Caution could be discarded later, if he had been overcautious. It was difficult to reclaim after the fact.
“Contact Byzania control. Arrange for landing rights and touchdown at Illyam shuttle port. Use code red three ID package.”
“Contact is in progress,” the console announced.
The control area went silent. Gerswin wouldn’t have to say a word unless Byzania control and the AI came to some sort of impasse, which was unlikely. A private yacht meant hard currency, and Byzania needed whatever it could get.
In the interim, he went back to studying background information on the system, attempting to get a better slant on why such a largely agricultural planet had adopted such a strong military presence.
The climate on the two main continents was nearly ideal for synde bean production, and other easily produced foodstuffs. What land areas weren’t under cultivation supported wide local forests, generally softwood akin to primitive earth-descended deciduous trees.
Some scientists had theorized that the lack of a large moon and/or light comet activity during Byzania’s formative period plus the larger proportion of light elements were responsible for the low mountain ranges and slow crustal action, as well as for a general lack of easily reachable heavy ore deposits. For whatever reason, it was cheaper to mine the largely nickel-steel and other metallic deposits on the fourth planet’s irregular asteroidal satellites than to sink deep mines on Byzania itself.
“Clearance obtained,” announced the Al, breaking into Gerswin’s study. “Anticipate arriving descent orbit in one plus point four. Our name is Breakerton.”
“Acknowledged,” growled Gerswin, returning his attention to the information before him. He couldn’t afford to use the deep-learn technique, to have all the information he needed poured into his brain through direct input—not if he wanted to remain sane long enough to finish his self-appointed mission for Old Earth. Deep learn systematically used up brain cells, which wasn’t a problem, given the millions available, if you expected to live a century or two only. Gerswin expected he would need all of his brain cells healthy for much longer. He might be disappointed—bitterly so—but it was a risk he chose not to take.
At least, when he scanned something, he could choose what he wanted to concentrate on and what he wanted to retain. While it gave him a short-term headache, he hoped it would lengthen his productive years.
“Better than a head full of useless data,” he muttered as he turned to the cultural background.
“Input imprecise,” noted the AI.
Gerswin ignored the comment. He had little more than a standard hour before he should be ready for touchdown.
V
GERSWIN CHECKED THE public fax listing for Illyam, keying in on all names beginning with “Hy.”
“Hyler, H’ten Ker . . . “
“Hylert, Georges Kyl . . . “
“Hylon, Adrin Yvor. . .”
There was no listing for Jaime Hylerion. Either the missing biochemist lived elsewhere on Byzania, which was possible, but unlikely, since the Illyam listings held most of the planet’s professionals, or he had emigrated, which was theoretically possible, but highly unlikely.
He sighed, and put the small screen console provided by the Hotel D’Armand on hold.
Glancing around the room, from the faded heavy gray, crimsonedged draperies that bordered the rectangular window overlooking the courtyard to the dull brown finish of the four-postered formal bed that looked uncomfortable rather than antique to the replica of some ancient writing desk that was too small to sit at, Gerswin felt cramped. More cramped than before the Caroljoy’s controls. More cramped than in the tightest flitter cockpit.
He stood up and moved away from the desk, stretching.
From the landing at the shuttle port onward, everyone had been so polite.
“Yes, Ser Corson.”
“This way, Ser Corson.”
“Will there be anything else, Ser Corson?”
His credentials as a purchasing agent for RERTA, Limited, as well as the Imperial passport, gold-bordered, and the maximum credit line on Halsie-Vyr, showed him as one MacGregor Corson, but the locals were scarcely interested in his name, but in the credit line he represented.
The Empire might, in time, find out about the name and wonder if MacGregor Corson and Commodore Gerswin were one and the same, but the Imperial bureaucracy could have cared little enough about him as Gerswin, and doubtless cared less about him as Corson, so long as no trouble was overtly attached to either name.
The former commander wrinkled his nose, suppressed a sneeze. Despite the spotless appearance of the small suite, really a large room divided into two halves with a thin wall, it smelled musty.
“Assshooo!”
The violence of the too-long repressed sneeze sent a twinge through Gerswin’s shoulders, made his eyes water momentarily. After rubbing his neck and shoulders with both hands to loosen the muscles, he stared at the list frozen on the console.
To search for all the names in the entire planetary listing which began with “Hy” would be enough of an alert to have every security agent in Illyam trailing him.
“You’re assuming too much.”
Gerswin realized that he had spoken aloud, and that there had been no echo whatsoever.
He frowned, ambling around the suite as if to familiarize himself with the furnishings, though he was more interested in the underlying construction.
The relative smallness of the window overlooking the courtyard had already struck him, but not the massiveness of the casement surrounding it, nor the thickness of the armaglass which did not open.
That the hotel had the latest in heavy-duty portals, rather than hinged doors, seemed out of character with the antique furnishings, unless Gerswin assumed certain things about the character of the government of Byzania. Those assumptions were solidifying as more than mere assumptions.
