Ecce and Old Earth Page 12

  “Surely there are other members who might be willing to help you?”

  Pirie Tamm laughed sourly. “There are barely half a dozen members left, and most are senile or bedridden.”

  “No new members apply?”

  Pirie Tamm laughed again, even more bitterly. “That is a joke. What can the Society offer to attract new members?”

  “The ideas are as relevant now as they were a thousand years ago.”

  “Theories! Murky ideals! Glorious talk! All meaningless when strength and will are gone. I am the society’s last secretary and soon - like me - it will be no more than a memory.”

  “I am sure that you are wrong,” said Wayness. “The Society needs new blood and new ideas.”

  “I have heard such proposals before.” Pirie Tamm indicated a table across the room on which rested a pair of earthenware amphorae, formed of a ruddy orange body, banded with black slip. The ceramist had scratched though the slip to create representations of ancient Hellenic warriors engaged in combat. The urns were about two feet tall and in the opinion of Wayness, extremely beautiful.

  “I had the pair for two thousand sols: a great bargain, assuming that they are genuine.”

  “Hmm,” said Wayness. “For a fact, they don’t look very old.”

  “True and that is a suspicious circumstance. I had them from Adrian Moncurio, a professional tomb robber. He agrees that they are well preserved.”

  “Perhaps you should have them authenticated.”

  Pirie Tamm looked dubiously toward the two urns. “Perhaps. It is an uncomfortable dilemma. Moncurio states that he took them from a secret site in Moldavia where by some miracle they had rested undisturbed for millennia. If so, the circumstances are irregular and I am harboring a pair of illegal and undocumented treasures. If they are fakes, I own a pair of legal, handsome and very expensive garden ornaments. Moncurio himself lacks all qualms and is probably off plying his trade at this very moment.”

  “It would seem an adventurous occupation.”

  “Moncurio is the man for it. He is strong, keen and quick and totally lacks scruples, which makes him difficult to deal with.”

  “How is it, then, that he sold the amphorae so cheaply?”

  Pirie Tamm again showed a dubious expression. “He was at one time a fellow of the Society, and spoke of rejoining.”

  “Did he actually do so?”

  “No. I feel that he lacked true Naturalist dedication. We agreed that the Society needed revitalization, even though, as he pointed out: ‘There is precious little to revive.’ And he added: ‘The Cadwal Charter and the Grant-in-Perpetuity are demonstrably secure, of course?’”

  “What did you say to that?”

  “I told him that we need not consider Cadwal at the moment, that all our best efforts must be devoted to repairing the Society here on Earth.”

  “‘First,’ said Moncurio, ‘you must alter the public image you now project, of a few tremulous octogenarians in musty clothes, dozing away the afternoons.’

  “I tried to remonstrate, but he went on: ‘You must place yourselves squarely at the node of the general culture; you must set up a program of entertaining events which would capture the attention of the average man. These events might be somewhat peripheral to Society goals, but they would generate enthusiasm.’ He spoke of such activities as dances, feasts of exotic dishes, recreations of dramatic adventures, contests and promotions to exploit the touristic potential of Cadwal.”

  “I stated, somewhat stiffly, I fear, that his proposals failed to enhance either the short- or the long-term goals of the Society.

  “‘Nonsense!’ Moncurio declared. ‘Further, you might organize a grand beauty pageant, with pretty girls recruited from as many worlds as possible. They would be named “Miss Naturalist-Earth” and “Miss Naturalist-Alcyone,” “Miss Naturalist-Lirwan” and so forth.’

  “I rejected the proposal as tactfully as I could. ‘Such pageants are no longer considered chic.’

  “Moncurio contradicted me again. ‘Not so! A well-turned ankle, a proper buttock, a graceful gesture, these will never be anything less than chic, so long as the Gaean Reach endures.’

  “I said wryly: ‘For a man of your age and a tomb robber to boot, you are vehement in this regard.’

  “Moncurio became indignant. ‘Never forget: a beautiful girl is no less a part of Nature than a bottle-nosed blind worn from the caves of Procyon IX.’

