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  Dibbins indicated the instrument, on a table to the side of the room. Glawen called the IPCC office in Port Mona; he asked that Namour be apprehended and held in custody if he showed himself. Wincutz gave assurances that appropriate procedures would be initiated at once.

  Glawen broke the connection and turned to Dibbins. “You have been cooperative. We appreciate your help.”

  Dibbins merely grunted and conducted his visitors to the door. Here Glawen issued a last admonition: “Inform no one that we have been here. Am I clear on this?”

  “Perfectly clear,” growled Dibbins.

  * * *

  Chapter 5, Part V

  Glawen and Chilke returned to Lipwillow on the Big Muddy River. In Poolie’s, at the end of the pier, they

  watched the sun settle into the water, drank beer and discussed what they had learned, which was not inconsiderable. Barduys had not shown himself at Shadow Valley Ranch. This fact indicated much or nothing. Perhaps he had delayed along the route. Shadow Valley Ranch might or might not have been his destination. He might already have landed at one of the other ranches. Perhaps he was indeed interested in the ‘social evolution’ of the Yips. Why? It was a futile exercise even to frame the question. They already had seen a number of Yips: those of the camp near Port Mona, the Lipwillow Yips and those still resident at Shadow Valley Ranch. There had been no indications of ‘social evolution.’ There were at least two other such camps: the Honeyflower Yips who had drifted south to Tooneytown, and the Stronsi Yips, now resident on the Mystic Isles of Muran Bay.

  In the morning Glawen called the IPCC office in Port Mona, and was informed that Namour could not be found and apparently had not showed himself in the vicinity, but that vigilance would be maintained.

  * * *

  Chapter 5, Part VI

  The flitter departed Lipwillow and set off on a course which took it east by north: back across La Mar, over the Corybantic Ocean to the continent Ottilie. Dawn found the flitter drifting over a vast patchwork quilt of flowers. At noon a line of seven snow-capped volcanic cones thrust above the northern horizon, by which Glawen and Chilke knew that they had entered the territory of the Honeyflower Ranch. Half an hour later they brought the flitter down at the ranch headquarters. The ranch house occupied the crest of a low hill, overlooking a meadow; a mile to the north loomed a typical Rosalia forest: dark, eerie, ominous.

  The proprietor was Alix Eth, a ruddy-faced man of energy and decision. He answered their questions without hesitation. His assessment of Namour was unfavorable; Eth adjudged him a clever scoundrel who sailed as close to the wind as possible. Eths experiences with the Yips were typical. When he discovered their inutility, he tried to find Namour, that they might arrive at some sort of adjustment, but Namour was “gone like a wind-waif” - so Eth put it.

  As a last resort Eth tried to teach the Yips the basic routines of civilized interaction. He assembled the entire crew and explained a novel system which would resolve all problems. No longer would he give them orders regarding their work; he would neither curse them nor hector them when they lay down to rest; they were at liberty to perform as they liked. Eth saw by the shine in their eyes and their smiles of happiness that, so far, the program had found favor. “Now then,” said Eth, “how shall we regulate the system, to ensure that those who work the hardest receive the most benefits? The system is simplicity itself. The work shall be measured in terms of coupons. When the worker performs a unit of work, he will receive a coupon. These coupons will be valuable tokens. They can be redeemed at the bunkhouse for shelter and at the cookhouse for food. Work equals coupons; coupons equal sustenance. That is all there is to it. Is everything clear?”

  The Yips were interested in the system, but puzzled. They examined the sample coupons and asked: “We are to receive these coupons each day and then we turn them in at the compound each night?”

  “Just so.”

  “Very well; it seems needlessly complex but we will try it. Give us the coupons now.”

  “Not now! You receive the coupons after you perform what we shall call a ‘unit of achievement.’ That is the novelty of the system.”

  After a day or so the Yips told Eth that the new system was unsatisfactory; that the different units and their equivalence with coupons was a source of bewilderment. They preferred the old way of doing things which seemed less technical and easier for everyone concerned.

