Trailing round the room in a rough spiral, Fletcher had teased out a length of twisted paper fuse, leading it, for the pay-off to an open keg.
He said, “All straight upstairs?”
“Yes.”
There was no need to check. If she said so, it was okay. He recognized that she was the ideal lieutenant for a mission. In spite of appearances, nothing would be overlooked or neglected. She would make a good co-pilot. Except that the effect on the crew would be ambivalent.
“Ready then?”
“Yes.”
He took a blaster from the dead Laodamian’s side pouch and shot carefully at the end of the fuse.
Outside the door he heard her methodically fixing it as it had been, then the quick pad of feet to the window. He was there to swing her down and they ran hand in hand for the bush.
“How long weell eet take?”
“Ten maybe twelve minutes.”
They crawled out into the lake and swam underwater for ten metres. Then Xenia streaked ahead in a racing crawl that was difficult to hold.
At the promontory, the Garamasian couple had moved into the shallows to replay the score in another medium and took no noticed as they dressed and moved off up the hill at a deceptively casual saunter.
At the top, Xenia said, “I should have stopped you. Eeet ees always a meestake to be too clevaire. Eef you had left heem, eet would have been enough. Now they weell know that someone has seen the equeepment. Your fusee has gone out.”
Fletcher believed it himself. He kept the admission out of positive thought, in case she was doing a radar scan. It was, in its way, humiliating to be an open book. Also, she had the right of it. He had been carried away by a piece of military thinking that was not appropriate to the espionage role. Destruction of potential enemy installations was not the mission. He should have been content to report back with the flash of insight which had been triggered off by Xenia’s taut pose.
A white plume jetted from the centre of the island, followed by a percussive thud and a ground tremor that dislodged small stones from the hill. An instant tidal wave built in an expanding circle.
Orange and vermilion flame unfolded an intense asterisk over the site. Banshee howls signalled take off for special effects rockets, which streaked out every which way.
All over the park, couples sat up to confirm that it was not a textbook subjective phenomenon.
Xenia said handsomely, “I take eet all back, Harree. You were right and I was wrong. Nevairetheless, we should get the hell out of eet, I theenk.”
Chapter Four
Moving alone in the corridors of the Space Centre Hotel Fletcher felt isolated. It was something he should have gotten used to, after the years in space service; but right now the contrast of the filled and unfilled interval was stronger than any time he could remember. Nothing scheduled until the midmorning meeting with Duvorac.
He had left Xenia in a busy quarter and made his own way by auto shuttle to the I.G.O. penthouse carport. He had left, after a quick session in the changing room and put in an aimless stint round a shopping precinct. Two bulky parcels, elaborately gift-wrapped proved it.
At his door, he searched clumsily for a pass key, until he saw he was squandering time. It was open.
Mind still half off load in a bid to evaluate Xenia against all previous notions of the female idea, he looked at it in simple surprise and went ahead without any expectation of danger.
He was framed in the opening, a plumb target for any amateur assassin, before the full impact fell. As an undercover agent he was a bad risk.
In the event, it was a good entrance. Professional caution would have looked out of character. In peripheral vision, he picked out two guards, back against the walls on either side. Pedasun, sitting on the only easy chair, twiddling a yellow cane, watched him in and made no effort to stand in honour of the host.
He did speak. Something pithy in Garamasian and the left hand marker moved smartly to close the door and stood with his back to it.
Fletcher went on walking, conscious of a cold area in the centre of his spine. He dumped his treasure trove on a bedside table and said, “Colonel Pedasun, isn’t it? You should let me know when you want to call. You might have had a long wait.”
Pedasun spoke again and the right hand man who had been standing at ease, snapped into action. He unhitched a syringe gun from his tunic belt and lined it up on Fletcher’s chest, a target he could not miss at the range. His partner circled round outside the line of fire.
Switching to English, Pedasun said, “You will have no objection to a check for arms?”
“And if I have?”
“You would be unwise. A single shot of tranquillizer and there would be no choice at all.”
“I remind you that I am an accredited I.G.O. officer.”
“That is a point; but a minor one. You are still required to obey Garamasian law. If I take you to my headquarters, which I might decide to do, the I.G.O. authority will not interfere. They are realists. They would not strain political relations for one man.”
Fletcher said, “There is no need. I carry no weapons.”
“Very well. I accept that. You see, I am a very reasonable man. I can see you have been buying gifts.
What else have you been doing?”
“As you will know, I am waiting for a posting to a new ship. I spend some time each day at I.G.O.
Headquarters. Other than that, time drags. I shall be glad of employment.”
“You have already had some. You visited the internment area. That visit coincided with an unusual demonstration. Also, a Fingalnan girl, waiting for identification, took the opportunity to break out. Today there was an unusual disturbance at the Stymphalus Park. Two Earth citizens were noticed there. One a tall man; one, a small woman. Could it be that you were there?”
Fletcher said, “I have no idea how many Earth nationals are in Kristinobyl; but it must run to some thousands, why should you ask me that question?”
“That is not a satisfactory answer.”