  “‘Your point is well-taken,’ I told him. ‘Still, I suspect that the Society will plot out its future course in less tangential directions. Now then, if you wish to join, you may pay me fourteen sols and fill out the questionnaire.’”

  “‘I have every intention of joining the Society,’ said Moncurio. ‘Indeed, this is why I am here. But I am a cautious man, and I wish to look over the accounts before I join. Will you be so good as to show me the ledgers, and also, most importantly, the Cadwal Charter and the Grant?’

  “‘That would be inconvenient,’ I told him. ‘These documents are customarily kept in a bank vault.’

  “’I have heard rumors of depredation and embezzlement. I must insist upon seeing the Charter and the Grant before I join.’

  ‘‘‘Everything that needs doing is being done,’ I told him. ‘You must support the Society as a matter of principle, not because of an old paper or two.’

  “Moncurio said that he would take the matter under advisement, and so departed.”

  Wayness said: “It sounds to me as if he suspected that the Charter and Grant were gone.”

  “I assumed that he had come upon items of the sequestered goods and this is still the most likely explanation.”

  Pirie Tamm chuckled sadly. “A year ago when Moira and Challis were here with their husbands, I mentioned Moncurio and his notions for enlarging the Society. All four thought that Moncurio’s ideas were eminently sensible. Ah well, no matter.” Pirie Tamm fixed his gaze on Wayness, “What of you? Are you a member?”

  Wayness shook her head. “At Stroma we call ourselves ‘Naturalists,’ but it is just a name. I suppose we think of ourselves as honorary members.”

  “Ha! No such category exists. You are a member when you apply and are accepted by the secretary and when you have paid your dues.”

  “That is simple enough,” said Wayness. “I now apply for membership. Am I accepted?”

  “Certainly,” said Pirie Tamm. “You must pay the initiation fee and your dues in advance: a total of fourteen sols.”

  “I will do so immediately after dinner,” said Wayness.

  Pirie Tamm gave a gruff chuckle. “I am obliged to warn you that you that you are buying into an indigent organization. A secretary named Frons Nisfit sold everything he could lay his hands on, then took the money and disappeared. The Society now lacks both property and assets.”

  “You have never tried to find the Charter?”

  “Not seriously. The job seemed hopeless after so many years the trail is cold.”

  “What of the Secretaries who came after Nisfit: they did nothing?”

  Pirie Tamm gave a grunt of disgust. “Nils Myhack succeeded Nisfit, and held the office for forty years. I suspect that he never realized the documents were gone. Kelvin Kilduc was next in office, and I am almost certain that he was unaware of the loss. Kilduc never mentioned any doubt of the Charter’s presence in the vault to me. On the other hand, I don’t believe he was a truly dedicated secretary.”

  “So - if either Secretary Myhack or Secretary Kilduc tried to recover the Charter, you know nothing about it?”

  “Nothing whatever.”

  “Somewhere it must still exist. I wonder where.’’

  “There is no way of knowing. If I were wealthy, I might hire a trustworthy investigator and put him on the case.”

  “It is an interesting idea,” said Wayness. “Perhaps I shall look into the matter myself.”

  Pirie Tamm frowned down the table. “You, a slip of a girl?”

  “Why not? If I found the C
harter and the Grant, you would be delighted!”

  “That goes without saying, but the concept is extraordinary. Almost grotesque.”

  “I can’t see why.”

  “You are not trained in investigative procedures!”

  “It seems mainly a matter of persistence, as well as a modest degree of intelligence.”

  “True enough! But such work is frequently coarse and not altogether genteel. Who knows where such a search might take you? This is a job for a tough, resourceful man, not a vulnerable innocent girl, no matter how persistent or intelligent. Danger still exists on old Earth — sometimes in subtle and unusual forms.”

  “I hope that you exaggerate, since I am something of a coward.”

  Pirie Tamm frowned down the table. “I believe that you are truly in earnest.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “How do you propose to pursue this investigation?”

  Wayness considered. “I suppose that I will make a list of likely places to look — museums, collections, dealers in ancient documents — and work down the list.”

