The Dogtown Tourist Agency (19 page)

“Rather more likely that he had no leads, or his men were all busy. What then is your problem?”

Clent spoke in a dead monotone. “I am a wealthy and socially prominent man. During my youth I occupied myself as you might expect: travel, sports, and I keep a fifty-foot ketch which I sail through the Shadow Islands, or sometimes out across the Florient to the Hesperids. For quite some years I remained a bachelor, although I enjoy female companionship well enough. I dallied here and there but never thought to marry until I met Perdhra Olruff at the home of a friend.” Clent laughed ruefully. “I knew that I never wanted to be parted from her—an ambition I could not immediately fulfill, as she had come in the company of the brilliant and eminent surgeon Faurence Dacre, who was obviously enamoured of her.

“The next day we had lunch together. I asked if Faurence Dacre meant anything to her, and she seemed, not evasive, but, let us say, reticent. To make a long story short, I learned that Dr. Dacre had intentions similar to my own, and that he had been wooing her with persistence and zeal. She could not help but take him seriously: he was, after all, distinguished and clever, and something of a celebrity as well. Nevertheless, for reasons best known to herself, Perdhra preferred me. Perhaps I seem easier to get along with. In due course we arranged to marry. Perdhra broke the news to Dr. Dacre as nicely as she could. He made appropriate remarks, and the matter seemed settled. The next day however he called me on the communicator, and issued a most amazing edict: I was to cease my attentions to Perdhra and never again approach her for the reason that he had chosen her for himself, which superseded all other considerations. When I could find my voice I told him to go to the devil. He merely remarked that this was my first, last, and only warning, that if I failed to obey his orders, I must face the consequences.”

Clent paused, drank more liquor, and leaned back into the couch. “He frightened me. I admit it. I said nothing to Perdhra and naturally never considered giving her up. Instead, I suggested that we marry at once, here at Dandyl Villa, rather than at the Bargherac Temple as we had originally planned. Perdhra agreed; we invited a few relatives and close friends and were married. Immediately afterward we flew out to Port Sant, where I keep my ketch; we planned to cruise a month or two: to the Mirage Islands, then to Tinghal and, if the trade winds held, to Geraniol.

“We arrived at Port Sant. I found that the ketch had been broken into, and the direction sensor stolen. A trivial theft, really, and everything else seemed in order. I left Perdhra aboard and set off to the chandlery, a hundred yards along the shore.

“I never arrived. I don’t know what happened to me. I recovered consciousness at the District Hospital, registered under a false name. And what of Perdhra! Neither kidnap nor threats nor fervent romance. She merely received a message that I had met with an accident, that the cruise must be postponed, and that I would communicate with her as soon as possible.

“I won’t dwell on her reactions. Naturally she was bewildered. She returned to Cassander, and tried to discover what had happened to me with no success whatever.

“When I came alive I found that I had been unconscious for four days. I felt—strange. I can’t describe the sensation exactly. But I knew that I had been tampered with.” Clent’s mouth twisted in a queer wry grin. “Well, there’s no use beating around the bush. As soon as I returned to Dandyl Villa I took stock of myself, as well as I could, and discovered a scar along my scrotum. I called in a doctor at once. He examined me, and confirmed my suspicions. My seminal glands had been interfered with. The doctor performed a chromosomal analysis. The glands were transplants. The work had been done well; there was total continuity and no sign of rejection. I was Conwit Clent,
true enough, but the male hormones were those of another man. The sperm was vital, but it was not my sperm; I could not father my own children. I knew of course who was responsible, but this had no bearing on my predicament. Who had contributed the glands? Where were my own?

“Either Faurence Dacre had implanted his own organs, which I seriously doubted, or glands regenerated from a small segment of his own organs, or organs from some detestable other source, which seemed most likely. And so there you have it.” And Conwit Clent again displayed his sickly sheepish grin.

Hetzel tilted his goblet and watched the golden cusps swing back and forth. “And what do you want me to do?”

“First—it goes without saying—I want back my missing parts. Perdhra and I both intend a family. This is impossible under present conditions. I might add that the idea of someone else’s hormones draining into my system is indescribably repugnant.

“Secondly, I want Faurence Dacre punished. Legally or illegally, one way or another, I want him to regret his acts.”

