by Chris Bunch
Joshua went back to the bed, sat down.
“I’m curious,” he said. “Why do you insist on taking the midnight-eight watch?”
“Because I am in charge of my team,” Kristin said. “Security training dictates an escape attempt is most likely going to be made in the early hours of the morning.”
“I’m not planning to escape.”
“Good,” Kristin said. “Then you shall continue to live.”
“Another question,” Wolfe persisted. “Does your camera, or pickup, or whatever it is, transmit sound to whoever’s sitting on my personal doomsday switch?”
Kristin looked at him, slowly shook her head from side to side.
“Just curious,” Wolfe said, pulling the robe off and lying down again.
No. I am not trying to escape. Not yet.
• • •
“I understand most of these requests, and agree with them,” Master Speaker Athelstan said. “They certainly fit what I would romantically expect a master rogue and gambler to have. But we may not be able to acquire the exact model of ship you’ve specified, since the operation must be mounted immediately.”
“A yacht’s a yacht,” Wolfe said. “Something big, impressive, ultra nouveau, that’s all we want. Oh yeah, something I forgot — Pick some kind of uniform for the crew to wear. With gold braid.”
Athelstan considered, decided Wolfe wasn’t making a joke, nodded. “One question,” he said, “and this is to satisfy personal curiosity. You specify the ship’s library must contain an edition of the complete works of this Earth-poet Eliot. Why?”
“Eliot does more than Hume can,” Wolfe said, “to justify God’s ways to Man.”
“I still don’t understand. But then,” Athelstan said, “I’ve never been much of a one for poetry. Utterly illogical.”
“It’s interesting you should say that,” Joshua said. “Most poets think they’re more logical than the rest of us.”
Athelstan smiled tightly. “Amusing conceit. Do you agree with them?”
Wolfe shrugged. “Depends on how bad my hangover is.”
Athelstan frowned.
“By the way,” Joshua said. “We’ll need some kind of linkup with an expensive comp-catalog. I’ll take care of outfitting the rest of the crew myself. You might be too — logical.”
• • •
“That one,” Wolfe decided. “And that one, and — not that one. Too virginal. Not that one either. Makes you look too available. For too low a price.”
He touched sensors, and the next set of catalog holographs swam into life. He kept his eyes away from Guide Kristin, whose face was red with embarrassment.
“You find this quite amusing, don’t you,” Kur said, her voice showing a trace of anger.
“Lady,” Wolfe said in exasperation, “you’re the one who says I’ve got to go looking for Token Aubyn with gun-guards and these three mad bombers. So I’m going to be standing out a little. That’s fine, because that’s the quickest way to get Aubyn to notice us. But don’t tell me how to dress the set, goddammit. I could’ve used Lucian or Max for my main companion, but I don’t think I can fake being a manlover for long. And I’ll be suiting them up as soon as I finish with Kristin anyway. You want all of us to mouse in like good brown Chitet? Won’t that make Aubyn wonder why her fellow bow-and-scrapers happen to be on Rogan’s World? Wouldn’t she maybe send a couple dozen goons to check matters out?”
“If she’s even there,” Kur said skeptically. “I find it hard to accept that one man can put a pin on the map after hundreds of our best minds have analyzed the situation over the years. And I find your continual insults of our culture rather distasteful.”
“Funny. I find your continual attempts to kill me the same,” Wolfe said. “You’re bitching about wearing an expensive gown, and I’ve got a bomb up my ass. Now shut up and let me keep on with my frills and bows. One other thing. What about the ship?”
“You’ll have it in time,” Kur said. “It offplaneted Batan this E-day.”
“Good,” Wolfe said. He looked at Kristin and decided to take pity. “You pick the next two outfits.”
“No,” the woman said. “I have no experience being a — a …”
“Popsy is one of the old words,” Wolfe said helpfully. “But give in to your worst impulses, woman, and go crazy. Even Chitet have been known to smile and dance in the moonlight. I know. I saw a couple of them.”
He thought for an instant her face flickered, but decided he’d been wrong.
CHAPTER THREE
Dear Scholar Frazier:
I’m sending this brief note via a completely trustworthy graduate student of mine, with instructions to hand-deliver it to you, and no one else, for I fear to trust it to conventional means, even if it were coded.
I would strongly recommend against your continuing to seek funding for the expedition to the Al’ar homeworld of Sauros we spoke of at the last seminar. I know this must surprise you, because of my initial enthusiasm, and I’m fully aware of your need to reestablish your credentials, particularly in the field you first became well known in.
However, very unofficial word has reached me that all contact with the team from Halcyon Ill’s Universidad de Descubrimiento has been lost. As you know, they were investigating A887-3, another of the Al’ar homeworlds, and were partially funded by the Federation.
These are unsettled times, so this might not be as worrisome as I find it, but there are two rumors I’ve heard involving the expedition that need passing along, and two very definite facts:
The first rumor is that the Halcyon III team ‘cast some extraordinarily strange messages prior to their disappearance, messages that make it appear as if they’d gone mad. The messages supposedly mention a “red death,” a “walking between the stars,” among other hysteria.
