The vehicle was struck by a particularly vicious gust of wind; it jerked and plunged and from somewhere came a wrenching tearing sound, which the gentleman ignored. ''We are probably safer here than if we were sitting at home in an easy chair, at the mercy of a rabid dog.”
"I appreciate your explanation, which is very clear,” said Wayness. “I still feel a bit nervous, but now I do not know why.”
“Late in the afternoon the airbus landed at the town Aquique, where Wayness disembarked, after which the airbus took off once again for Lago Angelina, to the southeast. Wayness discovered that she had missed the tri-weekly connection to Pombareales, still another hundred miles to the southwest, almost in the shadow of the Andes. She could either lay over two days at Aquique, or she could proceed by surface omnibus on the following day.
Aquique's best hotel was the Universo, a tower of concrete and glass five stories high adjacent to the airport. Wayness was assigned an airy room on the top floor, overlooking all Aquique: several thousand concrete and glass blocks arranged on a rectilinear grid concentric about the central plaza. Beyond, the pampas spread away to the edge of vision.
During the evening, Wayness felt lonely and homesick, and spent an hour writing letters to her father and mother, with an insert for Glawen, if he were still at Araminta Station. “I have given up expecting any word from you. Julian showed up at Fair Winds and did nothing to make himself popular; to the contrary. However, he mentioned that you had gone off somewhere to help your father, and as of now, I don’t know whether you are alive or dead. I hope alive, and I wish you were here with me now, as this enormous tract of wasteland is on the whole depressing. I find that I have only so much energy to devote to intrigues and plots, and then I start feeling miserable. Still, I will survive. I have an enormous amount to tell you. This is a strange countryside, and sometimes I forget that I am traveling Old Earth and believe myself off-world. In any case, I send you all my love, and I hope that we will be together soon.”
In the morning Wayness boarded the omnibus, and was transported south and west across the pampas. She relaxed into the seat and covertly appraised her fellow passengers: a routine which by now had become almost reflexive. She saw nothing to arouse her suspicion; no one showed any interest in her, save a young man with a narrow forehead and a wide big-toothed smile, who wanted to sell her a religious tract.
“No, thank you,” said Wayness. “I am not interested in your theories."
“The young man produced a paper sack. “Would you care for some candy?”
“No, thank you,” said Wayness. “If you plan to eat it yourself, please move to another seat, as the smell will make me sick, and I will vomit on your religious tract." The young man moved to a different seat and ate his candy in solitude.
The bus moved across a desolation of low hills, outcrops of rotten rocks, tufts of bracken, willow and aspens in the dips and declivities, a few low cypress trees bedraggled by the wind. The environment was not without its own bleak beauty. Wayness thought that had she been required to paint the landscape, she could have done so with a very limited palette. There would be several tones of gray: dark for the shadows, grays tinted with umber, ocher and cobalt for rocks and outcrops; dun, olive drab and dusty tan; copper-green and splotches of black-green for the cypresses.
As the bus proceeded, the mountains loomed higher into the sky, and a wind striking down from the west gave vitality and movement to the landscape.
The sun, rather pale by reason of high haze, moved toward the zenith. In the distance appeared a clutter of low white structures: the town Pombareales.
The bus drove into the town square and stopped in front of the rambling three-story Motel Monopole. Wayness thought that the town seemed much like Nambucara, on a somewhat smaller scale, with the same central plaza, the same surrounding grid of streets lined with white rectilinear structures. It was a town of no obvious attraction, thought Wayness, except that it might be the last place on Earth where agents of the Tanglet Association might come seeking a wrongdoer.
Wayness carried her bag into the cavernous lobby of the Hotel Monopole. The clerk at the registration desk offered her a room overlooking the square, or a room not overlooking the square, or if she chose a corner suite both overlooking and not overlooking the square. ''We are not busy,” said the clerk. “The price is the same: two sols per day, which includes breakfast.”
“I will try the suite,” said Wayness. “I have never before been allowed so much room.”
"In this part of the world 'room' is a plentiful resource,” said the clerk. “You may have all you like at no great charge, with the wind and a panoramic view of the Andes included."
Wayness found the suite adequate in all respects. The bathroom functioned properly; the bedroom contained a large bed, smelling faintly of antiseptic soap; the sitting room was furnished with a heavy oak table, a large blue rug, several massive chairs, a couch, a desk with a cabinet, and a telephone. Wayness resisted the temptation to call Fair Winds and went to sit in one of the chairs. She had made no plans; they seemed pointless in the absence of information. She must reconnoiter, and discover what there was to be known about Irena Portils.
The time was half an hour before noon: too early for lunch. Wayness went down to the lobby and approached the desk clerk. Discretion and subtlety were now of prime importance; for all she knew he might be Irena Portils’ brother-in-law. She approached the object of her inquiry at an oblique angle. “A friend wants me to look up someone on Via Madera. Where would that be?"
“Via Madera? There is no Via Madera in Pombareales.”
“Hm. I should have made a note of the name. Could it be, Via Ladera? Or Baduro?”
“There is the Calle Maduro, and the Avenida Onyx Formadero."
“I think it was Calle Maduro: a house with two black granite balls marking the gateway."
"I don't recall such a house, but Calle Maduro is yonder.” He pointed his pencil. "Go three blocks south along Calle Luneta, and you will come to the intersection with Calle Maduro. Here you must make a choice. If you turn left and walk several blocks you will come to the poultry cooperative. If you turn right, you will eventually arrive at the cemetery. Choose for yourself; I cannot advise you.”
“Thank you.” Wayness turned toward the door. The clerk called her back. “The way is long and the wind blows dust; why not ride in style? There is Esteban's cab: the red vehicle parked directly outside the door. His charges will not be an outrage if you threaten to patronize his brother Ignaldo, who drives a green cab.”
Wayness went out to the red cab. In the front seat sat a small man, all arms and legs, with weathered brown skin and a long droll face. At the sight of Wayness he cried out: "On the instant!” and flung open the door.
Wayness asked: “Is this Ignaldo’s cab? I am told that his rates are fair — in fact, very fair.”
"Utter nonsense!' said Esteban. “Your innocence has been abused. Sometimes he pretends to offer low rates, but he is a sly devil and cheats his passengers double in the end. Who should know better than I, who compete with him.”
“For this reason you might well be biased in your judgment.”
“Not so. Ignaldo knows no conscience. If your dying grandmother were rushing to reach the church before the priest went home, Ignaldo would take her on a long detour through the country and become lost, until either she had died, whereupon his rates for transporting corpses came into effect, or until, for the sake of her soul, the dying woman agreed to his larceny.”
“In that case, I will give you a try, but first you must reveal your own rates.”