Poul Anderson - Operation Chaos

I knew exactly where I was bound. A wartime friend of mine, Juan Fernandez, had put his Army experience to good use. He’d been in the propaganda section, and done many excellent scripts. These days, instead of preparing nightmares to send the enemy, he was broadcasting a popular dream series, and his sponsors were paying him accordingly. In fact, everyone loved Fernandez except the psychoanalysts, and they’re obsolete now that scientific research has produced some really efficient antipossession techniques. Last year he had built a lodge in the country of his ancestors. It stood entirely by itself on the Sonora coast, at one of the loneliest spots on Midgard and one of the most beautiful. Fernandez had offered me. the use of it this month, and finny and I had set our wedding date accordingly.

We glided down about noon the next day. Westward the Gulf of California burned blue and molten, white. Surf broke on a wide strip of sand beach, cliffs rose tier upon tier, finally the land itself rolled off to the east, dry, stark, and awesome. The lodge made a spot of green, perched on a bluff just above the strand.

Ginny clapped her hands. “Oh! I wouldn’t have believed it!”

“You Easterners don’t know what big country is,” I said smugly.

She shaded her eyes against the sun-dazzle and pointed. “What’s that, though?”

My own gaze traveled no further than her arm, but I remembered. Atop a cliff, about a mile north of the lodge and several hundred feet higher, crumbling walls surrounded a rubble heap; the snag of a tower stood at the northwest angle, to scowl among winds. “La Fortaleza,” I said. “Spanish work, seventeenth century. Some don had an idea he could exploit this area for profit. He erected the castle as a strong point and residence, brought a wife here from Castile. But everything went wrong and the place was soon abandoned.”

“Can we explore it?”

“If you like.

Ginny laid a hand on my shoulder. “What’s wrong, Steve?”

“Oh . . . nothing. I don’t care for the Fortaleza myself. Even as a human by daylight, I sense wrongness. I went over there once after dark, wolf-shape, and it stank. Not so much in a physical way, but—Oh, forget it.”

She said soberly: “The Spaniards enslaved the Indians in those times, didn’t they? I imagine a lot of human agony went into that castle.”

“And left a residuum. Yeah, probably. But hell, it was long ago. We’ll have a look around. The ruins are picturesque, and the view from there is tremendous.”

“If you really are worried about ghosts—”

“Forget it, darling! I’m not superstitious!”

And we landed at the lodge and did indeed forget it.

The place was built in cloister style, white walls and red tile roof enclosing a courtyard where a fountain played. But there was also a garden surrounding the outside, green with leaves and grass, red and white and purple and gold with flower beds. We were quite alone. The grounds were elementalized for Earth and Water, hence needed no attendants; the other two elemental forces kept the house air-conditioned, and an expensive cleanliness spell had also been put on it. Since Ginny was now temporarily out of the goetic game, she prepared a Mexican lunch from the supplies we’d brought along. She was so beautiful in shorts, halter, and frilly apron that I hadn’t the heart to offer to teach her to cook. She exclaimed aloud when the dirty dishes floated back to the kitchen and followed to watch them dive into soapy water and frisk around. “It’s the most up-to-date automatic dishwasher I’ve heard of!” she cried.

So we had plenty of time for an afternoon of surf bathing. At sunset we climbed back a stairway hewn from the yellow rock, ravenous, and I prepared steaks by introducing them to a charcoal fire but allowing no further conversation. Afterward we moved onto a patio overlooking the sea. We sat in deck chairs, holding hands, and the stars came out to greet us.

“Let’s Skinturn at moonrise and frolic a bit,” I suggested. “You’d make a delightful lady wolf. Or, hmm, I wou—Never mind!”

She shook her head. “I can’t, Steve, dear.”

“Sure, you can. You’d need a T-spell, of course, but—”

`That’s just it. You have lycanthropic genes; all your need to change species is polarized light. But for me it’s a major transformation, and . . . I don’t know . . don’t feel able to do it. I can’t even remember the formulas. I guess I’m not able, any more. My knowledge has gotten even fuzzier than I expected. I’ll need refresher courses in the most elementary things. Right now, only a professional could change me.”

I sighed. I’d been looking forward to wolfing it. You don’t really know the world till you’ve explored it with animal as well as human senses, and Ginny was certainly a part of the world- Whoa, there! “Okay,” I said. “Later, when you’re an adept again.”

“Of course. I’m sorry, darling. If you want to run off by yourself, werewise, go ahead.”

“Not without you.”

She chuckled. “You might get fleas, anyhow.” She was leaning over to nibble my ear when we both heard the footsteps.

I rose to my feet, muttering inhospitable things. A form, shadowy under the velvet sky, approached us over a path which snaked inland. Who the devil, I thought. Someone from the village, ten miles hence? But—My nose in human shape is dull by my wolf standards, but suddenly caught a smell I didn’t like. It wasn’t an unpleasant odor; indeed, its pungency seemed at once to heighten Ginny’s half-visible beauty to an unbearable degree. And yet something in me bristled.

I stepped forward as the stranger reached our patio. He was medium-tall for a Mexican, which made him shorter than me. He moved so gracefully, no more loud than smoke, that I wondered if he could be a werecougar. A dark cape over an immaculate white suit garbed the supple body. His wide-brimmed hat made the face obscure, till he took it off and bowed. Then light from a window touched him. I had never met a handsomer man, high cheekbones, Grecian nose, pointed chin, wide-set eyes of a gold-flecked greenish gray. His skin was whiter than my wife’s, and the sleek hair was ash-blond. I wondered if he was a Mexican national, let alone of native stock.

“Buenas noches, senor,” I said curtly. “Pardon, pero no hablamos espanol.” Which was not quite true, but I didn’t want to make polite chitchat.

The voice that answered was tenor or contralto, I couldn’t decide which, but music in any case. “I’ faith, good sir, I speak as many tongues as needful. I pray forgiveness, yet having observed from afar that this house was lighted, methought its master had returned, and I did come with neighborly greeting.”

His pronunciation was as archaic as the phrasing: the vowels, for instance, sounded Swedish, though the sentences didn’t have a Swedish rhythm. At the moment, however, I was surprised by the words themselves. “Neighbor?”

“My sister and I have made abode within yon ancient castle.”

“What? But Oh.” I stopped. Fernandez hadn’t mentioned anything like this, but then, he himself hadn’t been here for months. The Fortaleza and grounds belonged to the Mexican government, from which he had purchased several acres for his hideaway. “Did you buy it?”

“A few rooms were made a right comfortable habitation for us, sir,” he evaded. “I hight Amaris Maledicto.” The mouth, so cleanly shaped that you scarcely noticed how full it was, curved into an altogether charming smile. Had it not been for the odor low in my, nostrils, I might have been captivated. “You and your p fair lady are guests of Senor Fernandez? Be welcome.”

“We’ve borrowed the lodge.” Ginny’s voice was a tad breathless. I stole a glance, and saw by the yellow windowlight that her eyes were full upon his, brilliant. “Our . . . our name . . . Virginia. Steven and Virginia . . . Matuchek.” I thought, with a cold sort puzzlement, that brides were supposed to make great show of being Mrs. So—and-So, not play it down in that fashion. “It’s very kind of you to walk this far. Did your . . . your sister . . . come too?”