by Isaac Asimov
“Sit down,” Filoo said, a faint smile on his lips. “We can go slow, long as it doesn’t take forever. We’re in the same business, that’s all. I’ve been at it a little longer—makes me confident I know a few things.”
“But you don’t know where I get my supplies,” Masid said, still standing. “Does that make us competitors or potential partners?”
“Depends. I have a large operation. When anything gets big enough, certain errors creep into the accounting.”
“You’ve got a leak. You want to know if it’s me.” He shook his head. “I’m not stupid enough to steal from someone who can kill me as an afterthought.”
Filoo patted the table before Masid’s still vacant chair. “Not stupid. Confident. Arrogant. Cocky. One or two successes make a man think he can get away with something all the time. Playing the odds doesn’t make him stupid.”
“Playing something you don’t know does,” Masid said. He sat down. “All right. I have my own source, unconnected to anybody. I own it, it’s all mine. I don’t need to steal from anybody.”
“There are no independent sources,” Kar said.
“Is that confidence or arrogance talking?” Masid asked. “Or wishful thinking?” He looked at Filoo. “It’s not a large source, just enough to keep me in consumables and a roof, so I doubt it would ever damage your trade. With all the sick people, we’ll both be forever dolling out pharmaceuticals. But if you have a security problem, then so do I.”
“Really?” Filoo asked. “How so?”
“Until you fix it, you’ll be thinking I have something to do with it. That’s not going to be good for friendly relations.”
“Sounds like you have a fine appreciation of the situation. What would you propose to deal with it?”
“Well, you have a few options. The quickest is you can order your cocks here to kill me. I might be a problem, if not now then further down the line. I might, for all you know, be the source of your leak.”
“You claim not, though.”
“Why should you believe me? Kill me and be done with it. If it turns out you were wrong about the leak, you might be right about the future problem. Of course, that leaves you then with your leak. It’ll probably stop for a while, till it seems you’re satisfied, but it’ll start up again. A thief is never content with well-enough. So after a few months or a year, once again you’ll be trying to scratch an itch you can’t find. Annoying.”
“Very. Another option, then?”
“You can ask me to move to another district. Same consequences apply, except then you might lose track of me. That could be a problem later on. A third option would be to hire me to find your leak. Short-term contract, bring in an outsider to hunt down your thief, and when it’s over we go our separate ways.”
“Of course,” Filoo said, grinning, “that leaves you as a potential problem further down the line.”
“Of course. So if I were you, I’d just hire me as a subcontractor. You get a percentage, I operate as usual, but with the added protection of your organization, and if I learn anything at all about your leak, then I’m honor-bound to let you know about it.”
Filoo leaned back in his chair. A waiter brought a tray then with a carafe and cups and a plate of sweetcakes.
Filoo poured coffee for everyone, then took a cake. “Of course, there is one more option: I could buy you out, source and all, and simply bind you to me.”
“To do what? Sell or run security? What would that prove?”
“Prove? Nothing. It would just keep you in reach.” He chewed a mouthful of cake thoughtfully. “How would you go about finding a leak?”
“Hypothetically?”
“Whatever.”
“Watch the market,” Masid said. “Track the buys, see who is no longer buying from you who used to. See if anyone is buying in larger than normal quantities. Find out why they changed. Trace it back.”
“You sound like a cop,” Kar said.
“Oh,” Masid said, “that’s such an ugly accusation. Of course, there’s another way. Riskier.”
“That doesn’t concern me just now,” Filoo said. “What does is your response to my offer.”
“You made an offer?”
“I did.”
Masid thought for a few seconds. “I don’t really need a partner.”
“Perhaps not. Maybe I need a favor.”
Masid looked across the table at Kar. “Give me a few days to think about it?”
“Three. I expect an answer in three days.”
Masid lifted his cup and breathed in the aroma of fresh, expensive coffee. Doubtless Gorim carried it exclusively for Filoo. Masid met Filoo’s gaze over the rim of the cup and nodded.
One of Masid’s customers paid him with a wad of scrip for six ampules of dexanadrine-H derivative, a wide-range antibiotic which, as far as Masid had been able to tell since arriving on Nova Levis, did absolutely nothing to any of the pathogens killing the population. Folded within the wad of currency he found a list of names and a note:
These are my designated dealers. F.
Seven names. Masid pocketed the list and did a slow circuit through the bazaar, checking his memory against the names. Since starting here, he had identified everyone who sold regularly. He made two more deals before locating and identifying all seven under the tent, then quit for the day and headed back to the apartment.
His rooms had been searched twice—once, he discovered, while he drank coffee with Filoo. They were very careful about it, and Masid only knew because he had placed tells around the apartment. He had his little factory locked in a cabinet with a very obvious self-destruct device. No one had yet dared to try to open it, but by now Filoo probably guessed what Masid kept hidden within.
He deactivated the device and opened the doors wide. His machines hummed faintly. The complex soup he had set his synthesizer to brewing that morning was ready. He took it upstairs to Tilla.
