The Dogtown Tourist Agency

by Vance, Jack

  “Correct! Although there is more business than might appear, what with Arsh and Dog-beards all along the coast, and the sublume orchardists up Joko Slope. About this time Father became ill and retired from practice and all the custom went to Faurence; for a time he and that unpleasant Impie were the busiest folk in Masmodo. Both day and night, no doubt. At any rate Faurence paid my father his money and recovered his wonderful equipment, and for good measure took over the dispensary as well. He wanted the cottage but Father refused to move. Zerpette was now taking care of him, and he was quite comfortable among his mementos; why inconvenience himself?”

  “Why indeed?” Hetzel proffered the bottle. “A taste of this excellent brandy?”

  “With pleasure.”

  Hetzel poured generously. “Please don’t interrupt your account; you tell a most vivid tale.”

  “There is more to come. Faurence began to do remarkable work. One of the Arsh—what was his name? Sabin Cru—fell from his boat. A scrag went after him and plucked him like a daisy. They hauled him out in a laundry basket; there wasn’t enough left of Sabin to furnish a good grip. But Faurence went to work with a will. He did a grand job, and for certain kept the life inside Sabin Cru, and after that all the Arsh came to Dr. Dacre, and even the Dog-beards, although some were deterred by a rumor.”

  “What rumor?”

  Ottile looked carefully right and left. “Who knows what the truth is? Does it sound credible that Dr. Dacre had a secret laboratory up the coast at Tinkum’s Bar, where he conducted odd experiments and tried to cross a Dog-beard with a Flamboyard?”

  “Offhand, no,” said Hetzel. “However, I don’t know what might be a Dog-beard, much less a Flamboyard.”

  “Dog-beards are no-hopers—beach folk; you find them mostly out at this end of the Torpeltines. You’ve never seen a Flamboyard?”

  “Never.”

  “You’ve got a treat coming. They’re our most important indigenes: feathered two-legged fruit eaters, the most gaudy and bizarre creatures imaginable. They have pink and purple plumes and orange fluff balls and golden horns. Why Faurence would want to tamper with such things is beyond imagination; any sensible person would know such a trick to be impossible. Still, someone—everybody thinks it was Father—turned in information. The Medical Inspector came down here posthaste and made no end of a row; if Faurence were innocent at Tinkum’s Bar, he’d done something else as bad. He closed office and left Masmodo, and never came back.”

  “And when was this?”

  “That would be about two years ago, more or less.”

  “Where did he go next?”

  Ottile gave a voluminous shrug. “Impie might know. She dressed herself in her finery, packed her bags, took them out into the street and waited, but as before, Faurence never came by. After a bit she took her luggage back into the house and changed her clothes. Impie even now refuses to discuss Faurence Dacre, though once in a while I try to reminisce with her.”

  “Faurence Dacre seems a man of flexible principles.”

  “Impie and I are agreed on this, at least.”

  “Would your father know Faurence Dacre’s present whereabouts?”

  Ottile gave her head a pitying shake, for Hetzel’s lack of perception. “Of all the folk of the Gaean Reach, Father hates one man more than all others. That person is Faurence Dacre. But his pride prevents him from speaking Dacre’s name, or even listening to the name spoken.”

  “What of Dacre’s expensive equipment?”

  “Still at the dispensary. Would you like to see it?”

  “Very much! You are a remarkable storyteller and my curiosity is aroused.”

  “Among other things?” asked Ottile with a coy glance.

  “But is it possible?” Hetzel inquired. “I refer, of course, to the dispensary.”

  “Of course it is possible,” said Ottile, “since I have the key.”

  “Dr. Leuvil will not object?”

  “What if he does? It is none of his affair.”

  Chapter X

  Companionably seizing Hetzel’s arm, Ottile led the way up the slope. The sky blazed with stars; wind sighed through the sneezewoods. An irregular line of dim lights twisting and angling across the water charted the route to Dongg’s Tavern, where a festoon of red and green lanterns promised ease to dry throats.

  Dr. Leuvil’s stark white cottage stood to one side of the road, the dispensary to the other. “Here we are,” said Ottile. “Masmodo Dispensary, and not so bad a place, or so I’m told.”

