The Dogtown Tourist Agency

by Vance, Jack

  Hetzel described his activities in detail and rendered his expense account, in regard to which Sir Ivon gave a rueful smile. “My honor, but you do yourself well!”

  “I saw no need to stint,” said Hetzel. “I do high-quality work under high-quality conditions. There remains a single matter to discuss—the bonus which you offered for decisive effectuation. Istagam is no longer in existence, and nothing could be more definite than this.”

  Sir Ivon’s face clouded. “I hardly see the need for any larger outlay.”

  “As you wish. I can earn a rather smaller sum by writing an article for the micronics trade journal, describing the possibilities for a new, better-organized Istagam. After all, it never was and is not now illegal to employ Gomaz labor, and chir is cheap.”

  Sir Ivon gave a weary sigh and brought out his checkbook. “A thousand SLU will be sufficient, and I will make it my business to see that chir is declared contraband.”

  “Two thousand would better convey your appreciation. However, I’ll settle for fifteen hundred, and I believe that Sir Estevan Tristo has already placed an embargo on chir. Still…”

  Sir Ivon glumly wrote the check. Hetzel expressed gratitude, wished Sir Ivon good health, and took his leave. He went to the front of the manor, rang the chime, and when the footman opened the door, requested a word with Lady Bonvenuta. He was conducted into the library, where Lady Bonvenuta shortly appeared. At the sight of Hetzel she halted, raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

  “I am Miro Hetzel, to whom a friend of yours, a certain Madame X, entrusted a trifle of confidential business.”

  Lady Bonvenuta touched her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I’m afraid I know of no such Madame X.”

  “She was anxious to locate a gentleman by the name of Casimir Wuldfache, and I am pleased to report that I have details on his present whereabouts.”

  “Indeed?” Her voice was more frosty than ever.

  “First, I must inform you that Casimir Wuldfache took advantage of Madame X and her friendship with you and rifled Sir Ivon’s file of private papers. This will come as a great shock to you.”

  “Why, yes. Of course. But, then…well, I think I know the Madame X to whom you refer. She will want to learn where this Casimir Wuldfache can be found.”

  “The information reached me as an incidental to another effectuation, and I will not require payment, especially as Casimir Wuldfache is dead.”

  “Dead!” Lady Bonvenuta blinked and clutched at a chair with bejeweled fingers.

  “Dead as a doornail. I myself saw his corpse on the Steppe of Long Bones, north of Axistil, on the planet Maz, where he had been engaged in business. May I ask you a question?”

  “This is shocking news! What is your question?”

  “A rather trivial matter. Did you recommend me to Sir Ivon, or did he remark to you that I was an efficient and dependable effectuator?”

  “I heard him discuss you with one of his friends, and I passed the recommendation on to Madame X.”

  “Thank you,” said Hetzel. “The chain of circumstances is now complete. My best regards to Madame X, and I hope that the news regarding Vv. Wuldfache will not distress her.”

  “I hardly think so. It was a matter of business. I will telephone her at this minute. Good day, Vv. Hetzel.”

  “Good day, Lady Bonvenuta. It has been a pleasure to meet you.”

  FREITZKE’S TURN

  Chapter I

  Arriving at Cassander on the world Thesse, Hetzel lodged himself at the Hotel of the Worlds, using a fictitious name. After a bath and a meal he seated himself at the communicator, called for and secured a certified channel, guaranteed safe from interference. He touched buttons, spoke a code word, and the screen displayed his personal emblem: a skull with the Tree of Life growing up from one of the eye sockets. His own voice spoke: “Office of Miro Hetzel, Effectuator.”

  “I will consult anyone on the premises,” Hetzel replied, though the premises, as he well knew, included no more than a few circuits at Cassander Communications Center.

  “The premises are vacant,” stated the familiar voice. “Miro Hetzel is not immediately available. Please leave a message.”

  “Two six two six. Miro Hetzel here. Transmit messages.”

