed. All are valuable, but the great ones are literally priceless. A hero's rope of six tanglets is so full of mana it almost sparks. I must take extraordinary care; a single touch sours the sheen and curdles the mana."

“Poof!” said Wayness. “Who would know the difference?"

“An expert: that's who, and on the instant. I could tell you stories for hours on end." Alvina looked toward the ceiling. “I'll tell you just one, about the famous tanglet: Twelve Kanaw. A collector named Jadoukh Ibrasil had coveted Twelve Kanaw for many years, and finally, after complicated negotiations, took possession of Twelve Kanaw. On the same night, his beautiful spouse Dilre Lagoum saw the tanglet and innocently wore it in her hair to a fete. Jadoukh lbrasil joined his wife, complimented her upon her beauty, then noticed the tanglet in her hair. Witnesses say that he turned white as a sheet. He knew at once what he must do. Courteously he took Dilre Lagoum's arm and led her into the garden and cut her throat among the hydrangeas. Then he stabbed himself. The story is usually heard only among collectors. The general feeling is that Jadoukh lbrasil did what he had to do, and at this point the talk becomes metaphysical. What do you think?"

"I don’t quite know," said Wayness cautiously. "It may be that all collectors are mad.”

"Ah, well that is a truism.”

“I should think that work among such temperamental objects would be hard on the nerves.”

“Sometimes it is,” Alvina admitted. “I find, however, that my high prices are a great solace. Alvina rose to her feet. "I will let you handle a counterfeit, if you like. You can do no damage.”

Wayness shook her head. “I think not. I have better things to do than handle counterfeits."

“In that case, I'll make us a pot of tea — unless you are in a hurry?”

Wayness looked out the window to find that the rain had stopped, at least for the moment. “No, thank you. I think I'll take advantage of the let-up and run back to the hotel."

Wayness stood for a moment in front of Alvina’s shop. Out over the Adriatic shafts of sunlight had broken through the clouds. Via Malthus smelled of damp stone mingled with odors from the canal and the everywhere pervasive scent of the sea. Beside the canal an old man wearing a red stocking cap with a tail dangling to his shoulders walked with a small white dog. Diagonally across the street an old woman stood in the doorway of her house, conversing with another old woman who stood on the sidewalk. Both wore black gowns and lace shawls; as they talked, they turned to look approval toward the old man walking stiffly and slowly with his dog; it seemed as if they were disparaging him for reasons beyond Wayness’ understanding. None of the three could be considered a threat. Wayness set off at a fast walk up Via Malthus, then to the left along the Way of the Ten Pantologues, keeping an unobtrusive watch over her shoulder. She arrived at the Hotel Sirenuse without incident, and went directly to her room.

The westering sun had banished most of the tattered clouds and had transformed some of the grays and dark grays of the landscape into whites. Wayness stood out upon the balcony for a few minutes, then turning back into the room, settled into an armchair, to reflect upon what she had learned. Most of it, while interesting, seemed irrelevant to her principal concerns. She found herself dozing and stumbled to the bed for a nap.

Time passed. Wayness awoke with a start of urgency, to find that the time was already middle evening. She changed into her dark brown suit and went down to the restaurant. She dined upon a bowl of goulash with a salad of lettuce and red cabbage and half a carafe of the soft local wine. Upon leaving the dining room, Wayness went to sit in a corner of the lobby, where with one eye she pretended to read a periodical and with the other she watched the comings and goings.

The time moved toward midnight. At twenty minutes to the hour, Wayness rose, went to the entrance and looked up and down the street.

Everything was quiet, and the night was dark. A few street-lamps stood at infrequent intervals, in islands of their own wan light. On the hillside a thin fog dimmed a thousand other lights so that they seemed no more than sparks. Along the Way of the Ten Pantologues, no one walked abroad, so far as Wayness could see. But she hesitated and went back into the hotel. At the registration desk, she spoke to the night clerk: a young woman not much older than herself. Wayness tried to speak in a matter-of-fact voice. "I must go out to meet someone, on a matter of business. Are the streets considered safe?"

"Streets are streets. They are widely used. The face you look into might be that of a maniac, or it might be the face of your own father. I am told that in some cases they are the same person."

“My father is far away," said Wayness. “I would be truly surprised to see him on the streets of Old Trieste."

“In that case, you are rather more likely to discover a maniac. My mother worries greatly when I am out by night. ‘No one is safe even in their own kitchen,’ she tells me. ‘Only last week the repair man who was called to fix the sink insulted your grandmother!’ I said that the next time the repair man is called, Grandmother should go out on the street instead of hanging around the kitchen."

Wayness started to turn away from the desk. "It seems that I must take my chances."

“One moment," said the clerk. “You are wearing the wrong uniform. Tie a scarf over your head. When a girl is out looking for excitement her head is uncovered."

“The last thing I want is excitement,” said Wayness. “Do you have a scarf I might borrow for an hour or so?”

“Yes, of course. “The clerk found a square of black and green checked wool which she gave to Wayness. “That should be quite adequate. Will you be late?”

“I should think not. The person I must see is only available at midnight.”

“Very well. I will wait up for you until two. After that you must ring the outside bell."

“I'll try to be back early.”

Wayness tied the scarf over her hair, and set off on her errand. By night the streets of Porto Vecchio in old Trieste were not to Wayness’ liking. There were sounds behind the curtained windows which seemed to carry a sinister significance, even though they were almost inaudible. Where the Way crossed the Daciano Canal, a tall woman in a black gown stood on the Ponte Orsini. A cool chill played along Wayness' skin. Could this be the same woman who had glared at her earlier in the day? Might she have decided that Wayness needed further chastisement? But it was not the same woman and Wayness laughed sadly at her own foolishness. This lady who stood on the bridge was quietly singing, so softly that Wayness, pausing to listen, could barely hear. It was a wistful pretty tune, and Wayness hoped that it might not linger on and on, to haunt her memory.

Wayness turned down Via Malthus, watching behind her more warily than ever. Before she reached Xantief’s shop, a man wearing a cloak and hood came springing light-footed around the corner from the Way of the Ten Pantologues. He paused, to peer down Via Malthus, and then followed after Wayness.

With heart in mouth, “Wayness turned and ran to Xantief’s shop. Behind the windows she saw a faint illumination; she pushed at the door. It was locked. She cried out in distress and tried the door again, then knocked on the glass and pulled at the bell cord. She looked over her shoulder. Down Via Malthus came the tall man moving on his light springing strides. Wayness turned and huddled back into the shadows. Her knees were loose; she felt apathetic, trapped. Behind her the door opened; she saw a white-haired man, slight of physique and of no great stature, but erect and calm. He moved aside and Wayness half-stumbled, half-fell through the doorway.

The man in the hooded cloak strode lightly past, never so much as troubling to look aside. He was gone: down Via Malthus and into the darkness.

Xantief closed the door and moved a chair forward. "You are disturbed; why not rest for a moment or two?"

Wayness sagged into the chair. Presently she regained her composure. She decided that something needed to be said. Why not the truth, then? It would serve well enough, and had the advantage of needing no fabrication. She spoke, and was surprised to find her voice still tremulous: “I was frightened."

Xantief nodded courteously. “I had reached the same conclusion, though no doubt for different reasons."

Wayness, after considering the remark, was obliged to laugh, which seemed to please Xantief. She straightened herself in the chair and looked around the room: more like the parlor of a private residence than a place of business, she thought. Whatever might be the 'arcana' which were Xantief’s stockin-trade, none were on display. Xantief himself matched the image Wayness had derived from Alvina’s remarks. His tendencies were obviously aristocratic; he was urbane and fastidious, with a clear pale skin, features of aquiline delicacy, soft white hair cut only long enough to frame his face. He dressed without ostentation in an easy suit of soft black stuff, a white shirt and the smallest possible tuft of a moss-green cravat.

“For the moment, at least, your fright seems to be under control," suggested Xantief. “What was its cause, may I ask?"

“The truth is simple," said Wayness. "I am afraid of death."

Xantief nodded. “Many people share this dread, but only a few come running into my shop at midnight to tell me about it.”

Wayness spoke carefully, as if to an obtuse child: “That is not the reason I came."

“Ah! You are not here by chance?”

“No.”

“Let us proceed a step farther. You are not, so to speak, a human derelict, or a nameless waif.”

Wayness spoke with dignity. “I cannot imagine what you have in mind. I am Wayness Tamm.”

“Ah! That explains everything! You must forgive me my caution. Here in Old Trieste there is never a dearth of surprising episodes, sometimes whimsical, sometimes tragic. For instance, after a visit like yours, at an unconventional hour, the householder discovers that a baby has been left on the premises in a basket.”

Wayness spoke coldly: “You need not worry on that account. I am here now only because you have made these your business hours."

Xantief bowed. “I am reassured. Your name is Wayness Tamm? It fits you nicely. Please remove that ridiculous dust rag, or fly chaser, or cat blanket: whatever it is you are wearing for a scarf. There! That is better. May I serve you a cordial? No? Tea? Tea it shall be," Xantief glanced at her from the side of his face. “You are an off-worlder, I think?”

Wayness nodded. “More to the point, I am a member of the Naturalist Society. My uncle, Pirie Tamm, is Secretary."

“I know of the Naturalist Society," said Xantief. "I thought it to be a thing of the past."

“Not quite.” Wayness stopped to reflect. “If I told you everything, we would be here for hours. I will try to be brief."

"Thank you," said Xantief. “I am not a good listener. Proceed.”

“A long time ago — I am not sure of the exact date — a Secretary of the Society named Frons Nisfit sold off Society assets and embezzled the proceeds.”

“The Society is now trying to revive itself, and we need some of the lost documents. I discovered that about twenty years ago you sold some Naturalist material to Count Raul de Flamanges. That, in effect, is why I am here."

"I remember the transaction,” said Xantief. ''What next?”

“I wonder if you own other Society material, such as documents relating to the Cadwal Conservancy.”

Xantief shook his head. “Not a one. It was only a freak that I was involved at all.”

Wayness sagged back in the chair.

"Then perhaps you will tell me how the Society materials came to you, so that I can carry my inquires another step."

"Certainly. As I mentioned, this sort of thing is not in my ordinary line. I took the documents only so that I might transmit them to Count Raul, whom I considered an altruist and a great gentleman and, indeed, a friend. Here is the tea."

'"Thank you. Why are you laughing?”

"You are so extremely earnest."'

Wayness started to blink, but tears came too fast for her. She wished that she were safe home at Riverview House, snug in her own bed. The idea was far too melting and almost broke through her self-possession.

Xantief had come to stand beside her and was wiping her cheeks with a fine handkerchief smelling of lavender.

“Forgive me; I am not usually so insensitive. Clearly you are under a great strain.”

"I'm afraid that I've been followed by dangerous people, I tried to avoid leading them here, but I can't be sure."

“What makes you think you were followed?”

Just as you opened your door a man came past. He was wearing a cape with a hood. You must have seen him.”

“So I did. He passes by every night about this time.”

"You know him?"

"I know well enough that he was not following you."

"Still, I feel eyes watching me, brushing the back of my neck."

"It may be so,” said Xantief. “I have heard many strange tales in my time. Still —" He shrugged. “If your followers were amateurs, you could shake them off easily. If they were professionals, you might or might not evade them. If they were dedicated experts, your skin would radiate a set coded wave-lengths. You would be surrounded by flying spy cells, each no larger than a droplet of water, and when you tried to cut them off by ducking into subway cars, they would already have settled into your clothing.”

“Then there may be spy cells in this room right now!"

“I think not,” said Xantief. “During my own dealings I am often obliged to take precautions, and I have installed instruments which would warn me of such nuisances on the instant. More than likely, you are suffering from nervous fatigue and imagining a great deal.”

“I hope so.”

“Now then: as to my involvement with the Naturalist Society papers. It is a strange story in itself. By any chance, did you notice the shop next door?”

"I spoke with Alvina; she told me of your hours.”

“Twenty years ago she was approached by a gentleman named Adrian Moncurio, who wished to sell a holding of fourteen tanglets. Alvina called in experts who determined that the tanglets were not only authentic but highly important. Alvina was happy to sell them on a consignment basis. Moncurio, who seems to have been something of an adventurer, went off in search of new merchandise. After a time he returned, with twenty more tanglets. These, however, were declared counterfeit by the experts.

Moncurio tried to bluster but Alvina refused to sponsor them for sale. Moncurio snatched up his false tanglets, and departed Trieste, before the Tanglet Association was able to act.

“For a period nothing was heard of Moncurio, but during this time, posing as a half-demented aged junk dealer he was selling the counterfeits to inexperienced collectors, who thought they were taking advantage of the blundering old fool. Before the Tanglet Association could act, all twenty counterfeits had been sold and Moncurio was seen no more.”

“But what of the Naturalist Society documents?"

Xantief made a placid gesture. “When Moncurio first approached Alvina, he also wanted her to sell the Naturalist Society material. She referred him to me. I was interested only in the material concerning Count Raul, but Moncurio insisted on selling all or nothing. So I took the lot for a rather nominal figure, and passed them on to Count Raul for the same sum.”

“You found nothing to do with the planet Cadwal? No Charter, for instance? No grant, or deed, or title certificate?"

“There was nothing of that sort whatever.”

Wayness slumped back into the chair. After a moment she asked: “Did Moncurio mention the source of the papers? Were he had found them, who had sold them?"

Xantief shook his head. “Nothing definite, as I recall.”

“I wonder where he is now.”

“Moncurio? I have no idea. If he is on Earth, he is lying low.”

“If Alvina sent him money for the first fourteen tanglets, she must have an address where he could be reached."

“Hm. If so, she did not notify the Association, but perhaps she felt that the information had come to her in confidence." Xantief reflected a moment. “If you like, I will have a word with her. She might tell me but hesitate to tell you.”

“Oh please do!” Wayness jumped to her feet and spoke in a rush: “I'd like to tell you everything but mainly this: unless I succeed, Cadwal may be swarmed over and the Conservancy will be gone.”

“Aha,” said Xantief. “I am beginning to understand. I will call Alvina at once; like myself she keeps late hours.” He picked up the black and green scarf and tied it around Wayness' head. “Where are you staying?”

“At the Hotel Sirenuse.”

“Goodnight then. If I learn anything useful, I will instantly let you know.”

"Thank you very much.”

Xantief opened the door. Wayness stepped out into the Street. Xantief looked right and left. "All seems quiet. As a rule the streets are safe this time of night, with all proper footpads snug in their beds.”

Wayness walked quickly up Via Malthus. At the corner she looked back to where Xantief still stood watching. She raised her hand and waved farewell, then turned into the Way of the Ten Pantologues.

The night seemed even darker than before. On the Ponte Orsini the woman in black no longer sang her soft song. The air carried a chill as well as the dank odors of Old Trieste.

Wayness set off along the street, her footsteps echoing crisply along the pavement. From behind a pair of clamped iron shutters came a mutter of low voices and an undertone of woeful sobbing. Wayness' footsteps faltered an instant, then hurried on past. She came to a place where shadows marked the entrance into a narrow alley descending toward the wharf. As Wayness went by, a man moved forward from the shadows: a tall person wearing dark clothes and a soft black hat. He seized Wayness around the shoulders and forced her into the alley. She opened her mouth to scream; he clasped a hand over her face. Wayness' knees went limp; he half-carried her, half-led her stumbling down the alley. She began to struggle and to bite; he said without emotion: “Stop, or I will hurt you.”

Wayness again let herself go limp; then she gave a frantic lurch and broke free; she had nowhere to go but down the alley, and she ran at full speed. To the side a door opened into a yard. She pushed through the door, slammed it shut behind her and shot the latch just as her pursuer thrust against it. The door rattled and creaked. He struck with his shoulder again; the door was a flimsy affair and would not hold him back. Wayness picked up an empty wine bottle from what appeared to be a potting table. The man crashed into the door it burst open and he came through. Wayness hit him over the head with the bottle; he staggered and fell. She pushed the potting table over on top of him and was away and up the alley as fast as she could run. She arrived at the Way and looked back; her assailant had not appeared.

Wayness moved onward at a trot toward the hotel, slowing to a fast walk the last thirty yards.

In the entrance Wayness paused to look back along the Way and to catch her breath. The full impact of the episode began to work on her. She realized that she had never been so frightened before, though at the time she had felt no particular emotion, save a furious exaltation when she had felt the glass bottle strike home. She shuddered to a complex mix of emotions. Wayness shivered again, this time from the chill. She went into the hotel, and approached the desk. The clerk smiled at her. “You are back in good time." She glanced curiously at Wayness. 'Have you been running?”