  Ottile produced a cylinder which she touched to the code plate. The door swung open. She turned on lights. “This is the reception room: serviceable but not impressive. I myself painted the pictures on the wall.”

  “You have a sensitive touch.”

  “Thank you. This is the reception office, and yonder are the examination rooms. There was Dr. Dacre’s private office. His papers and files have been removed of course, but otherwise—” Ottile made a vague gesture.

  Hetzel went to examine the photographs which hung on the wall. “And who are these folk?”

  Ottile walked along the wall, identifying such scenes as she was able. “—my father and the four girls, when we were quite young. Ah, look at me, how trusting and true! Was I not a dear child?…This is Dr. Dacre and the Arsh Sabin Cru. Notice the fearful damage which was done.”

  Hetzel saw the torso of a staring-eyed Arsh lying naked on a hospital bed. Behind stood Dr. Faurence Dacre, smiling faintly, as if aware that the salvage he had worked could only excite the viewer’s awe. He asked, “And what happened to Sabin Cru?”

  “Hard to say. The Arsh won’t tolerate deformities. Like as not they drowned him. Impie of course would know as to that. This is the nicest of the patients’ rooms; shall we just take a peep?”

  “It hardly seems worth the trouble,” said Hetzel. “I’m more interested in technical matters.”

  “They’ve locked the door,” said Ottile. She gave the knob a fretful tug, then quickly turned and threw open the door across the hall. “Examine this room; it is also very nice.”

  “One hospital room is much like another,” said Hetzel. “Where are the operating chambers?”

  “Through here.” Ottile ushered him into a room which occupied half of the entire structure. “What do you think of this?”

  Hetzel, who had been expecting one or two modest pieces of special equipment, looked back and forth in wonder. The chamber had been divided into bays, each housing a specialized mechanism of obvious value. Ottile nodded wisely at Hetzel’s marveling comments. “Look at this thing here—I don’t know its name, but it’s used during operations. The doctor stands nowhere near the patient, but in this booth. This mask fits over his head. By pushing his head forward he magnifies his field of vision; by drawing back he reduces it. His hands and arms fit into these gauntlets; the motions of his fingers control miniaturized tools; with the foot pedals he selects his equipment. With clear and magnified vision, with perfectly controlled tools in his nerveless grip, the doctor performs delicate operations with ease. If he wants to work internally, he puts a pellet into the body which he guides through stomach and intestines by magnetic beams. Meanwhile it transmits back a picture of what it sees. At any particular spot the pellet can discharge medicine or heat, or work with small tools; then it is brought back out of the body.”

  “Marvellous,” said Hetzel. “And this affair?”

  “Something to do with eyes, so I have been told: a machine for cutting and indexing optic nerves between retina and brain, for eye transplants.”

  “Remarkable! And here?”

  Ottile giggled. “It’s a baby compressor, to help mothers in labor.” She explained the functioning of the mechanism.

  “Ingenious. And over here…”

  Ottile said: “Oh, let’s not talk about these ridiculous machines.” She billowed forward and Hetzel was trapped between the wall and a gurney. “It’s wonderful to meet a sympathetic man,” murmured Ottile. “Sometimes I fee
l as if life is passing me by…”

  A peremptory rap-rap-rap at the door. Hetzel darted away to safety. “Who’s there?” called Ottile in a brassy voice.

  “It’s Zerpette. Is that you, Ottile? What are you up to this time of night?”

  Ottile surged toward the door, but Hetzel outpaced her and flung it wide. “Come in, come in!”

  Zerpette stood in the light, blinking crossly. “And what is your business here?”

  “I am inspecting the dispensary. Is Dr. Leuvil still awake?”

  Zerpette backed away from the door. Hetzel, looking past her, saw a gaunt shape on the verandah silhouetted against the light from within. He pushed past Zerpette, crossed the street, stood at the foot of the stairs. “Dr. Leuvil?”

  “Young man, I have retired from practice. I give no interviews; I do not care for conversation.” The voice was low, plangent, harsh.

  “Nevertheless,” said Hetzel, “you are a member of the human race, and presumably not irresponsible. I wish to locate Faurence Dacre, and in all civility you might supply me his address.”

