From between the stones a shape darker than the shadows moved forward into the light of the moons. Glawen recognized the man he had glimpsed in Crippet Alley and at the Cansaspara café.
Wayness gave a soft cry of distress. “It’s too late.”
The man came slowly forward. He halted ten feet away. Some trick of posture or perhaps his supercilious grin stirred recollections in Glawen’s mind and he knew the man’s identity. “It's Benjamie the spy! Benjamie the traitor!"
Benjamie laughed. “Of course! And you are the noble and pure Glawen Clattuc. I sent your father to Shattorak! I suppose you are annoyed with me.”
“Very much so.”
Benjamie came a step closer. Glawen wondered what he was carrying behind his back. “So here we are," said Benjamie, “You and I, and now we shall see who is the better man: nice good Glawen or bad Benn Barr! And pretty Wayness will rejoice with whomever is alive at the end!"
Glawen somberly considered Benjamie, who stood an inch taller than himself and was heavier by twenty pounds.” Benjamie was quick and light footed; his confidence was superb.
Glawen told Wayness: "Run back to the hotel. As soon as you're well away, I'll get clear of this fellow and join you."
“But Glawen! What if – ” She could not bring herself to finish.
“If you hurry, there should be time to help Moncurio before Shan goes down. As for Benjamie, I will do what needs to be done."
Benjamie gave a contemptuous laugh. “Stay here!” he told Wayness. “If you run I'll catch you.” He strode forward. Glawen saw that he was carrying a short-handled spade. “This won't take long.” He feinted, then swung the spade so that it should slash Glawen’s neck. Glawen jumped aside and pressed his back against a tall Standing Stone. Benjamie jabbed with the spade; Glawen again jerked aside; the spade rang against the stone. Glawen seized the handle; the two wrestled for possession: twisting one way, then the other, Glawen saw that Benjamie was preparing a surprise. He first wrenched and hauled with the shovel in order to set Glawen up in an exposed stance. Glawen obliged, prompting the surprise: a sudden kick to the groin. Glawen twisted his hips and slipped the kick. Grasping the foot he instantly thrust hard, to send Benjamie hopping backward. Glawen wrested away the spade, struck it down hard on Benjamie’s shoulder, and Benjamie hissed in pain. He charged like a bull, grappled Glawen, bore him back so that Glawen’s head cracked against the Standing Stone. Glawen felt sick and dazed. Benjamie drove his fist into Glawen’s cheek; Glawen struck Benjamie’s belly; it was like hitting a board.
For a few moments there was confusion: a tangle of grunting bodies, flailing arms, contorted faces. Pain and fear were forgotten; each thought only of the other’s destruction. Benjamie attempted another kick Glawen caught the leg, pulled, twisted; there was a snap and Benjamie fell over backward, his ankle broken. He raised himself slowly on his hands and toes, then lunged, and caught Glawen off-balance. Benjamie worked himself behind Glawen; thrust his forearm against Glawen’s throat. Grinning in jubilation Benjamie constricted his muscles so that Glawen’s eyes bulged and his chest pumped in vain for air.
Glawen reached back his right hand, caught Benjamie’s hair and pulled back with all of his waning strength. Benjamie made fretful noises and tried to shake the hand loose. For an instant he allowed his arm muscles to slacken. Glawen drew his head far back and askew. With his left, hand Glawen jabbed at Benjamie’s throat, at the site of a sensitive nerve. Benjamie’s grip relaxed. Glawen broke loose; gasping, he turned and with all his strength drove his knuckles into Benjamie’s larynx. He felt the crushing of cartilaginous structures; croaking and wheezing, Benjamie fell over backwards, to sit slumped against a Standing Stone, to stare at Glawen with dull bewildered eyes.
Glawen, still panting, picked up the spade. He spoke to Benjamie: “Think of Shattorak.”
Benjamie slumped back against the stone. Glawen saw that he was only half-conscious.
Wayness came forward. She watched Benjamie in fascinated horror. “Is he dead?”
“Not at the moment; he's probably in a state of shock."
“Will he survive?”
"I don’t think so. If I did, I'd break his head with the spade. Perhaps I should do it anyway.”
Wayness clutched his arm. "No, Glawen, don’t!” Then she said: "No, I don’t mean that. He can't be allowed to live."
“He's dying. In any case he can't walk, and the Shadowmen will be here before long. Where is Moncurio?”
“Back here.” Wayness led the way to an excavation, covered over with a slab of stone. “He is below the stone. It's very heavy.”