“Yes, just a bit,” said Wayness, trying to bring her breathing under control. She looked over her shoulder. “Actually, I became frightened.”

“That is nonsense,” said the clerk. “There is nothing out there to be frightened about, especially when you are wearing the scarf properly.”

The scarf had slipped back from Wayness' head so that she was wearing it as a neckerchief. “Next time I'll be more careful,” said Wayness. She untied the scarf and returned it to the clerk. “Thank you very much.”

“It was nothing in particular. I was glad to help."

Wayness went up to her room. She bolted the door and pulled the curtains across the windows. She settled into the armchair, and sat thinking about the episode in the alley. Had the attack been a random sexual assault, or had it been intended upon the life and limb of Wayness Tamm? There was no definite evidence in either direction, but her intuition seemed content to operate without the benefit of evidence. Or perhaps there had been evidence, at the subliminal level. The timbre of his voice had seemed familiar. And, unless she had imagined this, his person had extruded an almost imperceptible scent, mixed of fern, violet and perhaps a few off-world essences. He had felt young and strong.

Wayness did not care to think any more definitely, not at this time.

Five minutes passed. Wayness rose to her feet and started to undress for bed. The telephone tinkled. Wayness stared. Who could be calling her at this hour. Slowly she went to the telephone, and without activating the screen asked: “Who is it?”

“Alcide Xantief."

Wayness sat down and turned on the screen. Xantief said: “I hope I am not disturbing you?”

"Of course not.”

“I spoke to Alvina. You made a good impression on her. I explained that any help she could give you would be work in a good cause, if for no other reason than the happiness of a rather nice person known as Wayness Tamm. She agreed to do what she could for you, if you arrived tomorrow about noon at her shop."

“That is good news, Mr. Xantief!”

"Before you get your hopes up, she mentioned that she did not know Moncurio’s present whereabouts, but only the address he had supplied to her some years ago."

"Anything is better than nothing."

"Exactly. I will bid you goodnight once again. These are my working hours, as you know; in fact, I hear a customer waiting for me now."

In the morning Wayness awoke to find the sun shining brightly down upon the Adriatic. She was served breakfast in her room by one of the blue unformed call-boys: an undersized youth named Felix. After a covert appraisal, Wayness decided that Felix might suit her purposes very well. He was deft and agile, with lank black hat and sharp black eyes in a thin knowledgeable face. He readily agreed to perform whatever services Wayness might require, and she gave him a sol to cement the arrangement.

"First and foremost,” she told him, “all our dealings must be kept confidential. No one must know. This is very important!”

“Have no fear!" declared Felix. “This is the way I normally do business! I am known to be discretion personified"

“Good! This is what I want you to do first.” She sent Felix out to the shops along the wharf. He returned presently with an old pea jacket, a gray work shirt, dungarees, rubber-soled sandals and a fisherman's cap. Wayness donned her new garments and surveyed herself in the mirror. She made a not-too-convincing old salt, but at least she was unrecognizable, especially after she darkened her face with skin tone.

Felix echoed her opinions. “I don’t know exactly what I’d make of you, but for sure you don’t look like what you were before.”

At half an hour before noon, Felix led her down the service stairs into the basement of the hotel, then along a dank passage to a flight of stone steps closed off by a heavy timber door. Felix opened the door and they descended still further, finally to jump down upon the shingle of the beach at the far side of the sea wall, under the wharf, with the waters of the Adriatic only fifteen feet to the side.

The two proceeded a hundred yards along the shingle at the base of the sea wall and at last came to a ladder by which they climbed to the face of the wharf. Felix was now ready to turn back, but Wayness protested. “Not yet! I feel safer with you beside me."

“That is an illusion,” said Felix. He looked over his shoulder. "No one has followed; if someone did so, and started a row I should probably run away, for I am a coward."

"Come along anyway," said Wayness. “I do not expect you to lay down your life for what I intend to pay you. My thinking is this: if we are attacked, and if we both run, my chances for survival are doubled over what they would be if I were alone.”

“Hmf!” said Felix. "You are even more cold-blooded than I. If I come, I will expect an extra sol, for the danger involved."

"Very well."

Where Via Malthus opened upon the wharf, a small restaurant served dock workers, fishermen, and whoever else felt the need for fish stew or mussels, or fried fish. Again Felix was ready to turn back but again Wayness would not hear of it. She gave him careful instructions. "You must go up Via Malthus to a shop with some green buckles in the window."

“I know the shop. It is run by a crazy woman named Alvina."

“Go into the shop and tell Alvina that Wayness Tamm is waiting here, at this restaurant. Make sure no one overhears. If she cannot leave her shop, bring a message."

“First, my pay."

Wayness shook her head. “I was not born yesterday. You will be paid when you return with Alvina."

Felix set off. Ten minutes passed. Alvina entered the restaurant, followed by Felix. Wayness had seated herself in a corner, and Alvina looked here and there in puzzlement. Felix led her to the corner table. Wayness now paid Felix three sols. “Do not mention this excursion to anyone," she told him. “Also, leave the door open at the bottom of the steps, so that I can return the way we came.”

Felix departed, not displeased with himself. Alvina gave Wayness a cool inspection. “You are taking careful precautions, although you neglected a black beard.”

"I never thought of that.”

"No matter. I would never have recognized you as you are now."

"I hope not last night, I was attacked on my way home from Xantief’s shop. I barely escaped.”

Alvina raised her eyebrows. “That is disturbing!"

Wayness wondered if Alvina were taking her seriously. Perhaps she thought the disguise over-dramatic. A waiter in a stained white apron appeared. Alvina ordered a bowl of red fish soup and Wayness did the same. Alvina asked: “I wonder if you would tell me the background of your search?”

“Certainly. A thousand years ago the Naturalist Society discovered the world Cadwal, and considered it so beautiful, with so many entrancing aspects that they decided to make it into a perpetual Conservancy, safe from human exploitation. At the moment the Conservancy is in serious danger: all because a former Secretary sold off Society documents to antique dealers, including the Grant-in-Perpetuity to Cadwal and the original Cadwal Charter. These documents disappeared — where, no one knows. But if they are not found, the Society may lose title to Cadwal.”

“And how do you enter the picture?”

“My father is Conservator of Cadwal, and lives at Araminta Station. My uncle, Pirie, is Secretary of the Society here on Earth, but he is an invalid, and there is no one to do what needs to be done but me. Other folk are also looking for the Grant of Ownership; some of them are wicked, some are simply foolish, but they want to break the Conservancy, and so they are my enemies. I think that some of them tracked me to Trieste despite my best efforts. I fear for my life, I fear for Cadwal, which is vulnerable. If I don’t find the documents, the Conservancy cannot survive. I am getting closer and closer. My enemies know this and they will kill me with no compunction whatever, and I am not ready to die just yet."

“I should think not. Alvina drummed her fingers on the table. “You have not heard the news, then?"

Wayness looked up in apprehension. “What news?"

"Last night Xantief was murdered. This morning he was found in the canal.”

Time stood still. Everything became blurred except for Alvina's gray-green eyes. Wayness finally managed to Stammer. “This is terrible. I had no idea — it must be my fault! I led them to Xantief."

Alvina nodded. "It might have happened that way. Or maybe not; who knows? It makes no great difference, one way or the other.”

After a pause Wayness said: "You are right. It makes no difference." She wiped the tears from her face. The waiter brought bowls of red soup. Wayness looked numbly at the bowl.

“Eat," said Alvina. "We have to pay for it, regardless.”

Wayness pushed the bowl away. "What happened?"

“I don’t like to tell you. It was not nice. Someone wanted information from Xantief. He could give them none because he had none, except what he told you. No doubt he explained this immediately, but they persisted and killed him, and dropped him into the canal. Alvina busied herself with the soup, then said: “It is clear, however, that he did not mention me.”

“How so?”

“I came to my shop early today, and no one was waiting for me. Eat your soup. It is pointless to suffer on an empty stomach."

Wayness heaved a deep sigh. She pulled the bowl of soup toward herself and began to eat. Alvina looked on with a grim smile. "Whenever tragedy has dealt me its worst blows, then I go forth and rejoice. I drink fine wine, and dine on delicacies I can’t afford, and perhaps indulge myself in some sort of worthless new gewgaw."

Wayness laughed weakly. “Does the program work?”

“No. Still, eat the soup.”

After a few moments Wayness said: “I must learn to be absolutely callous. I cannot let myself be weak.”

"I don’t think you are weak. Still, are there no others to help you?"

“Yes, but they are far away. Glawen Clattuc will be here sometime soon — but I can’t wait.”

"You carry no weapons?"

“I don’t own any.”

"'Wait here.” Alvina left the restaurant, returning a few minutes later with a pair of small parcels. “These articles will give you comfort, at the very least." She explained their use.

"I thank you,” said Wayness. "May I pay for them?"

"No. But if you use either upon whoever murdered Xantief, please let me know."

"I promise that I will.” Wayness tucked the articles into pockets of the pea jacket.

“Now, to business." Alvina brought out a slip of paper. “I cannot direct you to Moncurio himself, since he is gone from Earth. Where, I have no idea, but he left me an address in case money came in from some old accounts which had never been settled.”

Wayness asked doubtfully: "Is this address still useful?"

“It was as of last year. I sent money to the address, and finality got back a receipt."

“From Moncurio?”

Alvina grimaced and shook her head. "I sent the money in care of Irena Portils, who is apparently Moncurio’s spouse — formally or informally, I have no idea. She is a difficult and suspicious woman. Do not expect her to oblige you, gladly or otherwise, with Moncurio's current address. She would not even give me a proper receipt for the money; she said that there must be no linkage between her name and his. I told her that this was preposterous, since Moncurio had already made the linkage, and that if she did not sign the receipt using Moncurio's name and her own as an endorsement, I would void the draught and send her no more money. Ha! Her avarice is even stronger than her nervousness, and she sent the proper receipt, with just enough icy sarcasm to irritate me.”

“Perhaps she is nicer when she is not worried, said Wayness without conviction.

“Anything is possible. Still I can't imagine how you will deal with her, much less extract information.”

“I must give the matter some thought. Perhaps I will try a subtle indirect approach.”

“I wish you luck. Here is the address." She gave over the paper. Wayness read:

Sra. Irena Portils

Casa Lucasta

CaIIe Maduro 31

Pombareales, Patagonia

Wayness returned to the Hotel Sirenuse the way she had come: down the wharf to the ladder, down to the shingle and beside the sea wall to the stone steps, then up and through the timber door into the nether regions of the hotel. Here she lost her way and for a time groped back and forth along damp dark passages smelling of must, old wine, onions and fish. Finally, behind a door she had forgotten, she found the service stairs, and so climbed thankfully to the second floor, where she hurried back to her room. She threw off her disguise, bathed and dressed in her ordinary clothes. Then she sat looking out across the sea, pondering the new realities of her life.

Outrage and anger served no purpose; they were only a frustration. Fear was equally profitless, though fear was hard to control.

Wayness became restless. There was too much to think about, and too many complexities. While she thought, she was static and vulnerable; she could protect herself only by activity.

Wayness went to the telephone and called Fair Winds. Agnes appeared, then went to summon Pirie Tamm from the garden. "Ah Wayness!" He spoke guardedly. "I was on my way out; I have an errand at the bank in Tierens. Do you wish to call back in half an hour or so?”

"If you can spare me a minute, I'll talk to you now." Wayness tried to sound easy and casual, but her voice seemed strained, even to her own ears.

“I cart spare a minute or two. What is your news?”

“It is both good and bad. I spoke with a certain Alcide Xantief yesterday. He knew nothing himself but in passing he mentioned a repository in Bangalore. I telephoned there this morning and they have the documents we are seeking, and they would seem to be quite accessible.”

“Amazing!” said Pirie Tamm, blinking in perplexity.”

"It is that and more, when I think of what I have gone through to get this information. I have written to you, to my father and to Glawen, so that the information will not be lost in case something happens to me.”

“Why should anything happen to you?”

"Last night I had a rather frightening experience. It might have been mistaken identity, or romance Adriatic style: I can't be sure. But in any case I escaped.”

Pirie Tamm gave an exclamation of outrage. “That is damnable! I like this expedition of yours less and less! It's not right that you should be tackling a man's job!"

“Right or wrong, the job must be done," said Wayness.

“And there is no one to do it but me.”

"Yes, Yes,” grumbled Pirie Tamm. “We've been over these arguments before.”

“Be sure that I am taking all precautions, Uncle Pirie, and now I will let you go on your errand. If you are indeed stopping by the bank, please ask after a remittance I am expecting from home.”

“I’ll do that, certainly. But what now for you?”

“I'm off for Bangalore, by the best connection, or even the worst, so long as I get there fast.”

"And when will I hear from you next?"

"Soon; from Bangalore, most likely."

“Goodbye then, and take care of yourself.''

“Goodbye, Uncle Pirie."

Half an hour later Wayness called the bank in Tierens from the public telephone in the hotel lobby. Pirie Tamm's face again appeared on the screen. “Now then! Perhaps we can talk more freely."

“I hope so, since I distrust even the telephone in my room.” I am certain that I have been followed to Trieste." Wayness decided not to mention the murder of Xantief.

"I gather then, that Bangalore will not be your next destination?”

"You gather correctly, Uncle Pirie. If I can send someone off on a wild goose chase, so much the better.”

“So what have you achieved in Trieste?”

"I have descended another step on the ladder, and you will be surprised to learn whom I found there."

"Oh? Who might this be?"

“It is your tomb-robbing friend Adrian Moncurio.”

“Ha!” said Pirie Tamm after a moment’s reflection. “I am surprised, to be sure, though maybe not as much as I might be!”

"Do you have any inkling as to his present address?"

"None whatever.”

“What of mutual friends?"

"We have none. Since I have not heard from him, I suspect that he is either off-world or dead."

"In that case I must continue my inquiries. They may possibly take me off-world."

“Off-world where?"

"I don’t know yet.”

“"Then where are you going from Trieste?"

"I am afraid to tell you, for fear the information will somehow leak out. Even now I am using the hotel's public telephone, on the chance that the telephone in my room has been tapped.”

"You are quite right! Trust nothing and no one!"

Wayness sighed, thinking of Xantief, his clarity and honor. "Another matter, Uncle Pirie. I did not send you down to the bank for nothing. I am carrying about three hundred sols, but if I must go off-world, it won’t be enough. Can you spare me a thousand or so?”

“Of course! Two thousand, if you like!”

“It is twice as good as a thousand. I will accept with thanks, and return whatever is left as soon as possible.”

"You need not concern yourself with money; if for nothing else, this is money spent for the Conservancy!"

“That is my opinion too. Ask the officer which bank at Trieste is their correspondent, and send me two thousand sols which I will pick up at once."

“You can't imagine how you worry me,” growled Pirie Tamm.

Wayness cried: “Stop, Uncle Pirie! For the moment at least I am safe, since I have sent everyone off to

Bangalore! They will be very irritable when they find it is just a prank, but by that time I will be far away.”

“So when will I hear from you again?”

“At the moment I can't even guess.”

Wayness settled her account at the front desk, then returned to her room. The events at Trieste had been helpful in more ways than one. Wayness' concepts of evil had altered from the abstract to the real. She now knew with gristly certainty the quality of her opponents. They were persistent, cruel, smilingly callous. They would kill her if they caught her, and this would be a tragic event indeed from her point of view. It would mean the cessation of that quick and lively intelligence known as Wayness, with its special little graces and quirks and affectionate good nature and wry sense of humor. Tragedy indeed!

Wayness debated changing into her disguise of the morning, and compromised, by shrouding herself in the pea jacket and pulling the cap down over her dark curls. She accoutered herself with the weapons Alvina had given her and felt greatly comforted.

Wayness was now ready to leave. She went to the door, opened it a slit and looked along the hall. It was not at all unlikely for someone to be waiting, to overwhelm her as she opened the door and bear her back into the room, where she could be dealt with at leisure. Wayness grimaced at the idea.

The hall was empty. Wayness departed the hotel by the stairs and the timber door which opened upon the shingle under the wharf.

