“First, consideration of our options. Second, reconnaissance. Third, attack, with full stealth.” He brought an image to the wall screen. “There you see Shattorak, a mere pimple on the swamp. It is of course two thousand feet high. The river to the south is the Vertes.” The image expanded, to provide a view across the summit of Shattorak: a sterile expanse, slightly disk-shaped, surfaced with coarse grey sand and ledges of black rock. A pond of copper-blue water occupied the center. "The area is about ten acres,” said Bodwyn Wook. “The picture is at least a hundred years old; I don’t think we have been there since.”
“It looks hot.”
"So it does, and so it is. I will shift the perspective. You will notice a strip about two hundred yards wide surrounding the summit where the incline begins. The ground is still barren except for a few large trees. These are evidently where the prisoners sleep. Below the jungle begins. If Floreste is correct, the prisoners reside around the strip, and are free to escape across the swamp whenever they like.”
Glawen studied the image in silence.
“We must scout the terrain with care, and only then proceed,” said Bodwyn Wook. “Are we agreed?”
“Yes,” said Glawen. “We are agreed.”
Bodwyn Wook went on. “I am puzzled by Floreste’s references to Chilke. It appears that he is here at Araminta Station only by reason of Smonny’s scheming to find and control the Charter. I wonder too about the Society on Old Earth: why are they not taking steps to locate the lost documents?"
“There are not many members left, so I am told.”
“Are they indifferent to the Conservancy? That is hard to believe. Who is the current Secretary?”
Glawen responded cautiously: "I think that he is a cousin of the Conservator, named Pirie Tamm.”
“Indeed! Did not the Tamm girl go off to Earth?”
"So she did.”
“Well then! Since-uh, what is her name?”
“Wayness.”
“Just so. Since Wayness is present on Old Earth, perhaps she can help us in regard to the missing documents from the Society archives. Write her and suggest that she make a few inquiries into this matter. Emphasize that she should be absolutely discreet, and give out no clue as to her objectives. For a fact, I can see where this might develop into an important issue.”
Glawen nodded thoughtfully. “As a matter of fact, Wayness is already making such inquiries.”
“Ah ha! What has she learned, if anything?”
“I don’t know. I have had no letters from her.”
Bodwyn Wook raised his eyebrows. “She has not written you?"
“I’m sure she has written. But I have never received her letters."
“Odd. The doorman at Clattuc House has probably tucked them behind his wine-cooler.”
“That is a possibility, though I'm beginning to suspect another person entirely. In any event, I think that as soon as we deal with Shattorak, I should take advice from Chilke, then go to Earth to look for these documents.”
“Hmf yes. Ahem. First things first, which means Shattorak. In due course we will talk further on the subject.” Bodwyn Wook picked up Floreste's letter. “I will take charge of this.”
Glawen made no complaint, and departed the New Agency. He ran back to Clattuc House at a purposeful trot and pushed through the front portal. To the side were a pair of small chambers occupied by Alarion co-Clattuc, the head, doorman, together with an antechamber where, if necessary, he could overlook comings and goings. Alarion’s duties included receipt of incoming mail, sorting and delivering parcels, letters and inter-House memoranda to the designated apartments.
Glawen touched a bell-button and Alarion appeared from his private rooms: a white-hatred man, thin and bent, whose only vanity would seem to be a small goatee. “Good evening, Glawen! What can I do for you this evening?"
“You might enlighten me regarding some letters which should have arrived for me from Old Earth.”
“I can only inform you as to what I know of my certain knowledge,” said Alarion. “You would not want me to fabricate tales of non-existent parcels and messages engraved on gold tablets delivered by the archangel Sersimanthes.”
“I take it that nothing of that sort has arrived?"
Alarion glanced over his shoulder toward his sorting table. "No, Glawen. Nor anything else."
“As you know, I was away from the Station for several months. During this time I should have received a number of letters from off-world; yet I cannot find them. Do you remember any such letters arriving during my absence?"
Alarion said slowly: “I seem to recall such letters. They were delivered to your chambers, even after Scharde met with his accident. As always, I dropped the letters into the door-slot. Then, of course, Arles moved into your rooms for a time, but surely he took proper care of your mail. No doubt the letters are tucked away somewhere."
“No doubt,” said Glawen. “Thank you for the information."
Glawen became aware that he was ravenously hungry: no surprise, since he had not eaten since morning. In the refectory he made a hurried meal on dark bread, beans and cucumbers, then went up to his apartments. He seated himself before the telephone. He touched buttons, but in response was treated to a crisp official voice: “You are making a restricted call, and cannot be connected without authorization."
“I am Captain Glawen Clattuc, Bureau B. That is sufficient authorization.”
“Sorry, Captain Clattuc. Your name is not on the list.”
“Then put it on the list! Check with Bodwyn Wook if you like.”
A moment passed. The voice spoke again. “Your name is now on the list, sir. To whom do you wish the connection?”
“Arles Clattuc.”
Five minutes passed before Arles heavy face peered hopefully into the screen. At the sight of Glawen, the hope gave way to a scowl. “What do you want, Glawen? I thought It was something important. This place is bad enough without harassment from you.”
"It might get worse, Arles, depending upon what happened to my mail."
"Your mail?”
“Yes, my mail. It was delivered to my chambers and now it’s gone. What happened to it?"
Arles voice rose in pitch as he focused his mind upon the unexpected problem. He responded peevishly: "I don't remember any mail. There was just a lot of trash. The place was a pig-pen when we moved in."
Glawen gave a savage laugh. “If you threw away my mail, you'll be breaking rocks a lot longer than eighty-five days! Think seriously, Arles”
“No need to take that tone with me! If there was mail, it probably got bundled up into your other stuff and stored in a box.”
"I have been through my boxes and I have found no letters. Why? Because you opened them and read them."
“Nonsense! Not purposely, at least if I saw mail with the name ‘Clattuc’ on it, I might have automatically glanced at it.”
"Then what?”
“I told you: I don’t remember!"
"Did you give it to your mother to read?"
Arles licked his lips. “She might have picked it up, in order to take care of it."
"And she read it in front of you!"
“I did not say that. Anyway, I wouldn't remember. I don’t keep a watch on my mother. Is that all you wanted to say?"
“Not quite, but it will do until I find what happened to my letters." Glawen broke the connection. For a moment he stood in the center of the room brooding. Then he changed into his official Bureau B jacket and cap and took himself down the corridor to Spanchetta’s apartments.
A maid responded to the bell and conducted him into the reception parlor an octagonal chamber furnished with a central octagonal settee upholstered in green silk. In four alcoves four cinnabar urns displayed tall bouquets of purple lilies. Spanchetta stepped into the room. Tonight she had elected to dramatize her majestic big-bosomed torso in a gown of lusterless black, unadorned by so much as a silver button. The hem brushed the floor; long sleeves draped her arms; her hair lofted above her scalp in an amazing pyramidal pile of black curls almost a foot high, and she had toned her skin stark white. For five seconds she stood in the doorway, staring at Glawen with eyes glinting like slivers of black glass, then advanced into the room. “What is your business here, that you come dressed in your toy uniform?”