by Mike Resnick
“You're kidding, right?” said Chandler.
“This is the Green Diamond, Whistler. Just walk up to the door.”
“No password, no secret knock?”
“Look, if you don't want to eat here, just say so and I'll take you somewhere else.”
“No,” said Chandler. “We're here and I'm hungry.”
He got out of the vehicle and walked up to the door, then turned to Gin. “Be back in two hours.”
“Right,” said Gin. “If you finish early, I'll be at the Wolfman's. It's about two blocks north of here.”
The landcar pulled away, and Chandler turned back to the door. Now that he was closer he could see that there was a very intricate computer lock on it, and he spotted a pair of holo cameras concealed in the shadows.
He waited for almost thirty seconds, then was about to knock on the door when the lock clicked and the door slid silently into a wall. A short, dapper man, clad in green, was standing a few feet from him in a diamond-shaped foyer.
“Good evening, Mr. Chandler,” he said smoothly. “Are you here for dinner or entertainment?”
“First one, then the other,” replied Chandler, entering the building as the door slid shut behind him.
“Your table is ready for you,” said the man, turning and walking toward a large, crowded room.
“Just a minute,” said Chandler.
“Yes?” said the man, stopping instantly.
“How did you know I'd be here tonight?”
“I didn't.”
“Then why is there a table for me?”
“Every diner has his own private table,” explained the man. “This one belonged to your ... ah..."—he searched awkwardly for the word—"predecessor. No one else may use it.”
“I see,” said Chandler. “And your name is...?”
“Charles.”
“All right, Charles. Lead the way.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Charles, starting off once again.
He led Chandler into a large room with a shining green floor and a prismatic ceiling that separated an artificial light from an unseen source into a variety of muted hues. The ceiling was some twenty feet high, and domed at the top, but the room was divided into some forty diamond-shaped alcoves, each with walls ten feet in height. There were artificial green diamonds everywhere—on the walls, sunken into the floor, on the waiters’ and waitresses’ elegant uniforms—and in the center of the room was a large, diamond-shaped fountain.
Charles led Chandler to an alcove, and suddenly the impression was one of intimacy rather than vastness. Chandler settled back on an expensively-upholstered booth, and a moment later a waiter approached him and rattled off the evening's menu.
Chandler ordered a salad composed of vegetables grown on Port Samarkand, and a mutated shellfish in a cream sauce.
“Very good, sir,” said the waiter. “Would you care to start with a fine Alphard brandy? We just received a new shipment this morning.”
“Later.”
“As you wish, sir.”
“By the way, is Mr. Tripoli here?”
“No, sir.”
“If he should come in, please tell him I'm here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if anyone else is looking for me, let me know.”
The waiter nodded and scurried off, leaving Chandler to admire that portion of the room he could see from his alcove. A string quartet, which had been on their break, came out, stood beside the fountain, and began playing soothing if not brilliant music, and a blonde waitress stopped by his table carrying a hors d'ouevre tray. He looked at the various selections, chose one, and a moment later his salad arrived.
He stared idly at the plate for a moment, trying to identify the various alien vegetables—and then he saw it. Maybe it was the light, maybe it was the texture of the vegetables, maybe it was simply the angle, but suddenly he saw the artificial light reflecting off something bright.
He picked up a fork and dabbed at it gingerly, then lifted it very slowly and brought it closer to his eye.
It was a tiny fragment of glass.
He moved a greenish leaf with his fork, then found another piece, and yet another.
He sat perfectly still, staring at the plate while he tried to sort things out in his mind.
Somebody had known he would be in the Green Diamond on this precise evening. Even Gin hadn't known where they were going until he had come back from the police station. Of course, the driver had had time to tell someone while Chandler was showering and dressing, but he doubted it; if he survived, Gin had to know that he was going to have to answer some difficult questions, and he'd already seen Chandler in action.
That meant someone else knew—someone who didn't have to be told where he would be dining, who simply knew.
And that meant that the Oracle was indeed Penelope Bailey.
The next question was more difficult: why did his would-be murderer use ground glass, when a poison would never have been spotted? If the Oracle had foreseen that he would be here, then she must have foreseen that he would spot the fragments of glass. Was this just a warning—or was there some limit to her abilities? The Iceman had said that even as a little girl, with her powers not fully developed, she could foresee potential threats to herself; surely he was more of a threat alive than dead. So was he being manipulated, or had she simply proven to be fallible?
He didn't have enough information to answer the question, so he let it pass and moved on to the next one: somebody within the Green Diamond had tried to kill him. Who?
He stared at Charles, who was escorting an elderly couple to their table about forty feet away. It was a possibility. He looked for his waiter, but couldn't spot him. Another possibility. But somehow he didn't believe it: ground glass wouldn't kill him instantly, and his reputation had preceded him here. They would have to know he'd live long enough to take them both out before the glass ripped his insides enough to totally disable him.
Then who? He thought about it for another moment, then signaled to Charles.
