Ecce and Old Earth

by Vance, Jack

  “Interesting”, said Wayness. “I had not planned to steal anything; now the thought is farther from my mind than ever.”

  “That is the effect we are trying to achieve!”

  “As it happens, I have come only for information. Where must I apply?”

  “Information regarding what?”

  “A sale conducted here some years ago.”

  “Try the Office of Records, on the third floor.”

  “Thank you.”

  Wayness ascended to the third floor, crossed a foyer and passed through a wide archway into the Office of Records: a room of considerable extent, divided down the middle by a counter. A dozen persons stood by the counter studying large black-bound tomes or waiting to be served by the single attendant: a small crooked man of advanced years, who nevertheless moved with alertness and dexterity: listening to requests, disappearing into a back room to emerge with one or more of the large black tomes. Another attendant, a woman almost as old issued from the back room from time to time pushing a cart, which she loaded with books no longer in use and returned them into the back room.

  The white-haired old clerk scuttled back and forth at a run as if he were fearful of losing his job, though it seemed to Wayness that he was doing the work of three men. She went to stand at the counter and was presently approached by the clerk. “Yes, Miss?”

  “I am interested in a consignment from Mischap and Doorn, which was subsequently auctioned off.”

  “And what would be the date?”

  “It would be quite some time ago, perhaps forty years or more.”

  “What was the nature of the consignment?”

  “Material from the Naturalist Society.’’

  “Where is your authorization?”

  Wayness smiled. “I am Assistant Secretary of the Society, and I will write you out one at once, if you like.”

  The clerk raised his tufted white eyebrows. “I see that I am dealing with an important personage. Your identification will suffice.

  Wayness displayed her official papers, which the clerk examined. “Cadwal, eh? Where is that?”

  “It’s out beyond Perseus, at the tip of Mircea’s Wisp”

  “Fancy that! It might be a fine thing to travel far and wide! But then, a man can’t be everywhere at once.” Twisting his head sideways, he cocked a bright blue eye at Wayness. “And, do you know, sometimes I find it hard to be anywhere at all.” He scribbled a few words on a slip of paper. “Let me see what I can find.” He scuttled off. Two minutes later he reappeared, carrying a black-bound tome which he placed in front of Wayness. From a pocket inside the front cover he brought a card. “Sign your name, if you please.” He tendered her a stylus. “Briskly now; the day is not long enough for all I must do.”

  Wayness took the stylus and looked down the names on the card. The first few were unfamiliar. The last name, signed after a date twelve years old, was: ‘Simonetta Clattuc.’

  The clerk tapped his fingers on the counter; Wayness signed the card. The clerk took card and stylus and moved to the next person waiting.

  With nervous fingers Wayness turned the heavy pages of the volume, and in due course came upon the page labeled:

  Code: 777-ARP: Sub-code: M/D;

  Naturalist Society/Frons Nisfit, Secretary.

  Agent: Mischap and Doorn.

  Three parcels:

  (1) Art Goods, Drawings, Curios.

  (2) Books, texts, references.

  (3) Miscellaneous documents.

  Parcel (1), itemized.

  Wayness let her eyes slide down the page, and the next page, on which were catalogued a large number of oddities, art objects and curios, each tagged with the price it had brought at the auction, the name and address of the buyer, and sometimes a coded notation.

  On the third page Parcel (2) was similarly summarized. Wayness turned to the fourth page, where the items of parcel (3) would be catalogued, but the goods offered for auction were stated to be the estate of a certain Jahaim Nestor.

  Wayness turned the page back, read carefully, searched through pages back and forth. To no avail. The page describing ‘Parcel (3), Miscellaneous Documents’ was gone. Wayness, looking closely, saw where a sharp blade had excised the page at its inner border, after which it had been removed.

  The clerk came trotting past; Wayness signaled him to a halt. “Yes?”

  “By any chance, are duplicate records available?”

  The clerk produced a whinny of sardonic laughter. “Now why would you be wanting reiterations of the very same matter which is here before your eyes?”

