F Paul Wilson - LaNague 02

by Wheels Within Wheels (v5. 0)

  Without warning, Junior slapped the recorder plate out of the man’s hand, grabbed two fistfuls of the shiny fabric of his suit, and shoved him off the boardwalk. Hearing a recorder click into operation behind him, he whirled, snatched the plate, ripped it from the extended hand, and hurled it, too, into the street.

  “Now, I said I’d like to speak to Mr. Jeffers. So if you don’t mind, wait across the street until I’m finished. It’s a private conversation.”

  “Our viewers have a right–” someone began.

  “Look! If you want any kind of an interview at all, you’ll wait over there!”

  This threat had real meaning for them. They’d had little time with Jeffers and much of that had been stony silence. If there anything was to be gleaned from this long hot trip out to the sticks, it would he in an interview with this Finch character. Slowly, reluctantly, they drifted across to the other side of the street, muttering that they’d rather be off-planet somewhere tracking down the rumor that The Healer was coming to this sector next.

  “You should be careful,” Jeffers said, watching Junior curiously. “You’ll ruin your image.”

  “I couldn’t do that if I tried,” he replied with a rueful smile, “just as you couldn’t improve yours. They’ve cast us in our roles and we’re locked into them. I’m the hero, you’re the villain. My obnoxious behavior just now will be written off in their minds as a personality quirk. If you had acted the same way, it would have demonstrated a basic flaw in your character and people all over the planet would have seen it tonight.”

  Jeffers made no reply but continued his curious stare.

  “Anyway, I guess you can figure out why I’m here, Bill,” Junior said finally. “I want to ask you to give in and let’s get things back on an even keel around here.”

  But Jeffers’ mind was occupied with something else. “I just can’t figure you out, Finch,” he muttered, shaking his head in wonder. “Just can’t figure you out.” Still shaking his head, he turned and disappeared into the darkness within his store.

  Junior started to follow, then changed his mind and headed back toward Heber’s office, ignoring the waiting reporters. Halfway there, he was stopped by a familiar voice calling him from the street.

  “Bendreth Finch!” It was Rmrl and he was waving from the cab of a shiny new flitterbus. The vehicle pulled to the curb and Rmrl and a Terran emerged.

  “Mr. Finch?” the Terran asked, extending his hand. “I represent a flitter dealer in the capital. Last night we received an anonymous check in full payment for one flitterbus to be delivered to you in Danzer today.”

  “There’s no such thing as an anonymous check,” Junior replied as he gauged the size of the bus. It could easily hold thirty or thirty-five Vanek.

  “Well, the check wasn’t exactly anonymous, but the donor wishes to remain so. I can tell you this, however,” he said in a confidential tone, “he’s one of the more influential traders on the planet.”

  Heber, who missed little of what transpired on the street, had come out of his office to see what was going on and heard the last part of the conversation.

  “You mean it’s free? Free and clear? No strings?”

  The flitter dealer nodded. “The donor has reasons of his own, I suppose, but he has asked for no conditions.”

  Heber slapped Junior on the back. “See! I told you the publicity would do us some good.”

  “Can’t argue with you,” Junior said. He turned to the man from the capital. “What can I say? I accept… and ‘thank you’ to whoever donated it.”

  “Just sign the receipt and it’s yours.”

  Junior signed and turned to Rmrl. “Let’s start the shuttle right now.” But the Vanek was already halfway into the cab.

  VINCE PECK WAS NOT particularly overjoyed to see Junior again, even if he did bring along a busload of blue-skinned customers with him. But after Junior promised him the new bus as a replacement for the burned-out lorry, the shopkeeper became more tractable. He even made so bold as to offer Junior a salary.

  “Yeah,” he said, “receipts have been way up since you started shipping in these Vaneks, so I guess it’s only fair I should pay you a little something. How’s ten credits Jebscript a day sound?”

