Disappearing Act

by Margaret Ball

  "Could we sit for a moment?" Annemari headed for one of the white-painted benches that surrounded the pond without waiting for Evert's response. He was far too much a gentleman ever to deny such a request.

  "Have we time?"

  "Yes, Niklaas's tests don't begin for nearly an hour. I wanted to talk to you, Evert, and not on the deskvid." Annemari ran a finger over the bench to test it for dust and gave the skirt of her beige silk suit an imperceptible twitch to keep it from stretching out of shape when she sat down. Satisfied, she seated herself beneath the grey statue of Hans Joriink, Hero of the Federation, rather improbably rendered in full battledress with very modern-looking weapons, and patted the place beside her.

  "Cold things, deskvids, I've always thought." Evert sat down and put an arm round Annemari's shoulders and gave her a brisk hug. "Worried about the tests?"

  "Always. But I didn't get you out here just to cry on your shoulder."

  "At your service, any time," Evert affirmed. "Cry on, lean on, whatever else you want to do with a shoulder . . . maybe not dislocate it. Pretty near anything up to that, though."

  Annemari forced a smile. "Evert, have you ever heard . . . well, rumors, hints, anything . . . about some people getting bacteriomats that weren't . . . that didn't come through the usual channels?"

  "Galactic myths," Evert said cheerfully. "Sure there are rumors like that, but they're in the same class as all those stories about spacefaring dragons that eat ships, Indigenous Territories rulers who make live sacrifices of prisoners, and beneficent aliens who want to solve all our problems with their advanced technology. The fact is, the Barents Trading Society has the bacteriomat business locked in. And it's not as if they were holding on to a surplus that somebody else might steal and sell, you know. If they could produce more 'mats faster, they'd be only too happy to sell more. The market's a long way from flooded."

  "I am," Annemari said quietly, "only too well aware of that."

  Evert glanced down at her, concern showing on his kindly face. "Niklaas still not eligible?"

  She shook her head. "You know the rules. He's classified as a self-inflicted injury. Absolutely last on the list for a 'mat . . . and there will always be new Hassenblatt's and Fournier Syndrome victims diagnosed who come ahead of the SIIs." She heard the bitterness in her voice, stopped before she could get into a full-blown tirade about the rules and the bureaucrats who enforced them.

  "I've never thought that reasonable," Evert said. "He's a kid. Kids do dumb things. Having a roloprop accident shouldn't be . . ."

  "There are any number of Fournier Syndrome victims who'd argue with you. After all, they did absolutely nothing to bring on their disease—except for having a genetic defect we didn't know to screen for when they were born." Annemari sighed. "The trouble is, I can see their point."

  "We might be able to find some way around the rules," Evert suggested. "Damn it, if top Federation officials on Rezerval can't bend the rules a little . . ."

  Annemari shook her head. "Dear Evert. You know that it works just the other way. We're exactly the people who mustn't bend the rules, precisely because we might be able to if we tried.

  "I might try," she admitted, "but Niklaas won't hear of it. He knows where he stands on the list, he knows what it would do to my career if I tried to slip him into an approved category and got caught, and he says he will kill himself, and do it properly this time, if I try any such thing—he says he'd prefer that to the guilt of knowing he'd dragged me down with him. And I believe him," she said. "So you see—I didn't lure you out among the flowering paths to ask your help in anything quite that unofficial."

  "What, then?"

  "What if I were to tell you that the rumors about black-market bacteriomats were more than galactic myths, Evert? What if I were to tell you that I'd been approached by someone who claims to have them ready to install—at a price?"

  "I'd want to know a lot more about the seller," Evert said.

  Annemari sighed. "So would I. But I've been unable to trace him—her—or it. A self-destructing message on my home deskvid, no contact number, only a promise that they'll be back in touch after I've had time to raise the credits."

  "How much?"

  Annemari told him and Evert whistled. "That much? But—"

  "I could raise it," Annemari said, "given time, and if privacy were no concern. But it's not exactly—if I go to the credit center for a loan, they'll want to know what it's for. And even if I lied, the coincidence of my needing a lot of money suddenly, and Niklaas's mysterious cure . . ."

