“No, just coffee. I wanted a clear head to think.”
“Is that what you were going to do tonight? Think?” Dannielle folded her hands under her chin and gazed at him from beneath dark lashes.
Treet felt a sudden emptiness in his stomach, or a lightness in his head—he couldn’t decide which. But he knew what the feeling meant. He heard himself reply, “Yes … think. That is, unless something more sociable turned up.” He made a show of looking around the room. “I don’t see your table. Were you with someone?”
“No, I was alone.” She smiled languidly. “Until just a moment ago.”
“In that case I insist you join me.”
“Only if you order wine.”
“Of course.” Treet had only to look up and the maitre d’ was there. “We’d like a bottle of Pouilly-Fuisse,” he said, and then added, “One of your best please.”
When he turned back to his unexpected companion, she had settled herself in her seat and had drawn it closer. Her perfume— something light and provocative—drifted to him, and he spent the next few moments trying to think of a suitably uncorny compliment he might pay her. Dannielle merely smiled and gazed at him with her liquid green eyes and rubbed a shapely hand up the smooth bare skin of an equally shapely arm.
“I understand you are something of a traveler,” Danielle said. “I’ve always wanted to travel.”
“It’s what I do best,” replied Treet. “When I’m not thinking.”
“Oh, I bet there are lots of other things you do very well, Mr. Treet.”
“Please, my friends call me Rion.”
“Rion, then. I’m told you are a writer. What do you write?”
“History mostly. And the odd travel piece. The trouble is that the market for travel and history has all but dried up.
“People have no use for history, and why read about travel when it is so easy to do? There’s no place on Earth a tourist can’t get to in less than four hours these days. But tell me something, Dannielle …”
“Yes?” She leaned closer, and he caught another enchanting whiff of her scent.
“Is everyone here at Cynetics so deliriously charming to all visitors, or is it just me?”
She lowered her head and favored him with that throaty whisper once again. “Haven’t you heard? It’s Be Kind to Visiting Dignitaries Day—an official Cynetics holiday.”
“I was beginning to wonder. And I am a visiting dignitary I take it?”
“The only one I’ve seen all day.”
“How is it that you all know who I am?” The banter had gone out of his voice. He really wanted to know.
The girl was saved from having to answer by the appearance of the sommelier with a bottle of wine in his hand. Without a word he produced the bottle for Treet’s inspection and began peeling the seal preparatory to uncorking. Dannielle reached over, took Treet’s hand, and rose gracefully from the table.
“Steward, we’d like this sent to Mr. Treet’s apartment,” she said, then tugged Treet to his feet. “We’ll enjoy it all the more.” She laughed and took his arm, guiding him willingly from the restaurant.
At Treet’s door he fumbled for his code key while Dannielle, having pulled his free arm around her waist, nuzzled the side of his neck. The empty, lightheaded feeling was back in force. Treet felt adrenaline pumping into him furiously as he jammed the plastic key into the lock.
They tumbled into the semidarkened room in full embrace. Dannielle’s mouth found his, and she pressed herself full-length against him. Treet returned the kiss with every ounce of sincerity in him, devoting himself to it exclusively.
“Ahem.”
A polite cough from a darkened corner of the room brought Treet’s head around. Still holding Dannielle, he turned partway toward the sound. A shape emerged from shadow. “Varro!”
The round-headed man stepped apologetically forward. “I am sorry to interrupt, Mr. Treet.”
Danielle turned and glanced at Varro, and Treet thought he saw a sign pass between them. She stepped away, saying, “I see that you two have business.”
“No,” protested Treet. “I don’t—”
She planted a kiss on his cheek. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Treet found himself staring in stunned disbelief at the closing apartment door. He turned and faced Varro unhappily. “We were going to have a drink,” he explained, and then wondered why he was explaining.
“Of course,” sniffed Varro sympathetically. “I am sorry, but something’s come up. We must talk.”
“It couldn’t wait until tomorrow?” Treet whined, still reeling from his loss.