For three days and three nights Wayness practiced every tactic of evasion, concealment and dissimulation that her imagination could contrive, including trap's against mobile spy cells and tattletags. She made quick sorties through crowds, doubling back on her tracks, over and over, watching to see whom she might be confusing. She boarded an omnibus and when it halted for an instant at a village traffic stop, she jumped out and was quickly out of town on a van transporting farm laborers. At Lisbon on the Atlantic coast she boarded the northbound slideway, only to debark at the first stop, then to return aboard, to sequester herself in the women’s restroom until the next stop, where again she debarked and slipped aboard a car traveling in the opposite direction, which she rode all the way to Tanjer. Here she changed her semblance, discarding her green travel cape and the blonde wig she had acquired, to join a group of young wanderers, all dressed alike in dungarees and gray pullovers. She spent a night in the Tanjer hostel. The next morning she booked passage on the trans-Atlantic skytrain and six hours later was discharged at the sprawling city Alonso Saavedra, on the Rio Tanagra. She was by this time certain that she had eluded pursuit; but she continued to set traps for spy cells, hide in secret places to watch for trackers and to change vehicles unpredictably. In due course she arrived by skycoach at the provincial capital Biriguassu, then flew south and west across the pampas to the mining town Nambucara. She spent the night at the Stella d'Oro Hotel, and dined on a steak of startling proportions, served with fried potatoes, avocado sauce, and a roast bird — possibly a small long-legged chicken to the side.

Pombareales lay still far to the south, with catch-as-catch-can travel connections. In the morning Wayness somewhat dubiously climbed aboard an airbus of venerable vintage, which rose with a lurch and groan, then flew heavily south, wallowing to gusts of wind. The other passengers seemed to take the vehicle’s alarming peculiarities for granted, and showed concern only when one of the lurches caused them to spill their beer. A gentleman sitting beside Wayness described himself as a steady patron who long ago had abandoned fear. He explained that since the vehicle had been flying back and forth from north to south and north again for many years, there was no reason to suppose that on this day of all days it would collapse in mid-air and fail to do its duty. “In sheer point of fact,” he told Wayness, “the vehicle becomes safer each day it flies, and I can prove this point by mathematics, which of course is infallible. You speak with a good accent; may I assume that you are skilled in the use of logic?”

Wayness modestly admitted that this was the case.

“Then you will follow my reasoning without difficulty. Assume that the vehicle is new. Let us say that it flies safely for two days, then crashes on the third day. Its safety record is not good: one crash in three trips. If, however, the vehicle flies ten thousand days, as has this one, its safety record is at least one in ten thousand and one, which is very good! Furthermore, each succeeding day that passes without incident, the risk becomes smaller so that by an equal increment the passenger's sense of security should increase."

The vehicle was struck by a particularly vicious gust of wind; it jerked and plunged and from somewhere came a wrenching tearing sound, which the gentleman ignored. ''We are probably safer here than if we were sitting at home in an easy chair, at the mercy of a rabid dog.”

"I appreciate your explanation, which is very clear,” said Wayness. “I still feel a bit nervous, but now I do not know why.”

“Late in the afternoon the airbus landed at the town Aquique, where Wayness disembarked, after which the airbus took off once again for Lago Angelina, to the southeast. Wayness discovered that she had missed the tri-weekly connection to Pombareales, still another hundred miles to the southwest, almost in the shadow of the Andes. She could either lay over two days at Aquique, or she could proceed by surface omnibus on the following day.

Aquique's best hotel was the Universo, a tower of concrete and glass five stories high adjacent to the airport. Wayness was assigned an airy room on the top floor, overlooking all Aquique: several thousand concrete and glass blocks arranged on a rectilinear grid concentric about the central plaza. Beyond, the pampas spread away to the edge of vision.

During the evening, Wayness felt lonely and homesick, and spent an hour writing letters to her father and mother, with an insert for Glawen, if he were still at Araminta Station. “I have given up expecting any word from you. Julian showed up at Fair Winds and did nothing to make himself popular; to the contrary. However, he mentioned that you had gone off somewhere to help your father, and as of now, I don’t know whether you are alive or dead. I hope alive, and I wish you were here with me now, as this enormous tract of wasteland is on the whole depressing. I find that I have only so much energy to devote to intrigues and plots, and then I start feeling miserable. Still, I will survive. I have an enormous amount to tell you. This is a strange countryside, and sometimes I forget that I am traveling Old Earth and believe myself off-world. In any case, I send you all my love, and I hope that we will be together soon.”

In the morning Wayness boarded the omnibus, and was transported south and west across the pampas. She relaxed into the seat and covertly appraised her fellow passengers: a routine which by now had become almost reflexive. She saw nothing to arouse her suspicion; no one showed any interest in her, save a young man with a narrow forehead and a wide big-toothed smile, who wanted to sell her a religious tract.

“No, thank you,” said Wayness. “I am not interested in your theories."

“The young man produced a paper sack. “Would you care for some candy?”

“No, thank you,” said Wayness. “If you plan to eat it yourself, please move to another seat, as the smell will make me sick, and I will vomit on your religious tract." The young man moved to a different seat and ate his candy in solitude.

The bus moved across a desolation of low hills, outcrops of rotten rocks, tufts of bracken, willow and aspens in the dips and declivities, a few low cypress trees bedraggled by the wind. The environment was not without its own bleak beauty. Wayness thought that had she been required to paint the landscape, she could have done so with a very limited palette. There would be several tones of gray: dark for the shadows, grays tinted with umber, ocher and cobalt for rocks and outcrops; dun, olive drab and dusty tan; copper-green and splotches of black-green for the cypresses.

As the bus proceeded, the mountains loomed higher into the sky, and a wind striking down from the west gave vitality and movement to the landscape.

The sun, rather pale by reason of high haze, moved toward the zenith. In the distance appeared a clutter of low white structures: the town Pombareales.

The bus drove into the town square and stopped in front of the rambling three-story Motel Monopole. Wayness thought that the town seemed much like Nambucara, on a somewhat smaller scale, with the same central plaza, the same surrounding grid of streets lined with white rectilinear structures. It was a town of no obvious attraction, thought Wayness, except that it might be the last place on Earth where agents of the Tanglet Association might come seeking a wrongdoer.

Wayness carried her bag into the cavernous lobby of the Hotel Monopole. The clerk at the registration desk offered her a room overlooking the square, or a room not overlooking the square, or if she chose a corner suite both overlooking and not overlooking the square. ''We are not busy,” said the clerk. “The price is the same: two sols per day, which includes breakfast.”

“I will try the suite,” said Wayness. “I have never before been allowed so much room.”

"In this part of the world 'room' is a plentiful resource,” said the clerk. “You may have all you like at no great charge, with the wind and a panoramic view of the Andes included."

Wayness found the suite adequate in all respects. The bathroom functioned properly; the bedroom contained a large bed, smelling faintly of antiseptic soap; the sitting room was furnished with a heavy oak table, a large blue rug, several massive chairs, a couch, a desk with a cabinet, and a telephone. Wayness resisted the temptation to call Fair Winds and went to sit in one of the chairs. She had made no plans; they seemed pointless in the absence of information. She must reconnoiter, and discover what there was to be known about Irena Portils.

The time was half an hour before noon: too early for lunch. Wayness went down to the lobby and approached the desk clerk. Discretion and subtlety were now of prime importance; for all she knew he might be Irena Portils’ brother-in-law. She approached the object of her inquiry at an oblique angle. “A friend wants me to look up someone on Via Madera. Where would that be?"

“Via Madera? There is no Via Madera in Pombareales.”

“Hm. I should have made a note of the name. Could it be, Via Ladera? Or Baduro?”

“There is the Calle Maduro, and the Avenida Onyx Formadero."

“I think it was Calle Maduro: a house with two black granite balls marking the gateway."

"I don't recall such a house, but Calle Maduro is yonder.” He pointed his pencil. "Go three blocks south along Calle Luneta, and you will come to the intersection with Calle Maduro. Here you must make a choice. If you turn left and walk several blocks you will come to the poultry cooperative. If you turn right, you will eventually arrive at the cemetery. Choose for yourself; I cannot advise you.”

“Thank you.” Wayness turned toward the door. The clerk called her back. “The way is long and the wind blows dust; why not ride in style? There is Esteban's cab: the red vehicle parked directly outside the door. His charges will not be an outrage if you threaten to patronize his brother Ignaldo, who drives a green cab.”

Wayness went out to the red cab. In the front seat sat a small man, all arms and legs, with weathered brown skin and a long droll face. At the sight of Wayness he cried out: "On the instant!” and flung open the door.

Wayness asked: “Is this Ignaldo’s cab? I am told that his rates are fair — in fact, very fair.”

"Utter nonsense!' said Esteban. “Your innocence has been abused. Sometimes he pretends to offer low rates, but he is a sly devil and cheats his passengers double in the end. Who should know better than I, who compete with him.”

“For this reason you might well be biased in your judgment.”

“Not so. Ignaldo knows no conscience. If your dying grandmother were rushing to reach the church before the priest went home, Ignaldo would take her on a long detour through the country and become lost, until either she had died, whereupon his rates for transporting corpses came into effect, or until, for the sake of her soul, the dying woman agreed to his larceny.”

“In that case, I will give you a try, but first you must reveal your own rates.”

Esteban threw his hands high in impatience. “Where do you want to go?”

“Here and there. You may take me up Calle Maduro for a start.”

“That of course is possible. Do you wish to look at the cemetery?”

“No. I want to look at the houses.”

“On Calle Maduro there is little to see, and my charges will be minimal. For one half hour the fare will be one sol.”

“What! That is double Ignaldo's rate!”

Esteban made a sound of disgust and gave in so readily that Wayness knew that her outcry had been justified. “Very well; I have nothing better to do. Climb in. The rate is one sol per hour."

Wayness stepped primly into the cab. “Mind you, I am not hiring the cab for an hour, For one-half hour, I pay one-half sol, and this rate must include the gratuities."

Esteban roared: “Why do I not just give you the cab and all my miserable belongings and walk from the town a pauper?”

Esteban's emotion was so genuine that Wayness knew they had arrived at his ordinary rate.

Wayness laughed. "Calm yourself! You cannot hope for sudden wealth every time some poor innocent enters your cab."

"You are not so innocent as you look,” grumbled Esteban. He closed the door and the cab set off up the Calle Luneta. “Where do you want to go?”

“First, let us drive up Calle Maduro.”

Esteban gave a nod of comprehension. "You have relatives in the cemetery, so it seems."

“I don’t know of any.”

Esteban raised his eyebrows. What kind of odd conduct was this? "There is little to see from one end of town to the other even less along Calle Maduro."

“Do you know the folk who live along the street?"

“I know everyone in Pombareales." Esteban turned the cab into Calle Maduro, which had been hard-surfaced a very long time ago and was now pocked with potholes. Only about half of the lots had been developed; houses stood in isolation at intervals of twenty yards or more. Each was surrounded by a yard, where occasionally a few sickly shrubs or a wind-beaten tree indicated someone's attempt at a garden. Esteban pointed to a house which showed blank windows to the street, and patches of thistle in the yard. “There is a house you might buy at the cheap."

"It looks rather dismal.”

"That is because it is haunted by the ghost of Edgar Sambaster, who hanged himself one night at midnight when the wind blew down from the mountains."

“And no one has lived there since?"

Esteban shook his head. “The owners have gone off-world. A few years ago a certain Professor Solomon became involved in a scandal and hid there for a few weeks, and no one has heard from him since.”

“Hm. Has anyone looked in the house to see whether he might be hanging there too?”

“Yes, that was considered, and the constables made an inspection, but found nothing.”

“Odd.” The cab had drawn abreast of another house, which was like any of the others except for a pair of life size statues in the front yard, representing nymphs with their arms raised in benediction. “Who lives there?"

“That is the house of Hector Lopez, who works as gardener at the cemetery. He brought home the statues when a tract of graves was relocated.”

“They make an interesting decoration."

"So it may be. There are some who think that Hector Lopez is putting on airs. What is your opinion?”

“I don't find them offensives. Could it be that the neighbors are envious?"

“Possible, I suppose. There you see the house of Leon Casinde, the pork butcher. He is a great singer and may often be heard, drunk or sober, in the cantina.”

The cab proceeded up the Calle Maduro. Esteban warmed to his task and Wayness learned much of the lives and habits of those in the houses along the way. Presently they came to No. 31, Casa Lucasta: a house of two stories, somewhat larger than others along the street, with a stout fence enclosing its yard. A garden of sorts grew along the north side of the house, in an angle protected from the wind, where the sun shone its brightest. There were geraniums, hydrangeas, marigolds, a lemon verbena, a ragged clump of bamboo. To the side were miscellaneous pieces of inexpensive outdoor furniture: a table, a bench, several chairs, a lawn swing, a large sandbox, another wooden box containing oddments of hardware. In this area, a boy of about twelve and a girl two or three years younger were occupied, each absorbed in his private concerns.

Noticing Wayness' interest, Esteban slowed the cab. He tapped his forehead significantly. “Both mental cases; very hard for the mother."

“So I should think,” said Wayness. “Stop here for a moment if you please. “She watched the children with interest. The girl sat at the table, busy with what might have been a puzzle; the boy knelt in the sandbox, building a complicated edifice from damp sand, which he had moistened with liquid from a bucket. Both children were thin: slender rather than frail, long of leg and arm. Their chestnut hair was cut short without affectation of fashion, as if no one cared much how they looked, much less themselves. Their faces were thin, with cleanly modeled features, gray eyes, pale tan skin almost imperceptibly warmed with pink and orange. They were rather attractive children, thought Wayness, though clearly not native to the locality, The girl's face showed more animation than that of the boy, who worked with thoughtful precision. Nether of the two spoke. Each, after a single disinterested glance toward the cab, paid no further heed.

"Hm!” said Wayness. “Those are the first children I have seen along the street."

“No mystery here," said Esteban. "Other children are at school."

"Yes, of course. What is wrong with these two?”

“That is hard to say. The doctors come regularly, and all leave shaking their heads, while the children continue to do as they see fit. The girl goes wild with rage if she is thwarted in any way and falls into a foaming fit, so that everyone fears for her life. The boy is sullen and won’t say a word, though he is said to be clever in certain ways. Some say that they need no more than a few good switching’s to bring them around; others say it is all a matter of hormones, or some such substance."

"For a fact, they don’t look deficient, or slack-witted. Usually the doctors can cure such folk.”

“Not these two. The doctor comes up every week from the Institute at Montalvo, but nothing seems to change."

“That’s a pity. Who is the father?”

"It is a complicated story. I mentioned Professor Solomon, who was involved in a scandal. He is off-world now, and no one seems to know where, though quite a few folk would like to find him. He is the father.”

“And the mother?”

“That would be Madame Portils who goes about proud as a Countess, even though she's a local. Her mother is Madame Clara, who was born a Salgas, and is common as dirt."

“How does Madame Portils support herself?”

“She works at the library mending books, or some such footling job. With two children and her own mother in the household she receives a public stipend, which brings her the necessities of life. No cause for vanity there; still she tilts her nose to everyone, even the upper class folk."

“She would seem to be a peculiar woman," said Wayness. "Perhaps she has secret talents.”

“If so, she is as jealous with them as if they were crimes. Ah well, it is sad, all the same.”

Down from the hill came a gust of wind, blowing dust and litter along the road, hissing among the brambles of the waste. Esteban indicated the girl. "Look! The wind excites her!"

Wayness saw that the girl had jumped to her feet, to face the wind, with feet somewhat apart, swaying and nodding her head to some slow inner cadence.

The boy paid her no heed and continued with his work. From the house came a sharp call. The girl's body lost its tension. Reluctantly she turned toward the house. The boy ignored the call, and continued his work, molding damp sand into a structure of many complications. From the house came a second call, even shorter than before. The girl halted, looked over her shoulder, went to the sandbox and with her foot obliterated the boy's handiwork. He froze into rigidity, staring at the devastation. The girl waited. The boy slowly turned his head to look at her. As best Wayness could see, his face was blank of expression. The girl turned away and with head drooping pensively, went to the house. The boy followed, slowly and sadly.

Esteban set the cab into motion. “Next we will inspect the cemetery, which must be considered the climactic event for anyone who like yourself has chosen to explore Calle Maduro. To do a proper job, we must count upon investing at least half an hour, or even better.

Wayness laughed. “I have seen enough for now. You may take me back to the hotel."

Esteban gave a fatalistic shrug and started back down Calle Maduro. “You might enjoy a drive along the Avandia de las Floritas, where the patricians reside. Also, the park is well worth a visit, what with the fountain and the Palladium, where the band performs each Sunday afternoon. You would enjoy the music, which is played freely, for the ears of all. You might well meet a handsome young gentleman or two — who knows? — or even end up with a fine husband!"

“That would be a wonderful surprise,” said Wayness.

Esteban pointed to a tall lean woman approaching along the sidewalk. “There is Madame Portils herself, on her way home from work.”