Prying with the spade and exerting all his strength, Glawen managed to slide the stone back a few inches. He called down: ”Moncurio?"
“I'm down here! Get me out! I thought you were Shadowmen.”
"Not yet."
With Wayness assisting, Glawen thrust back the stone, inch by inch, until Moncurio was able to wriggle through the gap. “Ah, air! Space! Freedom! What a wonderful feeling! I thought that I was done for!” Moncurio paused to brush dirt from his clothes. In the moonlight Glawen saw a tall robust man of late maturity, only a trifle soft in the midriff. His thick silver-gray hair matched his brisk mustache. A wide brow a nose long and straight, a well-shaped chin lent dignity to his face; his eyes, however, under drooping eyelids were large, dark and moist: the eyes of a spaniel.
Moncurio finished dusting off his clothes. He spoke with emotion: “A true miracle! I had given up hope! My life was flashing before my eyes! You two came at the most fortuitous moment!"
“It wasn’t all that fortuitous." said Glawen.
Moncurio looked at him uncomprehendingly.
Wayness said: “I came out looking for you. I saw Benjamie drop you into the hole; then he attacked me. Glawen rescued both of us. Benjamie is now lying yonder he may be dead.”
“And a good thing too!” declared Moncurio with feeling. “He wanted information; I told him everything I knew and for gratitude he pushed me into the hole. I consider him a very discourteous fellow.”
“No doubt as to that.”
Moncurio looked around the sky. “Shan slants low!” He consulted his watch. "Twenty-four minutes remain. Now then!" he said with sudden energy. “Help me cover the tomb! Otherwise the Shadowmen will become nasty minded and poison the water.”
The three set to work. Moncurio at last was satisfied. "That will have to do, since Shan is almost down and Res is under Padan. The Shadowmen know what has been going on and they are delirious with rage. It is seven minutes to the hotel. Nine minutes remain before Shan is gone.”
The three returned at a smart pace down the rows and columns. Presently they broke out into the open.
"We can't stop here, “declared Moncurio. “In five minutes Shan will be gone, but some reckless juvenile might decide to try for instant honor and cut our throats here and now, and make his peace with the moons later."
“This is a precarious place to live," observed Glawen.
“In many respects, yes,” said Moncurio. “But the true archaeologist ignores hardship. He must make sacrifices for his science!”
The three continued back toward the hotel. Moncurio spoke on. “It is not all romance and glory, I assure you! No profession is less forgiving! One mistake and the reputation of a lifetime is demolished! Meanwhile, the financial rewards are minimal.”
“A good tomb robber seems to do quite well," mused Wayness.
“In that regard, I have no opinion," said Moncurio with dignity.
The three reached the safe grounds surrounding the hotel complex. Far to the west, pale blue Shan sank below the edge of the old sea bottom.
Ten seconds passed. From the Stones came a wild cry of vindictive glee.
“They have found Benjamie, or Ben Barr – whatever his name,” said Moncurio. “If he was not yet dead, he is dead now.” Moncurio turned away and went to the door of Suite A. He halted and turned. “Once again, I thank you both for your help. Perhaps we will meet tomorrow and take a cup of tea on the verandah. So now: goodnight!”
“Just a moment,” said Wayness. ”We also must ask you a few questions.”
Moncurio said stiffly: “I am extremely tired; could not your questions wait?”
“And suppose you died during the night?”
Moncurio gave bleak laugh. “Your questions would be the least of my worries.”
“We won't take too much of your time,“ said Wayness. “You can rest while we talk to you.”
“I suppose I can spare you five minutes or so,” grumbled Moncurio. He opened the door; the three entered his sitting room. From the bedchamber came a woman's voice.
“Adrian? Is that you?”
"Yes, my dear! Two friends are here on a matter of business; you need not come out.''
The voice, now somewhat querulous,” said: ”I could serve tea, I suppose."
“Thank you, dear, but they will only be here a minute."
"As you like."
Moncurio turned back to Glawen and Wayness. “You undoubtedly are aware that I am Adrian Moncurio, archaeologist and social historian. I fear that I did not catch your names.”
“I am Glawen Clattuc.”
“I am Wayness Tamm. I think you know my uncle, Pirie Tamm. He lives at Fair Winds, near Shillaway.''
Moncurio was for a moment taken aback: here was a new dimension to the case. He gave Wayness a quick sidelong glance, as if to divine her motives. “Yes, of course! I know Pirie Tamm well. But what are your questions?"
