unobtrusive costume which might have been worn by a lesser bank clerk, or a junior teaching assistant, or even a university student of conservative views.
Wayness left her rooms and descended to the ground floor. She took her breakfast in the restaurant, then left the hotel.
The day was clear but windy, with sunlight of a pale cool color slanting into the square from the northeast. Wayness walked briskly down Calle Luneta, wind flapping at her skirt, dust swirls racing down the middle of the street. She turned up Calle Maduro and proceeded until Casa Lucasta was visible only a hundred yards ahead. Here she paused and took stock of the surroundings. Directly opposite she saw a small white house, dilapidated and untenanted, the glass broken from its windows so that they gazed, out upon the street with the bleary blank gaze of a drunkard. Wayness looked right and left, up and down the street. No one was watching. She waited for the passage of a wind-swept plume of dust, then, wrinkling her nose, ran across the street. After another furtive glance to right and left, she jumped up to the porch of the vacant house and drew back into the shadows of a shallow curtain wall. Here, sheltered from the wind, she could lurk unseen while watching to discover who approached along the street.
Wayness composed herself to wait: all day if need be, since she had no idea at what time the doctor might make his call at Casa Lucasta.
The time was close upon nine o'clock. Wayness made herself as comfortable as possible. A vehicle came along the street: a delivery truck loaded with building materials, evidently on its way to the cemetery. Another small vehicle appeared: a baker's van, delivering bread and other goods to houses along the street. A young man rode past on a motorcycle; the delivery truck returned from the cemetery. Wayness sighed and changed her position. The time was now five minutes before ten o'clock. A car of medium size painted an institutional white and black turned into Calle Maduro. This was almost certainly the car she was expecting. Jumping down from the porch, she ran to the sidewalk and as the car drew near, stepped out into the street and made urgent signals. The car slowed and halted. Wayness was relieved to find that the inscription on the side read:
INSTITUTE OF PUBLIC HEATH
— Montalvo-
ADAPTATIONAL SERVICES
She had not stopped the wrong car.
The driver and Wayness examined each other. She saw a dark-haired man of medium stature, aged perhaps thirty-three or thirty-four, sturdy of physique, with a square resolute face. Wayness thought him quite good-looking, and she also thought that he seemed reasonable and open-minded, which was good, although the rather grim set of his mouth might imply a lack of humor, which was bad. He was dressed casually, in a green pullover and tan twill trousers, indicating a lack of institutional formality, which again, from Wayness' point of view, was good. On the other hand, his expression, as he looked her over, was impersonal and analytical, which was bad, since she would be unable to melt him with an appealing smile and a bit of flirtation. Such being the case, she must accept the more difficult task of using her intelligence.
'Yes, miss?'
'You are the doctor?'
He looked her up and down. “Are you sick?”
Wayness blinked. Humor? If so, it was sardonic. She saw that she had her work cut out. “I am quite well, thank you. But still I have something important to say to you.”
“That sounds a bit ominous. Are you sure you have the right person? I am Dr. Armand Olivano; please do not shoot me by mistake.”
Wayness held up her empty hands. “You are safe. I only want to make a suggestion which I hope you will consider wise and necessary.”
Dr. Olivano deliberated a second or two, he gave an abrupt shrug. “Since you put it like that, I can hardly refuse to listen.' He opened the door. “I have an appointment up ahead, but it can wait a few minutes.'
Wayness climbed into the car. “Perhaps you'll be kind enough to drive somewhere and park where we can talk.'
Dr. Olivano made no protest. He turned the car about, drove back down Calle Maduro and parked in the shade of the eucalyptus trees beside the poultry cooperative. “Is this satisfactory?'
Wayness nodded. She spoke carefully: “Since I want you to take me seriously, I must start with some facts. My name is Wayness Tamm, which of course will mean nothing to you. But let me ask this: are you a conservationist, philosophically or even emotionally?”
“Of course. Who isn’t?'
Wayness made no direct response. “Are you acquainted with the Naturalist Society?”
''There I draw a blank.'
'No great matter. There is very little left now. My uncle, Pirie Tamm, is Secretary. I am Assistant Secretary. There are three or four very old members, and that's about all. A thousand years ago the Society was an important organization. It became trustee of the world Cadwal, at the end of Mircea’s Wisp at the back of Perseus, and established a permanent Conservancy. I was born on Cadwal; my father, in fact is the Conservator.”
Wayness spoke on for several minutes. As briefly as possible she described the crisis on Cadwal, her discovery that the Charter and the Grant had been lost and her attempts to find them again. “I have traced them this far.'
Dr. Olivano was surprised. 'Here? In Pombareales?'
“Not exactly. The next rung on the ladder is Adrian Moncurio, a professional tomb robber. At Pombareales he is known as Professor Solomon, and is famous for his lead doubloons.”
“Ah! Now I am beginning to understand! We are closing in on Casa Lucasta!'
'So we are. Irena Portils may be Moncurio’s legal spouse, though I suspect not. Still, she is probably the only person on Earth who knows where to find him.'
Dr. Olivano nodded. “What you have to say is interesting, but you may accept, as an article of faith, that Irena Portils will tell you nothing.'
“That was my own feeling, after I saw her walking along the street. She seems a determined woman and under great strain.'
'That is an understatement. I took her some forms to be filled out, routine inquiries regarding the family situation. The law insists upon knowing the father's address, but Madame Portils would reveal nothing. Not name, age, birthplace, occupation, or current address of her missing spouse. I pointed out that if she persisted the law might take away her children and put them in an institution. She became very agitated. “Such information is important to no one but me. He is off-world; that is enough for you to know. If you take my children I will do something terrible.” I believed her, and said that perhaps it was not necessary after all. Later I wrote in a false name and address, and everyone was satisfied. But it’s clear that Madame Portils herself is a border line case. She hides behind a mask as best she can, especially when I come to call, since I represent the awful majesty of the Institute. I know that she hates me; she can't help herself — especially since the children seem to like me.'
'Can they be cured?'
“That's hard to say, since no one can define their affliction. They fluctuate; sometimes they seem almost normal; a few days later they are lost in their reveries. The girl is Lydia; she is often rational — unless she is put under stress. The boy is Myron. He can glance at a printed page and then reproduce it in any scale, large or small, letter by letter, word for word. The drawing is exact, and he seems to derive satisfaction in finishing the job — but he can't read, and he will not speak.”
'Can he speak?”
'Lydia says that he can, but is not so sure after all that it was not the wind talking to her as it often does. If the wind blows at night, she must be watched or she will climb from her window and run through the dark. This is when she becomes difficult, and must be sedated. They are a fascinating pair, and I am in awe of them. One day I set up a chess board in front of Myron. I explained the rules and we started to play. He barely glanced at the board and trounced me in twenty moves. We played again. He looked at the board only long enough to move his piece and beat me with contemptuous ease in seventeen moves. Then he became bored and lost interest.'
'He does not read?'
“No, nor does Lydia.'
“Someone should teach them.'