Tilla smiled wanly while he did a quick blood analysis and then administered the concoction. He imagined sometimes that she looked better, but the numbers told a different story. He had managed to fight some of the infections to a standstill—one of them was actually in abeyance—but he had no illusions of saving her life. He was postponing an inevitable battle that Tilla would lose. He had prepared another kind of ministration for that day. Till then, she was more comfortable, more alert. But it was temporary and both of them understood that.
“So Filoo wants you to solve his problem,” she said after he told her about the meeting. “Which means you have your way in. If you succeed.”
“Has he had this problem before?”
“They’ve all had this problem. It’s not possible to avoid having it. They’re criminals, after all, what can they expect? But Filoo specifically . . . yes, he did. About five months ago, he purged four people from his organization. I never learned the specifics, I was getting pretty sick by then.”
“Any idea how he solved it?”
“Sure. Kar uncovered it.”
“Kar.”
She looked at him narrowly. “You’re not surprised.”
“No, but I can’t tell you why I’m not.”
“Lizard Sense.”
“What?” Masid laughed.
“The woman who trained me, old-time Special Service. Good cop. She told me that all the profiles, all the M.O. analyses, all the criminal psychology seminars—none of them worked half so well as what she called the ‘Lizard Sense.’ She said an experienced cop just knows. You develop it over time, if you pay attention, and you can just tell. A thousand little details all compressed into a single impression. You look at someone and you know they’re wrong. You saw it in Kar, even if you didn’t know what it was. Now that I’ve told you the important detail, you put it all together. You’re not surprised because you saw something about him that makes him suspect.”
“I still needed that piece of data.”
“Yes, and you would have found it, and something would go click! and you’d
just know.”
“Where did Kar come from?”
“He’s from another district. I never found out. Frankly, I lost interest shortly afterward.”
“So how do I prove it?”
“Do what you told Filoo you would do. Run him down. Trace his connections. Do the math.”
“Then what?”
“Then . . . see what Filoo gives you. If it’s a way in, you follow it.”
“What if it takes me out of touch with you?” Masid asked.
“Did you come here to nurse a sick agent or find criminals?”
Masid grunted. “Hell of a choice.”
“Life is full of little inconveniences,” Tilla said wryly. “Get to work.”
Masid watched her as her eyes fell shut. Her breathing deepened into the now-familiar sonority of sleep and he left her.
Mia read the decrypted message, dismayed and gratified at the same time. Ariel’s back on Aurora . . .
But Hofton had convinced Coren Lanra to help. Surprises usually came in groups.
A new agent had been sent—or had come on his own initiative, depending how you looked at it. She found it doubtful whether bypassing channels on the assumption that someone within the security community was a mole would guarantee that he would reach the surface. But, if the coded transmission she had received from the surface could be believed, he had succeeded.
Masid Vorian. She did not know the name. According to Hofton, he had been attached to Sipha Palen’s Kopernik Station security, seconded from Settler Coalition Intelligence in a novel arrangement that had kept Masid out of the usual files. Mia remembered Sipha—novel arrangements were a given with her—and had been saddened to learn of her death. According to Hofton, Vorian had gone deep cover after Palen’s demise and only his destination was known.
She would have to trust what she did not know—how good was he?
Well, if he had managed to get down there alive and locate the last—presumed dead—team, then Mia assumed he was pretty good.
Coren Lanra had investigated the bookseller. Omne Mundi Complurium was, for the most part, legitimate, a dealer in rare books, works of art, and occasional unclassifiable antiquities. Unsurprisingly, they also dealt in contraband of various sorts, restricted imports and exports, even, on a few occasions, robotics. It existed on the edge, not quite criminal enough to be shut down, especially as a substantial part of its trade was to wealthy and influential citizens, several of whom were part of the Terran government. Lanra estimated that over eighty percent of their material traffic was legitimate, but that nearly half their profit came from illicit trade.
Three of their customers had drawn Lanra’s interest in particular.
The Hunter Group, which was a consortium of offworld businesses that owned, by extension, several large companies on Earth. They bought the largest quantity of old books. What they did with them after they left the planet, Lanra did not know.
Ambassador Gale Chassik had been a customer. Most of his purchases—books—had gone back to Solaria.
Lastly, Commander Reen.
Reen . . .
Mia forced her attention back on to the communiqué. Hunter, Lanra claimed, owned a good portion of the development on Nova Levis, or had until the blockade.
“We suspect Hunter to be the legitimate face of Kynig Parapoyos,” he said. “It would give him a legal presence through a huge segment of the Settler colonies.”
Kynig Parapoyos . . . Mia absently rubbed her left thigh, where bullets from rifles obtained from Parapoyos had torn open her flesh over a year ago. The dull ache all the way to the bone was more illusion now than real, but it still bothered her.
Mia wondered how the three were connected. Parapoyos, Chassik, and Reen.
But Chassik was dead now, killed by pirates. What had become of all his purchases from Omne Mundi Complurium? Were they even related to this?
It seemed a stretch, but she doubted Lanra would have mentioned it if he did not think a connection existed.
But Reen . . .