Glawen asked: “Did you speak with Melvish yesterday?”
Moncurio frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“He might have mentioned Benjamie, or Ben Barr, as you knew him.”
Moncurio grimaced. “Keebles called and left a message, but I was busy out in the field. When I returned his call, I had no answer.” Moncurio dropped into a chair. “Perhaps you will tell me what this is all about.”
“Certainly. Some time ago Keebles sold you a collection of Naturalist Society documents. He said that you still might have them in your possession.”
Moncurio raised his fine gray eyebrows. “Keebles is wrong. I traded the parcel to Xantief in Trieste.”
“You looked through the parcel before you traded it?”
“Naturally I am a careful man!”
“And you kept nothing?”
“Not so much as a torn photograph.”
“What of Keebles? Did he keep anything?"
Moncurio shook his head. “This stuff was not in Keebles' line. He took it in trade from a certain Floyd Swaner, now dead. In exchange, Keebles gave Swaner a set of tanglets.” He took a green Jade medallion from a shelf, and fondled it lovingly. “This is a tanglet, which the ancient Shadowmen used to certify the glory of their champions. Nowadays tanglets are much in vogue among the collectors.” He replaced the tanglet on the shelf. “Unfortunately, they are ever harder to find."
Glawen asked: “And the Naturalist documents – you know nothing about them – for instance, where they are now”?”
“Nothing, beyond what I have told you."
After a moment Wayness heaved a sigh. “I came down the ladder, rung by rung: Gohoon Galleries to Funusti Museum to Mirky Porod to Trieste, to Casa Lucasta, and finally to Moonway.”
“I came up the ladder, from Idola on the Big Prairie to Division City to Tanjaree to Moonway?’
"Moonway is the middle rung, where we should find what we are looking for, but Moonway is as empty as the rest."
Moncurio asked: "What are you seeking? Could it be the Cadwal Charter and Grant?”
Wayness nodded sadly. They have become very important, even critical, if Cadwal is to remain a conservancy.”
Glawen asked: “Did you know they were missing?”
“When I first saw the Naturalist documents, I noticed that the Charter and the Grant were missing. Keebles never saw them, of this I am certain. All of which means that he did not receive them from Floyd Swaner.”
“This surely was Smonny Clattuc’s opinion," said Glawen. “She burgled the Chilke barn any number of times and eviscerated the stuffed moose, but never came up with anything.”
“So what could have happened to the Charter and Grant?” asked Moncurio.
“That is the mystery we are trying to solve,” said Wayness.
"Grandpa Swaner left everything to his grandson Eustace,” said Glawen. “Smonny tried to get hold of Chilke’s property in every way she could think of, including marriage, which of course Chilke avoided. Life was too short, he said. Now it seems that no one – Chilke, Smonny, Wayness, you, I, no one – knows what has happened to the Charter and the Grant."
“An interesting problem,” said Moncurio. “I can offer no clues.” He pulled at his mustache, then glanced over his shoulder toward the bedchamber. The door was slightly ajar. Moncurio quietly crossed the room, eased the door shut and returned to his previous place. “We must not disturb Carlotta with our talk. Ha hm. It seems that you have gone to great pains in your search.” He looked toward Wayness. “Did I hear you mention 'Casa Lucasta’?”
“You did.”
Moncurio phrased a question with care. “Interesting we are speaking of 'Casa Lucasta' in – I forget the name of the town."
“Pombareales.”
“Yes, of course. And how go things in that odd little corner of Old Earth?”
Wayness considered. “The folk of Patagonia have long memories. They are still on the look-out for an archaeologist named 'Professor Solomon’.”
“Bah!” Moncurio gave an uncomfortable laugh. “You are referring to a promotional scheme which went sour. The idea was to advertise a new tourist complex, but at the last minute the principals backed off, and I was left in an exposed position. It’s the old, old story from which I emerged a cynic, I can assure you!”
Wayness gave an incredulous laugh. "A tourist resort on the pampas, with wind blowing weeds back and forth?"
Moncurio nodded with dignity. “I advised against the scheme, but when everything collapsed I was left alone to face the hysteria. They accused me, if you can believe it, of larceny, swindling, fraud, chicanery and much else. I was lucky to escape.”
“That is how it seems to everyone,” said Wayness.
Moncurio ignored the remark. “You visited Casa Lucasta?"
“Often.”
“And how is Irena?"
“Irena is dead.”