  Pirie Tamm gave his head a disparaging shake. “My dear young lady, there must be hundreds of such places, on Earth alone.”

  Wayness nodded thoughtfully. “It does seem to be a large job. But who knows? I might find clues along the way. Also, is there not a central directory where ancient archives are indexed and cross-referenced?”

  “Of course! The university has access to such information banks. There is also the Library of Ancient Archives at Shillawy.” Pirie Tamm rose to his feet. “Let us adjourn to the study for a cordial.”

  Pirie Tamm took Wayness along the hall and into his study: a large room, with a fireplace at one end and a pair of long tables at the other. Books and pamphlets crammed the shelves; both tables were littered with papers; between them was a swivel chair. Pirie Tamm indicated the tables. “So goes my life these days. I dwell in a swivel chair. I sit in one direction to work on my monograph; I am jerked to attention by a sudden recollection, swing about in the chair to plunge into Society business, then back again to my monograph.” Wayness made sounds of commiseration. “No matter,” said Pirie Tamm. “I am only happy that I have no more than two tables and two occupations; with three, or four, I would be whirling like a dervish. Come; let us sit by the fire.” Wayness settled herself into a tall old chair of baroque design upholstered in moss-green plush. Pirie Tamm poured dark red cherry cordial into small goblets, one of which he handed to Wayness. “This is the finest Tincture of Morella, and is guaranteed to bring the bloom of health to your cheeks.”

  “I will drink cautiously,” said Wayness. “Blooming red cheeks would not become me, and even less a red nose.”

  “Drink without fear! Red nose or not, your company is most welcome. I seldom entertain these times; in truth I have few acquaintances and fewer friends. Challis tells me that I am widely regarded as a martinet and an ogre, but I suspect that she is only echoing the complaints of her husband. Moira holds similar views, and tells me that I must learn to keep my opinions to myself.” Pirie Tamm gave his head a gloomy shake. “Perhaps they are right. Still, I cannot pretend to be happy with the way the world is going. Ease is now the watchword and no one troubles to do his job correctly. Things went differently when I was young. We were taught to take pride in our achievements, and only ‘Excellent’ was good enough.” He glanced sidewise at Wayness. “You are laughing at me.”

  “Not really. On Cadwal, even during my own life, I have noticed changes. Everyone knows that something terrible is about to happen.”

  Pirie Tamm raised his eyebrows, “How could that be? I thought Cadwal was a place of bucolic languor, where nothing ever changed.”

  “That notion is quite out of date.” said Wayness. “On Stroma half the folks abide by the Charter the other half consider it obsolete and want to change everything.”

  Pirie Tamm said gloomily: “They realize of course, that they would destroy the Conservancy.”

  “That is their dearest hope! They are restless and believe that the Conservancy has lasted long enough.”

  “Absurd! Young folk often want change simply for the sake of change, that they may bring significance and identity to their own lives. It is an ultimate form of narcissism. In any case, on Cadwal the Charter is the law and cannot be violated.”

  Wayness gave her head a slow sad shake. “All very well, but where is the Charter? That is why I am here on Earth.”

  Pirie Tamm refilled the goblets. For a long moment he stared into the fire. “You should know this,” he said at last. “There is at least one other person who knows that the Charter and Grant are not in our possession.”

  Wayness leaned back in her chair. “Who else knows?”

  “I will tell you how it happened. It is a curious story and I can’t pretend to understand it. As you know there have been only three secretaries since Nisfit: Nils Myhack, Kelvin Kilduc and myself. Myhack became Secretary immediately after Nisfit’s departure.”

  Wayness interrupted. “Let me ask you this. Why did the new secretary Nils Myhack, fail to notice immediately that the Charter was missing?”

  “For two reasons. Myhack was an amiable chap, but a bit vague and careless in his thinking and inclined to take things at their face value, so to speak. The Charter and Grant were bound into a folder which was contained in a stout envelope, thoroughly sealed and tied with red and black ribbons. This envelope reposed at the Bank of Margravia among other documents, and those few financial instruments which Nisfit had been unable to convert into cash. Upon taking the first needful inventory, Myhack found the envelope safe, sealed and securely bound with black and red ribbons, and correctly labeled. He can be forgiven for assuming that the Charter was safe.”