“Yes, Mr. Chandler?” said Charles, approaching his table.
“I'd like to see your kitchen,” he said.
“Certainly, Mr. Chandler. We're quite proud of our operation. If you'll come back tomorrow morning, I shall be happy to give you a tour.”
“I'd like to see it right now.”
“I'm afraid that's out of the question, Mr. Chandler,” answered Charles. “This is our busiest time of the day.”
“That wasn't a request, Charles,” said Chandler.
Charles blinked at Chandler as his hand went meaningfully into a pocket.
“You're quite certain, Mr. Chandler?” he said, flustered.
“Quite.”
“Might I ask why?”
“You might,” answered Chandler. “But it wouldn't do you any good.” He got to his feet. “Let's go.”
“Please make no sudden or threatening movements,” said Charles. “We don't wish to alarm our members.”
“Follow your own advice and we won't have any problems,” said Chandler.
Charles turned and headed off toward a short but broad corridor that led to the kitchen, then stopped before a door.
“Do you wish me to enter with you, Mr. Chandler?”
“No, that won't be necessary.”
Charles turned and began walking away.
“And Charles?” Chandler called after him.
“Yes, Mr. Chandler?”
“Would I be correct in assuming that you plan to immediately summon either the police or a bouncer?”
“Absolutely not, Mr. Chandler.”
“You're a lousy liar, Charles,” said Chandler. “But there are two things you should know.”
“Sir?”
“If you send a bouncer after me, I'll kill him. And if you call the police, I'll charge the Green Diamond with attempted murder.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Charles, genuinely surprised.
“Someone put a little
something extra in my salad, Charles,” said Chandler. “If you don't want to call attention to yourself, just leave my plate where it is.”
Charles stared at him for a long moment, then turned and walked back into the dining room.
As Chandler approached the door, it instantly slid back, revealing the interior of the kitchen to him. There were numerous stoves, grills, ranges, freezers, and refrigerators, and some six men and women and two Lodinites, all dressed in light green, were carefully tending the food, arranging it artistically on dishes, or setting it carefully onto trays for the waiters who kept brushing past him. None of them paid him the least attention.
Then he saw what he expected to see.
A man and a Blue Devil entered from an alcove, each bearing half a dozen salads. The man noticed Chandler, stared curiously at him for an instant, then shrugged and continued walking toward a large counter.
The Blue Devil took one look at Chandler, dropped its tray to the floor, and ran back into the alcove.
Chandler raced across the kitchen, ignoring the yells and protests from the staff, and entered the alcove. The alien wasn't there, but a door was just snapping shut, and as Chandler headed toward it the door slid open again.
He found himself in a dank, dimly-lit alley behind the building, and the Blue Devil was just disappearing around a corner. He immediately gave chase, and within a block had narrowed the gap between them from eighty yards to no more than forty.
Then the Blue Devil ducked around another corner. Chandler followed it, and suddenly found himself in a dead end, facing the wall of a large building with the Blue Devil nowhere in sight.
He came to a stop, withdrew his sonic pistol, and surveyed his surroundings. The alley led to a solid wall some twenty yards away, and there were no doors on any of the buildings. He looked up; there were no windows within reach. He walked along each wall; there were no alcoves where anything the size of a man or a Blue Devil could hide.
He walked back along the buildings that led to the dead end and stood there, trying to figure out where the Blue Devil could have hidden in the five seconds it had before he had turned the corner.
And then, as Port Samarkand moved overhead and cast its light down into the alley, he saw a manhole cover about ten feet away.
The Blue Devil couldn't have pulled it up and entered the manhole in five seconds ... but if he had been prepared for this eventuality, if he had left the manhole uncovered and programmed it to close as soon as he plunged into it, he would have just enough time to vanish before Chandler came into view.
Chandler frowned. What was it Gin had told him? Something about tunnels beneath the Platinum Quarter. He considered going to the Wolfman's and getting Gin to act as a guide, but there was no telling where the Blue Devil would be by then, or even that he would still be in the tunnels, and Chandler wanted answers more than he wanted a guide.
His decision made, Chandler removed the manhole cover and, pistol in hand, entered the winding, twisting world that lay beneath the Platinum Quarter.
7.
Chandler found himself in a small circular chamber, with tunnels going off in three directions.
Now he ceased being the assassin and once again became the hunter of The Frenchman's World. The floor was damp, and he instantly saw that the water in a small puddle just in front of the left-hand tunnel was moving slightly, as if someone had walked through it within the last minute or so. Crouching slightly, ready to flatten himself against the wall in an instant, he carefully entered the tunnel.
Here and there he was able to detect signs in the millennia-old tunnels that showed him he was still on the right track, tiny disturbances that only the trained eye of a hunter could spot. He wanted to increase his pace, so that the Blue Devil didn't get too far ahead of him, but the trail was difficult to follow, and there was no sense racing ahead if his prey had turned down one of the many branches.
