"Still, I'd think she's the kind who would make it easy to meet people," Elundi said.
"True, but . . . " Derlen paused, as if weighing what she had been about to say. She let her voice fall almost to a whisper. "Some of them are not exactly, how would I say it . . . the most respectable people you'd want to meet . . . if you know what I mean. Yes, okay, this is a long way from home and all that, but there are standards. You're still who you are."
Elundi decided she was interesting. And his life had been distinctly lacking in companionship of the distaff kind of late. The way her eyes were flickering over him, taking in the details, was not unfriendly. If you don't buy a ticket, you don't get a prize, he told himself. "You know, ah, you don't have to rely on her to find you friends all the time," he murmured. "I think you're kind of nice. How about getting togther for a drink ourselves here sometime? They don't look as if they'd exactly miss us anyhow.'
Derlen shrugged and nodded. "Sure, why not?"
As simple as that? Elundi realized he wasn't sure how to follow on now. "You'd better give me your call code, then" he said.
"Okay, I will before we go."
He grinned, feeling that maybe they were being too serious. "But you have to promise not to talk about the Progressives and all that stuff."
"Suits me. I'm not sure I really buy the things Tyarla talks about, anyway. To be honest, I have more time for somebody like Gaster Lornod. What he says makes a lot of sense."
Elundi looked warily toward Jenyn, but Jenyn hadn't overheard. Elundi raised a hand to cover his mouth. "Look, I'll tell you why next time, but for now, I don't think it's a good idea to mention Gaster Lornod. Okay?" Derlen nodded, sat back in her seat, and picked up her drink.
The music has switched to a slow, quiet number, allowing snatches of Jenyn and Tyrala's talk to filter through.
Jenyn: ". . . What kind of a party? . . ."
Tyrala: "An interesting kind. You'd like it. . . . tomorrow night . . ."
" . . . don't know for sure . . ."
". . . could call me later anyway . . ."
Elundi caught Derlen's eye. She looked uncomfortable. "How about that dance?" he suggested.
She danced easily and naturally, making eye contact and smiling, with none of that bored wooden look focused on infinity that could make a guy feel like a moving hall stand—just there to fill the empty space. Elundi sometimes had a problem staying in time with the rhythm, getting jerky and uncoordinated, and then feeling conspicuous. But tonight everything was smooth and relaxed, and he congratulated himself inwardly that he wasn't doing too badly at all. Maybe it just took two. Some of the couples were showing off with the new body-hugging style of dance that was raising eyebrows back home. Elundi was not up to being that forward, and kept it open and styled. Before returning to the table he wrote Derlen's call code into his phone's directory, and was gratified when she asked for his. Another good sign.
Tyrala had her purse on her lap and seemed to be getting ready to leave when they arrived back at the table. "Going already?" Elundi said, disappointed. "It was just getting to be fun."
"We only meant to stop by for one," Derlen said. "We're supposed to be going to a play the ISA group is putting on. It's going to be tight making it now. Give me a call."
"You've got it."
Tyrala seemed a little out of sorts, as if things between her and Jenyn had not gone entirely to her liking. Elundi got the feeling that her ego had taken a dent, possibly from not having swept back into the celebrity's life with the full accord that she expected. Over-ripe things dented easily.
"Well, so sorry to deprive you of my company, guys, but we do have to rush," she told them as she stood up. "Oh, is it really that time? We may have to miss the first act, Derl. Lovely meeting you, Elundi. . . . Jenyn, I can't tell you what an unexpected delight it is." And louder as the two girls moved away, making a public announcement of it, Do remember to call me."
Elundi got himself and Janyn another drink. Jenyn was broody and not very talkative—which at least kept them off politics. His naturally florid countenance seemed to have taken on a deeper hue, and his eyes had a hard glint to them. A meanness was coming to the surface that Elundi hadn't seen before. He thought he sensed the conflict. Tyrala's overtures were tempting, but Jenyn felt inhibited by the other situation he had talked about with the biologist.
Elundi acknowledged a wave from some people grouped by the bar. "Sulvay and a couple of others from the translators' section are over there," he remarked.
"Uh-huh."
Elundi waited for a few seconds. "Shall I call them over?"
"Ah, they'll only be talking shop as usual. I'm not in the mood."
"Okay." Another silence. Elundi sipped his drink and then observed neutrally, "Something seems to be bothering you."
Jenyn didn't respond but shot glances this way and that around the room, as if looking for an escape route. Then, suddenly decisive, he tossed back the last of his drink and set the glass down with a thud.
"You leaving?"
"I've got some unfinished business to attend to," Jenyn's growled. He was spoiling for a fight. "It's time to clear some air."
"Do you mean with the one in Molecular Bio? What was her name? Lorili? . . ."
"Yes. It needs to be brought to a head." Jenyn braced his hands on the table to rise.