He returned to the console and seated himself.
“Time to get to work, Corson,” he told himself and the sure-to-be listening agents as he reset the console and accessed land agents.
A dozen names appeared on the list. Gerswin picked the third and tapped out the combination.
“Cerdezo and Associates.”
“MacGregor Corson. I’d like to make an appointment with Ser Cerdezo.”
“Your interest, Ser Corson?”
“Must remain relatively confidential.”
“Ser Corson . . . I know not how we can help you without adequate information,” suggested the sandy-haired young man who had taken the call.
“I understand your problem. Perhaps my credentials would help to resolve the difficulty.”
Gerswin placed his passport, credentials, and authorization for maximum credit in the scanning drawer, with a blot bar across all three. The thin strip was designed to prevent the scanning equipment from reading the magfield codes contained in each of the three flat squares.
“Ah . . . I see . . . ,” said the Gerdezo employee. “I will check with Sher Gerdezo’s schedule. She may have an availability this afternoon.”
Gerswin waited, not volunteering more information, but retrieving his credentials from the scanning drawer.
“Would you be free at 1430?”
“Local time?”
“Yes, ser.”
“That would be agreeable. I am at the Hotel D’Armand. What is the best way to reach your offices?”
After getting directions, Gerswin called two other firms and obtained appointments.
Now, if he could get access to another console, without using his identification . . . He shrugged. There were ways, even in Illyam. The important thing was not to be too impatient. While he had more time than most, he didn’t have any more lives.
He spent the next hour or so retrieving background, tourist-type information from the console, and reading between the lines, before freshening up for his first appointment.
Leaving the hotel was another exercise in politeness.
&
nbsp; “Good day, ser.”
“Enjoy your stay, ser. . .”
Byzania was an interesting planet, reflected Gerswin as he strolled down the Grande Promenade toward his appointment with Raymond Simones. With the agricultural predominance and the military control, he had expected a climate warmer than the midday high of 18°C, as well as police on every corner.
Outside of the man in the standard brown tunic who had shadowed him from the hotel, and the one uniformed policeman in a small booth three blocks down from the hotel, he had seen no other obvious police representatives among the light scattering of people on the streets.
While there were some flitter-for-hire stands, the majority of citizens visible to Gerswin chose either to walk or to take the small electric trolleys that seemed to run down the center of all the major avenues.
The people in Illyam looked like people everywhere—no one extravagantly dressed, no one in rags. Some smiling, some frowning, but most with the preoccupied look of men and women with somewhere to go, something to do.
Tunic and trousers were the standard apparel for both men and women, but the men wore earrings, and the women did not. The women wore colored sashes, and the men wore dark belts.
One absence nagged Gerswin for most of his walk. Just before he entered the Place Treholme, he identified it. No street vendors of any sort. None! Nowhere had he traveled, except in systems like Nova Balkya, which was an out-and-out police state, and New Salem, with its religious fanaticism, had been without some street sales. Likewise, the streets and avenues were bare of comm stations or public comm consoles.
Gerswin nodded to himself. The pattern was becoming clearer, much clearer. Both absences fit in with the total lack of cash. Byzania was strictly a credit/debit economy. All transfers of credits went straight from your account to someone else’s. All were doubtless monitored by the government. The principal formality at the entry shuttle port had been to open a Byzanian universal account for one MacGregor Corson.
Even the so-called free services of the society, such as console access to the public library facilities, required a universal account card. With such tight social control, Gerswin couldn’t yet figure out why the military even needed such a high profile in government.
Raymond Simones, Land Agent Extraordinaire, had his offices on the third level of the four-level Place Treholme, which was more like an indoor garden surrounded by balconied offices than a place for transacting business.
“MacGregor Corson,” he announced.
“Ser Simones is expecting you. He will be with you in a moment. Would you like a seat?”
Gerswin took the seat, only to stand abruptly with the bounding and enthusiastic approach of Simones.
“Ser Corson, I am honored. So honored.”
He bowed quickly, twice, as he pronounced his honor.
“If you would care to join me in a liftea . . .”
“A small cup . . .”
The taller palms of the indoor courtyard leaned nearly into the conference room, although sonic shields kept both leaves and sounds out on the one side, while the closed and old-fashioned door presumably kept the staff excluded on the other.
“This liftea . . . straight from New Colora,” offered Simones as he poured from a steaming carafe into two crystal demitasses.
“To your health and our mutually profitable business.”
Simones lifted his demitasse.
“To your health,” responded Gerswin, following suit, but taking only a small sip of the dark beverage.
“You are an agent of something called RERTA, Limited, you said. RERTA, Limited, has no real records. Obviously you are merely a front for someone or some group searching for a large tract of land, someone who does not want their identity known.”
“Why would you say that?” asked Gerswin.