“No, I am afraid it couldn’t wait. Please, sit down.” Varro seated himself in the leather armchair, so Treet took the couch.
“Whatever it is, it better be good.”
“I promise you won’t be bored.”
FIVE
Treet drained his glass in a gulp and poured another before plunging the bottle back into the ice bucket. The wine spread its mellow warmth through him from his stomach outward to the extremities. Varro’s glass sat on the table between them, untouched.
“So, what you’re telling me is that I have to make up my mind right now. In that case, the answer is no—I won’t do it.” Treet swilled the Pouilly-Fuisse around in his long-stemmed glass for a moment, and then added, “Not for any amount of money.”
Varro frowned mildly—more from concern than from any apparent unhappiness. Treet noted the frown. It, like all of Varro’s movements, gestures, and expressions, was finely-tuned and rehearsed. Did the man spend his spare time posing in front of his mirror in order to get such precise effects? Was each of his actions so perfectly controlled?
“I don’t think you should dismiss our proposition quite so hastily, Mr. Treet. I’ll admit that this probably seems a little sudden to you, and that you’d no doubt rather have some time to think things over—”
“A week or two would be nice. I could straighten out my affairs, settle some old accounts, tie up a few loose ends.”
“Then the idea of accepting our proposal is not entirely out of the question.”
Varro was one slippery negotiator, but they were now heading in the direction Treet wanted to go—toward money. “Well, not entirely out of the question, I suppose.”
“Then it’s really a question of time—in this case, time to make up your mind.”
“You might say that,” allowed Treet. “Call it peace of mind.”
“Yes, peace of mind. How much is your peace of mind worth to you, Mr. Treet?”
“Frankly, Varro, I don’t know. I’ve never had to price it before. As a man of some principle, however, I’d have to say that it doesn’t come cheaply.”
“No, I’m certain that it doesn’t, Mr. Treet.” Varro pressed his hands together and touched his index fingers to his lips. “I want you to understand that this is as awkward for me as it is for you.”
“So you’ve said.” Treet doubted that anything was ever awkward for Varro.
“But let me tell you, Mr. Treet, that in tracking you down we found that your prospects are … shall we say, minimal? Isn’t it true that you have been dodging bill collectors of one type or another for several years now?”
Damn the man! Varro knew about his dismal financial prospects—that would bring the price down somewhat. Treet parried the thrust as best he could. “Occupational hazard.” Treet shrugged. “Writers get behind occasionally. Slump seasons, and all that. So what?”
“What if I could guarantee that you’d never have to dodge another bill collector or suffer another slump season the rest of your life? Would that change your mind?”
“Perhaps. But I’d have to see the guarantee.” Treet swallowed another sip of wine, eyeing the bottle carefully. Should he order another one? The first had arrived almost the instant Danielle left and was now nearly empty. He dismissed the idea: negotiating the deal of a lifetime while piffled on fine wine was not exactly in his own best interest. He placed his glass on the table, sayin
g, “Why don’t you just come right out and tell me what kind of terms we’re talking about here?”
“Very well.” Varro leaned forward slightly. “One million dollars in any currency you prefer. One third paid to you upon signature of a standard Cynetics service contract, one third paid to you upon completion of your assignment.”
“And the remaining third?” Treet felt like pinching himself— a million dollars! Since the Currency Revaluation Act a few years ago, a million dollars was worth something again.
“The remaining third will be placed in an interest-bearing trust account in your name, payable upon your return.”
“I see. And if for some wild reason I fail to return, you keep the money, is that it?”
“Not at all. Let’s just say that it is an incentive for the swift completion of your assignment and a speedy return. In any case, you can designate a beneficiary.”
Treet stared across the antique table at Varro. Was he telling the truth? There was absolutely no way to tell; the man’s face gave away nothing. Treet decided to see how far he could push it. “No,” he said softly. He let silence grow between them.
Varro only nodded. “You have another figure more to your liking, Mr. Treet?”
“Three million,” he said slowly, watching Varro carefully. He saw no flinch, not even the slightest blink at the enormity of the figure, so he continued. “Plus a million in trust.”