  The gray face thrust even further forward; the milk-gray eyes peered at Hetzel. “Who are you? What do you want with Dr. Dacre?”

  “I am Miro Hetzel. The name will mean nothing to you. I am an effectuator. Faurence Dacre has done my client harm. I wish to effect a remedy.”

  “Only this, and I will say no more. Dr. Dacre is a brilliant man. He made his mark here at Masmodo and then departed. He confided no hint of his plans to anyone; he left no address, nor have any of us received the slightest indication as to his present whereabouts. This is all I can tell you.”

  Hetzel watched the stooped figure shuffle into the house. Zerpette slipped in after him. Hetzel turned slowly around to find himself alone. Ottile, sensing the elusiveness of Hetzel’s manner, had departed.

  Hetzel descended the main street, past the hotel to the waterfront. After a cautious appraisal of the area he walked out along the creaking docks to Dongg’s Tavern, from which issued a grinding music of electric stringed instruments, punctuated by nasal howls of simulated emotion. Hetzel entered the tavern.

  A dozen Arsh sat hunched over iron pots of beer. Behind the bar Impie stood languid and aloof.

  Hetzel went to a corner of the bar and presently Impie condescended to glance in his direction.

  “Yes sir?”—her voice as flat as yesterday’s beer.

  Hetzel said: “I’ll have another of those rum punches, despite your sister’s opinion of them.”

  Impie raised her invisible eyebrows. “Ottile? What does she know about it?”

  “Nothing really. She had very odd ideas.”

  Impie looked away and sniffed. “An avalanche of sheer femininity. That’s how someone once described her.”

  “She is overwhelming, for a fact. Who is ‘Sabin Cru’?”

  “One of the Arsh. What of him?”

  “An Arsh? Ah, well.”

  Impie leaned across the counter, eyes sparkling. “What do you mean ‘Ah, well’?”

  “Nothing, really. Dr. Dacre must have been an impressive fellow. If Sabin Cru had not died—”

  “Who said Sabin had died?”

  “He isn’t dead? Does Dr. Dacre still look after him?”

  “How would I know?” asked Impie crossly.

  “I was given to understand that you were acquainted with both Dr. Dacre and Sabin Cru.”

  “I am not acquainted with any Arsh.”

  “Naturally not. How does Sabin Cru support himself now?”

  “You’d have to ask his mother.”

  “Ottile said he was with Dr. Dacre.”

  “Hah!” Impie’s laugh was rich with scorn. “What would she know?”

  “The mother doesn’t live with you then?”

  Impie’s face worked in a peculiar fashion as the emotions of wonder, fury, and incredulity warred with each other. She glared speechless at Hetzel, and finally said: “Are you a lunatic? What is wrong with you to say such a stupid thing?”

  “Sorry,” said Hetzel in a subdued voice. “I misunderstood. To tell the truth I wasn’t really listening to the—”

  Impie’s face was now congested. “Sabin Cru’s mother is named Farucas. She lives ten miles down the coast. Go there yourself! You will see!”

  “I’m sure it was a mistake. Where can I find Dr. Dacre? I’ll straighten it all out once and for all.”

  “You and your Dr. Dacre!” screamed Impie, breaking a bottle on the counter. “You and he can—”

  Hetzel rose to his feet, and departed Dongg’s Tavern. Impie’s tirade gradually diminished as he returned across the swaying piers to the shore.

  Chapter XI

  In the morning Freitzke served Hetzel his breakfast. Hetzel decided that in all likelihood she knew nothing of Faurence Dacre; after all, Zerpette’s turn was next. He crossed the tree-shaded main street to the post office and sent a telegram to Conwit Clent at Dandyl Villa, Junis, Cassander, Thesse:

  I have discovered a confused situation but may know more within the next few days. The outcome, from your point of view, is still uncertain. I will keep you informed.

  Hetzel descended the main street to the waterfront and walked out upon the pier, where he stopped to consider a fishing boat with red, white and black Arsh symbols painted around the gunwales.

  An Arsh in a loose white shirt and black trousers crouched in the cockpit, fitting a new section of coaming.

  “Is this boat for hire?” asked Hetzel.

