by Vance, Jack
The westering sun had banished most of the tattered clouds and had transformed some of the grays and dark grays of the landscape into whites. Wayness stood out upon the balcony for a few minutes, then turning back into the room, settled into an armchair, to reflect upon what she had learned. Most of it, while interesting, seemed irrelevant to her principal concerns. She found herself dozing and stumbled to the bed for a nap.
Time passed. Wayness awoke with a start of urgency, to find that the time was already middle evening. She changed into her dark brown suit and went down to the restaurant. She dined upon a bowl of goulash with a salad of lettuce and red cabbage and half a carafe of the soft local wine. Upon leaving the dining room, Wayness went to sit in a corner of the lobby, where with one eye she pretended to read a periodical and with the other she watched the comings and goings.
The time moved toward midnight. At twenty minutes to the hour, Wayness rose, went to the entrance and looked up and down the street.
Everything was quiet, and the night was dark. A few street-lamps stood at infrequent intervals, in islands of their own wan light. On the hillside a thin fog dimmed a thousand other lights so that they seemed no more than sparks. Along the Way of the Ten Pantologues, no one walked abroad, so far as Wayness could see. But she hesitated and went back into the hotel. At the registration desk, she spoke to the night clerk: a young woman not much older than herself. Wayness tried to speak in a matter-of-fact voice. “I must go out to meet someone, on a matter of business. Are the streets considered safe?”
“Streets are streets. They are widely used. The face you look into might be that of a maniac, or it might be the face of your own father. I am told that in some cases they are the same person.”
“My father is far away,” said Wayness. “I would be truly surprised to see him on the streets of Old Trieste.”
“In that case, you are rather more likely to discover a maniac. My mother worries greatly when I am out by night. ‘No one is safe even in their own kitchen,’ she tells me. ‘Only last week the repair man who was called to fix the sink insulted your grandmother!’ I said that the next time the repair man is called, Grandmother should go out on the street instead of hanging around the kitchen.”
Wayness started to turn away from the desk. “It seems that I must take my chances.”
“One moment,” said the clerk. “You are wearing the wrong uniform. Tie a scarf over your head. When a girl is out looking for excitement her head is uncovered.”
“The last thing I want is excitement,” said Wayness. “Do you have a scarf I might borrow for an hour or so?”
“Yes, of course.” The clerk found a square of black and green checked wool which she gave to Wayness. “That should be quite adequate. Will you be late?”
“I should think not. The person I must see is only available at midnight.”
“Very well. I will wait up for you until two. After that you must ring the outside bell.”
“I’ll try to be back early.”
Wayness tied the scarf over her hair, and set off on her errand. By night the streets of Porto Vecchio in old Trieste were not to Wayness’ liking. There were sounds behind the curtained windows which seemed to carry a sinister significance, even though they were almost inaudible. Where the Way crossed the Daciano Canal, a tall woman in a black gown stood on the Ponte Orsini. A cool chill played along Wayness’ skin. Could this be the same woman who had glared at her earlier in the day? Might she have decided that Wayness needed further chastisement? But it was not the same woman and Wayness laughed sadly at her own foolishness. This lady who stood on the bridge was quietly singing, so softly that Wayness, pausing to listen, could barely hear. It was a wistful pretty tune, and Wayness hoped that it might not linger on and on, to haunt her memory.
Wayness turned down Via Malthus, watching behind her more warily than ever. Before she reached Xantief’s shop, a man wearing a cloak and hood came springing light-footed around the corner from the Way of the Ten Pantologues. He paused, to peer down Via Malthus, and then followed after Wayness.
With heart in mouth, “Wayness turned and ran to Xantief’s shop. Behind the windows she saw a faint illumination; she pushed at the door. It was locked. She cried out in distress and tried the door again, then knocked on the glass and pulled at the bell cord. She looked over her shoulder. Down Via Malthus came the tall man moving on his light springing strides. Wayness turned and huddled back into the shadows. Her knees were loose; she felt apathetic, trapped. Behind her the door opened; she saw a white-haired man, slight of physique and of no great stature, but erect and calm. He moved aside and Wayness half-stumbled, half-fell through the doorway.