Varro got up from his chair and headed for the door. Treet felt panic skid crazily over him. He’d misjudged the situation and had insulted Varro by naming such a ridiculous figure; now Varro was leaving, and he’d be thrown out by security guards any minute. His mind spun as he frantically tried to think of something that would bring Varro back to the table. But before he could speak, Varro paused at the door and said, “I hope you understand, Mr. Treet, that since time is short, I have instructed the contract to be prepared.” The door opened, and a man held out a long white envelope. Varro took the envelope and came back to the table. He sat down and snapped the seal on the envelope, drawing out a pale yellow document. “I need only fill in the amount agreed upon, and—with your signature, of course—this contract is binding.” He handed the sheaf of paper to Treet.
“Ordinarily my agent would handle all this,” Treet mumbled, taking the document. For several minutes he silently scanned the contract, reading all the pertinent clauses and subclauses— especially those having to do with forfeiture of payment for breach of contract. All in all, it was a fairly simple, straightforward agreement; Treet had read far more obtuse and difficult publishing contracts. But then, he reminded himself, Chairman Neviss was not interested in actually publishing the material, merely reading it. Besides, Cynetics probably had a flock of sharp-beaked legal eagles who did nothing but slice, dice, and fricassee fools who thought they could waltz through a loophole in one of their contracts.
“I think you’ll see that all is in order, Mr. Treet,” Varro said after a suitable time. “Will you sign now?”
“Yes, it’s all in order. You’ve thought of everything.” Treet handed the contract back. “Fill in the amounts and I’ll sign.”
Varro already had a pen in his hand. “Three million upon signing—” He scratched on the pale yellow paper. “Three million on completion of your assignment, and two million in trust.”
“That’s eight million!” Treet couldn’t help shouting. Had Varro lost his senses?
“Yes, I am aware of that, Mr. Treet,” Varro explained. “I have been instructed by Chairman Neviss to double any figure we agree upon as a demonstration of our goodwill—also, as a token of the Chairman’s high regard for your abilities. He is very pleased that you are undertaking this assignment for him.”
Treet swallowed hard. Eight million dollars! It was a blooming miracle! He stared open-mouthed at Varro, who looked up from his writing. “Was there something you wished to say, Mr. Treet?”
“N-no,” Treet said, licking his lips. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
“Good. Now then, if you will sign here—” Varro slid the contract toward him and placed the pen in his hand.
After only a brief pause to remember who he was, Treet managed to scrawl his full name. Dazed, he stared at the signature on the document and at the figures Varro had neatly inscribed. Eight million!
“We’re almost finished,” said Varro. He flipped to the last page of the contract and pulled a piece of tape from the paper, revealing two shiny squares of about six centimeters each side by side. Varro pressed his thumb firmly in the middle of one of the squares, and then initialed the box. “Your turn, Mr. Treet.”
Treet pressed his thumb onto the second shiny box and saw that when he removed it, the film had recorded a precise duplicate of his thumbprint. He looked up at Varro and said, “Now what?”
Varro folded up the contract and stuffed it back into the envelope. He glanced at his watch and rose quickly. “It is nearly time to go, Mr. Treet. We’ll have to hurry, I’m afraid.”
“What? Hold on!”
“Please, as I have explained, time is short.”
“Yes, but I thought… you mean I’m leaving tonight?”
“Right now. You’re boarding within the hour.”
Treet sat stubbornly. “But—”
Varro looked at him sharply. “I assumed you understood. That’s why I came here this evening.”
“You don’t give a guy much of a chance to enjoy his good fortune. When do I get my money, by the way?”
“It will be waiting for you at the shuttle. Shall we?” Varro gestured toward the door.
“I haven’t packed or anything. I’ll need—”
“I don’t recall that you arrived with any luggage. Did you?”
“No,” Treet admitted, remembering the way he had been shanghaied in the skyport. Not that it much mattered—he was, after all, wearing his entire wardrobe. “No luggage.”