"Er, look. . . ." Elundi felt he had to say something. "I don't want to pry into your personal business, but is this really the best time?"
"What are you trying to say?" Open belligerence, directed at Elundi now.
Elundi raised a restraining hand. "Easy. . . . Just that it might be better left until tomorrow. You know, let it cool a little. You've had a few tonight, man."
"I don't remember asking your opinion about that."
"Okay, okay. . . ."
"I'll see you tomorrow." Jenyn got up and stalked out.
Elundi sat staring uneasily at his drink. He knew somebody over in the Molecular Biology labs. But would it be over-reacting?
The group at the bar had seen he was alone now, and were coming over. "We saw your friend leaving, so we thought you could use more company," Sulvay greeted. Elundi made his decision and rose from the chair. Sulvay halted."Oh. Are you going too?"
"I just have to make a call," Elundi said. "Sit down. I'll be back in a moment."
He went up the stairs to the hallway outside the function room, which was not being used that night—it was quieter, besides having more privacy. What was that guy in Molecular Biology'sname? He checked his phone register. Iwon, that was it. He flagged the code and pressed the Connect button. Iwon's face with its ragged Terran-style mustache appeared in the window after a few beeps.
"Hi, Iwon, do you remember me?"
"Oh, right . . . from the Linguistics office. I enjoyed the chat. Good to hear from you again. What can I do?"
"Do you know a person in the Mol Bio section by the name of Lorili?
"Lorili Hilivar? Sure, I work with her."
"So you'd be able to call her?"
"Yes, naturally. Why? What's up?"
"Look, I may be over-reacting here, but I'd rather play it on the safe side. I think there might be trouble heading her way right now. Can you call her and tell her that Jenyn's on his way, and he's in a mean mood. I think she'll know what that means. Whatever she wants to do about it is up to her. But I thought she ought to know."
"'Jenyn.' Iwon repeated. Thankfully, he didn't seem to be the kind who wanted details and explanations.
"Right."
"I'll call her right now."
Lorili was in her neighbor Ufty's apartment upstairs, across the way, by the time Jenyn arrived at her door. Keeping back in the shadows behind the window fronting the balcony, the light turned off, they watched as he jabbed repeatedly at the door chime, and then banged loudly on the door, calling out her name. He swayed back a few steps to survey the place, stalked around muttering, then went back to the door again and banged some more. Faces appeared in
some of the nearby windows. Finally, he left.
"It happens that way with some people," Ufty commented, shaking his head. "He's just had one too many. He'll be okay in the morning."
"No, you don't know him," Lorili replied. A sick, sinking feeling had taken hold of her. "This isn't going to be the last of it."
A block away, Jenyn stopped on the corner and stood glowering along the street for a while. Then he took out his phone and called Tyrala. She seemed surprised and also pleased.
"So soon! We decided to miss the play. Derlen has gone on home. Changed your mind?"
"Would you still like to be envied and famous?"
"Well, whatever comes to us naturally, you know. . . ."
"I could have a job for you that would be a big step in the right direction." Jenyn looked at the image pouting out at him. "And maybe the rest too," he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Special Task Committee met in room of the military command complex on the west side of New Washington known as the Hexagon—its architects had had to go one step better than their predecessors. It functioned under the auspices of the Joint Services Internal Security Office but its name didn't appear in any of the official departmental listings. It was chaired by an Army general known to the others and written up in the minutes simply as "Polo."
"Okay, that's settled." He shuffled the papers that they were done with to the bottom of his folder. "Moving on to Item Three." The sheets that came to the top referred to an article by Herbert Gorman that had appeared two days previously in the left-sponsored political incitement journal, Insider. Polo allowed a minute or so for himself and others to refresh themselves. It was the latest in a series that Gorman had been putting out on mysterious "disappearances" of key people. Apparently, the attempts to send him a discreet warning were having no effect. If anything, his tone was even more defiant and militant. It was inexplicable to Polo that the obvious talent Gorman displayed in one direction could be accompanied by such foolishness in another. Gorman knew how the system worked, yet he seemed unable to apply the obvious implications to himself. Polo didn't believe in willingness to sacrifice oneself for a principle. That was the stuff of uplifting stories as fodder for the sheep pen. But it could have no place in the mind of any realist.
"I thought this rag was going to be shut down," somebody halfway along the table murmured.
"It's being worked on," another voice said.
"What's this note about Perrin-McLeod?" Polo asked. He looked up. "It says Juggler has something."
The officer that he had addressed read from a laptop. "Gorman has been talking to the wife, Sandra, trying to track her husband. According to a source who's close to her, he asked her if she knew anything about a code word Terminus. She told him she didn't."
Polo frowned. "How in hell did Gorman get hold of that?" he asked, looking around.
"More to the point, how did he connect it to the disappearances he's been writing about?" someone else added. Nobody responded.
