“Umm. Well, for now, I’ll see to it that you’re supplied with what you need,” the trader said evenly. “Inform me, and I’ll—”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. A negative. I shall relay my needs and requests through another . . . that one, I think.”
An image formed alongside the wordpicture. Or maybe it supplanted them. It was difficult to tell. But it was not ambiguous. The others turned to stare at the subject of the thought.
Philip shook himself as though returning from a sleep. He looked very young again, suddenly. “Well, gee,” he said.
“Now listen,” began Kingsley. Mal put an arm on the merchant’s shoulder.
“When a being confesses to insanity, even if he’s sane by our standards, it might be in everyone’s best interests to humor him, Chatham.”
“All right. All right. I just don’t like the feeling that things are slipping out of my hands right in front of my face. I just don’t like it.”
“Rabbit-with-fangs,” came the voice, “things were getting out of your hands before your ancestors were conceived.”
Peot connected a circuit unused for millennia. And thought.
A thousand kilometers away, the Vom jerked. Mentally. Outwardly it had not changed. Inside, it seethed. Somehow the Guardian had successfully been activated. Despite constant monitoring, the actual stimuli had completely escaped the Vom’s scrutiny. Even now the ancient nemesis was preparing itself.
The Vom was not ready to act. Not yet. It was torn between two possibilities: to attempt an immediate, all-out attack in hopes of destroying or crippling the Guardian, or waiting until it had reached the next level. The decision properly involved a million considerations, a hundred thousand details, a millimultiplex of calculation. Yet the great mind did not deliberate long.
It would wait.
Midmeal time. Sun directly overhead. On the Replerian AAnn chronometer, half past M. Relaxation and off-duty. Freetime.
Well, not for all. But the three on-duty AAnn technicians took a vote. It went unanimously for participating with most of the base. One, Cropih LHNMPGT, was thirteen point eight credits ahead. His two companions were not about to halt the Jinx game at that point.
So no one observed a certain gauge (measuring mental output of the thing below via bioelectrochemical scanners) jump from a fraction of ONE to over a HUNDRED. Jump once again, only this time off the gauge before settling back, the thin metal of the arrow-indicator bent at an angle from being slammed over so hard.
Nor did they notice the several sections of burnt-out wiring and melted insulation. They might have noticed the trickle of green liquid from a shattered fluid valve, but it evaporated while Cropih called six-twelve on an angle roll and it came up. No one turned until the liquid was but an insignificant stain on the sandy floor.
“It’s a beautiful idea, isn’t it, Malcolm?” Kitten murmured.
“Just Mal, if you please.” The freighter-captain sounded pained.
Along with Porsupah, they were seated in the undersea view room. The magnificent sub-surface panorama shifted continually in front of them. They’d been given the run of the place “for the duration,” as Kingsley had put it. He’d installed them in guest quarters on the eighteenth floor. Mal and Porsupah shared only one fear: that Kingsley’s son Russell might put in an appearance when Kitten was around. That happenstance would assure a variety of mayhem, none of which could be beneficial to anyone. So far, however, the young bastard hadn’t put in an appearance, nor even a transceiver call for all they knew.
Philip was off performing some errand for the alien. Peot never seemed to rest—not that he hadn’t had his fill of it, Kitten reflected.
They remained, enjoying the view, relaxing a bit. Kitten had said nothing for some time, her mind obviously elsewhere. She abruptly informed them where it had been.
“So I say again, I feel like a fool just sitting here! We can do something. Besides relaying information to Orvy . . . the Major. If Peot is right—well, I think it ought to be checked out.”
“I might have guessed,” said Porsupah. “You want a look at this entity for yourself.”
“Well, Peot could be mistaken. If he’s not, visual observation still ought to be useful. Maybe he won’t attack the thing now because he can’t get near it yet, for some reason. Perhaps it can sense his presence the way he senses it. Maybe he’s holding off for other reasons. But we ought to be able to get near it.”