  Wayness said meekly: “If these records were incorrect, or disordered, then a duplicate set might have them right.”

  “And I would be running twice as far and twice as fast, with everybody wanting two books instead of one. And should we find a difference then we have the grandest foofaraw of all, with one claiming one way and another claiming the opposite. Never and by no means! A mistake in the text is like a fly in the soup; the clever man simply works his way around it. No, Miss! Enough is enough! This is an Office of Information, not Dreamy Cuckoo-land.”

  Wayness looked numbly down at the book. The trail had come to an end and she had nowhere to go. For a space Wayness sat motionless, then she straightened and stood upright. Nothing more could be said; nothing more could be done. She closed the book, left a sol for the comfort of the over-worked clerk, and departed.

  * * *

  Chapter V

  * * *

  Chapter V, Part 1

  “A most discouraging denouement to your quest,” said Pirie Tamm. “Still, there is a positive element to the situation.”

  Wayness made no comment. Pirie Tamm elucidated. “On this basis. Monette, Violja Fanfarides, Simonetta Clattuc – whatever she calls herself – gained important information, but it has brought her no perceptible benefit, since the grant has not been re-registered. This must be regarded as a good omen.”

  “Omen or not, there was only a single trail, and she wiped it out of existence.”

  Pirie Tamm took a pear from the bowl at the center of the table and began to peel it. “So now,” he mused, “you will go back to Cadwal?”

  Wayness burnt her uncle Pirie with a brief smoldering glance. “Of course not! You know me better than that!”

  Pirie Tamm sighed. “So I do. You are a most determined young lady. But determination by itself is not enough.”

  “I am not totally without resources,” said Wayness. “I copied the pages pertaining to Parcels One and Two.”

  “Indeed! Why so?”

  “At the time I was not thinking clearly, and perhaps my subconscious was in charge. Now it occurs to me that someone who bought from Parcels One or Two might also have bought from Parcel Three.”

  “A clever idea, though the odds are not good. It has been a long time and many of the individuals at the sale will be hard to find.”

  “They would be my last resort. Five institutions were represented at the sale: a foundation, a university and three museums.”

  “We can make inquiries in the morning by telephone,” said Pirie Tamm. “It is but, at best and at worst, a forlorn hope.”

  * * *

  Chapter V, Part 2

  In the morning Wayness consulted the World Directory and discovered that, of the five institutions she had listed, all were still functional. She called each in turn, on the telephone, and in each case asked to be connected to the officer in charge of special collections.

  At the Berwash Foundation for the Study of Alternate Vitalities, she was informed that the collections included several compendiums produced by Fellows of the Naturalist Society, all descriptive and anatomical studies of non-terrestrial life forms, and also three rare works by William Charles Schulz: THE LAST AND FIRST EQUATION AND EVERYTHING ELSE; DISCORD, GRINDING AND SLOPE: WHY MATHEMATICS AND THE COSMOS MAKE POOR FITS; and the PAN-MATHEMATIKON. The curator asked: “The Naturalist Society is perhaps preparing to make another donation?”

>   “Not at the present time,” said Wayness.

  The Cornelis Pameijer Museum of Natural History owned a set of six volumes describing a variety of alien homologues created by the dynamics of parallel evolution. The six volumes had been designed and published by the Naturalist Society. The Museum supported no other collection of Society documents or papers.

  The Pythagorean Museum owned four monographs upon the abstruse subject of nonhuman music and sonic symbolism, by Peter Bullis, Eli Newberger, Stanford Vincent and Captain R. Pilsbury.

  The Bodleian Library owned a single volume of sketches depicting the generation of the quasi-living crystals of the world Tranque, Bellatrix V.

