“Why puzzling?” the younger man asked.
Imbry looked away from the screen. “Well, Helvic I can see as a prime target for whatever scheme Gebbling intends. The imagist Monlaurion, too, I suppose, although his vogue is long past and his works decline in value. But the rest of them are of only modest worth, and some—such as the students—are frankly poor.”
“They must have something in common,” Baro said, peering at the data, and then he saw it. “There it is. They are all couples and one of them has the lassitude, which Gebbling purports to be able to cure.”
“Just so,” said Imbry, “I had seen that. But it explains nothing. How does he profit by curing—or, more precisely, pretending to cure—a gaggle of paupers? Where lies the opportunity to flay and fleece?”
Baro suggested having the system sort and categorize the people on the manifest in various permutations. The fat man tried several approaches, but no other pattern emerged.
“Gebbling has gone to considerable expense to hire the Orgulon for a lengthy period,” Imbry said. “He may intend to recoup his outlay and wring a profit from Helvic alone. But if so, why bring along so much dead weight?”
“Perhaps some of the crowd are his confederates, who will pretend to have the malaise and be miraculously cured of it on the voyage.”
Imbry fingered the controls. “That may be. I do not have all of their medical records.”
“Still, you have plenty. That is quite the system,” Baro admitted.
“I built it myself. While my profession occasionally calls for brilliant improvisation, there is no substitute for fine tools and meticulous preparation.”
“You mean your former profession,” said Baro.
“Of course, I do.”
“What do you have on me?” Baro asked.
“I don’t know. Until quite recently, I had never heard of you.”
“Let us see.”
Imbry worked the system and up popped a file on Baro Harkless. There were entries under several headings, indicating significant career achievements, promotions, and citations, enough to fill several screens.
“That is not me,” said Baro. “That is my father. He had the same name.”
“Ah,” said Imbry, pointing at a line on the screen. “The researcher took us here because here is the only place your name appears, under your father’s dependents. I’m afraid you haven’t yet made much of an impact on this old world.”
Seeing his father’s life and career summarized in this place gave Baro a curious pang. “Let us get on,” he said again.
Imbry’s fingers moved across the system’s controls, then he stabbed one final stud and said, “There. We are now added to the Orgulon’s passengers. I saw that two of the original invitees had first booked, then canceled. We shall go in their place.
“I shall be the Eminent Discourser Erenti Abbas, therapist and companion to the Honorable Phlevas Wasselthorpe—that is you. You are also in the initial stages of the lassitude. I have booked us seats on the afternoon balloon-tram to Farflung. The game, whatever the game may be, is on.”
“We will need suitable attire,” Baro said.
“For me, that will pose no problem,” said the fat man.
He went to a wall and pressed a smudge high up on its cheaply painted surface. There was a discreet click and the wall slid aside to reveal a capacious closet filled with garments hung on racks and a warren of shelves and cubbies filled with accessories and boxes.
Imbry rummaged and found clothing and accoutrements suitable for an academician of senior rank and moderate distinction. He dug in a box and said, “Just the thing—the pin and pendant of a runner-up for the Fezzani Prize.” He applied the decoration to his lapel.
“What about me?” said Baro.
“Wasselthorpe is from the minor nobility,” Imbry mused while flicking garments aside, one after another. “I haven’t much in your size, but here’s a reasonable facsimile of a traveling suit and”—he dug in a box—“a cravat that identifies you as a third-tier graduate of the Institute.”
“Only third tier?”
“It is all I have. Try to restrain your brilliance.”
“So I am to be a know-naught bumpkin from the hinterland’s hind end while you are a distinguished pundit?”
“It will work better that way,” said Imbry.
“What will?”
But the fat man was digging again through his boxes. He came up with two small devices and slipped them into his belt pouch.
“What were those?” Baro said.
“A slapper and a grumbler,” Imbry said. “They’re always useful.”
Baro could not argue the prediction because he did not know what a slapper or a grumbler was. He suspected they were underworld terms for illegal weapons but having been assigned the role of rural oaf he did not want to confirm the identity by revealing his ignorance.
“Now what?” he said.
“We proceed with the plan.”
“Does it not occur to you that you have left out a crucial step?” Baro said.
“What step would that be?”
“The one where you explain the goals, strategies, and specifically my part in all of them. So far, all I know is that I am to be a dullard on a landship.”
Imbry looked only slightly abashed. “I do not usually work with a partner,” he said. “My association with Gebbling was one of the few occasions, and as you know, it did not turn out well.”
“I am not Horslan Gebbling. From what I’ve heard of him, I wonder if we are of the same species.”
Imbry looked thoughtful. “I am no less puzzled that he has launched this scurrilous scheme to fleece those who already suffer.”
“Are you going to argue for the existence of honor among fraudsters? I’d more expect to find jewels in a dung heap.”
Imbry drew himself up. “Some of us have our limits. I pride myself that my prey has been those who thought themselves predators. You may see me as the human equivalent of an eight-legged web-spinner, but I have hunted only other spiders.”
