"No," he answered mournfully.
"There are three main families, and I can tell you a little about them, mostly scuttlebutt," Greyesar said. "You know the Viyato. They used to be old church, moralistic. They probably got into it by wanting to be missionaries, as they did in the Outland. Second is the family named Ketry, who are involved in the foreign grain business. That all comes from Paffir Haretz. They sell it to the Ag Ministry and get a nice profit and they're all fat and happy and give to charities at tax time. But there is a second product on Paffir Haretz in whose manufacture they may--may, I said--play a role. It is called Love's Arrow. It is sold from there into the interplanetary market by a slimy gang of thieves with whom I have the misfortune of doing business. Their name is Var. Any one of them would slit any other's throat for no other reason than pure Varishness. Their only contribution to society is their flagrant overuse of Love's Arrow, which they very often take in doses sufficient to do their vermin-like selves in. Some of them who are no longer welcome on Eyimalia have taken up residence on Paffir Haretz."
Clark watched Greyesar's hands, which had become active when he described the Vars, fold over one another again. Personalities, he thought. An index finger rose when Greyesar continued.
"What's going on down there? I don't know. One story is that those families act like kings there, that any one of them can do anything he wants, there." He paused for effect. "We really don't know. I've heard stories. Some people say it's a huge breeding ground for sex mills all over the system. You can get whatever you want, any age or size--on the other hand, it could be an ordinary agricultural planet. It might be a big community, like Eyimalia during the first century. A workers' paradise where everything is done scientifically, the greatest benefit for the least labor, each one working freely for the good of all and producing grain in such miraculous abundance that they can afford to sell off the amounts the Ketries take away at the low the price the Ketries are evidently paying."
Clark watched a current of smoke run past the light above them. He remembered a man's voice at the Eyimalia House graduation party, saying that his uncle had worked on Paffir Haretz. He looked at Greyesar. "These families keep pretty much to themselves? Tiyar couldn't just hang around with some of the members and find out that way?"
Greyesar shut his eyes. Paula said, "Remember, on Eyimalia most businesses and things are run by families. That lets them have a loose structure within the outfit. So everybody is likely to know the trade secrets, and there's a lot of pressure to keep it all in the family. It's just unspeakably rude to ask anything about it on a social occasion. You couldn't make a question like that seem casual." She looked at Greyesar.
"Right. You'd get your panels cracked." He jerked his head very slightly toward the door. All four of them turned to look, as did everyone at the bar.
Teresa daFlora hesitated a moment, until she saw Clark, and then marched straight in. Her dark blue suit gave an impression of severity that must have been deliberate. She had emphasized it by pulling her hair tight to her head and binding it in a knot on top. She smiled. "Let me borrow Clark for just a moment, please. I'll bring him right back."
He rose, she holding his forearm, and led her to the room he and Paula shared. The streetlights had been damaged during the day so the room was deep black, the stars beyond the window grate gleaming like fish. He switched on the light and she sat down.
"Now, Clark, tell me why the police were at my house asking about you."
Clark tried to think of the correct answer. Their meeting had been so coincidental that he was fairly sure Teresa could not be a police agent, and he wanted to tell her the truth. But it wouldn't be fair to involve her in his shady doings. On the other hand, she might need some information to give the police if they returned and threatened her. But what? There were several people and arrangements they might be looking into, and he didn't want to tip them off to anything they weren't working on yet. "Let me think a minute," he said.
It occured to him that they might have told her why they wanted to know about him, and she might be testing him. Then he ought to say he was involved in many things, and decline to tell her much about any of them. That was the safest course. "Did you notice the woman at the table?" he asked, trying to remember whether Paula were still wearing her wig.
"Yes," Teresa said.
"Well, she has a friend who's connected with...people who sell drugs."
"And you?"
"Well, I've met them, among others. We've been looking for jobs, you know."
"I see. Are they Uchide?"
"Yes."
"Then that explains it. They're harassing you because they don't like the Uchide." She smoothed her hair. Clark enjoyed the superfluity of the gesture. It seemed ridiculous to like her so much. He had hoped that now she would volunteer something about what the police had said, but she didn't. He felt tired and wished they could just talk as before, without suspicion or ulterior motives.
"Teresa, I'm going to leave the planet soon," he said.
"Naturally."
"What do you mean?"
"Most people do. Leave Merced. If they can. You'll go and settle in another place, probably a much nicer one. Maybe not. I do wish you well, though."
"Teresa, if it were just a question of what I want to do--"
"You'd stay here? No, you wouldn't."
"Sure."
"Don't be silly. But you're drunk, aren't you? Well, be silly, then. It's no fun to be sensible."
Clark suppressed the impulse to deny that he was drunk. "Teresa, listen to me," he pleaded.
"Of course. Talk away."
A child in the street yelled, "Mama!"
"I mean it," Clark said. This is ungentlemanlike, he thought. He put his arms around her and kissed her, passionately.
"Mama! Mama!" the children screamed.
You shouldn't start this as you're about to leave, Clark told himself. Teresa returned his passion. He declared his devotion again and again. She murmured denials.
In the neighboring houses, the children were frantic. "Mama! Mama! Mama!" they shouted, sometimes all together for a few seconds, breaking into disunity as some shouted a fraction quicker than others. The cries grew louder and louder. The children were running from their beds to the windows the better to make themselves heard. How they flew to their windows! Would they break through the panes in their enthusiasm and land like little birds on the sidewalk? Their mothers must be going mad with anxiety.
"Teresa, you can't stay here. I'll show you how to go out the back way," he whispered.
She followed him up the stairs to the roof. All was still dark, the stars bright. The children were growing hoarse. Their voices leapt and dived. Teresa stepped out ahead of Clark and turned back to look at him, saying, "I wish..."
She knelt, so their heads were at the same level, and looked into his eyes. "I haven't harmed you. Have I?"
Clark shook his head. He wanted to leave her some physical thing to remember him by. Emptying his pockets, he finally selected his Reshecard, which had his picture and a recording of himself saying, "Hello, this is Clarkwell Brockhurst." The card was invalid, anyhow, since he had left Reshebora. She accepted it with a warm, surprised smile. He pointed out the rooftop walkway gleaming faintly against the black surfaces, then shut the door.
The card wasn't a very good present to leave her, he thought as he went downstairs. He tried to imagine what she would do with it, but had no idea. It disturbed him that he knew her so little and was unlikely ever to know her better. Perhaps he would find others like her on Paffir Haretz.
Greyesar sat picking his teeth in the cafe. "The others are collecting their things," he said. "Your clothes are under the table."
Clark sat down. The information he might collect now from Greyesar was more important than the personal effects he took or left behind. "What's Love's Arrow?" he asked.
"Not so loud," Greyesar said. Heads were turning.
"It's a potent, vicious aphrodesiac. A small dose, which is what most people take, will improve your romantic life. Chronic use, which is what much of the Outland suffers from, will kill you. Quite a few people in Merced derive part or all of their income from the trade, one way or another. It's illegal. Here, I've got some." He pulled a vial of white powder from a pouch on his belt. "Just put a little on your tongue."
Clark touched the powder and licked his finger. A woman laughed shrilly at the bar. He turned to look. People were still in conference, mouths working, open and ugly, at their plans. What an idiot you are, he thought. Love's Arrow had been the spice in Teresa daFlora's tea.
The rest of the expedition were coming down the stairs. Clark pressed his hands against his temples, trying to understand the tears that were coming to his eyes. "All right, let's go" he said.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
CONTINUE.....................
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