Hans Grustigorph spent most of the trip southward teaching Captain Pataco how to use his new cold-weather survival gear. Although the Captain did make an attempt at getting himself properly briefed. “Tell me about Gustav Turin, please.”
Grustigorph grunted. “Turbo Turin's a clethaci hunter.”
Pataco silently queried his visor about the clethaci. It showed an image of a dark-furred quadruped. The printout below informed him that this was Fenris' only native land animal. “Go on,” he said aloud to his guide as he silently requested more information. According to his visor, clethaci skins were a moderate luxury export, hunted only by licensed professionals operating under a strict quota.
“Nothing else to say,” Grustigorph responded to the verbal urging. “Has a wife, little girl. That's it.”
Grustigorph and Turin were friends, Captain Pataco assumed, and he was an outsider. But even accounting for a natural reticence, there was something very odd about the summary given by his guide. According to the databanks, Gustav Turin had a contract spouse, but no minor dependents—not by birth, adoption, or guardianship contract.
“Can you think of any reason why he would have failed to respond to urgent calls on his communicator from the honorable Tskagaixtoric?” The luxuries importer/exporter, had requested a Patrol investigation when one of his suppliers had disappeared, or at the least, failed to communicate.
“None,” Grustigorph admitted. “That's why I came.”
During landing, the view through the ports was all swirling snow, but apparently that was normal for much of Fenris' so-called temperate zone. Captain Pataco fastened his outer layer, pulled on the clumsy thermo-mitts, and told the ship to open the main hatch. Cold, dry air spilled through the widening entrance and attacked him. He staggered and gasped, his lungs aching, and quickly fumbled his face mask into place.
“Don't dawdle.” The guide prodded him between the shoulder blades. “Storm's due soon.”
Once out of the ship Pataco could vaguely make out some regular shapes several meters away through the swirling whiteness and he took a determined step towards them, only to wobble about as the ground beneath his feet collapsed. His next few steps were more cautious, but soon he was waddling with more confidence. As he got closer he could see the buildings more clearly and he changed his heading slightly so that he was aimed at the open door on the left side. Behind him Grustigorph swore. It took Pataco a moment to realize why. An open door. No sane person would leave their door open in this sort of climate.
Captain Pataco attempted to pick up speed, but Grustigorph easily outpaced him. “Honorable Grustigorph,” Pataco called. “Mind where you're stepping, we don't want to obscure any evidence!”
The winds caught the man's words and swirled them back and away. Pataco caught only “Forget that!” and “Call me Grusti.” The guide did move slightly to one side without slowing down much.
There were recent footprints. Two sets aimed toward the residence, and two sets aimed away. Pataco couldn't tell if it was two people, or one person twice. He switched his communicator on, so he wouldn't have to bellow. “An expert would be able to identify the make of the boots, and the size?” he asked hopefully.
“ThermoPod, size medium. Same as yours,” Grusti responded.
Pataco looked down at the bulky boots that encased his feet. “How do you know?”
“Everyone wears them. They only come in four sizes. It's the liners that are fitted.”
That didn't sound promising, but maybe an expert analysis would turn up some additional information. Pataco double checked that his recorder was running, and turned up the magnification, scanning the ground as he followed his native guide toward the door. He also set an agent to check sales records for ThermoPod boots, size medium. He was so intent on these two tasks, that he almost bumped into Grusti who was hesitating in the doorway. “Don't go in,” Pataco advised.
Grusti just lurched inside.
Pataco shrugged and followed. He fished a sniffer out of his pocket with clumsy mitts and released it. As it went about its work, he walked over to join the guide, who was kneeling over his friend. The body was slumped against the wall, as if it had been slammed into it and allowed to subside. Under a dusting of ice crystals a trickle of blood hovered, suspended in the corner of his mouth. He was dressed in a heavy coverall and boots—outdoor attire anywhere other than here. The infrared readout said that his body temperature was the same as the surrounding air.
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