Araminta Station

by Jack Vance

  On the previous evening Glawen had glanced through the Syntoractic Primer and now he thought to put his theory to the test. He spoke to the Zubenite on his right: “Sir, I notice what might seem to be an ambiguity in the arrangement of the Natural Doctrines. Tesseractic Conjunctions properly should precede Doctrine of Thresis and Anathresis. Have you formed an opinion on this topic?”

  “Dearest brother, I cannot speak to you today, since I do not know what you are talking about.”

  “That answers my question,” said Glawen. He gave his attention to the landscape: a plain which seemed to extend forever, given accent and perspective by solitary frooks, standing at distant intervals. Far to the north a line of low hills melted into the haze.

  Somewhere out there was Zonk’s Tomb, if the legends were to be believed. Glawen wondered if Inspectors Barch and Tanaquil on their holidays participated in the great treasure hunt. Most likely not, he decided.

  In due course the bus arrived at Flicken: a village already deep in Lutwiler Country, consisting of a few drab cottages, a mechanic’s shop and Keelums’ General Store, which advertised:

  Supplies for the Treasure-hunter

  Food and lodging Available

  The bus halted in front of the store long enough to discharge passengers, including the portly Zubenite sitting next to Glawen.

  As he lifted his parcel from the rack he turned Glawen a reproachful look, as if to say: “Now, at last, do you understand the nuisance you have made of yourself?”

  Glawen returned a cool and measured nod of farewell, but received no acknowledgment of the courtesy.

  The bus proceeded east and, as Zonk’s Star reached the meridian, entered a region cultivated to garden crops and cereals. Ahead rose the great black crag of Pogan’s Point and a few minutes later the bus entered the town which spread away from the base of the crag. Peering from the window, Glawen glimpsed the seminary, a massive stone structure built halfway up the crag.

  The bus entered the town’s central square and halted beside a ramshackle depot. Glawen alighted from the bus and again looked up at the Point, which he conjectured to be the neck of an ancient volcano and certainly the most notable object he had seen all day. A narrow road sidled up the crag, angling back and forth, finally arriving at the seminary. Glawen’s first impressions were reinforced. The seminary, a huge block of stone three stories high, loomed over the town like a fortress. It was surely not a place where frivolity and joyous revels interfered with the study of Monomantic Syntoraxis.

  Glawen went into the depot: a single large room with a counter at the far end. At one time or another the walls had been painted yellow-green, which someone, presumably the stationmaster, had found unpleasant and had covered over as best he could with posters and placards, making a small personal assertion against the dismal atmosphere of Pogan’s Point.

  The bus driver had brought in a bag of papers, journals and periodicals, which he turned out on the counter; the depot evidently served the community as a post office. The stationmaster stood looking through the papers: a thin-faced man of middle stature and middle age, with graying russet hair and bright hazel eyes. His most distinctive feature was a fine bristling russet mustache which, like the posters and placards, defied the dismal surroundings. He wore a red cap and a blue jacket with brass buttons to signify his official status, but Glawen suspected that had the costume not amused him he would never have worn it. He was obviously no Zubenite.

  Glawen approached the counter; the stationmaster gave him a quick side glance. “Well, sir? What can I do for you?”

  “I want to discover for certain when the bus returns to Fexelburg.”

  “The noon bus is gone. The evening bus leaves in just about five hours, close on sundown. Do you need a ticket?”

  “I already hold my return, but I want to make sure that my seat comes with the iron-clad reservation I paid for.”

  “No doubt about it, sir! The seat is reserved for you, but neither I nor the driver feels inclined to explain to the Zubenites. They have barely the wits to come in out of the rain, but they are quick as weasels when they spy an empty seat on the bus. It may be that this is where they keep their brains.”

  “Since I am a stranger here, I must reserve judgment, along with my seat on the bus.”

  “You need not worry as to your seat. The night bus is never crowded.”

