by Vance, Jack
Sitting up straight Myron took pencil and paper. Using neat quick strokes he printed a message. “The poem is beautiful, and the words are beautiful. Say it again.”
Wayness smilingly shook her head. “It would not sound so well the second time.”
Myron gave her so mournful a look that Wayness relented. “Very well. I’ll do it just this once.” She repeated the poem.
Myron listened attentively, then wrote: “I like that poem. The words fit together well. I shall write a poem when I have time.”
“I hope you will show it to me,” said Wayness. ‘‘Or even read it aloud.”
Myron pursed his lips, not yet ready to go so far.
Lydia asked: “Do you know any other poems?”
Wayness reflected. “There is a poem I learned when I was very young and a fine poem is too. I think that you will like it.” She looked from face to face; both were alert and expectant. “It goes like this:
‘Pussycat Mew jumped over a coal
And in her best petticoat burnt a great hole.
Poor Pussycat’s weeping, she’ll have no more milk
Until her best petticoat’s mended with silk.’“
Lydia was pleased with the poem. “Though, of course, it is very sad.”
“Possibly,” said Wayness. “But I suspect that the pussycat went quickly to work and mended her skirt, so that she was once again served her milk. That is what I would have done, at any rate.”
“And I, as well. Do you know any more poems?”
“Not at the moment. Perhaps you should try to write a poem and Myron also.”
Lydia nodded thoughtfully. “I will write a poem about the wind.”
“That is a good idea. Myron, what about you?”
Myron wrote: “I must decide what to write about. The poem will sound like the ‘Lake of the Dismal Swamp,’ because that seems a good way to write poems.”
“Both of your ideas sound interesting,” said Wayness. She turned her head to listen. Clara had once again gone out to the utility porch. Wayness looked around the sitting room. There was no desk or cabinet in which Irena would have kept private papers.
Lydia asked again: “What are you looking for?”
“A paper with the address of a man named ‘Adrian Moncurio.’ Either that, or a paper with the address of ‘Professor Solomon’ who is the same man.”
Clara came back into the kitchen. She looked through the doorway, making a swift appraisal of what might be occurring. She turned away. Neither Myron nor Lydia had anything to say.
Myron snatched up his pencil and wrote. “There is not a paper like that in the house.”
Wayness leaned back and stared toward the ceiling.
The day passed. Outside the rain fell steadily: large heavy drops which did little more than bring out the scent of damp concrete and damp soil. Irena came home and Wayness took her leave. In a dispirited mood she walked through the rain to the hotel.
On the following day the overcast exerted a dank pressure upon the landscape. Wayness arrived at Casa Lucasta to find that Irena had not gone to work. She gave no explanation, but evidently did not feel well and, after a muttered colloquy with Clara, went up to her room. Half an hour later Clara draped a black shawl over her head, donned her overcoat, took up her shopping bag and trudged from the house.
A light rain was now falling, constraining Wayness and the two children to the sitting room.
Clara was gone. Wayness listened, but there was no sound from upstairs. She spoke in a low voice: “I will tell you something about myself. I have kept it secret from everyone. Since I want your help, I will tell you this secret.”
“I was born on a world which is very wild. No one lives there except many different kinds of animals and a few people who guard the world. But there are other people who want to kill most of the animals, and build big cities and destroy the beauty of this world.”
Myron wrote: “They are fools.”
“I think so too,” said Wayness. “In fact, some of them are wicked people, and have even tried to kill me.”
Lydia looked at Wayness large-eyed. “Who could do such a terrible thing?”
“I don’t know. But I am trying my best to stop them, to save my beautiful world. There is a man who can help me. I think you know him. His name –” Wayness stopped speaking. She raised her head and listened. What had she heard? Whatever the sound had been, it was not repeated. She lowered her voice still further. “His name is Adrian Moncurio.” She spoke in a low voice, almost breathless with urgency. Again she tilted her head to listen. Then: “Moncurio called himself Professor Solomon; perhaps you know him under this name. He came to Pombareales and got into trouble. He said he had found a treasure of gold doubloons in a secret cave. He was not telling the truth. The cave was fictitious, and the gold doubloons were mostly lead. He sold as many as he could, then when his trick was discovered, he fled from Earth, and now I must find him. Do either of you know where he is?”
