Ecce and Old Earth

by Vance, Jack

  “She would seem to be a peculiar woman,” said Wayness. “Perhaps she has secret talents.”

  “If so, she is as jealous with them as if they were crimes. Ah well, it is sad, all the same.”

  Down from the hill came a gust of wind, blowing dust and litter along the road, hissing among the brambles of the waste. Esteban indicated the girl. “Look! The wind excites her!”

  Wayness saw that the girl had jumped to her feet, to face the wind, with feet somewhat apart, swaying and nodding her head to some slow inner cadence.

  The boy paid her no heed and continued with his work.

  From the house came a sharp call. The girl’s body lost its tension. Reluctantly she turned toward the house. The boy ignored the call, and continued his work, molding damp sand into a structure of many complications. From the house came a second call, even shorter than before. The girl halted, looked over her shoulder, went to the sandbox and with her foot obliterated the boy’s handiwork. He froze into rigidity, staring at the devastation. The girl waited. The boy slowly turned his head to look at her. As best Wayness could see, his face was blank of expression. The girl turned away and with head drooping pensively, went to the house. The boy followed, slowly and sadly.

  Esteban set the cab into motion. “Next we will inspect the cemetery, which must be considered the climactic event for anyone who like yourself has chosen to explore Calle Maduro. To do a proper job, we must count upon investing at least half an hour, or even better -”

  Wayness laughed. “I have seen enough for now. You may take me back to the hotel.”

  Esteban gave a fatalistic shrug and started back down Calle Maduro. “You might enjoy a drive along the Avandia de las Floritas, where the patricians reside. Also, the park is well worth a visit, what with the fountain and the Palladium, where the band performs each Sunday afternoon. You would enjoy the music, which is played freely, for the ears of all. You might well meet a handsome young gentleman or two – who knows? – or even end up with a fine husband!”

  “That would be a wonderful surprise,” said Wayness.

  Esteban pointed to a tall lean woman approaching along the sidewalk. “There is Madame Portils herself, on her way home from work.”

  Esteban slowed the cab. Wayness watched Irena Portils marching swiftly along the sidewalk, head bent, leaning forward into the wind. At first glance and from a distance she seemed comely; almost instantly the illusion shattered and vanished. She was dressed in a well-worn skirt of russet tweed and a tight-fitting black jacket. From beneath a small shapeless hat, lank black hair hung down past her cheeks. Middle age was close upon her and the years had not treated her kindly. Black eyes in dark sockets were set too closely beside a long pinched nose; her complexion was pasty and ravaged by the deep lines of stress and pessimism.

  Esteban turned his head to watch her as the cab passed by. “Strange to say, she was a handsome piece of goods when she was young. But she went off to actor’s school and next we heard she had joined a troupe of comic impressionists or dramaturgists – whatever these groups are called, and the word came that she had gone off-world with the troupe and no one thought of her again until one day she returned and then she was married to Professor Solomon, who called himself an archaeologist. They only stayed a month or two and were gone off-world again.”

  Esteban had arrived at a long low concrete building shaded by a half dozen eucalyptus trees. Wayness said: “This is not the Hotel Monopole!”

  “I took a wrong turning,” Esteban explained. “This is the poultry cooperative. Now that we are here, perhaps you will want to look at the chickens. No? Then I’ll take you to the hotel, at best speed.”

  Wayness settled back into the seat. “You were telling me about Professor Solomon.”

  “Ah, yes. The Professor and Irena returned a few years ago, with the children. For a time Professor Solomon was well-regarded, and considered a credit to the community, being a scientist and a man of education. He occupied himself, exploring the mountains and looking for prehistoric ruins. Then he claimed he had found some buried treasure and involved himself in a terrible scandal, so that he was forced to take himself off-world. Irena claims she knows nothing of his whereabouts, but no one believes her.”

  Esteban guided the cab from Calle Luneta to its previous place beside the hotel. “And that is the state of affairs along Calle Maduro.”

  * * *

  Chapter VII, Part 7

  Wayness sat in a corner of the hotel lobby, eyes half-closed, notebook in her lap. Under the heading ‘Irena Portils’ she had started to organize a few ideas, but the topic was baffling and her thinking blurred. Her mind needed rest. A few tranquil hours might clarify her problems. Wayness settled back into the chair and tried not to think.

  A soothing murmur permeated the lobby. It was an enormous room, with massive wooden beams supporting a high ceiling. Furnishings were heavy: leather upholstered chairs and couches, long low tables whose tops were single slabs of chiriqui. In the far wall an archway opened into the restaurant.

  A party of ranchers entered from the square and seated themselves to drink beer and discuss business before moving into the restaurant for lunch. Wayness found that their joviality, loud voices and sudden claps of hand on leg interfered with her efforts not to think: Also, one of the ranchers boasted a very large bushy black mustache, at which Wayness could not avoid staring, even though she began to fear that the rancher might notice and come over to ask why she was looking at his mustache.

  Wayness decided that it was time for her own lunch. She went into the restaurant and was seated where she could overlook the square, though at this time of day nothing of consequence was happening.