“And Gebbling?”
“I thought he was like me in that regard.” Imbry’s focus went inside for a moment, then he shook his head and sighed.
“We are again drifting from the point,” Baro said. He had noticed that discussions with his partner had a tendency to become unmoored. “I am happier with plans when I have a part in making them.”
“I’ll try to bear that in mind,” said Imbry, “but right now we must hurry to catch the afternoon balloon-tram.”
The balloon-tram system had been a favorite project of the Archon Vanz, an imaginative and energetic innovator who had left several marks on the world. It was a mode of transportation favored by those who had the leisure to arrive later than sooner and the desire to view the territories through which they passed from a different perspective.
The passengers rode in a capacious and well-appointed car that hung from the belly of a rigid-framed cylindrical airship. The lighter-than-air craft was tethered by a long cable to a dolly that was in turn slotted into a ground track that ran arrow-straight across flats and hills, crossing gorges and water obstacles on trestles and causeways. An operator sat at a panel in the front of the car, adjusting the degree of interaction between the materials of which the track and dolly were made, which provided the energy to move the system.
The Olkney terminus was near the heart of the ancient metropolis, beneath the Archonate palace that sprawled atop the range of mountains that ran up the spine of the peninsula from which the city took its name. Standing on the departure platform while the balloon-tram car was winched down to ground level, Baro looked up at the terraces and tiers of the palace and marveled that the Archon himself should have marked the name of Baro Harkless and singled him out for individual attention.
And now he was about to set forth on his first assignment, one that would very likely bring him into conflict with the criminal Horslan Gebbling, who looked to be mild of aspect but might in reali
ty be a desperate malefactor resolved to stop at nothing to evade capture and punishment. There could be danger ahead; certainly there was already a puzzle to unravel. And Baro could see himself at the heart of the adventure, his fine-tuned mind assessing and evaluating, his keen eye cutting through the film of subterfuge and misdirection to the hard nugget of truth.
True, his section chief had saddled him with an untrustworthy partner who exhibited a tendency to direct the course of the investigation. But now that Baro was focusing on the issues at hand he realized that he had let the speed of the day’s events disrupt his natural equilibrium. Baro should have been exercising his rightful authority. He had not, and had allowed Luff Imbry to step in to fill the vacuum. But now it was time for the real agent, he who had absorbed the multiplicity of regulations that were at the heart of any policing organization, to put the affair on a proper footing.
“Here is the tram,” said Luff Imbry. “Let us get aboard.”
“Wait,” said Baro. “We must first straighten out a few things between us.”
Imbry’s eyes widened. “But the tram is leaving.”
“Then we will catch the next one.”
“Which is not until tomorrow morning. It will not get us to Farflung in time to board the Orgulon before it sails.”
“Oh,” said Baro.
“Is it not something we could talk about on the tram?”
“No. It is the question of who is to direct the investigation.”
“I thought we had settled it.”
“Not to my satisfaction.”
Imbry let out a heavy breath. “Very well,” he said. “You are in charge. I await your orders.”
“Very good,” said Baro. At last things were on a solid footing.
“May I offer a suggestion?” said the fat man.
“Of course.”
“I suggest we get on the balloon-tram, since it is about to hoist away.”
The conductor was standing in the doorway of the conveyance, his eyes on them and his hand extended in a pose that said, “Well?” Baro realized that the functionary had already called “All aboard!” while he had been in conversation with Imbry.
“We will board the tram,” he said.
The car was long and wide, lit by large windows, the seats not ranked in rows but arranged in trios and clusters as if the tram were the observation lounge of an alpine resort. Uniformed servers were distributing delicacies and beverages to the dozen or so passengers, most of whom seemed to Baro to be persons of wealth and fashion.
“How much is this trip costing the Bureau?” he said when they were seated in plush chairs near the rear of the vehicle, a tray of tastefully prepared food and drink at hand.
“I did not think to inquire,” Imbry said, then paused to taste a diminutive meat pie. “In any case, the Archonate is not short on funds.”
“Agents are expected to take the most economical mode of transport. Standing Order twelve, paragraph four, subparagraph two.”
“You have a remarkable memory. Try the Sendaric wine.”
Baro declined. “We must account for our expenses.”
Imbry shrugged. Baro had noticed that a nonchalant lift of the shoulders seemed to be a habit of his partner’s when confronted by unpleasant realities. He felt obligated to bring it to the older man’s attention. “It is not good enough simply to shrug,” he said. “We are members of an organization bound by rules and procedures laid down for our own, and the general, happiness. We are bound to observe them.”
Imbry’s shoulders lifted and settled again. He said, “Is there a subparagraph that requires an agent to carry out his duties to the best of his ability?”
“No,” said Baro. “That is implied by the Bureau’s hallowed tradition of honor.”
“Well,” said Imbry, picking a puff pastry from the tray, “I am at my best when I am well tended to. Since we will soon enter a possibly perilous situation full of unknowns and variables—never my preferred mode of operation—I propose to give us every advantage by arriving fully rested, my faculties running at top rate.”
