Ecce and Old Earth Page 4

  “Odd. The doorman at Clattuc House has probably tucked them behind his wine-cooler.”

  “That is a possibility, though I’m beginning to suspect another person entirely. In any event, I think that as soon as we deal with Shattorak, I should take advice from Chilke, then go to Earth to look for these documents.”

  “Hmf yes. Ahem. First things first, which means Shattorak. In due course we will talk further on the subject.” Bodwyn Wook picked up Floreste’s letter. “I will take charge of this.”

  Glawen made no complaint, and departed the New Agency. He ran back to Clattuc House at a purposeful trot and pushed through the front portal. To the side were a pair of small chambers occupied by Alarion co-Clattuc, the head, doorman, together with an antechamber where, if necessary, he could overlook comings and goings. Alarion’s duties included receipt of incoming mail, sorting and delivering parcels, letters and inter-House memoranda to the designated apartments.

  Glawen touched a bell-button and Alarion appeared from his private rooms: a white-haired man, thin and bent, whose only vanity would seem to be a small goatee. “Good evening, Glawen! What can I do for you this evening?”

  “You might enlighten me regarding some letters which should have arrived for me from Old Earth.”

  “I can only inform you as to what I know of my certain knowledge,” said Alarion. “You would not want me to fabricate tales of non-existent parcels and messages engraved on gold tablets delivered by the archangel Sersimanthes.”

  “I take it that nothing of that sort has arrived?”

  Alarion glanced over his shoulder toward his sorting table. “No, Glawen. Nor anything else.”

  “As you know, I was away from the Station for several months. During this time I should have received a number of letters from off-world; yet I cannot find them. Do you remember any such letters arriving during my absence?”

  Alarion said slowly: “I seem to recall such letters. They were delivered to your chambers, even after Scharde met with his accident. As always, I dropped the letters into the door-slot. Then, of course, Arles moved into your rooms for a time, but surely he took proper care of your mail. No doubt the letters are tucked away somewhere.”

  “No doubt,” said Glawen. “Thank you for the information.”

  Glawen became aware that he was ravenously hungry: no surprise, since he had not eaten since morning. In the refectory he made a hurried meal on dark bread, beans and cucumbers, then went up to his apartments. He seated himself before the telephone. He touched buttons, but in response was treated to a crisp official voice: “You are making a restricted call, and cannot be connected without authorization.”

  “I am Captain Glawen Clattuc, Bureau B. That is sufficient authorization.”

  “Sorry, Captain Clattuc. Your name is not on the list.”

  “Then put it on the list! Check with Bodwyn Wook if you like.”

  A moment passed. The voice spoke again. “Your name is now on the list, sir. To whom do you wish the connection?”

  “Arles Clattuc.”

  Five minutes passed before Arles heavy face peered hopefully into the screen. At the sight of Glawen, the hope gave way to a scowl. “What do you want, Glawen? I thought it was something important. This place is bad enough without harassment from you.”

  “It might get worse, Arles, depending upon what happened to my mail.”

  “Your mail?”

  “Yes, my mail. It was delivered to my chambers and now it’s gone. What happened to it?”

  Arles voice rose in pitch as he focused his mind upon the unexpected problem. He responded peevishly: “I don’t remember any mail. There was just a lot of trash. The place was a pig-pen when we moved in.”

  Glawen gave a savage laugh. “If you threw away my mail, you’ll be breaking rocks a lot longer than eighty-five days! Think seriously, Arles”

  “No need to take that tone with me! If there was mail, it probably got bundled up into your other stuff and stored in a box.”

  “I have been through my boxes and I have found no letters. Why? Because you opened them and read them.”

  “Nonsense! Not purposely, at least! If I saw mail with the name ‘Clattuc’ on it, I might have automatically glanced at it.”

  “Then what?”

  “I told you: I don’t remember!”

  “Did you give it to your mother to read?”

  Arles licked his lips. “She might have picked it up, in order to take care of it.”

  “And she read it in front of you!”

