But I got hold of the editor of The Planet, a weekly pictorial which, I remembered, had a flavor of Voltar historical events: they liked to cover mountain slides and volcanic eruptions and such.
“About a hundred years ago or less,” I said, “did you record an earthquake or anything.”
“That’s great,” said the editor. “Who is this? Your viewer is off.”
“I’m being shaved and my hair isn’t combed.”
“This must be my most vital call of the day,” said the editor. “Listen, whoever you are, there are approximately six earthquakes a week throughout one hundred and ten planets. And I am overwhelmed by your time and location specificity.”
“Western Ocean,” I said, “Voltar. Try ninety or ninety-five or eighty-five years ago.”
“Listen, whoever you are, my advice is to go get chummy with a reporter who has access to newssheet files. And when you call me next time, comb your hair and turn on your viewer. Cranks,” he muttered and clicked off.
It came to me in a flash. I knew where reporters hung out.
“Hound,” I said excitedly, “lay out a lounge suit that’s sort of wrinkled and a sloppy hat.”
“You don’t have any wrinkled suits!” he snapped. “Don’t go accusing the footmen of not doing their jobs. Not after what you did to poor Shafter! You’re trouble!”
“Listen,” I pleaded. “Wrinkle one up, then. I’m going to the Ink Club in Joy City!”
He raised his eyeballs so high they clicked! When he recovered, he said, “Now you are going to go carousing with newssheet trash! You mark my words, young Monte, you’ll become a hopeless drunk! If it weren’t for my obligation to your father, I would go home to Flisten and abandon you to your fate!”
He wouldn’t let me wrinkle my suit. He wouldn’t let me wear a sloppy hat. He jawed and jawed. Oh, what I have been through, dear reader, getting you this book!
Shafter wasn’t much better. Incautiously, he had given the traffic court a bit of lip and they’d doubled his fine. I gave him the additional ten credits but he kept glooming about his perfect driving record gone.
He got me to Joy City and landed near the Ink Club. It has a huge electronic sign that simulates a river of ink that changes colors and splashes. You’d think inside they’d have fires and disasters posted up, but not so: the place is all soft gray and soothing music, somewhat like an undertaker’s.
It was late afternoon. Editions were all out. It was reporter slack time. The place was jammed.
I felt extremely conspicuous with my beautifully pressed, conservative mauve shimmercloth lounge suit and perfectly brushed hat. It made me stand out like a statue in a park full of weeds.
A young boy usher saw me staring around at the tables. He must have thought I had wandered into the wrong place. He said, “Is there someone you especially wish to see, sir?”
“A reporter,” I said.
He looked at me and his eyes went round. And then he broke out laughing. “Hey, you birds,” he shouted, “this toff here wants to see a reporter. Do any of you splashers qualify?”
Somebody threw a canister at him. A tough-looking fellow at a crowded table yelled at me, “Don’t mind the help. Come over and sit down, if you’re buying.”
Well, of course, I was buying. I was an investigative reporter myself, wasn’t I? I squeezed in at a place they made for me at a table of twenty and very shortly two waiters ran up with trays loaded with drinks.
“Well, what can I do for you?” said the tough-looking fellow, when he’d downed his. “It’s two days before payday and you’re a Godsend.” I was paying the waiter from a roll. “Bring the table another round!” my new friend yelled, “I think the guy just robbed a bank!”
“Hey, that’s a good story,” said another one. “Can I have it exclusive? I’ll dub you Natty the Nifty Teller Tapper. And for another round I’ll say you kiss the tellers before you will take their tills.”
“No, no,” I said with dignity. “I am a reporter myself. An investigative reporter, in fact.”
“What’s that?” several wanted to know.
“It investigates coverups,” I said. “I’m writing a book.”
“We’re all writing books,” my tough-looking friend said. “I got a trunk full of books. So has everybody else at this table. You got to do better than that. Waiter, bring us another round!”
“I am on the trail of a coverup so staggering,” I said, “that it will boggle everybody.”
“What’s a coverup?” somebody wanted to know. “You don’t cover them up. You take the covers OFF. Only then can you see what the girl looks like! You’ve got to be careful what you’re getting into!”
“It isn’t a girl I’m uncovering,” I said. “It’s one of the highest figures in the state. And oh, will my name be all across the sky.”
“My friend,” said the tough-looking one, “I think, in kindness, you have had enough to drink. But that doesn’t stop the rest of us. Waiter, another round, but omit my friend here. He’s drunk as a Lord!”
Five rounds later, my tough-looking friend was pretty mellow and I got him to listen.
“I’ve got to get access to newssheet files stretching back maybe ninety-five years. I’m searching for a specific disaster.”
“My friend,” he said, “what you need is a reporter. No editor is going to let you near his files. Now, as you’ve been buying so handsomely, any of us here would be glad to help, except for one fatal thing: nobody lasts ninety-five years in this business.”
