The Dogtown Tourist Agency Read Free Page A

office of the Gaean Triarch at the Triskelion. The screen brightened to show the face of a delicately pretty receptionist with blonde ringlets and a rose petal complexion. She spoke in a voice cool and tinkling, like far off wind-chimes. “The office of Sir Estevan Tristo; how can we serve you?”
    “My name is Miro Hetzel. I would like a few minutes with Sir Estevan at the first convenient opportunity, on a matter of considerable importance. Can I see him this afternoon?”
    “What is your business, sir?”
    “I require information in regard to certain conditions on Maz—”
    “You may apply for information to Vvs. Felius at the Triskelion Information Desk, or at the Dogtown Tourist Agency. Sir Estevan concerns himself exclusively with Triarchic business.”
    “Nonetheless, this is an important matter, and I must request a few minutes of his time.”
    “Sir Estevan is not in his office at the moment; I doubt if he’ll appear until the next session of the Triarchs.”
    “And when will that be?”
    “Five days from now, at half-morning. After the session, he allows an occasional interview. Are you a journalist?”
    “Something of the sort. Perhaps I could see him at his home?”
    “No, sir.” The girl’s features, as clear and delicate as those of a child, showed neither warmth nor sympathy for Hetzel’s problems. “He conducts all public business at the Triarchic sessions.”
    “Ah, but this is private business!”
    “Sir Estevan makes no private appointments. After the Triarchic session he works in his office for an hour or two; perhaps he will see you then.”
    Hetzel tapped the off-switch in exasperation.
    He searched the directory for Sir Estevan’s home residence without success. He telephoned the clerk at the Beyranion reception desk. “How can I get in touch with Sir Estevan Tristo? His secretary gives me no help at all.”
    “She’s not allowed to help anyone. Sir Estevan has had too many problems with tourists and letters of introduction. The only place to catch him is at his office.”
    “Five days from now.”
    “If you’re lucky. Sir Estevan has been known to use his private entrance when he wants to avoid talking to someone.”
    “He appears to be a temperamental man.”
    “Decidedly so.”
    The time was noon. Hetzel crossed the garden to the Beyranion’s wood-paneled dining room which had been decorated with picturesque Gomaz artifacts: fetishes; cast-iron war-helmets spiked and crested; a stuffed gargoyle of the Shimkish Mountains. The tables and chairs had been carved from native wood; the table-cloths were soft bast, embroidered with typical emblems. Without haste Hetzel lunched on the best the house afforded, then sauntered out upon the plaza. At the Exhibitory he paused to inspect the prisoners peering forth from their glass cells: gunrunners and weapons smugglers, who would never leave their cells alive. The pallid faces wore identical expressions of sullen passivity. Occasionally one or another exerted himself sufficiently to make an obscene gesture or display his naked backside. Hetzel recognized none of his acquaintances or former clients. All were Gaean, which Hetzel considered a significant commentary upon the human character. Men, as individuals, seemed more diverse and enterprising than their Liss or Olefract counterparts. The Gomaz, he reflected, lived by extremes peculiar to themselves.
    Hetzel turned away from the Exhibitory. The prisoners—pirates, outcasts, mad gallants—awoke him to no pangs of pity. For the sake of gain they had sought to arm the Gomaz, heedless of the fact that the Gomaz, if furnished even a meager weaponry and the means to transport themselves, would go forth to attack the entire galaxy, including the worlds of the Gaean Reach, as forty-six years before they had demonstrated.
    Hetzel continued across the plaza: an expanse of such grand dimensions that the structures around the periphery loomed in the thick air like shadows. He walked in