by Ron Goulart
Bosco’s little metal hands made a bonging sound when he clapped them together in appreciation. “You are most astute and hep, tuan,” he exclaimed. “For you have deduced exactly what these two squatters look like without even—”
“I’m afraid,” cut in Smith as he started for the cottage, “they’re the guests I’ve been expecting.”
“Ah, sad,” said Bosco. “That’s a pisser, bwana.”
* * * *
The morning sunlight came slanting into the parlor and caused Cruz’ right arm to glisten. It was an impressive arm, made of stainless impervium and packed with gadgets and weaponry. With his real left hand the large dark man was stroking his handsome black moustache and watching Smith from his wicker sling-chair. “Does self-pity come under new business or old?” Cruz inquired.
Smith was slouched alone on the tin sofa. “Do I look that glum?”
“We’re none of us,” put in the green-complected Jack Saint, “in tophole form, old boy, or we wouldn’t be employed by the Whistler blokes.”
“You’re running this operation and I get the impression you might want a somewhat less disreputable crew,” Cruz said to Smith. “If so, air your feelings. Next Saint and I can do some wailing, complaining about harsh fate and the like, and then we’ll get down to business.”
Smith grinned. “When I first heard who the Whistler folks had stuck me with,” he admitted, “I was nonplussed. No, make that ticked off. But then…well, I read over your dossiers a few more times and—”
“One hopes they’re not still using that beastly photograph of me taken when I wore my hair parted in the middle.” Saint bounced once in his glazbottom rocker.
“They are,” said Smith. “Anyway, I decided that both of you are well qualified for this job. Cruz, you know the wilds of this planet, and you’re a first-rate tracker and guide. You do tend to—”
“I get distracted,” admitted Cruz. “Pretty ladies are as lodestones, deflecting me from the path to true virtue.” He shrugged. “I’m going to make a supreme effort to reform, at least for the duration of this excursion.”
“Saint, you’re an excellent telek.”
“I’m a corker,” he acknowledged, rubbing his green palms together.
Smith opened the pale blue folder that rested on the plaz coffee table in front of him. “Myself, I haven’t been in such terrific shape for the past year or so,” he said. “I’d like to assure you that I’ve reformed, but I can’t guarantee it. We’ll all just have to put up with each other and hope for the best.”
Cruz tugged at the tip of his moustache with his metal fingers. “Once I courted and wooed a substantially structured lady whose husband was vice president of a banking satellite orbiting Murdstone’s second moon,” he said, glancing over at the oval stained glass window nearest him. “She thought that openly talking about money was just about the filthiest thing you could do. Often were the times I excited her by whispering, ‘One thousand trubux down,’ and ‘Seventy five trubux an hour,’ in her pudgy pink ear. The point of this amorous recollection is that I have never shared that view. Whistler offered me ten thousand trubux for this, half in front. How about you gents?”
“The same, old man.”
“I’m getting twenty thousand,” Smith told them. “Since you’re the boss,” decided Cruz, “that’s okay.”
Resting an elbow on the rocker arm, Saint leaned toward him. “I acquired an impressive ruby necklace from a plumpish banker’s wife on Murdstone some three years since,” he confided. “Might it be, do you think, the same lady?”
“This lady’s name was—”
“Let’s commence,” cut in Smith, picking up a sheet of faxpape from the open folder. “The agency’s already given you a general idea of what we’re supposed to accomplish.”
“Find a bunch of strayed tots,” said Saint. “Sounds deuced simple, I must say.”
“What they may not’ve told you is that at least one of our client’s own security people has been killed while working on this simple task.”
Saint sat up, his rocker wiggling. “One doesn’t expect class reunions to be fraught with such violence.”
“This is more than a reunion,” said Smith. “Now, maybe the Whistler Agency doesn’t know much more than they told us, and maybe they do. What I know is that the Trinidad Law Bureau, which is the interplanetary police force for all three of the planets in this system, has a man working on this same job.”
Cruz asked, “Who?”
“Deac Constiner.”
“Heartless bloke,” murmured Saint.
“He’s good, though,” said Cruz. “TLB doesn’t stick ops like him on a simple job.”
“There’s also somebody else interested in me, in Constiner and probably in the missing Horizon Kids,” said Smith. He filled them in on what had happened aboard the spaceliner.
“We ought to ask for extra hazard pay,” suggested Cruz, when he’d finished.
“There’ll be a bonus if we bring this off.”
Saint said, “Why is everyone so dashed interested in these particular kiddies?”
“Horizon House was the home of Doctor Noah Westerland,” answered Smith. “He ran a research facility for the triplanet government. Most people called it the Miracle Office.”
“Ah, good old MO,” said Saint, scratching at his curly red hair. “They’re the jolly chaps who invented the dustgun, the braintap machine, Kilgas #3 and sundry other droll weapons and knickknacks.”
“Doctor Westerland is deceased,” said Cruz. “But it’s possible these missing Horizon House alums are privy to one of his dark secrets, huh?”
