Chapter 2

She was no femme fatale, not like the back-stabbing elf in North to Oblivion. Now there was a classic movie based off a classic book. It sat on a bookshelf in another room along with several other twenty-plus jahr old books. I heard talk on the street over remaking it, along with He Flew In. Now there was as blasphemous a move as I have ever seen. They filmed it in black-and-white, so what? It gave the noir its character and despite what a certain motion picture town in a certain country might think, character still counts.

Instead of a slim elf, who was as much bones as flesh, with her face hidden behind a silver mask, this potential client looked more like a stout factory hand. She stood looking at my framed certificate, standing stout in coveralls and a bright, white shirt that would not remain so pure after a few minutes on the foundry floor. Like any factory worker, she kept her hair short, shoulder length black strands rolled into a bun atop her head.

I could tell immediately that there was no way on Towne that she was a factory worker. Aside from having clothes cleaner than any blue collar, she owned an auto so new it might as well have driven out of next jahr. Not even the highest paying union job in the Lullaby Motors complex would allow one of its employees to afford something as aerodynamic as a jet fighter. A high ranking manager perhaps. No, if she had those sort of connections, I doubt she would bother wasting her time waiting for a private investigator in a Bayfront office. Observing her for a few seconds, I quickly come to the conclusion that if I had to place bets, I would place twenty dinar on her not being from around here and the auto being a rental. Would not be the first time I have seen that.

“Can I help you?” I asked as I stepped into my office. No point in a preamble considering that this is my office. Behind me, I let the door swing shut, a slight crack as it sealed itself. My guest turned to face me, allowing me a couple of seconds to admire her curves. It was not every day a young pygmaeus of the female persuasion wandered into my office. No doubt a sapien detective would lament over them. Not me, not for very long– unless directly connected to the case. While in the office, I am as all business as a dwarf could get.

Approaching her, I stuck out my hand. “Jack Hammer, Private Investigator– and yes, that is my real name.” So much more efficient to assume the rusted question was on a client mind and get it out of the way.

She took my offered hand. “Rosie Anvil,” her grip was firm, very business-like. I did not feel a ring on her finger, which proved very little these days. Out of the corner of my eye I spied a watch upon her wrist, one with a newfangled digital readout. Dwarf nothing, this here lady is a scatter-brained gnome. The old proverb about not being able to pick one’s kin was more relevant among the two dominate philosophies of Homo pygmaeus than any other species. Not that it mattered in the office. A client was a client, and until proven otherwise I will have to treat her with more courtesy than I usually show the other side of my species’ coin.

I have to wonder about her name, specifically if it was an assumed one. Half the people who hire me never give me their real names. Unless it was vital to solving the case, I never asked. A client wishes to keep that to themselves, then it was none of my business. With an inner sigh, the unwanted image of Zollern reacting to the name appeared. No doubt the nominally dour peace officer would start cracking wise about hammers and anvils. At least he would until he took a clear look at her face. She met my gaze with steely eyes. Gnome alright and she knew full well I am a dwarf. Whatever he problems, they were critical enough for her to stomach talking to a ‘blockheaded’ dwarf.

Not that I care. I would sooner call myself blockheaded than scatter-brained. “Very well, Miss Anvil, how may I be of service?” She looked young enough to have yet married but as with the lack of a ring, it proved nothing.

“I heard you are the best. Looks like those claims have some validity,” she nodded at the certifications framed behind my desk. Aside from my private investigating licence, a lesser degree in law that allowed me to investigate, though never to practice law, hung proudly. As did my army discharge form telling the world that Lieutenant Hammer was hereby released from service in the Marasuanian Army.

I never intended to serve as an officer. If you think the police department has a mountain of paperwork, they should check out the Army’s bureaucracy. Paperwork there was not only a hassle; it was a nightmare. It was one of the reasons why I could never be a rodger. It was also said– by others– that Army is where I developed a pathological hatred for paperwork. I would not go so far as to call it hatred; paper only got in the way, slowed everyone down by filing reports nobody was ever going to read.

As with so many other shortages brought on by the war, the Army needed officers and that was what they made me upon learning of my degree. It also meant I never once saw the front, fired a rifle in anger, serving instead at a prisoner of war camp. Can not complain too loudly about overseeing the few Navenians who fell captive, not when a few people I know never left the Army alive. Far fewer of the enemy survived the war, most of the people in enemy uniforms were typically shot on sight.

