by Paul Moomaw
“I believe I have the pleasure of speaking with Mister Nathaniel Blue,” he said.
I nodded silently, ready for anything. He gave a great sigh, sat down at the table next to mine, and ordered a glass of tea from the roboserver. Then he turned back to me.
“My name is Rajit Beg Parsa, Mister Blue. I am sure you knew my dear cousin, Chandra Beg, deceased.” He took a swallow of tea, then turned his glittering eyes on me again. “It is my understanding that you were the proximate cause, as it were, of my cousin's demise. Is this so?"
This is the place in the adventure vids where your hand is supposed to begin sliding surreptitiously toward your gun. But of course I wasn't carrying a gun, so I settled for getting a firmer grip on my whiskey glass, just in case I had to toss it in his face to give myself an extra second of grace. Then I nodded.
“In a manner of speaking, I suppose that's so."
Rajit Beg Parsa gave another sigh, even more explosive than the first one. He reached into a pocket, pulled out a small bag of scarlet cloth tied with a yellow cord. I got ready to toss my glass.
“Our family is in your debt, Mister Blue,” he said. “My cousin Chandra, though greatly beloved by us all, has greatly blackened the family name, which is a matter of much importance in our country.” He smiled almost shyly. “We have so little else.” He stood up and placed the bag carefully on my table. “I myself am most especially in your debt, because my cousin was using certain vulnerabilities of my own to ... blackmail me, and to require me to do things, take unacceptable risks, at his behest."
Rajit Beg Parsa bowed and backed away.
“Our family thanks you for allowing us to walk unashamed among men again, and for taking upon yourself the great burden of having ended a life, no matter how unworthy.” He gestured toward the scarlet bag. “Our family asks that you accept that small token, for all that it can never be more than an inadequate reflection of our gratitude."
He bowed again, turned quickly, and left the pavilion. I sat and watched him leave, my head spinning and my hand still white-knuckling the whiskey glass. Then I turned my attention to the little bag. It seemed small for a bomb. I reached out cautiously and touched it. Nothing happened. I picked it up and rolled it carefully between my thumb and fingers. So far so good. It appeared to contain something smooth, round and hard. I examined the cord. It looked to be just that—a cord, not tied or attached in a way to arouse my suspicion.
What the hell. I untied the cord, pulled open the neck of the bag, and tilted it at the table. Out rolled a large, lustrous and almost perfect star sapphire.
I looked around again, but Rajit Beg Parsa was nowhere in sight. I picked up the stone and let it roll, sensuous and warm, in the palm of my hand, and reflected on how little I understand of the world. I've had the sapphire appraised since then, and am assured it is natural, not synthetic, and of high quality. The gem appraiser wanted to buy it, in fact, and offered what seemed an outrageously high price for it. But I don't think I'll sell it; somehow that wouldn't feel respectful.
—THE END—
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