“Oh great,” groaned Porsupah. “Here we have a creature that’s survived half a million t-years plus. It supposedly has crossed intergalactic space, destroyed civilizations, and you want to hop on a raft and go sightsee it. Do I make arrangements to pack a lunch?”
“Don’t be snide. Peot as much as said that it wouldn’t do any harm yet. All the more reason for gathering what first-hand information we can, while it remains inactive. Are you saying that you’re not curious and don’t want to go?”
Porsupah sighed through his whiskers. “You always tie things together. I’m curious as hell. Of course I’m going.”
“Me, I want to get back to my ship and forget this entire abomination,” said Hammurabi. “But if you think you can manage it, I’m damned if I’ll pass a chance to get a look at this thing. Might be some money in it, if Kingsley hasn’t got this end sewn up too light. Just one thing, though.”
“What?” said Kitten.
“How do you propose to find it? I doubt Peot would tell you. He seems to feel strongly that humans should stay far away from it.”
“But I don’t think he’ll stop us. You know how his ‘voice’ fades as you leave the chamber. His telepathic range, on our level, anyway, can’t be that great. Even if he can detect the Vom at a distance . . .
“As for locating the creature,” she continued brightly, “that’s simple. Peot said that the main body of his ‘Machine’ is always positioned directly above it. I can get the beacon’s location from salvage authority without Kingsley or anyone else knowing about it. Drop a line downwards, plot map, find creature.”
“You make it sound so easy,” sighed Porsupah again.
The borrowed raft sped rapidly over the calm sea. They reached Repler City ten minutes earlier than Mal had estimated. This was due at least in part to Kitten’s habit of making turns around intervening islands and reefs that threatened to overturn the craft. Fortunately the hoverafts were practically incapable of capsizing.
She almost managed it. Twice.
Instead or docking at the City harbor, they headed straight for the auxiliary landing nearest the shuttleport itself.
The Port was located on a long peninsula. The surface had been planed off, smoothed over, and pitted with sheds, warehouses, coking areas, launch pits, hangers, fuel balloons, and a small but growing atmosphere dock. It could handle shuttlecraft of all but the largest classes. The fine-grained paving ran a running battle with the profuse island vegetation. The flora took advantage of every crack and bare spot to press a vigorous, verdurous counterattack.
The Port harbor area, for ships and hovercraft, wasn’t designed to handle much in the way of cargo. Those activities were carried on mostly at the central city landings. But there was plenty of room for small commercial and pleasure craft. Some of the island’s wealthier inhabitants had yachts and personal submarine vehicles moored there. The landing was located in a small manmade cove at the U where the peninsula met the mainland. Commercial buildings rose to the right, with private homes and botels behind and to the left, hidden behind carefully controlled vegetation.
There was a muted thrumming. Mal glanced briefly upwards. To their right a shuttle of medium class was descending on a tail of fire. He’d watched thousands of similar landings and equally conventional liftoffs. There’d been a time when such displays filled him with wonder. Now only a few figures passed through his mind. He could estimate the amount of thrust the shuttle was putting out, its probable mass, even the position of its mother ship. All in an unfamiliar a
tmosphere. Given a visual check of the mother vessel, he could probably gauge its home port and basal cargo.
There was a single check at the cove entrance. Kitten and Porsupah’s military credentials eased them past that. Kitten docked the raft with a flair that displayed either tremendous skill or fantastic luck, sliding in and spinning between two larger craft. They were so close their cushions brushed.
A fast walkaway brought them to the Port Control buildings. They were a humorous parody of the giant complexes maintained on major trading worlds. As was typical of such smaller ports, certain offices were often combined. This proved true of salvage and registry. The office itself was no different from dozens of others they’d passed. Once inside, they were greeted by a thirty-ish gentleman of nondescript physiognomy and few words. He was casually attired in mesh and tropical lederhosen.
“Sit yourselves down. Be with you in a sec.”
