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.”
Esteban threw his hands high in impatience. “Where do you want to go?”
“Here and there. You may take me up Calle Maduro for a start.”
“That of course is possible. Do you wish to look at the cemetery?”
“No. I want to look at the houses.”
“On Calle Maduro there is little to see, and my charges will be minimal. For one half hour the fare will be one sol.”
“What! That is double Ignaldo's rate!”
Esteban made a sound of disgust and gave in so readily that Wayness knew that her outcry had been justified. “Very well; I have nothing better to do. Climb in. The rate is one sol per hour.'
Wayness stepped primly into the cab. “Mind you, I am not hiring the cab for an hour, For one-half hour, I pay one-half sol, and this rate must include the gratuities.'
Esteban roared: “Why do I not just give you the cab and all my miserable belongings and walk from the town a pauper?”
Esteban's emotion was so genuine that Wayness knew they had arrived at his ordinary rate.
Wayness laughed. 'Calm yourself! You cannot hope for sudden wealth every time some poor innocent enters your cab.'
'You are not so innocent as you look,” grumbled Esteban. He closed the door and the cab set off up the Calle Luneta. “Where do you want to go?”
“First, let us drive up Calle Maduro.”
Esteban gave a nod of comprehension. 'You have relatives in the cemetery, so it seems.'
“I don’t know of any.”
Esteban raised his eyebrows. What kind of odd conduct was this? 'There is little to see from one end of town to the other even less along Calle Maduro.'
“Do you know the folk who live along the street?'
“I know everyone in Pombareales.' Esteban turned the cab into Calle Maduro, which had been hard-surfaced a very long time ago and was now pocked with potholes. Only about half of the lots had been developed; houses stood in isolation at intervals of twenty yards or more. Each was surrounded by a yard, where occasionally a few sickly shrubs or a wind-beaten tree indicated someone's attempt at a garden. Esteban pointed to a house which showed blank windows to the street, and patches of thistle in the yard. “There is a house you might buy at the cheap.'
'It looks rather dismal.”
'That is because it is haunted by the ghost of Edgar Sambaster, who hanged himself one night at midnight when the wind blew down from the mountains.'
“And no one has lived there since?'
Esteban shook his head. “The owners have gone off-world. A few years ago a certain Professor Solomon became involved in a scandal and hid there for a few weeks, and no one has heard from him since.”
“Hm. Has anyone looked in the house to see whether he might be hanging there too?”
“Yes, that was considered, and the constables made an inspection, but found nothing.”
“Odd.” The cab had drawn abreast of another house, which was like any of the others except for a pair of life size statues in the front yard, representing nymphs with their arms raised in benediction. “Who lives there?'
“That is the house of Hector Lopez, who works as gardener at the cemetery. He brought home the statues when a tract of graves was relocated.”
“They make an interesting decoration.'
'So it may be. There are some who think that Hector Lopez is putting on airs. What is your opinion?”
“I don't find them offensives. Could it be that the neighbors are envious?'
“Possible, I suppose. There you see the house of Leon Casinde, the pork butcher. He is a great singer and may often be heard, drunk or sober, in the cantina.”
The cab proceeded up the Calle Maduro. Esteban warmed to his task and Wayness learned much of the lives and habits of those in the houses along the way. Presently they came to No. 31, Casa Lucasta: a house of two
