by Sharon
The little man smiled at him. "Age does not matter in this case. Utility does. You see the size of the T'caraisiana'ab. The others of the Mission are built on comparable proportions." He nodded at the car. "I think that this vehicle might serve the Mission well. However, there are one or two other requirements."
"Certainly, certainly," Honest Al said, beaming. "This car was at the top of its line. Royalty, she was."
The little man smiled again and waved a hand, indicating the interior. "One concern—I believe the seats are adjustable?"
"Why, of course."
"Of course," the customer echoed. "But are they individually adjustable, I wonder?" He pulled open a door.
"The case is this," he murmured. "While most of the Mission are rather—large and will require sufficient space in which to ride, there are others of the Interface Team who are somewhat smaller. One such as myself, for instance," he said, smiling at Al, "would be hard put to drive this vehicle, were all the seats adjusted to accommodate the prime members of the Mission."
"There is this control here." Al demonstrated, varying the heights of each of the six individual seats, as well as moving them back and forth.
"Ah," the little man said in admiring accents. "That is excellent."
"And, of course, there is a private comm, plus an auxiliary band, whereby you may monitor weather reports, stock market closings . . . ." He twisted the dial as he spoke, demonstrating, while his customer murmured appreciatively.
"There is also, in this model, an environmental control—here—if their excellencies prefer, perhaps, a richer oxygen mix? More humidity? And this control polarizes the windows, if they find our light uncomfortable."
"Royalty, indeed," the little man said.
"And here," Al said, tapping a small dial set by itself in the far corner of the board, "is the emitter, which we will set to emit the proper code for the status of your Mission. In this way the police need only direct a reading beam at your vehicle to discover that you are persons of importance and should not be impeded."
"Wonderful," the other said, smiling. "I am certain that this vehicle precisely suits our need." He stepped back, frowned suddenly, and stood gazing at the mint-green exterior while Al's stomach sought refuge in his shoes.
"I am not sure that this color is as pleasing as it might be."
Honest Al's stomach returned to its original location. "How foolish of me!" He motioned to the little man, who attended him once again at the control board. "This device here—we manipulate it so. Now look."
The customer did as he was bid and, upon discovering that the exterior was now a brilliant yellow, grinned like a boy.
"Do you find that color pleasing?" Al asked hopefully.
"Let me speak with the T'caraisiana'ab." He moved away to where that person still stood gazing absently at the vehicle under discussion.
"We are almost decided, brother," Val Con said, switching to a liquid mix of Clutch and Liaden, "and I thank you for your kindness in accompanying me. Would you now care to watch the exterior of the vehicle and tell me when it has achieved a color that gives you pleasure?"
Handler rested his large eyes on the small form of his now-youngest brother. "I to choose the color?" he cried, gladdened. "It is you who are kind, brother, and I who am honored. I shall, indeed, watch and call out to you when the shade pleases me."
The little man came back to the car, throwing a smile to Al as he passed, and sat in the driver's chair. He manipulated the proper device.
The exterior of the car faded from bright yellow to gold to amber to bronze to tan to brown to sienna to—
A big voice boomed in a tongue Al did not understand, startling him out of his stupor. The vehicle before him was of a hue known to antiquarians as "fire-engine red."
The little man climbed out of the driver's chair and beheld what he had wrought, eyes narrowed slightly, as if he were staring into too bright a light. His gaze caught Al's and he shrugged.
"Ah, well. We will rent this car," he said, coming to Al's side and taking his arm. "The Mission is to be on-world for one local year. Let us pay you now for two years' rent, so that you have security on your investment. Is that satisfactory?"
Honest Al blinked, letting himself be gently guided back to his office. "Oh, yes," he managed. "Very satisfactory."
"Good. I am right in assuming that you will be able to adjust the emitting device now, so that we may drive the vehicle away?"
Al nodded, bereft of words.
"Excellent," the little man said amiably. "Now, about your fee. Would you prefer Terran bits or Liaden cantra?"
