The wind thrummed through the spidery ramp structure and whipped Barnevelt's raincoat about his knees. At the foot of the ramp he found he still had several minutes' walk to the customs building. The walkway with its canopy continued on little stilts across the field, an expanse of bare brown earth dotted with puddles. In the distance a scraper and a roller were flattening out the crater left by the last takeoff. Behind him the Amazonas stood like a colossal rifle cartridge on its base. As they walked towards the customs building the rain stopped, and Roquir showed his big yellow buckler between towering masses of cloud.
A uniformed Viagens man was holding open the door of the customs building and saying in the Brazilo-Portuguese of the spaceways: "Passengers remaining on Krishna, first door to the right. Those proceeding on to Ganesha or Vishnu…"
Nine of the fourteen passengers crowded through the first door to the right and lined up before the desk of a big scowling man identified by a sign as Afanansi Gorchakov, Chief Customs Inspector.
When their turn came, Barnevelt and Tangaloa presented their passports to be checked and stamped and entered while they signed and thumb-printed the register. Meanwhile Gorchakov's two assistants went through baggage.
When one of them came across the Hayashi ring-cameras he called to Gorchakov, who examined them and asked: "Are these equipped with destructors?"
"Yes," said Tangaloa.
"You will not let them fall into Krishnan hands?"
"Certainly not."
"Then we'll let them through. Though it is technically illegal, we make an exception because Krishna is changing, and if pictures of the old Krishna are not made now they never will be."
"Why's it changing?" asked Barnevelt. "I thought you fellows were careful to protect the Krishnans against outside influences."
"Yes, but they have learned much from us nevertheless. For instance, back in 2130 Prince Ferrian of Sotaspe established a patent system in his kingdom, and it has already begun to show an effect."
"Who's he?"
"The rascal who tried to smuggle a whole technical library into Krishna in his ancestor's mummy. When we blocked that, he put this patent idea into practice, having picked it up on his visit to Earth."
Tangaloa asked: "Who is counselor to visitors?"
"Castanhoso. Wait, and I will present you."
When all the incoming visitors had been medically examined, Gorchakov led Shtain's men down the hall into another office harboring Herculeu Castanhoso, Assistant Security Officer of Novorecife.
When Gorchakov had left, Tangaloa explained the purposes of the expedition, adding: "Can we trust the young lady? We don't want our plans noised among the aborigines." He nodded towards Castanhoso's pretty secretary.
"Surely," said Castanhoso, a small dark man.
"Good-o. Has anybody like Dr. Shtain come through in recent months?"
Castanhoso examined the bathygraph of Igor Shtain. The three-dimensional image stared back coldly.
"I don't think—wait, there was one on the last ship from Earth, one of three who said they'd been hired by the King of Balhib to survey his kingdom."
"How could they do that without violating your rules?"
"They would be limited to Krishnan methods of surveying. But even so, they said, they are still much more accurate than any Krishnan. Now that I think of it, their story did sound thin, for it's notorious that ever since Sir Shurgez cut off his beard, King Kir has had a mania against strangers. I'll ask him. Senhorita Foley!"
"Sim?" The girl turned, revealing large blue eyes. She looked at Castanhoso with a breathless expression, as if expecting him to reveal an infallible method of winning at swindle-bridge.
"A letter, por favor. From Herculeu Castanhoso, etcetera, to his sublime altitude, Kir bad-Balade, Dour of Balhib and Kubyab, hereditary Dasht of Jeshang, titular Pandr of Chiliag, etcetera, etcetera. May it please Your Serene Awsomeness, but the Viagens Interplanetarias would appreciate information respecting the following matter, namely, that is, and videlicit: …"
When he had finished he added: "Translate it into Go-zashtandou and write it in longhand on native paper."
"She must be a right smart girl," said Barnevelt.
"She is." (The girl glowed visibly at this brief praise.) "Senhorita, these are our visitors the Senhores Jorge Tangaloa and Dirk Barnevelt; Mees Eileen Foley."
Barnevelt asked: "What about the king's beard? These people must have rugged ideas of humor."
"You do not know the tenth of it. This Shurgez was sent on a quest for the beard because he had murdered somebody in Mikardand. Kir was mad with rage, because Krishnans have practically no beards and it had taken him all his life to grow this one."
"I can see how he'd feel," said Barnevelt, remembering how his classmates at Teachers' College had forcibly demustached him. "When was this?"
"In 2137, just before Ferrian's stunt with the mummy and the Gois scandal." Castanhoso told what he knew of the singular story of Anthony Fallon and Victor Hasselborg, adding other details of recent Krishnan history.
"Sounds as complicated as an income-tax form," said Barnevelt. "I don't remember any of this in my briefing."
"You forget, Senhor Dirk, the news had not reached Earth when you left, and that you have been traveling twelve Earthly years, objective time."
"I know. I have to keep reminding myself of the Fitzgerald effect. Actually I don't feel that much older."
"No, because physically you aren't—only three or four weeks older. You passed Hasselborg on his way back to Earth."
Tangaloa said: "Ahem. Let us get to the point, gentlemen: How do we get to the Sunqar?"
Castanhoso walked over to the wall, where he pulled down a roll-map. "Observe, Senhores. Here are we. Here is the Pichide River, separating the Gozashtandou Empire on the North from the Republic of Mikardand on the South. Here to the East lies the Sadabao Sea. Here is Palindos
Strait opening into the Banjao Sea to the South, and here is the Sunqar.
"As you see, the port closest to the Sunqar is Malayer on the Banjao Sea, but there is war in those parts and I seem to remember hearing that Malayer is under siege by the nomads of Qaath. Therefore you must go down the Pichide to Majbur, then take the railroad down the coast to Jazmurian, and thence travel by road to Ghulinde, the capital of Qirib. From there I suppose you will go by water—unless you prefer to sail to Sotaspe," (he pointed to a spot on the map far out in the Sadabao Sea) "to borrow one of Ferrian's rocket gliders.
"If you ask me how to proceed from Ghulind6, frankly I don't know how you can get into that continent of sargaco without at least getting your throats cut. However, you will find Qirib comparatively unspoiled by Earthly influence, and I hope you decide it is picturesque enough for purposes of cinematography."
Tangaloa shook his head. "The contract says the Sunqar. But how do we get to this Ghulinde?"
"What we mean," said Barnevelt, "is: How do we travel? Openly as Earthmen?"
"I would not, even though some have gotten away with it. Our barber can give you disguises: artificial antennae, points to your ears, and green dye for your hair."
"Ugh," said Barnevelt.
"Or, if you dislike dyeing your hair, which entails taking along extra dye for when your hair grows out, you could go as men from Nyamadze, where they shave their scalps completely."
"Where's Nyah-whatever-it-is?" asked Barnevelt. "Sounds as if it might be Igor Shtain's home town."
"Nyah-mah-dzuh. It's in the South Polar Region, thousands of hoda from here, as you can see on this globe. You shall be Nyarrien. They seldom get to this part of the planet, and if you pretended to be such, it might avert suspicion if you speak with an accent or seem ignorant of local matters."