Sagramanda

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Within twenty-four hours I pledge that I will get back to you with a concrete offer that you can convey to your client,” Pandit promised. “To ensure the speediest possible acceptance, he may have to come down somewhat on his asking price.” Aged but wiry shoulders shrugged. “That is a decision for him to make. Me, I would be more than content with a tenth of what he is asking. But as a merchant yourself, you understand the need to begin bargaining with the most outrageous asking price.”

  Sanjay felt himself nodding absently by way of reply. His attention was focused on the silver dancer. Grinning like the wizened monkey-god Hanuman, whom he somewhat resembled, Pandit reached out to put a hand on his guest's knee. That finally drew the shopkeeper's concentration back to his host.

  “Twenty-four hours. Chhote Pandit's word is his bond. Then it will all be up to your client.”

  Their business concluded, Sanjay had the delicious pleasure of being uniquely served one more time by the extraordinary automaton. Tea was sipped, dancing observed, music listened to. Ten minutes later Pandit rose, a signal that the meeting was at an end.

  “Be careful, my friend.” He wagged a warning finger at the departing Sanjay, who was not surprised to find two very large gentlemen of serious mien awaiting his exit. “Try not to get yourself killed; at least not until tomorrow evening after we have concluded this matter.”

  “Do not worry,” Sanjay told him. “I am most assuredly not going back to my shop. I am not even going home, in case that is being watched. I will spend the night in a truck driver's hostel. Trackers would have to be very clever indeed to find me there, and braver still to try kidnapping someone from such a rough place. Tonight I will contact my client. Tomorrow, you and I will speak via secure communicator.” He hesitated. “I will tell you one thing, sir, and then I ask that you tell me a thing.”

  Pandit nodded sharply, once. “Tell and ask, then.”

  “I believe that my client will accept any reasonable offer you can secure.” There was no harm in saying this, Sanjay knew, because as agents for the sale both his commission and that of Pandit would rise or fall according to the final offer. “That is what I have to tell you. As to the asking…” He hesitated for a moment, not wishing to appear any more ignorant than he doubtless already had.

  “I know the sum that is being stipulated. It seems impossible to me, the kind of figure that is met only in dreams, or in the stories of Mughals and maharajahs, sultans and nizams. Yet my client has not wavered in his asking price, and in the course of our previous meeting neither did you. What I want to ask is this, and you of course do not have to answer if you feel it is not in your interests.” With the air of a man laboring under a cloud of disbelief, he took a step back into the lightly scented chamber.

  “Is what my client has to sell really worth such an astonishing sum?”

  It was silent in the little room for a moment, a state of affairs not entirely due to its sound-muting capabilities. Then Chhote Pandit looked over at the shopkeeper and replied easily, without a hint of a smile.

  “Cheap at the price.”

  Despite his assurances it took longer than Pandit had promised to settle on a price, obtain an agreement, and lock down the relevant terms. About five hours longer. He conveyed the details to Sanjay Ghosh via the roundabout encrypted means the grand old merchant and modest younger merchant had previously agreed upon. Sanjay, in turn, communicated them to Taneer Buthlahee, whose relief as he readily agreed was palpable even over secured communications. Best of all, the buyer shared Taneer's desire to conclude the business as rapidly as possible. Tomorrow at the soonest, since the banking establishments in both India and Europe whose services would be required were already closed and the necessary instruments and transfers could not be put through until they reopened.

  Though he would continue to work through the shopkeeper, Taneer insisted on making the final arrangements and conveying their details to the buyer himself, in real time. That meant either engaging in a simultaneous three-way communicator exchange—much more difficult to keep private—or being with Sanjay while the two of them utilized the facilities of a single open line to talk to the purchaser. The latter arrangement had the additional advantage of allowing them to communicate privately by signs or in writing or even just via eye contact while still remaining in constant contact with the buyer.