“Your argument is eminently self-serving.”
“You may believe the simplicity of your opinions renders them elegant,” said Imbry. “I do not concur. For my part, I intend to devote my thoughts to the puzzle of what our quarry is up to, and how we might best frustrate him. If it’s not too great an imposition, I suggest you do the same.”
With that, he drained his glass of wine, then bowed his head and closed his eyes. Baro was left with a finger poised to emphasize a point that he now realized his partner was not about to entertain. He turned and looked out the window.
They were high in the sky, on a level with the middling terraces of the Archonate palace, where crowds of sightseers toured architectural and landscaping oddities accumulated over millennia by Archons of widely varied enthusiasms. Now the balloon-tram rose even higher, to the arrondisements where official business was done and supplicants met with functionaries who might fulfill their hopes and expectations, or might send the petitioners back down to the streets to revise and rethink.
Baro regarded the vast expanse of the palace and felt something swell within him as he reminded himself that he was part of the power and authority resident there. A small part, he had to admit, but he hoped that his father would have been proud of his progress. Perhaps someday his undoubted abilities—hadn’t the Archon himself noted them?—would raise him so high that Ardmander Arboghast would be as far below him figuratively as were the tiny specks of color and motion that were pedestrians on the streets of Olkney.
It was a pleasant eventuality to consider, and Baro allowed himself a few moments with it. Then he returned himself sternly to his duty. Imbry, for all his sybaritic appetites, was right: they should be devoting their energies to unraveling the mystery of Gebbling’s scheme. Baro reviewed the contents of the file without bothering to activate his plaque—all of the information was available through the images that his eidetic memory placed before his inner eye.
After a few moments of review, Baro said, “It has to be money. Every machination that Gebbling has worked over a long criminal career has been aimed at enriching him.”
Imbry opened his eyes. “That is the simple explanation.”
“It is one of the most ancient rules of science and philosophy that the simpler the explanation the more likely it is to be right.”
“Hmm,” said the fat man. “That is so. But it is one of the abiding truths of history that every situation turns out to be more complex than it appears on first examination.”
“Still,” said Baro, “on the basis of his history, there must be a profit to be wrung from whatever Gebbling is doing. We have only to see where that profit lies, and head for it. There we will find Gebbling.”
“Again, true,” said Imbry. “It worries me, though, that I cannot quickly deduce where that invisible point lies. He was never that smart before.”
“Perhaps he has a partner we haven’t come across yet,” said Baro. “A cleverer one.”
“Hmm,” said Imbry again, and said no more. He closed his eyes and appeared to be lost in deep thought. But after a few moments a gentle snore rumbled up from his inner being.
The attendant came for the tray but as the man’s hand began to lift it away, Baro rescued the second glass of Sendaric. The wine was light on the tongue, its crisp finish brushed with an almost peppery aftertaste. It’s included in the fare, he told himself. It would be a shame to waste it.
Imbry slept on as the balloon-tram, now at its cruising altitude, slid smoothly through the upper air toward the hamlet of Binch at the root of the Olkney Peninsula. Baro reviewed once again the contents of the Gebbling file, but derived no fresh insights. He had to concede that his partner was right: they must infiltrate the criminal’s operation and deduce its aims from the observable mechanics of the scheme. They would then be able to determine what laws had been violated and they would arrest Gebbling and any confederates.
I
mbry’s snore came again, loud and with embellishments, breaking Baro’s reverie. He glanced with distaste at the sleeping man, then noticed that the two of them had attracted the attention of another person in the car.
Seated across the wide aisle was a small man with bright eyes and graying hair, dressed in a neat suit of yellow chambric, ornamented at cuffs and collar by white and green ruffles. He made polite motions of head and hands and spoke to Baro. “By your scarf, I would take you for a graduate of the Institute?”
Baro fingered the grimy cloth. “Yes,” he said.
“May I ask if studies were in any way connected with history?”
“No. Criminology.” He named himself as Phlevas Wasselthorpe and the sleeping Imbry as his mentor, Erenti Abbas.
The small man showed a small disappointment. He introduced himself as Guth Bandar, a retired commerciant who after a lifetime of dealing in housewares was now taking a full-time interest in his long-standing hobby: history.
He was on his way, he said, to the Swept, to cruise on the landship Orgulon.
“As are we,” said Baro.
“Have you the lassitude?” Bandar asked.
“A touch,” Baro answered.
The small man looked slightly abashed. “I do not,” he said. “My brother, Wisp, has the affliction but chose not to accept the invitation. I came in his place because I have always desired to see the Swept. It was there, although you probably do not know it—most people don’t—that was fought the last significant military action on Old Earth.”
“You surmise rightly,” Baro said. “I did not know about a battle. Who fought whom, and for what cause?”
“It was an invasion,” the historian said, “from off-world. A species called the Dree.”
“An invasion? But why?” Baro was baffled. Old Earth had gladly made room for a score of ultraterrene species, and could fit another batch in without noticing a strain. It was not as if the planet was overpopulated.
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