  The Arsh rose to his feet and wiping his hands on his breeches, surveyed Hetzel with care. “Well then, Merner*, where do you want to go?”

  “Ten or fifteen miles along the coast, perhaps as far as Tinkum’s Bar. Does it matter?”

  “Not particularly. Jump aboard then, Merner, let’s get underway.”

  “Not so fast. We have not yet settled upon a price.”

  Negotiations required several minutes, but at last Hetzel jumped down into the boat.

  The converter sighed; electrified water surged back from drive strips; the boat angled among the piers, rounded the breakwater, and slid out upon the slow swells of the Mondial Ocean. “Now where, Merner?” asked the Arsh.

  “I am a journalist,” Hetzel explained. “I have been assigned to write an article upon Dr. Dacre and his work. Are you acquainted with him?”

  “Not at all.”

  “What of Sabin Cru—do you know him?”

  “He should have been drowned. It is bad luck to nurture half a corpse: you may so inform your readers.”

  “I will make a note,” said Hetzel. “I am informed that Sabin Cru now lives with his mother Farucas.”

  “I was there when Impie informed you,” said the boatman. “She told you of a great deal more.”

  “She has a gift for expression,” said Hetzel. “So then, take me to the house of Farucas.”

  “As you like.”

  Alongside white beaches drove the boat, past slanting coconut palms, purple and mauve gangee, pink jorgiana, lianas trailing a hundred feet of white trumpet blossoms. The boat slid across turquoise tinted shallows and dark blue depths; looking over the side Hetzel saw all manner of sea life: white globes and black ribbons; needles of blue fire darting and stopping; a snow-white fish ten feet long with a wedge-shaped knob of a head four feet across; a creature which the boatman named a sea scrag, somewhat like a fifteen-foot scorpion, with pincers at each end; uncountable small fish.

  The boatman pointed. “Tinkum’s Bar; Farucas’ house.”

  The house stood on a graded flat among fruit trees and a line of coco palms: a structure of crystallized sand, far more substantial than Hetzel had expected. From the verandah an Arsh woman watched the boat. Hetzel asked, “Is that Farucas?”

  “There she stands.”

  “Let’s go in.”

  The boatman made fast to a concrete pier; Hetzel jumped ashore. He climbed a path to the house. The woman apparently had not stirred from where he had seen her first. “Hello,�
� called Hetzel. “Are you Farucas?”

  “Yes, I am Farucas.”

  Hetzel joined her upon the verandah; the woman looked at him with apprehension. Like all Arsh she was squat, with heavy shoulders and short heavy legs. Her ears, already pendulous, were expanded even farther by plugs of carved vermillion; her nose hung heavy and crooked, like a faulty cucumber. “Sir, what do you want here?”

  “Where is Sabin Cru?”

  “He is not here,” said Farucas with prim finality.

  From inside the house came a scraping sound, as of a chair being pulled across the floor. Hetzel said: “He is not here, you say. Then who makes that noise?”

  Before Farucas could respond Hetzel had stepped past her and into the house.

  He found himself in a long room with white plastered walls, divided into two sections by a low counter, the far end of which supported trays of mush and cooked fruit. Behind the counter stood three splendid beings a foot taller than Hetzel. Each showed a pointed parchment-white visage surmounted first by a pair of twisted gilded horns, then a crest of scarlet, gray, and orange plumes. Under the head a collar of black hair hung over the heavy thorax, while the occipital crest continued down the back. A colorful and picturesque group, thought Hetzel; the creatures would seem to merit their popular appellation: Flamboyards. They treated Hetzel to stares of haughty inquiry, then continued with their feeding. A fourth Flamboyard entered the room on the human side of the counter, to stand stock-still watching Hetzel: a creature not so tall as the others, heavier and apparently more solid, with a large near-globular head.

  Farucas cried out, “As I told: these are not Sabin Cru!”

  “So I see. Who paid for this expensive house?”

  Farucas made a gesture. “Oh, I pay money.”

  “And where did the money come from?”

  “Yes; it is money.”

  “Sabin Cru gives you money?”

  “Yes, that is true,” said Farucas. “He is good to me.”

  “And where does Sabin Cru get money?”