"So people come to you, and they ask for a cheaper way to shift goods and passengers?"
"The choice of the first verb is debatable." They were out of the chute and moving side by side. Bat turned to glower sideways past his hood at Spook. "They 'come to me,' in a general sense. However, lacking your importuning intrusiveness, they never see me in person. They communicate via standard electronic channels."
"But how do they know that you even exist?" Spook was halfway certain that Bat objected to his presence a good deal less than he pretended. Everybody liked to have somebody to show off to now and again.
Bat shrugged, a rippling movement that went from shoulders to hips. "I can do no more than conjecture that it is by word of mouth. But I recently achieved a certain amount of off-world notoriety when I was able to employ my knowledge of control mechanisms to divert an un-piloted cargo vessel with a shipment of helium-three from a collision orbit with Europa."
"I thought you never went anywhere near the surface."
"No more did I. There are key entry points to every ship's guidance computer system. That is true whether the vessel is bearing a crew or not. I merely linked in from the Bat Cave, performed two minor onboard program patches, and monitored the result in real time to be sure that I had achieved the desired result."
"And it worked?"
"Of course."
"So who paid you? The owners?"
"No one paid me. In fact, I could not reveal what I had done. It would have been judged an unauthorized and illegal tampering with a ship's controls."
"But that's ridiculous! You saved a ship, and you prevented Europan contamination."
"In the eyes of a standard bureaucrat, such considerations are of little weight. However, certain knowledgeable individuals who know my style were able to deduce what had probably happened. One of them even called to congratulate me."
"What did you do?"
"I declined to talk to her. Naturally. But such things have a way of spreading. I have received numerous requests for assistance with difficult cargo schedules in the past half year."
Spook didn't ask the question he wanted to ask: How do I get in on this good stuff? He thought he knew the answer: slowly. Anybody who hoped to work with Bat would have to show that he was of the same mental caliber. Spook hoped that he was. A few hours ago he would have bet on it. Now he was not so sure.
It was a question he had pondered since he was barely more than an infant. You went through your whole life being smarter than anybody else around, convinced that most of the time you were dealing with people who couldn't think any better than chimps. Then one day you met somebody as smart or smarter than you. What did you do then?
Fortunately, this might not be all one-sided. There had been hints that Bat took Spook seriously, since although he could follow what Spook did in N-space analysis he apparently didn't find it second nature, the way that Spook did. There was hope. In any case, the issue didn't have to be settled at once.
In fact, it could not be, because already they were arriving at Lola's office quarters. It was late, but with luck she would still be around. Spook knew that she seldom left early.
At the entrance he took one more look at Bat, trying to see him through his sister's eyes. It was not too encouraging. Inside, Bat might well be a genius. Outside was another matter.
Spook saw a huge black-garbed figure, whose tight, ill-fitting clothes and flowing, open robe made him seem almost as wide as he was high. He was pouting his lips and frowning horribly, presumably aware that in another minute or two he would have to meet yet another human being—two in one day.
And now that they were standing still, Spook could detect a definite and unpleasant odor.
That was one other thing about shunning human companions. You didn't have to wash often, or worry about smelling your best.
It was too late to back out. They had already knocked on the outer door. In any case, Spook couldn't see Bat taking kindly to the suggestion that he go away and return after taking a bath.
He led the way in.
* * *
Lola was sitting at her desk, doing nothing, her eyes slightly wild and a little bit out of focus. Half an hour earlier she had finished another haldane session with Bryce Sonnenberg. It took a while to come down, even when, unlike today, she felt perfectly normal afterward. That was one of the reasons that she tended to stay late at her office. She didn't like to be seen in public (or even in private) while the psychotropic drugs were rattling around inside her brain.
Today she did not feel normal at all. Today she felt like the Grand Panjandrum himself, with the little round button at the top and the gunpowder running out of the heels of his boots. Very peculiar.
She heard a noise and looked up. With a slight effort, she managed to remove the blur from the scene and realized that what she was seeing was familiar. She was seeing Spook. He was staring bug-eyed at her, already starting to back out, muttering, "Sorry. We'll come catch you later."
"No, no, it's fine. I've been expecting you. In fact . . ."
Lola peered at what was standing behind Spook, and wondered if the drugs were having a new and powerful effect on her.
Could they? . . . it must be her imagination. That was the Grand Panjandrum, a gigantic, scowling figure, his clothes as black as his face except for the places where, on the front of the too-small shirt that failed to conceal his navel and billowing belly, liberal streaks of grease and gravy provided evidence of his last meal. Or maybe his last but six. There seemed to be more than one food stain there.
"Lola." Spook's voice came from far, far away. "This is Megachirops, also known as Rustum Battachariya when he is not in Master mode on the Puzzle Network. But he would prefer us to call him Bat. He is the one I told you about. The one I said I wanted to-to-"—Spook paused selfconsciously—"to help on the you-know-what."
