The Dogtown Tourist Agency Page 3

  “We’d like to see the real Maz,” declared one of the women. “The places tourists don’t go. And we’d just love to see one of the wars. We’re not bloodthirsty or anything like that, but it must be wonderfully exciting!”

  The girl smiled. “We couldn’t possibly arrange such a spectacle. In the first place, it would be dangerous. The Gomaz are very proud people. If they saw tourists, they’d halt their war and kill the tourists, and then proceed with the war.”

  “Hmmf. Well, we’re not exactly tourists. We like to think of ourselves as travelers.”

  “Of course.”

  A man spoke, “What about these inns? If the Gomaz are that sensitive, it might be dangerous leaving Dogtown.”

  “Not really,” said the girl. “The Gomaz are actually oblivious of Gaeans, unless they commit some kind of nuisance, just as you might ignore birds in a tree.”

  “Can’t we visit the Gomaz castles? Like that one on the wall?”

  The girl gave the woman a smiling shake of the head. “It can’t be done. But some of our inns are built in ancient Gomaz castles, and they’re really quite comfortable.”

  Hetzel inspected the posters: Warriors March to Battle on Tusz Tan Steppe; The Flyers of Korasman Castle Soar and Veer; The Kish Castle at Sunset; Conclave of the Jerd Nobles. Then he turned his attention back to the girl, who was no less interesting to look at than the pictures. At first glance Hetzel had thought her slight and frail, but on closer inspection he decided that she could bear up very well under a bit of playful rough-and-tumble. He moved a few steps closer to the desk. The girl turned her head and gave him a flicker of a smile. Charming, thought Hetzel.

  “…all seven inns, if you have the time. We naturally arrange transportation.”

  “But we can’t rent our own air-car?”

  “Not without one of our guides. It really wouldn’t be safe, and it’s also against Triarchic regulations.”

  “Well, we’ll think it over. Which is the best tavern in Dogtown—the most typical and picturesque?”

  “I think they’re pretty much alike. You might try The Last Resort across the square.”

  “Thank you.” The tourists departed. The girl looked at Hetzel. “Yes sir?”

  Hetzel approached the counter. “I don’t quite know what I want to ask you.”

  “There must be something.”

  “The situation is this. A friend of mine has come into some money and now he wants to invest it. The question is: where?”

  The girl laughed incredulously. “You want my advice?”

  “Certainly. Unconventional ideas are the best, because they haven’t occurred to anyone else. Assume that I’m about to place a million SLU in your hands. What would you do with it?”

  “I’d buy a ticket out of here,” said the girl. “But that isn’t what your friend has in mind.”

  “Let me put the matter this way: how could a person invest here on Maz and hope to make a profit?”

  “That’s quite a problem. The only people in Dogtown who seem to make money are the tavern-keepers.”

  “I was thinking of enterprises on a larger scale, somewhat on the order of Istagam. In fact, where would I find the director of Istagam? I’d like to ask his advice.”

  The girl gave him a curious side-glance which Hetzel could not interpret. She said, “That’s something I know nothing about.”

  “Surely you’re aware of Istagam’s existence?”

  “That and not much more. But why don’t you talk to Vv. Byrrhis? He’s far more expert than I am on such subjects.” She looked toward a door which connected to the adjoining office. “But I don’t think he’s in just now.”

  “What are Vv. Byrrhis’ enterprises? Or is he a broker?”

  “Vv. Byrrhis has his fingers in almost everything: tourist agency, back-country inns, air-car rental. He also operates Maz Transport for the Triarchy.”

  “Maz Transport?”

  “Just old air-buses that bring Gomaz into Axistil and back to their castles. It’s a free service; the Gomaz wouldn’t use it if they had to pay.”

  “The Gomaz haven’t adapted to a money economy, then.”

  “They haven’t adapted to anything.” The girl reached to a shelf and brought forth a pamphlet which she presented to Hetzel. He glanced at the title: The Warriors of Maz. “Thank you,” said Hetzel. “When do you expect Vv. Byrrhis in his office?”

  “I’m not sure. He comes and goes. You can always telephone.”