  The old way was gone forever, said Eth, and the new way would gradually become less perplexing. The Yips need remember only three words: Work equals coupons.

  The Yips grumbled that they did not care to toil all day for little bits of paper, which were worthless except at the cookhouse. Eth told them that if they thought they could do better elsewhere, they were welcome to try, and the Yips went away baffled. During the next few weeks the Yips departed the ranch in small groups. They drifted south to Tooneytown, where they settled in a wild area of swamps and thickets near the river Toon.

  “They seem quite happy,” Eth admitted. “They live off the land and coupons are only a memory.”

  Chilke asked: “What about the Stronsi Yips?”

  “Their condition, so I am told, is similar,” said Eth. “They moved to some semi-tropical islands in Muran Bay and live in primordial bliss.”

  “In other words - why work?”

  “I began to wonder, myself,” said Eth. “I’ll tell you how I made up my mind. At Tooneytown the Yips live at the back of a thornberry thicket, alongside a swamp, where the fetch-grass grows in tussocks and produces big pods full of seeds. The Yips boil these seeds for their porridge, which tastes like sour mud. They put the porridge in a pot with swamp water, throw in some tamarinds and bitter-root and pretty soon they have a vile beer, which they drink by the gallon. They brought in some low-caste women from Tooneytown to keep them warm at night. I tasted the porridge, I drank some of the beer, I looked at the women, and decided I would rather work.”

  Glawen and Chilke flew south to Tooneytown. They arrived halfway into the afternoon and took lodging at the Old Divan Hotel: a tall structure of damson planks, posts and pillars, weathered to a somber russet-brown, and built to the tenets of an unusual rococo architecture, which had been the prideful whim of Mrs. Hortense Tooney.

  Glawen and Chilke dined in the garden to the light of colored lanterns. They sat long at the table, drinking wine and pondering the progress of their investigation. They decided that ‘social evolution’ was absent at Tooneytown, and no doubt equally so among the Stronsi Yips. Chilke declared: “I now suspect that whatever Barduys was looking for on Rhea, it was not ‘social evolution.’”

  “Someday we may learn the truth,” said Glawen.

  In the morning the two departed Tooneytown. They flew south-by-east and late in the evening arrived at Port Mona. In the morning, after a brief call to Wincutz at the IPCC office, they crossed the square to the Factor’s Communications Depot: the joint post office, omnigraph and telephone junction servicing all Rosalia.

  A clerk of advanced years, frail, sallow, with dank grey hair and a long lumpy nose, peered at them, then took them into the office of the General Superintendent Theo Callou: a man of great girth, squat and heavy of shoulder with bulging black eyes and a short brush of coarse black hair at the back of a pale receding forehead. Callou’s nose was a button, but his jaw and chin were large, harsh blocks of bone. He asked: “Yes? You wish to see me?”

  Glawen introduced himself and Chilke. “I believe that Superintendent Wincutz mentioned our business with you.”

  Callou leaned back in his seat. “So you are the two he mentioned!” The implication seemed to be that Callou had expected persons of a different sort. Glawen said stiffly, “This is Commander Chilke. I am Commander Clattuc. Do you wish to examine our credentials?”

  Callou flourished his arm. “No, not at all. Quite unnecessary. There have been telephone calls which interested you; am I correct?”

  Glawen nodded. “During the last month a certain Namour Clattuc
called from Shadow Valley Ranch to an unknown destination. A few days ago he received a call from Port Mona. We want as much information as possible regarding these calls.”

  “My dear fellow! To persons of perspicacity all things are possible! Let us look and let us learn!” Callou swung his arm and thumped buttons. Information appeared on a screen. “Ha! See there! Calls from Shadow Valley Ranch to - to where? To Port Mona. Now then, with a will! To where in Port Mona? Ha hah! To the post office, under our very noses! Well then indeed! We push a few buttons and see what we learn!”

  “Amazing,” said Chilke.

  “That is not all!” declared Callou. He turned his head and cried: “Trokke? Where are you?”

  The clerk blinked through the doorway. “Sir?”

  “Trokke! Explain, if you can, these calls from Shadow Valley Ranch!”

