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“They had nothing to complain about. Namour guaranteed nothing. He delivered the merchandise; thereafter the Yips were supposed to work.”

  “And where are the Yips now?”

  “The Honeyflower Yips have a settlement near Tooneytown on Ottilie. The Stronsi Yips moved down into the Mystic Islands. The Shadow Valley Yips have a camp near Lipwillow on the Big Muddy River, on La Mar. The Baramond Yips live in grass shanties just past the spaceport, near Faney’s Marsh.”

  “One final matter,” said Glawen. “Namour seems to have brought over a thousand Yips to Rosalia. Is there any record as to their identities: a roster of those in each gang, for instance.”

  “We have no such roster here,” said Wincutz. “But I have no doubt that the Factor’s Association took such a list from Namour. In what names are you interested?”

  “‘Catterline’ and ‘Selious.’”

  “One moment,” said Wincutz. He turned to his communicator and the face of a woman appeared on the screen. “Wincutz here, at the IPCC. Please check through the entry lists for two names, both Yip: ‘Catterline’ and ‘Selious.’

  ‘Just a moment.” The woman turned away, then reappeared. “No such names are listed.”

  “Then, definitely, they are not on Rosalia?”

  “Not unless they have made an illegal entry, which is unlikely.”

  “Thank you.” Wincutz turned to Glawen. “That is the best information to hand.”

  “I am much obliged to you,” said Glawen.

  * * *

  Chapter 5, Part III

  Glawen and Chilke rented a flitter at the spaceport, on the theory that they would be less conspicuous than if they proceeded about their investigations in the Fortunatus. Upon leaving Port Mona, they flew west by north – above marshes tufted with red and black reeds, small ponds and water-meadows; over a line of rolling hills, then a long lake glittering and winking in the amber sunlight. Trees began to appear: Smoke-trees of amazing stature, standing alone or in disciplined groups; then dense forests of featherwoods, bilbobs, chulastics and thrums which covered the landscape with an intricately detailed carpet of black, brown and tan foliage.

  Chilke called attention to a towering tree with masses of small rectangular leaves shimmering in waves of dark red, pale red and vermilion. “That is a pilkardia, but it is usually called an ‘oh-my-god tree.’”

  “What an odd name!”

  Chilke nodded. “You can’t see them from here, but the tree is thick with tree-waifs. They mix fiber and gum and some other ingredients to make their famous stink-balls. Sometimes guests at the ranches go wandering through the forests, admiring the stately beauty of the trees. They are warned not to loiter under the pilkardias.”

  The flitter left Eclin behind and flew out over the Corybantic Ocean, with the sun gaining upon them very slowly. At local noon the coast of La Mar smudged the horizon. A few moments later the flitter crossed a long wavering white line, where surf foamed over an outlying reef. A strip of teal-blue lagoon passed below, then a white beach, then an expanse of jungle, which after a hundred miles broke against a tectonic thrust which pushed high an arid plateau.

  Over red gulches and yellow gullies, bluffs banded tan, yellow and rust, flats of bare stone and drifts of mustard-ocher sand slid the flitter. Glawen found the landscape bleak yet disturbingly beautiful. He asked: “Is all this part of somebody’s ranch?”

  “Probably not,” said Chilke. “There is still wilderness for sale, if the Factors find you reliable and suitably sensitive to caste distinctions. You, as a Clattuc, would have no problem on this score. Ten thousand sols would buy you this entire plateau.”

  “And then: what would I do with it?”

  “You could enjoy the solitude, or you might wish to study the wind-waifs.”

  Glawen looked across the arid expanse. “I don’t see any wind-waifs at the moment.”

  “If you were down there after dark, sitting at a campfire, they would come to toss pebbles and make strange sounds. If a tourist is lost they play tricks. I’ve heard all manner of tales.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “Nobody agrees on this, and cameras won’t focus on their images.”

  “Very odd,” said Glawen.

  The plateau came to an abrupt end at the brink of a great scarp half a mile high, with rolling plains beyond. Chilke indicated a river meandering lazily westward. “That’s the Big Muddy. It’s almost like coming home.”

