Glawen paid him no heed. Looking neither right nor left he crossed the lobby and departed the hotel. The clerk looked after him glumly, his self-esteem deflated to its original condition.
Out on the avenue, Glawen paused to take stock of his surroundings. Pharisse had moved no great distance across the sky; eight hours, perhaps, of daylight remained before what would be a long slow dusk. Low in the sky floated a number of pale wraiths: some of Nion’s numerous satellites, in phases, crescent to half-full. At the moment the air was still, and the lake reflected the low white domes and minarets of Old Tanjaree on the opposite shore.
Glawen set off on his fateful mission, trying to insulate his mind against both foreboding and hope-a task complicated by uneasy speculations regarding the man who had beguiled Miss Shoup: where was he now?
Glawen came to Crippet Alley and turned aside, passing instantly from the enclave of the off-worlders into an environment where the local population pursued its own quiet purposes. They seemed a sedate gentle folk, loving a languid pace perhaps influenced by the long thirty-seven hour day of Tanjaree. Like Pink and Blue, they were of no great stature, with chestnut hair, delicate features and gray eyes. The alley itself was irregular and crooked, sometimes narrow and overhung by the upper stories of houses along the way, at times expanding into a small irregular plaza, perhaps with a thick-trunked dendron at the center.
It gradually came upon Glawen that there was something strange about Crippet Alley: it was unnaturally quiet. There were no loud voices or music or clangor; only the slide of soft footsteps and a muted whisper from the stalls and shops.
Glawen arrived at the Argonaut Art Supply Company: a two-story structure, somewhat more imposing than others along the alley. A pair of windows to either side of the door displayed on the left a number of small mechanical toys; to the right, a sampling of the art supplies offered for sale within the shop, modeling tools; waxes, plasters and clays; equipment for the decoration of fabric, along with dyes and mordants; pigments, stains and solvents; kits of graduated andromorphs. The merchandise had a settled look, as if it had not been shifted for a long time.
Glawen entered the shop: a dim cluttered chamber with the high ceiling and walls stained dark brown. The room was very silent Glawen saw that he was alone save for a middle-aged woman with short blonde-gray hair who sat behind a counter reading a journal. Her complexion was fair; she wore a neat blue smock.
Glawen approached the counter; the woman looked up from her journal with an amiable, if incurious, expression. "Yes, sir?”
Glawen found that his mouth was dry. The moment had come and he was nervous. He found his voice: "Is Mr. Keebles at hand?”
The woman looked off across the room, frowning as if pondering the question. She decided upon a reply. "Mr. Keebles? He is not here."
Glawen’s heart sank. The woman added: "Not at the moment.” Glawen released his pent breath.
Having responded to the question, the woman returned to her Journal. Glawen spoke patiently: “When will he be back?"
The woman looked up again. “Before long, or so I should think.”
“In minutes? Hours? Days? Months?”
The woman showed a dutiful smile. “Really now! What a funny thing to say! Mr. Keebles has only just gone off to the bathroom!”
“Then we are thinking in terms of minutes," said Glawen. “Am I right?”
“Certainly not days, nor months,” said the woman primly. “Not even hours.”
“In that case, I will wait.”
The woman nodded and went back to her reading. Glawen turned and gave the room a more detailed inspection. At the back was a flight of rickety stairs and, to the side, a shipping counter, where his eye was caught by a glint of green. Approaching the counter, he saw a tray half a dozen green jade clasps, three inches in diameter much like those he had noticed In Ma Chilke’s sitting room, Though these were chipped and cracked, or otherwise damaged. Odd! thought Glawen. He looked toward the woman and spoke: "What are these jade pieces?"
The woman tilted her head to look. She reflected a moment. “Ah, yes! The jade buckles! They are 'tanglets,' from the Plain of Standing Stones, around the other side of the world.”
“Are they valuable?”
“Oh yes! But it is dangerous to collect them, unless one is an expert.”
“Is Mr. Keebles such an expert?”
The woman gave her head a smiling shake. “Not Mr. Keebles! He gets them from a friend but they are becoming scarce, which is a pity since they bring good prices.” She turned her head. “Here is Mr. Keebles.”
Down the stairs came a small man with a ruff of white hair. His chest and shoulders were lumpy; his head hunched forward on a short neck. Round pale blue eyes studied Glawen warily. "Well, sir, and what is it you are needing? “
"You are Melvish Keebles?”
The pale blue eyes appraised Glawen without friendliness. “If you are a salesman or an agent, you are wasting your time and, more importantly, mine.”
“I am neither salesman nor agent. My name is Glawen Clattuc. I would like a few words with you.”
“In what connection?”
“I can’t explain until I ask you a question or two.”
Keebles curled his thin lips. “I take this to mean that you want something but are not disposed to pay for it.”
Glawen smiled and shook his head. “I think that our transaction will bring you at least some small profit.”
Keebles gave a shuddering groan. “When will I get clients who think in something other than trifles?” He waved his hands toward Glawen. "Come; I will listen to you, for a few moments at least.” He turned away and led Glawen along a passage, into a room of irregular dimensions, as dim and fusty as the shop itself. A row of windows in openings canted and askew, no two alike, overlooked a dreary yard. “This is my office,” said Keebles. “We can talk here."
Glawen looked around the room. The furnishings were scant: a desk, four gaunt tall-backed chairs of bent cane, a red and black rug, a rank of cabinets, a side-table stacked with oddments. A shelf supported a dozen ceramic statues, each about sixteen inches high, representing monsters of the Tangting Forest. Glawen found them arresting, by reason both of superb workmanship and the impact of the subject matter, since they were the most hideous and disgusting objects of his experience.
Keebles seated himself at his desk. “Pretty things, are they not?"
Glawen turned away. “How can you bear to look at them?”
“I have no choice," said Keebles. “If can't sell them.”
“The tourists will take them off your hands,” said Glawen. “They will buy anything, the more horrifying the better.”
Keebles snorted. “A hundred thousand sols for the twelve?"
“That seems a high price."
“Not so. One of the Tangting monsters is a freak. He models his fellows in clay for recreation. I will take them to Earth and describe them as fascinating works which pose a hundred psychological puzzles and sell them to a museum.” He jerked his thumb toward a chair. “Sit down and explain your business. Please be brief, since I have an appointment by and by.”
Glawen seated himself. His father Scharde had once remarked that candor should not be avoided merely because it represented truth. In the case at hand, Keebles would believe nothing, so that truth served the same purpose as mendacity. Not the entire truth, of course. That would be a diet too rich for Keebles.
“I have just come out from Earth, to negotiate some business for a client. It’s nothing to do with you, I hasten to say, except that while I was looking down a list of general business agents, I noticed your name. There can't be too many Melvish Keebles in the profession, and to make a long story short, I decided to call on you."