Esteban slowed the cab. Wayness watched Irena Portils marching swiftly along the sidewalk, head bent, leaning forward into the wind. At first glance and from a distance she seemed comely; almost instantly the illusion shattered and vanished. She was dressed in a well-worn skirt of russet tweed and a tight-fitting black jacket. From beneath a small shapeless hat, lank black hair hung down past her cheeks. Middle age was close upon her and the years had not treated her kindly. Black eyes in dark sockets were set too closely beside a long pinched nose; her complexion was pasty and ravaged by the deep lines of stress and pessimism.

Esteban turned his head to watch her as the cab passed by. "Strange to say, she was a handsome piece of goods when she was young. But she went off to actor's school and next we heard she had joined a troupe of comic impressionists or dramaturgists — whatever — these groups are called, and the word came that she had gone off-world with the troupe and no one thought of her again until one day she returned and then she was married to Professor Solomon, who called himself an archaeologist. They only stayed a month or two and were gone off-world again."

Esteban had arrived at a long low concrete building shaded by a half dozen eucalyptus trees. Wayness said: “This is not the Hotel Monopole!"

"I took a wrong turning,” Esteban explained. “This is the poultry cooperative. Now that we are here, perhaps you will want to look at the chickens. No? Then I'll take you to the hotel, at best speed.”

Wayness settled back into the seat. “You were telling me about Professor Solomon.”

“Ah, yes. The Professor and Irena returned a few years ago, with the children. For a time Professor Solomon was well-regarded, and considered a credit to the community, being a scientist and a man of education. He occupied himself, exploring the mountains and looking for prehistoric ruins. Then he claimed he had found some buried treasure and involved himself in a terrible scandal, so that he was forced to take himself off-world. Irena claims she knows nothing of his whereabouts, but no one believes her."

Esteban guided the cab from Calle Luneta to its previous place beside the hotel. "And that is the state of affairs along Calle Maduro."

Wayness sat in a corner of the hotel lobby, eyes half-closed, notebook in her lap. Under the heading ‘Irena Portils’ she had started to organize a few ideas, but the topic was baffling and her thinking blurred. Her mind needed rest. A few tranquil hours might clarify her problems. Wayness settled back into the chair and tried not to think.

A soothing murmur permeated the lobby. It was an enormous room, with massive wooden beams supporting a high ceiling. Furnishings were heavy: leather upholstered chairs and couches, long low tables whose tops were single slabs of chirique. In the far wall an archway opened into the restaurant.

A party of ranchers entered from the square and seated themselves to drink beer and discuss business before moving into the restaurant for lunch. Wayness found that their joviality, loud voices and sudden claps of hand on leg interfered with her efforts not to think: Also, one of the ranchers boasted a very large bushy black mustache, at which Wayness could not avoid staring, even though she began to fear that the rancher might notice and come over to ask why she was looking at his mustache.

Wayness decided that it was time for her own lunch. She went into the restaurant and was seated where she could overlook the square, though at this time of day nothing of consequence was happening.

According to the menu, one of the daily specials was ptarmigan: an item which intrigued Wayness, since she had never seen it offered on a menu before. Well then, she thought: why not? She so placed her order, but in the end found the ptarmigan too gamy for her taste.

Wayness lingered at the table over dessert and coffee. The afternoon lay before her, but she decided not to attempt another period of serenity, and once again she took up the matter of Irena Portils.

The basic problem was straightforward: how to induce Irena to reveal the whereabouts of the man known as ‘Professor Solomon’?

Wayness brought out her notebook and examined the entries she had inscribed earlier in the day.

Problem: Find Moncurio.

— Solution 1; Make a full explanation to Irena and request cooperation.

— Solution 2; Similar to No.1, but offer of money — perhaps considerable money.

— Solution 3: Hypnotize or drug Irena Portils, and so extract the information from her.

— Solution 4; While house is unoccupied, search for clues.

— Solution 5; Question Irena's mother and/or children. (???)

— Solution 6: None of above.

Wayness was not encouraged by her review of the notes. Solution 1, the most reasonable, would almost surely embroil her in an emotional confrontation with Madame Portils and cause her to become more intractable than ever. The same could be said for Solution 2. Solutions 3, 4, and 5 were almost equally impractical. Solution 6 was clearly the most feasible of the group.

Wayness returned to the lobby. The time was a few minutes after two o'clock, with the balance of the afternoon still ahead. Wayness went to the desk, where the clerk directed her to the public library.

“It is a five minute walk," said the clerk. He pointed his pencil. "Go along Calle Luneta a single block, to Calle Basilio; on the corner you will find a large acacia tree. Turn to the left and walk a block, which will bring you to the library.”

“That seems simple enough."

“Just so. Do not neglect the collection of primitive pottery on display in the reference department. Even here in Patagonia, where the gauchos once roamed, we honor the ideals of high culture.”

A door of bronze and glass slid aside; Wayness entered a foyer equipped with the usual amenities. Halls to left and right led to the various special departments. Wayness wandered here and there, at all times covertly watching for Irena Portils. She had formed no plan; still it seemed certain that these particular premises might be the best, perhaps the only, environment in which to make Irena‘s acquaintance. She paused to examine a rack of periodicals, pretended to consult the information banks, stopped to ponder the schedule of library hours, as posted on a sign. Nowhere did she so much as glimpse Irena, who perhaps had gone home for the day.

In the Art and Music room Wayness came upon the collection of primitive pottery to which she had been recommended by the clerk at the hotel. The pieces were displayed upon the shelves of a glass-fronted cabinet. There were a dozen bowls, some high, some low and as many other utensils. Most had been broken and restored; a few showed rudimentary decoration: patterns of stippling or scratches. The ware had been formed either by pressing slabs of clay into baskets, then firing basket and all or by the hand-forming of slabs into the shape desired. A placard attributed the pieces to 'the Zuntil folk’: semi-barbarian hunters and gatherers resident in the area many thousands of years before the coming of the Europeans. The pieces had been discovered by local Archaeologists at sites along the Azumi River, a few miles north and west of Pombareales.

Wayness frowned at the collection, which had just inserted a rather good idea into her mind. She considered the idea from all angles, but could find no flaws. Of course she would be required to become a liar, a sneak and a hypocrite. But what of that? To make an omelet one must break eggs. She turned to the librarian who sat at a nearby desk: an angular young man with soft sandy hair a wide thinker's forehead, a high-bridged beak of a nose, a bony jaw and chin. He had been watching Wayness from the side of his face. Meeting her gaze, he blushed and looked hurriedly away, then could not resist another glance.

Wayness smiled at him, and approached his desk. She asked: “Did you arrange the showing of this collection?”

The librarian grinned. “So I did, in part, at any rate. I did none of the digging. That was the work of my uncle and his friend. They are the diggers, and very keen. I don’t fancy it all that much, myself."

“You miss most of the fun!"

“Perhaps,” said the librarian. He added, in a thoughtful voice: "Last week my uncle and his friend Dante went out on a dig. My uncle was stung by a scorpion. He jumped into the river. During the afternoon his friend Dante was chased by a bull. He jumped into the river too."

“Hm.” Wayness considered the collection of pots. “Did they go out again this week to dig?”

"No. They went to the cantina instead.”

Wayness had no comment to make.

Beside the collection several maps of the region were posted. One of these marked the location of the Zuntil sites; another, on a larger scale, displayed the reach of the various Inca Empires: the Early, the Middle and the Late. Wayness said: “Apparently the Incas never ranged quite so far south as Pombareales."

“They probably sent war parties out from time to time. But no one has ever found any authentic sites closer than Sandoval, which might well have been nothing more than a trading post.”

Wayness spoke offhandedly: "I think that is what the leader of our expedition wants to establish, one way or the other.”

The librarian gave a wry chuckle. “There have been more expeditions at Sandoval than ever there were Incas."

He appraised Wayness anew. “You are an archaeologist, then?"

Wayness laughed. “After this year in the field and three more years in the laboratory sorting out bones — ask me again." She looked around the room. “You are not too busy to talk?”

“Definitely not! Today is always a slack day. Sit down, if you like. My name is Evan Faures.”

Wayness demurely seated herself. “I am Wayness Tamm.”

The conversion proceeded. Wayness presently inquired about caves in the mountains and legends of Inca gold. “It would be fun to find a great box of treasure.”

Evan looked over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t dare mention Professor Solomon, if Irena Portils were within hearing distance. But I think she has gone home for the day.”

“Who is Professor Solomon and who is Irena Portils?”

"Aha!" said Evan. “There you touch upon one of our most notorious scandals.”

“Tell me about it. I like scandals.”

Evan once again looked over his shoulder. “Irena Portils is part of the staff. As I understand it, she was once a dancer or some such thing, and went off-world with a troupe of entertainers. She returned married to an archeologist named Professor Solomon, who declared himself to be famous everywhere. He made a good impression and became one of the town dignitaries.”

"One evening, at a dinner party with friends, Professor Solomon seemed to become convivial and perhaps a trifle indiscreet. In strict confidence he told his friends he had come upon an old map which located a secret cave in which the conquistadores had hidden a treasure of newly minted gold doubloons. ‘Probably just a mare’s nest,’ said Professor Solomon, ‘but interesting all the same.’”

“A day or two later Professor Solomon slipped away into the mountains. His friends, as soon as they learned of his absence, put discretion aside and told everyone of Professor Solomon’s gold.”

“A month passed, and Professor Solomon returned. When his friends pressed him for information, he reluctantly showed them four gold doubloons, and said that he needed a few special tools to dig away the debris which now covered the chest. Shortly thereafter he disappeared again.”

“The news of his discovery excited a great deal of interest and also avarice. When Professor Solomon returned with four hundred doubloons, he was besieged with offers from collectors. He allowed several of the doubloons to be assayed, which diminished their value, so no one was surprised when he refused to test any of the others. One day at noon precisely he sold the doubloons. Swarms of excited collectors came swearing and screaming and waving their money in the air. Professor Solomon sold the doubloons in parcels of ten, and all four hundred were gone before the hour was over. Then Professor Solomon thanked the collectors for their interest, and said he was off to explore another cave which might yield an even greater treasure of Inca emeralds. He departed, amid acclaim and congratulations. This time he took Irena Portils with him.”

"Peace returned to Pombareales, but not for long. A few days later it became known that the collectors had all paid very large sums for doubloons stamped from lead, then plated over with a thin wash of gold. Their value was negligible.”

"Collectors are not a fatalistic lot. Consternation gave way to outrage and fury even none intense than the previous enthusiasm."

"So what happened?”

"Nothing. If Professor Solomon had been dragged from his hiding place, pelted with stones, hanged, drawn, quartered, then burnt alive at the stake, and afterwards whipped to within an inch of his life, and finally crucified upside down and forced to pay back all his debts at compound interest, the emotions might have been soothed. But he was nowhere to be found, and to this day no one has suggested amnesty for Professor Solomon. As for Irena Portils, she returned after a few years with her two children.

She claimed that Professor Solomon had deserted her. Further, she declared that she knew nothing of the swindle, and she wanted only to be left alone. No one could prove her complicity, though they tried hard enough. After a while Irena came to work at the library. The years went by and that is how things stand today.”

“And where is Professor Solomon? Do you think she keeps in touch with him?”

Evan smiled a chilly half-smile. “I don’t know. I would never dare to ask. She keeps herself to herself.”

“Has she no friends?”

"None, so far as I know. At the library, she does her work, she manages to speak politely when necessary, but she seems only half-focused, as if her thoughts were far away. Sometimes her tensions are so strong that everyone near becomes edgy. It’s as if great storms were raging inside her, and she were holding herself together only with effort."

“How odd.”

"Very odd, I would not like to be near if ever she lets go.”

'Hm.” Evan's remarks were discouraging. Irena Portils was her only link to Adrian Moncurio and by one means or another must be cultivated. Wayness said tentatively: "If I come to the library tomorrow, perhaps I will meet her.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Evan looked at her in surprise. “Why would you want to meet her?"

"I suppose I am interested in unusual people,” said Wayness lamely.

“She doesn’t come in tomorrow. It’s the day the doctor calls on her children. He sees them every week. Also, Irena works in the back room. You would not meet her in any case."

"It is no great matter.”

Evan smiled wistfully. “I could hope that you would be coming back regardless of Irena.”

"Possibly,” said Wayness. It seemed likely that she would in the end need someone's help. Evan? It would be cruel to exploit him. Still, as she had already noted, to make an omelet, at least one egg must be broken.

“If I have the opportunity, I'll come by again.”

Wayness returned to the hotel. The outdoor café fronting on the square was now animated with young business folk, groups of upper class matrons, ranchers and their spouses in town for an afternoons shopping. Wayness seated herself at a vacant table and ordered tea and nutcake. The wind had died; the sun shone warm. By raising her head and looking far off toward the west, she could see the loom of the Andes. Had it not been for her concerns, Wayness would have found the occasions very pleasant.

For want of any better occupation, Wayness pushed the teapot to the side, brought out paper and pen, and wrote another letter to her father and mother.

She concluded: “I find myself involved in a gigantic game of paper chase, played to occasionally unpleasant rules. At the moment I am hard against a certain Irena Portils, who stands between me and Adrian Moncurio (an old friend of Uncle Pirie, by some strange chance, or perhaps it is not so strange after all). This information, incidentally, is highly confidential, and must not be discussed with anyone but Glawen, for whom I hopefully enclose another note. Sooner or later I suppose I will discover what has been happening.”

In her note to Glawen, she again mentioned Irena Portils. "I don’t know how to approach her. She seems to be hyper-neurotic, whatever that means.”

"I wish this business were over. I find myself continually confused and baffled; I am walking around inside a kaleidoscope.”

“But I am not really complaining. When I look back I can actually find cause for encouragement. Step by step, inch by inch, I make progress. I must repeat that I am not at all pleased with Julian. He may or may not be a murderer, but he is many other things.”

“In regard to Irena Portils, I must use my ingenuity, and find some way to make her acquaintance. I don’t think that the library provides any real opportunity, but this seems to be her only contact with the outside world. Except for the doctor who visits her children every week. I wonder if something could be effected from this direction. I must think about this. As always, I wish you were here with me, and I also hope that you receive this letter.”

In this hope Wayness would be denied. By the time the letter arrived at Araminta Station, Glawen had already departed and was on his way to Earth.

Wayness took the letters to the nearby post office, returned to the hotel and went up to her room. She bathed. Then, thinking to resuscitate her morale, she dressed in one of her most attractive evening costumes: a soft black tunic and a skirt striped black and mustard-ocher. With her mood only slightly improved, she went down to the hotel restaurant for her dinner.

Wayness dined without haste on lamb chops and asparagus. By the time she had finished, twilight had arrived, to bring the young folk of Pombareales out for the evening promenade. Girls strolled clockwise around the square; the young men went counter-clockwise, the groups exchanging salutes and repartee as they passed each other. Some of the young men issued compliments; others feigned heart attacks or a convulsion in response to the impact of so much beauty. The most fervent bravos of all uttered passionate outcries, such as: 'Ay-yi-yi!’ or ‘Ahay! I am turning inside out!’ or ‘What exquisiteness!’ or ‘Caray! I have been ravished!" The girls ignored such excesses, sometimes with disdain, but none desisted from the promenade. Wayness went out to the café and seated herself at a table in the shadows. She ordered coffee and watched the moon rise into the Patagonian sky. Her presence did not go unnoticed; she was approached several times by socially inclined young men. One proposed that they visit the Cantina La Dolorosita for music and dancing; another wanted to order a pitcher of pisco punch so that they might drink and talk philosophy; a third invited Wayness to go riding with him in his fast car. They would speed across the pampas in the light of the full moon. “You will be intoxicated by the freedom and space!" he told her.

“That sounds nice," said Wayness. “But what if the car broke down, or you became ill, or something else happened and I had to walk back to Pombareales?”

“Bah!” growled the young men. “The most practical females are also the most dull; present company excepted, of course."

Wayness politely extricated herself from the invitation. She went up to her room and went to bed. She lay awake an hour, perhaps longer, looking up at the ceiling, thinking of places far and near, of persons she loved and others whom she hated. She reflected upon life, which was so new and dear to her and which someone had already tried to destroy, and of death, which presented little scope for serious analyses. Her thoughts returned to Irena Portils. She had seen the haggard face, with its clenched narrow jaw and lank loose hair a single time, but already she felt the quality of Irena’s personality.

Through the open window the sounds of the Promenade dwindled as the good obedient girls went home, and the others, perhaps, went for rides in the moonlight.