  The flitter slid across the sky. An hour passed and the town Lipwillow appeared below: a straggle of ramshackle structures along the riverbank, built of tough featherwood timber, weathered to a pleasant grayed tan. The largest structure was a sprawling hotel, with a gallery across its front, like that of Whipsnade House at Port Mona. There were also shops, agencies, a post office and a number of modest dwellings. A long pier, supported by a hundred spindly poles extended into the river, with a deck and a shack at the end; Chilke identified the shack as ‘Poolie’s Place,’ a saloon. Half a mile downstream, a number of huts had been built, using driftwood, plaques of bark and fragments of miscellaneous material scavenged from Lipwillow’s rubbish dump.

  As the flitter descended upon Lipwillow, Chilke could not restrain his reminiscences of Poolie’s Place. It was where he had first met Namour after his departure from Shadow Valley Ranch. Madame Zigonie had paid Chilke none of his wages, and Chilke had arrived at Lipwillow with barely enough money to pay for a pint of beer. Learning of Chilke’s plight, Namour had become sympathetic, and had gone so far as to offer Chilke a job at Araminta Station. Chilke had considered Namour a prince among men. Now he was not so sure. “Still,” said Chilke, “if we meet Namour in Poolie’s, I will buy him a beer, for old times’ sake.”

  “Now you are returning in triumph! It must be a thrill.”

  Chilke nodded. “Even so, I can’t shake an obsessive dread that Madame Zigonie might be waiting down there to give me my old job back. That would be a thrill indeed.”

  “We shall see,” said Glawen. He indicated the clutter of huts beside the alder thickets downstream from town. “That must be the Yip settlement.”

  Chilke agreed. “It hasn’t changed much, so far as I can tell. If Barduys comes to Lipwillow hoping to find a flowering of Yip civilization, he will be disappointed.”

  The flitter landed in a plot beside the post office. Glawen and Chilke alighted and approached the hotel through the noonday sunlight. On the wooden porch along the front sat three Yips drinking beer. After swift glances, the Yips ignored the newcomers - a Yip mannerism which sensitive folk sometimes considered a subtle form of insolence2.

  Others blamed the trait upon simple shyness. Chilke long ago had lost all patience with the Yips and their foibles. He surveyed them now in marvelling disapproval. “Look at those rascals, drinking beer like lords!”

  “They seem very relaxed, as if they were tired,” said Glawen.

  “Are you serious?” demanded Chilke. “To be tired, first you must work. Out at Shadow Valley I implored them to face their responsibilities and pay off their indentures and make something of themselves. They just looked at me mystified, wondering what I meant!”

  “Very sad,” said Glawen.

  As the two stepped upon the porch, one of the Yips rose to his feet. “Gentlemen, would you care to buy a fine souvenir of Rosalia, absolutely authentic?”

  Chilke asked: “What kind of souvenir, and how much?”

  The Yip displayed a glass bottle containing three balls of matted fiber floating in an oily dark-yellow liquid.

  “Stink-balls, three for five sols,” said the Yip. “Very cheap and very nice.”

  “I don’t need any just now,” said Chilke.

  “Your price is outrageous,” said Glawen. “Namour told me that you would sell more cheaply if I mentioned his name.”

  The Yip put on a smile of bafflement. “I know nothing of this arrangement.”

  “Odd! Namour tells me he saw you quite recently.”

  “It was not
all so recent. We did not discuss stink-balls.”

  “Oh? What did you discuss? Namour’s new project?”

  “No. Will you buy the stink-balls?”

  “Not until I consult with Namour. Is he here at Lipwillow, or up at Shadow Valley?”

  “I will sell six stink-balls for nine sols.”

  “I must take Namour’s advice on this. Do you know where I can find him?”

  The Yips looked nonplussed, from one to another, then the vendor resumed his place on the porch. “No matter. We shall deal later. No one will offer you a better price for a like quality of merchandise.”

  Glawen and Chilke turned into the hotel and took lodging in clean rooms, austerely furnished, fragrant with the odor of dry featherwood.