  Junior shrugged. “Sounds okay to me. I’m worth twice that, but you’re giving me room and board. And I’d prefer something harder than Jebscript – like Tolivian ags – but that would be inconvenient in this neck of the woods. So we’ll call it a deal. We’ll count today as my first paying workday. Okay?”

  Peck’s mouth hung open.

  “Why so surprised? Did you think I’d refuse?”

  “Frankly, yes. I always thought you do-gooder types weren’t interested in money.”

  “Never considered myself much of a do-gooder, Mr. Peck. Always been fairly interested in money, though. And we have a saying in my family: ‘Something for nothing breeds contempt.’ If I did all this driving for free, you just might take me for granted. And I wouldn’t want that to happen.” He regarded his new employer with amusement. “I’m glad you brought it up yourself – saved me the trouble of asking you.”

  “YOU WISHED TO SPEAK TO ME?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, have a seat.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now, what’s on your mind?”

  “I understand you have a problem in Danzer, sir.”

  “You understand nothing of the sort. I have no problem in Danzer or anywhere else.”

  “If you say so, sir. However, I can take care of that problem very tidily.”

  “I’m very sorry, but I have no problems to speak of. And if I did, I’m certainly capable of handling them myself. Good day to you.”

  “As you wish, sir. But here is my number. I can remedy the problem without any evidence that it was remedied. Remember that: no evidence.”

  AT SUNSET, THE DAY’S RUN finished, Junior sat in Marvin Heber’s office and savored the evening breeze as it came through the open door and cooled the perspiration on his face.

  “Remember when I asked you about a temp regulator a while back?” He and Heber had become close friends since the lorry-burning incident.

  The older man nodded.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking. It has its advantages – all-around comfort and all that – but if this little office were regulated, I wouldn’t be sitting in this breeze and getting all these fresh smells brought to me for absolutely nothing.”

  Junior was feeling mellow and very much at peace with himself. “It’s really amazing, you know,” he rambled, gesturing at the brightening stars. “Out there we’ve got everything from professional telepaths to genetic architects, and so many people are completely unaware that places such as Danzer exist. And there must be so many Danzers, where people get on with outdated technology and wouldn’t have it any other way. I think I’m really glad I came here.”

  Someone knocked on the doorjamb. A young man with an attaché case stood silhouetted in the waning light. “They told me I could find Mr. Finch here.”

  “That’s me.”

  The man entered. “I’m Carl Tayes and I’d like to speak to you for a moment, if I may.”

  “Not another reporter, I hope.”

  “No, not at all. I represent a number of legislators in the capital.”

  Heber pushed a chair over to the newcomer with his foot. “Sit down.”

  “Thank you,” Tayes said and did so. He placed the attaché case on his lap and opened it. “You’ve become quite a figure in the last few weeks, Mr. Finch. In that time, you’ve aroused more planetwide interest in the Vanek Problem than the entire legislature has been able to do in the past few years. But the battle is far from over. Passage of the Vanek Equality Act is not yet assured. To be frank: support is drying up.”

  “What’s this have to do with me?”

  “Just this: we would like you to address a few key groups in the capital and urge them to support the bill.”

  “Not interes
ted,” Junior said flatly.

  “But you must!”

  “I must nothing!” Junior said and rose from his seat. “What I’m doing here is contrary to everything in that bill! Can’t you see that? If I’m successful here, I’ll have proved your Vanek Equality Act to be as superfluous as the men who conceived it!”

  Heber listened with interest. He was suddenly seeing a different side of Junior Finch and it answered a few lingering questions.

  Tayes was framing a reply when Bill Jeffers burst into the office. He held a pair of ledgers high over his head, then slammed them down on Heber’s desk.

  “Dammit, Finch!” he roared. “I’m licked. I’ve just been going over my books and I can’t last another day! I give! Bring back my Vaneks!”

  “What about eating lunch inside with everybody else?” Junior asked, trying desperately to mute his elation.

  “I don’t care if they hang from the rafters by their toes and eat lunch! Just bring ‘em back!”

  “Then they’ll be there tomorrow.” He stuck out his hand. “No hard feelings, I hope.”