  Assured by code and voice analysis that Hetzel himself had issued the demand, the reception system yielded its file of messages, dating from Hetzel’s previous departure from Cassander. Much of the matter was trivial. There were two threats, three warnings, four demands for money. A few, spoken in guarded or disguised voices, or in rambling, only half-coherent sentences, fit no pattern, but to these Hetzel listened with careful attention: they contained intimations too troubling to be articulated clearly. Hetzel heard nothing which he considered of urgent importance.

  The remainder of the messages, seven in all, solicited Hetzel’s services. None supplied informative detail. Three made use of the phrase: “Money is of no object,” or “Expense is secondary to results.” Hetzel suspected that several applicants wished to be delivered from blackmail, an operation at which he had been notably successful in the past. Other offers could not so readily be classified. To all the reception system, after extracting all possible information, delivered the message: “Miro Hetzel is presently off-world. If you fail to receive a response within three days, we recommend the Extran Effectuation Service, whose integrity and skill are of a high order.”

  The last message in the system’s memory had been received three days previously almost to the minute; and this message also was that which aroused in Hetzel the keenest interest. He listened to it a second time: “You do not know me; my name is Clent—Conwit Clent. My address is Dandyl Villa, Tangent Road, Junis. I am faced with a most troublesome problem—at least it seems troublesome to me. You may find it ludicrous. I might not have called you except that the affair concerns a certain Faurence Dacre, and your name happens to enter the case. Only at the periphery, I hasten to say. I repeat that the matter is most important and expense, within reason, is no object. I know your reputation and I hope you will be able to consult with me as soon as possible.”

  Hetzel immediately put through a call to Conwit Clent, at Dandyl Villa in the pleasant hillside suburb of Junis.

  The face of Conwit Clent almost instantly appeared on the screen: a face which ordinarily must have seemed easy and generous, with curly blond hair, a well-shaped, if heavy nose, and a square block of a chin. The features now were drawn and pinched; the ruddy skin showed an unhealthy gray undertone.

  Hetzel introduced himself. “Sorry for the delay. I arrived in town only an hour ago.”

  Clent’s face sagged in relief. “Excellent! Can you come out to my home? Or would you prefer that I meet you in town?”

  “Just a moment,” said Hetzel. “Can you tell me something about your case?”

  Clent cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder. He muttered uncomfortably: “It’s something difficult to discuss under any circumstances. You remember Faurence Dacre?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Did you know that he became a surgeon?”

  “I haven’t seen or heard of him since he left school.”

  “Then you wouldn’t know his present whereabouts?”

  “No.”

  Clent sighed unhappily, not so much in response to Hetzel’s remark, but as if certain dreary suppositions of his own had been fully confirmed. “If you’ll come out to Dandyl Villa I’ll explain everything in detail, and you’ll appreciate my reasons for calling on you.”

  “Very well,” said Hetzel. “I’ll come at once. I must point out that my fees are calculated subjectively, and that I require prepayment sufficient to cover reasonable expenses.”

  Clent showed small interest in the subject. “We shall have no disputes in this regard.”

  As soon as the screen cleared, Hetzel called Extran Effectuations, with whom he maintained a friendly relationship, and was provided information from the Extran files. Conwit Clent was described as an u
nremarkable young man of wealth and good character, enthusiastic in regard to yachting, a dilettante at the collection of star stones*, and lately an aficionado of the complex Twair cuisine which currently enjoyed something of a mode among the young cognoscenti of Cassander. He had very recently married the beautiful Perdhra Olruff, from a family as wealthy as his own. His life had been void of scandal, hushed-up wrongdoing, or even irresponsibility; Clent, so it seemed, had lived a blameless, secure, and unthreatened life. The photographs showed a man obviously healthy, with a head of blond curls and a mouth twisted into a curve of chronic good nature: a Conwit Clent similar to, yet indefinably different from, the Clent to whom Hetzel had so recently spoken. Perdhra Olruff was beyond all doubt a person of heartbreaking beauty: slender, dark-haired, with an innocent inquiring gaze, as if everywhere she sought to learn the elusive natural secrets. Her outlook upon life was perhaps more serious than that of Conwit Clent.