“I’ve been told that if you can’t take a case then it can’t be solved.” She spoke emotionlessly, presenting the world a fact more of stone than flesh. If she was a sapien woman, she might even feel impressed. As she was a pygmaeus, I expected nothing less than total control.

Walking around my desk, I gestured to the seat in front of it. “I don’t make any promises that I can’t keep. If I refuse a case, that’s on account that I don’t think I can solve it.” Not legally, at any rate, and not in a fashion that would not result in me being shot, stabbed or otherwise ending my career face down in the bay. Parking myself in my chair– unlike a barstool, it was of a properly civilized height– and asked the obvious question as I leaned back. “What needs solved?”

Gnome or not, she was still pygmaeus to the core. Our two ways of life share far more in common than we differ, no matter how it appears, including our dislike of wasting time. “I am looking for an associate of mine. He was supposed to meet me a couple of days ago.” Sounds not that different from half the cases I have solved. She produced a manila envelope like some conjurer on stage. Opening the stop, she spilled its contents on to my desk. Among the cache sat a few pages filled with scribble, part of a map and some photographs. It was far more than most clients offered.

It never ceased to amaze me how many clients first arrive without adequate information, like the expected me to produce results from my seldom worn hat. None of those were ever Pygmaeus. When one of my species called on me, said person was always prepared. To do anything less would make a dwarf, or a scatter-brained gnome, look disorganized, sloppy, like they could not bother to do things right. I should question how seriously those people were about solving the case. I should, but I never have openly. A client was a client.

Rosie sorted through he notes, pushing a color photograph forward. “Professor Edgar Lemarquis arrived in Port of Dreams a week ahead of me. He said that he had to take care of a few details. What those details are, he did not bother sharing with me. He told me to meet him at a place called Dimmer Down in Tenzeil.”

I never heard of this particular joint, though I do know Tenzeil. It is neighborhood filled with small shops, box stores and even a couple of shopping malls. There are some amusement parks and other traps designed to separate tourists from their money. To top it all off, the southern part of the neighborhood was all beachfront property, now gated communities largely inhabited by successful elves. I am fairly certain every aureus now residing in one of those mansions started their lives in this city as refugees. Some were now so wealthy that even their butlers wore silver masks.

“It took me the better part of a day to find the place. When I arrive and saw no sign of Professor Lemarquis, I tried his hotel.” Rosie shook her head, the only crack in a well-kept stone mask concealing her frustration. “Naturally, he’s not there either and nobody knows where he has been, much less where I can now find him.”

As Rosie paused for a breath, I cut in with a couple of basic questions. “Where does he work? Who is his employer?”

Rosie blinked for a second, her train of thought clearly jumping the tracks. “His employer?”

That shocked expression told me more than words. She was hiding something. That was not a real problem in of itself since most clients always had something they wished kept hidden. If not, they would have brought their problems to the proper authorities, if ever such a thing actually exists. With too much crime and never enough funding, the rodgers were not going to prioritize a missing person, not unless said person ended up murdered. “I assume you want to hire me to locate him. Knowing who he works for might lead me in the right direction.” It could also alert me as to what sort of trouble I can expect.

“True,” Rosie admitted, tapping her chin with a finger. “He doesn’t have a specific employer any longer. He decided to go freelance. There’s a far greater degree of flexibility working independent, of which I am certain you can appreciate.”

There is plenty to appreciate at that. I set my own hours, take whatever job I decide is possible and am not constantly digging my way out of red tape induced cave-ins. Granted, the occupation has its dangers. Given the choice, I would rather die from a gunshot wound to the back than from ten thousand paper cuts. “What’s his field?” While a private investigate thrived when running his own show, I have no idea how anyone with the title professor would get away with it. No tenure out on the mean streets.

“Atomic physics,” Rosie chirped, sounding almost as cheerful as a gaggle of kids who just heard the jingle of the ice cream man’s bell.

I admit, I am not usually phased by whatever strolls through my door. I have seen quite a bit over the jahrs. Out of all the possible cases I imagined taking up next, looking for a missing person who probably had a high degree of top secret clearance was not one of them. Atomic physics– a little alarm in the back of my head screamed out danger. A man could easily end up spending the day sitting in an interrogation chamber if he asked the wrong question over at the naval yard. The Navy was real sensitive when it came to its pet boomers.

