But Star Well was only the center of traffic for this comparative moment. The owners knew that eventually it would be discovered and Star Well would have to be run straight for a time.
Shirabi had his orders for the first sign of trouble, his private orders. Cut and run.
After Godwin’s jealousy of Villiers had become apparent, after Martin and Morrison had served him another explanation for Villiers, Shirabi had not thought it likely that Villiers was anything like a secret investigator. That had left him free to use Villiers.
But just when the game was closing, up had popped Ellis D. Phibbs and a priest of Mithra who apparently was no priest of Mithra. If Shirabi was a rabbit, his employers had no objection to it, in fact were just as happy for it. Shirabi was a rabbit and he felt that this was the time to run.
Now he was waiting for the ship to arrive. He had every intention of putting the load of thumbs aboard and riding away, never to return to Star Well.
He was also waiting for his helpers to arrive, and he had Levi Gonigle out watching the halls to keep him out of trouble. He hopped down from the cart and closed the book in his hands. It was Martin and Morrison’s Index.
He had cleaned his office, taking everything he wanted with him, everything he hadn’t wanted to leave behind. He had brought Godwin’s book with him for one last look. Now he didn’t know what to do with it. He looked around. It wouldn’t go with his own gear—he didn’t want it anymore. He couldn’t lay it on top of a cold box—shortly they would be carried out through an extendable corridor and into racks aboard the freighter. After a moment’s thought and hesitant gazing about, he opened the cold cart on which he had been sitting and looked down at the still features of Derek Godwin.
“You always wanted to be a gentleman,” Shirabi said, and laid it within Godwin’s folded arms. The field shocked Shirabi’s hands. It felt the way mint tastes.
It had seemed a shame to let Godwin go to waste. Shirabi certainly did not want him sent to advanced medical facilities and revived. Neither did he want him simply to spoil. It had seemed reasonable to have him wheeled below to join the bodies in transit. Shirabi closed the cart again. “I never thought you were all that good.”
He did a drum beat with the flat of his hands on the top of the cold cart and waltzed around it, but his elation had no conviction behind it. The whole unpleasant appearance of Srb had taken the punch out of his evening,
You couldn’t miss it in Srb once you knew. He had investigator tattooed over his eyebrows. As other professions radiated promises of money and sex and dangerous adventure, he promised rehabilitation and other unpleasantries.
Shirabi was caught by the opening of the warehouse door. He turned at the noise to see Levi Gonigle. He was holding a girl under each arm.
“I caught them, Mr. Shirabi. I caught them,” he said. “Can I have fun with them?”
* * *
Villiers had been accompanied to his quarters after the duel by Bledsoe, the sober dueling master. Srb had pleaded pressing affairs, Villiers had thanked him for the services he had rendered, and they had parted.
Villiers was ready to return to his quarters after the doctor had had a look at his hand. His clothes, partly because he had laid some aside in order to fight, partly because of the exertions he had been forced to, were in disarray. To be fit again for public company, he would certainly have to repair his appearance. More important, he was still feeling the sudden force of the attack which Levi Gonigle had launched upon him.
Bledsoe said something, in his reserved and somber way, about his appreciation of Villiers’ form, “now that he was free to speak,” and volunteered his company to Villiers, who felt in need, indeed, and did not hesitate to say so.
Bledsoe said gravely, “You came to my attention earlier in the evening, however, sir.”
Villiers, coat and drapeau over his arm, a bit shaky on his pins, but still presenting a tolerable presence, said, “Did I?”
“Yes. You did not see me, of course, but I sat at the next table while you were dining. I was frankly caught by the obvious friendliness between you and the young girl you were eating with.”
That sentence might be taken in several ways depending on tone and time and the person speaking. Bledsoe’s age, and sex, and dress, and manner ruled out a number of possibilities, and his tone ruled out several more, but even so, Villiers was not sure exactly what he meant or meant to imply.
Villiers looked casually at Bledsoe and said, “We are friendly,” in a neutral voice.