  According to the menu, one of the daily specials was ptarmigan: an item which intrigued Wayness, since she had never seen it offered on a menu before. Well then, she thought: why not? She so placed her order, but in the end found the ptarmigan too gamy for her taste.

  Wayness lingered at the table over dessert and coffee. The afternoon lay before her, but she decided not to attempt another period of serenity, and once again she took up the matter of Irena Portils.

  The basic problem was straightforward: how to induce Irena to reveal the whereabouts of the man known as ‘Professor Solomon’?

  Wayness brought out her notebook and examined the entries she had inscribed earlier in the day.

  Problem: Find Moncurio.

  -Solution 1: Make a full explanation to Irena and request cooperation.

  -Solution 2: Similar to No. 1, but offer of money – perhaps considerable money.

  -Solution 3: Hypnotize or drug Irena Portils, and so extract the information from her.

  -Solution 4: While house is unoccupied, search for clues.

  -Solution 5: Question Irena’s mother and/or children. (???)

  -Solution 6: None of above.

  Wayness was not encouraged by her review of the notes. Solution 1, the most reasonable, would almost surely embroil her in an emotional confrontation with Madame Portils and cause her to become more intractable than ever. The same could be said for Solution 2. Solutions 3, 4, and 5 were almost equally impractical. Solution 6 was clearly the most feasible of the group.

  Wayness returned to the lobby. The time was a few minutes after two o’clock, with the balance of the afternoon still ahead. Wayness went to the desk, where the clerk directed her to the public library.

  “It is a five minute walk,” said the clerk. He pointed his pencil. “Go along Calle Luneta a single block, to Calle Basilio; on the corner you will find a large acacia tree. Turn to the left and walk a block, which will bring you to the library.”

  “That seems simple enough.”

  “Just so. Do not neglect the collection of primitive pottery on display in the reference department. Even here in Patagonia, where the gauchos once roamed, we honor the ideals of high culture.”

  A door of bronze and glass slid aside; Wayness entered a foyer equipped with the usual amenities. Halls to left
and right led to the various special departments. Wayness wandered here and there, at all times covertly watching for Irena Portils. She had formed no plan; still it seemed certain that these particular premises might be the best, perhaps the only, environment in which to make Irena’s acquaintance. She paused to examine a rack of periodicals, pretended to consult the information banks, stopped to ponder the schedule of library hours, as posted on a sign. Nowhere did she so much as glimpse Irena, who perhaps had gone home for the day.

  In the Art and Music room Wayness came upon the collection of primitive pottery to which she had been recommended by the clerk at the hotel. The pieces were displayed upon the shelves of a glass-fronted cabinet. There were a dozen bowls, some high, some low and as many other utensils. Most had been broken and restored; a few showed rudimentary decoration: patterns of stippling or scratches. The ware had been formed either by pressing slabs of clay into baskets, then firing basket and all or by the hand-forming of slabs into the shape desired.

  A placard attributed the pieces to ‘the Zuntil folk’: semi-barbarian hunters and gatherers resident in the area many thousands of years before the coming of the Europeans. The pieces had been discovered by local Archaeologists at sites along the Azumi River, a few miles north and west of Pombareales.

  Wayness frowned at the collection, which had just inserted a rather good idea into her mind. She considered the idea from all angles, but could find no flaws. Of course she would be required to become a liar, a sneak and a hypocrite. But what of that? To make an omelet one must break eggs. She turned to the librarian who sat at a nearby desk: an angular young man with soft sandy hair, a wide thinker’s forehead, a high-bridged beak of a nose, a bony jaw and chin. He had been watching Wayness from the side of his face. Meeting her gaze, he blushed and looked hurriedly away, then could not resist another glance.

  Wayness smiled at him, and approached his desk. She asked: “Did you arrange the showing of this collection?”

  The librarian grinned. “So I did, in part, at any rate. I did none of the digging. That was the work of my uncle and his friend. They are the diggers, and very keen. I don’t fancy it all that much, myself.”

  “You miss most of the fun!”

  “Perhaps,” said the librarian. He added, in a thoughtful voice: “Last week my uncle and his friend Dante went out on a dig. My uncle was stung by a scorpion. He jumped into the river. During the afternoon his friend Dante was chased by a bull. He jumped into the river too.”

  “Hm.” Wayness considered the collection of pots. “Did they go out again this week to dig?”

  “No. They went to the cantina instead.”

  Wayness had no comment to make.

  Beside the collection several maps of the region were posted. One of these marked the location of the Zuntil sites; another, on a larger scale, displayed the reach of the various Inca Empires: the Early, the Middle and the Late. Wayness said: “Apparently the Incas never ranged quite so far south as Pombareales.”

  “They probably sent war parties out from time to time. But no one has ever found any authentic sites closer than Sandoval, which might well have been nothing more than a trading post.”

  Wayness spoke offhandedly: “I think that is what the leader of our expedition wants to establish, one way or the other.”

  The librarian gave a wry chuckle. “There have been more expeditions at Sandoval than ever there were Incas.”

  He appraised Wayness anew. “You are an archaeologist, then?”

  Wayness laughed. “After this year in the field and three more years in the laboratory sorting out bones – ask me again.” She looked around the room. “You are not too busy to talk?”