* * *
JUSTIN HOSTRO HAD a nice operation, Miri thought. His office was nearly as classy as Sire Baldwin's, though the taste in wall art and knickknacks was different. More cosmopolitan, she thought. Baldwin had been a devotee of the Art Terran, primarily, though an original Belansium had hung in his library.
There were two Belansiums in Justin Hostro's inner office, each depicting a planet seen from space. The quality that made each a treasure was the evocation of the feeling of actually being in space, with this world hanging before you, filling the big window on the obdeck.
Miri moved her attention from the paintings to Justin Hostro, seated comfortably behind his rubbed steel desk.
"This is the sum we have agreed upon. Please count it and be certain that we have not misunderstood each other," he was saying.
Edger complied with this request, opening the pouch he was offered and removing the clear plastic rolls of coins. Liaden money, Miri saw, keeping control of her face. A bloody fortune in Liaden money. And this was just the fifty percent up front. For knives guaranteed to break.
Edger split the rolls into piles of seven each and brushed each pile back into the carrying pouch. He inclined his head. "The sum is correct in that it is the first half of the total agreed upon."
"Good." Mr. Hostro smiled and slid a sheet of printout from the folder before him. "This is the list of locations for the first shipments. I desire that three hundred go to each site, for a total first shipment of 3,000 blades. To aid you, the document lists each location by its Trade designation and by the local name." He passed the sheet to Edger, who took it carefully and scanned it.
"This shall be done," he said, folding the sheet and placing it in the pouch with the money, "within the next year Standard, as we discussed. The first shipment is required at the first location within three months Standard, is that correct?"
"That is correct," said the man behind the desk.
"Then," Edger said, rising and inclining his head, "we understand each other very well."
Mr. Hostro stood also, bowing his royalty-to-royalty bow. "I am pleased that it is so. It is rare to find camaraderie in business dealings. May we deal long and profitably together."
"May we so indeed," Edger replied. "It is very pleasurable, doing business with you. I hope in the future we shall deal as well." He began his turn and Miri, in her role as aide, moved to the door, going through first to check the hallway. Edger came after, and the door closed behind them.
Justin Hostro sat down behind his desk, the tiniest of lines between his fine brows. "Matthew."
His aide approached the desk. "Yes, Mr. Hostro?"
"That woman, Matthew. I feel that I have seen her face before. Perhaps in our files?" He made a steeple of his impeccable fingers. "Yes. In our files. Recently. Find out who she is, please."
"At once, Mr. Hostro." The aide removed himself to the file station in the corner of the room and began the search.
* * *
THE MANUAL WAS old and hard to read. Al squinted at the screen, trying to make out the index. White letters wavered on a flickering gray background, defeating his eyes. He sighed and looked apologetically at the little man, glad that the turtle had remained outside.
"Perhaps I'd better call the Registration Office. My eyes aren't as young as they used to be."
The little man was all concern. "Trouble, sir? Here, let
me see if I can make it out. Of course: 'Diplomatic Uses, Y'" He manipulated the advance. "I'll have it in just a moment, if you would care to write it down."
Honest Al scrabbled under the counter and came up with a piece of torn pink cardboard and an age-old stylus.
"Here it is," his customer said. "Much easier than bothering the Registration Office, don't you think? The code we need is: DY3"
"DY3," Al read back, "9736"
"Correct."
"Well, that's fine. I'll just go out and program the emitter and you're on your way. Another five minutes, sir." He paused and made as much of a bow as his paunch would allow. "Thank you, sir, for your help."
The little man smiled. "It was no trouble," he murmured, turning off the manual. He waited until Al was safely outside before he spun the wheel back.
* * *
"Edger, I'm gonna leave you here, if that's okay. Got some business to take care of."
"It is permitted," Edger replied. "When will you return to us?"
Miri shrugged. "In a little while, I think. Nothing complicated, but it's gotta be taken care of."
