Ecce and Old Earth

CHAPTER IV

“Perhaps we can resolve the problem within the next five minutes," said Pirie Tamm. He telephoned the offices of Mischap and Doorn, at Sancelade. The screen flared into luminosity, displaying the red and blue 'Mischap and Doorn' insignia across the top and, in the lower right quadrant, the head and shoulders of a thin-faced young woman with a long thin nose and short blonde hair cut squarely around her head in an uncompromising and rather eccentric style, or so thought Wayness. Her eyes glittered and danced with nervous vitality, but she spoke in the flattest of flat voices: "Please state your name, occupation, connection and present concerns."

Pirie Tamm identified himself, and cited his connection with the Naturalist Society.

"Very well, sir what is your business with us?"

Pirie Tamm frowned, displeased with the receptionist's manner. Still, he responded politely. "A certain Ernst Faldeker was a member of your firm some forty years ago. I expect that he has retired?"

“As to that, I can't say. He certainly is not with us now."

“Perhaps you will inform me as to his present address."

"Just a moment, sir." The young woman's face disappeared.

Pirie Tamm growled aside to Wayness: "Amazing, is it not? These functionaries think of themselves as angels reclining on clouds, while far below the human ruck supplicates from the mire.”

"She seems very self-possessed,” said Wayness. “I suppose that if she were over-sentimental, she might find it a handicap in her work.”

“Possible, possible.”

The young woman's face returned. “I find that I am not authorized to issue this sort of information.”

“Well then, who is?”

“Berle Buffums is our present office manager. Would you care to speak with him? He has nothing better to do at the moment.”

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’ [6]. 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 cafes, 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.

Wayness rode by surface transit to Shillaway, across a countryside of small farms and villages, where nothing had changed since the dawn of time. From Shillaway 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 Thing. 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 Flavlan 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 thin, 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 fiend; she represents an important client and wants a trifle of information on 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 had 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 that is there 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."

"Just so. These raffish little articles often do yeoman service for folk who must be considered aesthetic vulgarians. At such times thongs or straps are inserted through these holes to make them fit — “ Mr. Buffums took up one of the objects and, smiling modestly, held it against himself " — in this fashion. What do you think of it?”

Wayness examined him critically. “It does not go well with your complexion. The pink one yonder would suit you better. It is larger and more conspicuous but is probably in better taste."

Frowning, Mr. Buffums put the article aside and turned petulantly. Wayness saw that she had annoyed him despite all efforts to be tactful.

Mr. Buffums took a few quick steps toward his desk, then halted and swung about. “Well then, Miss Whatever-your-name."

“I am Wayness Tamm, and I am here on behalf of the Naturalist Society.”

Mr. Buffums arched his dark eyebrows high. "Is this a joke? To my clear understanding the Naturalist Society is defunct."

“The local chapter is somewhat inactive,” Wayness admitted. “However, there are plans to renew the Society. For this reason we are trying to trace certain records which were consigned to Mischap and Doorn by the then Secretary, Frons Nisfit. If you could inform us about these documents, we would be most grateful.”

Mr. Buffums went to lean against his desk. “That is all very well, but for seven generations we have nurtured a reputation for confidentiality which affects each transaction, large or small. Nothing has changed. We cannot risk any conduct which might involve us in litigation.”

“But there is no reason for such concern Nisfit was authorized to dispose of Society assets and certainly no one questions Mischap and Doorn's conduct.”

“That is gratifying news,” said Mr. Buffums wryly.

“As I mentioned, we are only trying to recover some of the Society memorabilia."

Mr. Buffums gave his head a slow shake. “These objects will now have been scattered far and wide; at least, such is my opinion.”

“That is the worst case," said Wayness. "It is just possible that everything is in the hands of a single collector."

“Your arguments are persuasive," said Mr. Buffums.

Wayness could not contain a gush of optimistic emotion. “Oh, I hope so! I do indeed!"

Mr. Buffums leaned back, smiling his faint smile. “How badly do you want this information?”

Wayness’ heart sank. She staled into Buffums amused face. She said: “I came all the way to Sancelade to speak with you, if that is what you mean.”

“Not quite. What I mean is this. If I do a favor for you, then you must do a favor for me. Is that not fair?"

“I’m not sure. What kind of favor do you have in mind?"

“I must explain that I am by way of an amateur dramatist, of not inconsiderable skill, if I say so myself. Already I have several nice little pieces to my credit.”

