The Dogtown Tourist Agency Page 2

  The passenger packet Emma Noaker of the Barbanic Line made the required rendezvous with the Triarchic patrol ships. The Liss and the Olefract vessels drifted above and to the side, and all the passengers craned their necks to study the artifacts of these exotic transgalactic intelligences, who allowed so little to be known of themselves. From the Gaean corvette came a pilot to take the Emma Noaker down to Axistil and to ensure against the landing of illicit weapons.

  Down dropped the packet. The landscape of Maz was that of an ancient world: a half-dozen shallow seas, a few ranges of low hills separated by swamps or peneplains, with sluggish rivers meandering here and there like the veins on the back of an old man’s hand.

  Axistil, headquarters of the Triarchic superintendency, occupied a site on a low plateau somewhat to the north of the equator. Halfway into the morning, local time, the Emma Noaker grounded at the Gaean spaceport half a mile east of the Triskelion. Landing formalities were brief; in company with thirty or forty other Gaeans, mostly tourists, Hetzel was passed into the depot. He immediately telephoned the Beyranion Hotel to confirm his reservation, and learned that he had been assigned their choicest accommodations, a suite in the garden annex, at a rate considerably higher than he would have been content to pay had he been settling his own account. A carryall from the Beyranion was on hand; Hetzel entrusted his valise to the driver and set out on foot along the Last Mile, toward the plaza of the Triarchy.

  A world eerily beautiful, thought Hetzel. To look up at the sky was like looking off into sea-green water. Halfway along its morning arc the white star Khis glittered like a sequin. To the left a wasteland mounded with tall hummocks of moss faded into haze; to the right, a similar landscape sloped down into that nondescript clutter of shacks, huts and a few substantial buildings of whitewashed marl known as Dogtown. Ahead, the structures of Axistil, blurred by the haze, were perceived only as a set of unlikely silhouettes.

  Hetzel met no one along the way; indeed, during his entire stay, the disparity between the monumental structures of Axistil and the near-absence of a population produced a unique, almost hallucinatory quality, as if Axistil were no more than a titanic stage-setting bereft of players.

  The Last Mile ended at the plaza. Here a sign read:

  You stand at the edge of the Gaean Reach, and are about to enter Triarchic jurisdiction. Conventional behavior is required and will usually provoke no unforeseen inconveniences. It is most wise, however, to obtain a copy of Special Regulations at the Triskelion or at your hotel, and be thereby guided.

  Urgent warning: never venture into enclaves of the Liss or the Olefract, at the certain risk of profoundly unpleasant consequences including but not limited to death.

  Attempt no familiarity with the indigenous Gomaz! At Axistil they are normally not aggressive; however they react unpredictably to attempts at social intercourse. You may observe them as closely as you like, but do not touch them or attempt conversation. The Gomaz are adept telepaths; the extent, however, to which they can comprehend human thought is still a matter of conjecture.

  Most important! Do not offer, present, display, barter, or sell weapons to the Gomaz! The penalty is confinement for life in the Exhibitory. There are no exceptions; the regulation is strictly enforced by the Triarchs, two of which are Liss and Olefract. Neither sympathizes with adventurous folly or drunken bravado. If you violate this rule, your visit to Maz will surely terminate in tragedy.

  A rather dampening notice, thought Hetzel. The ordinary touristic pleasures all seemed punishable by death, lifetime imprisonment, or unpredictable attack. Still, this very thrill of danger no doubt accented the pleasures of a visit to Maz.

  Hetzel took a step forward and thereby departed the Gaean Reach. He walked out upon the plaza, an expanse paved with silver-gray schist which seemed to give off a glimmering light of its own. To one side loomed the spires, domes, eccentric columns, and asymmetric blocks of the Triskelion: a structure designed in three segments by the architects of three races, a remarkable edifice. Beyond the Triskelion, to southwest and northwest, lay the Liss and Olefract sectors, each with its cluster of buildings. At the north side of the plaza, opposite the Triskelion, stood a pair of monuments which the three empires had conjoined to maintain: the Rock of Pain, where the Gomaz chieftains, numb with the weight of disaster, had surrendered to the Triarchy; and the multicelled slab of glass and black copper known as the Exhibitory. Both objects were encompassed within a small park, where a few trees with egg-plant purple foliage grew from a dim green sward. To the northeast rose the sober façade of the Beyranion Hotel, to which Hetzel now directed his steps.