The man in the hooded cloak strode lightly past, never so much as troubling to look aside. He was gone: down Via Malthus and into the darkness.
Xantief closed the door and moved a chair forward. “You are disturbed; why not rest for a moment or two?”
Wayness sagged into the chair. Presently she regained her composure. She decided that something needed to be said. Why not the truth, then? It would serve well enough, and had the advantage of needing no fabrication. She spoke, and was surprised to find her voice still tremulous: “I was frightened.”
Xantief nodded courteously. “I had reached the same conclusion - though no doubt for different reasons.”
Wayness, after considering the remark, was obliged to laugh, which seemed to please Xantief. She straightened herself in the chair and looked around the room: more like the parlor of a private residence than a place of business, she thought. Whatever might be the ‘arcana’ which were Xantief’s stock-in-trade, none were on display. Xantief himself matched the image Wayness had derived from Alvina’s remarks. His tendencies were obviously aristocratic; he was urbane and fastidious, with a clear pale skin, features of aquiline delicacy, soft white hair cut only long enough to frame his face. He dressed without ostentation in an easy suit of soft black stuff, a white shirt and the smallest possible tuft of a moss-green cravat.
“For the moment, at least, your fright seems to be under control,” suggested Xantief. “What was its cause, may I ask?”
“The truth is simple,” said Wayness. “I am afraid of death.”
Xantief nodded. “Many people share this dread, but only a few come running into my shop at midnight to tell me about it.”
Wayness spoke carefully, as if to an obtuse child: “That is not the reason I came.”
“Ah! You are not here by chance?”
“No.”
“Let us proceed a step farther. You are not, so to speak, a human derelict, or a nameless waif.”
Wayness spoke with dignity. “I cannot imagine what you have in mind. I am Wayness Tamm.”
“Ah! That explains everything! You must forgive me my caution. Here in Old Trieste there is never a dearth of surprising episodes, sometimes whimsical, sometimes tragic. For instance, after a visit like yours, at an unconventional hour, the householder discovers that a baby has been left on the premises in a basket.”
Wayness spoke coldly: “You need not worry on that account. I am here now only because you have made these your business hours.”
Xantief bowed. “I am reassured. Your name is Wayness Tamm? It fits you nicely. Please remove that ridiculous dust rag, or fly chaser, or cat blanket: whatever it is you are wearing for a scarf. There! That is better. May I serve you a cordial? No? Tea? Tea it shall be.” Xantief glanced at her from the side of his face. “You are an off-worlder, I think?”
Wayness nodded. “More to the point, I am a member of the Naturalist Society. My uncle, Pirie Tamm, is Secretary.”
“I know of the Naturalist Society,” said Xantief. “I thought it to be a thing of the past.”
“Not quite.” Wayness stopped to reflect. “If I told you everything, we would be here for hours. I will try to be brief.”
“Thank you,” said Xantief. “I am not a good listener. Proceed.”
“A long time ago – I am not sure of the exact da
te – a Secretary of the Society named Frons Nisfit sold off Society assets and embezzled the proceeds.
“The Society is now trying to revive itself, and we need some of the lost documents. I discovered that about twenty years ago you sold some Naturalist material to Count Raul de Flamanges. That, in effect, is why I am here.”
“I remember the transaction,” said Xantief. ‘‘What next?”
“I wonder if you own other Society material, such as documents relating to the Cadwal Conservancy.”
Xantief shook his head. “Not a one. It was only a freak that I was involved at all.”
Wayness sagged back in the chair.
“Then perhaps you will tell me how the Society materials came to you, so that I can carry my inquiries another step.”
“Certainly. As I mentioned, this sort of thing is not in my ordinary line. I took the documents only so that I might transmit them to Count Raul, whom I considered an altruist and a great gentleman and, indeed, a friend. Here is the tea.”