  Hetzel next inquired for information in regard to Faurence Dacre, but discovered little. Dr. Dacre had arrived in Cassander only two years previously, but had immediately made a reputation for himself as a brilliant and imaginative surgeon. Hetzel smiled grimly. Precisely the image which Faurence Dacre would have wished to make his own. And, taking all with all, why not? Faurence Dacre’s skill, assurance, and intellectual powers fitted him well for such a career.

  The file on Faurence Dacre contained nothing dark or sinister. In his brief two years at Cassander he had become something of a society darling, and his services were much in demand. He would have moved in approximately the same circles as Clent; inevitable that they should have become acquainted.

  Hetzel arose from the communicator, changed to a casual dark blue and gray lounge suit. He went out into the foyer, touched a button at the “Depart” chute. The gate slid ajar; Hetzel entered the capsule; the gates sealed themselves. Hetzel spoke into the mesh: “Dandyl Villa, Tangent Road, Junis.” The capsule dropped, sought a route, and accelerated. Across the wall-screens flashed a more or less accurate picture of the passing landscape: the black iron and glass of central Cassander, then the Park Belt, then the isolated little suburbs among the smokewoods, then the wide dense argents, flowering quains, cyan mimosas, and cardamoms which cloaked the Magnetic Hills, then up Junis Valley to the grand villas of Junis Town.

  During the trip Hetzel thought back across his lifetime: an exercise provoked by the name “Faurence Dacre”. There were more years than he cared to reckon. From Earth he had traveled with his family first to Alpheratz VI, where his father, a civil engineer, worked on the Great Tri-Ocean Canal, then to Neroli, where his mother had died in a Barking Desert windstorm, then a sorrowful rush through half a dozen places he barely remembered. On Thesse his father became supervisor of the Trembling Mountain Maintenance System, and there, at the Trembling Waters Academy, young Miro Hetzel had secured his formal education.

  Miro Hetzel had been an unusual boy: strong, quick, and intelligent. While neither surly nor shy he was not naturally gregarious and slow to make friends. From his father he had learned self-reliance and practicality (or so he liked to think); his mother, a Gael from the Isle of Skye, had worked into young Miro’s being a penchant for the subtle and mysterious. The two influences, rather than striving at discord, ran parallel to and reinforced each other (such was Miro’s belief).

  Without difficulty Miro encompassed the difficult curriculum at Trembling Waters Academy, and the years passed pleasantly. During his last term a new boy entered the school: Faurence Dacre, only recently arrived from the world Cambiasq, where, so he told, his father, Lord Icelyn Dacre, owned a large island and controlled the lives of a thousand people. Faurence Dacre was clearly a remarkable youth, as handsome as the Prince of Darkness, with hair like shining black silk, eyes like topazes illuminated from the side. He was tall, strong, agile, and intensely concentrated; he automatically excelled at sports. At Trembling Waters Academy, where almost all the students excelled in one way or another, such capabilities aroused no particular comment, and Faurence Dacre strove more intensely than ever: more intensely and relentlessly, so it seemed to many, than circumstances might justify.

  Academically, Faurence Dacre performed with contemptuous ease, as if the material were child’s play, and again his abilities aroused no admiration; his single friend, indeed, was Miro Hetzel, who was tolerant enough to be amused by Faurence Dacre’s antics. Miro occasionally counseled Faurence to modesty, grace and simplicity: a point of view which Faurence scornfully rejected. “Bah, this is owl’s talk! Folk take you at your own appraisal of yourself; the skulking dog gets kicked, and rightly so!”

  Miro Hetzel saw no need to pursue the subject. Faurence Dacre’s views were not absolutely unreasonable, and, after all, school was often enough described as a social laboratory, or a world in miniature, where each person learned how to optimize his personality. But would Faurence Dacre learn? The esteem of one’s fellows, especially at a place like Trembling Waters, could not be dragooned or commanded; Miro, in fact, was not at all sure whence it derived, or even if the subject deserved speculation.

  Faurence and Miro both joined the chess club. In the tournament Miro beat Faurence quite handily. When Miro said “checkmate”, Faurence lifted his topaz eyes and stared at Miro a long slow minute. Then he raised his hand and for a moment Miro thought he planned to send the board spinning across the room. “Better luck next time,” said Miro cheerfully.

