“That seems reasonable enough," said Scharde. “But is she not taking a great responsibility upon herself?”
“Rightly or wrongly, that was her decision. But it appears that Smonny is also aware of the situation, and perhaps knows more about it than does Wayness."
"Why, do you say that? “
“A collector by the name of Floyd Swaner might have ended up with some of the Society documents. He died and left everything to his grandson, Eustace Chilke. Smonny traced down Chilke took him to the planet Rosalia. Namour brought him here, and Smonny meanwhile attempted to find where either Chilke or Grandpa Swaner had hidden the Charter she had no success. Smonny then ordered Chilke kidnapped, took him to Shattorak and forced him to sign over all his possessions. It seems that
Smonny and her allies, the Yips, are serious.”
“So then, what of Dame Clytie. How would she know?”
"I suggest that we talk once again to Kathcar,” said Glawen.
Egon Tamm summoned the maid and instructed her to fetch Kathcar from the room which had been put at his disposal.
Kathcar presently appeared and for a moment stood in the doorway, appraising the persons in the room. He had carefully trimmed his black hair and his beard and had dressed himself in somber black and brown garments, in the conservative style of old Stroma. His black eyes darted back and forth, then he came forward. “What is it now, sirs? I have told you everything I know; any further questioning is sheer harassment."
Egon Tamm said: “Sit down, Rufo; perhaps you will take a glass of wine?”
Kathcar seated himself but brushed away the wine. “I consume very little vinous liquor.”
“We are hoping that you may illuminate a puzzling circumstance in relation to Dame Clytie.”
"I can't imagine what more I could tell you.”
“When she conferred with Smonny Zigonie, did the subject of Eustace Chilke arise?"
“The name was not mentioned.”
“What of the name Swaner”?
“I heard no such name.”
“Odd," said Bodwyn Wook.
Glawen spoke: “Either Dame Clytie or Julian Bohost made contact with Smonny’s sister Spanchetta, here at Araminta Station. Were you aware of this?"
Rufo Kathcar showed a petulant frown. “Julian spoke with someone at the Station; I am not certain as to whom it might have been. He reported the occurrence to Dame Clytie and I seem to recall that he used the name 'Spanchetta.' His mood was one of excitement, and Dame Clytie said: ‘I think you should investigate this matter it might prove of the greatest importance' or words to that effect. Then she noticed that I was within earshot and said no more.”
“Anything else?"
“Julian went off somewhere immediately afterward."
"Thank you, Rufo."
"Is that all you wish?"
“For now yes."
Kathcar stalked from the room. Glawen told the others: "Spanchetta showed Julian the letters Wayness wrote me. She did not refer to the Charter directly but she probably said enough to set Spanchetta thinking.”
Egon Tamm asked: “Why should Spanchetta show the letters to Julian? This is a puzzle.”
Scharde said: "If Spanchetta had wanted to inform Smonny she would have notified Namour. She might well prefer Dame Clytie’s plans for the future to those of her sister."
Glawen rose to his feet. He addressed Bodwyn Wook. "Sir, I request a leave of absence starting now."
“Hmf. Why this sudden whim?"
"It is not sudden, sir. The Shattorak operation has been successful and I am anxious to see to another matter.”
“Your request is denied," said Bodwyn Wook. “I am assigning you to a special mission. You must proceed to Earth at best speed and there clarify this matter we have been discussing to the best of your ability.”
“Very good, sir.” said Glawen, “I withdraw my request.”
“Quite so,” said Bodwyn Wook.
Chapter III
I.
Wayness arrived at the Grand Fiamurjes Spaceport Earth aboard the starship
Zaphorosia Naiad
and went directly to Fair Winds, the residence of her uncle Tamm at Yssinges, near the village Tierens, fifty miles south of Shillaway.
Wayness approached the entrance to Fair Winds in a mood of uncertainty, not quite sure of what might be the current circumstances, nor even what kind of welcome she might expect. Her recollections, from a previous visit were vivid. Fair Winds was an ancient manor built of dark timbers, commodious, comfortably shabby, surrounded by a dozen massive deodars. Here lived Pirie Tamm, a widower with his daughters Challis and Moira: both older than Wayness and active in county society. Flair Winds had resounded with comings and goings, luncheons, garden fetes, dinner parties and an annual masquerade ball. Pirie Tamm at that time had been a large hearty man, erect and stalwart, brisk and positive, punctiliously correct in his manners. Milo and Wayness had found him a generous host, if somewhat formal.