  The Funusti Memorial Museum at Kiev at the edge of The Great Altaic Steppe, lacked a formally designated information officer, but after consultation between museum functionaries, Wayness was transferred to a somber young curator with a long pallid face, coal-black hair which he wore brushed severely back from his high narrow forehead. While clearly of an earnest disposition, he seemed to find Wayness agreeable, in both semblance and conduct. He listened with careful attention to her questions and was able to provide information at once. Yes, the Museum’s extensive collections included several treatises produced by members of the Naturalist Society, analyzing various aspects of non-terrestrial communication. He mentioned in passing, almost as if an afterthought, a separate collection of antique papers, still be completely collated, but which definitely included records, registers and other documents from the files of the ancient Naturalist Society. The collection was generally not open to public inspection, but it was impossible to include an officer of the Naturalist Society in this category, and Wayness would be allowed to study the collection at her convenience.

  This would be immediately, said Wayness, since she wished to compile a general bibliography of all such material for the use of the rejuvenated Society. The curator approved of the idea, and identified himself as Lefaun Zadoury. Upon her arrival he would give Wayness every possible assistance, so he assured her.

  “Let me ask one last question,” said Wayness. “Within the last twelve years has a woman by the name of Simonetta Clattuc, or possibly Violja Fanfarides, or Monette, looked over this material?”

  Lefaun Zadoury, thinking the question a trifle odd, arched his black eyebrows, then turned aside to consult his records. “Definitely not.”

  “That is good news,” said Wayness, and the discussion ended on a cordial basis.

  * * *

  Chapter V, Part 3

  Almost effervescent with hope, Wayness took herself far to the north and east, over mountains, lakes and rivers and finally down upon the great Altaic Steppe and the ancient city Kiev.

  The Funusti Museum occupied the grandiose precincts of the old Konevitsky Palace on Murom Hill, at the back of Kiev’s Old Town. Wayness took lodging at the Mazeppa Hotel, and was shown into a suite of rooms paneled in pale brown chestnut, decorated with red and blue floral designs. Her windows overlooked Prince Bogdan Yurevich Kolsky Square: a roughly pentagonal area paved with slabs of pink-gray granite. On three sides, two cathedrals and a monastery lovingly restored or perhaps constructed in the ancient style, held aloft dozens of onion-domes, gilded with gold foil, or painted red, blue, green, or in spiral stripes.

  Wayness read from a pamphlet she found on a nearby table: “The structures to be perceived at various sides of Kolsky Square are exact replications of the original structures, and have been rebuilt with careful attention to the Old Slavic style, using traditional materials and methods.”

  “To the right is Saint Sophia’s Cathedral with nineteen domes. At the center is Saint Andrew’s Church of eleven domes, and to the left is Saint Michael’s Monastery with only nine domes. The cathedral and the church are lavishly decorated with mosaics, statues and other bedizenment of gold and jewels. Old Kiev suffered many devastations, and Kolsky Square has witnessed many awful incidents. But today, visitors from across the Gaean Reach come only to marvel at the inspiring architecture and at the power of priests who were able to wring so much wealth from a land at that time so poor.”

  The wan sunlight of mid-afternoon illuminated the old square; many folk were abroad, clasping their coats, mantles and cloaks tightly about themselves against the gusts of wind which blew down from the hills. Wayness started to telephone the Funusti Museum, then thought better of it; nothing could be gained by calling so late in the day. Lefaun Zadoury had already been extremely helpful and she did not want him to suggest that he meet her somewhere and show her the sights of the city.

  Wayness went out alone on the square and looked into Saint Sophia’s Cathedral, then dined at Restaurant Carpathia on lentil soup, wild boar with mushrooms and hazelnut torte.

  Leaving the restaurant, Wayness discovered that twilight light had fallen over the city. Old Kolsky Square was windy, dark and deserted; she crossed to the Mazeppa Hotel in complete solitude. “It is as if I were sailing across the ocean in a small boat,” she told herself.

  In the morning she telephoned Lefaun Zadoury at the Funusti Museum. As before, he seemed to be wearing a voluminous black gown, which Wayness thought rather odd and fusty. “Wayness Tamm here,” she told the long somber face. “If you remember, I called you from Fair Winds, near Shillawy.”

