The Mouse in the Mountain | Page 5

promised. "Bartolome, you cretin, point all the most beautiful views and do not hit any bumps. Not one bump, do you understand?"
Greg had seated himself and was glowering out a window. Maria ushered Patricia Van Osdel carefully to the seat she had selected and dusted.
The stir of movement floated some of the perfume to the back of the bus, and Carstairs sneezed and then sneezed again, more emphatically.
Maria jumped and glared. "That!" she said imperiously. "Out!"
"It is only a dog," the manager said quickly.
"A dog of the most intelligent marvelousness," Bartolome added.
"Please!" said Maria.
"Oh, no!" the manager denied, horrified.
"Emphatically never!" Bartolome seconded. "It is a dog of the most delicate and refined nature."
"It's quite all right," Patricia Van Osdel told her. She smiled at Doan and Janet. "I like dogs. They have so much character. Don't they, Greg?"
"No," said Greg.
Henshaw cleared his throat. "My name is Henshaw--"
"Who cares?" Greg inquired coldly.
"Greg," said Patricia Van Osdel, "now please be pleasant. Mr. Henshaw, I'm very glad to know you. And this is your wife and little boy? What a nice family group you make! I'm sure you all know who I am. This lady is my maid, Maria. And this is my refugee friend, Gregor Dvanisnos." She turned graciously toward the back of the bus. "And your names?"
"Doan," said Doan. "And this is Miss Janet Martin. On the floor, here, is Carstairs."
"Carstairs!" Patricia Van Osdel repeated, smiling. "What an amusing name for a dog!"
Carstairs opened one eye and looked at her and mumbled malignantly under his breath.
"Now!" said Patricia Van Osdel brightly. "We all know each other, don't we? We can all be friends having a pleasant day's excursion together, and that's the way it should be. That's the American tradition of equality. Although, in a way you are really all my guests."
"In what way?" Doan asked.
Patricia Van Osdel moved her shoulders gracefully. "It's really nothing. There was some silly hitch, some petty regulation--The hotel was going to cancel this trip to Los Altos until I persuaded them not to."
"How did you persuade them?" Doan inquired.
"Well, Mr. Doan, to be frank I bribed them. Money is a bore, but it's useful sometimes, isn't it?"
"So they tell me," said Doan. "Why did you bribe them?"
"Because I was determined to see Los Altos, of course. You've surely read about it, or you wouldn't be going there. A peaceful, picturesque village of stalwart peasants isolated deep in the mountains--happy in their primitive and peaceful way--unspoiled by the brutalizing forces of civilization. Why, until just recently, since the new military highroad was opened, there was no way to get there except by mule back. The village is famous for its peaceful, archaic atmosphere."
"Is that the only reason you bribed them to put on the trip?" Doan asked. "Just because you wanted to see the peaceful, peaceful peasants at play?"
"You're awfully curious, Mr. Doan, aren't you?"
"He's a detective," said Henshaw. "All them guys do is make trouble and ask questions."
Patricia Van Osdel's voice was sharp suddenly. "A detective? Are you a customs spy?"
"No," said Doan. "Why? Are you going to smuggle some jewelry into the United States?"
Patricia Van Osdel was still smiling, but her eyes narrowed just slightly. "Mr. Doan, I know you're joking, but you shouldn't suggest such a thing even in fun. You know that the very existence of our great country depends on all of us--rich and poor, wellborn and humble--obeying the exact letter of every law. Naturally I wouldn't dream of defrauding the government by not declaring any small jewels I may purchase."
"Oh," said Doan. "Well, I just asked."
"Yeah," said Henshaw. "And I'm just asking when we start this grand tour, if ever?"
"On schedule with preciseness," said Bartolome. "Instantly as printed. As soon as I consult with the tires, oil and gasoline."
"Species of a mumbling moron!" the manager snarled. "In! Start! Now!"
Chapter 2
IN LOS ALTOS, THERE HAD BEEN A RUMOR GOING THE rounds that some rich tourists from the United States who were staying at the Hotel Azteca outside Mazalar were going to make the bus trip up to Los Altos. It was obvious, of course, that this rumor wasn't entirely to be trusted. Anyone with any brains or a radio knew that the people from the United States were too busy raising hell up and down the world to have any time to look at scenery except through a bombsight.
But tourists of any brand had been so remarkably scarce of late that the mere hint of their impending arrival was enough to touch off a sort of impromptu fiesta. The inhabitants of Los Altos shook the mothballs out of their serapes, mantillas, rebozas and similar bric-a-brac and prepared to look colorful at the drop of a sombrero. They gathered in the marketplace with their pigs and chickens and burros and dogs and