The two had listened in an uneasy silence. Lydia said: “Myron knows, of course. Myron knows everything.’’
Wayness looked at Myron and started to speak, but was interrupted. Into the room came Irena, her hair in disorder, her skin the color of old mustard. She cried hoarsely: “What are you talking about? I can hear this sly murmuring and it is something I cannot tolerate! What is it then!”
Wayness stuttered and groped for words. Myron spoke in a clear easy voice: “I have composed a poem. Do you want to hear it?”
Irena stared, her jaw dropping to draw the lines of her haggard face even deeper. “You are talking!”
“I will speak my poem.”
Irena started to speak in a peculiar strangled voice.
Lydia called out sharply: “Listen to Myron! He has decided to speak!”
“This is the poem. It is called ‘The World of the Nineteen Moons.’”
Irena cried out: “Enough of this nonsense.” She stared at Wayness. “Who are you? What do you want here? You are no social worker! You must leave this house at once; all you have done is damage!”
Wayness said furiously: “The damage was not done by me! Are you not happy that Myron is speaking, that he is mentally sound? Truly, you are a terrible woman!”
“This is the poem,” said Myron. “I have just composed it now.” He pitched his voice low:
“‘He swindled them all with the lead doubloons
He had found in fictitious caves.
Now he’s gone to the World of the Nineteen Moons
Where, out on the desert of Standing Stones,
He plunders the sacred graves.’“
Lydia said: “That is a lovely poem, Myron.”
Irena started to blurt something, then stopped short, and spoke carefully: “Yes, yes, we must see about this. It is wonderful that Myron is improving. Just one minute, and then I wish to hear you speak some more.” Irena turned and went into the kitchen.
Wayness jumped to her feet. “Quick,” she muttered. “We must go very quickly. Follow me.” She started for the entry hall and the front door.
Irena burst into the sitting room, brandishing a heavy kitchen knife. “Now there will be an end to it!” She lunged at Wayness; the knife drove down. Wayness jerked away and the knife slashed her shoulder. She reeled over backward and Irena was on her, knife on high.
Lydia screamed: “No, no!” She seized Irena’s arm, and the knife shook loose, fell to the floor.
Wayness ran to the door. “Come! She cried” “Lydia! Myron! Come!”
Irena recovered the knife and advanced upon her. Wayness cried: “Run out the back way! Quick, quick, quick!”
She stood in the doorway. “Irena, you must –”
Irena gave a great scream and leapt forward; Wayness stumbled out upon the terrace. Over Irena’s shoulder she glimpsed the face of Clara, home from her shopping, face contorted in a wolfish grin. The door slammed. From within came scream after scream. Wayness turned and ran down the street to the nearest inhabited h
ouse. She burst through the door and while an astonished old woman looked on, ran to the telephone and called the police, and also informed the dispatcher that an ambulance might be needed.
* * *
Chapter VII, Part 11
The time was late afternoon. The overcast had broken and the sun illuminated the central plaza of Pombareales with a wan and cheerless night. The wind blew swirls of dust and bits of litter across the stone flags.
Wayness lay on the bed of her room in the Hotel Monopole. Her wound had been treated and she had been told that aside from a hair-line scar, she would suffer no permanent consequences from the attack.
She had been sedated and only now had started to rouse herself from a semi-stupor. Presently she sat up and looked at the clock. The telephone chime sounded. Doctor Olivano’s face appeared on the screen. He inspected her.
“Are you well enough to receive a visitor?”
“Certainly.”
“I’ll order up a pot of tea.”
“That would be nice.”