"I understand. Go and resolve your business, young sister. I look forward to the time when we shall see each other again."
She grinned, shaking her head, and moved off across the street. She turned around once to wave, but Edger wasn't looking.
* * *
THE BRIGHT RED car pulled against the curb half a block ahead and discharged its passenger.
Charlie pulled off to the side and likewise discharged his partner, reminding him that his only job was to keep the turtle in sight and stay out of sight himself. Then it was time for Charlie to be after the red car again.
The driver of the car did not seem to be aware that he was being followed. He drove safely and within the speed limit to a self-service lot in the seedy edge of town backing onto the hyatts. He chose a parking space facing the exit and got out to deposit the proper number of bits in the box.
Charlie pulled the cruiser across the nose of the red car and popped out. By the time he got around to the front, the driver of the other car was leaning against the door, arms crossed over his chest, waiting.
Charlie approached unhurriedly, nodding. "Danny."
"Officer Naranshek," the boy returned with distant politeness. Charlie shook his head and sighed.
"Thought it might interest you to know," he said, "that the cops have an All-Point out on you and your sister. Calling you armed and dangerous." He glanced at his wrist. "In about two hours the big boys from Mixla 'quarters'll be here to round the two of you up."
Danny nodded. "Thank you. I appreciate your concern."
"Yeah, well, you can stop appreciating it," Charlie growled, "cause it ain't for you, it's for your sister,"
"I know," came the even reply. "But I am grateful, nonetheless."
"Are you?" He took a breath. Ah, what the hell. "Mixla Chief says you shot five people there, one of 'em a baby girl."
Both eyebrows rose. "Lies. But I thank you for that information, as well."
"I know he's lying," Charlie said irritably. "But the point is, nobody else will. Human nature just naturally wants to expect the worst. More fun hunting lions than it is pussycats."
The boy smiled faintly, unfolded his arms, and moved away from the car. "You'd best leave. It would be very dangerous, I think, if you were seen talking to me. Thank you again." He walked around the back of the car, heading across the lot toward the hyatts.
Charlie got in his car and backed it around. As he pulled out of the lot he looked in the mirror and was in time to see the boy vault to the top of the fence and drop to the walk on the other side, sure as a cat.
* * *
"Mr. Hostro?"
"Yes, Matthew?"
"If you would step over here a moment, sir, I believe I have the woman's file."
Justin Hostro slid back from his desk and walked leisurely to the file station to lean over his aide's shoulder.
"Yes, I believe so. Excellent likeness, don't you think, Matthew? Miri Robertson." He laid his hand lightly on the other man's shoulder. "Fax me a copy of the file, please. I feel I should review the case before deciding upon our course of action."
Chapter Twelve
THE YOUNG MAN in the alcove had never been happier in his life. Being endowed with a poetic cast of mind, he found that the conceit pleased him and set out to expand upon it as he sat next to the potted melekki tree, waiting for his beloved to appear.
Yes, life was a fine thing: pleasant slow days easing one by one into passionate nights filled with lovemaking, wine, and talk. Sylvia was a beautiful woman, loving, gentle, and giving. She was also quite wealthy—but that was hardly to be thought of. His feelings were such that they transcended mere finance.
There was a rustle from the back entrance to the alcove, and the young man smiled. The delightful creature was trying to sneak up on him! He eased out of his chair and turned to meet her.
The leaves shielding the back entrance parted and she stepped quietly through, right hand near her gun. "Hey, Murph. What's new?"
The smile fled, and his eyes made a fair attempt to leave their sockets. "Sarge?"
Both brows rose and were hidden by her bangs. "You weren't expecting me? I'm sure I wrote." She tipped her head, gray eyes thoughtful. "You look good," she said cordially. "Prosperous. No worries, either, huh? Sitting with your back to the door."
"There's more than one door," he told her, trying to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach. "Besides, I heard you coming."