The slightly pallid official escorted them into an even tinier inner office cluttered with charts and microfiles. A plethora of pins, tacks and variegated markers swarmed over the maps and diagrams cluttering the walls.
“What’ll I have for you, then?” he sighed, propping his feet up on the desk. On a major planet the official would have crossed his hands, not his ankles.
“Well . . .” began Mal.
“We’d like to confirm,” interrupted Kitten, “the validity of a recently reported salvage claim.”
“You got the beacon number?”
Kitten prepared to consult her vocorder. She didn’t even get a chance to activate it.
“Never mind,” the man said. “It’s sixty-two.”
“Yes. How the hell did you know?” asked Mal.
The official smiled slightly. “Wasn’t hard. You’re all clearly extra-Replerian visitors. This is the first registry we’ve had reported in several years. It seemed logical enough you wouldn’t be interested in any several years old . . . I can tell you everything’s in order. It’s quite legal. Fees were paid almost immediately after the beacon was registered. Registration and claim are already recorded on Terra.”
“Still, we want to make absolutely sure it’s valid,” persisted Kitten. “Not that we’ve any thoughts of claim-jumping, or anything along those lines.”
“Perish forbid,” the man grinned. “Wouldn’t be my business if you did.”
“In order to be valid,” she continued doggedly, “all details on the registration regarding location must coincide with the beacon’s actual positioning in space, right?”
“Naturally.”
“Well, I’d like to have a check made on it. It’s pretty important to us.” She purred, a semi-vocalization she was astonishingly good at, having perfected it after considerable use: “We’d be ever so grateful.”
“I’m sure you would, but I’m afraid I’m not permitted to pass around that sort of information, m’lady.”
Kitten breathed deeply and dropped her voice an octave. “Not even for special requests from special friends?”
The official leaned close and breathed deeply. He lowered his voice an octave.
“No.”
Mal couldn’t help grinning. If Kitten was fazed, she didn’t show it. Instead, she removed the vulcanite band from inside her left sleeve. On it was the embossed symbol of the United Church: an hourglass enclosed by a circle, with her name, number, and rank imprinted beneath it.
“Of course, if you put it that way, your command is my wish.” He pulled a bit of paper from a pad, swiveled, and began punching buttons on a computer console.
“Isn’t that saying the other way ’round?” queried Mal.
“I’m inherently masochistic.” The official pulled a card from the printout slot, viewed it on a small gray screen, then handed it to Mal. The freighter-captain gave it a brief glance, nodded to the man.
“Thanks, old boy. You’ve been a help,” said Kitten. They rose and turned to leave.
“Curiously speaking,” said the official hurriedly, “why didn’t you just tell me you were Church authority in the first place?”
“April Fool,” said Kitten.
“But it’s August.”
“See?” She shut the door gently.
It was raining out, a warm, humid drizzle. They took a private transit car to the Port Library. Mal had informed them that it would do as well and be quicker than returning to the Umbra. He checked charts and figures while Porsupah and Kitten amused themselves by thumbing through samples of the local literature—bad shorts, mediocre novels, some good poetry and fair dream-schemes.
Mal shifted his notes to a time-renting station and did some fast figuring with the aid of the computer. After a bit he sat back, staring at the readout screen. He was still staring some time after the green light on top, indicating time-stop, had gone out.
“Well,” said Kitten finally.
“Well, hell.”
“I’m already aware of the proverbial location for the traditional one. We’re supposed to be looking for one a bit more localized.”
He looked over at her, past the anxious Porsupah. “Guess where our intergalactic boojum has chosen to hole up?”
“The governor’s mansion,” offered Porsupah, almost hopefully.
“Funny. Here.” He pointed to a chart covered with rough lines and scribbling, half in and half out of the printout slot. “Somewhere right offshore the AAnn Concession.”
“So?” she said.
“So? So?” He rose suddenly and stood glaring eye to eye with her. Hands tightly clenched on hips, he controlled his anger with an effort. “Do you have any idea what can happen to you if our peace-loving neighbor lizards acquire even temporary possession of you?”