  But where to conduct such business, and on such short notice, this very night? Via communicator, Sanjay suggested that they meet at the trucker's hostel where he was staying. The idea did not appeal to Taneer. Too much potential for secondary violence, too many possible eavesdropping ears. It had to be a more public place, with as many witnesses as possible in the event something went wrong. Preferably somewhere with a significant police presence. Both men racked their brains for a suitable venue.

  In the end, it was Depahli who came up with the solution.

  Ramapark was one of the most recent, and successful, additions to the city's sometimes bewildering abundance of entertainment venues. While the well-to-do could afford to have elaborate personal entertainment systems installed in their homes, thus saving them the trouble and danger of mingling with their millions of less fortunate fellow citizens, such expensive luxuries were not available to the vast majority of Sagramanda's inhabitants. Hence the creation of frequently small and simple, but occasionally vast and elaborate, carnivals of culture and pleasure. Ten-year-old Ramapark fell into the latter category, and had proved stimulating enough to intrigue even the wealthy into going slumming in search of its delights.

  Based on the great epic of the Ramayana, a tale set three thousand years in the past had been adapted and updated for contemporary enjoyment. Located on the western side of the Hooghly, the thousands of lights that illuminated the park after dark drew packed crowds on weekends and was reasonably busy on weekdays, not least because most of its rides and attractions were air-conditioned. In the same way, movie houses during the mid-twentieth century had often filled their seats with people less interested in what was being shown on ancient screens than they were in escaping the summer heat.

  Surrounded by an artificial moat that made use of Hooghly water, entrance to the park from the parking lot and public transport station was over a wide causeway built to resemble the stone bridge Hanuman had raised from south India to Ceylon so Rama could invade that country to recover his kidnapped wife, Sita. As he joined the throng of happy families and couples in moving toward the great arched, illuminated entrance, Sanjay vowed to one day bring his own family here for a visit. Chakra and the children would love it, from the automated servants of Hanuman the Monkey-God, who were shown working on the bridge, to the soaring virtuals of Ravan's demons, who strove futilely to harry them in their efforts.

  Inside the walls, constructed to resemble Sugriva's fabled city of Kishkindha, sound competed with light for the attention of the park's visitors. People flocked to eat dinner at one of the park's many restaurants or the stalls that served specialties from all over India. Wide-eyed children clung with one hand to parents and with the other to souvenirs like the internally illuminated balloons in the shape of heroes from the Ramayana story. Shops sold everything from figures of the epic's many characters to replicas of Maricha's deer and Hanuman's asoka flowers. “Reproductions” of Sita's jewelry were especially popular among young girls, while boys favored miniatures of Rama's bow and arrows or the sandals he had given to Bharat.

  Never having been to the park before, Sanjay found it difficult to concentrate on the work at hand. He was here on business, serious business, and not for relaxation. Still, it was hard not to be seduced by the glitter and glow of the many rides and attractions on offer. He was particularly drawn to the opportunity to participate in an enormous enclosed ride where for ten minutes at a time, fifty individuals could reenact the great battle in the sky between Rama in his chariot and the evil Ravan in his sky-carriage. Rama's arrows and Ravan's darts were all virtual, of course, but that did nothing to mute the genuine excitement.
A place like this, he reflected, could make one feel like a child again.

  A check of his chronometer indicated that he was already running a little late. Too late, and his client Mr. Mohan might grow nervous and leave. That would not be good for their always-tenuous relationship. Sanjay tried to walk faster, but the press of bodies around him made it difficult. In such packed surroundings, he could not run. The consequences of running over some distracted child would slow him down even more.

  Passing the opportunity to take Sumantra's chariot ride or win prizes by finding the jewel in the lock of Sita's hair, he worked his way through the multitude until he found himself walking past two opposing rows of park games that harkened back to a simpler, less technologically advanced era. In another time and place, they would have been called carny games. Step right up, folks, and try your skills here! Win cheap prizes! These consisted primarily of overlarge, inexpensively produced stuffed animals and Ramayana figures or wildly blinking low-priced electronics imported from the low-labor factories of China or the SADC.