She came another couple of paces into the alcove, and the look on her face was one he knew of old. He tightened his gut, determined to take his chewing-out like a trooper.
"You heard me coming, you stupid groundhog," she said, dividing her attention between his face and the portion of the lobby she could see over his shoulder, "because I let you hear me coming! And if I wasn't feeling softhearted today, you wouldn't be around to jaw off any of your damn guff right now." She pointed to the chair he had so lately quit. "Sit."
He sat.
She hauled another chair around to where she could keep tabs on the lobby, Murph, and the back entrance, then eased down and laid her hand alongside the gun. Leaning back, she considered him silently until he began to sweat.
"Look, Sarge," he began, thankful that his voice did not crack. "I've been meaning to make that bank transfer . . . ."
"Yeah?" she said interestedly. "Well, I'm glad to know you had such good intentions. Shows you had upbringing." She absentmindedly caressed the butt of her gun with one finger. "Also shows you're a thief, my man, 'cause I still ain't got my money."
"I can explain—"
She held up a hand. "Is it very rude to point out that explanations buy no kynak?"
He licked his lips. "I'll make the transfer."
"Hey, you don't have to do that," she said reasonably. "Now I'm here, you can just give it to me in cash."
"Cash?" This time his voice did crack.
"Cash."
"Sarge, I don't have that much cash on me." He was beginning to feel desperate, as well as trapped.
"No? Too bad. How much do you have on you?"
"About four hundred fifty bits." It was useless to lie to her; he had learned that lesson well. "Most of it's in the room."
There was a short silence. "Okay," she said. "I'll take the four-fifty in cash and the rest in trade." She held out a tiny hand, palm up. "Earrings."
"What? Sarge, look, come with me to the room, I'll give you the cash I've got and call in the transfer for the balance, okay?"
She sighed deeply, regretfully. He swallowed hard.
"Angus," she said earnestly, "don't push your luck." She motioned with the outstretched hand. "Earrings. Now."
He slowly slid the hoops out of his ears and laid them gently in her palm. She closed her fingers around them, her gray eyes moving down his person. Murph made a convulsive movement with his hand, trying to hide the ring in the clench of his fist.
Her eyes caught on the movement; she nodded and extended her hand. "Ring."
"Dammit, Sarge—" he started.
She raised her eyes to his.
He gulped and began again, more quietly. "Look, not the ring, okay? It was a gift from my—from Sylvia." She did not look impressed. "Look, it's my troth ring—more sentimental value than pawn value."
The outheld hand did not waver. "Here's the deal, Angus: I get the ring; you get to live long enough to enjoy the girl. Give."
Tears standing in his eyes, he pulled it from his finger and laid it in her palm.
Her brows rose at the weight of it. "Platinum set with ponget and sapphire? Some sentiment." The ring vanished the way of the ear hoops as she continued her inventory of his person.
"Let's see . . . ."
* * *
THE CLOCK IN the lobby indicated that it was somewhat later than mid-afternoon. Val Con summoned a lift, rode to the third floor, and entered the common room by the hall door, braced for a blast of bad temper.
His brothers were seated in a loose ring in the center of the room, the sonorous phrases of their native tongue striking him with the force of thunder overhead as he closed the door.
Edger raised a hand to acknowledge his presence, but did not otherwise interrupt the flow of his speech. The low table to one side of the group supported heroic amounts of fruit and beer, as well as a new wheel of cheese and an unopened bottle of wine.
Miri was not in the common area. The door to her bedroom was closed.
He felt a slight prickle at the back of his scalp and wandered over to the door. Unlocked. He crossed the threshold cautiously.
The bed had been made and the room was professionally tidy, devoid of Miri. Likewise the bathroom. He left the room rapidly and made a whirlwind search of the rest of the suite, though he was already certain she was not within. The prickle at the back of his head had become full alarm.
Back in the common room, he approached the grouped Clutch and stood before Edger to make the obeisance that indicated he had urgent need to speak.