  The time was too late for a visit to Shadow Valley Ranch. At Chilke’s suggestion they left the hotel and walked out to Poolie’s Place at the end of the pier, where they sat at a table beside an open window with a view up and down the river. The walls were decorated with a few old posters, oddments and curios. Three local folk shared a table in the corner; another sat hunched over the bar, staring down into a mug of beer as if hypnotized. A pallid big-eyed boy brought Glawen and Chilke a platter of fried river-sprats and took their order for beer. Chilke surveyed the room with care. “Never did I think I would set foot in Poolie’s again. A philosopher, whose name eludes me, once declared: ‘Life is incredible unless you are alive.’ I think I am quoting correctly. In any case, I find the idea reassuring.”

  “It may get even more so before we are done,” said Glawen. “Don’t ask what I mean, because I don’t know myself.”

  Chilke looked off downstream toward the Yip huts among the alder thickets. “‘Social evolution’ still hasn’t reached the Lipwillow Yips - but then they are not married to those strong-willed ladies of Rhea who don’t like sleeping in the rain.”

  * * *

  Chapter 5, Part IV

  In the morning, Glawen and Chilke flew north over a landscape of a thousand contrasts: hills and dales, forests and ponds; flower-fields of many colors, isolated crags thrusting high like black fangs.

  Two hundred miles north of Lipwillow they approached the outlying shoulders of the great Kali-kalu mountain range, which rose in abrupt tiers and blocks to a crest twenty thousand feet high. A pair of outlying spurs reached east to shelter the headquarters of the Shadow Valley Ranch. To the north rose a forest of enormous bloodwood and blue mahogany trees; to the south stood individual smoke trees and featherwoods. The ranch-house proper, an informal mansion of stone and timber, obeyed no architectural strictures; over the years it had been rebuilt a dozen times to suit the taste of the current owner. A hundred yards to the north, screened by the foliage of tree-vines, were utility buildings: a bunkhouse, a cookshed, workshop, garage and several storage sheds. Chilke indicated a two-story bungalow painted white, off to the side. “I lived there during the term of my employment, for which - need I repeat? - I was never paid so much as a plugged bung-starter. “

  “That is an outrage!” declared Glawen.

  “Quite so. You are aware, of course, that Madame Zigonie was born a Clattuc of Araminta Station.”

  Glawen nodded. “She has dishonored the house. But not enough that I feel compelled to settle the debt.”

  Nowhere could be seen any indication of visitors to Shadow Valley Ranch - most especially, neither Lewyn Barduys’ Flecanpraun nor the grandiose Clayhacker space yacht owned by Titus Zigonie.

  “So much for logic,” said Chilke.

  The flitter descended upon the ranch complex. Near the bunkhouse a group of Yips sat on the ground, gambling and drinking foxtail beer from tin pots. A dozen naked children played in the dirt.

  “It is like old times,” said Chilke. “This scene is engraved in my memory.”

  The flitter landed and the two men jumped down to the ground. Glawen said: “I will go up to the house; you come behind me with your gun ready. If Namour is here, he may be asleep or in a good mood. Make sure he doesn’t sneak around from the back and take off in our flitter.”

  Glawen went up the walk to the front door of the ranch house, with Chilke coming behind. At their approach the door opened. A stout man of middle years, with a ruff of white hair and a pink peevish face stood waiting for them. At their approach he called out “Sirs? What is your business? I don’t recognize you!”

  “We are police officials,” said Glawen. “You are the superintendent?”

  “I am Festus Dibbins; I am indeed the superintendent.”

  “Are you entertaining visitors? Friends? Guests? Off-worlders of any sort?”

  Dibbins drew himself up. “That is an extraordinary question!”

  “I have a good reason for asking.”

  “The answer is ‘no.’ None whatever. What is your concern?”

  “May we come in? We will then explain our business.”

  “Let me see your identification.”

  Glawen and Chilke produced their warrant cards, which Dibbins examined, then returned. “This way, if you

  please.”

  Dibbins conducted the two into a large parlor, with windows overlooking the landscape to the east. Chilke asked: “I take it that Madame Zigonie is not in residence?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And you have no other guests, or visitors?”

