busy at a display of articles whose function Glawen could not guess. The objects resembled small handguns and were of decidedly menacing appearance, with a hand grip, a trigger, a metal snout and a reaction chamber. Glawen asked: 'What sort of weapons are those? I thought Shoup sold art supplies.”
Mulsh smiled politely. “It is a fair question: why do we sell guns along with our art supplies? Some folk think they are used to kill amateur artists. Others suspect that artists use them to extort money from the public when all else fails.”
''Which is the correct theory?”
“Neither. The guns allow anyone to execute beautiful panes of colored glass. The process is simple. Notice! I insert this green cartridge into the reaction chamber, and arrange a target of clear glass. When I pull the trigger I project a molten squirt which fuses permanently to the clear pane. The user can select cartridges of as many colors as he likes, to produce panes of the most intricate design glowing in absolutely rapturous colors. May I fit you out with a kit?”
“The idea is appealing,” said Glawen. “But at the moment I am looking for something else.'
“If it can be had, we have it. That is the motto of Shoup and Company. Just a moment while I ship off this kit.' Mulsh took a box to the counter. He told the clerk: “Label this off to Iovanes Faray at Anacutra, and ship.' He turned to Glawen: “Now then, sir! What can I sell you? A gross or two of the glass-melt kits? A dozen artist’s models? A ten-ton block of Canova marble? Thirty-five ounces of moth dust? A bust of Leon Beiderbecke? All are on special for the day.'
“At this particular moment I want something far less complicated.”
'Such as what?'
“A trifle of information. One of your customers is Melvish Keebles. I must ship him a parcel and I have lost his address. I'd like you to look it up for me, and here is a sol for your trouble.'
Mulsh looked askance at Glawen and waved away the proffered money.
'Most odd! Just yesterday another man approached me with the same request. All I could tell him was that I knew nothing of this 'Keebles,' and that he must apply upstairs at Accounts' or 'Billing'. With the best will in the world, that is all I can tell you.”
Glawen frowned. “This man who came in yesterday: what was he like?'
“Oh, nothing extraordinary. He was a bit taller than you, about your age, I would say. Nice-looking chap, and well-spoken. Fancied himself a bit, if you ask me.'
Glawen nodded. 'Where did you say to go?'
“'Accounts' on the fifth floor, or you can ask Miss Shoup herself. She is the boss.”
“Surely she is not the founder of the business?”
“Indeed not! Six Shoups preceded her down the years, through she may well terminate the line, if current indications can be trusted. Mulsh looked over his shoulder, “I'll give you a tip. If you talk to Miss Shoup, don't smile at her or call her 'Flavia’ or try to be familiar; she'll snap your head off.'
“I will heed your advice,” said Glawen. “By the way, the man who came in yesterday: did he get Keebles' address?'
“I don’t know. I was off duty when he left.”
Glawen rode the lift to the fifth floor, which like the first was a single large chamber. No attempt had been made to disguise the stark structural fabric of the building. The concrete ceiling beams were white-washed; a seamless sheath of resilient sponge covered the floor. The wall to the right was flanked by a counter overhung by signs: 'Billing', ‘Accounts,' 'Employment’ and others. Elsewhere a dozen desks were scattered here and there, seemingly at random. Everywhere men and women clad in the neat Shoup uniform worked earnestly and for the most part in silence. When conversation became necessary, hushed voices and brevity of expression were employed, so that the room seemed uncannily quiet.
Glawen squared his shoulders, put on his most businesslike manner, marched briskly across the room to stand by the counter under the sign ‘Accounts'. Almost at once he was approached by a young woman named T. Mirmar, according to the label on her tunic. She spoke in a half-whisper. “Yes, sir?”
Glawen brought out a card and wrote on it: ‘Melvish Keebles.' He put the card in front of T. Mirmar. Modulating his own voice he said: “I have some books to be shipped to this gentleman. Would you be kind enough to note down his exact mailing address?”
T. Mirmar looked at him and shook her head. “What is it about this 'Keebles' person? You're the second to ask since yesterday.'
“Did you give the gentleman yesterday the address?”
“No. I sent him to Miss Shoup, who would want to deal with such a request. I don’t know what she did, but for information you had best apply to Miss Shoup as well.'
Glawen sighed. “I was hoping to simplify my inquires. Would ten sols get me the address?”
“From me? What an idea! No, thank you.”
Glawen sighed again. “Well then: where is Miss Shoup?”
“Yonder.' T. Mirmar indicated a desk at the far end of the room, occupied by a tall gangling woman somewhat past her first youth.
Glawen studied Miss Shoup for a moment. 'She is not quite what I expected,' he told T. Mirmar. “Am I mistaken, or is she angry about something?'
T. Mirmar glanced across the room. She said in a flat voice: 'It would not be proper for me to comment, sir.”
Glawen continued his covert inspection of Miss Shoup. She was not at all well-favored, and Glawen could easily understand why the sixth generation of the Shoup family might be the end of the line. She wore the short- sleeved Shoup tunic, though it emphasized her narrow chest and thin white arms. The white dome of her forehead was topped by a few dismal ringlets of mouse-gray hair. Below were round gray eyes, a small thin nose, a small pallid mouth and a button of a chin. She sat bolt upright and her expression seemed stern, passionless, aloof. If she were not angry, thought Glawen, neither was she overflowing with zest and vivacity.
There was no help for it. Miss Shoup must be approached, and as expeditiously as possible. He turned back to T. Mirmar. “Should I just walk over to her desk?”
“Of course! How else could you get there?”
'I was concerned about formality.'
“There is none at Shoup and Company; just good manners.'
“I see. I will do the best I can.” He walked across the room. Miss Shoup did not raise her eyes until he halted in front of her desk. “Miss Flavia Shoup?”
'Yes?'
'My name is Glawen Clattuc. May I sit down?' He looked about for a char the nearest was at a desk forty feet away.
Miss Shoup appraised him for a moment, eyes as round and impersonal as those of a codfish. “Usually, when visitors find no chairs by my desk, they take the hint.'
Glawen managed to contrive a strained smile. It was an odd remark, he thought, not at all in accord with Shoup and Company’s reputation for politeness. Perhaps Miss Shoup intended only a witticism. “The hint is taken! I will be as brief as possible. Still, if you prefer that I stand, I shall do so.”
Miss Shoup showed a thin smile. “As you like.”
Glawen fetched the chair, emplaced it beside the desk. He seated himself after performing a small punctilious bow which he thought might mollify Miss Shoup but she spoke more crisply than ever. “I do not enjoy mockery, no matter how subliminal the level at which it is expressed.”
“I am of this same opinion,” said Glawen. 'Unfortunately, it is pervasive and I ignore it as if it did not exist.'
Miss Shoup raised her near-colorless eyebrows a hundredth of an inch, but made no comment. Glawen recalled Mulsh's warning against any attempts at familiarity with Miss Shoup. The warning, he thought, was redundant. The silence grew strained. Glawen said politely: “I am an off-worlder, as perhaps you have already divined.”
'Of course.” The words were spoken without emphasis, but carried an overtone of distaste.
“I am a Naturalist from Araminta Station on Cadwal, which is a Conservancy, as you may know.'
Miss Shoup said to him incuriously: “You are a long way from home.'