  “Nils Myhack, after many years as Secretary, finally became something of an invalid, with falling eyesight. His work was done by a succession of more or less capable assistants, the last being a formidable female, originally from off-world, who joined the Society, then made herself so helpful to Myhack that at last he employed her as Assistant Secretary. It seemed to be a labor of love for her, and she let it be known that she would gladly become official Secretary whenever Myhack decided to retire. Her name was Monette. She was a large bustling woman, grim, competent and something of a virago. I personally found her unsympathetic. She had a fishlike stare which tended to make a person uneasy. Myhack however had no complaints, and was always singing her praises: ‘Monette is truly invaluable!’ and ‘The office could not function without Monette!’ and one day: ‘Monette has an eye like an eagle! She has found an inconsistency in the ledgers and insists that we take inventory of the vault, to assure ourselves that all is in order. I am not up to such a deadly task, so I will send her tomorrow with the keys and a note, to the bank manager.’

  “Kelvin Kilduc and I both made vehement protests, and declared that such an act was grossly improper. Myhack pulled a long face but at last agreed that we should all go to the bank together. So went the program, and obviously to Monette’s displeasure; she came in with a face like a storm cloud, and everyone was careful to treat her politely. The vault was opened, and Monette made a list of the contents: some financial records, a few paltry bonds and the envelope purportedly containing the Charter. Still well sealed and tied in festoons of black and red ribbon, so that everyone was satisfied. All except Monette. Before we could interfere, she had ripped off the ribbons, broken the seals, pulled out the folder. Kilduc cried out ‘Here, here! What are you doing?’ Monette answered in a barely patient voice: ‘I want to make sure of what is in the folder; that is what I am doing.’ She opened the folder, looked inside, then closed the folder and tucked it back in the envelope. Kilduc asked: ‘Well Monette? Are you satisfied?’ ‘Yes,’ said Monette. ‘Completely.’

  “She tied the folder up in its ribbons and tossed it back into the box. Nothing more was said; apparently all was as it should be.

  “The next day Monette was gone, without a word of explanation
and was seen no more. Kelvin Kilduc became Secretary, and so matters stood until his death, and I was forced to take up the job. You and I went to the Bank of Margravia and opened the vault. I investigated the folder and to my utter shock found not the Charter, but a commercial copy, and no sign of the Grant.

  “I thought back across the years to Monette. I am now convinced that her purpose was to make sure of the Charter. If she had found the original and the Grant secure in the vault, she would have succeeded Myhack as Secretary and then appropriated the Charter and Grant to her own uses. She must have been shocked to discover nothing but the copy; I marvel at her ability to hold a straight face.

  “That is the story. Monette knew long ago that the Charter was missing. What she did next I cannot guess.”

  Wayness sat silently, looking into the fire.

  After a moment Pirie Tamm went on. “That means that Nisfit sold the Charter, along with the other documents of antiquarian value. The present owner has not thought to register the Grant in his own name, as he would be entitled to do, with all legality. And yet another disturbing factor looms over the near horizon.”

  “Which is?”

  ‘“The Grant must be validated and re-endorsed at least once each century; otherwise the original claim lapses and the Grant is nullified.”

  Wayness stared aghast. “I knew nothing of this! How much time remains to us?”

  “Ten years or so. There is no immediate emergency, but the Grant must be found.”

  “I shall do my best,” said Wayness.

  * * *

  Chapter III, Part 2

  In the morning Wayness arose early. She dressed in a short blue skirt, dark blue knee length stockings, and a pullover blouse of a soft grey-tawny stuff, at once warm, light and complementary to her pale olive complexion.

  Wayness left her room and descended the stairs. At this hour Fair Winds seemed unnaturally quiet. During the night, odors had seeped from the fabric of the house: a recollection of countless floral bouquets, curios carved from camphorwood and sanuchi, furniture polish and wax, ancient rugs, along with a hint of lavender sachet.