“Thank you. Why are you laughing?”
“You are so extremely earnest.”
Wayness started to blink, but tears came too fast for her. She wished that she were safe home at Riverview House, snug in her own bed. The idea was far too melting and almost broke through her self-possession.
Xantief had come to stand beside her and was wiping her cheeks with a fine handkerchief smelling of lavender.
“Forgive me; I am not usually so insensitive. Clearly you are under a great strain.”
“I’m afraid that I’ve been followed by dangerous people, I tried to avoid leading them here, but I can’t be sure.”
“What makes you think you were followed?”
Just as you opened your door a man came past. He was wearing a cape with a hood. You must have seen him.”
“So I did. He passes by every night about this time.”
“You know him?”
“I know well enough that he was not following you.”
“Still, I feel eyes watching me, brushing the back of my neck.”
“It may be so,” said Xantief. “I have heard many strange tales in my time. Still –” He shrugged. “If your followers were amateurs, you could shake them off easily. If they were professionals, you might or might not evade them. If they were dedicated experts, your skin would radiate a set of coded wave-lengths. You would be surrounded by flying spy cells, each no larger than a droplet of water, and when you tried to cut them off by ducking into subway cars, they would already have settled into your clothing.”
“Then there may be spy cells in this room right now!”
“I think not,” said Xantief. “During my own dealings I am often obliged to take precautions, and I have installed instruments which would warn me of such nuisances on the instant. More than likely, you are suffering from nervous fatigue and imagining a great deal.”
“I hope so.”
“Now then: as to my involvement with the Naturalist Society papers. It is a strange story in itself. By any chance, did you notice the shop next door?”
“I spoke with Alvina; she told me of your hours.”
“Twenty years ago she was approached by a gentleman named Adrian Moncurio, who wished to sell a holding of fourteen tanglets. Alvina called in experts who determined that the tanglets were not only authentic but highly important. Alvina was happy to sell them on a consignment basis. Moncurio, who seems to have been something of an adventurer, went off in search of new merchandise. After a time he returned, with twenty more tanglets. These, however, were declared counterfeit by the experts. Moncurio tried to bluster but Alvina refused to sponsor them for sale. Moncurio snatched up his false tanglets, and departed Trieste, before the Tanglet Association was able to act.
“For a period nothing was heard of Moncurio, but during this time, posing as a half-demented aged junk dealer he was selling the counterfeits to inexperienced collectors, who thought they were taking advantage of the blundering old fool. Before the Tanglet Association could act, all twenty counterfeits had been sold and Moncurio was seen no more.”
“But what of the Naturalist Society documents?”
Xantief made a placid gesture. “When Moncurio first approached Alvina, he also wanted her to sell the Naturalist Society material. She referred him to me. I was interested only in the material concerning Count Raul, but Moncurio insisted on selling all or nothing. So I took the lot for a rather nominal figure, and passed them on to Count Raul for the same sum.”
“You found nothing to do with the planet Cadwal? No Charter, for instance? No grant, or deed, or title certificate?”
“There was nothing of that sort whatever.”
Wayness slumped back into the chair. After a moment she asked: “Did Moncurio mention the source of the papers? Where he had found them, who had sold them?”
Xantief shook his head. “Nothing definite, as I recall.”
“I wonder where he is now.”
“Moncurio? I have no idea. If he is on Earth, he is lying low.”
“If Alvina sent him money for the first fourteen tanglets, she must have an address where he could be reached.”
“Hm. If so, she did not notify the Association, but perhaps she felt that the information had come to her in confidence.” Xantief reflected a moment. “If you like, I will have a word with her. She might tell me but hesitate to tell you.”
“Oh please do!” Wayness jumped to her feet and spoke in a rush: “I’d like to tell you everything but mainly this: unless I succeed, Cadwal may be swarmed over and the Conservancy will be gone.”
