Araminta Station

by Jack Vance

  “Bah,” muttered Kirdy. “when Bodwyn Wook and I go off together, he must learn to trot along at my pace.”

  Glawen laughed. “Surely you don’t intend me to take you seriously.”

  Kirdy only grunted and watched from the corner of his eye while Glawen completed his business at the reservation counter.

  While they awaited the vouchers, Kirdy asked in a silken voice: “What if we can’t finish the work in four days?”

  “We’ll worry about that when the time comes.”

  “But just suppose.”

  “Much would depend on circumstances.”

  “I see.”

  The time was midmorning. Glawen and Kirdy rode into Soumjiana by elevated transit car, through a district of industrial facilities and small workshops, uniformly fabricated of foamed glass, stained pale blue, watery green, pink or occasionally a pallid lemon yellow. To right and left the city spread away across a flat plain, accented only by lines of slim black trees which marked the routes of important boulevards.

  In geological terms, Soum was an old world. The mountains had long been worn down to nubbins; innumerable small rivers wandered this way and that across the land; the seven seas knew only the most lackadaisical storms.

  The Soumians, like their world, were of a mild and equable temperament. A certain school of sociologists, calling themselves the Circumstantial Determinists maintained that the placid environment had shaped the psyche of the Soumians. Another group, who called themselves merely sociologists, pronounced the theory “arrant mysticism and total nonsense.” They pointed out that over the centuries folk of a hundred different racial stocks had come as immigrants to Soum, each necessarily adapting to the customs of all the others and in the process learning tolerance and compromise: faculties now integral with the Soumian personality. Women and men enjoyed equal status and tended to dress alike; there was little mystery or glamour to sexuality. Such being the case, sex crimes were uncommon; along with fits of murderous jealousy, while grand amours and romantic adventures were little more than the subject of wistful speculation - unless one could afford services like those offered by Ogmo Enterprises in the Perfection of Joy brochures.

  Arriving at the center of Soumjiana, Glawen and Kirdy took lodging at the Travelers Inn, overlooking the Octacle, as the great eight-sided central plaza was known.

  Kirdy seemed restless and somewhat out of sorts. Glawen took time to explain his plans in detail. “We have a list of the travel agencies used by the Soumians who were taken on Thurben Island. We’ll visit these places and try to identify the connecting link with Ogmo Enterprises. Perhaps we can turn up an address or a bank account or even a person with a name and a face.”

  “Possibly.”

  “If we work briskly, we should easily be able to finish here inside of four days - assuming, of course, that we find it necessary to go on to Tassadero, which I hope will not be so.”

  Kirdy was still not reconciled to the schedule. “Four days may not be enough. Of all the places the Mummers played, this was our favorite. Everyone liked the sausages from the little sausage grills. You’ll see them everywhere around town and especially out on the Octacle. At one of these grills, the sausages were particularly tasty, and I am anxious to discover its location. Floreste never allowed us more than two apiece, which everyone considered extremely unkind and avaricious of him. Two sausages were just enough to tantalize a person. I am determined to locate the best and my most favorite sausage grill. It may well take more than four days. If so, what of that? At last I will get my fill of those wonderful sausages!”

  Glawen opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. What was there to say? He started over again. “Kirdy, do you hear me?”

  “Of course I hear you.”

  “We are not here to search out sausages, not even if they were nectar and ambrosia and attar of roses, all mixed together. If you must look for sausages, I cannot stop you, but I will not join you.”

  Kirdy’s eyes gleamed blue. “This is not sensible! We must stay together!”

  “It seems sensible to me. You track down the wonderful sausages; I’ll look for Ogmo Enterprises and we’ll both be happy.”

  “Bah. In the first place, four days is not long enough.”

  “For me or for you?”

  “For me.” I don’t want to be hurried, and run from one grill to the next, eating sausages with both hands.”

  “Quite all right; stay as long as you like.”

  “Oh? And what of you?”

  “As soon as I finish, I’m leaving.”