  He passed on the stentorian blandishments of a human hawker who urged him to try his luck at throwing the healing herbs of Hanuman at the foul poisons of Indrajit as he searched for the venue specified by his client. It was located at the end of the aisle, on the left. There, people paid to shoot at Varan's Raksha warriors with virtual arrows shot from real bows. Imbued with individual internal programming and the appropriate electronics, the bows responded to aim and strength of pull and “fired” accordingly at virtual targets that swooped and darted in three dimensions at the rear of the high-tech booth. When a Raksha was hit, it perished in an explosion of light and color garish enough to satisfy the most demanding twelve-year-old—or his excited father.

  As Sanjay approached, there were only three people utilizing the booth's facilities: a frowning teenager of about fourteen who was rapidly exhausting the credit on his park card, and a young couple. The shopkeeper recognized his client immediately. When the figure with him turned slightly, Sanjay found himself taken aback by her attractiveness. Though the capacious sari she wore concealed any hint of curves (deliberately, perhaps?), he felt confident that the beauty he saw in her face must surely be duplicated all the way to the toes of her sandal-clad feet. There was something else about her he could not quite put a finger on, however. A suggestion of hardness, perhaps. This was a flower that would not surrender its petals easily.

  Taneer finished firing his bow. He'd been at it for a while now, too preoccupied to pay much attention to what he was doing, more interested in conveying the appearance of an average park-goer. Even so, he was irritated at his lack of success. He had been brought up not to lose at anything, and even the meaningless diversion of the game threatened to distract him from his purpose in coming here. Recognizing the expression on his face, Depahli was amused at his inability to win a prize neither of them wanted. They were here to put the final touches on acquiring a real prize.

  She had to touch him on the shoulder and turn him slightly to face the quiet gentleman who had come up behind them and stood waiting patiently for Taneer to finish with the game.

  “Sanjay, my friend.” Gesturing, Taneer led the shopkeeper away from the booth and deeper into the park.

  “Mr. Mohan,” Sanjay replied courteously.

  Depahli looked at him in such a way that the scientist felt moved to take a step forward, in the direction of trust. “Events have progressed to the point where I think you might as well know my real name, Sanjay. If things don't go as we hope, you might need to know it to facilitate alternatives. My name is Taneer Buthlahee.” As they walked on, he introduced the exquisite woman at his side. “This is my fiancée, Depahli De.”

  Steepling his palms together, Sanjay bowed slightly in her direction. “I am both honored and charmed, though if you will permit me, I must confess that I am more charmed than honored.”

  Depahli laughed. It was a bold, forthright expression of delight without a hint of fragility about it. “A pleasure to meet you, too, Sanjay.” Her tone turned playful and she squeezed her consort's arm. “Has dear Taneer promised to make you rich also?”

  The scientist just shook his head. One could only restrain Depahli so far, and then stand back while she said whatever was on her mind.

  “We have a most equitable business arrangement, yes,” Sanjay told her, smiling.

  A trio of young girls rushed past. Dressed in colortropic pants that shifted hues to match their emotions and Western-style blouses puffed at the sleeves in the current style, they carried self-icing drink cups that, thanks to their electrostatically charged rims, kept the contents from sloshing out as the girls ran. They were giggling and smirking, bubbling over with adolescent feminine secrets that were important only to them. As a proper father, Sanjay wondered what they had been up to. Black entwined ponytails swaying, the tallest girl wore one of the new vest tops that was open vertically all the way to her waist. Opposing magnetized hems were all that kept it from flopping open with each step. Reflexive disapproval caused him to shake his head. Who could fathom the fashions of today's teenagers?

  “Something wrong, Sanjay?” No longer ever completely at ease since his encounter with the lanky tracker, an edgy Taneer tried to scan the crowd without making himself conspicuous.

  “No, Mr. Moh…Mr. Buthlahee. Everything is fine. I was not followed on my way here, and I assume the same is true for you.” He smiled and nodded reassuringly at Depahli, whose return smile of gratitude was by itself enough to make a man momentarily forget his wife. Removing his communicator from a pocket, he raised it to his mouth.