  Jeffers grasped the hand firmly. “No, and I can’t figure out why. If you’d been a different sort of guy, I’d’ve closed up before I gave in. But you, Finch… I don’t know what it is, but somehow I don’t mind losing to you.”

  “Lose? What did you lose?”

  Jeffers brow furrowed, then he smiled. “You know, you’re right!” He started to laugh and Junior joined him. There was mirth to the sound, but also the tone of immense tension released and dissipating.

  Heber leaned over his desk and clapped both men on the shoulder. “This is wonderful!” he kept saying. “This is wonderful!” Then he, too, joined in the laughter.

  “Let’s go down to my place for something to drink,” Jeffers said finally. “I think I need a good drunk!”

  “Good idea,” Junior said. “Only I’m buying.”

  “Coming, Marv?” Jeffers asked.

  “Right behind you.” Heber glanced at the government man, who had been noticeably silent. “Care to join us?”

  Tayes shook his head abruptly and snapped his attaché case shut. “No, thank you. I’ve got to get back to the capital immediately.” He rose and hurried off into the dusk.

  The other three headed for the store. Walking between the lanky Heber and the mountainous Jeffers, Junior Finch felt like a man reborn. For perhaps the first time in his adult life, he truly felt like a Finch.

  “AH! SO IT’S YOU. I’ve been expecting your call. I knew you’d need me.”

  “Never mind that! Can you… remedy the situation as you said in my office? With no evidence of… anything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you do it tonight?”

  “Where?”

  “Danzer, of course!”

  “Yes, that can be arranged. But first there’s the matter of compensation for my efforts.”

  “That’s no problem. If you can remedy the situation in the proper way, you will be amply compensated.”

  “Very well. I’ll leave immediately. One thing first, however – I must be absolutely sure of this: we are talking about this Junior Finch character, are we not?”

  “I thought that would be obvious. Tell me… just what is it you’re going to do?”

  “You’ll know by tomorrow morning.”

  MANY HOURS AND MANY QUARTS of local squeezings later, the party was interrupted by the opening of the front door to the store. A small, sallow man with a receding hairline stepped inside and looked at the three celebrants.

  “Private party!” Jeffers roared. “Store’s closed. Come back tomorrow.”

  “Very well,” the little man said with a faint smile.

  Junior noted that the stranger’s gaze seemed to rest on him for a moment and he shuddered. He couldn’t identify what it was exactly, considering his near-stuporous condition, but there was something cold and very unpleasant in that man’s dark eyes. He left without another word, however, and Junior went back to drinking.

  “Gentlemen,” Junior said, struggling to his feet an hour later, “I’m calling it a night.”

  “Siddown!” Jeffers said. “There’s plenny left.”

  Junior regarded him with genuine fondness. Throughout the entire episode he had been unable to work up any real dislike for Jeffers. The big man was naturally straightforward and honest… just that one blind spot in his character.

  “No, Bill. I’m going back to the office to sleep this off. I’m really tight and I’m not used to it. See you both tomorrow.”

  Heber and Jeffers waved good-by and continued drinking.

  AT DAWN THE NEXT MORNING, a farmer pulled up outside Jeffers’ store and was heading for the door when he noticed something in the shadows of the alley next to the building. He walked over to investigate. Junior Finch lay in the dust, a Vanek ceremonial dagger neatly inserted in his heart.

  By late afternoon most of the planet had been informed of the incident and Heber found himself besieged by an army of reporters in his office. Hot, muggy, with no air to be had in that little room, he felt sick and wished everyone would lust go away. He’d grown very fond of that young man in the few weeks he’d known him, and now he was dead.

  “The medical report has just come in,” he said in a trembling voice that suddenly quieted the babble-filled office, “and it clears the man you were all very quick to suspect.” He paused and spoke with studied deliberateness: “The time of death has been fixed and I can vouch for Mr. Jeffers at that time. Is that quite clear?” There was a murmured response, a reluctant acceptance of the fact.