  A new group of tourists entered the office; Hetzel departed. He sauntered around the square, looking in shop windows, then stepped into that tavern known as ‘The Last Resort’ for a mug of ale. Here he ruminated over his findings to date, which were few and could be expressed very simply:

  1. Sir Estevan Tristo went to extraordinary lengths to avoid casual visitors.

  2. If Vv. Byrrhis were not directly involved in Istagam, he almost certainly knew everything there was to know about it.

  3. The clerk at the tourist agency was not the sort of person one might expect to find in a settlement at the end of the Reach.

  Hetzel brought forth the pamphlet the girl had given him: The Warriors of Maz. On the cover appeared a sketch labeled: A Flyer of Castle Korasmus. The Gomaz stood on a parapet, wings of withe and membrane attached to his back. The caption read: Under favorable conditions the Gomaz flyer can soar in the dense air of Maz. He is able to flap the wings by thrusting his legs and manipulating the forward ribs with his arms. In general, however, the flyer swoops down from the heights to attack his enemy.

  The Gomaz, Hetzel learned, were an ancient race, culturally static across a period of perhaps a million years. They showed a generally anthropomorphic configuration, after which similarity to the human race dwindled. The Gomaz skeleton, partly internal, partly external, was formed of a tough, flexible siliceous cartilage reinforced with fibers of calcium-magnesium carbo-phosphate, which on exposure to air hardened into a tough white chitin; this material sheathed their heads and formed the substance of three parallel crests which each sept carved into distinctive patterns of spikes, denticles and barbs.

  As an individual, the Gomaz was typically unpredictable, captious, mercurial, with personal gratification as his primary motivation. Yet in this aspect of himself he merely reflected the character of his sept, to which he was telepathically linked. He was the sept, the sept was himself. While the sept lived, the warrior could not die, hence his absolute fearlessness, and the Gomaz warrior thereby became in human terms a creature of paradox, reconciling as he did total personal autonomy to total identification with a social institution.

  The Gomaz wars were of three varieties: wars of hate, which were in the minority; wars of rivalry, economic necessity, or territorial control; wars which no xenologist or sociologist or journalist could resist calling ‘wars of love’. The Gomaz were monosexual and reproduced by implanting zygotes in the bodies of vanquished enemies, apparently to their mutual exaltation, which the victor augmented by eating a nubbin of a gland at the back of the vanquished warrior’s neck. This gland yielded the hormone chir which stimulated growth in the bantlings and martial zeal in the adult warrior. The thought of chir dominated the lives of the Gomaz. The bantlings in their mock battles ingested the chir of those they had bested and killed; in the adult battles the warriors performed the same act and were thereby exalted, strengthened and endowed with a mysterious mana; chir conceivably fertilized the zygotes.

  The Gomaz used a few glyphs and symbolic objects, but knew neither a written language nor other than the most primitive mathematics, for which telepathic facility was held to blame.

  Geison Weirie, the renegade Gaean, had discovered Maz sixty years before, and had recruited a force of Gomaz warriors for use as shock troops against Sercey, his native planet. The Gomaz, quickly grasping the potentialities of Gaean weaponry, subordinated Weirie and his band of cutthroats to their own purposes; they captured a fleet of space ships and set forth to conquer the universe. Their raids took
them into the hitherto unknown empires of the Liss and the Olefract; eventually forces of the three empires acting in concert destroyed the Gomaz fleet, captured Geison Weirie, built the Exhibitory to hold him, and placed a permanent injunctive agency of three parts upon Maz to prevent future irruptions. The Gomaz returned to their previous mode of existence, paying the Triarchy the ultimate insult of indifference.

  Hetzel glanced through the rest of the pamphlet, which listed the septs, described their peculiarities, and located their home castles on a map of Maz. The Gomaz language, which they used in conjunction with emotional keys or colorations transmitted by telepathy, consisted of whistles, grindings and squawks incomprehensible to both the Gaean ear and mind. Communication with the Gomaz was achieved through the use of micronic translators.

