by Vance, Jack
An odd remark, thought Wayness. “Please connect me,” said Pirie Tamm.
The screen blanked. A moment passed. The agile and vivacious face returned. “Mr. Buffums is in conference at the moment and cannot be disturbed.” Pirie Tamm gave a grunt of annoyance. “Perhaps you can tell me this much. Your firm handled some business for the Naturalist Society – let me think – it must have been over forty years ago. I am anxious to learn the disposition of the goods involved.”
The receptionist laughed. “If I let slip a hint of such information, Bully Buffums would have my gizzard. He is, shall we say, obsessive in regard to confidentiality. I could easily be bribed, were it not that Bully Buffums locks away the Confidential files.”
“A pity. Why is he so careful?”
“I don’t know. He explains his fiats to no one, least of all me.”
“Thank you for your courtesy.” Pirie Tamm broke the connection. Slowly he turned to Wayness. “It seems a curious firm, even for Old Earth. It is perhaps because they are based at Sancelade, an extraordinary city in itself.”
“At least we have a clue, or a lead-in, or whatever it should be called.”
“True. It is a start.”
“I will go at once to Sancelade. Perhaps, one way or another, I can persuade Berle Buffums to release his information.”
Pirie Tamm heaved a sad sigh. “With all my heart I curse this damnable ailment, which distresses me more than you can know! My manhood is lost; I feel like a frail old goblin creeping and limping about the house, while you, a slip of a girl, go forth on the work I should be doing!”
“Please, Uncle Pirie! Don’t say such things. You do what you can and I do what I can, and that is the way it shall be.”
Pirie Tamm patted Wayness’ head: one of his few expressions of affection. “I will say no more. Our goal is larger than either of us. Still, I don’t want you to be threatened, or hurt, or even so much as frightened.”
“I am quite cautious, Uncle Pirie. Most of the time, anyway. Now I must go to Sancelade and learn what I can from Mischap and Doorn.”
“So it would seem,” said Pirie Tamm, through without conviction. “I need not point out that you will face a number of challenges, among them Berle Buffums.”
Wayness gave a nervous laugh. “I hope to escape with my life, at least, and – who knows? – maybe the Charter.”
Pirie Tamm made a gruff sound. “I must reiterate that Sancelade is a peculiar place, with a remarkable history.” Pirie Tamm went on to provide Wayness with a few salient facts. The old city, he told her, had been completely destroyed during the so-called ‘Alienate Convulsion’1. For two hundred years it remained a desolate waste, until the autocrat Tybalt Pimm ordained a new city for the site. He specified every aspect of the new Sancelade in exact detail, using a variant of the same complicated architecture for each of the six districts.
At the time Tybalt Pimm’s great scheme evoked mockery and jeers, but in due course the derision became muted, and in the end Sancelade was considered the masterwork of a genius gifted in equal parts with imagination, energy and unlimited funds.
Pimm’s theories and proscriptions were long enforced, though at times they became a trifle blurred. The Kyprian Quarter, for instance, which Pimm had designated as the district for light industry, trade schools, inexpensive restaurants and social halls, instead became the resort of artists, musicians, vagabonds and mystics ensconced among a thousand cafés, bistros, studios, small shops for the purchase of oddments, and the like. In the end, Sancelade became known as a place where one could live high or low, strait or wide, and in general do as he pleased, so long as he was discreet, or even if he were not discreet.
* * *
Chapter IV, Part 2
Wayness rode by surface transit to Shillawy, across a countryside of small farms and villages, where nothing had changed since the dawn of time. From Shillawy she rode the underground slideway which two hours later delivered her to the Central Station at Sancelade.
A cab took her to the hotel Pirie Tamm had recommended: the Marsac, situated at the edge of the prestigious Gouldenerie, hard by the Kyprian Quarter. The Marsac was a sprawling old structure of many wings, three restaurants and four gilded ballrooms on the banks of the River Taing. Wayness found herself enveloped in an atmosphere of casual elegance, muted and quite unself-conscious, of a sort to be discovered nowhere else in the Reach. She was conducted to a high-ceilinged chamber, with walls enameled a faded beige. A soft Marocain rug pattered in brown, black, dark red and indigo enlivened the gray terrazzo floor; bouquets of fresh flowers had been placed upon tables at each side of the bed.
