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?”
“The uniform is official and I am here on an official investigation.”
Spanchetta gave a mocking laugh. “And of what am I accused on this occasion?'
“I wish to question you, in regard to the purloining and wrongful sequestration of mail — namely, the mail which arrived for me during my absence.”
Spanchetta made a scornful gesture. “What should I know of your mail?”
“I have been in communication with Arles. Unless you produce the mail at once, I shall order an instant search of the premises. In this case you will be subject to criminal charges whether the mail is found or whether it is not found, since the testimony of Arles has established that the mail was given into your custody.'
Spanchetta reflected a moment, then turned away and started from the room. Glawen followed on her heels. Spanchetta stopped short, and snapped over her shoulder: you are invading a private domicile. That is a notable offense.
“Not under circumstances such as this. I want to see where you have been keeping the letters. Also I don’t care to cool my heels an hour or so in the reception parlor while you go about your affairs.”
Spanchetta managed a grim-smile and turned away. In the corridor she stopped by a tall armoire. From one of the drawers she took a packet of letters secured with string. “This is what you are looking for. I forgot about them; it is as simple as that.”
Glawen leafed through the letters which numbered four. All had been opened. Spanchetta watched without comment.
Glawen could think of nothing to say which could adequately express his outrage. He heaved a deep sigh. “You may be hearing more from me in this matter.”
Spanchetta’s silence was insulting. Glawen turned on his heel and departed, that he might not say or do anything to compromise his dignity. The maid politely opened the door Glawen stalked through and out into the corridor.
Glawen returned to his own chambers, and stood in the middle of the siting room, seething with fury. Spanchetta’s conduct was worse than intolerable; it was indescribable. As always, after Spanchetta had performed one of her characteristic offenses, there seemed no reasonable or dignified recourse. Time and time again the rueful