Wayness became drowsy. She had decided upon an avenue of approach to Irena Portils. It was an uncertain method which, at best, had perhaps one chance in three of getting off the ground. Still, it was better than nothing and Wayness felt a comforting intuition that she might succeed.

In the morning Wayness rose early, dressed in a gray tweed skirt, a white shirt and a dark blue jacket: a neat unobtrusive costume which might have been worn by a lesser bank clerk, or a junior teaching assistant, or even a university student of conservative views.

Wayness left her rooms and descended to the ground floor. She took her breakfast in the restaurant, then left the hotel.

The day was clear but windy, with sunlight of a pale cool color slanting into the square from the northeast. Wayness walked briskly down Calle Luneta, wind flapping at her skirt, dust swirls racing down the middle of the street. She turned up Calle Maduro and proceeded until Casa Lucasta was visible only a hundred yards ahead. Here she paused and took stock of the surroundings. Directly opposite she saw a small white house, dilapidated and untenanted, the glass broken from its windows so that they gazed, out upon the street with the bleary blank gaze of a drunkard. Wayness looked right and left, up and down the street. No one was watching. She waited for the passage of a wind-swept plume of dust, then, wrinkling her nose, ran across the street. After another furtive glance to right and left, she jumped up to the porch of the vacant house and drew back into the shadows of a shallow curtain wall. Here, sheltered from the wind, she could lurk unseen while watching to discover who approached along the street.

Wayness composed herself to wait: all day if need be, since she had no idea at what time the doctor might make his call at Casa Lucasta.

The time was close upon nine o'clock. Wayness made herself as comfortable as possible. A vehicle came along the street: a delivery truck loaded with building materials, evidently on its way to the cemetery. Another small vehicle appeared: a baker's van, delivering bread and other goods to houses along the street. A young man rode past on a motorcycle; the delivery truck returned from the cemetery. Wayness sighed and changed her position. The time was now five minutes before ten o'clock. A car of medium size painted an institutional white and black turned into Calle Maduro. This was almost certainly the car she was expecting. Jumping down from the porch, she ran to the sidewalk and as the car drew near, stepped out into the street and made urgent signals. The car slowed and halted. Wayness was relieved to find that the inscription on the side read:

INSTITUTE OF PUBLIC HEATH

— Montalvo-

ADAPTATIONAL SERVICES

She had not stopped the wrong car.

The driver and Wayness examined each other. She saw a dark-haired man of medium stature, aged perhaps thirty-three or thirty-four, sturdy of physique, with a square resolute face. Wayness thought him quite good-looking, and she also thought that he seemed reasonable and open-minded, which was good, although the rather grim set of his mouth might imply a lack of humor, which was bad. He was dressed casually, in a green pullover and tan twill trousers, indicating a lack of institutional formality, which again, from Wayness' point of view, was good. On the other hand, his expression, as he looked her over, was impersonal and analytical, which was bad, since she would be unable to melt him with an appealing smile and a bit of flirtation. Such being the case, she must accept the more difficult task of using her intelligence.

"Yes, miss?"

"You are the doctor?"

He looked her up and down. “Are you sick?”

Wayness blinked. Humor? If so, it was sardonic. She saw that she had her work cut out. “I am quite well, thank you. But still I have something important to say to you.”

“That sounds a bit ominous. Are you sure you have the right person? I am Dr. Armand Olivano; please do not shoot me by mistake.”

Wayness held up her empty hands. “You are safe. I only want to make a suggestion which I hope you will consider wise and necessary.”

Dr. Olivano deliberated a second or two, he gave an abrupt shrug. “Since you put it like that, I can hardly refuse to listen." He opened the door. “I have an appointment up ahead, but it can wait a few minutes."

Wayness climbed into the car. “Perhaps you'll be kind enough to drive somewhere and park where we can talk."

Dr. Olivano made no protest. He turned the car about, drove back down Calle Maduro and parked in the shade of the eucalyptus trees beside the poultry cooperative. “Is this satisfactory?"

Wayness nodded. She spoke carefully: “Since I want you to take me seriously, I must start with some facts. My name is Wayness Tamm, which of course will mean nothing to you. But let me ask this: are you a conservationist, philosophically or even emotionally?”

“Of course. Who isn’t?"

Wayness made no direct response. “Are you acquainted with the Naturalist Society?”

'"There I draw a blank."

"No great matter. There is very little left now. My uncle, Pirie Tamm, is Secretary. I am Assistant Secretary. There are three or four very old members, and that's about all. A thousand years ago the Society was an important organization. It became trustee of the world Cadwal, at the end of Mircea’s Wisp at the back of Perseus, and established a permanent Conservancy. I was born on Cadwal; my father, in fact is the Conservator.”

Wayness spoke on for several minutes. As briefly as possible she described the crisis on Cadwal, her discovery that the Charter and the Grant had been lost and her attempts to find them again. “I have traced them this far."

Dr. Olivano was surprised. "Here? In Pombareales?"

“Not exactly. The next rung on the ladder is Adrian Moncurio, a professional tomb robber. At Pombareales he is known as Professor Solomon, and is famous for his lead doubloons.”

“Ah! Now I am beginning to understand! We are closing in on Casa Lucasta!"

"So we are. Irena Portils may be Moncurio’s legal spouse, though I suspect not. Still, she is probably the only person on Earth who knows where to find him."

Dr. Olivano nodded. “What you have to say is interesting, but you may accept, as an article of faith, that Irena Portils will tell you nothing."

“That was my own feeling, after I saw her walking along the street. She seems a determined woman and under great strain."

"That is an understatement. I took her some forms to be filled out, routine inquiries regarding the family situation. The law insists upon knowing the father's address, but Madame Portils would reveal nothing. Not name, age, birthplace, occupation, or current address of her missing spouse. I pointed out that if she persisted the law might take away her children and put them in an institution. She became very agitated. “Such information is important to no one but me. He is off-world; that is enough for you to know. If you take my children I will do something terrible.” I believed her, and said that perhaps it was not necessary after all. Later I wrote in a false name and address, and everyone was satisfied. But it’s clear that Madame Portils herself is a border line case. She hides behind a mask as best she can, especially when I come to call, since I represent the awful majesty of the Institute. I know that she hates me; she can't help herself — especially since the children seem to like me."

"Can they be cured?"

“That's hard to say, since no one can define their affliction. They fluctuate; sometimes they seem almost normal; a few days later they are lost in their reveries. The girl is Lydia; she is often rational — unless she is put under stress. The boy is Myron. He can glance at a printed page and then reproduce it in any scale, large or small, letter by letter, word for word. The drawing is exact, and he seems to derive satisfaction in finishing the job — but he can't read, and he will not speak.”

"Can he speak?”

"Lydia says that he can, but is not so sure after all that it was not the wind talking to her as it often does. If the wind blows at night, she must be watched or she will climb from her window and run through the dark. This is when she becomes difficult, and must be sedated. They are a fascinating pair, and I am in awe of them. One day I set up a chess board in front of Myron. I explained the rules and we started to play. He barely glanced at the board and trounced me in twenty moves. We played again. He looked at the board only long enough to move his piece and beat me with contemptuous ease in seventeen moves. Then he became bored and lost interest."

"He does not read?"

“No, nor does Lydia."

“Someone should teach them."

“I agree. The grandmother lacks skill and Irena is devoid of patience and far too capricious. I would suggest a tutor, except that they can't pay.”

“What about me?”

Olivano nodded slowly. “I thought it might be coming to something like that. Let me place the issues before you. First, I believe that you are sincere, and that you deserve all the help I can legitimately give you, but my first duty is to the two children. I can't be an accomplice to any program which might be to their harm.”

"I would not harm them,” said Wayness. “I only want to get a status in the household so that I can discover Moncurio's address.”

“This is clear.” Dr. Olivano’s voice had taken on a quality Wayness could describe only as ‘institutional’.

Despite her best efforts, her own voice rose in pitch: “I don’t want to sound over-dramatic, but the destiny of an entire world and thousands of people weigh on me.”

“Yes. So it would seem.” Dr. Olivano paused, and chose his words with delicacy. “If in fact, your estimate of the situation is correct.”

Wayness looked at him sadly. “You don’t believe me?”

“Consider my position,” said Dr. Olivano. “In the course of a year I speak with dozens of young women whose delusions are on the whole more convincing than your recital. This is not to say that you are not telling me the truth, as you see it — or even, for that matter, as it actually exists. But from this particular vantage, I have no way of knowing, and I must consider your proposal for a day or two.”

Wayness looked bleakly up the road. “Apparently you want to verify what I have told you. If you call Pirie Tamm at Fair Winds the call will be intercepted. I will be traced to Pombareales and probably killed.”

“That, in itself, would seem an obsessional remark.”

Wayness could not restrain a short rueful laugh. “I have already escaped one attack in Trestle. I dropped an urn something of the sort on the man's head. Think his name is ‘Barro’. A shopkeeper named Alcide Xantief who gave me information was not so lucky. He was murdered and dropped into the Canal Daciano. Are these obsessions? You can call the police at Trieste. Even better, if you will come with me to the hotel, I will call Pirie Tamm at his bank, and you may ask him whatever you like about me and the Conservancy.”

“No point in trying now,” said Dr. Olivano. “It would be the middle of the night.” He straightened in the seat. “It would also be unnecessary. Today, I had made up my mind to do something, even if it was wrong. I cannot justify taking the children away; Irena apparently does not abuse them; she feeds them and keeps them clean, and they are not unhappy, at least, not overtly so. But what of twenty years from now would we find Lydia still sorting out pieces of colored paper and Myron building five-dimensional castles in the sandbox?”

Olivano spoke on, looking out past the eucalyptus trees and across the desolate pampas. “The next thing I know, you appear. Despite everything, I don’t believe you are crazy, or delusional.” He turned her brief glance. Today I will take you to Casa Lucasta, and introduce you as a junior case worker who has been assigned to assist with the children for a short period, as an experiment.”

“Thank you, Doctor Olivano."

“I think, on the whole, that it would be better if you did not live in the house.”

“I think so too," said Wayness, remembering Irena Portils' desperate face.

"I suppose you know nothing of psychotherapy?"

“Nothing, really."

“No matter. You will not be required to do anything complex. You must give Lydia and Myron sympathetic companionship, and try to bring their attention up from within themselves. This means that you must contrive activities which they will enjoy. Unfortunately, it is hard to know what they like and what they do not like, since they make a mystery of everything. Above all, you must be patient, and never show scorn or vexation, since if you do, they will withdraw and cease to trust you, so that all your work will be lost."

"I will do my best."

“Above all else, including life, death, honor, reputation, truth, is — need I say it? — discretion. Do not involve the Institute in a scandal. Do not let Irena find you rummaging through her drawers, or examining her mail.”

Wayness grinned. “I won’t let her catch me."

"One difficulty remains. You are not a convincing social worker. I think I should better introduce you as a student in the School of Psychotherapy, working as my assistant. Irena won’t think this at all strange, as I have introduced such folk before.”

“Do you find her difficult to work with?”

Olivano grimaced and gave no direct response. “She keeps her composure, but only, it seems, after great effort, which puts me on tenterhooks. I feel she is always dancing along the edge of a cliff, and I can never really come to grips with her. As soon as I touch upon something sensitive, she starts to fidget, and I must desist, or risk an outburst of some sort.”

“What of the grandmother?”

“That is Madame Clara. She is sharp and shrewd, and notices everything. The children baffle her and she is brisk with them, I think that she stings their bottoms with a length of cane when it suits her. She resents me and surely will distrust you. Ignore her as best you can. You will get no information from her. She probably has none to give. Well then, are you ready?”

“I am ready, and also nervous.”

“No reason for that. Your name shall be Marin Wales, since there is a student of that name who is not in residence at the moment.”

Olivano turned the car around and drove back up Calle Maduro to Casa Lucasta. Wayness looked dubiously at the two-story white house. She had been worried as to how she might gain admittance; now that the means was opened to her, she worried more than ever. Yet, what was there to fear? If she knew, she told herself, perhaps she might not feel so queasy. Well, there was no help for it. Olivano had already alighted and was waiting for her with a faint smile on his face. “Don’t be nervous. You are a student and not expected to know anything. Stand to the side and observe; nothing more is expected of you at the moment.”

“But later?”

“You will be playing with two interesting if abnormal children, who will probably like you — which is truly my principal fear, that they may learn to like you too much.”

Wayness gingerly stepped from the car, noticing as she did so Irena’s face watching from an upper window. The two crossed the yard to the front door, which was opened by Madame Clara. "Good morning,” said Olivano. "Madame Clara, this is my assistant Marin.”

“Yes, come in then," said Madame Clara in a flat rasping voice and stood back: a small nervously active woman, somewhat heavy and hunched in the shoulders so that her head hung forward. Her gray hair — which did not seem overly clean — was gathered in an untidy bun; her eyes were black and sharp; her mouth, by reason of a stricture or a damaged nerve, was frozen into an up-curving wince, molding her face into a cast of chronic cynical suspicion, as if she knew and was amused by everyone’s ugly secrets.

Wayness looked into the dining room, to the side of the entry hail and discovered the children sitting bolt upright and wide-eyed at the table, unnaturally quiet and decorous, each with an orange clutched in their fingers. They looked incuriously toward Olivano and Wayness, Then returned to their private concerns.

Down the stairs came Irena Portils on long bony legs. She wore a green and yellow blouse with a russet-taupe skirt. It was an unbecoming outfit. The colors were not at all kind to her complexion; the blouse was too short, the skirt rose too high at the waist, emphasizing her rather wide abdomen. Nevertheless, when she first appeared at the head of the stairs, Wayness again thought to glimpse a tragic beauty, so fragile as to disappear at the instant of perception like a bursting bubble, leaving behind the reality of her despoiled and desperate features.

Irena looked at Wayness with surprise and no great pleasure. Doctor Olivano paid no heed, and spoke in a businesslike voice: “This is Marin Wales. She is an advanced student in the field and is functioning as my assistant. I have asked her to work with Myron and Lydia on an intensive basis, in order to accelerate the therapy, which does not seem to be going anywhere under present conditions."

“I don’t quite understand."

"It is simple enough. Marin will be here every day, for at least a certain period."

Irena said slowly: “That is very nice, but I am not sure that this is the best of ideas. It may cause a derangement of the household."

"In this case we must proceed as I have outlined. We cannot let the years go by and do nothing."

Both Irena and Madame Clara turned to examine Wayness more closely. Wayness attempted a smile but it was evident that she had made an unfavorable impression.

Irena turned back to Olivano. She asked coldly: "Exactly what is involved in this inconvenient scheme?”

“It will not be all that bad,” said Olivano. “Marin will spend as much time as possible with the children. She will in effect be their companion and try to engage their interest, using whatever tactics she thinks appropriate. She will bring her own meals and will cause you no extra work. I want her to observe the children’s daily routines, from the time they leave bed to the time they retire.”

“That seems a gross intrusion into our privacy, Doctor Olivano.”

“As you wish. Your privacy will be respected. I will remove Lydia and Myron to the hospital for the regimen we had in mind. If you will pack some things for the children, I will take them with me now and you need not be exposed to any inconvenience whatever."

Irena stood stock-still staring miserably at Olivano. Madame Clara, smiling her meaningless half-grin, turned and padded from the room and into the kitchen, as if divorcing herself from the proceedings. Lydia and Myron watched from the dining room. Wayness thought they seemed as vulnerable and defenseless as baby birds in a nest.

“Irena looked slowly at Wayness, taking her measure. She muttered, “I don’t know what to do. The children must stay with me.”

“In that case, if you will leave us alone, I will introduce them to Marin."

"No. I will stay. I want to hear what you tell them.”

“Then please take a seat in the corner and do not enter the conversation."

Three days had passed; the time was early evening. Following instructions, Wayness telephoned Dr. Olivano at his home near Montalvo, thirty miles east of Pombareales. The face of a pretty blonde woman appeared on the screen. "Sufy Jirou here.”

“I am Wayness Tamm, calling for Dr. Olivano."

“One moment, please."

Olivano’s face came to the screen. He greeted Wayness without surprise. “You have just met my wife," he told her. “She is a musician, and lacks all interest in abnormal psychology. Speaking of which, what is the news from Casa Lucasta?"

Wayness gathered her thoughts. “It depends upon whom you ask. Irena would say ‘Bad.' Clara would say: ‘I have no news; I just do my work and hate every minute of it’. As for me, I have discovered nothing — not even the best place to look. I expect no confidences from Irena; she has barely spoken to me and clearly resents my presence."