  "It could turn into a scandal almost as bad as getting caught trying to slip him up the list," Evert agreed. "So you need help with the credits?"

  "No . . . Not yet. I haven't decided!" Annemari clasped her hands together so tightly the knuckles turned white. "It's unethical. It might be Niklaas's only chance. I haven't talked to him about it. I don't know how to persuade him even if I decided to do it. It could be a scam. Probably is. As you said—I need to know more about the seller."

  "How?"

  "I thought, when I couldn't trace the message, I might be able to investigate from the other end . . . look for their source. It seemed likely that somebody's found a way to steal some of the Barents Trading Society's stock. The 'mats must be coming from Kalapriya; somebody has to be smuggling them off, and they have to pass through Tasman."

  Evert nodded. Tasman was a vital transfer station for any number of FTL routes, but it was the only station that offered FTL access to Kalapriya. Get the black-market 'mats to Tasman, and they could be sent off in a dozen directions. "That's where I'd start looking, too," he agreed. "What have you found out?"

  Annemari pounded one clenched fist on her knee. "Nothing—worse than nothing! I'd had complaints about irregularities in the Barents Trading Society relations with the Indigenous Territories on Kalapriya."

  "Orlando Montoyasana," Evert said instantly.

  "Who else? Yes, I know, he sees sinister plots in every colonial system. Anthros are like that; they care so much about keeping the cultures they're studying pure and uncontaminated that they see tech contaminants under every rock. We've been ignoring his memos for years. But you see, we do investigate one every so often, just so he can't complain of being totally ignored. So I sent a Diplo to Kalapriya . . . Calandra Vissi, she's on my extended staff, you know her?"

  "A very competent young woman," Evert murmured, "even apart from the augmentations."

  "I tried to let Montoyasana know she was on her way, so he could be looking out for her and show her whatever "evidence" he has. But the man hasn't downloaded his messages for weeks."

  "Probably off somewhere collecting more native rituals, and well out of ansible range. I don't suppose he's so popular with the Barents Trading Society that they're going to decode his mail and transmit it by heliograph. No modern communications outside the Society enclaves on the coast, you know."

  "Maybe," Annemari agreed. "That's what I thought at first, too. But now, Calandra . . . Officially she's been sent to follow up on Montoyasana's complaints, to tour the Indigenous Territories and make sure no culture protection regulations are being broken or sidestepped. Unofficially . . . I asked her to go by way of Tasman, and to see what she could find out about smuggling links with Kalapriya."

  "And?"

  Annemari turned both palms up in exasperation. "And nothing since her first report from Tasman, telling me she'd arranged to be "stuck" a few days in transit to give her time to drop some hints about smuggling and see what she could find out."

  "So maybe she hasn't found anything out yet."

  "She would have told me that before she left for Kalapriya. Calandra's very conscientious; she reports in regularly—at least she used to."

  "You're thinking she ran into something she couldn't handle on Tasman?"

  "Not on Tasman, no." Annemari shook her head. "That much I do know. She caught the Kalapriya shuttle right on schedule; I've called up the passenger manifests, even made an excuse
to talk with the young man who served as her courtesy escort to the shuttle gate. But she should have reported in as soon as she reached Kalapriya, and I've heard nothing for several days now. One person dropping out of contact could be coincidence, especially a researcher. But two disappearing from the same world—and when the second is a trained Diplo—I'm afraid, Evert. I'm very afraid Calandra may be in serious trouble."

  "Couldn't get to an ansible?" Evert suggested, weakly.

  "Oh, come on. The shuttles all land just outside Valentin, the BTS headquarters city. She could certainly have checked in by one of the ansibles allowed under the enclaves' exemption 'for technology vital to trade and government, and capable of being strictly segregated from indigenous cultures,' " Annemari quoted from Federation regulations.