  “Oh yes, to be sure! They originate from a gentleman of good quality, a certain Namour Clattuc.”

  “And their content?”

  “Always the same, sir! On each occasion he asked if a message had arrived for him.”

  “Now then! And what of this call, from Port Mona?”

  Trokke blinked, unsure of his ground. “That was my call, sir: notification that his message had indeed arrived.”

  Callou studied the clerk with intense concentration, eyes bulging, cheeks puffed out. “You were motivated to this deed by your native altruism?”

  “There was a small emolument involved. Nothing of an irregular sort.”

  “Naturally not! Describe the message.”

  “It came in on the omnigraph: a most cryptic statement. But I read it to Mr. Clattuc and he seemed satisfied.”

  “And where is the message now?”

  “It is filed under ‘C’ in the Restante cabinet. Mr. Clattuc never called.”

  “Fetch this message!” roared Callou. “Bring it here on the double-time!”

  “Yes sir.” Trokke turned away and presently returned with a sheet of paper. “It is a curious document, as you will see, sir. No salute, no signature, not even any substance.”

  “Never mind; we will perform our own analyses! Hand it over!” Callou took the sheet, squinted down at the characters and read: “‘Line-check N.’” He looked up. “Is this all?”

  “That is all, sir!” quavered Trokke.

  “Most peculiar!”

  Glawen took the sheet with the message. “‘Line-check N,’” he read. “From where was it sent?”

  Callou pointed to a strip of code at the bottom of the page. “This is the date, and the time, and the code for the transmitting office. ‘97.’ Trokke! Who is ‘97’?”

  “That is the Stronsi Ranch, sir.”

  “Who is in residence at the Stronsi Ranch?”

  “That is hard to say. At my last sure knowledge the owner was off-world. Mr. Alhaurin is currently the resident manager.”

  At the offices of the Factor’s Association, the secretary verified Trokke’s suppositions. “It’s been a strange story up there at Stronsi. After the great disaster, trustees took charge and managed the estate for ten years, I suppose while they were sorting things out. They finally turned the ranch over to the new owner, but no one ever took up residence. Recently there have been rumors of activity and new projects but so far nothing is happening. Meanwhile Mr. Alhaurin has stayed on as ranch manager.

  Chilke asked: “What was this great disaster you mentioned?”

  The clerk, a round little woman, pink-faced, with blonde corkscrew curls, shook her head in a renewal of shock. “It was quite terrible! It happened at Bainsey Castle; I visited there once as a little girl and it seemed absolutely impregnable!”

  “And where is Bainsey Castle?”

  “Far to the north, on the edge of the slutes. The family liked to go there for holidays and special times.” The clerk rummaged in a file-cabinet and brought out a large photograph, which she placed on the counter. “These are the Stronsis, all twenty-seven of them and all destroyed!”

  Glawen and Chilke examined the photograph. At the back stood the elders, with the younger generations on the steps below. They ranged in age from a patriarch of advanced years to four children on the bottom step: a solemn boy of nine, an equally solemn blond girl of seven, two more small boys, aged four and five.

  “The old man is Myrdal Stronsi,” said the clerk. “This lady is Adelie; she was a wonderful musician, and so was this young man Jeremy. The children were Glent and Felitzra and Donner and Milfred. They were all very fine people!” The clerk sniffed. “I was at school with some of them, and all died on the damnable slutes!”

  “And what are the slutes?”

  The clerk lowered her voice, as if verging upon a forbidden subject. “It is a flat waste of black stone, flowing with water from the sea. When the tide is out, there are pools and puddles and the water-waifs skip like black mad things. When the tide turns, sheets of water come swirling and foaming, as far as you can see. When storms blow in off the ocean, waves move across the slutes, breaking and reforming to break again. The Stronsis thought they were safe in Bainsey Castle but it was old and the storms had weakened the walls; still the Stronsi clan went to Bainsey castle for their celebration, and it must have started out in all the best tradition, with roaring fires, plenty to eat and drink and a view across the slutes, which was always changing - sometimes blank and wet, sometimes wild and terrible. Sometimes on a calm sunny morning even weirdly beautiful. But it was the season of storms and the view reminded them how secure and cozy they were, and sometimes they could see the water-waifs out in the wastes, dancing and sliding like crazy things. So while the Stronsis celebrated a storm came up and sent black-green waves across the slutes and over the castle. The walls creaked and groaned and collapsed. The stones were scattered by the waves and the Stronsi clan was destroyed.”