That hit Lola like a brain quake. She came down from Fuzzland with an awful crash, to glare at Spook and the object that he had dragged in behind him. "The you-know-what. Are you by any chance referring to my case? The one we have been talking about in strictest secrecy? Because if you are—"
She knew what was happening but she could not stop it. The drugs were pure magic, capable of achieving miraculous results. Unfortunately, when they dropped you, they dropped you all the way. That wasn't Lola talking, not the real Lola. Spook knew that; he would make allowances.
But Megachirops/Rustum Battachariya/Bat wouldn't. So far he had not spoken one word. Lola tried to smile at him, with ghastly results. She felt her face twisting like a crumpled sheet. She opened her mouth to attempt a conventional greeting and heard a deep musical voice saying, "Hello, I hope that I am not intruding."
She had not spoken. And certainly that was not Spook. Lola gaped at Bat. How did he do that? He had talked to her without moving his lips. In the same moment she realized that another person had appeared at the entrance of her office.
"I'm sorry," he said. "But the outer door was open."
He was a tall, solidly built man in his mid-thirties, dressed in faded clothes that did not quite match. His face had the same casual, slightly rumpled look as his clothing. He was smiling, but it was the smile of a man who has the feeling that he has committed some sort of social blunder and is not sure what.
"Are you all right?" he asked, and took a step forward into the office.
It was obvious that he was talking to Lola, rather than the other two. She straightened her back and made a mighty effort.
"Sorry. I'm a bit tired, that's all. It's been a long workday."
That had come out all right. She still had the feeling that her features were crawling out of control, all over her face, but no one else seemed to notice. Spook was looking at the newcomer with obvious relief, while Bat glared at everyone with equal distaste.
"I know how that feels." The man nodded, as though about to leave, then seemed to change his mind and took another step forward. "I wouldn't have come in like this at all, uninvited,
but I'm moving into the office three down along the corridor. It seems as though it's been empty for a while, and there's no power. I can't find a maintenance machine. I wondered if you might know where the control box is."
She had no idea. But before she could answer, Spook was in there first. "Bad time, Sis," he said. "You're obviously busy, and I'm sorry we interrupted. We'll see you and talk about this later."
He gave Bat an urgent glance. The two of them headed rapidly for the door without another word to Lola. On the way out Spook nodded to the stranger and said, "Wall panel. End of the hall, above the air-supply duct—power and computing services. I'll get it as we go."
"Thanks." The man watched them leave, then turned to Lola with a perplexed shrug. "I guess that's that. Quick service. But I think I drove them away."
"No." Lola sighed. "I did that. I shouldn't talk to anybody for at least an hour after I finish a session."
"Session?"
"You didn't see the sign as you came in?"
"I didn't look. I came where I heard voices."
"Just as well. Half the people who come into the outer office never make it past the sign." Lola settled back again into her chair. She was feeling a lot better. "I'm a haldane."
"Are you, now." He didn't show any of the usual reactions—no nervousness or distrust. In fact, he came forward to stand at the other side of the desk and grinned down at her as though she had just made a joke. "Well, I guess I ought to be careful what I say to you. But I never learned how to do that." He held out a long-fingered hand with neatly trimmed nails. "Since it seems we're going to be neighbors, we should introduce ourselves."
"I'm Lola Belman." She took his outstretched hand. It was warm and felt more muscular than it looked. "I'm pleased to meet you."
"Conner Preston." Rather than releasing her, he put his other hand on top of hers and gave a little squeeze. "I'm pleased, too. Let's see if we can both stay pleased."
10
Lola was in bed. Alone, and not asleep.
She had been lying there for over an hour, reluctant to use a sleep inducer. Reluctant because, although she needed rest, she wanted to review the events of the past day. Too much had been happening in too short a time.
The morning and early afternoon had been perfectly normal, a quiet day in her office with one unproductive patient who was responding poorly to treatment. Then Bryce Sonnenberg had appeared in the late afternoon, unscheduled, complaining of new problems.
"Another blackout," he said, "right around lunch time. Big one. Ten minutes."
"With different memories?" Lola, the residue of psychotropic drugs still in her system, would have preferred to postpone the meeting. But he seemed truly troubled.
"Different and weird, and then at the end, some of the old memories. The oddest thing is that I remember the new stuff as though it happened a long time ago, but somehow I was older then than I am now."
Lola could not resist. This just might be the key that they were missing. "Do you have time to stay a while? Good. Sit down. I want to try a session while all this is completely fresh in your memory."
More drugs, until she felt herself poised delicately on the edge. Bryce, in the chair, more nervous than usual, his face suddenly far older than his twenty-four years—the telemetry calibration—the sleeping giant, stirring within her. And then, suddenly, the synthesis.
Thick, perfumed air, and a heavy but familiar gravity field. (Lola knew, deep down, that she was on Earth.) Loud, cheerful music. Everyone in brightly colored clothes. It was a party, and yet more than a party. He was strolling along a line of long tables, not looking at anything yet seeing everything. At one of the tables he paused.