Mia read on. The books she had locked in her desk were all purchases Reen had made. He had an agent on Earth who bought them for him, whom Lanra was continuing to investigate.
So what had Corf been doing with them? And had Reen been aware of the encrypted tables in the endpapers?
Mia rubbed her eyes. She had to assume he did. Which meant he knew what they contained, which meant he was aware of the shipments, which meant—
Reen had been running his department ragged trying to find the source of the contraband shipments to Nova Levis. She had to admire his skill at making sure they intercepted just enough to make it appear progress had been made. She had likewise to be disgusted with herself for not recognizing the scenario.
If I hadn’t found those books, would I be any closer?
Mia opened her encryption program and began carefully composing a response to the new agent, Masid Vorian. She had no instructions for now, she only wanted him to know her name.
Hers and Reen’s.
Tilla was sleeping when Masid checked on her that evening. He ran down the numbers on her portable diagnostic and found a reassuring change in her leukocyte count, but not much else.
He entered the kitchen and found Kru preparing what was locally called a flatmeat pie. She glared at him the way she usually did, then ignored him.
There was always a certain amount of luck in every deep cover job, he knew, and it always centered on the people you simply had to trust. Time and lack of thorough knowledge about a place offered too little opportunity to run an operation as securely as good sense dictated. Judgment calls about the people you encountered meant risking error and, consequently, your life.
Masid had learned to trust his sense of people; he was good at sorting them into plus and minus columns and acting accordingly. Once in a while, though, he found himself with no easy answer and he had to go along anyway, hoping.
He had learned nothing useful about Kru other than that she was a superb scavenger and she was profoundly in love with Tilla. She had tentatively accepted Masid into their tiny circle because Tilla said to, but Masid knew he would never know when or if Kru would ever trust him. Not knowing, daily relying on her when he felt certain she would just as soon see him dead, added an edge to every decision he made.
Without a word to Kru, he took the back steps down to his own apartment.
A short woman in a heavy jacket sat on his sofa, going through some papers on the low table in front of her. She looked up at him, then lifted a sidearm from the seat beside her and set it loudly on the table.
Masid’s right hand slipped into his coat pocket and touched the blaster.
“Marshal Toranz,” he said. “Do you have a warrant, or did I just forget that we had a date?”
She shook her head. “I don’t like humor when I’m working.”
“Ah. That assumes I’m joking.”
She looked at him blandly. “No, I don’t have a warrant. We don’t have a local magistrate—he died—therefore no one to issue such permissions. So, given that I’m the last official with anything like legal authority, I grant myself the necessary warrants to do what I think best to protect this town.”
“And right now that means letting yourself into my home?”
She jerked a thumb toward his cabinet. “That’s got an ID-sensitive explosive attached to it. What’s in there?”
“Nothing I intend to show you.”
Toranz stood, sighing loudly. “Look, I’ve done this job for the last six years. The last two have been under progressively worse circumstances and I’ve seen damn near all my staff die, either from disease or from being stupid. I’m still here. I say all this to impress upon you the fact that I am reasonably good at my job. I have a very simple policy: Screw with me and I kill you.” She looked significantly at the cabinet. “What’s in there?”
“You kill me for refusing to show you, you’ll never find out anyway.”
Toranz lifted the blaster.
“No, but you may upset some of the locals.”
“That was true a week ago. Two weeks ago. Why’d it take you this long to get around to me?”
“Big caseload.” She gestured toward the cabinet. “Open it, jackass, or the conversation ends now.”
Masid shifted his hand to the small wafer alongside the blaster. He pressed the contact.
A heavy scent of ozone filled the room. Toranz stiffened visibly and Masid flinched, unsure whether she had the safety on her blaster. No bolt came. She began to tremble a little.
Masid released the button and she dropped abruptly onto the couch, the blaster clattering to the floor. Her eyes began fluttering rapidly.
Masid kicked her weapon away. He found her cuffs and secured her wrists. She felt clammy now, her skin blanching from the aftermath of the stunner.
“Sorry about that,” Masid said. “I couldn’t find enough juice for a short burst that would do any good, so I rigged the field to just squeeze you. I’ll probably have to replace the batteries now.” He unzipped her jacket and searched for ID. He found her folder and opened it. A tarnished shield glowed dully in the halflight from the windows. Behind it, he found a thick sheaf of local currency. “Well, now, who pays your salary these days? If you’re the top official left in town, no one’s issuing payroll. Or do you just collect it as fines and fees?”
A soft beeping began from within the cabinet. Toranz was barely conscious, but her eyes drifted in that direction. Masid pulled her forward, then yanked the jacket up, over her head, covering her face.
He opened the cabinet. Within, his hyperlink chimed with an incoming message. He checked quickly, then shunted it into the decryptor and closed the cabinet door.
“You shit . . .” Toranz breathed when he bared her face.
“I am that.” He continued going through her pockets. He found a wallet of ampules and a hypodermic gun. “For you? Or do you deal on the side? Considering the environment of this place, there can’t be too much law enforcement going on.”
