“Took him apart, did you? Really beat him up? With what? Pillows?”
Raptor face swiveled his narrow, predatory visage around to confront Ormann. It appeared the hired killer was pleasantly intoxicated. “Hello, Bill.” He gestured toward the seat opposite. “Won’t you join us?”
“I’d rather take any explanations standing, thanks.”
“You’re too tense, Bill,” man mountain murmured solicitously. “You should get out more, have some fun.” Then he did something that shocked Ormann even more than the earlier news that his red-headed nemesis had survived unscathed. Man mountain giggled.
Reaching up with one lethal, steel-corded hand, raptor face patted his immense companion gently on the cheek. “Now, Emunde, don’t tease the poor man. He’s obviously a basket of frustration.”
Ormann swallowed. Hard. “You didn’t do what you were paid to do. It doesn’t look like you laid a hand on the kid. What the hell happened? It was the flying snake, wasn’t it? It drove you off. Or,” he continued, throwing caution aside, “it frightened you off.”
“We couldn’t hurt that nice young man.” Man mountain pushed out his plump lower lip. He almost looked as if he were going to cry. “I feel bad enough about dragging him halfway across town. We left him and his pet in a nice place, though. I’m sure he’s all right.”
“Oh, he’s just fine.” Ormann’s tone was tight enough to crack. “Too fine.” He looked from one jovial killer to the other. “What happened? What did he do to you?”
“Do?” For just an instant, a hint of his original murderous character passed over raptor face. “Why, he didn’t do anything, Bill.” His smile was beatific. “Emunde and I, we just suddenly realized that we were wasting our lives with what we were doing, that we didn’t want to hurt people anymore, and that we were missing out on so many of the joys of life. And don’t worry—we’ll refund your fee.” He raised his glass. “Sure you won’t join us in a drink?”
Something had happened to these two men. Something strange and inexplicable. In ways unknown, it was the fault of Clarity’s friend. It had to be. Creatures like these two did not simply go all spineless and silly overnight. He corrected himself. Something had not happened to them. Something had been done to them.
But what? It made no sense. It made even less sense than Clarity’s incomprehensible attraction to a man younger than herself whom she hadn’t seen in six years.
The evening of wonders was not quite over. Raptor face held up his glass. “Be of good cheer, Bill Ormann. We’ll send you an invitation to the wedding.” And with that, he put his arm around as much of man mountain’s waist as he could encompass and squeezed affectionately.
Ormann stumbled blindly out of the slothzone, seeing nothing. Not the gyrating softiques, nor their human counterparts. Not the spinning silver-eyed ecdysiasts boasting their unnatural virtual accoutrements or the citizens who lapped up the sight of them.
Outside, the cool night air gradually drew him out of his stupor. Heading toward transport, he considered his next step. In Philip Lynx he was clearly confronting something far more subtle and dangerous than he had believed. Before he could devise a method for dealing with him, he had to know more precisely what he was up against. How to go about acquiring that knowledge?
He could try to pry it out of Clarity. Reticent as she was about the young man’s background, he didn’t think gentle questioning would lead to much information. He could try to force it out of her. While he had little doubt that could be accomplished, by others if not by himself, it might drive her even closer to Lynx. He could challenge Lynx directly, hopefully while not in the presence of his irritable minidrag.
Slow down, he told himself. You’ve been patient this long. There’s still time. She’s not running off with him tomorrow. Do some serious research. You set professionals on him too soon, without knowing enough about him. Now enlist the aid of professionals of a different kind.
Whether in business or society, it was always prudent to learn a competitor’s weaknesses before attacking. Ormann’s jealousy and irritation had caused him to act in haste. That wouldn’t happen again, he vowed. The next time he took action, it would be with sufficient information to ensure success.
Meanwhile, he would continue to smile and act the chivalrous, mature protector to Clarity while extending the hand of politeness to her friend. Biding one’s time was as vital to the success of any endeavor as moving to accomplish it. It might take more time and effort than he had hoped, but the end was worthwhile. Clarity was too good a catch to surrender to some mumble-voiced postadolescent from . . . from . . .
It occurred to him that he did not even remember from what world his competitor hailed. Just acquiring such personal details might in itself lead to a means for getting rid of him. Ormann began to see possibilities that looked even more promising than simply having his rival beaten to a pulp.
But how had Lynx escaped from the now-outlandishly transformed thugs? Did Clarity know how it had been done? If so, could he obtain at least that information from her? If the redhead was somehow responsible, it would be vital for Ormann to learn what had happened.
Some kind of drug, perhaps. What if Lynx had somehow managed to counteract the effects of the special package? But that didn’t explain the sea change that had overwhelmed the two killers.
As he reached his private transport and activated the door, Ormann was convinced he knew the source of the fiasco, if not the actual cause. He would not be denied Clarity. Not after all the work he had put into acquiring her and certainly not by some creepy, attenuated upstart from offworld.
It was just a matter of time.
