‘I am delighted to meet you,’ said Staines, shaking his hand briefly; then, turning back to Anna, he said, ‘I still don’t know your name … but perhaps I won’t ask for it, just yet. Shall you keep it a secret—so that I have to make inquiries, and find you out?’

‘Her name is Anna Wetherell,’ said Clinch.

‘Oh,’ said the boy. His expression had suddenly given way to astonishment; he was looking at Anna very curiously, as though her name bore a significance that he could not, for some reason, articulate aloud.

‘We’d best be getting on,’ said Clinch.

He leaped aside. ‘Oh—yes, of course. You’d best be getting on. A very good morning to you both.’

‘It was very nice to see you again,’ said Anna.

‘May I call upon you?’ said Staines. ‘Once you’re settled?’

Anna was surprised, and thanked him; she might have said more, but Clinch was already leading her away, seizing her hand where it was tucked beneath his elbow and drawing it, firmly, closer to his chest.

ARIES, RULED BY MARS

In which Francis Carver asks Te Rau Tauwhare for information; but Tauwhare, having not yet made the acquaintance of a Mr. Crosbie Wells, cannot help him.

The Maori man carried a greenstone club upon his hip, thrust through his belt in the way that one might wear a crop or a pistol. The club had been carved into the shape of a paddle, and polished to a shine: the stone was a rippled olive green, shot through with bursts of yellow, as if tiny garlands of kowhai had been melted and then pressed into glass.

Carver, having delivered his message, was about to bid the other man goodbye when the stone caught the light, and seemed suddenly to brighten; curious, he pointed at it, saying, ‘What’s that—a paddle?’

‘Patu pounamu,’ said Tauwhare.

‘Let me see,’ said Carver, holding out his hand. ‘Let me hold it.’

Tauwhare took the club off his belt, but he did not hand it to the other man. He stood very still, staring at Carver, the club loose in his hand, and then suddenly, he leaped forward, and mimed jabbing Carver in the throat, and then in the chest; finally he raised the club up high above his shoulder, and brought it down, very slowly, stopping just before the weapon made contact with Carver’s temple. ‘Harder than steel,’ he said.

‘Is it?’ said Carver. He had not flinched. ‘Harder than steel?’

Tauwhare shrugged. He stepped back and thrust the club back into his belt; he appraised Carver for a long moment, his chin lifted, his jaw set, and then he smiled coldly, and turned away.

SUN IN GEMINI

In which Benjamin Löwenthal perceives an error, and Staines acts upon a whim.

‘Bother,’ said Löwenthal. He was scowling at his forme—reading the text both right-to-left and backwards, for the type was both mirrored and reversed. ‘I’ve got a widow.’

‘A what?’ said Staines, who had just entered the shop.

‘It’s called a widow. A typographical term. I have one too many words to fit into the column; when there’s a word hanging over, that’s a widow. Bother, bother, bother. I was in such a rush, this morning—I let a man pay for a two-inch advertisement without tallying his letters, and his notice won’t fit into a two-inch square. Ah! I must put it aside, and come back with fresh eyes later: that is the only thing to do, when one is in a muddle. What can I do for you, Mr. Staines?’ Löwenthal pushed the forme aside and, smiling, reached for a rag to wipe the ink from his fingers.

Staines explained that he had banked his competence that morning in exchange for cash. ‘I was meaning to invest in a claim,’ he explained, ‘but I don’t want to do that—not just yet. I’m still—well, I’m still of two minds about a number of things. I would like to know what’s on offer in the camp instead. Hotels, dining halls, warehouses, shops … anything that’s for sale.’

‘Certainly,’ said Löwenthal. He moved to the cabinet, opened the topmost drawer, and began to thumb through the files; presently he extracted a piece of paper, and handed it to Staines. ‘Here.’

Staines scanned the document. When he reached the bottom of the list, his expression slackened very slightly; in surprise, he looked up.

‘The Gridiron,’ he said.

Löwenthal spread his hands. ‘It is as good a venture as any,’ he said, ‘Mr. Maxwell is the current owner; Mr. Clinch, the acting proprietor. Both are good men.’

‘I’ll take it,’ said Staines.

‘Oh?’ said Löwenthal. ‘Should I inform Mr. Maxwell that you would like to look it over?’

‘I don’t want to look it over,’ said Staines. ‘I want to buy it outright—and at once.’

SCORPIO, RULED BY MARS

In which Francis Carver makes an acquaintance at the Imperial Hotel.

Carver held little hope that the notice he had placed in the West Coast Times that morning would bear fruit. He doubted that anyone would be so foolish as to surrender a wanted trunk unopened, still less when a fifty-pound reward was offered for that trunk’s return. The very best that he could hope for was that the trunk would be opened, the contents rifled, and the dresses presumed to be of sentimental value only, in which case the finder—if he or she had read the Times, and was aware of the reward offered—might surrender them; but that contingency, itself unlikely, depended upon the still more unlikely contingency that the trunk had been sent to West Canterbury, of all possible destinations in the world! No: the fact that it had been removed from Godspeed’s hold on the night of the 12th of May could mean only one thing: someone must have been aware of the colossal fortune the trunk contained. It would hardly have been recalled at the last minute, only to be shipped at hazard, elsewhere. If it had been Crosbie Wells who had recalled the trunk at the last moment—by far the most likely guess—then he would surely have quit the country as soon as he was able, using the gold to bribe the customhouse officials, or perhaps, paying another man for his papers or his name. The fortune was gone for good. Carver cursed aloud, and, to accent his frustration, slammed the base of his glass against the bar.

‘Amen,’ said the man nearest him.

Carver turned to glare at him, but the man was beckoning the bartender.

‘Pour that man another drink,’ he said. ‘We’ll both have another. On my tab.’

The bartender uncorked the brandy bottle and refilled Carver’s glass.

‘Pritchard’s my name,’ said the man, watching as the bartender poured.

Carver glanced at him. ‘Carver,’ he said.

‘Took you for a sailor,’ Pritchard said. ‘Salt on your jacket.’

‘Captain,’ said Carver.

‘Captain,’ said Pritchard. ‘Well, good on you. I never had a stomach for the sea. I might have gone back home, otherwise; only I’m put off by the thought of the journey. I’d rather die here than suffer that again. Arse end of the world, isn’t it?’

Carver grunted, and they both drank.

‘Captain, though,’ said Pritchard presently. ‘That’s good.’

‘And you?’ said Carver.

‘Chemist.’

Carver was surprised. ‘Chemist?’

‘Only one in town,’ said Pritchard. ‘A true original, that’s what I am.’

They sat in silence for a time. When their glasses were empty Pritchard signalled again to the bartender, who refilled them both as before. Suddenly Carver rounded on him, and said, ‘What have you got in the way of opium? Have you a ready supply?’

‘Afraid I can’t help,’ Pritchard said, shaking his head. ‘Nothing but tincture, that’s all I’ve got, and it’s poor. Weaker than whisky, twice the headache. You won’t find anything south of the Grey. Not if you’ve a real thirst for it. Go north.’

‘I’m not buying,’ Carver said.