“I’m not sure you understand me,” Bledsoe said. “I was caught by the friendliness. It is a pleasure to see the few people in the world who can be that comfortable with each other.”
Villiers nodded, listened, and occasionally said a word or two until they reached his suite. There he thanked Bledsoe for his attention, made his excuses, and went within. It would have been in order to invite Bledsoe inside for a few social moments, but in truth he did not rate Bledsoe’s company that highly and he had no genuine interest in any company until he felt a bit more himself. Bledsoe either understood or was willing to have it seem that he did, and went his way at a carefully chosen pace.
Torve the Trog was sitting on the floor reading and making his noises. His skin was one size too large for his frame. You didn’t notice that particularly when he was upright, but when he sat or lay it tended to fall into occasional rumpled folds. These might appear anywhere, but most often around his stuffed tummy.
Villiers said, “Has anything transpired within the period I have been absent? Within the time that you have been present, of course.”
Torve looked at him and said, “You are wheezy—I mean, weavy—in the head. Or do I mean wheezy? And transpired means that someone has died.”
Villiers sat down abruptly. “Somebody has died. I was in the damnedest duel that you ever saw. Fifteen minutes or so after you left, that fool Godwin stepped up and called me out. I’m not sure why. He may have thought me overclose, but I didn’t think I was stepping that hard.”
“Why! Why! Is no matter why,” said Torve. “Thing happened, is all. What is important is what happened.”
Villiers slowly told the whole story, and Torve nodded throughout.
When he was done, Torve said, “As I said—what is important is what happened. Couldn’t be better, I’m sure.”
“You’re sure?”
“Certainly. And how is your hand?”
“Better than it ought to be. I don’t think the nerves were killed. It’s very odd.” He stood up. “I think I’d better let Louisa know that I’m all right. She might be worrying, since she was dragged off.”
He went to the service and tried to place the call. The call was refused, of course, on the orders of Mrs. Bogue. “Oh, well,” he said. He stretched and winced. “I’d better put myself back in order again.”
“Is good idea” said Torve. “The imperative of time is that you go to the basement tonight. You should be feeling good to be up late.”
Villiers shook his head. “I’m not going to the basements tonight. At worst, I’m going to bed. Tomorrow, I’ll think what to do with the leverage we have. I had an idea while I was dueling, but then I dropped my knife and lost the idea and haven’t tracked it down again.”
Torve said, “Always you know ‘why,’ whatever ‘why’ is. I know the imperative of time.” He scratched his belly slowly and significantly. “In here I know. You go to the basement tonight. That is your line of occurrence.”
Try to argue with that.
* * *
Srb was a red flower in front of the service, a scarlet blossom in a heavy chair.
“No answer?” he said.
“I am sorry, sir, but Mr. Adams does not answer.”
Srb thanked him and switched off. He lit his pipe and tried to think of an appropriate metaphor.
* * *
Villiers, rejuvenated—the rejuvenation facilities in royal-a-day rooms being excellent—appeared half-dressed in the door.
“Could you straighten the hang?”
Torve reached a hand up from the floor and bemusedly straightened the hang.
“Did I hear somebody out here a minute or two ago?” Villiers asked.
“Was nothing,” Torve said. “Was mistake.” Was in fact the girls on their way to the basements.
There was a ring at the door. Villiers raised his eyebrows and started for the door. He stopped just short to make his adjustments. The bell rang insistently again as he reached for the plate that would open the door.
Mrs. Bogue looked up as the door slid back. She was a woman who obviously liked to keep herself in order. Hair and clothes were uniform surfaces. Her hair was gray and she had done nothing to change that.
Firmly, she said, “Stand back, Mr. Villiers.” Villiers stepped back a pace and ushered her within. “All right,” she said, looking around the room. “Produce them, please.”
“I beg your pardon,” Villiers said, turning away from the door.
“Produce them, please.”
“Thurb,” said Torve, and Mrs. Bogue’s startled head swiveled about.