A few minutes later the two sat at the table in the corner of the room. Olivano said: “Irena is dead. She stabbed herself in the throat. First she tried to kill Myron and Lydia. It was Clara who saved them. She held Irena away with a broom, until the police arrived.” She is a doughty old bird. Irena then rushed into the dining room, lay herself down on the table, and did some bloody work.”
In a faint voice Wayness asked: “What of the children?”
“They were both cut and slashed, but not seriously. They are in good condition. They want to see you.”
Wayness looked out the window. “I don’t know if that is a good idea or not.”
“How so?”
“I have become very fond of them both. If I had a home, I would take them there and keep them. But I have no home at the moment. What will become of them? If it were anything bad, I would take them anyway and leave them with my uncle for a time.”
Olivano showed her a crooked smile, “They will be well taken care of. In fact, I too have become fond of them, against every precept of my profession.”
“I see.”
Olivano leaned back in his chair. “I had a talk with Clara. She is stoic and matter-of-fact, and declares that she knew that tragedy was on the way. She rambled here and there, and it took an hour to learn what I am about to tell you – in something less than an hour, or so I hope.”
“To begin with, Irena was very beautiful when she was young, but unpredictable and restless; also she loved money and resented being born into a poor family. She became a dancer and joined a troupe of harlequins who traveled off-world. At one far place or another – Clara is vague in connection with places – she met Moncurio, and took up with him. In due course they returned to Pombareales, and Professor Solomon sold his fake doubloons, until the swindle was discovered and they fled for their lives.”
“Years passed, and Irena returned to Pombareales with a pair of apparently feeble-minded children. Irena gave out the story that she had been deserted and had known nothing of the swindle, and so was allowed to live more or less in peace. Irena confided to Clara that the children were not her own but must be raised by a rigid routine until they approached adolescence, when certain mental powers would be at the maximum. At this time, according to Irena, the children would assist in the search for buried or hidden jewels. Moncurio and Irena both believed that they would become very wealthy. From time to time Moncurio sent them small sums of money, and kept Irena supplied with the proper medicines for the children and herself.”
“Drugs or no drugs, she was an extremely wicked woman.”
“Undeniably so. Well then, that is that. It is a pity that you failed to secure the information you needed, but you are a resourceful person and no doubt will somehow make do.”
“Yes; probably so,” said Wayness coldly. She still had not forgiven Dr. Olivano his delinquencies.
“The children are resting now. You are of course at liberty to see them if you care to do so.” He rose to his feet. “But I could tell them that you came to see them, and then were called away on very important business.”
Wayness nodded bleakly. “It is probably best that way.”
* * *
Chapter VIII
* * *
Chapter VIII, Part 1
At Fair Winds Agnes had gone off on holiday to Tidnor Strands. She would be gone two weeks; during this interval her niece Tassy, a bouncy energetic girl of eighteen, would take care of Pirie Tamm and see to his comfort.
Pirie Tamm agreed to the arrangement without enthusiasm. Tassy was comely, plump, with a round cheerful face, dimples, blonde curls, innocent blue eyes and boundless self-confidence. Before leaving, Agnes had assured Pirie Tamm that while Tassy was lively and exuberant, she was conscientious to a fault, and would do her best to please him.
And so it was. Tassy instantly diagnosed in Pirie Tamm the tragic case of a lonely old gentleman, brooding away the final hours of his life. She decided that she must bring at least a modicum of color and adventure to Pirie Tamm’s daily routine. While he consumed his breakfast, Tassy stood to the side, ready with fresh marmalade, anxious to proffer hot toast, gently insisting that he eat his nice prunes, which he detested, and recommending neither salt nor pepper for reasons which had been made clear to her in a magazine article, but which now she could not quite recollect. She reported upon the weather and the scandals affecting her favorite celebrities, and described the plot of an enigmatic presentation she had recently enjoyed. She mentioned the latest dance craze, ‘Nervous Knee-caps,’ which was performed to a loud shrill music of coughs, squeals and grunts. It was a fascinating exercise, said Tassy, involving hands, knees and pelvis; perhaps Sir Pirie would like to learn the step? Pirie Tamm said that while the prospect was intriguing, his doctor would surely object, and also, where in thunder was the salt and pepper? A man could not eat eggs without salt and pepper!”