  “I did not say that. Anyway, I wouldn’t remember. I don’t keep a watch on my mother. Is that all you wanted to say?”

  “Not quite, but it will do until I find what happened to my letters.” Glawen broke the connection. For a moment he stood in the center of the room brooding. Then he changed into his official Bureau B jacket and cap and took himself down the corridor to Spanchetta’s apartments.

  A maid responded to the bell and conducted him into the reception parlor an octagonal chamber furnished with a central octagonal settee upholstered in green silk. In four alcoves four cinnabar urns displayed tall bouquets of purple lilies. Spanchetta stepped into the room. Tonight she had elected to dramatize her majestic big-bosomed torso in a gown of lusterless black, unadorned by so much as a silver button. The hem brushed the floor; long sleeves draped her arms; her hair lofted above her scalp in an amazing pyramidal pile of black curls almost a foot high, and she had toned her skin stark white. For five seconds she stood in the doorway, staring at Glawen with eyes glinting like slivers of black glass, then advanced into the room. “What is your business here, that you come dressed in your toy uniform?”

  “The uniform is official and I am here on an official investigation.”

  Spanchetta gave a mocking laugh. “And of what am I accused on this occasion?”

  “I wish to question you, in regard to the purloining and wrongful sequestration of mail – namely, the mail which arrived for me during my absence.”

  Spanchetta made a scornful gesture. “What should I know of your mail?”

  “I have been in communication with Arles. Unless you produce the mail at once, I shall order an instant search of the premises. In this case you will be subject to criminal charges whether the mail is found or whether it is not found, since the testimony of Arles has established that the mail was given into your custody.”

  Spanchetta reflected a moment, then turned away and started from the room. Glawen followed on her heels. Spanchetta stopped short, and snapped over her shoulder: you are invading a private domicile! That is a notable offense!”

  “Not under circumstances such as this. I want to see where you have been keeping the letters. Also I don’t care to cool my heels an hour or so in the reception parlor while you go about your affairs.”

  Spanchetta managed a grim smile and turned away. In the corridor she stopped by a tall armoire. From one of the drawers she took a packet of letters secured with string. “This is what you are looking for. I forgot about them; it is as simple as that.”

  Glawen leafed through the letters, which numbered four. All had been opened. Spanchetta watched without comment.

  Glawen could think of nothing to say which could adequately express his outrage. He heaved a deep sigh. “You may be hearing more from me in this matter.”

  Spanchetta’s silence was insulting. Glawen turned on his heel and departed, that he might not say or do anything to compromise his dignity. The maid politely opened the door; Glawen stalked through and out into the corridor.

  * * *

  Chapter I, Part 3

  Glawen returned to his own chambers, and stood in the middle of the sitting room, seething with fury. Spanchetta’s conduct was worse than intolerable; it was indescribable. As always, after Spanchetta had performed one of her characteristic offenses, there seemed no reasonable or dignified recourse. Time and time again the rueful remark had been made: “Spanchetta is Spanchetta! She is like a natural force; there is no co
ping with her! Just leave her be; that is the only way.”

  Glawen looked down at the letters he clutched in his hand. All had been opened and carelessly resealed, with no regard for his sensibilities; it was as if they had been violated and befouled. There was nothing he could do about it, since he could not throw the letters away. He must accept the humiliation.

  “I must be practical,” said Glawen. He went to the couch and flung himself down. One by one he examined the letters.

  The first had been posted from Andromeda 6011 IV, the junction where Wayness would transfer to an Explorer Route packet for the remainder of her voyage to Old Earth. The second and third letters had been mailed from Yssinges, a village near Shillawy on Earth; the fourth from Mirky Porod in Draczeny.