  Glawen brought out his list of the Zubenites participating at the second Thurben Island excursion. “Are you acquainted with these names?”

  The stationmaster read the names aloud, pursing his lips as if at an astringent flavor. “Lasilsk. Struben. Mutis. Kutah. Robidel. Bloswig. These are all seminary persons: High ordinates, they call themselves. If you are here seeking Zonk treasure, seek elsewhere. Go near the seminary, you’ll get short shrift, if not worse.”

  “I am not treasure-hunting,” said Glawen. He indicated the list. “I want to talk with these people, or at least some of them. How should I go about it?”

  “They will not come down here: I can assure you of this.”

  “In short, I must go up to the seminary.”

  “But” - here the stationmaster held up his forefinger to emphasize his remarks - “if you intend no more than an hour or two of cozy gossip, with inquiries as to their health and maybe a casual reference or two to Zonk and his tomb, I advise you to sit in that chair and stir not an inch until you board the evening bus; then ride happily and safely back to Fexelburg.”

  Glawen looked dubiously out the window up at the seminary. “You make them sound like a family of ogres.”

  “They are philosophers. They are bored with tourists pestering them. They have explained a thousand times that if Zonk’s treasure were near at hand, they would have found it long since. Now they refuse to answer the door. If anyone knocks more than three times they pour a bucketful of slops down on him, or her.”

  “That would seem to discourage almost any polite caller.”

  “Not always. One pair of tourists dodged the slops and knocked again. When the door was opened, they said that they were architectural students who wanted to look over the construction of the seminary. The Ordene said: ‘Of course! But first you should know just a bit about our way of life, which dictated the internal arrangements.’ ‘Of course,’ said the tourists, expecting a brief five-minute discussion. ‘We’ll be glad to learn.’ At this they were taken away, dressed in gray robes and taught Syntoractic Elementaries for a year. Finally, they were allowed to look through the seminary. By this time all they wanted to do was leave; they came running down the hill waving their arms in the air. They bought tickets on the bus to Fexelburg; I asked them if they wanted a return ticket; they said no, they weren’t coming back.”

  “They seem very dedicated philosophers,” said Glawen.

  “Some other tourists marched up the back side of the hill, hoping to find a cave or a passage. They never came down again; somebody said that they fell in the seminary garbage pit. For all I know there have been others; I don’t count tourists.”

  “Don’t the Fexelburg police protect tourists?”

  “Certainly. They warn them away from Pogan’s Point.”

  “I don’t care about Zonk or his treasure. I want information about another matter. But I don’t care to risk either the slops or the short shrift. Is there a telephone connection to the seminary?”

  “So there is. Let me call for you, and I’ll see how the land lays. What is your name?”

  “I am Captain Glawen Clattuc of Araminta Station on Cadwal.”

  “And your business?”

  “I prefer to explain that in person.”

  The stationmaster spoke into a telephone, waited, spoke again. He looked at Glawen. “They don’t care about your preferences; they want to know your business.”

  “I need information in regard to Ogmo Enterprises.”

  The stationmaster spoke into the telephone, then told Glawen, “They don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Rece
ntly the six persons on that list visited Cadwal. I want to learn who supplied them the tickets. That is my only concern.”

  The stationmaster transmitted the information, listened, put down the telephone and slowly turned to Glawen. “I am truly surprised.”

  “How so?”

  “They have agreed to speak with you.”

  “Is that so amazing?”

  “In a way. They deal with very few outsiders. Go up the road, knock on the door. When you are met, ask for the Ordene Zaa. Go gently, my friend! These are odd folk!”

  “I will ask my questions as politely as possible. If they don’t care to answer, I will leave. There is no other option open to me.”

  “That seems a reasonable program.”

  The stationmaster accompanied Glawen to the door. Together they watched a group of Zubenites hunching across the square. Glawen asked: “How can you distinguish men from women?”

