The hoods were thrown back, revealing stubbles of coarse black hair. Faces were large, round and white, with large moist eyes and long noses flattened at the tips. Glawen found no mystery in the lack of crossbreeding between Zubenite and the other races of Tassadero.

The driver found no reason to wait for more passengers. He started up the omnibus and drove out of Fexelburg, along a road which led eastward across the steppe.

The scenery quickly became uninteresting. With nothing better to do, Glawen began to watch his fellow passengers, with some casual notion of analyzing their thought processes from a study of their unconscious mannerisms. He met no success; the Zubenites sat staring torpidly into space, not even troubling to look out the windows. Perhaps, thought Glawen, they were all pondering the subtle disciplines of Monomantic Syntoraxis.

Probably not. Unless he was greatly mistaken, these folk were neither High nor Low Adepts, but small fanners, lacking all interest in philosophy.

On the previous evening, Glawen had glanced through the Syntorac- ttc Primer and now he thought to put his theory to the test. He spoke to the Zubenite on his right: "Sir, I notice what might seem to be an ambiguity in the arrangement of the Natural Doctrines. Tesseractic Conjunctions properly should precede Doctrine of Thresis and Anathresis. Have you formed an opinion on this topic?"

"Dearest brother, I cannot speak to you today, since I do not know what you are talking about."

"That answers my question," said GIawen. He gave his attention to the landscape: a plain which seemed to extend forever, given accent and perspective by solitary frocks, standing at distant intervals. Far to the north a line of low hills melted into the haze. Somewhere out there was Zonk's Tomb, if the legends were to be believed. GIawen wondered if Inspectors Barch and Tanaquil on their holidays participated in the great treasure hunt. Most likely not, he decided.

In due course the bus arrived at Flicken: a village already deep in Lutwiler Country, consisting of a few drab cottages, a mechanic's shop and Keelums' General Store, which advertised:

Supplies for the Treasure-hunter Food and Lodging Available

The bus halted in front of the store long enough to discharge passengers, including the portly Zubenite sitting next to GIawen. As he lifted his parcel from the rack he turned GIawen a reproachful look, as if to say: "Now, at last, do you understand the nuisance you have made of yourselP" GIawen returned a cool and measured nod of farewell, but received no acknowledgment of the courtesy.

The bus proceeded east and, as Zonk's Star reached the meridian, entered a region cultivated to garden crops and cereals. Ahead rose the great black crag of Pogan's Point and a few minutes later the bus entered the town which spread away from the base of the crag. Peering from the window, GIawen glimpsed the seminary, a massive stone structure built halfway up the crag.

The bus entered the town's central square and halted beside a ramshackle depot. GIawen alighted from the bus and again looked up at the Point, which he conjectured to be the neck of an ancient volcano and certainly the most notable object he had seen all day. A narrow road sidled up the crag, angling back and forth, finally arriving at the seminary.

Glawen's first impressions were reinforced. The seminary, a huge block of stone three stories high, loomed over the town like a fortress. It was surely not a place where frivolity and joyous revels interfered with the study of Monomantic Syntoraxis.

GIawen went into the depot: a single large room with a counter at the far end. At one time or another the walls had been painted

yellow-green, which someone, presumably the stationmaster, had found unpleasant and had covered over as best he could with posters and placards, making a small personal assertion against the dismal atmosphere of Pogan's Point.

The bus driver had brought in a bag of papers, journals and periodicals, which he turned out on the counter; the depot evidently served the community as a post office. The stationmaster stood looking through the papers: a thin-faced man of middle stature and middle age, with graying russet hair and bright hazel eyes. His most distinctive feature was a fine bristling russet mustache which, like the posters and placards, defied the dismal surroundings. He wore a red cap and a blue jacket with brass buttons to signify his official status, but Glawen suspected that had the costume not amused him he would never have worn it. He was obviously no Zubenite.

Glawen approached the counter; the stationmaster gave him a quick side glance.

"Well, sir? What can I do for you?"

"I want to discover for certain when the bus returns to Fexelburg."

"The noon bus is gone. The evening bus leaves in just about five hours, close on sundown. Do you need a ticket?"

"I already hold my return, but I want to make sure that my seat comes with the iron-clad reservation I paid for."

"No doubt about it, sir! The seat is reserved for you, but neither I nor the driver feels inclined to explain to the Zubenites. They have barely the wits to come in out of the rain, but they are quick as weasels when they spy an empty seat on the bus. It may be that this is where they keep their brains."

"Since I am a stranger here, I must reserve judgment, along with my seat on the bus."

(I "You need not worry as to your seat. The night bus is never crowded."

Glawen brought out his list of the Zubenites participating at the second Thurben Island excursion.

"Are you acquainted with these names?"

The stationmaster read the names aloud, pursing his lips as if at an astringent flavor.

"Lasilsk. Struben. Mutis. Kutah.

Robidel. Bloswig. These are all seminary persons: High Ordinates, they call themselves. If you are here seeking Zonk treasure, seek elsewhere. Go near the seminary, you'll get short shrift, if not worse."

"I am not treasure-hunting," said Glawen. He indicated the list.

"I want to talk with these people, or at least some of them. How should I go about it?"

"They will not come down here: I can assure you of this."

"In short, I must go up to the seminary."

"But"--here the stationmaster held up his forefinger to emphasize his remarks-- "if you intend no more than an hour or two of cozy gossip, with inquiries as to their health and maybe a casual reference or two to Zonk and his tomb, I advise you to sit in that chair and stir not an inch until you board the evening bus; then ride happily and safely back to Fexelburg."

Glawen looked dubiously out the window up at the seminary.

"You make them sound like a family of ogres."

"They are philosophers. They are bored with tourists pestering them. They have explained a thousand times that if Zonk's treasure were near at hand, they would have found it long since. Now they refuse to answer the door. If anyone knocks more than three times they pour a bucketful of slops down on him, or her."

"That would seem to discourage almost any polite caller."

"Not always. One pair of tourists dodged the slops and knocked again. When the door was opened, they said that they were architectural students who wanted to look over the construction of the seminary. The Ordene said: "Of course!

But first you should know just a bit about our way of life, which dictated the internal arrangements."

"Of course," said the tourists, expecting a brief five-minute discussion.

"We'll be glad to learn." At this they were taken away, dressed in gray robes and taught Syntoractic Elementaries for a year. Finally, they were allowed to look through the seminary. By this time all they wanted to do was leave; they came running down the hill waving their arms in the air.

They bought tickets on the bus to Fexelburg; I asked them if they wanted a return ticket; they said no, they weren't coming back."

"They seem very dedicated philosophers," said Glawen.

"Some other tourists marched up the back side of the hill, hoping to find a cave or a passage. They never came down again; somebody said that they fell in the seminary garbage pit. For all I know there have been others; I don't count tourists."

"Don't the Fexelburg police protect tourists?"

"Certainly. They warn them away from Pogan's Point."

"I don't care about Zonk or his treasure. I want information about another matter. But I don't care to risk either the slops or the short shrift. Is there a telephone connection to the seminary?"

"So there is. Let me call for you, and I'll see how the land lays. What is your name?"

"I am Captain Glawen Clattuc of Araminta Station on Cadwal."