Arriving this second time at Fair Winds, Wayness discovered many changes. Challis and Moira had married and moved away; Pirie Tamm now lived alone, save for a pair of servants, and the vast old house seemed unnaturally silent. Pirie Tamm, meanwhile, had become thin and white haired; his once ruddy cheeks were waxen and hollow; his bluff positive mannerisms were muted and he no longer walked with a brisk confident stride. He maintained a stiff reticence on the subject of his health, but Wayness eventually learned from the servants that Pirie Tamm had fallen from a ladder, broken his pelvis, and owing to complications had lost much of his strength and was incapable of prolonged exertion.
Pirie Tamm greeted Wayness with unexpected warmth. “What a pleasure to see you! And how long will you stay? You will be in no hurry to leave, or so I hope; Fair Winds is much too quiet nowadays!”
“I have no definite schedule," said Wayness.
“Good, good! Agnes will show you to your room where you can freshen up before dinner.”
Wayness remembered from her last visit that dinner at Fair Winds was always a formal occasion. She dressed accordingly in a pale brown pleated skirt, a dark gray orange shirt and a square-shouldered black jacket; garments which admirably suited her dark hair and pale olive complexion.
When she appeared in the dining room, Pirie Tamm looked her up and down with grudging approval. “I remember you as a pretty young lass; you certainly have not altered for the worse — though I doubt if anyone would describe you as ‘buxom’.”
“I lack a bit here and there,“ said Wayness demurely. “But I make do with what I have.”
"It might well be enough,” said Pirie Tamm. He seated Wayness at one end of the long walnut table and took himself to the other.
Dinner was served in ritual fashion by one of the maids: a rich rosy pink lobster bisque, a salad of cress and sweet parsley dressed with cubes of chicken marinated in garlic oil, cutlets of wild boar from the Great Transylvanian Preserve. Pirie Tamm inquired after Milo and Wayness told of the terrible manner of Milo's death. Pirie Tamm was shocked. “It is particularly disturbing that such deeds should be done on Cadwal, a conservancy and, theoretically, a place of tranquility.”
Wayness laughed sadly. "That does not sound like Cadwal."
“Perhaps I am an impractical idealist; perhaps I expect too much of my fellow men. Still cannot avoid a profound disappointment whenever I look back across the years of my life. Nowhere do I discover the fresh, or the clean, or the innocent. Society is in a condition of rot. I cannot even trust the shopkeepers to give me my correct change."
Wayness sipped wine from her goblet, not quite sure how to respond to Pirie Tamm's remarks. It seemed as if the years might have affected Pirie Tamm's mental processes as well as his physical condition.
Pirie Tamm, apparently expecting no comment, sat brooding off across the room. After a moment Wayness asked: “What of the Naturalist Society? Are you still Secretary?”
"I am indeed! It is a thankless task, in the most literal sense of the words, since no one either appreciates my efforts or tries to assist me.”
“I am sorry to hear that! What of Challis and Moira?"
Pirie Tamm made a curt gesture. “They are caught up in their own affairs, to the exclusion of all else. I suppose that it is the usual way of things — though I could wish for something different.”
Wayness asked cautiously: "Did they marry well?"
“Well enough, I suppose, depending upon one's point of view. Moira picked herself a pedant, impractical as they come. He teaches some footling course at the university: 'The Psychology of the Uzbek Tree Flog,' or perhaps it’s 'Creation Myths of the Ancient Eskimos’. Challis did no better she married an insurance agent. None of them have set foot off the planet Earth, and none care a counterfeit coprolite for the Society. They flitter and change the subject when I mention the organization and its great work. Varbert, that's Moira's husband, calls it a 'geriatric mumble-club'. "
“That is not only unkind but foolish, as well!" declared Wayness indignantly.
Pirie Tamm hardly seemed to hear. "I have discussed their parochialism at length, but they do not even trouble to disagree, which I find most exasperating. As a consequence I see little of them nowadays.”
“That is a pity,”' said Wayness. “Evidently none of their activities interest you.”