At least that was a newfangled contraption that made sense. A submarine so large that it could carry missiles might seem utterly preposterous on the surface. After a couple seconds thinking over the problem, anyone with the sense of a duck could see the advantage in concealing one’s most powerful weapons beneath the waves in a fortress that moved. What few enemies the nominally neutral Federal Republic of Marasuania has in the world would be hard pressed to take out ultima missiles while underwater and on the move. “That is going to complicate matter.”

It took Rosie a second to understand my concerns. “No, no, not that sort of atomic physics. His research is a little more out there,” she nodded towards the window and the clear pink sky beyond, “If you know what I mean.”

I had a general idea. “Astrophysics or something along those lines?” I was far from an expert on that particular topic, though I knew enough to understand how the atomic part comes into play, especially when it came to studying stars.

“Something like that,” Rosie agreed. “On his last job, he spent three jahrs studying neutron stars at the Eindorf Observatory before going back to Rhosea.”

That was quite a leap. He went from an observatory high in the mountains, one with the largest reflector in the world named after a giganticus physicist– that was as interesting of a story if I ever read one– right into a land now utterly devoid of human population. “I wasn’t away any telescopes remained there.”

Now it was Rosie’s turn to hesitate. She looked back and forth, surveying my office. For what exactly, I could not say. If she sought out listening devices or some other bug, she would end up disappointed. The most advanced piece of equipment I owned was a telephone the size of her head and I can not think of a good, or a bad reason why anyone would bother spying on me. “Do I have your assurance of absolute confidentiality?”

“Of course.” What a stupid question to ask a detective running his own operation. I would not be much of a private investigator if I could not keep a secret. It is at the core of the business. It would be like asking a footballer if he could kick a ball. “I have to inform you that if there is anything illegal, I mean really illegal, I’m going to have to ask you say nothing further.” What I did not know could not land me in hot water with city, state or federal agents. Or worse yet, all three at once.

“Naturally,” Rosie blushed ever so slightly as she spoke, suddenly realizing she might have insulted me. Not that I took much offense in any client being overly cautious. I have lost count of how many people I have encountered who gave trust away like it was water in the ocean. It was clear something was going on here, something secret. Anybody with a dinar’s worth of sense knew a secret’s value diminished in proportion to the number of people who knew about it. Leaning forward, she continued. “He led a team to Maldiva. Do you know the place?”

“Personally, no. Never been there.” Nor have I any plans to pay it a visit, not unless it was on a case. It was the only large city in Rhosea not erased from existence. The city itself still stood, more or less, even if the dragons drove out the inhabitants the hard way. It stood battered, now choked with marshy overgrowth. Why the Blacks spared it, who could say. I certainly have hear my fair share of hair-brained theories, up to and including the dragons’ love of its architecture.

Rosie lowered her voice. “The city’s university had a world renown astronomical department. The professor studied there, researched there for many jahrs. Only dumb luck the city did not vanish like the rest. He managed to escape with the shirt on his back. It took him a while, but he managed to organize an expedition to the city in search of its archives, to see what could be salvaged.”

“For the sake of papers?” I could not bring myself to buy into the notion that anyone entered dragon territory for the sake of research papers. It was almost as difficult to fathom that the man did not have other copies of the works there from which he could reference. Researchers love to publish their works, announce to the world and their peers–mostly the latter–how much they learned.

Rosie sighed, a little more dramatically than the situation called for, or so I hoped. “And equipment. He wanted to see if that survived too. It’s rather advanced hardware; neutron detectors, a UV telescope and a few other pieces the kind that might go on a new research satellite.”

“He wanted to salvage what he could,” I nodded, an image starting to form within my mind. Some of the data did not quite add up though. Professor Lemarquis must have been working on some space probe when the dragons struck. Given how long ago that happened, it would have been the first of its kind. So advanced, in fact, it would have to wait a few more jahrs before anyone designed the first orbital rocket, let alone built it.

He was working on something that Rosie could not discuss. Whether or not she knew her associate’s reasons was not quite as clear. If I had to bet, I would say she knew some of it. In my line of work I have dealt with a great many liars, all of varying skill. Rosie was not a skilled one, far from it. She was as transparent as a window. While I could not discount the claim completely, not considering how eccentric some of these researchers behaved, it was as likely as finding gold in a storm drain.