The second rumor is that two other expeditions, also projected toward one or another of the worlds formerly held by the Al’ar, have been cancelled. Supposedly these two expeditions would have gone into the “center” of the Al’ar fringe worlds — the same sector that A887-3 is in.
I’d discount these stories, except for my two facts:
The first and most disturbing is that the heirs and beneficiaries of the scientists on the Universidad expedition have had their death benefits paid in full, even though no official notice of death has been made. This suggests to me that someone at a very high level knows what happened, but no one is willing to admit to it.
The second fact is that I’ve been advised by my department head to ignore any stories about Halcyon III, and to pass along to her the name of anyone spreading such tales, for transmission to what she called the “proper authorities.”
I protested, of course, reminding her of our long tradition of free speech, but she scowled at me and asked if I remembered the necessary restrictions on speech back during the war. I said I certainly did, and considered most of them imbecilic. She told me that if I wished my annual review to go as smoothly as it should, I’d take heed of her warning and stop being silly.
I don’t know what to make of all this, Juan.
But I certainly think you should be warned. Something seems to be going wrong out there in the former Al’ar worlds, and I’d suggest you stay well clear until there’s further data.
Best,
Scholar Eliz Shulbert
L’Ecole de Science
Janzoon IX
CHAPTER FOUR
Wolfe’s chill eyes swept the hotel lobby. “This’ll do,” he said.
The manager fawned slightly. “You mentioned you have quite precise requirements?”
“I do. We’ll take the penthouse suite in the tower for myself and my personal assistant, and the entire floor below it for my staff and the crew of my yacht. I’ll also need the next floor to be vacant. I despise noise when I’m trying to sleep.”
The manager realized his eyes were bulging and corrected the situation. “But — there’re already guests on some of …”
“In
form them that their charges to date are on my bill, and you’ll assist in finding them acceptable rooms elsewhere in the hotel — or else help them relocate to another, equally prestigious hotel.” A large bill changed hands. “If they insist on staying …” Wolfe shrugged.
The manager managed to look as if he were bowing without moving. “I’m sure with such generosity — I’m sure there’ll be no problem.”
“Good. Also, I’ll need one of your private dining rooms on constant standby, a conference room, and three of my men added to your staff to ensure proper security.”
“As you wish, Mister Taylor.” The manager spun. “Front!”
A platoon of bellboys scurried forward and began sorting the mountain of luggage, including the fourteen matched bags in pink reptile hide.
Kristin stepped close to Wolfe. She no longer wore the drab simplicity of a Chitet. Her blond hair, starting to grow out, had a slightly iridescent streak curving along the hairline above her left ear. She was wearing tight red silk shantung pants, sandals, and a bare-midriff blouse in white.
“I feel like everyone is watching us,” she murmured.
“Not us,” Wolfe corrected. “Mostly you.”
A bit of a smile appeared.
Lucian and Max were also dressed for their roles, one wearing a black-white checked silk shirt, the other a green-patterned shirt, with the currently popular white false-leather tight jackets. They wore dark trousers, short boots. Neither man bothered to conceal the bulge of a holster on his right hip.
Wolfe was all in black, a silk turtleneck, finely woven wool pants, and a black jacket.
“You’ll see,” he told the manager, “that my ship-crew is taken care of when they finish porting arrangements?”
“But of course.”
This time the bow was real.
• • •
Kristin wandered through the huge, multilevel suite in a completely un-Chitet-like manner. Everything was stained wood, old paintings, and antiques, and the aroma of money hung close. Wolfe followed, saying little. Part of him was remembering another woman, named Lil, in another hotel on another world; the rest of him was concentrating on — something else.
“You know,” she said, “I almost think you’re trying to seduce — I mean, convert me away from what I believe in. There is no rationale for this luxury … but it certainly feels nice.”
Wolfe didn’t answer. He had his eyes closed, facing one of the enormous windows that looked out over the smoky industrial city of Prendergast, Rogan’s World’s capital, toward the hills that ringed the port.
“Is something the matter?” she asked.
Wolfe’s eyes opened.
“No. I was just trying to see if anybody’s watching or listening.”
“Lucian, Max, and I all checked for bugs,” she said. “We’re all very well trained.”
“In another life,” Joshua said, “I wore both belt and suspenders.”
“What are suspenders?”
“Something to keep the chicken from crossing the road. Never mind. We’re clean as far as I can tell.”
Kristin turned away and appeared intent on the view.
“Master Speaker Athelstan told us that everything depends on finding this person,” she said carefully. “I took that to mean our charade must be as perfect as possible.”
Wolfe waited.
“So if I’m supposed to be your — your popsy, then, or whatever you call it, well, then, we should …” She broke off, furiously coloring.
“You blush too easily,” Wolfe said gently, not letting himself smile. “But don’t worry about it. You sleep anywhere you want to. If anybody happens to insert a spy-beam without me noticing, well, we had a fight and you’re miffed. All right?”
Kristin nodded, still not looking at Joshua.
“Which brings up a question,” Wolfe said. “How come the twenty-four-hour-a-day watch isn’t being kept? Did somebody decide I’m telling the truth and I’m not going to cut and run from you?”