“That’s sure as hell the impression I get from Constiner.”
Cruz sucked in his cheek. “Therefore, comrades, our mission becomes a shade more challenging,” he said. “We have to find the lost HH gang and we ought to learn why they’re really wanted.”
“I’d like to begin this way,” said Smith. “Saint, with your telek abilities and your knack for ingratiating yourself into people’s confidence—”
“It’s plain and simple charm, old man, not a knack,” corrected the compact green man. “Can’t help it, don’t you know, I am just naturally appealing to one and all.”
“Use your charm to get a look at the Triplan, Ltd. files relating to this business,” Smith told him. “They’re our clients and I’m assuming they must know the real reason for this hunt.”
“Headquarters near here, I do believe, in the territorial capital?”
“Yep.” Smith turned to Cruz. “I’ve got a list of the five missing people. I knew them all, so—”
“That’s right, you’re also a grad of that establishment.”
“I am, yeah. Point is, I’ve gone over the field reports of the Triplan security people.” He picked up a sheaf of yellow faxpape. “In at least one case I think they missed following up a lead, simply because they didn’t know as much as I do about these five. Cruz and I will start tracking while Saint—”
“Begging your pardon, gate.” Bosco came toddling into the bright parlor. “I hate to crash your jam session, cats, yet there is an important call on the pixphone for the sahib.”
Smith asked, “Who?”
“From Triplan, Ltd., tuan,” explained the little servobot. “The lady must speak with you at once.”
“Lady?”
“Her name is Jennifer Arloff and she mentioned that she is an old friend of yours.”
CHAPTER 8
She held out her hand, smiling quietly. “I lied to your robot,” Jennifer said. “I wasn’t calling from Triplan. And I lied to you, too, Jared. This isn’t an official client and agency meeting.”
Smith shook her hand. “Maybe it isn’t a good idea to—”
“But this is about the case. Can we walk for a while?”
He’d come to one of the marinas in the capital to meet her, a long curving stretch of low glaz and neowood buildings along the edge of the sea. There was a restaurant nearby where they had met fairly o
ften. A long time ago.
“We can walk,” he said.
A faint midday breeze was drifting in across the bright ocean.
“You look,” she said, “fit and well.”
“You look sad.”
“Imagination.”
“Probably.”
“You’re all right, happy and all?”
“Laughing from dawn to dusk.”
“There are still times when I miss you, Jared.”
“Not too many.”
She said, “If you meet my husband, don’t mention I called you or talked to you like this.”
“Whistler operatives are discreet.”
She slowed. “When I learned you’d be working on this, I wanted you to be told everything. My husband didn’t agree.”
“But you’re telling me now anyway.”
“Something’s happened.”
“I know about your security man’s being killed.”
Jennifer shook her head impatiently. “You remember Hal Larzon?”
“One of the Horizon Kids, sure.”
“He’s dead.” She stopped walking, paused on the white gravel path and looked out at the glittering sea. “He was murdered.”
“When?”
“Late yesterday. We found out this morning,” she answered. “Whoever did it used a kilgun on him.”
“Where was Larzon?”
“Here, in the capital. We’d brought him in for the for the…reunion.”
Smith said, “His name isn’t on my list. Does he tie in in some way with the others?”
“Oh, hell,” she said quietly. “The damn reunion is just a cover. Of the forty-three Horizon Kids we’re only interested in ten. Half we were able to find on our own, but the others have simply dropped from sight. After Schuster, our security agent, was killed, my husband decided we needed some outside help.” Slim shoulders slightly hunched, Jennifer began walking again.
He walked close beside her, careful not to touch her.
“Larzon was one of the ten?”
“Yes, and they got to him.”
“Who?”
“We’re not sure, but it seems likely that Syndek Industries is involved somehow.”
“That’s Triplan’s largest rival hereabouts.”
“Yes, they are.”
“Is that how you folks do your business, by killing each other off?”
“You ought to know what it’s like on this planet, since you were a lawman here once.”
Smith asked, “Why are these ten HH kids on your list?”
“It has to do with…with something my father was working on just before he died. I…well, I can’t give you all the details, but it’s important.”
“A weapon?”
“No, but something important, and valuable.”
“Why wait all this time after your father’s death to go tracking people down?”
“We didn’t find out about it until…until recently.”
He watched five small multicolor nukepower boats go gliding along the horizon. “All ten people know the secret?”
“Each knows only a part.”
“Ah, a human jigsaw.” Smith grinned. “Why’d your dad hide his secret this particular way?”
“It was something…” She looked up at him. “He came up with something while he was working for the damn Miracle Office, something he simply didn’t want them to have. So he broke his notes and schematics up this way and then destroyed them. His intention was to retrieve all ten parts after he left the government’s employ.”
“Do the carriers know?”