Not a problem. She planned on hiring me to find the man, not complete his work. If he wants to play around with equipment twenty-something jahrs out of date, that was his business. Considering that a gnome sat across the desk from me, no doubt there were some improvements made along the way. It would still be cheaper to start new than to salvage old equipment, but as I said, she is not going to pay me to complete his work.

Rosie nodded, keeping her true thoughts masked better than most sapiens, transparent or not. “That’s the size of it. We salvaged what we could and brought it to Port of Dreams. He wanted to finish what he started.”

“Then it is possible that the details he neglected to inform you about might have involved meeting something from Marasuania’s space program.” I seriously doubted it. They would be even less interested in older equipment, especially given the mass constraints of lobbing anything into orbit. Still, if Rosie planned on paying me to find the professor, did it really matter what the mad scientist did with his time.

“That is a logical conclusion. I suppose they might even have delayed him, sapien civil services being as inefficient as they are. I will have to give them a call.” She failed to hide her true thoughts for an instant. She really dreaded the impending run around bureaucrats loved to give. Good; it meant she intended on making the inquiry.

Scratching my beard, a nagging doubt started yipping away at the back of my mind, like a small dog with the bark of one three times his size. Whenever a client offered to do some of the work, it was was another clear sign of trying to keep a secret. That was as much a law of nature as gravity, thermodynamics or rain falling ten minutes after washing your auto. Obviously, she needed help. Anyone capable of solving their own problems would not bother seeking my services. Whatever the professor found out in the swamp, I may never know. What is clear is that the man is missing and Rosie worried enough to hire me.

“Sounds like a straightforward enough case. Now for another question; have you spoken with the authorities?” I knew the answer was usually no and by observing the reaction of clients, sometimes it gave me a little more insight into the case. The usual response involved appearing very nervous. Whenever friends of family went missing, the police—even those of bloated big city departments— tended to be the first stop. One avoided them for a good reason. In this case, bringing who knows what across the border without clearing it with customs.

Unsurprisingly, Rosie simply looked back at me with a neutral gaze. “No.” All things considered, I can not claim it surprised me. Only a few times before had clients been so open and every single one of them was a pygmaeus. “As a mere assistant, I am not privy to all of his plans. I do know that he is a secretive man when it comes to research. He always worries that others might steal his findings and claim it as their own. It doesn’t make the news often but theoretical research is a real cutthroat field.”

Now there was something I did not know. Something I never considered. Research was research and that what took place in a university seldom had much immediate practical use. Sometimes I suspect these researchers push paper around while collecting grant checks. Now engineers working on the upcoming new contraption, they faced stiff rivalry. Or rather their employers did. Industrial espionage, while not making the news like the international variety, was as serious a business as was stopping the spies. Every so often, one of these companies hired me to find out where their ship of industry sprang a leak. They were certainly the better paying of my clients.

“I see. If you went to the authorities, they would ask questions. They would continue asking questions until you give them a satisfactory answer.” That much I remember very clearly from my army days. Prisoners faced long interrogation sessions and I still wonder why anyone bothered. Those who were actually taken captive were mostly grunts, ground pounders who knew nothing more than the orders issued by their officers and noncoms. A buck private is about as likely to know something about grand strategy as I would about what transpires in the governor’s office. Actually, they would know less. I know enough to say whatever goes on in the state capital, it is probably crooked.

“That’s the last thing the professor wants,” Rosie agreed. She shifted in her chair, trying to find a comfortable perch. “If lawmen in uniforms started appearing at the university asking questions about him, that would not reflect well. He is as jealous of guarding his reputation as his work.”

There are not a whole lot of industries that considered bad publicity as an asset. Even legitimate businessmen steer well clear of negative press, or attention of any kind for that matter. Street toughs might thrive on a bad reputation, until life caught up with them, stabbed them multiple times and left them in a back alley for dead. I can not think of an honest trade with a higher turnover rate.

From what Rosie told me, the professor sounds like a man with a case of paranoia. As for the rest of it– that really was none of my business. “Where is he staying?”

Rosie pushed forward a scrap of paper with a name and address printed neatly upon it. “The Oracle Hotel.”

