"Give it to me." Hudro took the phone. "What do you want?"
"United States directory information. California, Los Angeles area. An automobile dealer called Vince Web—somewhere around Venice."
While Hudro was waiting for the information, Vrel copied the file into the flyer's system and encrypted it into Hyadean Code along with a message to Wyvex for it to be forwarded to Chryse. He attached a plaintext note to "Stan, Service Department," asking him to pass it on urgently to "Wyvex, care of Dee Rainier, who drives the white Pontiac." Meanwhile, Hudro had obtained the number. Vrel loaded the package back into the phone and sent it off just as the flyer was touching down.
The first thing Hudro did after they landed was get rid of his military-issue Hyadean communicator, which was traceable. Until he knew whether he was compromised or not, he didn't dare use it. If his name was hot, any message sent from it could trigger a surveillance computer.
* * *
They arrived at Uyali late in the afternoon in a Terran truck making a run from the construction area to pick up a piece of equipment that had been ferried from the spaceport at Xuchimbo. Hudro had found a friendly plant engineer, showed his military pass, and explained with a wink that he and his friend needed a ride back to town after a hot double date in one of the villages farther north. The flyer was "borrowed" and would make its own way back. In recognition, Hudro promised to send back a bottle of Terran "risky"—a Hyadean pun based on the English rhyme with "whisky"—with the truck driver from Uyali. "I'll take two," the engineer had said, which was the Hyadean way of asking who you think you're kidding. Hyadeans saw no point in fulfilling one-time obligations. But he had found them a place in the truck anyway.
Hudro had told Vrel that he had a friend he trusted in Hyadean Military Intelligence back in Brazil, who might be able to find out if Hudro was being watched for and what else was going on. Vrel wondered if it was Hudro's girlfriend, but Hudro didn't say. Whoever it was, Hudro would only be able to talk about such things over a secure link, which would mean going into the sprawling Hyadean military base at Uyali and getting access to the communications there. He was willing to gamble that even if Hyadean military police were checking the air terminal, the alert would not involve every guard and gate sentry in the area, and that his papers would get him in. Vrel couldn't offer any better idea. The only thing for Vrel to do in the meantime would be to lose himself, away from prying Hyadean eyes. The best place to do that promised to be the Terran sector. Accordingly, the truck dropped them off outside a store on the part of the road that ran nearest, and Hudro dutifully purchased a half bottle of pisco brandy for the Hyadean driver to take back for the engineer. The driver accepted it appreciatively and seemed amused. Whether or not it would get where it was supposed to go was beyond Hudro's control.
They had a meal of spicy meat and vegetables on rice in a café on the outskirts and then strolled around to familiarize themselves with the area. It seemed to have grown around three main streets, one crossing the other two like the lines of a Terran English H. The Terrans were happy to see Hyadeans in their sector because Hyadeans drew large paychecks. After further thought, Hudro bought a man's leather wallet—hand-sewn and richly decorated—some pieces of jewelry, and a mechanical, spring-powered Terran watch that had to be wound by hand every day, which Hyadeans found intriguing and prized even on Chryse, where the twelve-hour cycle meant nothing. "You never know. I might need to bribe somebody in there," he explained to Vrel as they came out of the store. "It never hurts to be prepared."
"I'm impressed," Vrel complimented. Coming from a Hyadean, it meant just that.
"Military training," Hudro said.
"Out of curiosity, just what do you do in the military?" Vrel asked.
"Counterinsurgency intelligence. Infiltration. The guys you don't hear about, who live on the other side of the lines."
The final item that Hudro bought was a regular Terran pocket phone with clean codes and a prepaid call quota that he could use without opening an account. So at least, he would be able to make calls over the Terran system that wouldn't attract attention. He left after arranging to meet up with Vrel again later. If there were an emergency, now they could call each other.
* * *?
One thing about being on an alien planet was the guarantee of always getting a lift from one's own kind. Hudro waited no more than a few minutes on one of the approach roads to the base before a Hyadean military vehicle carrying both uniformed figures and others in regular dress pulled up in response to his wave. He would arouse less curiosity that way than if he arrived on foot, he had decided. The crew turned out to be surveyors and construction supervisors who had been out planning a water pipeline, and a detail of Army guards. There were no Terrans, and at the gate they were waved straight through, although the occupants of a bus taking Terran workers inside were being rigorously checked and searched. So obstacle number one was out of the way as easily as that.
Hudro was back in the Hyadean world now. Already, it felt different. The surroundings were functional, businesslike, designed for getting things done. Time seemed to snap along at a Hyadean pace. People moved briskly, with purpose. They wore uniforms and working clothes that he recognized, giving them roles that were familiar—like a picture that had suddenly come into focus. There were weapons emplacements inside the perimeter fence, a transportation depot with a landing area inside the gate, where an officer was supervising a fatigue detail unloading an air-truck, and other figures crossed to and fro on various errands. A Military Police post stood on the other side, with signs indicating directions to such locations as 12TH CLOSE SUPPORT BATTALION; 76TH AIR ASSAULT HQ; TAC COM CMD OPS; QMSUP OFF. 19TH INFTRY REC GRP. Hudro followed a path of fused rock chippings painted white to a multistory configuration of office and service modules designated the Administration Center, which was where Headquarters Command was indicated to be situated. He found it after checking with the desk sergeant inside the door, taking an elevator up two levels from the lobby, and following a corridor into the next riser. Inside the door was a waiting area consisting of seats set around three sides of a low table, with the fourth open to a desk-counter at which sat a female Officer of the Day—a captain. Hudro took a seat, picked up one of the reformattable, universal-book folios from the table, loaded a journal at random, and for maybe fifteen minutes scanned it idly while getting a feel for the place and watching the routine. Then he went back down to the entrance. Just as he was about to leave the building, he turned back as if struck by an afterthought, and went over to desk.