"So then? “

“At the moment I am creating a pastiche of various elements which when merged, scored and edited will generate a most delicious mood. Now then. There is a certain short sequence which so far has resisted my ingenuity. I think you can help me with it.

"Oh? What must I do?"

“It is simple enough. I take my theme from an old myth. The nymph Eilione falls in love with a statue portraying the hero Leausalas and tries to bring the marble image to life through the fervor of her caresses. Yonder you will notice a marble statue which will serve well enough for a rehearsal. Ignore its priapic condition. Optimally, Leausalas should first seem relaxed, to be gradually aroused by Eilione's attentions. No doubt I will find a way to deal with the problem. In the end, Eilione is encouraged — but enough for the moment. We will begin with the first sequence. If we are agreed, you may disrobe on the dais yonder, while I use the camera."

Wayness tried to speak, but Mr. Buffums paid no heed. He pointed. “Just step up on the dais and slowly remove your clothes. You will quickly become accustomed to the camera. When you are nude, I will issue further instructions. The camera is ready; let us begin the sequence."

Wayness stood stiff and still. She had long been aware that during her quest options of this sort, or even more basic, might be offered her, and she had never precisely defined how far she would go before feeling impelled to draw back. In this case, she found Mr. Buffums offensive and not at all amusing, her response came promptly: "I'm sorry, Mr. Buffums. I would like to be a great actress and dance in the nude, but my mother and father would disapprove, and of course there is no more to be said."

Mr. Buffums tossed his head, so that his long pale hair flew back. He made an angry sound. “Tschah, but are we not the haughty one? Well then, just so, and let it be! I wish you no misfortune; but I cannot abide vapidity. Leave me, please; you have wasted enough of my time!" He strode to the door, unlocked it and slid it aside. “Our Miss Leepe will show you out." He called through the doorway: “Miss Leepe, this young woman is leaving; I will not see her again, at any time.” Mr. Buffums retreated; the door slid shut with a thud.

“Wayness marched into the outer office, teeth clenched.

She stopped by Giljin Leepe's desk, looked back over her shoulder, started to speak, but thought better of it. Giljin Leepe made an airy gesture. “Say anything you like; you won’t hurt our feelings. Everyone who knows Bully Buffums wants to kick him at least three times a day.”

“I'm so furious I can't think of anything.”

Giljin Leepe put on a wise expression. “The interview did not go well?”

Wayness shook her head. “Not at all well. He showed me his art collection, and hinted that he might give me the information I wanted, but first I must dance in the nude. I guess I did everything wrong. When I told him that I was not a good dancer he became surly and sent me away.”

“There is no such thing as a typical interview with Bully Buffums,” said Giljin Leepe. “Each is unique, and everyone comes away marveling at Bully's behavior.”

Nelda spoke from her table across the room. “He is almost certainly impotent.”

"Naturally, neither Nelda nor I can cite any direct evidence," said Giljin Leepe.

Wayness heaved a deep sigh and stared bleakly back toward Mr. Buffums' office. "I've probably made a serious mistake. I can't afford to be squeamish. Still, I don’t know whether I could bear to disrobe in front of that man or not. It makes me squirm just to look at him.”

Giljin Leepe surveyed Wayness with bright inquisitive eyes. “Would you do so if there was no other way of getting your information?”

“I suppose so,” said Wayness. “After all, jumping around in my bare skin for a few minutes would not kill me." She paused. “I am not sure it would end there. I suspect that he wanted me to, well, make love to a statue.”

“And there you would draw the line?"

Wayness hunched her shoulders. “I don’t know. Five minutes? Ten minutes? It’s what bad dreams are made of. There must be another way.”

"I know the statue,” said Giljin Leepe. “It is even a handsome statue. If I wanted to look at it again, I could do so easily." She pulled open the top drawer of her desk. “I I've here the key to Bully's office. He thinks he lost it.”

“Notice it has a black tip — not that you are at all interested.”

She glanced at a clock. “Nelda and I will be leaving in about half an hour. Bully usually leaves shortly afterwards.”

Wayness nodded. “This, of course, is of no interest to me.”

“Of course not. What were you trying to learn from Bully Buffums?”

Wayness explained what she needed to know.

“Forty years ago? That would be in Bully's CONN.A files, under the code 'OB' for old business. Then 'N', for 'Naturalist.' It should not be hard to find. Now then,“ Giljin Leepe rose to her feet. “I am about to visit the lavatory. Nelda, as you see, has her back turned and is absorbed in her work. When I return, I will assume that you have left the premises — though I must point out that if you were standing in the shadows at the back of the bookcase yonder, I would notice nothing. So now, I will bid you goodbye and good luck.”