“Conceding that you have any right to ask questions, I will say that I would find it difficult to prove that I was anywhere at all. I roam about a good deal. No, I was not at your park.”
“Since you are unsure in general terms, why are you so sure you were not there?”
“That’s a reasonable point; but I would remember a park.”
“Well we shall see.” Pedasun spoke again in Garamasian and a guard crossed the foot of the bed to the washroom. Whipping back the door, with the air of one who operates a trick cabinet, he enlarged the symposium by two. Garamasians both. A man and a woman.
They could have been any two frightened people; but Pedasun cued in recall. “Come forward. Do you recognize this Earthman as the one who left clothes near you and swam across to the island?”
They were clearly in a dilemma. Agreement would please Pedasun; but a session on a truth couch in a courtroom would show up any uncertainty and spoil his case. Disappointment now might be safer.
The man had difficulty keeping his voice steady. Whatever he said was too long for yes and hand gestures were describing a different kind of face.
Pedasun tried the woman, she tripped over her tongue, coughed extensively in mid exposition and then stepped back behind her escort.
Watching Pedasun’s face, Fletcher could see he was struggling with a decision. Silence deepened round the set. The girl hiccupped suddenly and covered her face with her hands. The next smooth talker with a preposition for an afternoon by the lakeside was going to hit opposition.
Pedasun lifted himself slowly from his chair and whacked it a couple of times with his swagger cane, as a compensatory activity for what was on his mind. “So Commander, it appears that you are right. They do not identify you. It is fortunate, for your sake. But I advise you to be careful. There is something about you which instinct tells me is not right. I have a nose for intrigue. I can smell it out.”
Changing tone, he spoke rapidly in pat
ois and the room cleared in a count of three.
Fletcher lit a cigarette and took it out on his balcony. First reaction was to call Duvorac; but then Pedasun had been in the suite for some time. He would have it on some subtle link for a sure thing. An agent’s lot was rough. It needed a special type of outlook which he did not have. There was infinite responsibility without an atom of power to beat a way through. Sometimes in his corvette, he judged he had been stuck with a near-impossible mission; but then there was megapower under his thumb and knowledge that the ongoing situation could be met at a personal level.
Here, he was everybody’s hey-you, with the added insult that once inside Pedasun’s brig nobody would want to know.
Suddenly he felt restless. The next thirty hours, even allowing for a ration of sleep were like an endless desert to cross. He walked over to the video. Yola had given him a number to call. What would Pedasun make of this? Nothing good. Better to go in person.
Positive action worked its therapy. Looking out over Kristinobyl, he saw it in a new light. Somebody had to look out for the patient millions. Not only here either. All over the galaxy there were centres of population dependent for continuing peace on the devious work of I.G.O. personnel. Men like Duvorac who accepted a long and thankless discomfort to serve an idea. What people did with their peace when they had it was irrelevant.
He saw for truth the proposition that all generations are equidistant from barbarism. The whole structure of civilized man was a house of cards tottering in a draught. He had no right to drag his feet on any mission that helped to shore up the foundations.
God, any minute now, he would be saluting the flag. He poured himself a drink, took it into the shower and held it outside the spray. Five minutes later, he was in the express elevator for reception carrying one of his parcels. It would make some kind of pretext for visiting Yola.
Fletcher reached the lobby of the female students’ residential block, after a zig-zag course which had tested out his skills as a navigator. In the end, he was sure that he was followed and he watched the swing doors to see who it would be.
It was, in fact, a young Garamasian male, not in uniform but having the aura of one, who came through.
He carried a bulky black zip case, looked everywhere except at him and then settled for an alcove with a newsreader, as though waiting for an RV on his own account.
The clerk at the kiosk, an ageing matron with a disapproving voice, obligingly identified the first caller.
“You can go up, Commander Fletcher, Room 61, third level. Visits to residents must not exceed fifteen minutes except in the common room. Check here as you leave.”
If Venus hated haste as she was reputed to do, that would be tough on some. Though there was always Stymphalus Park as a fallback.
Yola’s pad was small, but well-equipped. A composite dressing chest and work console filled the right hand wall. Facing the door, a wall-to-wall solar window gave light and heat. On the left a pale oblong panel marked the site of the truckle bed which had been swung away to give clear space. There was one easy chair, finished in bronze metal cloth and a rack of technical manuals.
She was working at the desk and said over her shoulder, “Excuse me for two minutes, Commander. I have to finish this. Please sit down.”
The tone was not friendly and he conceded that she had a point. Also, if she was down in Pedasun’s book, the room might be monitored.
Two minutes was nearer five, before she went into the end game and typed rapidly on the keyboard.
When the output went into a spasm and delivered a long tape to her hand, she shoved back a swathe of hair, sighed heavily and swivelled her chair to face the guest.
Fletcher said, “Not working out?”
“No. But I see where the error is. It won’t take long to fix.”
“I called for two things. I was at the internment centre when a crowd of students showed up. Some were hurt I believe. I wanted to see if you were okay. Also, I hope to be leaving fairly soon and we won’t need your excellent services as an interpreter. Here’s a small thank-you token. You were very helpful.