“Old Shif did,” said somebody, pointing.
My tough-looking friend turned.
A gray-haired old wreck was sitting at the end of a bar across the room, all by himself, staring at an empty canister.
“Hey, he might know. Buy us one more round, Natty the Nifty Teller Tapper, and I’ll introduce you for free.”
Five minutes later, my tough-looking friend, with me beside him, was telling Shif, “Here’s somebody that’s insisting on buying you a drink. Bye-bye, Natty, drop around when you’ve tapped another till.” And he left.
“Drinks,” said old Shif, “always cost something. What is it this time?”
“I am trying to discover any strange occurrence in the Western Ocean, sometime between a century ago and now, probably maybe ninety-five years ago, maybe not.” And I signaled the barman to bring a canister of tup. The barman hesitated until I flashed a bill to show him I was paying.
Old Shif watched the canister arrive. “Maybe you better be more specific.”
I decided to confide, he looked so old and wise. I leaned over and whispered in his ear, “I’m trying to find out what happened to Relax Island.”
His head whipped around toward me. Something flashed in his eyes. Was it fear?
Then he did the incredible. He pushed the canister of tup right back at the barman!
Without looking at me, Shif said, “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
Oh, was I certain now! Yes, indeed, there was a coverup! I grabbed the canister and put it back in front of him. He did not touch it.
This was an emergency. I signaled to the barman for a keg. The barman saw my money, picked one up and put it on the bar in front of Shif.
“That won’t help,” said the aged reporter. “Young man, as a friendly gesture, all I can tell you is to forget it. You are in Censor territory.”
My certainty surged!
I know how these clubs operate. The attitude of that barman clearly showed that old Shif was in debt to the place. I grabbed the young boy usher and gave him a whispered message.
Two minutes later, the manager was standing there, holding an account sheet in his hand. “I don’t know what you want with this,” he said to Shif. “It was about to be written off as a bad debt.”
Shif pointed at me. “He called for it, I didn’t,” said Shif.
I grabbed the bill. It was a year overdue. It was for more than I had on me. I grabbed out my identoplate and stamped it.
“No, no!??
? said Shif. “You’re tempting me beyond endurance!”
“Good,” I said.
“Bad,” said Shif. “This is DANGEROUS!”
I was absolutely positive then that not only the Censor but Heller himself must be behind this Relax Island coverup!
“Give me an account sheet with his name on it,” I told the manager. “Mark it for the next year and leave the amount blank.”
The manager stared. Old Shif sat there kind of crumpled. The blank sheet came. I stamped it. But I held onto it.
Seconds ticked by. Then slowly, slowly, old Shif reached out for the sheet. He gripped the corner of it and used it to pull me close to him.
He whispered in my ear. “Don’t ever tell anyone it came from me. Go and see Pratia Tayl, Minx Estates, Pausch Hills.”
VII
Because it was late in the Voltar year, Minx Estates was not in bloom. But from the air, as we landed, one could tell it was very prosperous. It had garden walks amongst the shrubs, and statues of naked nymphs peeped forth. The vast house was a mansion of three stories and higher gables. A small hospital nestled in the trees at the back. A pool, in the shape of a heart, steamed in the late afternoon sun.
We landed on the target and I got out. What seemed to be a bundle of furs in a reclining chair at the pool side suddenly stirred and said, “Oooooooo! What a beautiful young man!”
I advanced cautiously. An old face of at least 150 peered out of the furs. Excessive makeup did not hide her years. “Sit down, sit down!” she cried, indicating a lawn chair beside her. “Tell me all about yourself!”
“I am Monte Pennwell,” I said. “Do I have the honor of addressing Pratia Tayl?”
“Oh, my goodness. Not only handsome but also polite. Yes, indeed, I am Pratia Tayl, or at least that name will do. Now you just make yourself at home.”
Things apparently happened very fast at Minx Estates for all its surface serenity. Pratia began to chatter at three hundred miles an hour, asking all about my family, of which she had heard, and all about my friends and interests. And while she was doing so a young man with bright green eyes and straw-colored hair came up with a tray of canisters and a jug of pink sparklewater and Pratia said, “Thank you, son,” without even taking her eyes off me, and then a woman came out of the house with some sweetbuns. She had bright green eyes and straw-colored hair and Pratia said, “Thank you, daughter,” and went right on chattering at me.
An elderly dowager, escorted by an elderly man with bright green eyes and straw-colored hair, entered the front gate and passed us en route to the small hospital at the back, and Pratia, barely halting her chatter at me, said, “Good afternoon, Lady Tig. Good afternoon, son.” When they opened the hospital door, I saw the sign on it :
Cellology Beauty Clinic
I had no more than read that when a very sporty air-speedster landed and two men got out. They both had bright green eyes and straw-colored hair. When they came over to give her a peck on the cheek, she interrupted her barrage at me long enough to say, “Boys, meet Monte Pennwell, the writer. You know of his family. Monte, my grandsons Jettero and Bis.” They shook hands and went off to the house and I cut into Pratia’s chatter.
