"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."
"And your business?"
"I prefer to explain that in person."
The stationmaster spoke into a telephone, waited, spoke again. He
looked at Glawen.
"They don't care about your preferences;
they want to know your business."
"I need information in regard to Ogmo Enterprises."
The stationmaster spoke into the telephone, then told Glawen.
"They don't know what you are talking about."
"Recently the six persons on that list visited Cadwal. I want to learn who supplied them the tickets. That is my only concern."
The stationmaster transmitted the information, listened, put down the telephone and slowly turned to Glawen.
"I am truly surprised."
"How so?"
"They have agreed to speak with you."
"Is that so amazing?"
"In a way. They deal with very few outsiders. Go up the road, knock on the door. When you are met, ask for the Ordene Zaa. Go gently, my friend! These are odd folk!"
"I will ask my questions as politely as possible. If they don't care to answer, I will leave. There is no other option open to me."
"That seems a reasonable program."
The stationmaster accompanied Glawen to the door. Together they watched a group of Zubenites hunching across the square.
Glawen asked: "How can you distinguish men from women?"
"That is a favorite question of the tourists! I always tell them: "Why bother to find out?"" "You haven't made friends with any of the local ladies?"
"Pshaw! That would be what is called an exercise in futility. They think no more of me than if I were a nanny goat." He pointed across the square.
"There is the start of the road up the hill."
Glawen crossed the square, bending his neck to a chilly wiad from the north. Where the road left the square, a sign read:
MONO MANTIC SEMINARY Warning! Keep out!
Glawen ignored the sign and started up the road. Back and forth he trudged: a hundred yards to the left, a hundred yards to the right, with each traverse broadening the vista across the steppes of Lutwfler Country.
The seminary loomed across the sky. The road made a final turn and swung back to pass before the front of the structure.
Glawen halted to catch his breath where three stone steps led up to a small porch and a heavy timber door. In the wan light of Zonk's Star, the panorama was that of a world notably different from his own, in perspective, in the flux of color and light and most of all in mood. At his feet the town was a clot of brownish-red, umber or dull ocher structures with black roofs huddled around the square.
Beyond were the cultivated lands, with windbreaks of frocks and sorcerer trees, and then the steppes, fading at last into the murk.
Glawen turned to the seminary. He squared his shoulders, settled his jacket and looked up the face of the building.