“Understandable,” said Hetzel. “Does your wife know what has happened?”

Clent shook his head. “I can’t bring myself to tell her. The doctor has explained that I have a peculiar heart condition which is not dangerous unless I exert myself and that I am taking medication to negate the possibility of such exertion. She worries, but she remains cheerful and affectionate; I’m really most fortunate in my wife.”

“Has Dacre communicated with either of you?”

“Not with me, and I don’t believe with Perdhra.”

“What did Dobor report?”

“Very little. Dacre cannot be located; according to his office he has gone off-planet for an indefinite period, which I gather is not unusual.” Clent went to stand morosely by an arched window overlooking a garden court. Over his shoulder he said: “You can understand why I’m not concerned with expense.” He turned around. “Will you take the case?”

“No question there,” said Hetzel. “I’ll take the case.”

Clent muttered something under his breath and strode back to the couch, where he poured more liquor into both goblets.

Hetzel said, “You understand that I guarantee nothing. I can’t even hold out much hope.”

“I know. I realize all this.”

“There is a condition you must agree to. You are a strong-willed man, accustomed to doing as you please. But in a case like this, I can’t work at cross-purposes with you.”

“Understandable.”

“I want complete control of the case. You must take no action without my approval. Otherwise there will be nothing but frustration for both of us.”

Clent’s agreement was perhaps a trifle glum. “I suppose this is reasonable enough. What of your fee?”

“I’ll take a thousand SVU expense money now, for which I shall account to you. My fee will depend upon how much I achieve, what risks I take, how long I work. I can’t name a specific figure at this moment.”

Without a word Clent opened a cabinet, withdrew a packet of notes which he tossed to Hetzel. “One thousand SVU. No, I don’t need a receipt.”

At the Hotel of the Worlds Hetzel communicated with Eban Dobor, senior partner of Dobor Effectuations. “Ah, Hetzel,” said the round affable face on the screen. “I’m not surprised to hear from you.”

“I’ve just returned from Dandyl Villa. Thanks for the referral.”

“Not at all. You were the obvious recommendation. It just doesn’t smell like our kind of case.”

“Thank you nonetheless. How did you learn about Trembling Waters?”

“We talked to Dacre’s acquaintances, gathering biographical material for a surgical journal. He arrived at Cassander about two years ago, and so far as we can learn, he has no past—except for a casual mention of Trembling Waters Academy to a female companion. He speaks only in generalities, and evades questions with something like: ‘aha! But that was then and this is now!’ or ‘Dull, stupid and trivial, every minute of it; let’s talk of something else.’ He’s paid everyone off at his office except a receptionist; she almost certainly knows nothing.”

“What of his professional license?”

“It tells us nothing. The municipality recognizes no diplomas or accreditations; standards vary too widely across the Reach. The Cassander Medical Board gives a ten-day examination and issues licenses only on this basis. Scores are a matter of public record. “Faurence Dacre achieved a rating of 98.2 in a possible 100, which is almost unheard of. The clerk at the Medical Board gave me a funny grin and a shake of the head when we discussed that rating. I asked ‘Does anyone ever cheat?’ He said: ‘You’d be astounded at the boldness, these men we’re supposed to trust!’

“‘And this score of 98.2?’

“‘It’s not my place to say a word. If a candidate convinces the Medical Board, who am I to cast him out? He’s a clever one, I’ll say that, is Dr. Dacre.’

“So draw your own conclusions. He wasn’t popular with his colleagues, though they won’t say why. A bit of envy, no doubt, because Dacre went straight to the top.”

“Any love affairs?”

“All over the place, but nothing serious until he met Perdhra Olruff. Then the two were seen everywhere: a most eye-catching pair, according to reports.”

“Where did he go after he left Trembling Waters?”

“No information. I tried the Trembling Waters alumni records. ‘All information is secret and held in sacred trust!’—that’s what old Dominie Cheasling told me. They’re afraid of outside trouble; lots of rich folk send their boys here. I was allowed to look into the yearbook. Faurence Dacre’s out-of-school address was Caelzie Empire Inn, here in Cassander. Useless information; they keep records only three years, and no one remembers him or his family. There are no Dacres on Thesse. That’s the file and it’s all in your lap.”

“I’ll have to start from where you left off.”

“Indeed. And where will that be?”