  “Now, about the knife. It’s utterly ridiculous, of course, to suspect the Vanek. Disregard the fact that there were no human fingerprints or skin cells on the weapon… that can be easily managed with a lightweight glove. For even if the Vanek were capable of such an act, Junior Finch would have been the last person on Jebinose they would have harmed. So, we must look for a Terran murderer. It seems to me–”

  The crowd of reporters parted as a young Vanek pushed his way through. Heber recognized Rmrl.

  “We have come for the knife, bendreth.”

  “I’m sorry, my friend, but I must keep it for a while… evidence, you know.”

  Rmrl paused, then: “We have come for the body, too. It is to be buried with our ancestors.”

  “I suppose that can be arranged when the remains are returned from the capital. There’s no one else on the planet to claim it and nobody knows where he came from.” As the Vanek turned to go, Heber asked, “Do you have any idea who stole the knife, Rmrl?”

  “Stole? It was not stolen.”

  “Then how was it used against him?”

  The Vanek’s face twisted into a grimace that could only be interpreted as grief. “We killed him, bendreth!”

  “I refuse to believe that!” Heber gasped as pandemonium broke loose in the little room.

  “It is true.”

  “But what possible reason could you give for such an act?”

  “It is written on the Great Wheel,” Rmrl blurted, and pushed his way out.

  It took Heber a while to restore order to the office, but when it was finally quiet enough for him to speak: “I refuse for a moment to believe that a Vanek plunged a dagger into Junior Finch’s heart! They loved that man. No, there’s a Terran at work here and he’s holding something over the Vanek to make them take the blame.” He came out from behind his desk, suddenly looking very old and tired. “Now all of you please get out of here. I’ve had enough of this for one day.”

  The reporters filed out slowly, wondering where to go next. One hung back until only he and Heber were in the doorway. He was young and had said little during the afternoon.

  “But I thought Vanek never lie,” he whispered.

  Heber’s expression was a mixture of emotional pain and bafflement, with a touch of fear on the edges.

  “They don’t,” he said, and closed the door.

  JUNIOR WAS BURIED by the Vanek the next day
with full rites and honors, a ceremony previously accorded to only the wisest and most beloved of their own race.

  Marvin Heber and a number of operatives from the capital made a thorough investigation of the incident but could find no evidence that would lead them to the killer.

  And as is so often the case, Junior Finch was mourned and praised by many, understood by only a few. His ghost was tearfully, skillfully, and ruthlessly invoked to obtain enough votes to pass the Vanek Equality Act, the very piece of legislation his efforts had proved unnecessary.

  Jo

  THE TRIP TO DIL took two jumps and six standard days, and really wasn’t too bad physically. Emotionally, however, it was wearing. Old Pete was her only company and Jo found it impossible to generate any warmth for the man. She had done her best to get out of the trip – had even hoped that Haas would refuse to see them. No such luck. He was delighted to give them an appointment.

  The shipboard time did, however, give her a chance to study her old nemesis, and she found him more puzzling than ever. He was maneuvering her toward something. Pretending to allow her to take the lead, he was actually calling all the plays. But what was the final destination?

  And what was his stake in all this? He was out of the company and probably running out of years. Why was he out between the stars with her now?

  The pieces didn’t fit into a picture that made any sense to her. Everything Old Pete had done had been for her benefit. Why then did she feel she couldn’t trust him? Why did she always feel he was hiding something? And he was. Despite countless protestations to the contrary, she knew he was guarding something from her.

  Her father’s autopsy report was another thing that bothered her. It was incomplete: a whole section was blank. Nothing of any pertinence was missing – the cause of death, a myocardial laceration by a Vanek ceremonial knife, was incontestable – but the blank area gnawed at her. Old Pete had obtained the report but couldn’t explain the lapse. Jo would find out sooner or later, though. It wasn’t her way to let things ride. Just as it hadn’t been her way to sit back and passively collect the annuity from her father’s IBA stock.