attracts visitors.”
Boek joined him at the window. “Well—it’s a strange world, certainly.” He nodded at the roofs below. “Down in that confusion live at least a dozen different types of intelligent creatures—expatriates, exiles, fugitives—all crowded together cheek by jowl. Unquestionably it’s amazing, the adjustments they’ve made to each other.”
“Hm…” said Magnus Ridolph noncommittally. Then: “This McInch—is he a man?”
Boek shrugged. “No one knows. And anyone who finds out dies almost at once. Twice Headquarters has sent out key men to investigate. Both of them dropped dead in the middle of town—one by the Export Warehouse, the other in the Mayor’s office.”
Magnus Ridolph coughed slightly.
“And the cause of their deaths?”
“Unclassified disease.” Boek stared down at the roofs, the walls, lanes, arcades below. “The Mission tries to stand apart from local politics, though naturally in rubbing alien noses into Earth culture we’re propagandizing our own system of life. And sometimes—” he grinned sourly “—circumstances like McInch arise.”
“Of course,” said Magnus Ridolph. “Just what form do McInch’s depredations take?”
“Graft,” said Boek. “Graft, pure and simple. Old-fashioned Earth-style civic corruption. I should have mentioned—” another sour grin for Magnus Ridolph “—but Sclerotto City has a duly elected mayor, and a group of civic officers. There’s a fire department, a postal service, a garbage disposal unit, police force—wait till you see ’em!” He chuckled, a noise like a bucket scraping on a stone floor. “That’s actually what brings the tourists—the way these creatures go about making a living Earth-style.”
Magnus Ridolph bent forward slightly, a furrow appearing in his forehead. “There seems to be no ostentation, no buildings of pretension—other than that one there by the bay.”
“That’s the tourist hotel,” said Boek. “The Pondicherry House.”
“Ah, I see,” said Magnus Ridolph abstractedly. “I admit that at first sight Sclerotto City’s form of government seems improbable.”
“It becomes more sensible when you think of the city’s history,” said Boek. “Fifty years ago, a colony of Ordinationalists was founded here—the only flat spot on the planet. Gradually—Sclerotto hangs just about outside the Commonwealth and no questions asked—misfits from everywhere in the cluster accumulated, and one way or another found means to survive. Those who failed—” he waved his hand “—merely didn’t survive.
“When you come upon it fresh, like the tourists, it’s astounding. The first time I walked down the main street, I thought I was having a nightmare. The Kmaush, in tanks, secreting pearls in their gizzards…centipedes from Portmar’s Planet, the Tau Geminis, the Armadillos from Carnegie Twelve…Yellowbirds, Zeeks, even a few Aldebaranese—not to mention several types of anthropoids. How they get along without tearing each other to pieces still bothers me once in a while.”
“The difficulty is perhaps more apparent than real,” said Magnus Ridolph, his voice taking on a certain resonance.
Boek glanced sidewise at his guest, curled his lip. “You haven’t lived here as long as I have.” He turned his eyes back down to Sclerotto City. “With that dust, that smell, that…” He struggled for a word.
“In any event,” said Magnus Ridolph, “these are all intelligent creatures…Just a few more questions. First, how does McInch collect his graft?”
Boek returned to his own chair, leaned back heavily. “Apparently he helps himself outright to city funds. The municipal taxes are collected in cash, taken to the city hall and locked in a safe. McInch merely opens the safe when he finds himself short, takes what he needs, closes the safe again.”
“And the citizens do not object?”
“Indignation is an emotion,” said Boek with heavy sarcasm. “The bulk of the
Boek joined him at the window. “Well—it’s a strange world, certainly.” He nodded at the roofs below. “Down in that confusion live at least a dozen different types of intelligent creatures—expatriates, exiles, fugitives—all crowded together cheek by jowl. Unquestionably it’s amazing, the adjustments they’ve made to each other.”
“Hm…” said Magnus Ridolph noncommittally. Then: “This McInch—is he a man?”
Boek shrugged. “No one knows. And anyone who finds out dies almost at once. Twice Headquarters has sent out key men to investigate. Both of them dropped dead in the middle of town—one by the Export Warehouse, the other in the Mayor’s office.”
Magnus Ridolph coughed slightly.
“And the cause of their deaths?”
“Unclassified disease.” Boek stared down at the roofs, the walls, lanes, arcades below. “The Mission tries to stand apart from local politics, though naturally in rubbing alien noses into Earth culture we’re propagandizing our own system of life. And sometimes—” he grinned sourly “—circumstances like McInch arise.”
“Of course,” said Magnus Ridolph. “Just what form do McInch’s depredations take?”
“Graft,” said Boek. “Graft, pure and simple. Old-fashioned Earth-style civic corruption. I should have mentioned—” another sour grin for Magnus Ridolph “—but Sclerotto City has a duly elected mayor, and a group of civic officers. There’s a fire department, a postal service, a garbage disposal unit, police force—wait till you see ’em!” He chuckled, a noise like a bucket scraping on a stone floor. “That’s actually what brings the tourists—the way these creatures go about making a living Earth-style.”
Magnus Ridolph bent forward slightly, a furrow appearing in his forehead. “There seems to be no ostentation, no buildings of pretension—other than that one there by the bay.”
“That’s the tourist hotel,” said Boek. “The Pondicherry House.”
“Ah, I see,” said Magnus Ridolph abstractedly. “I admit that at first sight Sclerotto City’s form of government seems improbable.”
“It becomes more sensible when you think of the city’s history,” said Boek. “Fifty years ago, a colony of Ordinationalists was founded here—the only flat spot on the planet. Gradually—Sclerotto hangs just about outside the Commonwealth and no questions asked—misfits from everywhere in the cluster accumulated, and one way or another found means to survive. Those who failed—” he waved his hand “—merely didn’t survive.
“When you come upon it fresh, like the tourists, it’s astounding. The first time I walked down the main street, I thought I was having a nightmare. The Kmaush, in tanks, secreting pearls in their gizzards…centipedes from Portmar’s Planet, the Tau Geminis, the Armadillos from Carnegie Twelve…Yellowbirds, Zeeks, even a few Aldebaranese—not to mention several types of anthropoids. How they get along without tearing each other to pieces still bothers me once in a while.”
“The difficulty is perhaps more apparent than real,” said Magnus Ridolph, his voice taking on a certain resonance.
Boek glanced sidewise at his guest, curled his lip. “You haven’t lived here as long as I have.” He turned his eyes back down to Sclerotto City. “With that dust, that smell, that…” He struggled for a word.
“In any event,” said Magnus Ridolph, “these are all intelligent creatures…Just a few more questions. First, how does McInch collect his graft?”
Boek returned to his own chair, leaned back heavily. “Apparently he helps himself outright to city funds. The municipal taxes are collected in cash, taken to the city hall and locked in a safe. McInch merely opens the safe when he finds himself short, takes what he needs, closes the safe again.”
“And the citizens do not object?”
“Indignation is an emotion,” said Boek with heavy sarcasm. “The bulk of the
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