“Thank you for your advice,” said Wayness. ”Thank you, Nelda.”

“You may start toward the door, so that, if Bully should ask I can assert that I saw you on your way out.”

Giljin Leepe and Nelda were gone. The office was silent. Half an hour passed before Mr. Buffums emerged from his inner chamber. He slid shut the door behind him and carefully locked it, using one of twenty keys dangling from his key ring. Swinging around, he marched across the office to the outer door and was gone. The thud of his footsteps diminished and became part of the silence. The premises were vacant.

Not quite vacant. In the shadows something stirred and shifted. Ten minutes passed and the shape seemed to become restless. Nonetheless it composed itself for a further period of waiting, lest Mr. Buffums, discovering that he had forgotten an important document, should return to repair the lack.

Another fifteen minutes passed. Wayness stole furtively from the shadows. “It is no longer Wayness Tamm the Naturalist," she told herself. "It is now Wayness Tamm the burglar. Still, burgling is better than dancing for Mr. Buffums." She moved to Giljin Leepe’s desk and availed herself of the key with the black tip. She noted the telephone switch panel at the side of the desk and resisted the whimsical impulse to call her Uncle Pirie and announce her knew avocation. Wayness became vexed with herself. “I am starting to be giddy. It is probably nervous hysteria. I must put a stop to it.”

Wayness went to the door at the back of the room. She fitted the key and eased open the door inch by inch by inch. With skin tingling she listened but heard only silence; the collection, no matter how rich, dark and heavy its essence could create no sound.

Wayness slipped into Buffums’ office. Taking the key from the lock, she slid the door shut and went briskly to Mr. Buffums' desk, sparing a single wary glance toward the marble statue.

Wayness seated herself before the communicator. She studied the keyboard a moment; all seemed standard. She indicated ‘CON-A’, then 'OB' to bring an alphabetical directory to the screen. She struck 'N', to elicit another directory. She wrote ‘Naturalists Society' and was provided a tabular listing, which included as categories: 'Correspondence’, 'Parcels, Description’, ‘Parcels, Disposition’ and finally: 'Subsequences’.

Wayness looked into 'Parcels, Description’ and almost at once discovered the notation pertaining to Frons Nisfit and his dealings. The listings were numerous and ended with 'Miscellaneous Papers and Documents’.

A box at the bottom of the listing labeled 'Comments’ contained the remark: 'I have notified Ector van Broude, fellow of the Society in regard to these transactions, which seem notably unwise E. Faldeker'

Wayness brought to the screen the category 'Parcels, Disposition’. The information she sought was contained in a single sentence: ‘This entire lot has been consigned to Gohoon Galleries’.

Wayness stared at the words. So there she had it! 'Gohoon Galleries’!

She jerked her head around: what was that? A tremor, a near-inaudible thud? Wayness sat stiff, head tilted to listen.

Silence.

A sound from outside, thought Wayness. She turned back to the screen and brought up the contents of the 'Subsequences' file.

She discovered two entries. The first was dated twelve years previously: ‘Request to view made on this date by off-world woman identifying herself as Violja Fanfarides. No conflict of interest perceived; request granted’.

The second entry bore the current date and read: ‘Request to view made on this date by off-world young woman, identifying herself as Wayness Tamm, Assistant Secretary of the Naturalist Society. Circumstances suspicious; request denied’.

Wayness stared at the remark, infuriated anew. Again she jerked her head around to listen. This time there was no mistake. Someone was at the door. In a single movement Wayness switched off the screen and dropped to her knees behind the desk.

The door slid open; Mr. Buffums entered the chamber, carrying a large parcel in his arms. Wayness shrank down, making herself as inconspicuous as possible. If he approached, she would surely be discovered.

Incommoded by the parcel, Mr. Buffums had left the door open; Wayness tensed herself, ready to dash for the outer office. But Mr. Buffums had turned in the opposite direction. Peering around the desk Wayness saw that he had carried his parcel to a table in the left part of the chamber and had started to remove the wrappings.

Wayness watched covertly. His back was turned. She rose from behind the desk; on stealthy feet she tiptoed to the door and with vast relief passed through. Noticing Mr. Buffums' key ring dangling from the lock, Wayness gently closed the door and locked it with a double turn so that it could not be opened from within. It seemed a fine prank to pay on Mr. Buffums. She hoped that he would be extremely inconvenienced and very much puzzled.