"This has gone too far," Polo declared. "He's already run the stop sign. I think he case goes to Removals. Anyone disagree? . . . Any further points? Okay. Cymbal, will you take care of this?"
A broad, gray-headed, unsmiling figure in a plain tunic without insignia nodded.
Polo moved the sheets to the bottom of the folder. "Okay, moving along. Item Four. . . ."
Three days later, the media carried the story that a New Washington journalist called Herbert Gorman had been killed by a car bomb outside his home. He had been a controversial writer with outspoken views on a number of inflammatory topics that had earned him enmity from many quarters, including unstable political regimes and international terrorist groups, so such an incident wasn't entirely unexpected.
Not long afterward, the story surfaced that Gorman had been working on a piece to expose secret plans by Muslim governments in Southeast Asia to destabilize the situation in parts of southern China that were wavering over Beijing's leaning closer toward America. Experts duly appeared, expressing suspicion of Southeast Asian political terror groups believed to be infiltrating the country. Their connection with Gorman was corroborated by the production of a threatening note warning him off that line of research. It was said to have been found among Gorman's papers. There was even a security camera clip from a gas station not far from Gorman's home, allegedly taken early on the morning of the murder, showing an Oriental filling the tank of a car, acting suspiciously, and checking trunk before departing.
None of this caused any great surprise. After all, everyone knew that terrorists from that part of the world were everywhere and were likely to do things like that at any time, anyway.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The short-haul service flyer skimmed low over the terrain of lunar Farside. Yorim was at the controls of surface, Kyal beside him. Some familiarization with piloting came as part of the training package for lunar environments. They were both suited up and had the cabin evacuated in preparation for outside work on arrival. Casselo had left Triagon to return to Explorer 6. The discovery of the sixty-eight Terran corpses, intact and in an unprecedented state of preservation, was getting the biologists excited, and Sherven was considering setting up a more comprehensively equipped biological laboratory at Triagon to study them.
Yorim was intrigued by this woman at Rhombus who seemed to communicate with Kyal more frequently than he thought a mere casual acquaintanceship would call for. It intrigued him because over the years he had always known Kyal as being reserved and conservative in his ways, focused on his work, and not of an inclination to involve himself in such things. And now, all of a suddenly, he's being publicly hugged at the spaceport by this person he's met only days before who has come out of her way to seem him off, not only striking in all the eye-catching ways that would have gotten Yorim's attention at any time, but from some of the oddments he'd heard since, pretty interesting and unconventional in herself as well. He wasn't letting Kyal off the hook until he'd learned more.
"So are you telling me you didn't have this set up all along? That wasn't why you ducked out at Rhombus and went your own way?" he challenged.
"How could I have? We'd only just arrived on Earth," Kyal retorted. "I told you, I met her in that city up in the Caucasus. It just turned out that we have the same kind of interests."
"That's it, eh?" Yorim looked sideways inside his helmet with an expression that said maybe he believed it but many wouldn't.
"And okay, yes, she's different as a person from most that you meet," Kyal said. "Curious about things. Thinks for herself and forms her own opinions. I like that."
"Is she a Prog, out of curiosity? Brysek says there's a lot of interest in it around Rhombus."
Kyal waved a gloved hand vaguely. "She thinks that some of what they're saying is worth thinking about—maybe we've gotten a bit too set in our ways and could give youth and diversity more openings. . . . Apparently she was mixed up with it for a while back on Venus."
It wasn't something that Kyal wanted to go into, Yorim read, so he didn't ask about it. "I thought you said she was into that Terran theory of life appearing by itself, out of chemistry," he said instead.
"She's curious about it. But simply as a scientist—trying not to pre-judge anything until she's had a chance to look at it and think about it. That's the way it ought to be. See what I mean? She'll figure out for herself what she wants to believe. Nothing wrong with that."
The monotony of dust, rocks, and crater rims rolled by below. They were about a hundred miles from Triagon.
"Why are the Progressives so keen on the idea?" Yorim asked.
"You mean that extrapolating selective adaptation without limit can explain everything?"
"Yes. I mean, whether it's true or not is going to be a matter of objective fact—either true or not true. Whatever they, you, me, or anyone else thinks isn't going to change it. What does it have to do with their politics?"
"I suppose maybe if you're not a scientist, you don't th
ink about it that way. If you can convince people it's true, then you can point to it as validating your ideology." Kyal held up a hand before Yorim could respond. "Yes, I know that doesn't make it true. But in politics it's what people believe that matters."
Another short silence fell. Yorim glanced over the flight processor and status displays while he thought about it. "So what is there about it that appeals to their ideology?"
"The notion of unrestrained striving and competition. Being able to go all-out and use any means to get what you want, with nobody and nothing to answer to—as opposed to existing as part of something larger that you have to learn to harmonize with. It fits with their platform of changing the system by demands and coercion—and some of them say violence if need be."
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