Simones shrugged his shoulders. “Is it not obvious? You have access to great credit; you are looking at a planet developed enough to have the necessary amenities, but one underdeveloped enough to have large amounts of land available for purchase. Further, you arrive in a nonmilitary ship with screens of a class available only to the Court or the very wealthy, and you arrive alone. That means you are trusted, but expendable, that you have access to money, but that there is enormous power and wealth behind you. Alone, who would care? But you are not alone, merely an advance agent.”
Gerswin laughed, not quite a bark, but not quite gently.
“I never claimed to be more than an agent.”
“Ah, but what one claims is not always what is. In your case, however, the props are too expensive, too real, to be anything else but the truth. The real question is not just what you want, but why you and your patron wants it.
“Do you want farmland to provide an estate for the junior branch of a wealthy family? Or do you want a more isolated and scenic retreat for other purposes? Or perhaps a tract which offers both?”
Simones took another sip of the liftea and looked at the built-in console screen at his left elbow, as if to suggest that he was ready to begin in earnest if Gerswin were.
“My mission is rather delicate . . .”
“I can certainly understand that.”
“. . . and my latitude is broad within certain parameters. While RERTA is more interested in as pleasant a site as possible, and one which is somewhat off the beaten track, economics, especially these days, would indicate that it is prudent for any local site to be capable of being self-supporting, should the need arise.”
Gerswin frowned as if to convey that he did not want to say much more, and waited for a reaction.
“That is a rather broad description, and without some general boundaries might be hard to narrow.” Simones’ bright blue eyes clouded, and he brushed a stray lock of blue-black hair off his tanned forehead.
“The optimal size,” offered Gerswin, “would be ten thousand squares.”
“Ten thousand square kilometers?”
“Depending on location, resources, transportation, and whether the property is virgin or improved.”
“I see.”
What Gerswin could see was that Simones wanted to ask price ranges, but didn’t know the client well enough to broach the issue.
“While price is a consideration, it is not the sole consideration. RERTA is always better served if the price is as reasonable as possible for the value involved.”
“Reasonable is a term open to a wide interpretation, Ser Corson, and one about which there could be wide disagreements.”
“That is true. We need a better frame of reference. While I could access the information myself, perhaps you could give me the average price per kilosquare for prime agricultural lands, for forest lands, and for wilderness.”
“Ah . . . averages. So deceiving, especially when the transactions are large. Do you realize, Ser Corson, that the average synde bean estate on Conuna runs about fifty thousand squares?”
“I understand. Have any changed hands recently?”
“Last year, I believe, the Harundsa estate was sold to General Fernadsa. The registered transfer was in the neighborhood of 250 million credits.”
“How many squares?”
“Sixty-three thousand.”
“Assuming the registered price was the sole consideration, that means a minimum of four thousand credits per square, or given the underlying considerations of that transfer, more likely five thousand credits per square.”
“That was a bargain sale.”
Gerswin got the point. He didn’t know whether the General Fernadsa who bought the property was the prime minister or merely related, but the sale had not been an entirely free-market transaction.
Simones was also testing Gerswin on Gerswin’s client. A foundation might find Byzania not entirely to its liking, while certain Imperial families could well end up playing the local games better than the locals.
“RERTA might well be interested in obtaining property where future bargains could be had,” Gerswin countered.
“One can
not predict bargains,” answered Simones. “They happen, and they do not.”
“True, and that is why one must be fully informed on the market and the players.”
“Ah . . . yes. So many players, and some so well connected, particularly in the land. business.” Simones shrugged, then frowned. “I might offer you some advice, strictly an observation, you understand.”
Gerswin nodded.
“You will doubtless interview other agents, and some will appeal to you, and some will not, but, should you deal with a noble lady, be most careful.”
“I was not aware of an Imperial family here.”
“Local noblesse, Ser Corson. Fallen nobility of a sort. The name is Cerdezo, and the lady can be most charming. Most charming. You might find her socially entertaining, and quite brilliant.”
Gerswin nodded again. “I appreciate your . . . observation.”
“Now . . . in regard to your search . . . let me check certain aspects of the situation, and I will get back to you.” Simones rose to his feet.
Gerswin rose also, and half bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, and I hope to hear from you before too long.”
“Doubtless you will, Ser Corson.”
A tacit agreement had been struck. Simones had gotten some idea of what game Gerswin was playing and warned him that the locals played hard. Gerswin had accepted the information and indicated that he was still interested. Simones had concluded by saying that he would see what was really available, or might be, at what real price.
The one thing that bothered Gerswin was the out-of-character reference to Sher Cerdezo. Was Simones tied into security? Did he know that Gerswin had contacted Cerdezo and Associates? Why was Gerswin being warned off? Because the lady was sharp and dangerous, or because security wanted to keep off-worlders away?
Gerswin did not frown as he kept his face pleasant and bowed again before turning to go.
Outside the Place Treholme, the slender man in the brown tunic was waiting as Gerswin hopped an electric trolley for his 1430 meeting with Sher Cerdezo.
The Endless Twilight Page 2
