Zamian had departed aboard the morning ferry to Yipton. A scrutiny of the passenger manifest indicated that the same was not true in the case of Xalanave, and there was a consensus at Bureau B that Xalanave had been attacked in the shadows at the back of the hotel, carried down to the hotel dock and dropped into the sea.
The day passed and the night which came after. Early in the morning, before dawn had lightened the sky, Scharde slipped from Clattuc House and set off down Wansey Way in the direction of the ocean.
The air was cool and still. No sound could be heard but the soft crisp scrape of Scharde's footsteps on the crushed-stone way. A high haze frosted the sky; Lorca and Sing, halfway down the west, swam in a pool of rose-pink luminosity; as Scharde passed under the riverbank poplars, he traversed spatters of wan rose light and black shade.
At the shore road, Scharde turned left and a few moments later came to the airfield. A drooping-eyed Chiike awaited him in the office.
Chilke's greeting was subdued.
"This is not my time of day.
All this wet dew and early birdcalls just irritate me. As I see it, the only good thing about morning is breakfast."
"At least you're happy and cheerful."
"Am I? I guess it's because the worst is over. I'll be back in bed before you're twenty feet off the ground."
The two went out to the flyer, which stood ready beside the hangar. Chiike watched as Scharde performed the routine preflight check.
"All in order," said Scharde.
"Even the gun is loaded."
Chiike gave a sour chuckle.
"You might find a sick fuel cell, or broken landing gear, or fused radio crystals, but there'll be a charge in the gun.-That I guarantee. May I ask where you are going, as I am required to ask by regulation?
And why so much stealth--which I am not required to ask?"
"Certainly you may ask. I'll even answer. I'm off for a day's fun at Yipton. If anyone else asks, I'm out on patrol."
"And why should anyone ask?"
"If I knew, I might not need to go. But I'm bound for the Lutwen Islands, and I'll be back before tonight if all goes well, as naturally it won't since nothing goes well at Yipton."
"Good luck to you, and my best to the Oomphaw."
Scharde took the flyer aloft and flew out over the ocean and away into the northeast, where dawn colors were now beginning to show.
Behind him Lorca and Sing cast a pink trail along the water, which presently became indistinct in the reflections of dawn.
Syrene appeared: a blue-white spark on the horizon, then a sliver, then a segment; in the west Lorca and Sing faded from view in the morning light.
Ahead a great float of dun-colored stuff lay flat upon the water: the Lutwen Atoll, a rim of narrow islands surrounding a shallow lagoon, now totally crusted over by the structures of Yipton. Details began to emerge from the haze: a veining of gunmetal waterways suddenly flashing silver when the sunlight struck at the proper angle.
Below, fishing boats had appeared on the face of the ocean:
frail craft of tied bamboo bundles, propelled by sails of felted fiber.
The details of Yipton came into focus. Rickety structures two, three or four stories high supported a set of vast roofs, each of a thousand segments, each segment and slant a different shade of pallid brown ash brown, dun, grayed umber, mud color. In nooks, crannies, corners grew clumps and tufts of bamboo, with coconut palms leaning seaward from laboriously formed little plots around the periphery of the islands.
Canals webbed Yipton without perceptible pattern, sometimes flowing in the open, sometimes disappearing into tunnels under the structure. Boats moved sluggishly along the canals, like corpuscles in an artery. Other boats lay at permanent mooring alongside the banks of the canals; from their minuscule braziers rose wisps of smoke, finally curling and folding, to disappear into the still morning air.
At the southern verge of Yipton stood the bizarre, fascinating and erratic shape of the famous Arkady Inn: a structure of five levels, a hundred swaying balconies, and a roof garden where the tourists dined to the light of colored lanterns, while Yip boys and girls performed acrobatic entertainments sometimes naive, always incomprehensible, to a thin music of flutes and soft bells, which, if beyond the appreciation of the tourists, at least created a soft and pleasant sound.
Beside the hotel a pier projected into the ocean, where the ferry to Araminta Station docked; beyond lay a minimal airstrip, with a surface of marl compounded from shells, fresh coral pulverized with mussel like bivalves which yielded a tough adhesive. Scharde approached the landing strip from the sea, taking care not to fly above Yipton proper, so to avoid as long as possible the "Big Chife":
next to Pussycat Palace the most notorious of all the strange and wonderful aspects of Yipton. Everywhere across the Gaean Reach, when knowledgeable talk turned to the subject of bad smells and intolerable stinks, someone would insist that the Big Chife of Yipton must be numbered high among the contenders.
A recipe for the Big Chife had been proposed in a semi facetious paper written on the subject by a savant in residence at Vagabond House:
The Big Chife a tentative recipe Ingredient Parts per 100 Human exudations ........................................25 Smoke and charred bones ............................... 8 Fish, fresh 1 Fish, rotting 8 Decaying coral (very bad...............20 Canal stink.....15 Dry fronds, mats, bamboo .............................. 8 Complex cacodyls13 Unguessable (bad)......................................... 2
Tourists were never notified in advance of the Big Chife, since their shock and confusion afforded a never-failing source of pleasure for the initiated. In any event, noses quickly became desensitized and the Big Chife lost its authority.
Scharde landed the flyer and stepped out upon the marl. With only a momentary wince for the Big Chife, he locked and sealed the flyer, though at Yipton pilferage was a relatively mild annoyance, through the orders of the Oomphaw, Titus Pompo.
Scharde climbed a flight of broad steps to the hotel verandah. A pair of houseboys, wearing short white aprons slit at the sides, embroidered vests, white gloves and small cylindrical white caps, came to take his luggage;
discovering that he carried none, they stopped short in puzzlement, then quickly performed bows of welcome and retreated, twittering in amusement for the ridiculous outlander without luggage and their own mistake.
Scharde crossed the terrace and entered the broad airy lobby, which had been renovated since his last visit ten years previously. The bamboo walls were painted white; new rugs patterned in green and blue covered the floor; the furniture, of soft white wicker, was upholstered in pale sea green. Scharde was favorably impressed; he remembered dark varnished bamboo and spartan furniture, neither clean nor comfortable.
At this early hour only a few of the hotel guests had come down from their chambers. A dozen sat at breakfast on the terrace; another
group stood in the center of the lobby discussing their plans for the day, which included a trip by gondola through the canals.
Scharde went to the registration counter. Behind sat four functionaries in crisp white uniforms. From the left ear of each dangled a black pearl on a silver chain, signifying a member of the Oomphaw's personal staff: an Oomp. One of these came to serve him: a person of early middle age, grave and handsome. He asked: "Sir, how long will you be staying with us?"