  The Beyranion Hotel and its precincts constituted the smallest independent principality within the Gaean Reach. A garden of three acres surrounded the hotel proper; to one side stood the new garden annex. Hetzel registered at the main desk and was conducted to his suite.

  Hetzel discovered his quarters to be more than satisfactory. The sitting room overlooked the garden: a place of odd colors, bizarre shapes and nose-twitching scents. Black spindle-trees as tall as the hotel shaded tussocks of purple-black moss; from a pond grew clumps of horsetail with pewter stems and orange whisks. There were banks of blue geraniums, twinkling candle-blossom and Maz mint, all of which added pungency to the smoky-sour reek of the moss. Newly arrived tourists now roamed the garden, marveling at the exotic growths and unfamiliar odors. Hetzel inspected the bedroom, and discovered a view across Dogtown, which he would visit later in the day. First to business.

  He went to the telephone and put a call through to the office of the Gaean Triarch at the Triskelion. The screen brightened to show the face of a delicately pretty receptionist with blonde ringlets and a rose petal complexion. She spoke in a voice cool and tinkling, like far off wind-chimes. “The office of Sir Estevan Tristo; how can we serve you?”

  “My name is Miro Hetzel. I would like a few minutes with Sir Estevan at the first convenient opportunity, on a matter of considerable importance. Can I see him this afternoon?”

  “What is your business, sir?”

  “I require information in regard to certain conditions on Maz—”

  “You may apply for information to Vvs. Felius at the Triskelion Information Desk, or at the Dogtown Tourist Agency. Sir Estevan concerns himself exclusively with Triarchic business.”

  “Nonetheless, this is an important matter, and I must request a few minutes of his time.”

  “Sir Estevan is not in his office at the moment; I doubt if he’ll appear until the next session of the Triarchs.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “Five days from now, at half-morning. After the session, he allows an occasional interview. Are you a journalist?”

  “Something of the sort. Perhaps I could see him at his home?”

  “No, sir.” The girl’s features, as clear and delicate as those of a child, showed neither warmth nor sympathy for Hetzel’s problems. “He conducts all public business at the Triarchic sessions.”

  “Ah, but this is private business!”

  “Sir Estevan makes no private appointments. After the Triarchic session he works in his office for an hour or two; perhaps he will see you then.”

  Hetzel tapped the off-switch in exasperation.

  He searched the directory for Sir Estevan’s home residence without success. He telephoned the clerk at the Beyranion reception desk. “How can I get in touch with Sir Estevan Tristo? His secretary gives me no help at all.”

  “She’s not allowed to help anyone. Sir Estevan has had too many problems with tourists and letters of introduction. The only place to catch him is at his office.”

  “Five days from now.”

  “If you’re lucky. Sir Estevan has been known to use his private entrance when he wants to avoid talking to someone.”

  “He appears to be a temperamental man.”

  “Decidedly so.”

  The time was noon. Hetzel crossed the garden to the Beyranion’s wood-paneled dining room which had be
en decorated with picturesque Gomaz artifacts: fetishes; cast-iron war-helmets spiked and crested; a stuffed gargoyle of the Shimkish Mountains. The tables and chairs had been carved from native wood; the table-cloths were soft bast, embroidered with typical emblems. Without haste Hetzel lunched on the best the house afforded, then sauntered out upon the plaza. At the Exhibitory he paused to inspect the prisoners peering forth from their glass cells: gunrunners and weapons smugglers, who would never leave their cells alive. The pallid faces wore identical expressions of sullen passivity. Occasionally one or another exerted himself sufficiently to make an obscene gesture or display his naked backside. Hetzel recognized none of his acquaintances or former clients. All were Gaean, which Hetzel considered a significant commentary upon the human character. Men, as individuals, seemed more diverse and enterprising than their Liss or Olefract counterparts. The Gomaz, he reflected, lived by extremes peculiar to themselves.