"Excuse me, Sergeant." Although not wearing uniform, he had presented his pass showing his rank when he entered earlier.
"Sir?"
"Can you bring up the Forces Directory for me there?" He indicated the desk terminal. "I need this base's address for somebody to send something to me here."
The sergeant called up the file giving publicly posted information on Hyadean military installations and units, on Earth, Chryse, other worlds, orbiting stations, and elsewhere. He located the entry for Uyali, giving permanent offices, units currently stationed there with addresses, mail codes, commanding officers, and other details. "There. That's us here."
Hudro studied the screen. "So for the HQ Command office upstairs I'd use . . . that one?" He pointed.
"You've got it."
Hudro asked for something to write the details on. The sergeant raised his eyebrows as he passed across a slip of paper. The normal thing would have been to copy it into one's personal communicator. Hudro had thrown his away after landing at the construction site. "In my jacket," Hudro said. The sergeant frowned. Hudro sighed. "I know, I know." He cited the regulation: ". . . to be kept on the person at all times. If it were you I could give you a citation." He noticed that the sergeant was wearing a Terran windup watch. "Nice piece of work," he said.
"You like it? It's got elegance, hasn't it?" The sergeant turned his wrist to show the band.
"It's amazing what these people can do."
Hudro produced the watch he had just bought in the Terran sector. "What do you think of that?"
"Wow! Pretty nice."
"I just got it—for someone when I get back home."
The sergeant held it admiringly alongside his own. "Do you know something?" he confessed. "I don't even know how to read what they say."
"Me neither," Hudro whispered as he took it back. There was a rapport. So at least he had a friend here already if the need arose. Infiltration training. Think and prepare.
Outside the building, he found a quiet spot and used his phone to call the Terran number of the Hyadean intelligence unit at the Brazilian police facility in Acre province that Yassem worked with. A clerk located her and transferred the call.
"Who is this?" her voice asked.
"The guy who questions."
"Yes?" Since he hadn't used his name, she knew the subject was sensitive.
"We need to talk privately. Here's where I'll be to take it." He read out the code he had copied for Uyali Headquarters Command. "Make it thirty minutes. There's something slightly wrong that'll need straightening out. That's important. Okay?"
"Okay. . . ." There was anxiety in her tone. "Is there—"
"Later."
Yassem would know what to do. The remark about something being slightly wrong was a code they had agreed previously for emergencies.
Hudro went back into the Administration Center, sent a cheerful nod to the desk sergeant, and made his way up to the Headquarters Command office. The female captain was still at the desk. Hudro approached her.
"Yes?" she inquired.
"My name is Hudro." He showed his identification.
"Sir!"
"I was here earlier. I'm expecting a call on a secure channel. Did it come through yet?"
"I haven't heard anything." The captain called a log onto a screen and consulted it. "I'm sorry, there's no sign yet."
"Thanks."
Hudro took a seat, browsed through some journals again, and made a show of looking irritable and restless. "Are you sure there isn't anything through for a Colonel Hudro?" he called over to her ten minutes later.
She checked again. "I'm sorry, sir."
Two soldiers appeared, conducted a brief conversation, and were taken by a clerk to one of the rooms. "Who's your commanding officer?" Hudro demanded after another ten minutes or so.
"That would be Major Sloorn, sir." She was getting rattled. Just what he wanted. He sat glaring at the folio, flipping the pages and moving his head in short, jerky movements. Finally, her voice almost cracking with relief, the captain called, "Colonel Hudro, sir!"
"Yes!" He got up and strode over.
But already she was looking uncertain. "A secure-channel call just came in. . . . But it's specifying a Colonel Mudro. I don't know if . . ."
"Well, of course it's the one!" Hudro snapped. "Some native clerk somewhere."
"Well, I really should call them back and . . ."
"Look, this is an important matter, and I need privacy. I've waited long enough. Where can I take it? Just connect it through, please."
"Room 1304. It's just along the corridor."
"Thank you." Hudro strode away in the direction she indicated. Being a communications specialist with an intelligence unit, Yassem would be able to make the call without its being logged as official procedure required. In the past, some of the things she had managed to extract from official files had been astounding. Misspelling his name by one letter—the "something slightly wrong"—would be a fairly elementary error—to any person. But it meant that the surveillance computers wouldn't have found a match.
A minute later, he was looking at the features of Yassem. "Are you all right?" she asked. "Where are you? Still in Bolivia? That was the longest half hour I've ever spent. I've been so worried!"