“What is he doing here?” she demanded. “Mr. Villiers, it seems that I judged you very, very mistakenly. Sick associations with filthy animals! I may have failed now and then in my duties, but I want it said to my credit that all the time we were penned together in that miserable little ship I kept my girls from having anything to do with that.”
She pointed a forefinger at Torve.
“We, I may be plain to say, are not Mithraists. Oh, I hope you aren’t a Mithraist, too.”
“No, madam, that is not one of my failings.”
“Well, I want my girls produced, and I want them now. I would have them stay here no longer than is absolutely necessary.”
“Which girls?” Villiers asked quietly.
Torve continued to read, throbbing from time to time. He took no real notice of Mrs. Bogue and her artistic displeasures, and showed no interest in the conversation.
“Louisa and Alice, of course. They know no one else. They are not anywhere else. Therefore, they are here”
“They are not here,” Villiers said. “Please, will you tell me when you saw them last?”
“I may be the person who saw them most recently,” a voice said.
All those who have involved themselves in amateur detective work will be quick to tell you of their reliance on open doors, conveniently overheard conversations and passing strangers with vital information for the solution of their problems. In this case, Bledsoe, the dueling master, was standing in the doorway.
Villiers raised his eyebrows. He was a master of the eyebrow. “Where did you see them?”
“They were entering a stairwell. Bound for the basements, I would say.”
“What does that mean?” Mrs. Bogue asked.
Villiers said, “You overheard quite a bit at dinner, didn’t you?”
“Curiosity is one of my failings, though Mithraism may not be. In a word, yes, though I think this was a topic of conversation in the casino, not at dinner.”
“You’re right. It was,” Villiers said.
“Can you handle things yourself, or shall you need help?” Bledsoe asked.
“Are you offering your services?”
“Goodness, no,” said Bledsoe. “I’m no man of action. I was just curious.”
* * *
The girls were placed on their feet in front of Shirabi. The taller one had a distinctly unhappy look, and she was shivering.
Shirabi looked at her and said, “I feel cold myself.”
The other girl, the brown-looking one, said firmly, “We were lost.”
Shirabi shook his head. “I don’t believe you. I accept your presence as an added burden, but I don’t believe that you were lost. Who are you involved with? Srb? Villiers?”
“Nobody!” said the tall one.
“Don’t try to tell me stories,” Shirabi said. “I’ll let Levi have his fun with you.”
Levi brightened.
“Levi, go out and guard the halls again,” Shirabi said. “Go on.”
Reluctantly, Levi allowed himself to be put outside like a puppy put in the cellar. The same stiffening of the legs. The same reproach in a simple face. The same backward glances.
Shirabi followed him to the door. When he turned, the little hen said, “We were trying to find out what happened to Mr. Villiers.”
“Down here?”
“Please, sir,” said Alice. “It’s the truth.”
As said before, there were few occasions when Hisan Bashir Shirabi had been able to be totally rotten to people of higher station. When belligerence had been called for, he had been obsequious. When firmness had been called for, firmness had not been within him. When the necessary demands of the situation had been made, for blood, and agony, and total terror, he had been powerless to produce them. Except twice under humiliating circumstances. The shame was that they had been as humiliating for Shirabi as they had been for his subjects.
That was a terrible burden under which to live. Shirabi’s worries about his impotence had crippled him almost as badly as his central affliction itself. He had not been the man for Zvegintsov that his natural abilities and instincts should have made him.
He had been shunted from one minor post to another, and now was here where his failing was of small moment, where it did not matter if a manager could cut the mustard or not. And now he was ready to leave, his little era ended. The best he could expect was another station that was no more important than this and possibly would be less.
Look at him: Hisan Bashir Shirabi, a man near the end of the line. Purple robes, dark face, sharp nose, black mustache. Everything for total menace except the element of presence. An empty man, less than the Himself he could have been, with green-lit eyes, an aura of looming evil, and a fluttering and flashing about his shoulders.