"I am not surprised. What of the children?"

“There the news is good so far. They seem to like me, though Myron is very dignified. Lydia is probably not quite so clever, but she is mercurial and demonstrative, and her sense of humor is always unexpected. She laughs at things which seem quite staid to me: a crumpled piece of paper, or a bird, or one of Myron’s odd sand houses. She is delighted when I tickle Myron’s ear with a blade of grass; this is the best joke of all, and even Myron allows himself to be amused.”

Olivano showed his faint smile. “You don’t seem to be bored with them.”

“Not at all. But I can't say that I like Casa Lucasta. At some deep level the house frightens me. I am afraid of Irena and Madame Clara; they seem like witch women in a dark cave.”

“You express yourself in colorful language,” said Olivano dryly.

Sufy's voice sounded from off-screen. She seemed to muse: “Life is perceived as a flux of color.” He turned his head away from the screen. "Sufy? I see that you have a remark to make.”

“It is of no great consequence. I thought that I might mention that life is perceived as a flux of colors, but this is well known, and solves no mysteries.”

“That is a pity,” said Wayness. “There are a number of mysteries at Casa Lucasta. I could not estimate how many, since some may be parts of the same mystery."

“Mysteries — such as?”

“There is Irena herself. She goes off in the morning composed, neat and cold as an iceberg. She returns in the afternoon in a terrible mood, her face haggard and mottled."

“I have noticed something similar. Under the circumstances, I did not care to speculate. It may be just a minor problem.”

“As for the children, I am surprised how they have changed in just the few days I have been with them. I can't be sure, but they seem more aware of their surroundings, more responsive, more alert. Lydia speaks when the impulse moves her and I understand her — I think. She knows what she means, at least. Today, and I consider it a real triumph, she answered a few of my questions, quite sensibly. Myron pretends not to notice, but he observes and thinks. In the main, he prefers his blissful detachment and his freedom to roam his private worlds. Occasionally though, I see his attention focus on our activity, and if it is interesting enough, he might be tempted to join us."

“What does Irena think of all this?"

“I spoke to her today and told her more or less what I have told you. She merely shrugged and told me that they often went through phases and that they must not be over-stimulated. Sometimes I feel that she wants to keep them as they are: submissive and unable to complain.”

“It is not an uncommon attitude."

“Yesterday I brought out paper and pictures, and pencils, and started to teach them to read. Myron grasped the idea instantly, but became bored and couldn't be bothered. Lydia wrote ‘CAT’ when I showed her a picture of a cat. Myron did the same, after I insisted, and with an air of contemptuous indifference. Irena says it’s a waste of time, since they have no interest in reading.

“We made a kite and flew it, which both found exciting. Then the kite crashed and they were mournful. I said that we would make another kite soon, but that they must learn to read first. Myron gave a morose grunt: the only sound I have heard from him. When Irena came home, I wanted Lydia to read for her, but Lydia became engrossed in other affairs. This is when Irena said I was wasting my time. Then she told me that since tomorrow was Sunday, Clara would be away on her own errands. This being the case, Irena would be busy with the children all day: giving them their baths, serving their Sunday dinner, and so forth. She said that I would be in the way, and need not come to Casa Lucasta.”

Olivano spoke in surprise. Baths? Sunday dinner? That is not a lengthy program. Two or three hours, and the rest of the day alone with them, and no Marin on hand to see what goes on.” Olivano rubbed his chin. “She can't be receiving a special visitor the whole town would know about it. Most likely, she simply doesn’t want you on hand any more than necessary.”

“I don’t trust Irena, and I doubt if she is their natural mother; they don’t resemble her in the least."

“An interesting thought. We can quite readily get at the truth.” Olivano rubbed his chin. “We have taken blood samples from the children in order to check for genetic deviations. We found nothing, of course; their affliction is still a mystery — among all the others. You are calling from the hotel?"

“Yes."

“I will call you back in a few moments.”

The screen darkened. Wayness went to the window and looked out across the square. On Saturday night all the folk of Pombareales, from high quality to low, had dressed themselves in their best and come out to promenade. For the young men, fashion dictated tight black trousers, shirts striped with dark rich colors: maroon, deep sea green, gamboge, dark blue, with waistcoats carefully echoing one of the colors present in their shirts: such were the stringencies of the style. The most gallant bravos wore low-crowned black hats with broad brims, rakishly slanted to reflect the wearer's mood. The young women wore short-sleeved ankle-length gowns, with flowers in their hair. From somewhere beyond the range of her vision came the sound of cheerful music. Wayness thought that it all seemed like great fun.

A chime called Wayness to the telephone. Olivano’s face, now somewhat somber, appeared. “I have spoken with Irena. She gave me no convincing reason for keeping you away. I explained that the time you could spend at Casa Lucasta was limited, and that I wanted you with the children as much as possible. She said that since I held this opinion she must withdraw her opposition. Therefore you may keep to your usual routine."

In the morning Wayness presented herself at Casa Lucasta at her usual time. Irena opened the door.

“Good morning, Madame Portils,” said Wayness.

“Good morning," said Irena, in a cool clear voice. “The children are still in bed; they are not feeling well.”

"That is too bad! What do you think is wrong?”

“They seem to have eaten something which disagreed with them. Did you treat them to sweets or pastries yesterday?”

“I brought them some coconut puffs; yes. I ate some too, and I feel fine today."

Irena only nodded her head, as if in vindication. “They will not be too active today; I am sure of that. It is a great nuisance."

“I wonder if I should look in on them?”

“I see no benefit they could derive from your visit. They had a fitful night, and now they are sleeping.”

“I see.”

Irena moved back into the doorway. “Doctor Olivano mentioned that your time here was limited. When, exactly, will you be leaving?”

“Nothing is settled yet,” said Wayness politely. “Much depends upon the progress of my work.”

“It must be a dreary routine for you,” said Irena. “It certainly is for me. Well there, I will let you go. They may be feeling well enough tomorrow for you to resume your work.”

Irena drew back into the shadows; the door closed.

Wayness slowly turned away, and went back to the hotel.

For half an hour Wayness sat in the lobby, fidgeting, frowning, wanting to call Dr. Olivano, yet reluctant to do so, for a number of reasons. First of all, it was Sunday morning, when Dr. Olivano might not wish to be disturbed. Secondly, well, there were other reasons.

Despite all, Wayness finally felt impelled to call Olivano, only to be notified by a dispassionate voice that no one was at home. Wayness turned away in both frustration and relief, together with a new and logical flush of anger toward Irena.

On Monday evening Wayness once again called Olivano. She told him of her visit to Casa Lucasta on Sunday morning and Irena’s statements. “When I went there this morning I did not know what to expect but certainly not what I found. The children were out of bed, dressed and sitting at their breakfast. They seemed listless, almost comatose, and only barely looked at me when I greeted them. Irena was watching me from the kitchen; I pretended to notice nothing unusual, and sat with them while they finished their breakfast. Ordinarily they are anxious to go outside, but this morning they did not seem to care one way or the other.

“We went outside at last. I spoke to Lydia but she barely glanced at me; Myron sat on the edge of the sandbox, making marks in the sand with a stick. In short, they had lost what they had gained and more, and I can't understand it.

''When Irena came home, she was expecting me to comment but I only said that they still seemed to be a bit under the weather. She agreed to this, saying: ‘They are prone to peculiar moods, which I have learned to ignore.’ That is the news from Casa Lucasta."

“Curse all!" muttered Olivano. "You should have telephoned me yesterday morning."

“I did, but you were not home."

“Of course not; I was at the Institute! Sufy was with her students."

“I'm sorry. I thought that I might be disturbing you, since it was Sunday morning.”

"You have disturbed me, right enough. But still, we have learned something. What it is, I don’t know."

Olivano reflected. “I will make my usual Wednesday visit. You keep to your routine, and telephone me tomorrow night, if there is anything worth reporting. In fact, call anyway.”

“Just as you say."

Tuesday went quietly at Casa Lucasta. Wayness thought that the children seemed less leaden and dismal, but a quality which she had started to perceive in them — vitality? immediacy? — had been suppressed.

The afternoon was cool, with a lazy overcast obscuring the sun and a chilly wind blowing down from the mountains. The children sat on the couch in the sitting room, Lydia holding a rag doll, Myron twisting a length of string. Madame Clara went out to the utility room with a basket of soiled clothes; she would be occupied for at least five minutes, maybe longer. Wayness jumped to her feet and ran silently upstairs. The door to Irena's room was closed; with thudding heart Wayness opened it and peered within. She saw furnishings of no distinction: a bed, chest of drawers, a desk. Wayness went at once to the desk. She slid open a drawer, surveyed the contents, but dared make no detailed investigation; time was passing too quickly. With each second the tension grew, until it could no longer be supported. With a hiss of frustration, Wayness closed the drawer and ran back the way she had come. Myron and Lydia watched her incuriously; there was no clue as to what might be going on in their minds: perhaps no more than a colored daze. She dropped upon the couch and picked up one of their picture books, her heart still pounding and her whole being heavy with resentment. She had dared to venture into forbidden territory and it had all gone for naught.

Fifteen seconds later Madame Clara came to look into the sitting room. Wayness paid her no heed. Madame Clara, showing her wincing suspicious grin, looked sharply around the room, then turned away. Wayness drew a deep breath. Had Madame Clara heard sounds? Had she merely sensed that something was amiss? One thing was certain: no efficient search of Casa Lucasta could be accomplished with Madame Clara on the premises.

During the middle evening Wayness telephoned Dr. Olivano at his home near Montalvo. She reported that Myron and Lydia, while still apathetic, were somewhat improved. “Whatever happened to them Sunday seems to be dissipating, but very slowly."

“I will be interested to see them tomorrow."

On Wednesday morning Dr. Olivano made his routine call at Casa Lucasta, arriving an hour before noon. He found Wayness, with Myron and Lydia, in the side yard. The children were occupied with modeling clay, each molding what at first glance appeared to be an animal of some sort, using as their models pictures in books Wayness had propped in front of them.

Olivano approached. The children glanced at him and went on with their work. Lydia was modeling a horse and Myron a black panther. Olivano thought that both had performed creditably, though neither showed much zest.

Wayness greeted him. “As you see, Lydia and Myron are hard at work. I think that they feel just a bit better this morning. Am I right, Lydia?"

Lydia raised her eyes and showed the ghost of a smile, then returned to the clay. Wayness went on: “I would ask Myron the same question, but he is too busy just now, to answer. Still, I think he feels better too."

“They are doing good work,” said Olivano.

"Yes. But not as good as they are capable of doing. In the main, they are just pushing the clay back and forth. As soon as they feel better, we will see some really interesting things. Both Myron and Lydia are determined not to let themselves go all dreamy again." Wayness heaved a deep sigh. "I feel as if I have been giving them artificial respiration."

“Hmf,” said Olivano. "You should see some of the types I deal with ten times a day. These two are like flowers in the spring.” He looked toward the house. “Irena is at home, I assume.”

Wayness nodded. "She is home. To be exact, she is watching us from the window now.”

“Good. Then I will show her something worth her interest,” said Olivano. He opened his medical case and brought out a pair of small transparent envelopes. He pulled a hair from Lila’s head, to her startlement, did another from Myron, who showed only resignation. Olivano dropped the hairs into the envelopes, which he labeled.

Wayness asked: “Why are you torturing poor Myron and Lydia."

“It is not torture; it is science," said Olivano.

"I always thought that there was a difference."

"There is in this case, at least. Hairs group in layers, absorbing various materials from the blood as they do so; they become, in effect, stratigraphic records. I will have these hairs analyzed."

“Do you think you will discover anything?”

“Not necessarily. Certain types of substances are either not absorbed or make no distinct strata. Still, is worth trying." Olivano turned to look toward the house. Through the window they saw Irena’s shape move back, as if she were reluctant to be discovered.

Olivano said: “It is time for a conference with Irena.”

Wayness asked: “Shall I come?"

“I think your presence would be helpful.”

The two went to the front door and Olivano sounded the chime. After a pause Irena opened the door. "Yes?"

“May we come in?”

Irena turned and led the way into the sitting room. She remained standing. "Why were you taking hair from the children?”

Olivano explained the process and its rationale. Irena was clearly not pleased. “Do you think that such a procedure is necessary?”

"I won’t know for certain until I see the results of the analysis.”

“That is not very informative."

Olivano laughed and gave his head a rueful shake. “If I had definite information, you would be the first to know. Now then, there is another matter, related to general hygiene. You may or may not have heard that the poly-virus XNX-29 was discovered in Pombareales last week. It is not overly dangerous but may be uncomfortable if a person lacks the proper antibodies. I can easily make the determination with a blood sample. If you will permit — " Olivano brought out a small instrument. “You will feel nothing." He stepped forward and before Irena could protest or draw back, he had pressed the instrument against her forearm. “Very good,” said Olivano. “I will have results for you tomorrow. In the meantime, don’t worry, as the chances of infection are slight, but it is better to be safe than sorry."

Irena stood rubbing her arm, eyes glittering black in her wasted face.

Olivano said politely: “I think that is all for now. Marin has her instructions — essentially, more of the same."

Irena said with a sniff: “She seems to spend a great deal of time playing with the children."

“That is precisely what they need: they should not be allowed to brood and daydream and recede into their private worlds. They seem to have had something of a setback, but they are coming out of it and I want to make sure that it does not happen again."

Irena had nothing to say, and Olivano took his leave.

The week passed. On Friday evening Olivano telephoned Wayness at the hotel. “What is the news from Casa Lucasta?"

"Nothing, except that the children are almost back to where they were. Lydia is talking again and Myron gives his indescribable signals. They are both reading: Lydia goes at it casually; Myron seems to read at a glance."

“Such skill has been recorded before."

“There is something else, most curious. We went for a walk out on the pampas and Lydia found a pretty white stone. This morning she could not find it; I had packed it into a box of oddments by mistake. Lydia looked everywhere, but could not find her stone. Finally she told Myron: ‘It is my white stone: gone!’ Myron looked around, and went directly to the box and tossed the stone to Lydia. She seemed not at all surprised. I asked her: ‘How did Myron know the stone was in the box?’ She only shrugged and went back to her picture book. Later, when they had gone into the house for their lunch, I hid Myron’s red pencil under the sand in a corner of the sandbox. After lunch they came back into the yard. Myron started to draw but found that his red pencil was missing. He looked around the yard and went directly to the sandbox and found his pen. Then he looked at me with a most peculiar expression; puzzled, amused, wondering if I had lost my mind. I found it hard not to laugh. So, there you have it. Myron, who can do all manner of remarkable deeds, is also clairvoyant."

Olivano said: “That faculty is mentioned in the literature, guardedly. It is said to maximize at puberty, then dwindle away." He thought for a few seconds. "I don’t think I want to involve myself in this matter, and I would prefer that you keep your findings to yourself. We don’t want to make Myron any more of a freak than he is."

Wayness could not let Olivano’s remarks, no matter how cool and dispassionate — in fact, they were too cool and too dispassionate — go unchallenged. "Myron is in no sense of the word a freak! Despite all his odd little quirks and funny attempts at dignity, he is gentle and cooperative and really a sweet little boy!”

“Aha! I wonder who has got whom wrapped around their little finger!”

“Yes, I fear so."

“Then you may be interested to know that, while Myron and Lydia are siblings, Irena is not their mother. They have no congruent genetic material.”

“It is no more than I suspected,” said Wayness. "What do the hair samples tell you?”

“I have not had the results yet, but I should have them by Wednesday. I don’t know whether or not I deceived her about the virus, but I might as well play out the game and tell her it is no longer a threat. I will also advise her that I went you on hand Sunday, and that the next time the children show any sign of illness, no matter how trivial that I must be called, since I want no recurrence of the previous ailment which set them back psychologically.”

The weekend passed without untoward incident. On Wednesday morning Dr. Olivano arrived at Casa Lucasta as usual. It was another chilly day with wan sunlight seeping through a high overcast and a wind blowing down from the Andes. Despite the weather Wayness with Lydia and Myron were occupied as usual in the side yard. Today Myron and Lydia sat together, studying the pages of a picture book wherein were depicted many sorts of wild animals, both terrestrial and off-world.

“Good morning all!" called Olivano. “What are you doing with yourselves today?"

“We are exploring the universe, from top to bottom," said Wayness. “We look at pictures, and talk. Lydia sometimes reads from the books and Myron draws pretty pictures when he is in the mood.”

“Myron can do anything, “said Lydia”

“I don’t doubt it an instant,” said Olivano. “You are also very clever.”