  Glawen read the letters quickly, one after the other, then read them more slowly a second time. In the first letter she wrote of her journey along the Wisp to Port Blue Lamp on Andromeda 6011 IV. The second letter announced her arrival upon Old Earth. She spoke of Pirie Tamm and his quaint old house near Yssinges. Little had changed since her last visit, and she felt almost as if she were coming home. Pirie Tamm had been saddened to hear of Milo’s death and had expressed deep concern over the state of affairs existent upon Cadwal. “Uncle Pirie is secretary of the Society somewhat against his will. He is not interested in talking Society business with me, and perhaps thinks me too curious, even something of a nuisance. Why, he seems to wonder, should I, at my age, be so concerned with old documents and their whereabouts? At times he has been almost sharp and I must move carefully. It seems to me he wants to sweep the whole problem under the rug, on the theory that if he pretends the problem does not exist it will go away. Uncle Pirie, so I fear, is not aging gracefully.”

  Wayness wrote guardedly of her ‘researches’ and the obstacles and barriers she constantly found in her way. Other circumstances she found not only puzzling but also somewhat frightening – the more so that she could not identify them or convince herself of their reality. Old Earth, wrote Wayness somberly, was in many ways as sweet and fresh and innocent as it might have been during the archaic ages, but sometimes it seemed dank and dark and steeped in mystery. Wayness would very much have welcomed Glawen’s company, for a number of reasons.

  “Don’t worry,” said Glawen to the letter. “As soon as soon can be, I’ll be on my way!”

  In the third letter Wayness expressed concern over the lack of news from Glawen. She spoke even more cautiously than before of her ‘researches’, which, so she hinted, might well take her into far parts of the world. “The odd events I mentioned still occur,” wrote Wayness. “I am almost certain that - but no, I won’t write it; I won’t even think it.”

  Glawen grimaced. “What can be happening? Why is she not more careful? At least until I arrive?”

  The fourth letter was short and the most despairing of all, and only the postmark, at Draczeny in the Moholc indicated her activity. “I won’t write again until I hear from you! Either my letters or yours have gone astray, or something awful has happened to you!” She included no return address, writing only: “I am leaving here tomorrow, though as of this instant I am not quite sure where I will go. As soon as I know something definite, I will communicate with my father, and he will let you know. I do not dare tell you anything more specific for fear that these letters might fall into the wrong hands.”

  Spanchetta’s hands were certainly wrong enough, thought Glawen. The letters made no specific references which might compromise Wayness’ ‘researches’, although many of her guarded allusions might well intrigue a person of Spanchetta’s cast of mind.

  Wayness made a single reference to the Charter, but in connection with the moribund Naturalist Society. A harmless reference, thought Glawen. She wrote sadly of Pirie Tamm’s disillusionment with the entire Conservationist concept, whose time, so he felt, had come and gone – at least in the case of Cadwal, where generations of over flexible Naturalists, in the name of expediency, had allowed circumstances to reach their present difficult stage.

  “Uncle Pirie is pessimistic,” wrote Wayness. “He feels that the Conservationists on Cadwal must protect the Charter with their own strength, since the current Naturalist Society has neither the force nor the will to assist. I have heard him declare that Conservancy, by its innate nature, can only be a transitory phase in the life-cycle of a world such as Cadwal. I tried to argue with him, pointing out that there is no intrinsic reason why a rational administration guided by a strong Charter cannot maintain Conservancy forever, and that the current problems on Cadwal arise from what amounts to the sloth and avarice of the former administrators: they wanted a plentiful source of cheap labor and so allowed the Yips to remain on Lutwen Atoll in clear violation of the Charter, and it is this generation which must finally bite the bullet and set matters right. How? Obviously the Yips must be transferred from Cadwal to an equivalent or better off-world location: a hard, costly and nervous process, and at the moment beyond our capacity. Uncle Pirie listens only with half an ear, as if my well-reasoned projections were the babblings of a naïve child. Poor Uncle Pirie I wish he were more cheerful! Most of all, I wish you were here.”

  Glawen telephoned Riverview House, and brought the face of Egon Tamm to the screen. “Glawen Clattuc here. I have just now read the letters Wayness wrote me from Earth. Spanchetta had intercepted them and laid them aside. She had no intention of giving them to me.”