“Back at Trembling Waters.”

Years had come and gone; lives launched in hope and innocence had lost momentum or gone awry; but Trembling Waters Academy had altered little if any. Hetzel noted a new boathouse alongside Tanjaree Cove; the upside-down trees sprawled across greater areas; the greenstone offices, laboratories, classrooms, workshops, and dormitories seemed a trifle smaller, somewhat drowsier and dustier under the enormous Palladian elms imported from far Dashbourne Planet, where, four hundred years before, Dominie Kasus, founder of Trembling Waters Academy, had first seen the light of day. Otherwise all was as Hetzel remembered. He landed his rented air-car on the visitor’s plat, alighted, and sauntered toward Kasus Hall.

The time was middle afternoon, too early for his purposes. He seated himself on a bench beside the quadrangle and watched the activity, which no matter how similar in form to that of twenty years before, seemed different in kind. How open, how morning-fresh these young faces! Hetzel found remarkable the idea that he himself had been one of this uninformed group. Not a sentimental man, he nevertheless felt a seep of melancholy…A gong. Hetzel glanced at his watch. The administrative officers, if routines went as before—and why should they not!—would now be departing their cubicles and Kasus Hall would be left to the care of either Cholly the janitor, or his successor, or his successor’s successor.

Hetzel waited another half hour then strolled across the quadrangle to Kasus Hall. He mounted the steps and entered the vestibule, which smelled exactly as before. To his left was a large chamber, known as the Registrar’s Office, which also served a variety of miscellaneous functions. Here, as he had expected, Hetzel found Cholly the janitor: a few degrees more stooped, a trifle more convex of paunch, lacking half his proud ruff of hair, but essentially as before. Certain institutions verged on permanency, thought Hetzel.

Cholly looked up from his work. “Sorry sir; offices are closed for the day.”

“What a nuisance!” declared Hetzel. “I have flown out from Cassander for nothing!”

“Sorry, sir. For something urgent you could roust out Dominie Cheasling, though he wouldn’t thank you.”

Hetzel appeared to cogitate. “Perhaps that won’t be necessary, if you could lend a hand. I’d pay for any inconvenience, of course, and we wouldn’t need to bother Dominie Cheasling.”

Cholly spoke in a careful voice: “What is it that you want, sir?”

“I am an attorney-at-law, and I am trying to locate one of the school alumni so that I can pay over an inheritance. For this I need his address, which should be in the files yonder.”

Cholly laughed sourly. “Not a chance, sir. Dominie Cheasling doesn’t allow that sort of thing. We’ve got too many rich men’s sons here, and there’s always fear of a kidnapping or something of the like.”

“From the out-of-date files?” scoffed Hetzel. “Hardly likely.”

“You don’t know Dominie Cheasling, sir. He doesn’t do things halfway.” Cholly clearly made no connection between ex-student Miro Hetzel and this gray-eyed man with the soft black hair.

Hetzel brought forth his billfold and tapped it thoughtfully upon the counter. “In that case, it’s lucky that I arrived late.” He withdrew a five-SVU note. “Perhaps you will allow me to step over yonder and discover my information. We need not trouble Dominie Cheasling at all.”

Cholly eyed the note with a curled lip. “How do you know the information is over yonder?”

“Where else would it be?”

“Mmf. Dominie Cheasling would have my skin…” He glanced sidelong at the note. “Can you make that 10 SVU?”

“Rather than waste my trip out here, yes.” Hetzel produced another five SVU.

“Wait then,” said Cholly, with sudden alacrity. “I want to lock the front door and hang on the chain; then no one can surprise us.”

Returning, Cholly made a conspiratorial sign. “No matter what, my name must never be mentioned.”

“This I guarantee,” said Hetzel, and Cholly allowed him behind the counter. Hetzel went directly to the “admissions” file, and pulling open a drawer, found the plaque for his last year at Trembling Waters.

“You are deft with those files,” observed Cholly in a skeptical voice. “How do you work with such certainty?”

“Institutions are much alike,” said Hetzel absently. “Now let me see—ah yes: the repro.” He inserted the plaque and read the index which flashed on the screen. Cholly came to crane his neck, but Hetzel warned him back. “The less you know the better, in case Dominie Cheasling’s suspicions ever are aroused.”