  “Of course I remember! You are here more quickly than I had expected. Are you coming to the museum?”

  “If it is convenient.”

  “One time is as good as another! I shall look forward to seeing you; in fact, I will try to meet you in the loggia.”

  Lefaun Zadoury’s enthusiasm, muted as it was, assured Wayness that her decision not to call Funusti Museum the previous afternoon had been correct.

  A cab took Wayness north along Sorka Boulevard with the Dnieper River to the right and a row of massive apartment blocks of concrete and glass to the left, with tier upon tier of other apartment blocks ranged along the hills behind. The cab at last turned up a side road, wound up the hillside and halted in front of a massive structure, overlooking the river and the steppe beyond.

  “The Funusti Museum,” said the cab driver. “Once the palace of Prince Konevitsky, where the lords dined on fine meats and honeycakes by day and danced the fandango by night. Now it is quiet as the grave, a place where everyone walks on tiptoe and wears black. And should one dare to belch one must crawl under a table to hide. Which, then, is better: the joys of splendor and grace, or the black shame of pedantry and mingering? The question supplies its own answer.”

  Wayness alighted from the cab. “I see that you are something of a philosopher.”

  “True! It is in my blood! But first and foremost, I am a Cossack!”

  “And what is a Cossack?”

  The driver stared incredulously. “Can I believe my ears? But now I see that you are an off-worlder. Well then, a Cossack is a natural aristocrat; he is fearless and steadfast and cannot be coerced. Even as a cab driver he conducts himself with Cossack dignity. At the end of a journey, he does not calculate his fare; he announces the first figure that comes into his head. If the passenger does not choose to pay, well then: what of that? The driver gives him a single glance of contempt and drives off in disdain.”

  “Interesting. And what fare are you calling out to me?”

  “Three sols.”

  “That is far too much. Here is a sol. You may accept it or drive off in disdain.”

  “Since you are an off-worlder and do not understand these things, I will take the money. Shall I wait? There is nothing here of interest; you will be in and out in a trice.”

  “No such luck,” said Wayness. “I must pore over some tiresome old papers and I cannot guess how long I will be.”

  “As you wish.”

  Wayness crossed the front terrace and entered a marble floored loggia which seemed alive with echoes. Gilded pilasters stood along the wall; above hung an enormous chandelier of ten thousand crystals. Wayness looked here and there but saw no sign of Lefaun Zadoury the curator. Then, as if from
nowhere, a tall gaunt figure appeared, marching across the loggia at a bent-kneed lope, his black gown fluttering behind. He halted and looked down at Wayness, lank black hair, black eyebrows and black eyes at stark contrast to his white skin. He spoke in a voice without accent: “The chances are good that you are Wayness Tamm.”

  “Quite good. And you are Lefaun Zadoury?”

  The curator responded with a measured nod. He studied Wayness from head to toe, then back to head. He gave a gentle sigh and shook his head. “Amazing!”

  “How so?”

  “You are younger and less imposing than the person I might have expected.”

  “Next time I will send my mother.”

  Lefaun Zadoury’s long bony jaw dropped. “I spoke incautiously, in essence –”

  “It is no great matter.” Wayness looked around the octagonal loggia. “This is an impressive chamber. I had not imagined such grandeur!”

  “Yes, it is well enough,” Lefaun Zadoury glanced about the room as if seeing it for the first time. “The chandelier is absurd, of course. A behemoth of large expense and little illumination. Someday it will fall in a great splintering jangle and kill someone.”

  ‘“That would be a pity.”

  “Yes, no doubt. In general, the Konevitskys lacked good taste. The marble tiles, for example, are banal. The pilasters are out of scale and of the wrong order.”

  “Really! I had not noticed.”

  “The museum itself transcends such deficiencies. We have the world’s finest collection of Sassanian intaglios, a great deal of absolutely unique Minoan glass, and we own the complete sequence of the Leonie Bismaie miniatures. Our Department of Semantic Equivalences is also considered excellent.”