Wayness changed into a neat dark brown suit, the better to represent her businesslike intentions, then returned to the lobby. The city directory instructed her that the offices of Mischap and Doorn were located in Flavian House on Alixtre Square, at the far side of the Gouldenerie.
The time was now an hour into the afternoon. Wayness lunched in the Waterview Grill and watched the River Taing flow by, meanwhile trying to fix upon her best course of action.
In the end she decided to pursue a plan both simple and direct; she would present herself at the offices of Mischap and Doorn, ask to see Mr. Buffums and in her very nicest manner ask for a few trifles of information. “Mischap and Doorn was a long-established and reputable firm,” she told herself. “They would have no reason to deny such a small request.”
After lunch she crossed the Gouldenerie to Alixtre Square; a formal garden surrounded by four-story structures, no two alike, but all built in exact accordance with Tybalt Pimm’s aesthetic precepts.
Mischap and Doorn occupied the second floor of Flavian House, on the north side of the square. Wayness climbed to the second floor and entered a court planted with ferns and palms. A directory listed Mischap and Doorn’s various offices and departments: Executive Offices, Personnel, Accounting, Appraisals, Exchanges, Extraterrestrial Properties, and several others. Wayness went to the Executive offices. The door slid aside to her touch. She entered a large room, furnished as if to accommodate a working force of perhaps eight persons, but now occupied only by two women. The thin-faced young receptionist sat at a desk in the exact middle of the room. A plaque announced her name and rank: GILJIN LEEPE Assistant to the Executive Manager. At a table to the far right an elderly woman, squat, gray haired, large of feature, heavy of bone and ample of flesh, sat with trays, books, tools and optical instruments engrossed in the study of a set of small objects.
Giljin Leepe was perhaps half a dozen years older than Wayness and an inch taller, engagingly angular, with a taut thin body and breasts which were little more than hints. Her sea-blue eyes, when wide, made her seem innocent and guileless; when she lowered her lids she became comically crafty and sly. Still, her face, under a thatch of short dusty-blonde hair, cut in a pudding-bowl crop, was far from unattractive. An odd creature, thought Wayness, and definitely one to be dealt with cautiously. Giljin Leepe surveyed Wayness with equal interest, raising her eyebrows as if to ask herself: “What in the world do we have here?” Aloud she said: “Yes, Miss? These are the offices of Mischap and Doorn; are you sure that you have come to the right place?”
“I hope so. I want a bit of information, which perhaps you can supply.”
“Are you buying or selling?” Giljin Leepe handed Wayness a pamphlet. “These are the properties we are currently handling; maybe you’ll find what you want here.”
“I am not a customer,” said Wayness apologetically. “I am trying to trace some properties which you handled forty or so years ago.”
“Hm. Didn’t someone call on this matter yesterday?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“I am sorry to say that nothing has changed, except that I am a day older. Nelda never changes, but then she dyes her hair.”
“Ha ha!” said Nelda. “If so, why should I choose the color of dirty soapsuds?”
Wayness could not help but be fascinated by Giljin Leepe’s mouth, which was t
hin, wide, pink, and in constant movement: curling, hustling first up one corner and down the other, wincing and compressing, or drooping at both corners together.
“In any case,” said Giljin Leepe, “Bully Buffums remains as usual.”
Wayness looked toward the door in the back wall, which evidently led into Mr. Buffums’ private office.
“Why is he so careful?”
“He has nothing better to do. Mischap and Doorn runs itself, and the directors have warned Bully Buffums not to interfere, so he busies himself with his art collection.”
Nelda interposed. “Art, did you say? I know what I call it.”
“Bully occasionally sees an important customer; and sometimes shows his art collection if he thinks he can shock him – or her.”
“Would he oblige me, do you think, if I explained what I wanted and why?”
“Probably not. You can try”.