  “Then what?”

  “Nothing. The trustees took ten years to track down the heir; meanwhile they hired Petar Alhaurin as ranch manager, and the new ownership has kept him on. So far we haven’t seen them at Port Mona, but of course they are around the other side of the planet, on the east coast of Almyra.”

  * * *

  Chapter 5, Part VII

  Glawen and Chilke had become bored with the cramped cabin of the flitter. The arguments for discreet movement and unobtrusive investigation remained as strong as ever; still, at the terminal they relinquished the flitter and took the Fortunatus aloft. Setting a course to the northeast they flew away from Port Mona: over the continent Eclin, the Saraband Straits and beyond. The sun rolled west and set. The Fortunatus flew on through the night: across the continents Koukou and Almyra, to meet the dawn at the shore of the Maenadic Ocean, near the town Port Twang. Thirty miles north the Stronsi Ranch headquarters occupied the crest of a hill beside the Fesque River: a long low heavy-walled structure with an irregular roof-line, almost indistinguishable from the stony outcrop on which it was built. To the sides and around the back grew a dozen black yew trees; there was no

  other garden. Glawen and Chilke, approaching at low altitude, discovered no obvious signs of habitancy; neither aircraft nor space vehicle nor surface car were visible.

  The Fortunatus landed on a flat near the front of the house. Glawen and Chilke alighted and stood for a moment, taking stock of their surroundings. The time was mid-morning. A fleet of high cirrus clouds moved slowly across the sky, occasionally obscuring the sun. At their backs the ground sloped down to the river. There was nothing to be heard but the whisper of the wind. Glawen said: “If Namour is watching us, he may be tempted to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  “So I was thinking,” said Chilke.

  The front door opened and a small servant maid looked out at them. “She’s not carrying a gun, and she looks rather frail,” said Chilke. “I think it’s safe.”

  The two approached the house across a stone-flagged terrace.

  “Good morning,” said Glawen. “We want to speak with Mr. Alhaurin.”

  “Mr. Alhaurin is
not here. He’s gone off to Port Twang.”

  “We’ll settle for whoever is in charge.”

  “At the moment that would be the lady.”

  The servant ushered them into a sitting room. “Who shall I announce?”

  “Commander Chilke and Commander Clattuc of the Cadwal Constabulary.”

  The maid departed. several minutes passed. The house was silent. A young woman appeared in the doorway.

  Glawen’s jaw dropped. It was Flitz. She looked from one to the other, recognizing neither. Glawen had met her at Riverview House a year or two previously. Had he made so slight an impression? He controlled his pique. Flitz was Flitz; this was well known. she wore tan trousers and a dark blue pullover shirt. She was of medium height, slim with an erect posture. A black ribbon tied her bright hair back from her face.

  Glawen decided that he was not as surprised to see Flitz as he might have been. He spoke. “I am Commander Glawen Clattuc, and this is Commander Eustace Chilke. May we speak with Lewyn Barduys?”

  Flitz shook her head. “He has gone off to look over a construction site.” Her voice was cool but civil.

  “When will he be back?”

  “Later in the day. This was not a scheduled trip, so I can be sure of nothing.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Flitz made a small gesture, which might have been interpreted as a twitch of impatience, though her face and voice remained cool. “He went up to meet our foundations engineer; there was some sort of problem at the site.”

  “What kind of construction is underway?” asked Chilke.

  Flitz surveyed him dispassionately. “Nothing is underway at this time. Several projects are being considered.” She turned back to Glawen. “If you care to explain your business, I may be able to help you.”

  “Perhaps so. Is there an omnigraph on the premises?”