  Gomaz weapons were few: a three-foot staff attached to a ten-foot bolo, to assist in trapping the enemy; tongs worked by motions of the forearm; harpoons of three flexible barbs; a short heavy sword. Elite warriors employed wings to hover and swoop; on the rare occasions when a castle was to be stormed, the Gomaz built siege engines of great ingenuity. For transport they used wagons pulled by domesticated reptiles; their diet consisted of substances gathered or harvested by the bantlings, who performed all the work of the sept.

  Hetzel returned the pamphlet to his pocket and called for a second mug of ale. He asked the bartender: “At a guess, how many local people work for Istagam?”

  “‘Istagam’? Who’s he?”

  “The Istagam Manufacturing Company.”

  “Never heard of it. Ask Byrrhis across the square; he knows everything.”

  Hetzel finished the ale and went out into the street. The bartender’s advice had much to recommend it, and if Vv. Byrrhis were unavailable, he could always put further inquiries to the dark-haired girl in the tourist office.

  Hetzel crossed the square to Byrrhis Enterprises and tried the door which, somewhat to his surprise, opened. Hetzel stepped inside.

  At a desk, speaking into the telephone, sat a stocky man with a square, muscular face and a mane of lank black hair parted in the middle and cut square above the ears, in a style currently fashionable among the planets of the Fayence Stream. Byrrhis’ nose was long and straight; his eyes were small and steady; his chin was massive. He wore a loose shirt of embroidered green velvet, breeches of purple- and yellow-striped whipcord, and a fine scarf of white silk knotted to the side of his neck. The garments were informal, almost festive; the man’s expression was agreeable enough; his voice was soft and pleasant as he spoke into the telephone: “…very much the same idea…Exactly. I’ve got a visitor; I’ll call you back.”

  Byrrhis rose to his feet and performed a conventionally polite salute. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  Hetzel thought that Byrrhis had terminated his telephone call somewhat abruptly. “Quite honestly, I don’t know. I’ve been asked to inquire as to the possibility of local investment, and it might be that you prefer to keep such information to yourself.”

  Byrrhis acknowledged the pleasantry with a smile. “Not at all. Quite frankly, there isn’t a great deal of scope out here for investment. The tourist business isn’t all that big and may not get much bigger. Maz is no longer the novelty it used to be.”

  “What about import and export? Will the Gomaz buy Gaean goods?”

  “What we can sell them, they don’t want. What they do want, we’re not permitted to bring in. And then there’s the matter of payment. They don’t have any means of payment, except a few handicrafts and war-helmets. Not much chance for any large-scale operation.”

  “What of Istagam? It seems to be doing well.”

  Byrrhis responded with easy facility. “That’s an affair I know nothing about. It appears to be some sort of trans-shipment operation. Maz, of course, levies no taxes, which might mean a great deal to some struggling new business.”

  “You’re probably right. What about minerals?”

  “Nothing to speak of. The Gomaz take up some bog iron, but the deposits are pretty well used up. The Gomaz have been working them for a million years more or less. Maz is essentially a worn-out planet.”

  “What about business with the Liss? Or the Olefract?”

  Byrrhis gave a sour chuckle. “Are you joking?”

  “Naturally not. Trade is a normal condition, provided that both parties are able to profit.”

  “The Liss are xenophobic to the point of obsession. The Olefract are incomprehensible. We can deal with the Gomaz easier—far easier. Did you notice the road up to the plaza? The Kish and the Dyads sent out five thousand bantlings, and the road was finished in three weeks. We paid them in pneumatic wheels for their wagons. But there’s no money to be made selling roads on Maz. If I had money to invest, I’d go to Vaire on Lusbarren and trawl for angel-fish. Do you know what they fetch a pound at Banacre?”

  “I know they’re expensive. At a guess, two SLU a pound.”

  “That’s close. And at Vaire just off the Dal coast, they swim in shoals.”

  “It’s an idea to bear in mind. I understand that you operate the air-car rental service.”

  “That’s correct. It’s a miserable business, what with maintenance and downtime and Triarch directives. A new one just came through: I can’t rent an air-car unless I get prior clearance from the Triarch. Some tourists decided to visit the Disik castle and barely escaped with their lives.”