Nelda said: ‘‘Warn the girl, at least.”
“There isn’t much to warn against. He can of course be a bit tiresome.”
Wayness looked dubiously toward Mr. Buffums’ door. “What is ‘tiresome’, and how much is a ‘bit’?”
“I betray no confidences when I mention that Bully is not always happy in the company of pretty girls. They make him feel insecure. But he has his moods.”
Nelda said: “They come on him when he eats too much rare meat.”
“The theory is as good as any,” said Giljin Leepe. “For a fact, Bully Buffums is unpredictable.”
Wayness again looked toward the door at the back of the room. “You may announce me. I will be as nice as I can and maybe Mr. Buffums will like me.’’
Giljin Leepe gave an uninterested nod. “Who shall I announce?”
“I am Wayness Tamm, Assistant Secretary of the Naturalist Society.”
The door at the back of the room had slid aside. A large man stood in the opening. He called out sharply: “What is going on, Giljin? Have you nothing better to do than entertain your friends?”
Giljin Leepe spoke in her most neutral voice: “This is not a friend; she represents an important client and wants a trifle of information in regard to some dealings.”
“‘Who is the client, and what are the dealings?”
“I am Assistant Secretary of the Naturalist Society. I am inquiring about a transaction conducted quite some time ago, by a former Secretary.”
Mr. Buffums sauntered forward: a tall plump man well into his early maturity, with a round flushed face and over-long ash-blond hair parted in the middle and combed so as to hang past his ears in the so-called ‘pack-saddle’ style. “Most odd!” he said. “A woman came to the office – how long ago? Ten years? Twelve years? Wanting the same information.”
“Really!” said, Wayness. “Did she announce her name?”
“Probably, but I have forgotten.”
“Did you give her the information?”
Mr. Buffums raised dark eyebrows, in distinctive contrast with his ash-blond hair, and considered Wayness with round pale eyes. He said in a pedantic and somewhat nasal voice: “I consider all my dealings confidential. This is sound business policy. If you care to consult me further, you may step into my office.” Mr. Buffums turned away. Wayness looked sidewise at Giljin Leepe, and was not encouraged by her rueful shrug. Shoulders sagging, step after slow step, like a prisoner on his way to the gallows Wayness followed behind.
Mr. Buffums slid shut the door and, selecting a thin sliver of metal on a key-ring, locked the door.
“Old fashioned locks are best, don’t you think?” asked Mr. Buffums cheerfully.
“I suppose so,” said Wayness. “That is, when they are needed in the first place.”
“Ah! I see what you mean! Well, perhaps I am a bit over-precise. When I conduct a business conversation, I do not care for intrusions, and I am sure that you are of the same mind. Am I right?”
Wayness reminded herself that she must be nice to Mr. Buffums, so that he should not feel insecure. She smiled politely. “You have had far more experience than I, Mr. Buffums; undoubtedly you know best.”
Mr. Buffums nodded. “I can see that you are a shrewd young lady, and I have no doubt but what you will be a great success.”
“Thank you, Mr. Buffums; I am glad to hear you say so, and I will be grateful for your help.”
Mr. Buffums made a large gesture. “Of course! Why not?” He went to lean against his desk. He did not seem particularly insecure, thought Wayness; was that a good or a bad sign? He was certainly a most puzzling person, definitely of a volatile temperament, one moment cantankerous, the next arch and facetious. She looked around the office. To the left a sliding partition closed off a section of the room; to the right was a desk, chairs, table, communicator, shelves, files and other office paraphernalia. Four narrow windows overlooked a garden court.
“You find me at a slack moment,” said Mr. Buffums. “I am, if I say so myself, an able administrator, which means that the work of the company proceeds without my constant guidance. This is all to the good, since it leaves me more time for my private interests. By any chance, have you studied the philosophy of aesthetics?”
“No, not at any length.”
“It happens to be one of my own interests. I specialize in one of the most profound and universal aspects of the subject, even though, for one reason or another, it commands little serious or scholarly attention. I refer, of course, to erotic art.”