"Lydia reads quite well,” said Wayness. She pointed to a picture. “What animal is that, Lydia?”

“It is a lion."

"How do you know?”

Lydia gave Wayness a puzzled look. “The letters read ‘LION’."

Wayness took the book, turned the page, covered the picture and asked: “What animal is on this page?”

“I don’t know. The word reads 'TIGER,' but we won’t know really until we see the picture."

"Quite right” said Wayness. “There might have been a mistake. But not this time! The picture shows a tiger and the letters spell ‘TIGER’. "

Olivano asked: "What of Myron? Does he read too?”

“Of course he reads — probably better than you do”

Myron, be a good boy and read something."

Myron cocked his head dubiously to the side, but said nothing.

"In that case, show me an animal that you like."

It seemed that Myron had ignored the question, then suddenly he turned a few pages and displayed the picture of a stag, with mountains in the background.

“That is a handsome beast indeed," said Olivano. Wayness put her arm around Myron’s thin shoulders and hugged him. “You are very clever, Myron.”

Myron pulled in the corners of his mouth by way of response.

Lydia looked at the picture. “"That is a 'STAG'."

"Quite right! What else can you read?”

"Anything I like."

"Really?"

Lydia opened a book and read:

'Rodney the Bad Boy.'

“Very good," said Wayness. "Now read the story."

Lydia bent her head over the book and read:

'Once there was a boy named Rodney who had learned a bad habit: he scribbled in picture books. One day he drew some foolish black lines across the face of a fine sabretooth tiger. This was a serious mistake, since a fairy owned the book. She said: “That was a naughty trick, Rodney, and now you shall have the teeth of the poor tiger whom you made so ugly.”

'Instantly two long heavy teeth grew from Rodney's mouth, so long that when he lowered his head the points rested on his chest. Rodney's father and mother were very annoyed, but the dentist said that the teeth were healthy and there were no cavities, and that probably they need not worry about braces. The main thing was for Rodney to brush the teeth well, and to wipe them with a napkin while he was eating.'

Lydia put the book down. "That is enough for now."

“And very interesting too," said Wayness. "Rodney will probably not make the same mistake again."

Lydia nodded and returned to the pages of the picture book.

Olivano spoke to Wayness. “I am astonished. What have you done?"

“Nothing. It is already there. I gave it a chance to happen, and meanwhile I hugged them and kissed them, which they seem to like."

“Yes, of course, “said Olivano. “Who wouldn’t?"

They might have known how to read before. Myron, have you been reading for a long time and keeping it secret?”

Myron had been drawing on a sheet of paper. He looked up at Wayness from the corner of his eyes, then returned to his drawing.

“If you don’t care to talk, you can write something on this piece of nice green paper." Wayness put the paper in front of him.

Again Myron squinted up from the side of his face. When he saw that Wayness was smiling at him, he took up his pencil and wrote: “We have never read before. It is easier than chess. But there are many words I do not know.”

“We will repair that lack, perhaps even today. Now show Dr. Olivano how well you can draw."

Without enthusiasm Myron began to draw, using his pencils. Then he took up his color flow-pens and brushed here and there. On the paper appeared a great stag with spreading antlers. He stood looking from a landscape similar to the depiction in the book, but quite different in detail. If anything, the drawing was more precise and the colors more striking than those in the book.

“That is absolutely enchanting,” said Olivano. “Myron, I salute you.”

"I can draw too,” said Lydia.

“Of course you can,” said Wayness. “You are also a wonderful little creature.”

Wayness, glancing toward the house, saw Irena watching from the window. “We are being observed," she told Olivano.

“So I noticed. We must bring these matters to her attention.”

Lydia’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t want arty medicine."

Olivano asked: "What medicine?”

Lydia looked off toward the loom of the mountains"

“Sometimes when the wind blows I want to run, and then they give us medicine, so that everything is dark and we are tired."

Olivano said: “I will see that they give you no more medicine. But you must not run when the wind blows."

“Clouds ride on the wind, and birds fly sidewise. Weeds roll and tumble and bump down the pampas.”

“Lydia thinks she must join the clouds and birds and weeds," said Wayness.

Lydia found the idea amusing. “No! Marin; you are foolish!"

“Then why do you run?"

Lydia’s words came slowly. "First there is the wind, and I know things are starting. Then I begin to hear far voices. They are calling to me. They say,” Lydia made her voice low and husky, “‘Weerooo! Weerooo! Are you there? Weerooo!’ They are calling to me, from in back of the mountains, and I start to feel strange, and then I’m out into the dark."

Wayness asked: "Do you know who is calling?"

“It might be the old men with the yellow eyes," said Lydia dubiously.

“Does Myron hear the voices?"

"Myron becomes angry.”

“Running through the night is a bad habit, and you must change," said Olivano. “When the night is dark and the wind blows strong and cold, you will surely get lost and fall down among the rocks and the thorns and die. Then there will be no more Lydia, and the people who love you will be sad."

“I will be sad too," said Lydia.

"That is exactly correct. So, you will stop running?"

Lydia became anxious. “They will still call me!"

Wayness said: “I do not go running every time someone calls to me."

“That is proper conduct," said Olivano. “You must act the same way."

Lydia nodded slowly, as if agreeing to take the matter under consideration.

Olivano turned to Wayness: “It's time for our conference with Irena. Today we have some serious matters to discuss.”

“In regard to the hair?"

Olivano nodded. “I may be forced to make some harsh decisions before too long. They never come easy.”

Wayness became apprehensive. "What sort of decisions?"

“I’m not sure yet. I'm waiting for some test reports.” He led the way to the front door, where Irena silently admitted them into the house.

Dr. Olivano put on his best professional manner. “I’m happy to confirm that the virus is no longer a threat; there have been no new cases.”

Irena acknowledged the news with a curt nod. "I am quite busy today, and if that is all — “

“Not quite. In fact there are several matters which we must discuss. Shall we sit?"

Irena wordlessly turned away and went into the sitting room. Olivano and Wayness followed, and seated themselves gingerly on the couch. Irena remained standing. Olivano spoke, choosing his words carefully. “In regard to the children, I can only call their progress phenomenal. It is hard to assign credit, but clearly the children like Marin, and respond to her, and she has been able to break down their isolation."

Irena said crisply: “That, of course, may be beneficial, but I have been warned that they are of a manic disposition and should not be over-stimulated."

“That is incorrect," said Olivano coldly. “Lydia and Myron are highly intelligent individuals desperately anxious to become normal. I understood none of this until Marin provided some insights. Then the problems started to show themselves.”

Irena darted a glittering black glance toward Wayness. “There were no problems whatever. They lived quietly and happily until Marin appeared on the scene. Since then, their conduct has become erratic, even peculiar."

'"That is true," said Olivano. “They are commencing to demonstrate extraordinary abilities, far beyond what is considered ‘normal.' In a few years these abilities will become less dramatic, or even disappear, which is the usual sequence of events. But for now, the improvement in their personalities is so notable that we must do our best to maintain the momentum; don’t you agree?"

"Yes, of course, but with certain reservations."

Olivano dismissed Irena’s ‘reservations' with a gesture. “Last week I took away some hair samples. They have provided information which, frankly, I find almost incredible. Let me ask you this: have you been dosing the children with medicines or tonics of any kind?”

Irena’s eyes narrowed. She delayed several seconds before responding. “Not recently." She attempted a light tone. "Where did you get that idea? Surely not from the hair?"

Olivano nodded soberly. "The hair of both children show striations recurring at weekly intervals. The striations yield no identifiable compounds, which indicates that the medicine is a complex organic substance, or mixture of substances, too dilute to leave a signature other than the fact that they were administered. So now, I will ask you again as to what medicine you have been giving the children?"

Irena attempted an airy tone. “Only their regular tonic, which, in my opinion, has kept them as well as they are today."

"Why did you not tell me about this so-called 'tonic'?"

Irena shrugged. "It is nothing of consequence. The doctor who prescribed it explained that it strengthened the nerves, and was also good for the digestion."

"May I see this tonic?”

"It’s all gone,” said Irena. "I used the last some time ago and discarded the bottle.”

“And you have no more?”

Irena hesitated a single instant. “No."

Olivano nodded. "These are my instructions. Do not administer any medicines or tonics whatever. Is this understood?"

“Of course; still, the children are sometimes difficult. When the wind blows at night, Lydia becomes unmanageable and wants to run out on the pampas. During these times a sedative becomes necessary.”

Olivano nodded. “I can understand that you may have a problem. I will prescribe safe sedative but you must not use it except during extreme circumstances''

“As you like.”

“I will reiterate to make sure there is no misunderstanding. I do not want you dosing the children except with my prior approval you would be doing them harm and I would surely know I would have no choice but to take them to an environment where they were protected.”

Irena stood, face sagging in dejection and defeat. She started to speak, then held her tongue.

Olivano rose to his feet. “I'll have a word or two with the children then I will be going: " He nodded to Irena and departed. Irena turned toward Wayness. She spoke in a harsh low voice: I cannot fathom you! Why have you done these things to me?”

Wayness could think of nothing to say and Irena’s distress stirred her own latent guilt at being in the house under false pretenses. At last, lamely she said: “I have intended nothing to harm you."

“My life is no longer my own!” Irena’s mouth began to work, her words came in wild harsh mutters. "Only one year more. One accursed year! Then it might have been over! I would flee — I would flee now, only there is nothing for me: no solace, no refuge! I am miserable, even before I die, and then who knows? Who knows? It is for this reason that I am afraid."

“Madame Irena, please calm yourself! I'm sure things are not as bad as you fear!”

“Ha! You know nothing except to smarm and snivel and now I do not know what to do.”

“Why are you worried? Is it about Professor Solomon?"

Irena's face instantly froze. "I have said nothing, do you hear? Nothing!"

"Of course. Still, if you care to talk, I will listen.”

But Irena had turned on her heel and in three long steps had lunged from the room.”

Wayness gloomily went out into the yard, where she took herself in hand. She could not afford to be soft; if deceit and dissimilation were the worst compromises she must make, she could count herself lucky. And after all, Myron and Lydia were to be considered. Irena had mentioned a year what was to happen in a year? Wayness felt certain that it would not have been to the advantage of the two children.

Dr. Olivano had departed. Madame Clara presently called the children in for their lunch. Wayness sat on the edge of the sandbox and ate the sandwich she had brought from the hotel.

Toward the middle of the afternoon Wayness diffidently asked permission to take the children for a walk. Irena gave a graceless assent and Wayness took her two charges to a confectionery on the square, where Lydia and Myron gravely consumed hot cocoa and fruit tarts mounded high with whipped cream. Wayness wondered what would happen to them when she went away. Dr. Olivano would look to their physical well-being, and as for their emotions — Wayness heaved a sigh. She must harden her heart to such considerations. As for her own affairs, they were not going at all well. She was not a whit closer to Moncurio's whereabouts now than on the day of her arrival. There had been no opportunity to search the house — though what she might expect to find she had no idea. She was supported only by hope, because she could think of no alternatives to what she was doing. She studied Myron and Lydia, who, so she noticed, were studying her in turn. Wayness saw that they had enjoyed their treats to the last crumb. Next she took them to the town bookshop, where she bought a terrestrial atlas, a big pictures book of natural history, a dictionary, and an astronomical atlas.

The three returned to Casa Lucasta. Irena took note of the purchases but made no comment; Wayness would have been surprised had she done so.

The next morning, when Wayness arrived, she found Myron and Lydia already hard at work, building a kite to their own design, using splints of split cane and dark blue film, secured by strips of cohering tape. It was an intricate construction five feet long, comprising an extravagant array of wings, vanes, foils, spoilers, and flared conduits. Wayness found their kite fascinating to look at, but doubted whether it would fly.

The kite was not finished until middle afternoon, when the wind started to blow erratically, in gusts followed by period of dead calm. Myron and Lira nevertheless prepared to fly the kite. Wayness, after indecision, decided not to interfere, though she was sure that the kite would meet disaster.

The two, carrying the kite, crossed Calle Maduro and picked their way out upon the waste of stone and bush which spread away to the south. Wayness followed behind.

Lydia held the string while Myron carried the kite down wind, the film chattering and the various vanes and foils fluttering. Myron turned; the wind caught the kite and contrary to Wayness pessimistic expectations, swept it up — higher, higher, higher, as Lydia paid out the string. She turned a quick smile over her shoulder toward Wayness. Myron watched the ascent with neither surprise nor enthusiasm, but with a gravity which was almost stern. High soared the kite, ruling the wind, each of Myron’s peculiar vanes and surfaces performing faultlessly.

Wayness watched, marveling.

The wind waxed and waned, the kite acknowledging the changes with small adjustments, sometimes swooping or dipping somewhat, but otherwise paying no heed to the vagaries of nature. Myron’s kite ruled the skies!

A gust of wind, stronger than any before, struck down from the mountains. The kite string broke and fell slowly to the ground. The kite, liberated, swung majestically away downwind on a mission of its own, and its ultimate descent could not be discerned.

Myron and Lydia stood motionless, looking after the kite for some time, mouths drooping but showing no other emotion. Wayness thought that the kite had been successful. She thought that Lydia and Myron also were satisfied. Myron turned, gave Wayness one of his most unfathomable stares. Wayness said nothing. Lydia dutifully began to roll up the string. As soon as the job was done, all returned to the house, Myron and Lydia pensive rather than crestfallen.

For a time the three sat on the couch, looking through the new books. Wayness was startled to find that Myron was reading the dictionary, scanning page after page, though without any evidence of enjoinment or interest. “That is natural enough, ”Wayness told herself. “It is not an exciting book.”

Irena returned from work, even more tired and distraught than usual. She went directly to her room, without a word to anyone. Shortly afterward Wayness took her leave and returned to the hotel.

During the evening Olivano telephoned. He asked: “And how went your day?”

"Well enough. Lydia and Myron built a beautiful kite, and it flew beautifully too. But the string broke and for all I know the kite is still trying somewhere off across the pampas. When I left the house, Lydia was inspecting the picture of a stegosaurus and Myron was studying a chart of the Gaean Reach. He had already read the dictionary. Clara was surly and Irena ignored me.”

Just another day at Casa Lucasta,” said Olivano. "As for me, I received the complete analysis of Irena’s blood today, and it is as I have long suspected: she has been taking some sort of drug which the analyst is unable to name, except to suggest that it is off-world in origin."

“I've wondered about this too,” said Wayness. “In the morning, when she leaves for work, she is quite neat and in command of herself; in the afternoon she can hardly wait to get home and comes running in like a scarecrow.”

Olivano went on in his most toneless voice: “Everything taken with everything, it has become clear to me that Irena is not a suitable custodian for Lydia and Myron. I intend to take them to a better environment as soon possible."

Wayness slowly adjusted herself to the news, which was bleak. "How soon will that be?”

“The legal processes will take two or three days, depending upon whether old Bernard's leg is hurting him or not. After that, there is no reason for further delay but it always occurs. It would be better for everyone concerned if you were not on hand at this time.”

“So when must I go?”

“Sooner rather than later I fear."

“Two days? Three days?”

“Three days at most, or so I would estimate, I will be glad to have the matter settled, since I am starting to suffer from nervous anxieties. The situation at Casa Lucasta does not seem stable.”

Wayness slumped back into the chair and stared numbly off across the room. Time passed; emotion gradually drained from her mind, leaving only a lump of resentment, directed toward everything and everyone, including Dr. Olivano and his indomitable rectitude.

Wayness finally managed a sour shaky laugh. Dr. Olivano’s responsibilities must be for the children, and her sense of betrayal was irrational. Dr. Olivano, after all, was not a member of the Naturalist Society.

Wayness rose to her feet and went to the window. Her circumstances were bleak; she was no closer to Moncurio than when she had first arrived in Pombareales — perhaps even farther away, since now she had antagonized Irena Portils, the single strand of connection to Moncurio.

Three days, at most, remained to her, and she could think of no constructive course of action other than searching the house. To date, there had been no opportunity; either Madame Clara or Irena was always on hand. Even had she been able to search, Wayness suspected that the effort would have yielded nothing, except for enormous embarrassment if she were caught.

She brooded down across the square, which was almost deserted. Tonight the wind blew strong, fluttering foliage and moaning on its way past the hotel. It was to be hoped that Lydia would not hear voices calling: “Weerooo! Come to us, come!" and decide to run.

Wayness felt too restless for bed. She donned her gray cloak, and leaving the hotel quickly along the silent streets to Calle Maduro. Overhead the stars glittered hard and brilliant in the black sky; low in the west hung the Southern Cross.