  Hetzel turned away from the Exhibitory. The prisoners—pirates, outcasts, mad gallants—awoke him to no pangs of pity. For the sake of gain they had sought to arm the Gomaz, heedless of the fact that the Gomaz, if furnished even a meager weaponry and the means to transport themselves, would go forth to attack the entire galaxy, including the worlds of the Gaean Reach, as forty-six years before they had demonstrated.

  Hetzel continued across the plaza: an expanse of such grand dimensions that the structures around the periphery loomed in the thick air like shadows. He walked in solitude, like a boat in the middle of a lonely ocean. Perhaps a dozen other dark shapes moved here and there across the silver-gray perspectives, too distant to be identified. A curious vista, thought Hetzel, strange as a dream.

  The Triskelion solidified as he approached. He altered his direction to circle the structure, in effect entering areas in which the Liss and the Olefract exerted at least theoretical control and certainly a psychological influence. He passed a Liss on its way to the Triskelion: a lithe dark creature in a scarlet robe, and a moment later he saw an Olefract at a somewhat greater distance. Both seemed indifferent to his presence; both affected him with a curious mixture of fascination and repugnance, for reasons he could not quite define. Returning to the Gaean frontage, Hetzel felt the lifting of a subtle oppression.

  He climbed three steps, passed through a crystal portal into a lobby centering upon a triangular information desk. The Liss and the Olefract sections lacked both personnel and information seekers. At the Gaean segment two clerks were more than occupied with recently arrived tourists. A burly round-faced man in a splendid, if over-tight, blue and green uniform stood to the side, inspecting all who entered with benign contempt. Silver epaulets and silver filigree on the visor of his high-peaked cap marked him for an official of importance. He fixed Hetzel with an especially stern gaze, by some instinct recognizing a person whose business he might or might not consider legitimate.

  Hetzel paid him no heed and went to the information desk. The chief clerk, a portly black-haired woman with a large lumpy nose and a nasal accent to match, pursued her duties with little grace or patience: “No, sir; the Triarch can’t be seen…I don’t care what you heard, he definitely does not receive visitors at his home.” “No sir, we are not agents for organized tours; we are the staff of the Gaean administration. In Dogtown you’ll find a tourist office. They operate a number of inns in scenic regions, and they offer air-cars for rent.” “I’m sorry, madame, under no circumstances will you be allowed into the Liss sector. They are absolutely rigid in this regard…What will they do? Who knows what happens to the people they take away—put them in zoos, perhaps.” “In Dogtown, sir, you can buy souvenirs.” “No sir, not until the next session, in five days. The public is admitted.” “You may photograph the Liss and the Olefract segments of the desk, yes, madame.”

  The second clerk, a tall young man with a pale earnest face, was less crisp and perhaps less efficient. “—recommend a hotel in Dogtown? Well, I don’t know. You’d be far more comfortable at the Beyranion. Don’t forget, Far Dogtown is beyond everybody’s jurisdiction. You could get killed there, and nobody would even bury you…Yes, Dogtown itself is Gaean. But don’t wander past the green fence unless you’re an adventurer…Actually, Far Dogtown isn’t all that bad if you keep your wits about you and carry no more than two or three SLU. Don’t drink there and be sure not to gamble there.” “No sir, I have no knowledge or schedule of the Gomaz wars. They take place, certainly, and if you want to be chopped into two hundred pieces, go try to find one. That’s why the tourist agency won’t rent you an air-car without a qualified guide…That’s correct, you can’t just hire an air-car and go off by yourself. It’s only for your own protection. Don’t forget, this is the end of the Reach—right here.”

  The portly chief clerk spoke to Hetzel. “Yes sir, what do you wish?”

  “Are you Vvs. Felius?”

  “I am she.”

  “I have a rather unusual problem. I must discuss an urgent matter with Sir Estevan, but I am told that he cannot be reached.”

  Vvs. Felius sniffed. “I can’t help you. If Sir Estevan doesn’t want to see people, I can’t force him to do so.”

  “Certainly not. But can you suggest some dignified way I could get his attention for a few minutes?”