  “Whenever you are ready I will open the necessary connection on my secure line, and you can give the final instructions to the person who has been designated as spokesperson for the purchasing company. I was informed by our mutual contact that this person will be acting as the sole representative for the remainder of the sale.”

  Taneer nodded, searched the crowd again. He was looking particularly for a tall, lean individual with European as well as Indian features. Though several visiting European families were present, he saw no one resembling the man who had nearly run him to ground. Content and happy, enjoying their night at the park, innocent people eddied around the trio.

  The plaza they emerged onto was busy, bright, and noisy, crowded with families resting from their exertions. Designed to resemble the courtyard of the ancient palace of Ayodhya, the slightly raised platform was one of several such meeting places within the park complex. Automated snack vendors kicked out floating virtuals praising the attractions of their ice cream, samosas, sandesh, rosogulla, the almost impossibly sweet gulab jamun, and other treats. Larger stalls offered every kind of fast food, from vegetarian to hamburgers, shashlik to satay. Open space, and a family crowd that was talkative without being deafening: it was exactly what Taneer wanted for a setting in which to conduct the forthcoming critical conversation.

  Turning a slow circle, he took a last, wary glance around before nodding at his middleman. “Go ahead, Sanjay.”

  Bringing out his communicator, the shopkeeper entered a number. It connected him with a special autodialer that then made the secondary connection. This ensured that even if the communication was somehow intercepted, it could not be traced back to its point of origin. The Rat had turned him on to it, and Sanjay had found it very useful when dealing with suppliers of inventory of the nontrinket kind.

  By mutual agreement, visual as well as audio links were activated. It was conceded that knowing what everyone looked like would be reassuring to all parties concerned. There was a pause, no doubt prompted by security concerns at the other end, and then the communicator's small screen cleared to show the face of a heavyset middle-aged man of European extraction. Innate dignity showed through the effects of his extensive and expensive cosmetic surgery.

  “Mr. Ghosh?” The tone was mannered, the English polished, but with a distinctive accent Sanjay could not identify. He did not let it concern him. The man's origins w
ere no more his business than was the identity of the people the respondent represented. Chhote Pandit had vouched for him, and that was all Sanjay needed.

  “I am here. What shall I call you, sir?”

  The man did not smile. As it developed, he was not to smile throughout the entire course of their conversation. Neither was he condescending or discourteous. Sanjay had dealt with virtuals that were more human.

  “Mr. Karlovy will do. As your Mr. Pandit has told you, the members of the consortium I speak for have agreed to your terms. We are ready, indeed anxious, to conclude the transaction.”

  Responding to a nod from Taneer, Sanjay obediently passed him the communicator. At the sight of the scientist, Mr. Karlovy's expression changed. It was still not quite a smile, but he was clearly pleased.

  “Mr. Buthlahee. It is both a great honor and a considerable relief to see that you continue to exist in the flesh, and not as mere rumor. Do you know that you have made yourself, in certain knowledgeable circles, the most wanted man on the planet who has not committed mass murder?”

  “It's always nice to be popular,” Taneer shot back, unwilling to be flattered. “I'm looking to change that status as soon as possible.”

  “A yearning in which my group fervently wishes to assist you. How, where, and when might we best expedite our mutual business?”

  Though Sanjay did his part by continuing to scan the laid-back crowd while his client chatted on the communicator, he could not keep from eavesdropping. In this he was not ashamed. His future revolved around a successful conclusion to this business as much as did Taneer's.

  “Do you know the Parganas District, in the southeastern part of the city, that borders on the Sundarbans?” Taneer was saying into the communicator's pickup.

  Mr. Karlovy was noncommittal. “Being only a visitor here myself, I know very little of your gargantuan conurbation. Without wishing to appear rude, there is very little of it that I wish to know. Only where we are to meet. Rest assured I have access to people who know it intimately, and can find their way to any meeting place of your choosing.”