I know of that place. It was one of the luxury hotels in Tenzeil, one that drew in tourists from all over the world. Its design stood out against the skyline clear enough for one to spot it from up in Dream City. Entering the joint will offer me little trouble. With so many strange people passing through, who will notice one more? “I’ll start there. My initial fee is five hundred dinar plus expenses.” I quickly jot down some numbers on my notepad as I ran them through my mind. A case like this should not take more than three days, provided I do not have to travel far. If I do, then I will have to charge for fuel.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Rosie eyed the numbers presented to her. “Do you take a check?”

I shook my head. “Not for the advance. Cash only. Keep in mind that there is no guarantee I will find anything. If I can’t find his trail, I will let you know. Otherwise the rest of the fee will be paid on completion. We can negotiate the method of payment then.”

Rosie scowled at me as she dug into a pocket. At least she came prepared for this eventuality. She dropped a pile of twenty-five notes on to the notepad. Atop the cash, she laid a small business card. “I’m staying at the Regal Shrine.”

I reached over to scoop up the offerings. The card was the first thing I checked. It was nothing more than a Regal Shrine business card, stating the address and office hours. It sat somewhere inside Hilltop. Flipping the card over, I scanned the number scrawled on the back. “I will call you as soon as I have news. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of days to find out if I can solve it or where your professor went.” Judging from his photograph, the professor appeared old enough that I could not discount from him entering a second childhood. It was a condition known to strike sapiens who lived too long. “I also can’t promise to deliver good news if I find him.”

Rosie jumped to her feet. “If you made a claim otherwise, I would know you to be a liar. That is why I cam to you. If you don’t believe you can solve a case, you are not shy in admitting it. In my case, any news would be an improvement. I wish you good fortune.” Without further word, she walked towards the door, showing herself the way out.

Following her movement, I kept wondering home much she was not telling me, how much she did not even know, how important all of that would prove and, above all, in how much trouble this case could end up landing me. Tracking down missing persons is a straightforward case, a fact that never stopped life from throwing a wrench into the works. Well, whatever happens will happen. At least I will not have to leave the country this time.

As a rule, I avoid Tenzeil. The place was too glossy, too new, and too designed to separate a chump from his money. If tourists were anything, they were chumps with more money than they knew what to do. I seldom encountered that problem on the rocky road of life. I knew exactly what to do with my money, even when I had it in excess– a state of existence I seldom experienced. Of all the things I would do with extra dinar, wasting it at a mall, resort or any other tourist trap was not on the list.

Tenzeil might not have as many of those as chumps but it came awfully close. It also had far too much in the way of traffic. I sat in my twenty jahr old auto at one of the many offending traffic lights, windows rolled up thanks to a lory belching out fumes ahead of me. To either side of me waited autos much newer than my own, louder and painted colors so bright it hurt the eyes. They were not much better than the teamster, who at least had the excuse of hauling cargo.

What reason had these other sapiens for taking up space? One auto full of them off to my left had a couple of sapiens arguing loud enough I could hear them both through thick glass and above a growling engine. I heard enough arguing in my time to know the types. These were tourists, lost ones at that, wasting their energy deciding who was at fault. In my opinion, they were both to blame for an extra auto clogging up traffic.

To my right, local kids packed the four door auto, music pouring from it like so much audible bile. Sometimes I wondered which is worse; their taste in what is jokingly called music or their disregard for those around them. My auto naturally had no such luxury. If I wanted to listen to the radio, I would have stayed in the office. Besides, music is something best heard live, not canned on vinyl or one of them newfangled magnetic tapes.

Mercifully, I did not have to endure this particular light and its residents for long. At the next block, the lemon yellow auto pulled into a large parking lot, an asphalt bay surrounding a two story shopping center. The massive concrete bunker had four giant department stores acting like its anchors and a great many smaller shops selling useless, overpriced or overly priced useless products within its confines.

As soon as traffic began flowing at a pace slightly quicker than molasses, I moved around the lory, cursing it as the driver tried speeding up. Some drivers were simply not content with merely blocking traffic with their mere presence. Some of these sapiens, I swear that they believe parts of them will shrivel up and fall off if they ever let anyone pass them. The only difference between now and when my auto was new was that far more people drove with the erroneous belief.

Once free of the exhaust, I wasted no time in cranking down the window, enjoying the breeze. Even a sea breeze reeking of rotting seaweed was a spot better than a seal auto during a sunny day. The large red orb above throbbed away, bathing Port of Dreams under its warm, soft glow. People walking along the sidewalks dressed in short clothes showing more arm and leg than I deem proper. A few men even walked without their shirts. All of them were sapiens– no, not quite all of them. One walking in the crowd wore the unmistakable green skin of a goblin.