Black obsidian disks gave him a straight look. She had latched on to his reason for caution. A small nod towards the video confirmed it. There was also something else in the background which he could not fathom.
“Is there not a saying in your country—fear the Greeks bearing gifts?”
“You only have to worry about that if they give you a horse.”
“Then I suppose I should say thank you. I am not happy today. Several of my friends were killed. It was a cruel business.”
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
“Oh yes. I am sorry to be discourteous.” Again there was a quick look which seemed to be searching for ulterior motives. Maybe it was a standard gambit for a proposition.
When it was standing on the preparation tray of her console, she had a more genuine reaction. “That’s lovely, Commander. I shall enjoy having it in my room.”
It was a large vacuum bell on a copper plinth. Inside, three non-friction rings ran in an endless complicated pattern on each other’s rims. An engineer’s abstract.
Yola watched it for a minute, then appeared to come to a decision. “I will walk down to reception with you.”
Two paces outside the door, she said in a fierce whisper, “Did you know what would happen to us. We are not fools. You used us for some purpose of your own. Why did you come?”
There was enough truth in it to leave a bitter taste, but there was no time for a long defence. He did say, however, “You are partly right, but believe me I had no idea you would be harmed. I would like you to take me to one of your group meetings. There is a new danger, which you are not aware of. In this, you are helping me; but to a far greater degree helping yourselves.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“That’s a good question. I can only say that you must. It is more important than you can know.”
“I will think about it and find some way to let you know. But do not be too sure of us.”
She turned back at the elevator, obviously anxious to avoid being booked for fraternization with a discredited alien.
In the lobby, Fletcher was half way to the door when he changed course and walked over to the Garamasian, who was zipping up his brief case ready to leave.
He leaned confidentially on the back of his settle and used basic speech tones, “If you are going my way, we could use the same shuttle and save expense all round.”
Courtesy made no friends. For a short space, the man struggled with a vocabulary problem and a sure knowledge that the higher echelons would not be pleased. Finally he gritted out, “No. No thank you. I have my own transport. It is not necessary.”
“Well I’ll say goodnight then. Joy in your life.”
Facial evidence suggested that there was not much in the foreseeable future.
In his own shuttle, Fletcher reckoned he had been unwise. To justify himself, the man might be that much tougher with Yola. But the manifest would show that their conversation had no loaded element. They would have checked with her anyway after the visit.
He half expected that Pedasun would be back in his room for another conference; but it was empty and suddenly inhospitable. He had a nostalgia for the ward room of a ship and the conversation of his own kind. Even the presence of his own people without conversation for that matter, would be all gain.
Though he had to admit, in sober truth, that there was as much likelihood of being out of key with a group of Earthmen as anybody else. When you got right down to it, communication was in short supply all round. There was nobody on exactly the same wavelength.
Xenia could be, if she chose. But that would be by a positive adjustment on her part. She was not naturally sympathetic.
He spent some time watching a traditional drama on the actualizer in the nearest common room. Its arcane symbolism was strictly for Garamasian nationals and even with a language cracker delivering an English tex
t to his left ear, he could make nothing out of it. So he went early to bed, following the precept that he who has nothing may sleep, with the drapes back and a brilliant star map over the balcony rail.
Fletcher came wide awake searching the ceiling overhead for the illuminated tell-tale which gave him the ship’s course before he moved.
Tactile clues flooded in. The wide bed and the texture of the furnishings, cued him to the here and now.
He was ashore.
But some alarm had gone off in his head. Recall established it as a soft thud, as though a padded cosh had tapped a solid surface. He rolled out of the sack and stood up in one smooth flow. There was enough starlight to see that the room was empty. He unplugged an angle-poise table light from beside the bed and shoved it under the covers. With the shade on the pillow and the covers plumped out, it gave the rough semblance of a sleeping man.
The wash room was on an interior wall. No entrance there except round the twist. The iris-eye door could only be either open or closed and it was shut. It had to be the balcony.
Eyes adjusted to the dark, he went along the rail. In the left hand corner there was a thickening, a smudge of darkness on darkness. Some climber-upward had lodged a grapnel. What was he waiting for? If the room was monitored, they could amplify the breathing rhythms of a sleeping man.
He forced himself to breath slow and deep, as though he had resettled after an uneasy spell.
Still working at it, he moved over to beside the door and flattened to the wall with the bed and the balcony in view.
Over the rail, the night sky had a cinnamon tinge that magnified the stars in a staggered recession into infinity. Somewhere out there, the squadron was on its endless patrol. Where he ought to be, for godsake, instead of in this rats’ alley.
Three minutes passed, time for endless vision and revision; but he filled it keeping a check on tension and concentrating on the area above the grab.
When a dark silhouette rose waist high over the bar, it was so inevitable and expected that his breathing rhythm was unchanged.
From the bulk, it was likely to be a Laodamian. The shape, having grown, stabilized, shoulders hunched behind the slim barrel of a gun, there was a soft plop and a jerk in the bunched fabric on the bed.
John Rankine - Dag Fletcher 01 Page 6
