Boek staggered out to the car. Magnus Ridolph, throwing his stinking white and blue tunic into a ditch, joined him.
Boek clung to the wheel, his pink face clabbered.
"They - they tore him to pieces," he whispered.
"An unnerving spectacle," said Magnus Ridolph, testing his clotted beard. "A sordid adventure in every respect."
Boek turned a round accusing eye at him. "I believe you planned it like that!"
Magnus Ridolph said, gently, "My friend, may I suggest that we return to the Mission and bathe ourselves? I believe clean clothes would help restore our perspectives."
A sober Klemmer Boek sat across from Magnus Ridolph at the dinner table, a Klemmer Boek who barely looked at his food. Magnus Ridolph ate fastidiously, though substantially. Once again he wore crisp linen, and his white beard was soft, expertly trimmed.
"But how," blurted Boek, "did you know the garbage-collector was McInch?"
"A simple process," said Magnus Ridolph, gesturing with his fork. "A perfectly straightforward sequence of logic; a framework of theory, the consulting of references - "
"Yes, yes, yes," muttered Boek. "Logic this, intelligence that..."
Magnus Ridolph's mouth twitched slightly. "Here, in the concrete, is my chain of thought. McInch is a grafter, a thief, stealing large sums of money. What does he do with his loot? Nothing very conspicuous, otherwise his identity would be common knowledge. Assuming that McInch spent some or all of his money - an assumption by no means sure - I considered each of the civic officials, the most likely suspects, from the viewpoint of one of his own race.
"There was Joe Bertrand, the fire-chief. By this test, he was innocent. He lived frugally in an uncongenial environment.
"I considered the Mayor. What was a Yellowbird's definition of delight? I found it would include a field of a certain type of flower, the scent of which drugs and exalts the Yellowbirds. Nothing of this sort was evident on Sclerotto. The Mayor, in his own eyes, lived a meager life.
"Next the warehouse manager, the Tau Gemini ant-creature. The wants of these individuals are very modest. The words 'luxury' and 'leisure' have no equivalents in their language. If for this reason alone I was tempted to drop him. I learned from the postmaster that he purchased a number of books every month - these were his only conspicuous indulgence - but their value was commensurate with his salary. Temporarily, at least, I dismissed the warehouse manager.
"The chief of police - a decisive case. By nature he is an amphibian, accustomed to a diet of mollusks. His planet is marshy and dank. Contrast all this to his life here on Sclerotto. A wonder he is able to survive.
"I wondered about the postmaster - the multipede from Protmar's Planet. His concept of luxury is a deep tank of warm oil, massage by little animals captured and trained for that purpose. This treatment bleaches the skin to a sandy beige. The postmaster's skin is horny and brick-red, a sign of poverty and neglect.
"Consider the garbage-collector. The human reaction to his way of life is disgust, contempt. We cannot believe that a creature wallowing in filth possesses subtle discriminations. However, I knew that the Golespods possess an internal sense of the most delicate precision. They exist by ingesting organic matter, allowing it to ferment under the action of bacteria in a series of stomachs, and the ensuing alcohol they oxidize for energy.
"Now the composition or quality of the organic raw materials is of no concern to the Golespod - garbage, protein waste, carrion, it's all one, just as we ignore slight variations in the air we breathe. They derive their enjoyment not from these raw materials, but from the internal products - and to these ends, the variety and blends of bacteria in their stomachs is all-important.
"Over the course of thousands of years, the Golespods have become bacteriologists of an extremely high order. They have isolated millions of various types, created new strains, each invoking in them a different sensual response. The most prized strains are difficult to isolate and hence are expensive.
"When I learned this, I knew that the garbage-collector was McInch. In his own mind he was in a supremely enviable position - surrounded by unlimited quantities of organic materials, able to afford the rarest, most enticing blends of bacteria.
"I learned from the postmaster that the Golespod indeed received a small parcel from every incoming mail-ship - these of course the bacteria he imported from his home planet, some fantastically expensive."
Magnus Ridolph leaned back now, sipped his coffee, watching his wan host over the rim. Boek stirred. "How-how did he kill the two investigators, then?" he asked. "And you said he tried to kill you."
"Do you recall how he spat at me yesterday? When I returned to the Mission I examined the stain under your microscope. It was a thick blanket of dead bacteria. I could not identify them, but luckily my precautions had killed them." He sipped his coffee, puffed his cigar. "Now, as for my fee, I believe you received instructions in that connection."
Boek rose heavily, walked to his desk, returned with a check.
"Thank you," said Magnus Ridolph, gazing at the figure. He tapped his fingers musingly on the table. "So Sclerotto City finds itself without a garbage-collector..."
Boek scowled. "And no prospect of finding one. The city'll stink worse than ever."
Magnus Ridolph had been languidly stroking his beard, gazing thoughtfully into space. "No... I fancy that the profit would hardly repay the effort."
"How's that?" inquired Boek, blinking.
Magnus Ridolph roused himself from his reverie, dispassionately considered Boek, who was chewing his fingernails.
"Your dilemma aroused a train of thought."
"Well?"
"In order to make money," said Magnus Ridolph, "you must provide something that someone is willing to pay for. A self-evident statement? Not so. A surprising number of people are occupied selling objects and services no one wants. Very few are successful."
"Yes," said Boek patiently. "What's that got to do with collecting garbage? Do you want the job? If you do, say so, and I'll recommend you to the Mayor."
Magnus Ridolph turned him a glance of mild reproach. "It occurred to me that 1012 Aurigae teems with Golespods any one of whom would pay for the privilege of filling the job." He sighed, shook his head. "The profit of a single transaction would hardly justify the effort ... A Commonwealth-wide employment service? It might be a venture of considerable profit."
THE HOWLING BOUNDERS
My brain, otherwise a sound instrument, has a serious defect - a hypertrophied lobe of curiosity. - Magnus Ridolph
THE AFTERNOON BREEZE off Irremedial Ocean ruffling his beard, yellow Naos-light burnishing the side of his face, Magnus Ridolph gazed glumly across his newly-acquired plantation. So far, so good; in fact, too good to be true.
He shook his head, frowned. All Blantham's representations had been corroborated by the evidence of his own eyes; three thousand acres of prime ticholama, ready for harvest; a small cottage, native-style, but furnished adequately; the ocean at his doorstep, the mountains in his back-yard. Why had the price been so low?
"Is it possible," mused Magnus Ridolph, "that Blantham is the philanthropist his acts suggest? Or does the ointment conceal a fly?" And Magnus Ridolph pulled at his beard with petulant fingers.
Now Naos slipped into Irremedial Ocean and lime-green evening flowed like syrup down out of the badlands which formed the northern boundary of the plantation. Magnus Ridolph half-turned in the doorway, glanced within. Chook, his dwarfish servant, was sweeping out the kitchen, grunting softly with each stroke of the broom.