Wayness went to Giljin Leepe’s desk, where she replaced the key with the black tip. Again she glanced at the telephone switch-panel and studied it for a moment. She pushed two toggles, and turned a switch; Mr. Buffums would now be denied the use of his telephone and would be unable to call anyone for assistance. Wayness laughed aloud. It was, all in all, a good day's work.

Wayness returned to the Marsac Hotel. She immediately telephoned Giljin Leepe, using a blank screen.

“Giljin here”, said a cheerful voice.

“This is an anonymous call. You may be interested to know that by some peculiar accident Mr. Buffums has locked himself into his office, with his keys on the outside of the door. Hence he cannot get out.''

“Yes,” said Giljin Leepe. "I consider that interesting news. I will stop answering my telephone, and I will suggest to Nelda that she do the same; otherwise he will insist that one or another of us come to liberate him!”

“There is more interesting news. By accident his telephone has been connected to the instrument on Nelda‘s desk, and he will be unable to make his wishes known until someone arrives in the morning.”

“What a strange situation!” said Giljin Leepe. “Mr. Buffums will surely be perplexed and probably annoyed, for he is not a stoic person. He suspects no intruder?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Good. In the morning I will carefully put everything to rights, and Mr. Buffums will be more bewildered than ever."

After her call to Giljin Leepe, Wayness consulted the hotel's directories and learned that 'Gohoon Galleries' was still a viable concern, that its business was auctioneering, and that its offices were located in Sancelade, readily accessible to her inquiries, which she would continue tomorrow.

The time was late afternoon. Wayness sat in a corner of the hotel lobby, flipping through the pages of a fashionable journal. She became restless and, slipping into her long gray cloak, went out to walk along the promenade which bordered the River Pang. A breeze from the west, where the sun was setting, flapped the fabric of her cloak, rustled leaves in the plane trees, and sent a million little waves scurrying across the water.

Wayness walked slowly and watched the sun drop behind the far hills. With the coming of twilight, the breeze dried to a whisper and then was gone; the wavelets on the river disappeared. A few other folk were abroad: elderly couples, lovers who had made rendezvous along the riverbank, occasionally a person as solitary as herself.

Wayness paused to look out across the river, where the pale lavender-gray sky was reflected along the moving surface. She tossed a stone into the water and watched the black whorls dissipate. Her mood was unsettled. "I have had some success, true. I am not altogether ineffectual, which I suppose is good news. But after that — " The name ‘Violja Fanfarides' suddenly intruded. "I wonder…”. Wayness grimaced. “Odd. I feel queasy inside, as if I were coming down sick." She brooded for a few moments, then put the name aside. “I suspect that Mr. Buffums and his curiosa have affected me more than I might have liked. I hope there will be no lasting effect upon my personality."

Wayness went to sit on a bench and watched the afterglow fade from the sky. She remembered her conversation with Pirie Tamm on the subject of sunsets. Surely on Cadwal she had known sunsets as mild and serene as this! Perhaps. That particular shade of twilight gray, after all, was not absolutely unique. Still, one would be a thing of Earth and the other of Cadwal, and so they would be distinct.

The stars began to appear. Wayness looked around the sky, hoping to find the racked 'W' of Cassiopeia, which would guide her toward Perseus, but the foliage of a nearby plane tree blocked her view.

Wayness rose to her feet and started back toward the hotel. She found herself a more practical frame of mind. “I will bathe and change into something frivolous, and then it will be time for dinner, and I am already beginning to feel hungry."

In the morning Wayness dressed once again in her dark brown suit and after breakfast rode the slideway to Gohoon Galleries. In Clarmond, at the western edge of Sancelade. Here a few of Tybalt Pimm's most rigorous tenets had been relaxed. The buildings surrounding Beiderbecke Circus rose to heights of ten or twelve stories. In one of these structures Gohoon Galleries occupied the first three floors.

At the entrance a pair of uniformed guards, one male, the other female, photographed Wayness from three sides, and took note of her name, age, home and local address as stated on her identification papers. Wayness inquired the reason for such precautions.

“It is not arbitrary nuisance-mongering”, she was told. "We display much valuable merchandise for viewing prior to the auctions. Some of these articles are small and easily purloined. Cameras record such acts, and we can instantly identify the offenders and regain our property. The system, while strict, is efficient.”

“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 if 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.