  “Sir Estevan is a very busy man; at least he says he is, with his reports and recommendations and all. We see him only during the sessions. The rest of the time he’s off somewhere with his lady friend, or his fiancée, whatever she’s called.” Here Vvs. Felius used her prominent nose to produce a disapproving sniff. “I’m sure it’s his business, of course, but he simply won’t be interfered with when he’s not in his office.”

  “In that case, I suppose I’ll have to wait. Do you have at hand any informational material, especially in regard to, say, the opportunities for investment capital?”

  “No. Nothing of the sort.” Vvs. Felius gave an incredulous titter. “Who would want to invest out here away from everything?”

  “Istagam seems to be doing very well.”

  “Istagam? I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  Hetzel nodded. “What about the Gomaz? Are they willing workers?”

  “Hah! Offer them a gun and they’ll pay you all they own, but they wouldn’t work a minute for you. That’s against their pride.”

  “Odd! At the hotel I saw chairs carved ostensibly by the Gomaz.”

  “By the Gomaz bantlings. They put their young to toil, instead of letting them kill themselves in play wars. But full-fledged warriors work for hire? Never.”

  “Interesting,” said Hetzel. “And you believe that I must wait five days to see Sir Estevan?”

  “I certainly can’t suggest any other way.”

  “One last question. I arranged to meet a certain Casimir Wuldfache here on Maz. Can you tell me if he has arrived?”

  “I have no such information at hand. You might ask Captain Baw; he’s the commandant.” The woman indicated the burly officer in the green and blue uniform.

  “Thank you.” Hetzel approached Captain Baw and put his question, receiving for a reply first an uninterested grunt, then: “Never heard of such a person. They come and they go. There’s a hundred down in Far Dogtown I’d like to get my hands on, I’ll tell you for certain.”

  Hetzel expressed his gratitude and departed.

  North of the Exhibitory a wide road paved with what Hetzel took to be tamped gravel and crushed shell sloped away from the plaza and down to Dogtown: the so-called ‘Avenue of Lost Souls’. A wind from off the downs blew in Hetzel’s face, smelling of smoke and peat and exhalations less familiar. Hetzel was alone on the road, and again felt the brush of dream-time…He stopped short and bent to study the road. The bits of shell and gravel of the surface were not, as he had first assumed, tamped or rolled; they quite clearly had been fitted piece by piece into cement, to form a mosaic. Hetzel looked back the way he had come, then down to Dogtown. An enormous amount of toil had been expended on this road.

  Two tall
spindle-trees loomed over the road; Hetzel passed below and into Dogtown. The Avenue of Lost Souls broadened to become a plaza, the center of which had been dedicated to a park where grew thickets of cardinal bush, Cyprian torch, and flowering yellow acacia; under the water-green sky and against the somber downs to the north, the scarlets and lemons and golds made a peculiarly gratifying contrast. The structures surrounding lacked uniformity except for a certain easy shabbiness. Timber, marl, stucco, vitrified soil, slag bricks, all figured in the schemes of construction, which were as various as the men who had chosen to build out here at the brink of the Reach. Shops sold imported foods, hardware, and sundries; there were four or five taverns, as many hotels of greater or lesser respectability, a few business offices: exporters of Gomaz artifacts, an insurance agent, a tonsorial salon, a dealer in energetics and power-pods. A relatively imposing structure of glistening pink concrete had been divided into a pair of adjoining offices. The first displayed a sign:

  MAZ TOURIST ASSOCIATION

  Information, Tours, Outback Accommodation

  The premises next door showed a more subdued façade, and was identified by an inconspicuous plaque reading:

  BYRRHIS ENTERPRISES

  Development and Promotion

  Hetzel looked into the tourist agency, to find a similar or perhaps the same group of tourists he had encountered at the Triskelion. They crowded the counter, talking to a pretty dark-haired girl with melancholy eyes, who answered their questions with a charming mixture of reserve, good humor and courtesy.

  Hetzel stepped into the office and waited, listening with half an ear to the conversation.

  “—seven inns,” said the girl. “They’re all in dramatic locations and very comfortable. At least, so I’m told; I’ve never been out to them myself.”