Tonight the town was quiet: few folk were abroad. The cantinas were almost empty though the red and yellow lights with which they festooned their fronts shone bravely through the dark. From the Cantina de Las Hermosas came the sound of a voice raised in song, perhaps issuing from the throat of Leon Casinde the pork butcher thought Wayness.

The winds whipped down Calle Maduro, sighing through the shrub and weeds of the pampas. Wayness stopped to listen, and thought to hear a low mournful tone drifting down from the upper air though she could distinguish no voices. She continued up Calle Maduro. The small houses were pale in the starlight. Casa Lucasta was dark. Everyone had gone to bed, to sleep, or perhaps to lie awake thinking.

Wayness stood in the shadows of the empty house. There was nothing to be seen, nothing to be heard but the wind.

For ten minutes she waited, the wind flapping her cloak, not at all sure why she was here in the first place, though she would not have been surprised to see a small thin shape emerge from Casa Lucasta and run out across the pampas.

Nothing of the sort occurred. The house remained dark. At last Wayness turned away and slowly returned down Calle Maduro, and back to the Hotel Monopole.

In the morning Wayness awoke with the mood of the night before still with her. The day outside her windows was overcast, and the wind had ceased to blow, so that the sky seemed to exert a curious oppressive weight.

As Wayness consumed her breakfast, her mood changed, and she began to scold herself. “I am Wayness Tamm of Riverview House! I am said to be a very talented person, also intelligent. Therefore, I must start to demonstrate these qualities, or feel foolish when I look into the mirror. So far I have been too diffident I have been waiting for information to float past on a silver tray! This is poor strategy! I must do something more dramatics such as — what?" Wayness considered. “If I could only convince Irena that I meant Moncurio no harm, perhaps she might help me, especially if I offered her money.” Wayness considered further. “I don’t dare bring up the subject — that’s the sad truth; indeed, I'm afraid of Irena."

Nevertheless, Wayness set out for Casa Lucasta in a mood of determination. She arrived just as Irena was leaving for work. “Good morning, ”said Wayness politely. “It almost looks like rain, doesn’t it?"

“Good morning,” said Irena. She glanced around the sky as if she had never noticed it before. “Rain is not usual here.” She gave Wayness a vague smile and went off down Calle Maduro.

Wayness looked after her, shaking her head in perplexity. Irena was a strange one, and no mistake!

Wayness went to the door and touched the chime button. She waited. After an interval nicely calculated to express a maximum of contempt and resentment, the door was opened by Clara, who at once turned and went back to the kitchen, darting a single admonitory glance back over her shoulder. The message is clear, thought Wayness. “I am not one of Clara's favorites either.”

The children were at their breakfast in the dining room. Wayness greeted them, then took a seat at the end of the table and watched as they finished their porridge. Myron, as usual, was stern and lost in thought, Lydia seemed a trifle peaked.

"Last night the wind blew hard,” said Wayness. “Did you hear it?”

“I heard it," said Lydia, and added virtuously: "but I did not run.”

"Very wise! Did you hear voices?”

Lydia squirmed in the chair. “Myron says that the voices are not really there.”

"Myron is right, as he always seems to be.”

Lydia returned to her porridge. Wayness took occasion to survey the room. Where could she reasonably hope to find information pertaining to Adrian Moncurio, supposing that it existed? Much would depend upon Irena's attitude toward such information. If she deemed it of no great value, it might be almost anywhere — even in the drawers of the sideboard yonder, where Irena kept miscellaneous household papers.

Clara went out to the utility porch Wayness jumped up, ran to the sideboard, opened drawers looked here and there, hoping that the name 'Moncurio,' or 'Professor Solomon’ might catch her eye.

Nothing.

Lydia and Myron watched with neither surprise nor concern. Clara returned to the kitchen; Wayness resumed her seat. Lydia asked: "Why did you do that?”

Wayness said in a half-whisper “I was looking for something I will tell you later, when Clara cannot hear."

Lydia nodded, finding the remark eminently reasonable. She lowered her own voice: “You should ask Myron. He can find anything, because he can detect where things are."

A quiver of excitement played along Wayness' skin. She looked toward Myron; could it possibly be? The idea strained credibility. She asked in a tentative voice: “Myron, can you find things?"

Myron’s nose twitched, as if in deprecation of the purported skill. Lydia said: “Myron knows everything, or almost everything. I think it is time he was starting to talk, so that you could hear what he has to say.”

Myron paid no heed and pushed away what remained of his porridge.

Lydia studied him soberly, then told Wayness: “I think I think that he will talk when there is something he wants to say.”

"Or when he is helping us find something," said Wayness.

Movements from the kitchen suggested that Clara’s attention had been attracted by the conversation.”

''Well, then," said Wayness heavily. ”'What shall we do today? The weather is dreary but it's not too cold, and we can go out into the yard." Where, thought Wayness grimly, they could talk without fear of Clara listening.”

However, rain had started to fall, so that the three remained in the sitting room, looking at the terrestrial atlas.

Wayness explained the Mercator projection. "So on this flat paper you have the entire surface of Old Earth. These blue areas are oceans and these others are continents. Do either of you know where we are now?"

Lydia shook her head. "No one has ever told us.”

Myron, after a single glance, put his finger on Patagonia.

"Correct!" said Wayness. She turned pages in the atlas. "All these countries are different, and everyplace has its own special flavor. It is great fun traveling here and there, going from one old city to another, or exploring beautiful wild places, and even on Old Earth the wild places still exist.”

Lydia looked dubiously down at the maps. “What you say must be true, but these maps are confusing, and they give me a funny feeling. I’m not sure whether I like it or not." Wayness laughed. "I know that feeling very well. It is called 'wanderlust’. When I was your age, someone gave me a book of poems from the early times. One of these poems affected me strongly, and haunted me for days, so that I avoided the book. Do you want to hear the poem? It is quite short and it goes like this:

“ ‘On we rode, the others and I,

Over the mountains blue and by

The Silver River the Sounding Sea.

And the robber woods of Tartary.’ “

'"That is pretty," said Lydia. She looked at Myron, who had cocked his head to the side. "Myron thinks it is very nice. He likes the way the words sound together. Do you know any others?"

“Let me think. I don’t have a good memory for poems, but here is one called the Lake of the Dismal Swamp.” It is sad and eerie.

“ ‘They mode the grave too cold and damp

for a soul so brave and true.

So she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp

Where all night long by a firefly lamp

She paddles her birch canoe.’ ”

After a moment Lydia said: “That poem is also very nice."

Lydia looked toward Myron, then turned to Wayness and with a marveling expression on her face. “Myron has decided to write to you!"

Siting up straight Myron took pencil and paper. Using neat quick strokes ne printed a message. “The poem is beautiful, and the words are beautiful. Say it again.”

Wayness smilingly shook her head. “It would not sound so well the second time."

Myron gave her so mournful a look that Wayness relented. “Very well. I'll do it just this once.” She repeated the poem.

Myron listened attentively, then wrote: “I like that poem. The words fit together well. I shall write a poem when I have time."

“I hope you will show it to me,” said Wayness. ''Or even read it aloud.”

Myron pursed his lips, not yet ready to go so far.

Lydia asked: “Do you know any other poems?"

Wayness reflected. “There is a poem I learned when I was very young and a fine poem is too. I think that you will like it.” She looked from face to face; both were alert and expectant. "It goes like this:

'Pussycat Mew jumped over a coal

And in her best petticoat burnt a great hole.

Poor Pussycat's weeping, she’ll have no more milk

Until her best petticoat's mended with silk.’ “

Lydia was pleased with the poem. “Though, of course, it is very sad.”

“Possibly,” said Wayness. “But I suspect that the pussycat went quickly to work and mended her skirt, so that she was once again served her milk. That is what I would have done, at any rate.”

“And I, as well. Do you know any more poems?"

“Not at the moment. Perhaps you should try to write a poem and Myron also."

Lydia nodded thoughtfully. “I will write a poem about the wind."

“That is a good idea. Myron, what about you?”

Myron wrote: “I must decide what to write about. The poem will sound like the ‘Lake of the Dismal Swamp,’ because that seems a good way to write poems.”

“Both of your ideas sound interesting,” said Wayness. She turned her head to listen. Clara had once again gone out to the utility porch. Wayness looked around the sitting room. There was no desk or cabinet in which Irena would have kept private papers.

Lydia asked again: “What are you looking for?”

“A paper with the address of a man named ‘Adrian Moncurio’. Either that, or a paper with the address of 'Professor Solomon’ who is the same man.”

Clara came back into the kitchen. She looked through the doorway, making a swift appraisal of what might be occurring. She turned away. Neither Myron nor Lydia had anything to say.

Myron snatched up his pencil and wrote. “There is not a paper like that in the house."

Wayness leaned back and stared toward the ceiling.

The day passed. Outside the rain fell steadily: large heavy drops which did little more than bring out the scent of damp concrete and damp soil. Irena came home and Wayness took her leave. In a dispirited mood she walked through the rain to the hotel.

On the following day the overcast exerted a dank pressure upon the landscape. Wayness arrived at Casa Lucasta to find that Irena had not gone to work. She gave no explanation, but evidently did not feel well and, after a muttered colloquy with Clara, went up to her room. Half an hour later Clara draped a black shawl over her head, donned her overcoat, took up her shopping bag and trudged from the house.

A light rain was now falling, constraining Wayness and the two children to the sitting room.

Clara was gone. Wayness listened, but there was no sound from upstairs. She spoke in a low voice: "I will tell you something about myself. I have kept it secret from everyone. Since I want your help, I will tell you this secret.”

“I was born on a world which is very wild. No one lives there except many different kinds of animals and a few people who guard the world. But there are other people who want to kill most of the animals, and build big cities and destroy the beauty of this world."

Myron wrote: “They are fools. “

“I think so too,” said Wayness. "In fact, some of them are wicked people, and have even tried to kill me."

Lydia looked at Wayness large-eyed. “Who could do such a terrible thing?”

“I don’t know. But I am trying my best to stop them, to save my beautiful world. There is a man who can help me. I think you know him. His name — "Wayness stopped speaking. She raised her head and listened. What had she heard? Whatever the sound had been, it was not repeated. She lowered her voice still further. "His name is Adrian Moncurio.” She spoke in a low voice, almost breathless with urgency. Again she tilted her head to listen. Then: "Moncurio called himself Professor Solomon; perhaps you know him under this name. He came to Pombareales and got into trouble. He said he had found a treasure of gold doubloons in a secret cave. He was not telling the truth. The cave was fictitious, and the gold doubloons were mostly lead. He sold as many as he could, then when his trick was discovered, he fled from Earth, and now I must find him. Do either of you know where he is?”

The two had listened in an uneasy silence. Lydia said: “Myron knows, of course. Myron knows everything.''

Wayness looked at Myron and started to speak, but was Interrupted. Into the room came Irena, her hair in disorder, her skin the color of old mustard. She cried hoarsely: “What are you talking about? I can hear this sly murmuring and it is something I cannot tolerate! What is it then!”

Wayness stuttered and groped for words. Myron spoke in a clear easy voice: “I have composed a poem. Do you want to hear it?”

Irena stared, her jaw dropping to draw the lines of her haggard face even deeper. "You are talking!"

“I will speak my poem.”

Irena started to speak in a peculiar strangled voice.

Lydia called out sharply: “Listen to Myron He has decided to speak!"

“This is the poem. It is called The World of the Nineteen Moons."

Irena cried out: “Enough of this nonsense.” She stared at Wayness. "Who are you? What do you want here? You are no social worker! You must leave this house at once; all you have done is damage!"

Wayness said furiously: "The damage was not done by me! Are you not happy that Myron is speaking, that he is mentally sound? Truly, you are a terrible woman!”

“This is the poem," said Myron. “I have just composed it now.” He pitched his voice low:

" 'He swindled them all with the lead doubloons

He had found in fictitious caves.

Now he's gone to the Word of the Nineteen Moons

Where, out on the desert of Standing Stones,

He plunders the sacred graves.' “

Lydia said: “That is a lovely poem, Myron.”

Irena started to blurt something, then stopped short, and spoke carefully: "Yes, yes, we must see about this. It is wonderful that Myron is improving. Just one minute, and then I wish to hear you speak some more.” Irena turned and went into the kitchen.

Wayness jumped to her feet. “Quick," she muttered. “We must go very quickly. Follow me.” She started for the entry hall and the front door.

Irena burst into the sitting room, brandishing a heavy kitchen knife. "Now there will be an end to it" She lunged at Wayness; the knife drove down. Wayness jerked away and the knife slashed her shoulder. She reeled over backward and Irena was on her, knife on high.

Lydia screamed: “No, no!” She seized Irena's arm, and the knife shook loose, fell to the floor.

Wayness ran to the door. “Come! She cried” “Lydia! Myron! Come!”

Irena recovered the knife and advanced upon her. Wayness cried: “Run out the back way! Quick, quick, quick!”

She stood in the doorway. “Irena, you must — ”

Irena gave a great scream and leapt forward; Wayness stumbled out upon the terrace. Over Irena's shoulder she glimpsed the face of Clara, home from her shopping, face contorted in a wolfish grin. The door slammed. From within came scream after scream. Wayness turned and ran down the street to the nearest inhabited house. She burst through the door and while an astonished old woman looked on, ran to the telephone and called the police, and also informed the dispatcher that an ambulance might be needed.

“The time was late afternoon. The overcast had broken and the sun illuminated the central plaza of Pombareales with a wan and cheerless night. The wind blew swirls of dust and bits of litter across the stone flags.

Wayness lay on the bed of her room in the Hotel Monopole. Her wound had been treated and she had been told that aside from a hair-line scar, she would suffer no permanent consequences from the attack.

She had been sedated and only now had started to rouse herself from a semi-stupor. Presently she sat up and looked at the clock. The telephone chime sounded. Doctor Olivano’s face appeared on the screen. He inspected her.

“Are you well enough to receive a visitor?”

"Certainly."

"I'll order up a pot of tea."

“That would be nice."

A few minutes later the two sat at the table in the corner of the room. Olivano said: “Irena is dead. She stabbed herself in the throat. First she tried to kill Myron and Lydia. It was Clara who saved them. She held Irena away with a broom, until the police arrived.” She is a doughty old bird. Irena then rushed into the dining room, lay herself down on the table, and did some bloody work."

In a faint voice Wayness asked: “What of the children?"

“They were both cut and slashed, but not seriously. They are in good condition. They want to see you.”

Wayness looked out the window. “I don't know if that is a good idea or not."

“How so?”

"I have become very fond of them both. If I had a home, I would take them there and keep them. But I have no home at the moment. What will become of them? If it were anything bad, I would take them anyway and leave them with my uncle for a time."

Olivano showed her a crooked smile, “They will be well taken care of. In fact, I too have become fond of them, against every precept of my profession."

“I see."

Olivano leaned back in his chair. “I had a talk with Clara. She is stoic and matter-of-fact, and declares that she knew that tragedy was on the way. She rambled here and there, and it took an hour to learn what I am about to tell you — in something less than an hour, or so I hope.”

“To begin with, Irena was very beautiful when she was young, but unpredictable and restless; also she loved money and resented being born into a poor family. She became a dancer and joined a troupe of harlequins who traveled off-world. At one far place or another — Clara is vague in connection with places — she met Moncurio, and took up with him. In due course they returned to Pombareales, and Professor Solomon sold his fake doubloons, until the swindle was discovered and they fled for their lives.”

“Years passed, and Irena returned to Pombareales with a pair of apparently feeble-minded children. Irena gave out the story that she had been deserted and had known nothing of the swindle, and so was allowed to live more or less in peace. Irena confided to Clara that the children were not her own but must be raised by a rigid routine until they approached adolescence, when certain mental powers would be at the maximum. At this time, according to Irena, the children would assist in the search for buried or hidden jewels. Moncurio and Irena both believed that they would become very wealthy. From time to time Moncurio sent them small sums of money, and kept Irena supplied with the proper medicines for the children and herself."

“Drugs or no drugs, she was an extremely wicked woman.”

“Undeniably so. Well then, that is that. It is a pity that you failed to secure the information you needed, but you are a resourceful person and no doubt will somehow make do.”

“Yes; probably so,” said Wayness coldly. She still had not forgiven Dr. Olivano his delinquencies.

“The children are resting now. You are of course at liberty to see them if you care to do so.” He rose to his feet. “But I could tell them that you came to see them, and then were called away on very important business.”

Wayness nodded bleakly. “It is probably best that way.”