  “Chess is not a game of luck.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes a clever line of play can be spoiled by a stupid move of the adversary. Isn’t that luck?”

  “Yes. But I can’t see that you made any stupid moves.”

  “I hope not. I played to win.”

  “I played to win too.” The two strolled out across the compound. Faurence’s face underwent a series of transparent changes: from perplexity through gloom to a grim frozen calm.

  The two sprawled on the grass under the crooked branches of an upside-down tree. “So then,” said Faurence, “you need only to beat Cloy Routhe for the championship.”

  Miro, chewing a grass stem, nodded impassively.

  “I can’t understand it,” muttered Faurence. “This is not the way it should be.”

  Miro started to speak, then laughed: a small choked laugh of wonder and incredulity. “Really, you can’t alter the way the world goes by sheer effort of will!”

  “Here we differ,” said Faurence, “though I put my philosophy in terms somewhat difficult to communicate. Essentially this: I must be best because I am best. The equation has imperatives working in two directions, and I adopt this as the basic premise of my being. X signifies and must signify Y; Y signifies and must signify X. The system, like any other, yields corollaries and vectors. The best is accorded what is best: he gains the power to realize his wishes, to embarrass his enemies, to use the advantages of wealth. When I am confronted by what seems a discrepancy in the equation, or a flaw, then I must make an adjustment or a clarification: not in the equation, which by the premise has unalterable force, but in the matching of terms to the variables of existence.”

  “Your premise may be faulty,” observed Miro lazily. “Whereupon the whole system breaks down. After all, other persons form equations too.”

  Faurence gave his head a decisive shake. “I am convinced otherwise. The world is mine; I need only learn to use the equation. Today you won the chess game; impossible if I had worked the equation properly!”

  Miro, amused by Faurence’s ruminations, laughed again. “The only way to win a chess game is to play better chess. If we played a hundred games I would beat you ninety-five times, unless you altered your style. Do you know why? Because you play too boldly, and think to overwhelm the opponent through sheer élan.”

  Faurence said coldly, “Not true. I am the superior player; you cannot defeat me except by a fluke.”

  Miro shrugged. “Whatever you like. I care nothing for the word ‘best’. My adversary is myself, not you.”

 
Faurence said, “Very well then. You acknowledge my superiority.”

  “Of course not. Such judgments, if ever they are necessary, will be made by others. But the subject is absurd; let me discuss other things.”

  “No. The talk is not absurd. I can defeat you and I will prove it.” Faurence brought out a pocket chess set and placed it on the grass. “Let us play another game. Choose.” He held out his hands.

  Miro looked at the board. Two black pawns were missing. Did Faurence hold a black piece in each of his hands? Miro took a white pawn and said: “This time you shall choose.” He held out his hands.

  After a moment Faurence touched one of the hands and discovered the white pawn, and so the game proceeded. As before Faurence played with burning concentration, topaz eyes luminous. Perhaps he had assimilated Miro’s comments upon his style, for he played more cautiously, though he clearly chafed under the restrictions. Miro, hardly able to restrain his amusement, set a trap which he knew Faurence would be unable to resist; sure enough, Faurence thrust his rook far across the board, to corner Miro’s bishop. Miro moved a pawn and the rook was pinned. Faurence studied the board, then yawned, and stretched. He looked across the compound. “There goes old Szantho for his weekly dip in the lake. What weird bathing dress he does affect!”

  Miro glanced across the compound, then looked back to the board. Faurence’s hand and wrist obscured his vision. Faurence moved a bishop. “Check,” said Faurence. The rook was saved. Aha! thought Miro, the equation not only controls the cosmos, but also the rules of chess. He would not again remove his eyes from the board.

  Two moves later, Miro saw opportunity for a bold sally of his own, directly through the territory guarded by the bishop before Faurence had diverted his attention. With a face totally devoid of expression, Miro moved his piece. Faurence protected; Miro moved again: “Check.” Then, on his next move: “Checkmate.”

  Faurence carefully returned the board to his pocket. “Come,” he said suddenly, “let us wrestle.”