  "They have ansibles in the offices," Evert allowed, "but they do require their people to live in technology-consistent quarters. My aunt Sanne's always complaining about it—even though with all the Kalapriyan servants in the household, she has a lot less to do than she would in a smart-apartment on Barents. She married a fourth-generation Trader, you know, one of the van der Wessels, what's his name, Paalje, no, Pledger, that's it . . . the old Trader families go in for funny names. Why, you can tell a Trader even before he opens his mouth, that's what Sanne used to say, never mind their accents, they'll always have one of those made-up names like Johntoon or Raydeena. Of course that was before she married into the van der Wessels; she doesn't think anything, now, of having children called Cloud and Shower. I live in fear of the third christening, they're liable to call the kid Thunderbird. Sanne's younger than me, you understand, we Barentsians run to extended families, she's the daughter of my oldest brother and he's more than thirty years older than I am—"

  "Exactly why I wanted to talk to you, Evert!" Annemari broke in at the first pause for breath. "I knew you would have the solution for all my little problems; you always do." Her secret vice of watching romance holos when she couldn't sleep at night was paying off; without all those goopy holos, she'd never have known how to flatter a man into doing what she wanted. "Your aunt Sanne sounds perfect."

  "Not in my experience," Evert said. "Bit of a pill, actually, always going on about trivial little problems and making them into mountains. She can spend more time—"

  "Perfect for what I need right now," Annemari interrupted ruthlessly before Evert could get into a long catalog of Sanne's peculiarities. "On Kalapriya, in a coastal enclave, married into a top Trader family. She'll know everything that goes on, and she'll have access to an ansible, and nobody will think it at all peculiar if she sends her nephew long chatty messages about life in Valentin."

  "M'family would," Evert corrected. "Think it damned peculiar. Sanne's a lousy correspondent; I probably wouldn't even have heard about Cloud and Shower if she hadn't been counting on me for substantial birth-gifts."

  "And if I know you, Evert, you were madly generous. So she'll want to be especially nice to you now, won't she?"

  "She will?"

  "So that you'll be equally generous with little Thunderbird when he—or she—comes along. Just ask her—by private ansible, Evert, not the Federation system—how things are going on Kalapriya and whether she's desperately busy with parties and receptions for the visiting Diplo. Then if she writes back complaining of all the extra work of entertaining Diplos and how hard it is to get carpets of rose petals in the right colors, we'll at least know Calandra is all right—"

  "And if she says, 'What Diplo?' we'll know that something happened to Calandra either on the shuttle or right after she got to Kalapriya," Evert finished. "Very clever, Annemari!"

  "I could never have thought of it without your help," Annemari said without even blushing. "Dear Evert, you're so clever—and so kind!" she added, more truthfully. "So you'll check with Sanne?"

  "Tonight," Evert promised. "Could do it sooner, but if you want it kept on the quiet, better not run home now to use my personal ansible, eh? Although if a Diplo's gone missing, Annemari, it will be an official Federation matter, you know?"

  "Of course I know that," Annemari said impatiently, "but there's no need to make it official just yet. I'd rather keep everything very discreet, just in case . . . well, if there is a black market in bacteriomats, we don't know who might be involved, do we? Somebody knew how to contact me on Rezerval—what if somebody at Federation headquarters is involved in this? Or what if . . ." She paused and clasped her hands tightly together.

  Evert sighed. "Or what if you decide to acquire a 'mat from these people for Niklaas before you blow the whistle on them," he finished for her.

  Annemari stared out across the pond. A flight of swifts swirled and turned above the water, making a graceful ballet of their daily hunt for water insects. Speed, grace, freedom . . . all that Niklaas was denied. "It would be unethical," she admitted, "but I have to consider it, Evert. You do see that, don't you?"

  "Unethical to do it, maybe," Evert said, "possibly immoral not to do it. Of course you have to think about it."

  "If they're stealing 'mats from Society stock," Annemari mused, "it would be exactly the same as using my connections to sneak Niklaas up the list; in effect, I'd be stealing from somebody with Fournier Syndrome or worse. But if—if—somebody has found another, better way to reproduce 'mats, something the Society doesn't even know about . . ."

  Evert tried not to let his face show what he thought about the likelihood of this possibility. "Just let me see what I can find out about your missing Diplo, and what she can tell us about these black marketeers, and you worry about the other half of the problem."

  "What's that?"

  Evert rose to his feet. "How you're going to persuade Niklaas that accepting a black-market 'mat isn't just as unethical as jumping the list. And speaking of Niklaas, hadn't we better be getting on to the Med Center?"