The woman Ormann was buying dinner for was attractive, slim, dark-eyed and honey-voiced. When he hinted that he might be interested in more than just hiring her to do a little specialized research for him, she put him in his place quickly. “Mr. Ormann—you can drop the false Cavelender name now, I don’t work for anyone whose true identity I don’t know—you should understand that if you intend to use my services, I prefer to keep my professional and personal interests separate.” She smiled around the stimstick that protruded like a small smoking stiletto from her full lips. “You’re not my type, anyway.”
“No?” Manufacturing a small smile to go with the small talk, he peered at her over his glass. Rainbow-hued liquid swirled within, effervescing Mozart. “Why not?”
“You’re underhanded and oily. Nothing personal.” The stimstick smoked pungently, redolent of jasmine and byyar.
If calling someone underhanded and oily wasn’t personal, he mused as he fought to keep instinctive rising anger under control, what was? He concealed his reaction by taking a long, slow draft of his drink.
“Calling someone underhanded sounds strange coming from a professional prober like you.”
She laughed softly. She was without question the most attractive felon he had ever encountered. Doubtless her appearance facilitated her work, which consisted largely of gaining access to information and places that would otherwise have been denied to her. And to her clients, he reminded himself.
“I prefer to think of myself as a subtle seeker after truth. And please—spare me the jokes about penetration. I’ve heard them all, boredom squared.”
“Then if it’s all right with you,” he said as he set his drink aside, “we’ll skip the rest of dinner along with any further informalities and get down to business.”
“Down or up.” She sounded bored. “It’s all the same to me.”
He didn’t bother to lean toward her; their table had already been privacy-screened. “I’m interested in the background of a recent arrival on Nur. Young man, staying at the Barkamp Inn, room six eighty-three. Has an Alaspinian minidrag for a pet. Never goes anywhere without it. Somehow he managed to dissuade the two men I engaged to teach him a lesson from carrying out their duties. In their own field, they were as reputable and well regarded as yourself.”
“Intriguing. What do you know about your man?” A fl
icker of more than professional interest crossed her smooth, pale features.
“Very little, which is why I’m hiring you, mostly—and most upsettingly—that he and my fiancée had some kind of relationship six years ago.”
“And now he’s turned up here to complicate your life. What do you want to know about him?”
“Everything.” Unable to restrain his anger and frustration, Ormann’s voice had gone low and tight. “Where he’s from. How old he actually is. What abilities he might possess beyond the inexplicable one of holding the attention of my fiancée. The names and locations of any relatives, close friends, or romantic involvements. His education and social background, resources, homeworld location, politics, religion—everything.”
She nodded. A small, dark purple recorder drawn from her purse was pressed against his. Information transferred silently. She preferred it that way; it meant she didn’t have to listen to the client as much. Also, machines did not try to hit on her. Generally.
As she rose sinuously from her chair she slipped her recorder back into its holder. “I’ll be in touch. When I have something for you.”
He gazed moodily into his drink. “Be careful. I don’t know what this Lynx did to the two men I hired. I can’t prove he did anything, but I doubt the implausible consequences were accidental. You don’t want him doing anything to you.”
“I’m not going to have any contact with him. If everything goes well, as it usually does, I won’t even have to talk to him. And I can take care of myself, Mr. Ormann.”
With a short, sharp shove he pushed his glass to one side. Calling for the bill, he glanced at the colorful heads-up, acknowledged the total by waving his hand over it, passed a credcard through the projection, and waited for the receipt.
“You’re sure you have to go? You’re an interesting lady and I wouldn’t mind just talking to you a while longer.” His tone was hopeful.
She smiled, checking to ensure that her purse was secured to her waist. “ ‘Talking’? Why, what would your fiancée say, Mr. Ormann?”
He grinned diffidently. The little-boy pose had served him well before. “She isn’t here.”
“And in a few seconds, neither am I,” she replied as she pivoted on one glidesole and strode purposefully to the exit.
Wholly professional, he thought as he rose from the table and wandered off in her wake. He was in no hurry to go home. An early return to his empty home would give him that much more time to wonder what Clarity and her friend were doing. Just talking, Clarity always insisted. Inwardly, he had begun to doubt her. No male conversationalist was that interesting. Not after this many weeks.
But then, he reflected, he did not know Lynx. In business, he had quickly learned that it was dangerous to generalize. And if Clarity was telling the truth, the young man did not know himself either. Ormann was confident this little bit of self-denigration on Mr. Lynx’s part would not impede the work of the very competent woman whose services he had just engaged. He looked forward to finding out all there was to know about his possible rival. Then he would know how to respond the next time.
Which would most certainly be the last time, he assured himself.
CHAPTER
10
It didn’t happen very often. When it did, Vendra was always grateful. The majority of those she was hired to probe were of normal physical proportions, even if their individual social and moral inclinations were frequently more diverse. This young man was conspicuously tall and had red hair and an exotic flying pet that always rode his shoulder. She was able to follow him easily. Without her being aware of it, the professional indifference she affected in order to blend seamlessly into crowds and scenery also had the effect of removing her from the notice of Flinx’s singular ability.