As best I can tell, all of them were tourists, people who purpose in life right now involved spending a lot of time taking up space. Tenzeil might be a nicer place for a drive if not for all these visitors. I could have reached the Oracle a half-hour earlier. Instead, I have the privilege of wasting that time ploughing through a flood of autos, stopping at ever other traffic signal as it let even more autos cross.

Autos with people who were not out on important business. Even when the light graciously permitted me to carry on with my day, pedestrians would keep right on walking in front of traffic. How many people ended up dead or worse thanks to such lack of foresight. State and city government keep throwing money around, trying to find a solution to the high fatality rates when the answer stared them in the face. Stop walking out in front of vehicles that are physically incapable of braking in time.

After fifteen more minutes or so of cursing and frustration– really, it is quite easy to lose track of time this way– I finally leave the endless savanna of paved road and short, wide concrete bunkers and entered a forest of metal and glass. Towers rose abruptly. One block sat nothing more than those squat bunkers and the next stood glistening glass obelisks a hundred meters high and taller. Neon signs capped most of the towers, announcing to the world their names. Only people likely to actually see them were those up at the observation platforms capping the ancient dam.

The Oracle was an easy enough one to spot. It stood taller than most of its neighbors, laying claim to the largest hotel in the district. I spotted it several blocks away, its ultraviolet sign harsh on my eyes. Unlike many of its neighbors, its windows did not glisten in the sunlight. The hotel had a pair of tinted, one-way windows for each of its room, giving it a distinct dark, even foreboding appearance. If that was not enough to make people stop and take notice, its four sides sloping upwards, ending in a roof large enough to hold its sign did. Kind of surprising they did not use the roof for a heliport, given their clientele.

Out of all the shapes they could have used, why a pyramid? It was a waste of space. With a base as wide as the Oracle’s, its architects could have housed five times as many rooms if they designed it like a proper tower. Of course the owners did not permit it. They wanted it to look different, to stand out in a part of the city home to so many hotel resorts. Its ‘ground’ floor was actually the fifth; the lower four dedicated to hundreds of autos belonging to its guests.

I drove past the garage’s entry, scowling at the guest only sign flashing above it entrance. Given that parking was at a premium in the neighborhood, I could hardly fault them their policy. Instead, I brought my rig to a halt in a driveway arcing from the street towards a wide span of stairs leading to the front door. Parking here came with time constraints, an hour at most. Even if somebody overstayed the limit, it will likely take a tow truck the better part of the day to arrive. Not spying a sign explicitly saying private investigators could not park here, I slide my auto into an open spot.

Stepping out of the auto, a goblin valet rushed to greet me as I closed the driver’s side door. “I won’t be taking that long,” I told him, looking down to meet the goblin’s disappointed eyes. Gobli were the only people I could routinely look down upon, literally and occasionally figuratively. I can do the same to ottemensen, a people I fortunately seldom to never encounter. They were enough to drive a priest insane. The goblin’s flapping ears fell against his head as he watch me pocket my keys. He must be the new guy here, unfamiliar with the habits of my people.

Another goblin valet rushed up, his movement more forceful than his colleague. “Pardon, mister, this is for delivery only,” the second goblin protested in a squeaky, rasping voice.

“I’m delivering a message,” I told him, ignoring the goblin’s protest. The other valets, several of them waiting to pounce on any arriving vehicle, glanced at me, disinterested in a dwarf wearing a twenty-jahr old suit. It was not because they knew me personally, it was mostly because my species has a reputation for being poor tippers. Rightfully so; why should I give people more money for doing their job, jobs their employer already paid them to do?

At the base of the stairs, I glared up at the dark glass entrance atop four floors’ worth of stairs. Grumbling, I take my time ascending to the face of the building. Sapiens shoot past me, some making the climb two steps at a time. No matter what sort of hurry I might find myself in– none in this instance– it was a feat I could never hope to match with shorter legs. Very few of them dressed like anyone living within a hundred kilometers of Port of Dreams. Mostly tourists, though a few in business suits would not be that out of place in the commercial district.