"I'm not hurt or anything. But I might have been compromised. If so, then we might have to move our plans forward and get out right away. Is that still what you want to do?"
Yassem swallowed and nodded her head. "If we must."
God, how he loved this girl, Hudro thought. Had he just appealed in his mind to the Terran deity? Yes, he had. "Look, this is what I want you to do," he said. First, he needed to know if his name was on any surveillance lists. That would be fairly straightforward. The next thing was trickier. He summarized what had happened at Tevlak's and named the persons, Hyadean and Terran, who had been there when he and Vrel left. Could Yassem find out if the house had been raided by security forces—maybe from operations lists? If so, what had happened to those who were there? Yassem promised to see what she could do. Some of the things she had extracted from official files in the past had amazed him. Hopefully, she could turn up something within three or four hours, she said. Hudro thought he could lose himself in the officers' club or somewhere during that time.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
LUODINE HAD ENGINEERED her posting to Earth to escape from the banality of life among the professional and social elite on Chryse that her work immersed her in. She had to find something different, far away, she had decided—before she either destroyed her career by reporting what she really thought, or became one of them. As an executive investigator with one of the major media organizations, she had specialized in exploring success stories, which was an approved and well rewarded choice because it put her among the molders of the role images that it was felt healthy for average Chryseans to emulate. It kept them busy, distracted them from thinking too much about what it all meant, and the economy as a whole remained prosperous.
The only problem was, just about everything she saw brought out the side of her that was decidedly not average for a Chrysean. She met officials in charge of government bureaucracies that dreamed up forests of regulations and employed thousands who buzzed around importantly day after day, intent on their mission, no end result of which, as far as Luodine could see, added up to anything of actual use to anybody. All that the elaborate machinery did was get in the way of the few left who were trying to do something useful. A long, red curvy fruit called an iliacen grew on parts of Chryse, not unlike a Terran banana, but larger. There were specifications giving the limits of size, weight, color, water content—even curviness as determined by a procedure spelled out in detail—that defined what was a permissible iliacen. Any commercial transaction involving one that didn't conform was illegal. They couldn't even be given away by producers. Huge numbers of perfectly good, edible fruits had to be thrown away because they were a little bit too straight or a little bit too curvy. This was considered "efficient." Efficiency, Luodine discovered, had little to do with what was obtained for the cost. It had to do with the extent and effectiveness of control. When she pressed for an explanation of why it mattered, and how the enormous effort expended on preventing people deciding for themselves what kind of iliacen they liked could be justified, nobody could give her one. It seemed that the regulators were simply unable to function without books of rules and numbers telling them what to do. They had become extensions of their own machines.
She had once talked with the head of a large contractor involved in developing and supplying advanced space weaponry deemed essential for meeting the threat posed by the Querl. Said to be among the richest thousand on Chryse, he worked in his office from early morning until after the staff had left, and hadn't taken private time off for two years. When Luodine asked why he didn't do something else now, he had looked at her blankly and asked in seriousness what else there was. "Build a house with your own hands. Learn to sail a boat," Luodine had said. "When you were a young man, weren't there things you dreamed of? Things you told yourself you wanted to do some day, when you had the time, and circumstances permitted?" The executive had become angry and terminated the interview.
She had listened, smiling, to wives whose lives revolved around hosting ever-more bizarre parties, the principal aim of which was to achieve prominent mention in the socialite gossip columns—one had been set on an island park stocked with over two thousand animals
from one of the Querl worlds; another was held orbiting in freefall. She dutifully recorded the wisdoms of generals who measured the cost-effectiveness of a battle with a formula that mixed money, fatalities, and five categories of casualty; of media chiefs who sold rights to dictate what slant should be put on news stories; and of "image consultants" who had built a respectable profession out of presenting things to the world as other than they were, and coaching influential people in the art of lying convincingly from a screen.
Somewhere, she had told herself, there had to be a place where words meant what they said and not the opposite, and reality was what it seemed. And then she heard of the amazing planet that had been discovered in the course of exploring more distant star systems following development of a new, range drive—a planet whose inhabitants wove dreams into worlds of thought, created forms for no other purpose than to delight the senses, and described realms of vision and being that confounded all of the professors and scientists. Fads and fashions extolling Terran art and creativity appeared all over the Chrysean worlds. The ingenuity and imaginativeness of Terran minds stimulated great demand among Chrysean industries. And Luodine talked her way into an assignment there.
At first she had found herself bewildered by this world of chaotic, colorful craziness. But then, as she traveled and learned to reorient her thinking, she began to discover ways of looking at life, its values, that Hyadeans could never have conceived—unless, as some maintained, they had once known such things in a distant past age and forgotten them. There was the advertising executive in Sweden who gave up a secure, lucrative career and mortgaged his house to raise capital because he had always wanted to make a movie. She met a couple in Iran who for two years had been bicycling around the world—utterly pointless to the average Hyadean; captivating to Luodine. There were the religious missionaries in Africa who taught and treated the children of strangers with no prospect of gain other than the following of their convictions. There were dozens of stories from every continent.
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