“Captain,” she said boredly, turning her head away slightly, “kindly keep in mind that I am an officer in the armed forces of the United Church. I am fully aware of the consequences of being discovered without permission within a diplomatic sanctuary. I am also more conversant than most with the oh-so-delightful hobbies and habits of our reptilian friends. Including their less savory ones. We shall avoid all potential unpleasantness through a simple expediency.”
“Oh? And what might that be?”
“We shall endeavor not to get caught.”
“Oh lovely! Universal beauty and logic! Kurita smite me if I’ve ever heard such lucidity in the midst of storm. We will avoid being shot by dodging the nerve-beams. I rhapsodize!” He was so upset he spoke in pidgin Centaurian, a tongue especially suited to flights of sarcasm.
“A poor analogy,” said Kitten.
“A poorer idea,” Mal replied.
“Well, we’re going anyway. Aren’t we, Pors?”
The Tolian sighed. “I suppose so, soft-and-warm. I know that tone too well to try mere reason on you.”
“Marvelous, fine, delightful. I hope you have a charming tour, and that when the AAnn prepare you, they use plenty of hot pepper!” He turned away from them and began refiling the charts and maps.
Kitten turned as if to leave, stopped short, and turned again, smiling. She performed one of the many small things she was adept at, that of relaxing her body in certain specific places.
“Mal? Mister Hammurabi? I . . . I’d really feel better if you’d come along. Even if only as a gesture. To sort of, well, stay on top of things, you know.”
“That won’t work with me,” he mumbled. “And stop blowing in my ear. It only gives me a headache.”
“Oh, I don’t really believe that. Besides, if you don’t come . . .” she did something educated with her tongue, “ . . . I’ll inform the Major that you’re withholding information and material evidence concerning the transfer of bloodhype. Specifically, the drug itself.”
“That’s my word against yours. And the stuff can, and will, be obliterated if anyone, anyone at all, tries to grab it.”
“Of course you can do that,” she whispered, “but the charges and resultant official actions during investigation would tie you up in orbit for the longest time. Wouldn’t that be awkward
? You wouldn’t be able to perform your primary function, that of moving things from here to there in a reasonable amount of time, like your customers like you to.”
The freighter-captain wheeled slowly, like a tank, to face her.
“All right. Have done, then.” To her surprise, he smiled back. “You’ve acquired a companion candidate for suicide, I promise. And I’ll add another promise. If we get out of this with neural networks intact, I shall, despite whatever obstacles, writs, legislation, weaponry and so forth you try to put in my path, despite arguments, questionings, philosophy and couth, whale the tar out of you.”
“I knew you’d agree with me,” she said briskly. “Most people do, sooner or later. And I might add that my body contains no petroleum extracts or by-products of any kind. Nor am I affected by archaic threats which invoke the cetacea as a verb.” She stared hard.
“That’s good,” he said, deactivating the computer terminal. “You keep telling yourself that.”
It had been a difficult day, but the AAnn officer was too tired to be more than moderately upset. First, an unchecked circuit had accidentally tripped, setting off the alarm at one of the new, hastily installed subsurface warning points scattered about the island. This automatically activated two remote underwater defense stations and a whole subsection of personnel directly attached to his command. The result being that a large school of corvat, a medium-sized skate-like fish, had been incinerated before he could bring things under control.
But Tivven hadn’t been punished. He hadn’t even received a dressing down. His superior, with unusual restraint, recognized that the result was entirely due to the haste with which the alarm unit had been installed. And he’d shared Tivven’s disgust at the hysteria which attended the absurdly complex system’s installation, secret project or no.
Besides, his superior had problems of his own, equally upsetting to the liver.
And now this.
He stared again at the assemblage before him, debating again whether or not to trouble the base commander with it. According to Colonel Korpt’s dictates, it shouldn’t be necessary. Tivven saw no real reason to argue with an easy way out.
Bloodhype Page 16