  Hetzel frowned. “I need a clearance from Sir Estevan Tristo before I can hire an air-car?”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “I’ll get one this evening, if you’ll direct me to his house.”

  “Ha ha! You can’t put salt on Sir Estevan’s tail quite so easily. He performs official tasks only at the Triskelion.”

  “I’m in no great hurry. One more question: where can I locate Casimir Wuldfache?”

  Byrrhis’ face became absolutely impassive. “I am not acquainted with the gentleman.” He looked at his watch. “Sorry, I’ve got an appointment.”

  Hetzel rose to his feet. “Thanks for the information.” He went out into the square. The Tourist Agency was dark; the girl had gone home—wherever home might be. Hetzel returned up the Avenue of Lost Souls. Sunset was close at hand. Khis showed as an orange spark low behind the western murk; the plaza was dim and eery. Hetzel found it easy to imagine himself a wraith wandering a dead landscape…He was not wholly satisfied with the events of the day. He had been forced to ask questions, and thereby identify himself as a curious man. If Istagam were illicit, he must have sent tremors through the organization, and he might well encounter a reaction. Personal violence could not be excluded. Out on the plaza, Hetzel felt isolated and vulnerable; he quickened his pace. The Exhibitory loomed ahead; the prisoners could not be distinguished. Two dark figures stood silently nearby; they watched Hetzel pass but made no attempt to intercept him. Liss? Olefract? Gomaz? Gaeans? Their nature could not be distinguished through the gloom.

  With nothing better to do, Hetzel loitered over his dinner. As he was about to leave the dining room, a thin man in a suit of soft gabardine came quietly into the room. Hetzel studied him a moment or two, then went over to his table. “May I join you for a moment?”

  “Certainly.”

  “You are the hotel’s security officer?”

  The man in gray showed a faint smile. “Is it so obvious? My official title is ‘Night Manager’. My name is Kerch.”

  “I am Miro Hetzel.”

  “Miro Hetzel…Somewhere I have heard the name.”

  “Perhaps you’ll answer a few questions for me. Discreet questions, of course.”

  “You might get discreet answers.”

  “My business concerns itself with an entity—a society, a business, a group—known as Istagam. Have you heard the name mentioned?”

  “No, I believe not. What is the function of this so-called ‘entity’?”

  “Apparently it uses the Axistil spaceport to export complicated and expensive machinery into the Reach. The
re’s been speculation that Maz might function as a depot or staging area for goods produced outside the Reach.”

  “I know nothing about such an enterprise. The hotel occupies most of my attention.”

  “Surprising!” said Hetzel. “The Beyranion appears absolutely placid.”

  “So it is, at the moment. But consider: a walk of only ten or fifteen minutes separates our clientele from the population of Far Dogtown. Is it unpredictable that the foxes occasionally raid the chickenyard? I recommend that you entrust your valuables to the hotel strongbox—especially if you are out in the annex, our most vulnerable area.”

  “I will be sure to do so,” said Hetzel. “But surely you take precautions?”

  “Indeed we do. Our detection devices are carefully maintained, and as often as not the thief is apprehended.”

  “And then?”

  “There is an investigation. The guilty individual is assigned counsel, who holds a preliminary hearing with the prosecuting official. He is then tried and adjudged. He is allowed to appeal his sentence, and recommendations for leniency are carefully considered, after which an appropriate penalty is imposed.”

  “This seems a complicated operation, for such a small environment.”

  “Not at all,” said Kerch. “All these functions are comprised within myself. I investigate, I prosecute, I judge, I sentence, I execute the sentence and occasionally the criminal. The process often requires no more than five minutes.”

  “The procedure seems efficient and definite,” said Hetzel. “May I order a bottle of wine for our joint consumption?”

  “Why not?” said Kerch. “I find myself in congenial company, and there is no better occasion upon which to drink.”

  Chapter IV

  In regard to Istagam, Hetzel capitulated the possibilities:

  I. Istagam manufactured its products:

  1. Within the Gaean Reach.

  2. Outside the Gaean Reach.

  3. Upon the planet Maz.

  II. Istagam was an operation:

  1. Illicit.