  “Definitely not! Today is always a slack day. Sit down, if you like. My name is Evan Faures.”

  Wayness demurely seated herself. “I am Wayness Tamm.”

  The conversion proceeded. Wayness presently inquired about caves in the mountains and legends of Inca gold. “It would be fun to find a great box of treasure.”

  Evan looked over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t dare mention Professor Solomon, if Irena Portils were within hearing distance. But I think she has gone home for the day.”

  “Who is Professor Solomon and who is Irena Portils?”

  “Aha!” said Evan. “There you touch upon one of our most notorious scandals.”

  “Tell me about it. I like scandals.”

  Evan once again looked over his shoulder. “Irena Portils is part of the staff. As I understand it, she was once a dancer or some such thing, and went off-world with a troupe of entertainers. She returned married to an archeologist named Professor Solomon, who declared himself to be famous everywhere. He made a good impression and became one of the town dignitaries.

  “One evening, at a dinner party with friends, Professor Solomon seemed to become convivial and perhaps a trifle indiscreet. In strict confidence he told his friends he had come upon an old map which located a secret cave in which the conquistadores had hidden a treasure of newly minted gold doubloons. ‘Probably just a mare’s nest,’ said Professor Solomon, ‘but interesting all the same.’

  “A day or two later Professor Solomon slipped away into the mountains. His friends, as soon as they learned of his absence, put discretion aside and told everyone of Professor Solomon’s gold.”

  “A month passed, and Professor Solomon returned. When his friends pressed him for information, he reluctantly showed them four gold doubloons, and said that he needed a few special tools to dig away the debris which now covered the chest. Shortly thereafter he disappeared again. The news of his discovery excited a great deal of interest and also avarice. When Professor Solomon returned with four hundred doubloons, he was besieged with offers from collectors. He allowed several of the doubloons to be assayed, which diminished their value, so no one was surprised when he refused to test any of the others. One day at noon precisely he sold the doubloons. Swarms of excited collectors came swearing and screaming and waving their money in the air. Professor Solomon sold the doubloons in parcels of ten, and all four hundred were gone before the hour was over. Then Professor Solomon thanked the collectors for their interest, and said he was off to explore another cave which might yield an even greater treasure of Inca emeralds. He departed, amid acclaim and congratulations. This time he took Irena Portils with him.”

  “Peace returned to Pombareales - but not for long. A few days later it became known that the collectors had all paid very large sums for doubloons stamped from lead, then plated over with a thin wash of gold. Their value was negligible.

  “Collectors are not a fatalistic lot. Consternation gave way to outrage and fury even more intense than the previous enthusiasm.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Nothing. If Professor Solomon had been dragged from his hiding place, pelted with stones, hanged, drawn, quartered, then burnt alive at the stake, and afterwards whipped to within an inch of his life, and finally crucified upside down and forced to pay back all his debts at compound interest, the emotions might have been soothed. But he was nowhere to be found, and to this day no one has suggested amnesty for Professor Solomon. As for Irena Portils, she returned after a few years with her two children. She claimed that Professor Solomon had deserted her. Further, she declared that she knew nothing of the swindle, and she wanted only to be left alone. No one could prove her complicity, though they tried hard enough. After a while Irena came to work at the library. The years went by and that is how things stand today.”

  “And where is Professor Solomon? Do you think she keeps in touch with him?”

  Evan smiled a chilly half-smile. “I don’t know. I would never dare to ask. She keeps herself to herself.”

  “Has she no friends?”

  “None, so far as I know. At the library, she does her work, she manages to speak politely when necessary, but she seems only half-focused, as if her thoughts were far away. Sometimes her tensions are so strong that everyone near becomes edgy. It’s as if great storms were ra
ging inside her, and she were holding herself together only with effort.”

  “How odd.”

  “Very odd, I would not like to be near if ever she lets go.”

  ‘Hm.” Evan’s remarks were discouraging. Irena Portils was her only link to Adrian Moncurio and by one means or another must be cultivated. Wayness said tentatively: “If I come to the library tomorrow, perhaps I will meet her.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Evan looked at her in surprise. “Why would you want to meet her?”

  “I suppose I am interested in unusual people,” said Wayness lamely.

  “She doesn’t come in tomorrow. It’s the day the doctor calls on her children. He sees them every week. Also, Irena works in the back room. You would not meet her in any case.”

  “It is no great matter.”

  Evan smiled wistfully. “I could hope that you would be coming back regardless of Irena.”

  “Possibly,” said Wayness. It seemed likely that she would in the end need someone’s help. Evan? It would be cruel to exploit him. Still, as she had already noted, to make an omelet, at least one egg must be broken.

  “If I have the opportunity, I’ll come by again.”

  Wayness returned to the hotel. The outdoor café fronting on the square was now animated with young business folk, groups of upper class matrons, ranchers and their spouses in town for an afternoon’s shopping. Wayness seated herself at a vacant table and ordered tea and nutcake. The wind had died; the sun shone warm. By raising her head and looking far off toward the west, she could see the loom of the Andes. Had it not been for her concerns, Wayness would have found the occasion very pleasant.