But there are occasions when the soul is freed and like a great black bat flaps wildly toward the moon. The lost world below is dark and silent. All that exists is the madly striving heart beating, beating, beating.
A warmth filled his chest. His ears rang. He felt himself growing in size. The girls seemed to stand at an immense distance from him. No, no—they were dwarfs. That was all.
He pointed two fingers of his right hand. He knew lightning would split forth from them if he chose, but he did not choose.
“Do you want to know about Mr. Villiers,” he said in a low insistent voice. “Pieces. Ground. Minced. The fate of all. Chopped and sliced. Cubed and diced. Shaped in a ball. Beaten, eaten, but dead withal. Dead withal. Dead withal.”
Both girls began to cry, as well they might. Shirabi smiled and grew.
“You’re the next,” he said. “Do you know what these boxes contain?”
He threw one open before them and then another and then another. The girls moved close together at the sight of the bodies.
“Every box. Every single box. And I have two remaining. I’m leaving here tonight and with me will be you.”
It was amazing. It was exquisite. It was the striving heart rewarded. All the old bonds were suddenly gone. He was in this fantastic moment all that he had ever wanted to be, all that he had previously failed to be. Was it the death of Godwin, vanquished symbol of all that he feared and envied? Was it the sudden end of his obligations at Star Well? Was it the hour, the place, the situation, all forming that fertile moment in which he was able to pour out what previously had been so frustratingly dammed within him? We shall never know. All we can know is that the lonely heart seeks its sweet fulfillment.
“There, there, loves. You’re going to be thumbs. And legs, and toes, and arms, bones, veins, and nerves. You’re going to make somebody well again. Doesn’t that make you feel good inside? Skins for the skinless. Shins for the shinless. Hearts for the heartless. Parts for the partless.
“Do you know what the greatest shortage in thumb-running is? Small body parts. I think they’ll look forward to you.”
>
He capered. He danced. He was an evil, flaming, purple presence. He moved around the girls, who were backed against the cold cart in which Godwin lay. Around and around he moved, his arms held high and his arms held low, and all the while he chanted his merry melodies. The girls held on to the awful white cart, held on to each other, and did their best to hold on to their reeling, tumbling senses. And from the door, Levi Gonigle watched through a crack with open eyes and slack mouth.
* * *
Srb answered the door at Villiers’ signal.
“Why, Mr. Villiers. I didn’t expect to see you again tonight.”
“Sieur Srb, I wonder if I might speak with you. I haven’t a great deal of time.”
“Come in, then.”
Srb closed the door and seated himself. Villiers remained standing. The room, he noted, had become invested with Srb’s personal flavor, a characteristic nutty, toasted odor reminiscent of childhood afternoons.
“Sieur Srb, I would like to strike a bargain with you. I am in temporary financial straits. I need passage for two to Yuten. You, on the other hand, are here to learn certain things. No, don’t pretend to look puzzled. We are both aware of who you are. Give me the use of Adams right now, and you can close down the smuggling here in a matter of minutes.”
Srb drew deliberately at his pipe. “All right,” he said. “Assuming we are talking of the same things, why right this minute? That might be difficult.”
It would be difficult, of course. Srb bad been unable to raise Adams since his return from the duel. It had been a bad slip for that fool Phibbs to make in public. Time was an important factor now, and Adams could not be raised.
“Because Miss Parini and another of the girls from her class are already poking around in the basements. They may alert Shirabi. Even if there is no harm in that, they may be in trouble. You saw that Godwin tried to kill me. The girls may be hurt. That’s why I want help now.”
“Let me understand things,” Srb said. “These two girls, in whom you have an interest, may be in trouble. You want them rescued. Besides this, you want passage for two to Yuten. That’s not one thing as I count. That’s two. In return, you propose to do your natural duty as an interested citizen of the Empire, and help to end an unfortunate illegal trade. That’s one thing. Two for one?”
New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers Page 13