“Aha,” said Xantief. “I am beginning to understand. I will call Alvina at once; like myself she keeps late hours.” He picked up the black and green scarf and tied it around Wayness’ head. “Where are you staying?”
“At the Hotel Sirenuse.”
“Goodnight then. If I learn anything useful, I will instantly let you know.”
“Thank you very much.”
Xantief opened the door. Wayness stepped out into the street. Xantief looked right and left. “All seems quiet. As a rule the streets are safe this time of night, with all proper footpads snug in their beds.”
Wayness walked quickly up Via Malthus. At the corner she looked back to where Xantief still stood watching. She raised her hand and waved farewell, then turned into the Way of the Ten Pantologues.
The night seemed even darker than before. On the Ponte Orsini the woman in black no longer sang her soft song. The air carried a chill as well as the dank odors of Old Trieste.
Wayness set off along the street, her footsteps echoing crisply along the pavement. From behind a pair of clamped iron shutters came a mutter of low voices and an undertone of woeful sobbing. Wayness’ footsteps faltered an instant, then hurried on past. She came to a place where shadows marked the entrance into a narrow alley descending toward the wharf. As Wayness went by, a man moved forward from the shadows: a tall person wearing dark clothes and a soft black hat. He seized Wayness around the shoulders and forced her into the alley. She opened her mouth to scream; he clasped a hand over her face. Wayness’ knees went limp; he half-carried her, half-led her stumbling down the alley. She began to struggle and to bite; he said without emotion: “Stop, or I will hurt you.”
Wayness again let herself go limp; then she gave a frantic lurch and broke free; she had nowhere to go but down the alley, and she ran at full speed. To the side a door opened into a yard. She pushed through the door, slammed it shut behind her and shot the latch just as her pursuer thrust against it. The door rattled and creaked. He struck with his shoulder again; the door was a flimsy affair and would not hold him back. Wayness picked up an empty wine bottle from what appeared to be a potting table. The man crashed into the door it burst open and he came through. Wayness hit him over the head with the bottle; he staggered and fell. She pushed the potting table over on top of him and was away and up the alley as fast as she could run. She arrived at the Way and looked back; her assailant had not appeare
d.
Wayness moved onward at a trot toward the hotel, slowing to a fast walk the last thirty yards.
In the entrance Wayness paused to look back along the Way and to catch her breath. The full impact of the episode began to work on her. She realized that she had never been so frightened before, though at the time she had felt no particular emotion, save a furious exaltation when she had felt the glass bottle strike home. She shuddered to a complex mix of emotions. Wayness shivered again, this time from the chill. She went into the hotel, and approached the desk. The clerk smiled at her. “You are back in good time.” She glanced curiously at Wayness. ‘Have you been running?”
“Yes, just a bit,” said Wayness, trying to bring her breathing under control. She looked over her shoulder. “Actually, I became frightened.”
“That is nonsense,” said the clerk. “There is nothing out there to be frightened about, especially when you are wearing the scarf properly.”
The scarf had slipped back from Wayness’ head so that she was wearing it as a neckerchief. “Next time I’ll be more careful,” said Wayness. She untied the scarf and returned it to the clerk. “Thank you very much.”
“It was nothing in particular. I was glad to help.”
Wayness went up to her room. She bolted the door and pulled the curtains across the windows. She settled into the armchair, and sat thinking about the episode in the alley. Had the attack been a random sexual assault, or had it been intended upon the life and limb of Wayness Tamm? There was no definite evidence in either direction, but her intuition seemed content to operate without the benefit of evidence. Or perhaps there had been evidence, at the subliminal level. The timbre of his voice had seemed familiar. And, unless she had imagined this, his person had extruded an almost imperceptible scent, mixed of fern, violet and perhaps a few off-world essences. He had felt young and strong.
Wayness did not care to think any more definitely - not at this time.
Five minutes passed. Wayness rose to her feet and started to undress for bed. The telephone tinkled. Wayness stared. Who could be calling her at this hour. Slowly she went to the telephone, and without activating the screen asked: “Who is it?”