“Just as I thought. Therefore, I’ve taken the liberty of arranging for suitable kit and clothing to be provided. You’ll find everything waiting for you aboard the shuttle.” The round-headed man glanced quickly at his watch again. “Now, we really must be going.”
Treet stood up and looked around the apartment one last time as if he were being evicted from his childhood home. Then he shrugged, picked up the bottle of wine and his glass, and followed Varro out.
SIX
Treet expected a quick flight back to the skyport and a lengthy preboarding passenger check which would culminate in a seat aboard a commercial shuttle to one of the orbiting transfer stations where he’d join a Cynetics transport heading secretly for Epsilon Eridani.
Instead, he and Varro took a long elevator ride down—so far down that he imagined the bottom had dropped out of the elevator shaft—eventually arriving at a subterranean tunnel where two men in standard Cynetics uniforms awaited them in an electric six-wheeler. Stepping from the elevator the moment the doors slid open, they climbed into the cart and were off, humming along the wide, low corridor whose illuminated walls cast bright white light over them.
The driver kept his foot to the floor the entire trip, and Treet, with the bottle between his knees, held onto the passenger handgrips and watched the smooth, featureless interior slide by. He felt like a bullet traveling through an endless gun barrel. No one said a word; both attendants kept their eyes straight ahead, and Varro seemed preoccupied with thoughts of his own. Twice he glanced at his watch, and then returned his gaze to the tunnel ahead.
At last the cart slowed as it rounded a slight curve and came to a gateway—a squatty set of burnished metal doors, guarded by a tollbooth arrangement and two more uniformed men who carried unconcealed stunners on their hips. Varro waved and one of the guards hurried forward with a press plate, which Varro took, pressing his hand flat to its black surface.
Instantly the right-hand door slid open just wide enough to admit the six-wheeler. With a jerk, the driver bolted through the gap and they entered another corridor, slightly larger than the
first. This tunnel wound around a tight corner and unexpectedly opened into a gigantic cavern of a room.
Treet blinked in surprise as the cart rounded the last turn and sped into the enormous chamber. Lights—red, yellow, blue—burned down like varicolored suns from a ceiling seventy-five meters above, forming great pools of light on the vast plain of the floor. Across this plain they raced, gliding in and out of the pools of light. First red, then blue, then yellow—plunging through light and shadow like minidays and nights until at last they came to a slope-sided metal bank which rose up from the floor.
Around this bank swarmed several score men and women—each dressed in an orange one-piece uniform. They were, Treet noticed, entering and emerging from the bank by way of numerous passages cut into the face. Some of these workers pushed airskids loaded with duralum cargo carriers, while others dashed here and there with mobiterms in their hands.
The driver parked the cart in a recharging stall near one of the passages, and Varro turned, saying, “Here we are, Mr. Treet. And not a moment too soon. Shall we?”
Treet got out of the cart, handed his bottle to the driver, and followed Varro through the passage. On the other side, glittering in a bath of white light, looking like a dragonfly poised for flight, a shuttlecraft stood on its stilt legs. The vehicle was smaller than a commercial craft by more than half, Treet estimated; but it was far more graceful and streamlined than the stubby, rotund taxis of the airlines.
The heatcones of two large engines swelled the skin of the craft on the underside near the center, then flared gracefully along the belly to end in a bulge at the rear of the vessel. Thin, knifelike wings slashed out from grooves along the upper back. Once in space, the wings would be retracted and solar panels affixed in their place. Along the side and beneath the wings, lettered in bright sky blue, was the shuttle’s name: Zephyros. An escalator ramp joined the main hatch, which was open.
“Some boat,” remarked Treet, but Varro was already striding toward the ramp, across a tangle of cables and hoses snaking to the shuttle from every direction. At the ramp Varro turned and waited for Treet, allowing him to mount the moving stairs ahead of him—less from courtesy, Treet decided, than from caution. Varro did not want to take any chances that Treet would get cold feet at the last minute and bolt.
Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra Page 4