“Oh yes you can, and you must,” said Tassy. “It is much healthier for you. That is the new wave of medical thinking!”
Pirie Tamm rolled his eyes to the celling and wondered if Agnes were enjoying herself at Tidnor Strands?
Late one afternoon, as Pirie Tamm sipped his sherry, Tassy notified him that he was wanted on the telephone. He scowled and muttered a curse. “This is not a civilized hour to be making phone calls and disturbing people at their sherry! Who is it?”
“He gave no name and I forgot to ask. He’s a rather handsome young man, though I should say a bit too severe and grim. However he seems basically decent and I decided to let him speak with you.”
Pirie them stared at her with sagging jaw. At last he said: “Your powers of divination are remarkable.”
Tassy nodded complacently. “It has always been one of my great gifts.”
Pirie Tamm rose to his feet. “I had better speak to the fellow.”
The face looking from the screen was, as Tassy had declared, personable and somber. Various subtle signs suggested to Pirie Tamm that here was an off-worlder. “I am Pirie Tamm. I don’t think I know you.”
“Wayness may have mentioned me. I am Glawen Clattuc.”
“Indeed, indeed!” exclaimed Pirie Tamm. “Where are you?”
“At the Shillawy spaceport. Is Wayness still with you at Fair Winds?”
“Not at the moment, I’m sorry to say. She set off for Bangalore, and I have not heard from her since. You are coming to Fair Winds, I hope?”
“Only if it is convenient for you to have me.”
“Of course!” Pirie Tamm gave directions. “I’ll expect you in about two hours.”
Glawen arrived at Fair Winds and was made welcome by Pirie Tamm. The two took dinner in the wood-paneled dining room. Pirie Tamm told Glawen what he knew of Wayness’ adventures. “Her last call came from Trieste. She told me very little, because she feared that my telephone messages were being intercepted. I was skeptical but nevertheless I called in a team of experts. They found three spy cells and a telephone tap as wel
l. We are convinced that the mechanisms were installed by Julian Bohost. You are acquainted with him?”
“All too well.”
“As of now, the house is protected and we may talk freely – though, to be candid, I still feel a constraint.”
“You don t know what, if anything, Wayness has learned?”
“Unfortunately, no. Simonetta preceded us to Gohoon Galleries, and removed the records of sale. Wayness therefore was forced to work from a different perspective. She used the analogy of a ladder, with the Charter and the Grant on a middle rung. Simonetta, knowing who bought the material, was able to search up the ladder. At our end, we found items of Naturalist material, and traced it back down the ladder toward the original buyer.”
“It was wasted effort,” said Glawen. “I know the first buyer. His name was Floyd Swaner, and he lived at Idola on the Big Prairie. Simonetta learned his identity, evidently as you have mentioned, at Gohoon Auctions and ever since she has concentrated on Floyd Swaner. She still seems to believe that Charter and Grant are somewhere on the Swaner premises, since she has burgled his property and tried to marry his grandson.”
Pirie Tamm gave a disconsolate grunt. “Where does Julian come into the picture? Is he in league with Simonetta?”
“I suspect that each is trying to use the other, and each keeps dismal plans for all eventualities at the back of this or her mind. I’m afraid that bitter times lie ahead.”
“And what are your plans?”
“I’ll be leaving directly for Idola, and if the Charter and Grant are not at hand, then I’ll start climbing the ladder toward that middle rung.”
* * *
Chapter VIII, Part 2
Glawen flew across the ocean to Old Tran, now known as Division city, at the heart of the continent. A local service flew him two hundred miles west to Largo, on the Sippewissa River. He arrived at twilight and took lodging at an old inn on the banks of the river. He telephoned Pirie Tamm, but learned nothing new; Wayness had not called.