And she was patient. The unpretentious hotel where he was living served as a place for her to begin her work. After alternately cajoling and teasing the desk clerk, she was eventually allowed access to the guest records. Most of these were privacy sealed. That stopped her for about three minutes. Unfortunately, the available portion of her quarry’s record was concise and contained no useful information. He had simply registered. In order to satisfy her client she needed to access a lot more than that.
Her patience was rewarded one morning when Flinx unexpectedly entered a branch of a well-regarded chain of jewelry shops. She followed him inside, waving off the eager attendant who offered to assist her. Pretending to examine a display case filled with rings, she allowed her attention to wander in her quarry’s direction. With the aid of another salesperson, he was inspecting bracelets and necklaces. Her client would be relieved to learn that the handsome young man was not looking at rings.
Buy something, she found herself thinking at him. Buy anything, but preferably something expensive. The more expensive the item, the more carefully the store’s in-house security system would check the purchaser’s background. The more information it gleaned, the more there would be for her to copy.
She froze. Suddenly, he was looking at her. Before she had time to retreat or react in any suitable way, he was striding directly toward her. The closer he came, the larger the brightly colored winged reptiloid on his shoulder became.
“Excuse me, miss?” He had a nice voice, she decided, pleasant, almost boyishly charming, the voice of someone you instinctively wanted to help. She forced a smile. “Do you mind if—?” He broke off, frowning uncertainly. “You seem upset.”
“I do?” She continued to smile, stayed relaxed, her respiration only slightly elevated. How did he know she was upset? She forced herself to remain calm. “I guess expensive jewelry always makes my heart race.”
He looked uncertain. Then he shrugged, discounting his initial impression, and held something out for her to see. “I’m buying a present for a lady friend. What do you think of this?” Faceted gemstones sparkled before her eyes. “I’m trying to make a statement but not to overwhelm. I’m afraid this might be too flashy.”
She was so relieved she almost laughed aloud. All he wanted was the opinion of another woman. Making a show of studying the necklace, she inquired with utmost seriousness, “What color is her hair? Her eyes?” He told her, and she nodded. “Needs more green—emerald, tsavorite, celetine. Meteoric peridot is nice, and unfakeable.” She handed the necklace back. “Lucky girl.”
She almost laughed a second time. This tall, gangly, somehow endearing young man was blushing slightly. “She’s not a girl, and I’m not so sure she’s all that lucky. Thanks for your suggestions.” Turning away from her, he went back to his chair and resumed conferring with the salesman. The creature riding his shoulder had never looked up.
Relieved, she returned to her inspection of the ring case. Expect the worst, she mused, and it’s liable to come knocking. Hope for better, and you’re often rewarded. Having maintained her self-control throughout, she was convinced he suspected nothing. Why should he? She’d done nothing suspicious.
Her heart raced ever so slightly when he handed a different, greener necklace back to the salesman, who took it into a back room. When the man returned moments later with a small, discreet package, she knew that the purchase had been made. She waited another ten minutes before wandering over in the salesman’s direction, to make sure that the customer he had just waited on had indeed left the store.
“Nice young man, that,” she said, gazing casually at the rows of fine necklaces in the case.
The salesman nodded agreeably. “Very soft-spoken, very polite. A pleasure to wait on, though when he first walked in he had no idea what he wanted.”
“But you managed to find him something.” She smiled admiringly.
The salesman shrugged modestly. “Part of the job. You apparently helped some yourself, with your suggestion. He told me.”
She nodded back. “The necklace he finally bought. Expensive?”
The salesman’s businesslike demeanor was replaced by hesitation. “You saw the piece he showed you. What the gentleman finally purchased was s
imilar in style and execution. A very nice piece. Why do you want to know?”
“Because having seen what he brought over to me, I find I might be interested in something similar myself.”
The smile returned. “I’d be delighted to assist you.”
She examined more than a dozen examples of the Nurian jewelers’ art, fussing over first one and then another. Finally tiring of the masquerade, she settled on one and asked the price. When he told her, she touched a finger to her lower lip and asked, pouting, if he had something in the same design but with slightly larger stones. He did indeed, and would be back in a minute with several to show her. As he retreated to the back room, he left his sales processing unit on the case in front of her. She glanced around hastily. There were two other salespeople on the floor, and both were providentially busy with customers of their own.
Taking the special search unit from her purse, she slipped it over the store processor. The device she favored for such work was small, innocuous in appearance, and preprogrammed with enhanced keying information she had gleaned from her quarry’s hotel. Working silently, her device quickly tapped into the processor’s program to search for a certain recent sales record. Finding it, the probe then reached out, racing through citywide, planetwide, and ultimately Commonwealthwide data hubs. Though both the probe and its unique programming were lightning fast, she still found herself urging it on impatiently.
A subtle vibration in the body of the device indicated that results had been achieved. She removed it from the store processor and slipped it back into its carrying pouch just as the salesman was returning with another tray of necklaces to show her. Continuing to play the game, she inspected them for another ten minutes before sending him back for still another tray of samples. Almost as soon as his back was turned, she attached her device to an equally compact expanding recorder drawn from her purse and began to review the results of her stealthy and highly illegal search.
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