"That's the one," said the tiny earphone. "The woman in blue."
"Got a name for her?"
"Her credit note gave the name as Dulcie Iver. Could be fake, but I don't think so."
"Right. I'm going to take a look." He stepped forward, filled with a tension that was pure pleasure.
"Good luck," the voice said. "She's still winning, not all that big, but too steady. She's way outside the odds. I've been working on this for two hours, and I've not come up with a thing."
"Keep the cameras going, Sid."
He waited and watched in silence for a few minutes. The woman was dark-haired and pale in complexion, maybe twenty-five years old. Her pale-blue dress was short, low-cut front and back, and sleeveless. Her legs and arms were bare, with smooth skin as white as chalk. She wore no jewelry, carried no purse, and her shoes were simple dark-blue flats. She had slipped them off, and every few seconds her toes wiggled and clenched as though responding to some unreadable emotion.
"You sure you scanned for implants, Sid? "
"Of course." The voice in his ear was reproachful. "What you think I am? Implants and telemetry and calculator. She's clean."
"Just wanted to be sure." Even with Sid's reassurance, he made his own careful assessment, seeking evidence of scars on the fine skin or bulges within the clothing. As he did so he felt a sudden stab of lust, strong enough to surprise him.
He turned his attention to the terminal and screen in front of the woman. Dulcie Iver was playing Delphi, a group game, with nineteen other members. Another round was under way, and bets were already being made.
He knew the game well—he ought to, he was one of its designers. Delphi was popular, but the house take was big, an average of eighteen percent. A clever player, by taking advantage of the pattern of betting, could change the odds so that an eighteen percent loss was converted to a two percent gain—at the expense of the other members of the group. Dulcie Iver, for the past two hours, had made an average profit of eleven percent. As Sid had pointed out, she was way outside the reasonable statistical variation provided by the game's random element.
But Sid's value lay in his reliability, not his intellect. In this business, you didn't want too many people too smart.
The clock was ticking down, and only twenty seconds were left in which to lay bets. Dulcie Iver sat with her fingers poised over her board. She was studying the display, but so far she was not in the game.
Ten seconds. A flurry of activity, as a dozen bets were made in two seconds. Still her fingers did not move, but her toes began to wiggle and clench. At the last moment, with no more than two seconds to go before the cutoff, she stabbed at the board in front of her, placing five bets before the board went blank. There was a tiny pause, as the electronic selector took its input from quantum fluctuations—totally random and totally unpredictable. Then the winning selection appeared on the main display.
Eleven members had lost, four of them heavily. Five others had broken even, or chosen not to make a bet. Three players showed small gains. And Dulcie Iver had come out ahead, with a profit of thirteen percent on her bet. She did not respond in any way to her success. Once more she was sitting back in her chair, fingers and toes still.
He went for three more rounds, watching and calculating furiously until he was absolutely sure. Then he said, "Don't worry about her, Sid. She's clean. I'll take care of this."
He moved forward and touched her on the shoulder. "Miss Iver? Could I have a word with you?"
She turned, taking in his casual dress and absence of ID. "I don't think I know you. "
"Not yet. " He smiled at her. "I'm with the management, as you probably guessed. A private word, if you don't mind."
After a moment she slipped her shoes on and stood up. She was tall, almost as tall as he. She followed him without speaking—no comment, no question. He nodded his private approval. Smart woman. I bet you think you know what this is about, but you give nothing away until you're sure.
He took her to the small office, high up on the wall of the gaming chamber. It looked out over the whole room through its wall of one-way glass, adding direct observation to the ranks of monitors that allowed the activity to be seen from every angle. He gestured to a seat.
"I won't waste your time or mine, Ms. Iver. I know what you're doing."
"But I want to be sure that I know how," he went on. "Would you like to tell me how you operate?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Miss Iver, please. Let us not insult each other's intelligence. If you insist, I will tell you how you operate. When you play Delphi, you have one minute in which to place your initial bet. Then when you have seen what everyone else has bet, you have a chance to bet again. The first bets that are placed change the odds, but you only have ten seconds to use that fact in the second round. Lots of players don't bother, or at least they don't take real advantage of the first-round bets. The few who do we call second-level players. They are the ones who will go home a winner most of the time. Agreed?"
"Probably. But I'm not a second-level player."
"I agree completely. You, Ms. Iver, are a rarity that I have not seen for a long time. You are a third-level player. You place your own bet in those final brief seconds when all the second bets are complete. True?"
"What if it is?" She had dazzling violet-blue eyes, startling with such black hair and white skin. She was staring at him stone-faced, still giving away nothing. "Everything that you have said is within the Delphi rules."
"It is not against the rules of Delphi, nor is it against house rules—though it disconcerts my staff considerably. Delphi, you see, was carefully designed. The calculations required to operate at the third level are more than can be done in the time available. Even with a computational aid, the interval is too short to enter the data and then use the result. And you have no such aid."
"You seem to have just proved that I am not a third-level player."
The Ganymede Club Page 11