  Kirdy’s big pink face became aggrieved. “That is not a pleasant attitude.”

  Glawen became vexed, despite his best intentions. “Ha! You and your sausage quest. I can’t take it seriously. Don’t you remember what we’re here for?”

  Kirdy smiled sourly. “I remember well enough. But I’m no longer interested. What difference does it make now? It’s all in the past. Now is now, and now is when I am alive.”

  “It is absolutely pointless becoming angry with you,” said Glawen. “Come, it’s time for lunch. Eat sausages if you like; it seems a harmless addiction. Come to think of it, I like sausages too.”

  At intervals around the Octacle small sausage grills wafted savory odors into the air. Kirdy insisted upon buying and devouring two sausages at each of four different grills. At each place he said: “Quite good, but not the sausage I’m looking for.” Or: “A bit too much pepper spice here, don’t you think?” And: “These sausages have good character, but they lack a certain something. But let’s try that grill over yonder; it might just be the one I’m looking for.”

  At each location Kirdy consumed the sausages with full deliberation, nibbling a bit at a time, while Glawen watched in mingled annoyance and amusement. Kirdy apparently hoped to circumvent Glawen’s plans by wasting so much time that Glawen would be forced to postpone his departure. But while Kirdy ate sausages Glawen located the travel agencies he wished to visit on a map of the city. Almost all were located on or near the Octacle. When Kirdy started for the fifth grill, Glawen pointed to one of the travel agencies, only a few yards distant. “Lunchtime is over. I will be in there. Eat sausages or go back to the hotel: just as you like.”

  Kirdy became angry. “I have not finished my lunch yet.”

  “Too bad. There’s work to be done.”

  Kirdy turned away from the sausage grills and followed Glawen to the travel agency.

  So passed the afternoon, the whole of the second day and the morning of the third, with Kirdy wasting as much time as possible and Glawen finding a grim and, so he well realized, unreasonable pleasure in thwarting Kirdy’s dilatory tactics. During this period Glawen visited each of the travel agencies on his list. At each the results were similar. Each had transacted its business with a personable young woman wearing garments of off-world style. Her most striking attribute, from the Soumian perspective, was her unabashed femininity, the recollection of which brought small smiles to the faces of the men and contemptuous sniffs from the women. She was described as of middle stature, with a lavish figure and hair defined as black, brown, auburn, red, blond and silver-white, the color apparently being adjusted to either her mood or her costume. She was further characterized as “off-world exotic,” “schlemielish” (an adjective beyond Glawen’s comprehension), “hoity-toity,” “pretensive: all bust, bottom and eye-lash,” “a bit pushy,” “off-caste refined, if you know what I mean.” And: “Mysterious! I asked her name and she said she was the ‘O’ in ‘Ogmo.’ Does that make sense? I ask you!” “I took her for no better than she had to be; definitely larky.” And: “She came on like an actress, all poses.” And: “I asked her where these Perfections of Joy parties took place; she said: ‘On Cadwal.’ I asked if all the girls on Cadwal were as pretty as she was. She just smiled and said it wasn’t her kind of place, being much too old-fashioned.”

  In each of the agencies, Glawen inquired as to the financial arrangements. “When you sold vouchers f
or these Perfection of Joy excursions, you received money. What happened to this money? Did the young lady pick it up?”

  In each case the answer was the same. “We transferred the money to the Ogmo account at the Bank of Mircea. These were our instructions; we followed them explicitly.”

  “Have you seen the young woman on any other occasions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you know where the offices of Ogmo Enterprises are located?”

  “No, sir.”

  Glawen could not avoid a sensation of disappointment. The most promising leads of the investigation had dwindled to nothing. He had learned only of a young woman who had come and gone, leaving no indication of her identity, although her personality and even her appearance had taken on a murky reality.