“Good heavens,” I said, “are all these children YOURS?”
“Oh, these are just some of them,” said Pratia with a proud simper. “Most of them have married and are in practice. You should see my grandchildren!”
“Do they all have bright green eyes and straw-colored hair?”
“Oh, yes,” said Pratia. “Aren’t they beautiful? I even have three great-grandchildren already and they have them, too! Adorable. But I was wondering, don’t you have an Aunt Bit? I think I went to school . . .”
A really ancient hag came out of the house and stalked over to us. She cut right across Pratia’s chatter. She said, “Will this guest be staying for supper?”
Pratia said, “Oh, I’m sure he will, Meeley. Be certain that you serve something stimulating. And he will be staying the night. . . .”
“No, no,” I said quickly. “I have to be home for a family dinner. But . . . but,” I said to the old hag, “she called you Meeley. Are you . . . well . . . are you the former landlady of . . .”
“That (bleep)?” said Meeley. “Hah!” And she stalked off.
“I’m sorry you can’t stay the night,” said Pratia. “My bed is awfully soft.”
It just shows you the menaces which surround the profession of an investigative reporter! You should be impressed with the dangers I ran getting this material for you, dear reader.
Swiftly, I said, “I only came to find out about Relax Island.”
Her bright blue eyes went round. She was suddenly silent. She stared at me.
Hastily, I explained, “I heard a rumor you could tell me. You see, it’s no longer there.”
She nibbled at a sweetbun. Then she said, “Prahd wouldn’t like it if I told you.”
“Prahd?” I said. “Prahd Bittlestiffender?”
“Are there any other Prahds? He is still the King’s Own Physician, but he runs this little beauty clinic here when he isn’t busy at Palace City.” Suddenly she looked brighter. She raised her voice and called, “Ske!”
A man in a butler’s uniform came out of the house shortly. “One of the girls said you called, Mistress. I didn’t quite hear. I’m getting pretty deaf.”
“Ske?” I said. “By any chance, you aren’t the one-time driver of . . . of . . .?”
“That (bleep)?” said Ske. “I’ll have you know I’ve been butler here ever since old Bawtch died. I’m respectable.”
“Bawtch?” I said. “The chief clerk of . . .”
Pratia cut me off. She said, “Ske, Prahd won’t be here tonight, will he?”
Ske shook his head and went off to do whatever butlers do.
“Oh, goodie!” said Pratia. “He won’t be here at the clinic so he wouldn’t know you’d been here listening. I can tell you after all!”
I sat forward on the edge of my seat.
“So that’s settled,” said Pratia. She didn’t say anything else.
“Well?” I said. “Well?”
“Oh, Monte,” she said, “you amaze me. Don’t you know that a girl can’t possibly impart secrets unless it’s in bed?”
I gawped.
“Don’t look so prim,” she said. “It’s a long story. I couldn’t possibly tell you unless you spent the night.”
Then I smiled. I nodded. I knew I had nothing to fear from a woman who was 150 or 160 years old. After all, I DID have to get the story.
I sent Shafter and the air-speedster home.
Little did I know what I was letting myself in for! Oh, Gods, what I have been through and how I have suffered, dear reader, getting you this vital tale!
I did not have the least inkling of the shocking experience that awaited me!
I should have read it from the smile on the face of Pratia Tayl when I helped her to rise and go in to dinner, a smile which stayed there all through the meal.
PART NINETY-ONE
ENVOI II
VIII
Feeling pleasantly full of a delicious dinner, I was led by Pratia into an imposing bedroom. It had floating chairs. It had an enormous floating bed. The place was all white and gold and was decorated with natural-color cupids on the walls and in the cloudy ceiling. I suddenly looked again. The cupids, in singles, doubles and clusters all were leering!
Pratia sat down in a soft and ample chair. She picked up a bag which had been lying there. Out of it she took a needle and some long strings, then she shook out a pile of tiny, colored hoops. I knew what all that was: ladies of quality often make circular mats of different designs and thread small hoops of various colors on strings by the thousands. I was reassured. I started to sit down on a couch.
“No, not there,” said Pratia. “On the bed!”
I sat down on the huge bed: it was wondrously soft and fleecy but strangely it did not sink, keeping one supported.
Pratia put
a needle through a hoop. “You are really a nice young fellow,” she said. “So, take off your clothes.”
I flinched.
“No take-off-the-clothes, no story,” said Pratia.
Well, she wasn’t attacking me. With considerable reluctance, I kicked off my shoes and socks, removed my jacket and my shirt.