Finally reaching the door, I had over a five dinar note I kept in a vest pocket to the doorman– door goblin. The short fellow, dressed in a uniform that looked like somebody spun it a thousand jahrs ago, thanked me profusely. It was not a tip. I do not believe in that sapien custom. Bribes, those were another matter. It was the cost of doing business. As the doormen in these places usually knew more about what passed through the lobby than receptionists, I left him with a few words. “You never saw me.” With a wink and a nod, he pocketed his payment.

First impression usually are quite deceiving in my line of work but I can tell you that I did not much care for the interior of the Oracle the instant I saw it. While the lobby was spacious, easily holding twenty times the floor space as my entire place, it looked very antique. It was not the sort of antique nature that was my office, or the quaintness of some corner café up in Dream City. The owners decked it out like a temple from some long, lost civilization, right down to the sandstone floor panels. That was the theme here. Where doormen dressed like servants, the ladies behind the front counter dressed in what the owners considered robes of ancient priestesses; quite revealing and probably nothing remotely resembling the reality of civilization six thousand jahrs in the past.

With a line of guests ahead of me, I leaned again a pillar decorated with hieroglyphics, patiently watching the line to snake forward, deciding which one to take. One glance at the pillar left me wondering if this writing even means anything or did some interior designer slap together a bunch of random symbols. Enough to fool some tourists, I suppose. I have the feeling it would never pass inspection of a real archeologist. The place feels more like a movie set than anything else.

As things being equal, I chose the shortest line, the help line nowhere near as long as the check-in counter and still long enough to annoy me. Taking my time climbing the stairs was one thing; having my time deliberately wasted by others, that was something else. Did anyone really believe that because my natural lifespan was four times that of a sapien did not mean I planned to wait four times as long. Seeing the line move forward, I shuffled away from the pillar to the back of the shortest one.

About ten minutes passed before I reached the counter, giving me more than enough ample time to wonder if this was a wasted effort. If they would not answer Rosie’s questions, they might not answer mine, private investigator’s licence of not. Looking back at the doorman, I had to wonder if it ever crossed the gnome’s mind to ask anyone other than anyone behind a desk. Given her youth and inexperience, probably not.

When I finally reached the front of the line, the help desk lady, old by sapien standards, looked down at me and smiled. It was nard not to look down on me, not when my beard barely reached the counter. Rare is the day I actually visit a place designed for a man of my stout figure. “How may I help you?” Looking at her smile for more than a second, I quickly grew to dislike it. It struck me as more condescending than friendly, very unprofessional.

I would be lying if I said it colored me surprised. Anyone could tell merely by how I dressed that I was not a customer. Assuming she could not already tell that by my species. No self-respecting pygmaeus and few of the eccentric type would stay in such a garish establishment and anyone unable to recognize that had zero business helping anyone– even the level of ‘help’ I was about to receive.

I pulled out a walled. Flipping it open, I flashed a badge. It was not the gleaming metal of a peace officer. No matter how useful that could prove, I was not about to lie on the job. My reputation is worth more than any easy score. Instead, it was a plastic card that proclaimed my legal right to investigate private matters. “I am looking for a man by the name of Edgar Lemarquis. I was told he is staying here this week.”

The helper turned a rolling file index. She flipped through the files quickly, homing in on the proper syllabic. Once there, she took slightly longer to run through each of the index cards. I read once that gnomes somewhere worked on a means to automate filing cards by using computers. In ten jahrs, one could pull up a name by typing a few keys. I have to admit, it was one of their improvements that was not a half bad idea, assuming they ever got it working as advertised.

The helper’s brows knitted together as she pursed her lips. It was an all too familiar expression, in this instance appeared to add several jahrs to her face. “I’m sorry; we have no guest by that name.”

No, of course not. If this Lemarquis is as paranoid as Rosie made him out to be then he would have used an assumed name and false identification. Reaching into my left vest pocket, I drew forth the photograph of the man. I showed it to the helper, reaching up high enough for her to get a clear view. “This is what he looks like.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry that I can’t be of more help. Perhaps one of the receptionists or the hotel detective knows something about him. They might be able to help.”

My beard sagged as I frowned. The house detective was not likely enjoy seeing a private investigator snooping around what he considered his own turf and there was no way on Towne I planned to wait in another line. At least not until I exhaust every other option. “I won’t take up any more of your time,” I stepped quickly out of line, making way for the next person seeking aid, a young sapien man wearing a t-shirt proclaiming to the world that he visited a nearby amusement park.