“I can’t answer that,” Kristin said. “But there have been additional measures taken that aren’t quite so obvious. And don’t think they’re trusting you any more than before.”
“They, eh? Not us.”
“What?”
“Never mind. So we’re down, we made a big splash, yacht and all, and we’re in place as fools with money.”
• • •
“Rogan’s World,” mused Joshua. He lifted a snifter to his lips, sipped. “Where honesty’s a word in the dictionary between hogwash and horseshit. And everything’s for sale and they have everything you want.” He considered the snifter. “I never thought I’d find Hubert Dayton again. I’ve got one bottle hidden … somewhere, against the Day of Reckoning.”
Kristin wore a thin blue robe, with a satin and lace gown under it in the same color. The remains of a lavish room service meal littered the linen tablecloth on the mahogany table.
“To success,” Wolfe toasted.
Kristin lifted her waterglass in return.
“That’s a sinful practice,” he said.
“Why? I’ve never liked alcohol,” Kristin said. “It distorts your judgment and makes it easier for you to do stupid things.”
“Precisely why I’m quite fond of it.” He spun his chair and looked out over Prendergast. “I wonder why all commercial ports get so crooked so easy,” he said.
“Maybe because when everything’s got a price tag on it, you start believing everything does have a price tag on it.”
“Not bad,” Joshua said.
“Thank you. And when everything’s just passing by,” Kristin went on, “maybe it’s easy to think you can do whatever you want, and pass on with the current, or else whatever you did’ll be washed away in the morning.”
Joshua nodded. “I’ll buy into that one, tentatively, my little epigrammatist.
“So, here we have a spaceport — shipyard — heavy manufacturing — and by the way, Rogan’s World produced half a dozen Federation politicians whose reputations, shall we say, spread a stain far beyond their reach. And at least as many artists in various mediums. Wonder if corruption is a spore-bed for creators?
“Interesting, change, though. According to the ‘pedia I scanned, nothing and nobody interesting’s come out of Rogan’s World for quite a while. Since just after the war, to be precise.”
“What does that mean?” Kristin asked.
“Probably nothing. But it could be somebody doesn’t want Rogan’s World to draw any attention at all.”
Kristin looked frightened. “Could the Overlord Stone give somebody that kind of power?”
Wolfe nodded.
“So how do we find Token — that woman.”
“Good,” Wolfe approved. “The less we use her name, the safer it is. For I don’t truly know what the Great Lumina could give, especially to someone who’s been using it for as long as she has.”
• • •
“How do we find her?” Kristin asked.
“We don’t. We let her find us.” Wolfe smiled. “Apropos of absolutely nothing, I like your perfume.”
“Oh. Oh. I thought the name in the catalog sounded — interesting. Thank you.” Kristin looked somewhat confused.
• • •
“How long have you been bell captain?” Joshua asked.
“Oh, seven, eight years,” the woman said. Her name tag read HAGERSMARK. “Long enough to be able to help our guests in whatever ways they want.” She pocketed the bill Wolfe handed her.
“Supposing that I — or one of my crew — wanted company?”
“Easiest thing in the world,” Hagersmark said, looking bored. “Any variation you want.”
“What about — inducements that don’t happen to be legal?”
“I don’t know that word.”
“Things to smoke, inject, whatever.”
“Like you said, whatever.”
“Just curious,” Wolfe said. “But what I’m really interested in is action. This hotel see
ms a little — quiet.”
“The management likes to keep it that way,” Hagersmark said. “They figure guests can find their own joy spots. Or bring ‘em back here. As long as you pay, you can do whatever you want. But you want action. I assume …” She rolled fingers as if manipulating a set of dice.
“You assume,” Wolfe said.
“How big?”
He handed her a bill.
“That suggest anything?”
The woman eyed it, reacted.
“You do mean action,” she said. “Best bet’s a private game. But you’ll need to meet some people to set that sorta thing up. Be around in the right places. Best bet’s either Nakamura’s or the Oasis. The Oasis generally attracts a little looser crowd.”
“Thank you,” Wolfe said.
Hagersmark started toward the door, then stopped. “So that’s your game, eh? Everybody in the hotel was wondering.”
“I’m just someone who mostly lives the quiet life,” Wolfe said. “But every year or so I like to vary things.”
“Of course, sir,” she said piously. “Have a nice, quiet time.”
• • •
A day later, Wolfe was waiting for Kristin to finish dressing when the discreet tap came at the door.
Max was sitting across from him, watching.
He felt out, uncurled from the chair he was in. “Kristin. Stay out of sight.”
“What’s wrong?”
“We’ve got visitors. And the desk was supposed to buzz us before anyone came up.”
The knock came once more.
“I’m ready,” she said. “Shall I call for backup?”
“Not yet. Max, you get out of here, too. But be ready for life to get interesting. Don’t do anything unless I start screaming.”
The Chitet hesitated, then hurried into one of the bedrooms and half closed the door.
Wolfe went to the door and opened it. Two men stood outside. Both were young, wore full evening dress, and had cold eyes above careful smiles.
“Mister Taylor?”
Wolfe nodded.
“We’re sorry to intrude, but perhaps a moment of your time might be beneficial to us both.”