  Kirdy ate his usual lunch of sausages, and made his usual attempt to prolong the lunch hour, and his lack of success, as usual, provoked a series of surly protests. Glawen paid no heed and with Kirdy as usual sauntering two steps behind, he crossed the Octacle to the Bank of Mircea - by coincidence that bank controlled by Alvary Irling, still in custody at Araminta station.

  At the bank Glawen was forced to argue and threaten and flourish his credentials up four tiers of ever-more elevated functionaries before he finally gained access to an official with both the authority and the will to dispense information. Kirdy meanwhile waited in the lobby, intently watching Glawen’s every move, apparently suspecting at some level of his mind that Glawen might try to give him the slip.

  The bank official listened carefully to Glawen’s request, then shook his head. “I can’t help you. Ogmo Enterprises is a blind account. Money can be deposited by anyone, then it simply disappears, so far as we are concerned. Withdrawals can be made only by using the proper code. The account is secret and anonymous; it could only be more so if it did not exist at all.”

  “You could not locate the account, if you were of a mind to do so?”

  “A cybernetic genius might locate the account by depositing funds to the credit of Ogmo Enterprises and tracing the computer’s activity. He might be able to learn the code; as to this I’m not sure. But he could not identify the account holder.”

  “What if he were ordered to do so by, let us say, Alvary Irling, sparing no expense?”

  The official inspected Glawen with an expression combining both curiosity and calculation. He spoke in a noncommittal voice: “You use that name with easy éclat.”

  “Why not? He is currently our guest at Araminta Station. Should I be inclined to make the suggestion, he would discharge you on the instant.”

  “Really.” The official straightened the papers on his desk. “You wield great influence. Interesting. Please ask him to promote me to first executive director at a large salary.”

  “I might well do so if you provided the information I need.”

  The official regretfully shook his head. “I am helpless. It is not just a matter of bank regulation. The code is known only to the depositor. His name does not appear in the bank records.”

  Glawen departed the bank, with Kirdy following close behind. They returned to the Travelers Inn, Glawen in a gloomy mood.

  In the hotel lobby Glawen flung himself down into a chair. Kirdy, smiling a cryptic smile, stood looking down at him. “Now what?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Don’t you want to make more inquiries?”

  “Of whom? What should I ask?”

  Kirdy gave an indifferent shrug. “There is much more to learn. Soum is a large world.”

  “Let me give the matter some thought.”

  “Think away.” Kirdy went off to look at a bulletin board. He uttered a cry of glad surprise and came bounding back across the lobby. “We can’t leave Soum! Impossible that we should leave now!”

  “How so?”

  “Look at the poster!”

  Without great interest Glawen went to look at the bulletin board, where he discovered a placard printed in lively colors:

  The famed impresario

  Master Floreste

  brings his talented troupe

  The Waifs of the Wisp

  Back to Soumjiana!

  Advanced patronage is advised.

  “They won’t be here for a month or more,” said Glawen. “We’ll be gone tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” cried Kirdy in shock. “I don’t care to leave tomorrow!”

  “Stay as long as you like,” said Glawen. “Just don’t bother me with any more foolish complaints.”

  Kirdy stared at Glawen, the muscles of his face cording. “I advise you to watch your language! You are not speaking to a child!”

  Glawen sighed. “Sorry, I did not mean to offend you.”

  Kirdy gave a nod of measured dignity. “I have a suggestion to make.”

  “So long as it involves neither sausages nor the Mummers, I’ll listen.”

  “This investigation is obviously a pack of nonsense. I suspected as much from the start. I feel that we should spend another week or two here on Soum, attending to certain business, then take the first ship back to Cadwal.”

  “You go if you like,” said Glawen. “It’s my duty to complete the investigation as best I can. That means Tassadero tomorrow.”

  Kirdy compressed his lips and looked off across the lobby. “Duty is all very well, if it is necessary. But this is foolish duty and needless.”

  “That is not for you to decide.”

  “Of course it is for me to decide! Who else should I trust in this regard? You? Bodwyn Wook? Arles? Estimable fellows all, but I am I! If I think a certain ‘duty’ is needless, I refuse to trouble myself. It is undignified parading around for no purpose. My dignity will not allow me to make a fool of myself. That is how it always has been and always will be.”