  Egon Tamm shook his head in amazement. “What a strange woman! Why should she do something like that?”

  “It indicates her contempt for anything connected with me or my father.”

  “It still verges upon the irrational. Every day the world becomes more perplexing. Wayness confuses me; her conduct is beyond my understanding. But she refuses to confide in me, on the grounds that I could not conscientiously keep my mouth shut.” Egon Tamm turned a searching gaze upon Glawen. “What of you? Surely you must have some clue as to what is going on!”

  Glawen side-stepped the question. “I have no idea where she is or what she is doing. She has had no letters from me – for a very good reason, of course – so she is not writing until she hears from me.”

  “I have had no recent letters. She tells me nothing in any case. Still, I sense a force, or pressure, pushing her where she really does not want to go. She is much too young and inexperienced for any serious trouble. I am deeply concerned.”

  Glawen said in a subdued voice: “I have much the same feeling.”

  “Why is she so secretive?”

  “Evidently she has learned something which would cause damage if it were generally known. Indeed, if I might make a suggestion?”

  “Suggest all you like”

  “It might be best if neither of us should so much as speculate regarding Wayness in public.”

  “That is an interesting idea, which I do not totally understand. Still I will take it to heart – though I am baffled by what could have so aroused the girl and taken her so far away. Our problems are undeniably real, but they are here on Cadwal!”

  Glawen said uncomfortably: “I am certain that she has good reasons for whatever she is doing.”

  “No doubt her next letter may supply a few more details.”

  “And include her current address, or so I hope. Speaking of letters, I imagine that Bodwyn Wook told you of Floreste’s final testament. “

  “He reported its gist and recommended that I study it in detail. In fact – first, let me explain conditions at Riverview House. Every year I must endure official scrutiny of my affairs by a pair of Wardens. This year the two Wardens are Wilder Fergus and Dame Clytie Vergence, whom I think you will remember; and her nephew Julian Bohost is here also.”

  “I remember them well.”

  “They are unforgettable. I have other unusual guests - ‘unusual,’ that is, in the context of Riverview House. They are Lewyn Barduys and his traveling companion, a creature of many distinctions who uses the name ‘Flitz.’”

  “‘Flitz’?�
�

  “No more, no less. Barduys is a man of wealth, and can afford such frivolities. I know nothing about him, except that he seems to be a friend of Dame Clytie.”

  “Dame Clytie is her usual self?”

  “Even more so. She has elevated Titus Pompo to the stature of a folk hero - a noble and selfless revolutionary champion of the oppressed.”

  “She is serious?”

  “Quite serious.”

  Glawen smiled thoughtfully. “Floreste discusses Titus Pompo in some detail.”

  “I would like to hear this letter,” said Egon Tamm. “My guests might also be interested. Perhaps you would join us for lunch tomorrow and read the letter aloud.”

  “I will be happy to do so.”

  “Good! Until tomorrow, then, a bit before noon.”

  * * *

  Chapter 1, Part 4

  In the morning Glawen telephoned the airport and was connected to Chilke. “Good morning, Glawen,” said Chilke. “What is on your mind?”

  “I would like a few words with you, at your convenience.”

  “One time is as good as another.”

  “I’ll be there at once.”

  Arriving at the airport, Glawen went to the glass-walled office at the side of the hangar. Here he found Chilke: a man of invincible nonchalance, a veteran of a thousand escapades, some creditable. Chilke was sturdy and heavy-shouldered, of middle stature, with a blunt-featured face, an unruly mat of dust-colored curls and cheeks roped with cartilage.

  Chilke stood by a side-table, pouring tea into a mug. He looked over his shoulder. “Sit down, Glawen. Will you have some tea?”

  “If you please.”

  Chilke poured out another mug. “This is the authentic stuff, from the far hills of Old Earth, not just some local seaweed.” Chilke settled himself into his chair. “What brings you out so early?”

  Glawen looked through the glass panes of the partition and across the hangar. “Can we talk without being overheard?”