  “As I have already mentioned: there are none.” He pointed to chairs. “Please be seated. Would you care for

  refreshment?”

  “A pot of tea would be most welcome,” said Glawen.

  Dibbins gave instructions to his wife, who had been peering through the doorway from the dining room. The three men seated themselves: Glawen and Chilke on a massive leather-upholstered couch, Dibbins on a chair.

  “Now then,” said Dibbins, “perhaps you will explain your presence.”

  “We will indeed. First of all, let me ask this: you are acquainted with Namour?”

  Dibbins instantly became guarded. “I know Namour.”

  “You have told us that he is not on the premises; am I correct?”

  “You are correct. He is not here. Are you looking for him?”

  “We would like to ask Namour some questions.”

  Dibbins laughed humorlessly. “I suspect that if anything mysterious is going on, Namour is the man to ask.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “Not well. He is a friend of Madam Zigonie. She allows him to come here for his sojourns, and I have nothing to say in the matter.”

  “Your opinion of Namour is not favorable, then?”

  “I work for Madame Zigonie. I am not entitled to opinions. Still, I must deal with Namour’s Yips and I cannot avoid dissatisfaction.”

  “What about Titus Zigonie and Madame: have they visited the ranch recently?”

  Dibbins shook his head. “It has been almost a year, and then they were only in and out. But I shall have something to say to them when next they arrive.”

  “Such as?”

  Dibbins waved his hand toward the yard. “I refer to the Yips. They won’t work unless you bring out beer to the job; then after an hour or two they become merry and start skylarking and there is still no work done, but the celebration continues until all the beer is gone. Then they lie down and sleep, and nothing will induce them to resume their duties.”

  “You should give them back to Namour.”

  “He won’t take them. Still, he can’t sell any more on Rosalia! Their habits are now well known.”

  “Are you acquainted with Lewyn Barduys?”

  Dibbins frowned toward the ceiling. “The name is familiar.”

  “He is an important construction magnate. He travels with a young woman whom he describes as his business associate. She is a beautiful creature, highly intelligent, with bright hair and a magnetic figure. Her name is Flitz.”

  Dibbins’ face brightened. “Ah, yes! Now I remember them!”

  “What was the occasion?”

  “It was severa
l years ago, not long after I first arrived. Madame Zigonie entertained them here at the ranch. They called me in to hear what I had to say about the Yips. I suspect this was at Barduys’ suggestion. Namour apparently wanted to supply Barduys two or three gangs of Yips. Barduys mentioned that he had tried Yips before, with no success, but Namour assured him that such problems were in the past, that now they made more careful selection from the available stock, or something of the sort; I remember only that Namour was making assurances to Barduys, and that I was expected to corroborate his assertions. Since I had my job to consider, I made the satisfactory responses, but I doubt if Barduys were deceived. Then I was dismissed and that is all I know.”

  Chilke asked: “When did you last see Namour?”

  For the first time Dibbins hesitated. “It has been quite some time.”

  “Please be more precise.”

  Dibbins became surly. “I don’t like talking about another man’s business. Also, Madame Zigonie might prefer that I keep a discreet tongue in my head. Perhaps I should not say this, but she seems to have made a favorite of Namour, if you grasp my meaning.”

  Glawen spoke stiffly: “Our authority transcends that of Madame Zigonie. We wish to question Namour in connection with several crimes. Whoever obstructs us becomes an accomplice to these crimes.”

  “If I must tell you, then I will do so,” growled Dibbins. “Namour arrived here something about a month ago. I had the impression that he was waiting for something, because every day at the same time he made a telephone call, I think to Port Mona. Three or four days ago a call came through with the information he had been waiting for, and he left an hour later.”

  “Where did the call originate?”

  “The caller asked for Namour Clattuc. That is all I know.”

  “After he took the call, was he pleased? Annoyed? Dissatisfied?”

  “If anything, he seemed nervous, or under strain.”

  “Can you think of anything else to tell us?”

  “No - because I know nothing.”

  Glawen and Chilke rose to their feet. “May I use your telephone?”