  Chapter Three

  Valentin on Kalapriya

  Dwendle Stoffelsen took one last glance over the notes for his speech of welcome. It would never do to stutter or mix his words in front of a Diplomat—damned people probably had an entire dictionary stored in one of those little chips they had stuck in their heads. A thesaurus. In six languages. Along with canned speeches for every possible occasion. And here he was, eyes too old to focus on the words that flashed on the tiny prompters built into the podium, reduced to relying on a handful of old-fashioned flimsies and his own memory for what was likely the most important event of his career.

  "Floris, can't you set the prompt screen to a larger font?" he demanded of the young tech who was setting everything up in the meeting hall.

  "Sure, Haar Stoffelsen, if you want to be prompted one word at a time," the kid said cheerfully. "Heck, I can even bring up a font so big you'll get one letter at a time, if that's what you'd like. What I can't do is make the screen itself any bigger—that would require a new screen, and we'd have to get that shipped via Tasman."

  Not to mention, he thought, that a bigger prompt screen would have to be fitted into a bigger podium, and old Stoffelsen would look like even more of a doddering old fool than he was, standing behind a pedestal that dwarfed him. Why hadn't the old guy gone off-planet for a lens replacement as soon as his eyes began playing up, like any normal person?

  Dwendle Stoffelsen was wondering the same thing, but unlike young Floris, he knew the answer. Some of the Society business he managed was just too delicate to be left in the hands of subordinates while he took the time to visit off-world medical facilities. And too dangerous! You couldn't trust these kids nowadays; they'd be poking into all his private files as soon as his back was turned. And there was no telling when some crisis might arise that needed his personal management. Why, he might even have been off-world at the time this Diplomat arrived! And what a disaster that would have been. One certainly couldn't trust Torston to handle a Diplomat properly, and as for Kaspar, he simply didn't understand the protocol and traditions of the Society. These kids new from Barents were too impetuous by half, always trying to s
olve problems with the first wild idea that flew into their heads. He shuffled the flimsies irritably. Even these notes were too hard to read. But there wasn't time to have them printed in a larger font; he could already hear the welcoming music outside.

  The vaguely melodious sound of flughorns in the distance, supported by the rhythmic drumming of the boras, became a deafening cacophony of blare and thump as the doors to the meeting hall were thrown open. After the blue-uniformed guards entered there came a slender, dark woman almost dwarfed by the tall forms of the honor escort on either side. Good Barentsian lads, Dwendle saw approvingly; the best of the new generation, reared in and dedicated to the traditions of the Society. Standing between them, swaying with fatigue and most inappropriately dressed in some modernistic off-world outfit that was half skin-tight stretch fabric and half billowing draperies, the Diplomat didn't look like such a threat after all. Just a young woman who didn't know anything about Kalapriya or the Barents Trading Society, and who—with any luck—would leave knowing little more. Dwendle took a deep breath and waited for the blare of the flughorns to die down before he began his opening remarks.

  "Diplomat Vissi, the assembled Fruen and Haaren of the Barents Trading Society welcome you to Valentin on Kalapriya. We are deeply honored by your visit . . ."

  It was, after all, nothing he hadn't said hundreds of times before, if not to quite such a dangerous visitor. And as the formal phrases rolled on, Dwendle felt his confidence returning. This slight young woman could hardly pose any real threat; if it weren't for all those increasingly urgent ansible messages from Rezerval, he'd begin to think this whole visit was just a formality, the Federation's polite way of showing respect to the Barents Trading Society and the invaluable service they offered. And not only the Society, now.

  Thinking of that, and of the wealth and power that would totally overshadow even the wealthiest of the conventional Society members, Dwendle went on almost automatically with the flowery phrases he had assembled from a hundred such speeches to make sure that no compliment, no phrase of welcome, would be lacking from the Barents Trading Society's formal greeting to this most unwelcome visitor. He gazed with mild irritation at the glazed eyes and expressionless faces of his colleagues. You'd think they could pretend a little more interest; maybe they had heard it all before, but he flattered himself that his vibrant voice and measured, dignified yet forceful delivery lent new life to the old words.