  “Quite all right,” said Glawen shortly. “Make decisions how you like, but don’t trouble me with them. Tomorrow I leave aboard the Camulke. Go or stay as you like.”

  * * *

  Chapter VII, Part 5

  Zonk’s star, a white dwarf of negligible luminosity, moved inconspicuously alone through a black gulf to the side of the Wisp, with a single small planet, Tassadero, huddling close.

  Three races resided on Tassadero: the Zubenites of Lutwiler Country, numbering about a hundred thousand; half as many nomads roaming the Great Steppes and the Far Regions; and three million inhabitants of Fexel Country, which included the city Fexelburg. These three peoples retained their separate identities, prompting an unusually ebullient notice in the Planetary Index:

  The folk of Tassadero are socially and psychologically immiscible, and perhaps genetically as well. Each race considers the other two physically repulsive, and they interbreed about as often as might an equal number of hummingbirds, flatfish and camels.

  The Fexels are of ordinary Gaean stock; the average tourist will find them the least unusual of the three races. They cultivate a sophisticated life-style perhaps a trifle overzealously; some observers may find their zest for novelty and fads less than refreshing.

  From the Fexel perspective, the Zubenites are religious fanatics of uncertain pedigree and unsavory habits, while the nomads are dismissed as mere barbarians. In their turn, the nomads deride the “flutter-fingered fops, intellectuals and popinjays” of Fexel Country. The nomads claim descent from the pirates who long ago launched their forays from Tassadero. Zab Zonk was the Pirate King and his tomb, said to house a great treasure, has never been discovered. Every year thousands of “Zonkers” arrive from off-world and spend weeks or months searching the steppes and the Far Regions for the elusive tomb. The Zonkers bring with them, be it noted, a treasure or their own, in the form of foreign exchange.

  A few other items may interest the tourist, jaded and bored after his failure to find Zonk’s treasure. He may inspect the so-called “rivers of purple ooze” or enjoy winter sports at Mount Esperance. This is a dead volcano twenty thousand feet high, with slopes affording spectacular ski runs twenty miles long.

  Gla
wen, sitting in the saloon of the Camulke, put aside the Planetary Index. Kirdy stood by the observation window, looking morosely off across space toward the bright flow of the Wisp.

  Glawen’s last attempt at conversation had brought only an uninterested monosyllable in response; he decided against asking Kirdy’s opinion of Fexelburg and picked up the official publication of the Fexel Tourist Information Agency, a handsome volume entitled Tourist Guide to Tassadero. One entry described Zonk’s treasure in fulsome detail. The text went on to assure the interested treasure-hunter: “The authorities further guarantee that whoever finds this valuable hoard will realize its total value: he will be assessed no taxes, duties, deductions or special imposts.”

  Kirdy had turned away from the window. “Listen to this,” said Glawen. He read the paragraph aloud. While he read, Kirdy turned back to the window. “What do you think of that?” asked Glawen.

  “Most generous and truly kindly of the authorities - I don’t think.” Kirdy spoke without turning his head.

  “It also says here: ‘Persons are warned not to buy maps purporting to reveal the exact location of the treasure. It is amazing how many of these maps are sold! If one is offered such a map, he should ask the vendor: “Why, instead of selling me this map, do you not go to the stipulated location and possess the treasure for yourself?” The vendor will be prepared for the question, but no matter how convincing his response, do not buy the map, as it will doubtless prove to be bogus.”

  “Ha!” said Kirdy. “Arles bought such a map, from an old man who claimed to be dying and wanted some fine young fellow like Arles to enjoy the treasure. This sounded reasonable to Arles, but Floreste would not let him go out on the North Steppe to collect the treasure.”

  “That seems a bit unfair. Arles could have put the wealth to good use. He might even have bought a space yacht for the Bold Lions.”