Instead of seeking the house detective, I find myself drifting back towards the doorman. The goblin greeted everyone entering the hotel, holding the door open in hopes of a tip. As most guests were sapiens, most guests ignored him. That did not stop him from doing his job and doing it the best he could. If more goblins made that level of effort, their lot would be far better off. Did he live in some basement apartment in the neighborhood or did he commute in from Lower Beldel, another neighborhood full of mostly honest, poor folk, half their number either refugees or children of them.

“Ask you something?” The goblins started in surprise as I spoke. For all I know, I was the only visitor today in this tourist-cursed tomb to speak directly to the doorman.

“Sure thing, mister,” the goblin smiled, displaying a row of sharp teeth ideal for slicing through greens at dinner or the finger of anyone fool enough to stick it where it does not belong. If the city had one thing in overabundance, it was fools. The goblin appeared pleased enough to be able to talk to somebody face-to-face without craning his neck. He still only stood at chin height to me, making me an improvement over the rest of the visitors. The payment earlier aided his disposition to me.

I fished out the photograph and waved it in the goblin’s face. “Recognize this man? His name is Edgar Lemarquis, though he might have used an assumed name. He’s some kind of professor.” Anything more than that, the goblin did not need to know.

He squinted his eyes so narrow that it was wonder he could see past his bulbous nose. He obviously saw well enough for he looked away from the picture in time to open the door for more guests. After greeting them, he returned his attention to my question. In retrospect, a goblin might not make the most reliable source when it came to making positive identifications based on images. They had as hard of a time telling sapiens apart as any species of human did with goblins.

As quickly as they squinted, his eyes flew open in recognition. “I recall an old sapien, spoke real educated, earlier this week. After he checked in, he asked me if I could take his bags to his room. I wasn’t doorman that day. When I said I would, he slipped me a fiver same as you.” The goblin paused long enough to scratch his head. “Don’t know if that’s the same fellow you are looking for; kind of hard to tell them apart, if you know what I mean.”

He spoke the last words quietly, hushed enough so his voice would not carry more than a few meters away. “I have an idea.” I was right on one note; he was not particularly good at telling one sapien from another. That did not mean he would forget a big tipper. Anyone working his line of work certainly had zero chance of growing rich off their wages. That was why most people avoided these jobs. These were the same people who believed the job beneath them, that it was work best suited for the one of the two species of gobli.

“Didn’t catch his name,” the goblin admitted. “Come to think of it, haven’t seen him in a couple of days. Has something happened to the old chap?”

“That’s what I am here learn.” Concern for another was almost a sign of a willing accomplice. Cooperation was never a given, not when people did not wish to for anyone to find them. He also had a sort of naivete that older goblins and gremlins lacked. His parents might have been refugees; he was clearly Port of Dreams born. Assuming he was a he. I am not sure if goblins are harder to tell apart of I am simply biased in favor of my own genus.

“I hope nothing bad happened to him. He was a decent enough customer. Anything I can do to help?” The goblin whispered conspiratorially, thrilled at a chance to break out of the monotonous drudgery of work.

“Can you tell me where he was last headed?” When the goblin shook his head, sending his long ears flapping around like a hound who recently jumped out of the bath, I sprang an easier question on him. “Then can you give me his room number?”

The goblin nodded. “That I can do. It was fifteen-seventeen. That’s the seventeenth room on the fifteenth floor. It doesn’t have a window view of the city.”

I have little interest in a view of the city, especially this neighborhood. There was nothing more than high rise hotels and commercial sprawl between here and the ocean. Tourists, especially those from out of state, grew so excited about the view. Traveling magazines gushed about it too, though it boggled my mind as to why. Who would want to see what tourists across the street were doing? The only good thing I could say about the oracle was that while its tinted windows let him see out of the lobby, anyone looking inward would see nothing more than their own reflection.

“Thanks. Remember, you never saw me.” I said, handing the doorman another five before walking across the lobby. I did not make straight for the elevator, not with so many people watching. Not knowing if anyone from the desk paid me the least attention, I slowly wandered in the general direction of the house detective’s office. Not that I had any intention of visiting the man and answering his questions. No, I looked beyond, towards a stair well hidden behind an aluminum door. With six elevator shafts available, who would bother keeping watch on the stairs?