Pirie Tamm gave a grunt of disgust. “I have no taste for trivial banter nor excited discussion of some celebrity’s misconduct, nor would I wish to waste the time. I must research my monograph, which is a tedious business and I must also keep up with Society business.”
“Surely there are other members who might be willing to help you?"
Pirie Tamm laughed sourly. “There are barely half a dozen members left, and most are senile or bedridden.”
“No new members apply?”
Pirie Tamm laughed again, even more bitterly. “That is a joke. What can the Society offer to attract new members?”
“The ideas are as relevant now as they were a thousand years ago."
“Theories! Murky ideals! Glorious talk! All meaningless when strength are will are gone. I am the society's last secretary and soon — like me — it will be no more than a memory."
“I am sure that you are wrong,” said Wayness. “The Society needs new blood and new ideas.”
“I have heard such proposals before.” Pirie Tamm indicated a table across the room on which rested a pair of earthenware amphorae, formed of a ruddy orange body, banded with black slip. The ceramist had scratched though the slip to create representations of ancient Hellenic warriors engaged in combat. The urns were about two feet tall and in the opinion of Wayness, extremely beautiful.
“I had the pair for two thousand sols: a great bargain, assuming that they are genuine.”
“Hmm,” said Wayness. "For a fact, they don’t look very old.”
“True and that is a suspicious circumstance. I had them from Adrian Moncurio, a professional tomb robber.
He agrees that they are well preserved.”
“Perhaps you should have them authenticated.”
Pirie Tamm looked dubiously toward the two urns. “Perhaps. It is an uncomfortable dilemma. Moncurio states that he took them from a secret site in Moldavia where by some miracle they had rested undisturbed for millennia. If so, the circumstances are irregular and I am harboring a pair of illegal and undocumented treasures. If they are fakes, I own a pair of legal, handsome and very expensive garden ornaments. Moncurio himself lacks all qualms and is probably off plying his trade at this very moment.”
“It would seem an adventurous occupation."
“Moncurio is the man for it. He is strong, keen and quick and totally lacks scruples, which makes him difficult to deal with."
"How is it, then, that he sold the amphorae so cheaply?”
Pirie Tamm again showed a dubious expression. “He was at one time a fellow of the Society, and spoke of rejoining."
“Did he actually do so?"
“No. I feel that he lacked true Naturalist dedication. We agreed that the Society needed revitalization, even though, as he pointed out: ‘There is precious little to revive.’ And he added: ‘The Cadwal Charter and the Grant-in-Perpetuity are demonstrably secure, of course?' "
"What did you say to that?"
“I told him that we need not consider Cadwal at the moment, that all our best efforts must be devoted to repairing the Society here on Earth.”
'' ’First,’ said Moncurio, ‘you must alter the public image you now project, of a few tremulous octogenarians in musty clothes, dozing away the afternoons.’ ”
“I tried to remonstrate, but he went on: 'You must place yourselves squarely at the node of the general culture; you must set up a program of entertaining events which would capture the afternoon of the average man. These events might be somewhat peripheral to society goals, but they would generate enthusiasm.’ He spoke of such activities as dances, feasts of exotic dishes, recreations of dramatic adventures, contests and promotions to exploit the touristic potential of Cadwal.”
"I stated, somewhat stiffly, I fear, that his proposals failed to enhance either the short- or the long-term goals of the Society.”
" ‘Nonsense!' Moncurio declared. 'Further, you might organize a grand beauty pageant, with pretty girls recruited from as many worlds as possible. They would be named “Miss Naturalist-Earth" and “Miss Naturalist-Alcyone," “Miss Naturalist-Lirwan" and so forth.' “
I rejected the proposal as tactfully as I could. “Such pageants are no longer considered chic.”
“Moncurio contradicted me again. ‘Not so! A well-turned ankle, a proper buttock, a graceful gesture, these will never be anything less than chic, so long as the Gaean Reach endures.' “
“I said wryly: 'For a man of your age and a tomb robber to boot, you are vehement in this regard.' ”
“Moncurio became indignant. 'Never forget: a beautiful girl is no less a part of Nature than a bottle-nosed blind worn from the caves of Procyon IX.' “
" ‘Your point is well-taken,’ I told him. 'Still, I suspect that the Society will plot out its future course in less tangential directions. Now then, if you wish to join, you may pay me fourteen sols and fill out the questionnaire.' “