After ten minutes he came to a larger chamber, and here he lost the Blue Devil's trail, for a number of men had passed through it even more recently, no more than two or three minutes ago, and had obliterated all sign of his quarry.
The chamber branched into four more tunnels, and as he was trying to determine which one to follow, he heard a slight shuffling sound off to his right. He backed into the tunnel from which he had entered the chamber, crouched down, and waited.
A moment later a small man, a laser rifle tucked under his arm, entered the chamber, looked around, and uttered a shrill whistle. The whistle was answered from the depths of another corridor.
He whistled again, and again he was answered, this time from a new direction.
“I know you're here somewhere,” he said.
Chandler remained still and silent.
“Come on,” said the man. “The more we have to look for you, the harder it'll be on you when we find you.”
A second man emerged from a tunnel.
“Any sign of him?” he asked.
“No,” said the small man. “But he's close. I can feel it in my bones.”
Two more trilling whistles reverberated through the tunnels, and in another moment four men, all armed, stood within the chamber.
“Come out now,” called the small man, “and all it'll cost you is your money. You make us hunt for you, and it'll cost you a lot more.”
Chandler heard yet another man coming down his corridor, and quickly stepped into the chamber, moving a step to his left and keeping his back to a wall.
“Drop the pistol, pal,” said the small man, as all four of them became aware of his presence and turned to face him.
“When you do,” answered Chandler.
The small man smiled. “There are four of us. What chance do you think you have?”
“There are five of you,” Chandler corrected him. “I don't want to kill you. I just want some information.”
“He doesn't want to kill us!” laughed one of the men.
“That's right,” said Chandler. The footsteps stopped. “Come on in and join the party,” he said.
“I think I'll wait here until it begins,” answered an amused voice from the tunnel he had just left.
“I'm looking for a Blue Devil who entered the tunnels about ten minutes ago,” said Chandler, his gun still trained on the small man. “Have you seen him?”
“We ask the questions down here, friend,” said the small man. “This is our domain, and there's a fee for trespassing. How much money have you got with you?”
“I don't pay tributes,” said Chandler. “But I do pay for information. I'll pay five thousand credits to whichever one of you will lead me to the Blue Devil.”
“Five thousand credits,” said the small man, his face lighting up. “That's a lot of money to be carrying around with you, friend.”
“Too much,” said one of his companions.
“'Way too much,” agreed another. “A man carries that much money, he's just begging to be robbed.” He paused and leered. “I think we're going to have to teach you a little object lesson about carrying so much money around with you.”
“You're making a mistake,” said Chandler ominously.
The small man trained his laser rifle on Chandler. “We've talked enough, friend. Drop your pistol or I cook you right now.”
The four men fanned out, and Chandler, with a shrug, dropped his sonic pistol to the floor, where it landed with a noisy clatter.
“Glad to see you've decided to use your brain, friend,” said the small man. “Now, it just so happens that the toll for walking to the next exit is exactly five thousand credits—unless you happen to be carrying a lot more.”
“And if I am?”
“Then we'd be very insulted that you thought you could buy us so cheaply.”
“And when we get insulted, we get greedy,” said one of the other men.
The small man grinned and nodded his head. “And nasty.”
“So I hope you only have five thousand credits,” said a third man, approaching him. “You wouldn't l
ike us when we're nasty.”
“I don't like you much right now,” said Chandler.
“That's going to cost you another thousand, friend,” said the small man. “Or if you haven't got it, we'll take it out in trade.”
“Now just hold still,” said the third man, stopping in front of Chandler and reaching for his tunic pocket. “Or this is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me.”
“I doubt it,” said Chandler. He flexed his wrist and the concealed projectile weapon slid into his hand. He fired point-blank into the man's chest, then used him as a shield while he sprayed the chamber with bullets.
Two seconds later he was the only man standing. Three of his antagonists lay absolutely still, and the small man was writhing in agony, clutching his belly in a futile effort to staunch the flow of blood.
“You in the tunnel,” said Chandler. “Come out with your hands up.”
He heard footsteps running away from him, quickly stepped to the entrance to the tunnel, and fired twice. The sounds of the explosion was deafening, but as they faded he was able to hear the weak, rasping moans of the man he had shot.
He quickly walked to the small man and appropriated his laser rifle.
“Help me!” hissed the man.
“The way you helped me?” asked Chandler caustically.
“I'm dying, damn it!”
“You're probably good for another hour or so,” said Chandler. “Tell me where I can find the Blue Devil and I'll send help for you.”
“You go to hell!”
“Warm up a seat for me,” said Chandler, straightening up and heading off into the left-hand tunnel.
“Wait!” cried the small man weakly.
Chandler turned but did not approach him. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
“A Blue Devil entered the tunnels about five minutes ahead of you.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Help me first!”
Chandler shook his head. “By the time I get you to a doctor, he'll be long gone. Tell me where he is, and if I get done with my business in time, I'll contact the nearest medics and tell them where to find you.”
“They won't come down here.”
“That's your problem. Mine is finding the Blue Devil.”