  “That is a favorite question of the tourists! I always tell them: ‘Why bother to find out?’”

  “You haven’t made friends with any of the local ladies?”

  “Pshaw! That would be what is called an exercise in futility. They think no more of me than if I were a nanny goat.” He pointed across the square. “There is the start of the road up the hill.”

  * * *

  Chapter VIII, Part 2

  Glawen crossed the square, bending his neck to a chilly wind from the north. Where the road left the square, a sign read:

  MONOMANTIC SEMINARY

  Warning! Keep out!

  Glawen ignored the sign and started up the road. Back and forth he trudged: a hundred yards to the left, a hundred yards to the right, with each traverse broadening the vista across the steppes of Lutwiler Country. The seminary loomed across the sky. The road made a final turn and swung back to pass before the front of the structure. Glawen halted to catch his breath where three stone steps led up to a small porch and a heavy timber door. In the wan light of Zonk’s Star, the panorama was that of a world notably different from his own, in perspective, in the flux of color and light and most of all in mood. At his feet the town was a clot of brownish-red, umber or dull ocher structures with black roofs huddled around the square. Beyond were the cultivated lands, with windbreaks of frooks and sorcerer trees, and then the steppes, fading at last into the murk.

  Glawen turned to the seminary. He squared his shoulders, settled his jacket and looked up the face of the building. The tall narrow windows seemed blind and vacant, as if no one troubled to look out at the view. A most cheerless place in which to study, thought Glawen, with the single advantage: there would be no frivolities or entertainments to distract the students. He stepped forward, raised and let fall the brass door-knocker.

  A moment passed. The door opened; a burly round-faced man, somewhat taller than Glawen, with round close-set eyes, looked forth. He wore a gown of gray-brown fust and a cowl leaving only his face exposed. He gave Glawen a scowling inspection. “Why do you think we post signs? Are you illiterate?”

  “I am not illiterate, and I read your sign.”

  “So much the worse! We don’t take kindly to intruders!”

  Glawen controlled his voice. “I am Captain Glawen Clattuc. I was told to knock at the door and inquire for the Ordene Zaa.”

  “Were you indeed? And what is your business?”

  “I have already explained it over the telephone.”

  “Explain it again; I don’t admit every popinjay who comes skulking around in search of treasure.”

  Glawen drew himself up. “I am not acquainted with your methods. What is your name?”

  “That is not germane, at the moment.”

  Glawen read names from the list. “Are you one of these?”

  “I am Mutis, if you must know.”

  “Then you were present at the Thurben Island excursion?”

  “What of it?”

  “Who provided you your tickets?”

  Mutis held up his hand. “Put your questions to the Ordene and see how she answers you.”

  “That was my request in the first place.”

  Mutis ignored the remark. “Stand where you are.” The door closed in Glawen’s face.

  Glawen turned, descended the steps and went out into the road, where he paced back and forth. He stopped short. A childish act, he told himself. It was beneath his dignity to so much as notice Mutis’ conduct. He returned to the porch, but stood with his back to the door, looking off across the steppe.

  Behind him he heard the door open and turned. The expression of easy condescension he had prepared for Mutis was wasted. In the doorway stood a person of lesser stature, far more slender than Mutis. Man or woman? Glawen was disposed to guess woman. Her age? Judgment was difficult, by reason of the austere seminary garments. Glawen assumed early, or perhaps middle, maturity. Even swathed in the folds of her white gown she seemed thin; the cowl exposed only dark luminous eyes, a short thin nose, skin almost as white as the cowl, a mouth colorless and severe. Her racial stock was clearly different from that of the Zubenites Glawen had observed on the bus. Standing in the doorway she examined Glawen from head to foot, with rather more careful attention than he thought needful. At last she spoke, in a husky voice: “I am the Ordene Zaa. What do you want of me?”

  Glawen responded with formal politeness: “I am Captain Glawen Clattuc, from Araminta Station on Cadwal. The Conservator has sent me here to make certain inquiries. That is the reason for my presence.”