“Fancy that” said Wayness. “I wonder if you are acquainted with the Naturalist Society?”
Mr. Buffums seemed not to hear. “My collection of erotic curiosa is naturally not exhaustive, but I flatter myself that its overall quality is superb. I occasionally show it to persons with an intelligent and sympathetic attitude. What of yourself?” He watched her closely.
Wayness spoke carefully: “I have never studied the subject and, for a fact, I know next to nothing.”
Mr. Buffums interrupted her with a wave of the hand. “No matter! We will consider you an interested amateur, with many latent potentialities.”
“I’m sure of that, but -”
“Look.” Mr. Buffums touched a switch; the partition dividing his office split, folded and disappeared, to reveal an extensive area which Mr. Buffums had converted into a sort of museum of erotic art, symbols, artifacts, adjuncts, representations, statues, statuettes, miniatures and an unclassifiable miscellaneity. Nearby stood a marble statue of a nude hero in a state of acute priapism; across the room another statue depicted a woman preoccupied with the attentions of a demon.
Wayness glanced about the collection, her viscera squirming from time to time, but her most urgent impulse was laughter. Such a reaction would surely offend Mr. Buffums, and she carefully blanked away all expression from her face, showing only what she felt to be polite interest in the exhibits.
Evidently this was not enough. Mr. Buffums was watching her through half-closed eyes and showing a frown of dissatisfaction. Wayness wondered where she had gone wrong. A new idea entered her mind: “Of course! He is an exhibitionist! If I show shock or distress or so much as lick my lips, he will be stimulated.” She brooded a moment. “Naturally I want to be nice to Mr. Buffums and put him into a good mood.” But not in this particular way; it was beneath her dignity.
Mr. Buffums spoke in a rather pompous voice: “In the Great Mansion of Art there are many chambers, some large, some small, some swimming in rainbow fluxes; others which reveal themselves in colors more subtle and muted and rich; others still are revealed only to the truly discriminating. I am one of those latter and my special field is erotica. I have roamed its near and far shores; I know every permutation and extravagance.”
“That is impressive. In regard to my own concerns –”
Mr. Buffums paid no heed. “As you can see, I am cramped for space. I can give only cursory attention to the amatory musics, the postures, the provocative scents and odors.” Mr. Buffums glanced at her sidewise, brushing aside a lock of the ash-blond hair which h
ad fallen forward over his eye, and which made so striking a contrast with his dark eyebrows. “Still, if you like, I will anoint you with a drop of what the legendary Amuille called her ‘Summons to the Hunt.’”
“I don’t think it would be convenient today,” said Wayness. She hoped that Mr. Buffums would not be put off by her evasiveness. “Perhaps some other time.”
Mr. Buffums gave a terse nod. “Perhaps. What do you think of my collection?”
Wayness spoke judiciously: From the limits of my own experience, it would seem exhaustive.”
Buffums looked at her in reproach. “No more? Nothing else? Let me show you around; persons of imagination are often fascinated, or even excited.”
Wayness smilingly shook her head. “I must not impose upon you.”
“No imposition whatever! I find it hard to restrain my enthusiasm.” He went to a table. “For instance, these articles here, so common, so ordinary, so often misunderstood.”
Wayness glanced down at the table. She searched for something to say, since Mr. Buffums clearly expected an intelligent comment. “I don’t quite see how anyone could misunderstand. They seem most assertive.”
“‘Yes, possibly so. They lack all subtlety and they do not dissemble. Perhaps this is their charm. Did you say something?”
“Nothing of consequence.”
“They are what best might be called ‘folk art,’” said Mr. Buffums. “They pervade every era of history, and all classes of society, and serve many functions: puberty rituals, voodoo curses, fertility rites, buffoonery and pranks, and other more workaday purposes. The best are carved from wood. They come in all sizes, colors and degrees of tumescence.”
Mr. Buffums waited for Wayness comment. She said cautiously: “I don’t think I would call such things ‘folk art.’”
“Oh? What would you call them?”
Wayness hesitated. “Now that I think about it, ‘folk art’ is as good a name as any.”