  Zaa’s face showed no change of expression, nor did she show any disposition to allow Glawen entry into the seminary. “I can only repeat my question.”

  Glawen acknowledged the remark with a punctilious nod of the head. “I am an officer of the Station Police, and I am affiliated with the IPCC. If you wish, I will show you my credentials.”

  “No matter. It is all the same, one way or the other.”

  “I cite these facts so that you will not mistake me for a casual visitor. My inquiries concern the recent Thurben Island excursion made by six of your people.” Glawen read off the names. “I am not interested in these six men; I want only to learn the identity of the person or persons who arranged the event.”

  Zaa stood silently in the doorway. Glawen realized that he had asked no question. The cool stare was unnerving. He must take care, he told himself, neither to become impatient nor yet to lose his composure. He spoke as before, formally polite: “Can you provide me the name of this person?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is this person’s name?”

  “This person is dead. I do not know whether dead people make use of names.”

  “What was the person’s name while he or she was alive?”

  “The Ordene Sibil.”

  “Do you know how the Ordene Sibil learned of the excursions?”

  “Yes, and to anticipate your question, I see no reason to divulge this information.”

  “What are the reasons for your reluctance?”

  “They are complicated and would require a certain amount of background knowledge before you could understand them.”

  Glawen nodded thoughtfully. In his most cordial tones he said: “If you care to step outside, we can sit on the steps, which will spare you the fatigue of standing. Then, if you choose, you might provide me a brief outline of this ‘knowledge’ - enough, at least, for our present purpose.”

  The Ordene Zaa said evenly: “I suggest that you keep a very tight check on your impatience. I detect in you both vanity and aggressiveness; you have made a very poor impression.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” said Glawen. “This certainly was not my intention.”

  “I see no reason to sit on the steps and there repeat the remarks I have already made. Consider them carefully and well. If you wish further information, you may enter the premises, but you do so by your own volition, not by my invitation. Is this clear?”

  Glawen frowned. “Not altogether.”

  “The statement seems clear enough to me,” sa
id Zaa.

  Glawen hesitated. Zaa’s remarks, by their tone as much as by their content, hinted of inconvenience, the responsibility for which he would be taking upon himself. He opened his mouth to ask for details, but the doorway was empty; Zaa had turned away.

  Glawen stood looking indecisively through the doorway. What harm could come to him? He was a police official; if he were detained or molested, Kirdy would notify the Adjudicant Plock. He took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway into a high-ceilinged vestibule with stone walls and floor, unoccupied except for himself.

  Glawen waited a moment, but no one came to speak with him. To the side a short vaulted passage led into what would seem a conference room: like the vestibule, high-ceilinged and paved with square tiles of black stone. Three high windows, tall and narrow, broke the far wall; pallid beams of Zonklight slanted down upon a long table of wooden planks, scrubbed so diligently over so many years that the hard grain stood out in relief. Heavy wooden chairs surrounded the table; benches skirted the walls. At the back of the room, in the shadows, stood Zaa.

  Zaa pointed to a bench. “Sit; enjoy your rest. Say quickly what you wish to say.”

  Glawen made a polite gesture. “Perhaps you will join me?”

  Zaa looked at him blankly. “At what?”

  “I do not like to sit while you stand.”

  “You are gallant, but I prefer to stand.” She pointed to the bench again, in a manner Glawen found somewhat peremptory.

  Glawen bowed with dignity, and settled upon the end of a bench. Hoping to bring an element of civility to the conversation, he said: “This is a remarkable building! Is it old?”

  “Quite old. Exactly why have you come here?”

  Patiently Glawen repeated the reasons for his presence. “As you see, it is not complicated. The promoter of these excursions is a criminal who must be brought to justice.”

  Zaa smiled. “Is it not possible that our concepts might differ?”

  “Not in this case. The details would sicken you.”