She lowered her head, kicking at the pale orange sand at the path’s edge. “No. Dad…well, he implanted the information by way of electrohypnosis. Each of them is walking around with a part of…of the puzzle. When each hears a special trigger word he or she’ll go into a trance and recite the buried information or draw a part of the plans.”
“Very clever man, your pop. Kindly, good with children and—“
“He was brilliant,” she said, angry. “You never liked him, which is why you—”
“You’re wrong. I liked him, I was even dumb enough to think of him as a substitute father,” Smith told her. “That’s why, when he told you to drop me out of your life, I was…surprised.”
“It wasn’t his fault that…oh, hell, never mind.” She took hold of his arm. “I want you to know what you’re really up against, Jared. You’re going to have to be careful and—”
“I’m almost always careful.”
“I don’t want you to be killed…or even hurt.”
“That’s heartwarming.”
Jennifer let go of his arm. “You’re still a shit at heart, aren’t you?” she said, stepping back from him. “Never let anyone do you a favor without treating them like—”
“About Larzon. Did you get the information he had?”
“Yes. We did.”
“What about the opposition, Syndek or whoever it might be?”
“There’s evidence that some brainprobing was done before he was killed.”
“How the hell did your rivals hear about this in the first place?”
“A leak, obviously,” she replied, “but we haven’t found it yet.”
“Okay, what I have to do is find the lost five first off,” he said, “and see that they remain alive and well.”
“And watch out for competition.”
“Can you give me a list of the whole ten?”
“You don’t need to know the—”
“The better informed I am, the safer I feel.”
“I’ll write the names out for you, but you can’t go near any of those we’ve already—”
“Trust me not to be dumb.”
Jennifer stopped walking once again. “Do you realize, Jared, that all the time we’ve been talking you’ve never once used my name?”
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Mrs. Arloff.”
CHAPTER 9
It was Cruz’ turn to drive.
Whistling, his tongue pressed against his upper teeth, the big dark man leaned back in the driveseat of their landvan and guided it across the hazy midmorning desert with his real hand on the steering rod.
Smith, slouched in the seat next to him, was watching a well-groomed catman newscaster on the small dash-mounted vidscreen.
The catman was explaining the political situation and military skirmishing that was going on in the Canal Zone of Zegundo. “…Control of the Grand Canal has fallen into the hands of the Mizayen Commandos, according to their spokesman Ulu Vak. However, the Qatzir Militiamen dispute this, insisting they still are in possession of the key locks. Their interim leader, Nura Nal, issued a statement to that effect at a press conference held this morning at the Houd Istihmam Yacht Club just before it was blown up. Spokesmen for Tasmia Malor contest this, maintaining that Malor is still the spiritual leader of the militia and that the canal is controlled by his Qatfia Guards. More on that after this word from Grandma’s Candied Bugs…”
“I haven’t been in this part of the country for a spell,” said Cruz. “Sounds like we still have lots of unrest to contend with.”
“The capital, where we’re heading, has been quiet lately.”
“I have,” admitted Cruz, “a real disinclination to get knocked off as an innocent bystander in somebody else’s fracas.”
Smith grinned. “That’s not likely.”
“This lad we’re searching for, Oscar Ruiz. You really figure he’s hereabouts?”
“The Triplan security guy trailed him as far as the Canal Zone Capital. He worked for near a year as a Freefall Poker dealer at one of the canal-edge casinos. Then, about three weeks ago, he dropped from sight.”
“Gamblers are like that, footloose and restless.”
“This isn’t in Ruiz’ dossier, but he used to talk to me about wanting to visit a place called the Shrine,” said Smith. “It’s a religious setup and—”
“Thousands of dedicated pilgrims wend thei
r way there every year.”
“Right, and the Shrine’s only twenty miles south of the capital, out in the Red Desert. Seems likely to me that Ruiz, once he had some money again, decided to make his pilgrimage at last.”
Cruz smoothed his moustache with his metal thumb. “Must be deeply satisfying to have faith in some…oops!”
The nukemotor made an odd noise.
Chunkachug!
Then a series of them.
Chugabank! Wamgonk! Kaplow!
Their landvan shimmied, hopped twice, ceased moving.
“Trouble.” Smith opened his door.
“Doesn’t sound too serious.” Cruz eased out onto the desert roadway.
The heat came swooping down on both men, prickly and steamy.
Smith popped the engine lid. “You’re supposed to be an expert on mechanics.”
Nodding, Cruz pushed a button on his wrist. His forefinger pinged open at the tip, releasing a small screwdriver blade. “It’s just the rimfire gudgeons that came loose. A little tightening is all we need.”
“Design that arm yourself?” Smith glanced up, watching the half-dozen crimson buzzards circling them high up.
“I had a bit of assistance. Once out on Peregrine I wooed a titian-tressed lady whose second husband…they wed them in pairs in that particular locale…her number two hubby was a veritable electronics whiz and ’twas he who—”
“New spot of trouble approaching over yonder,” Smith interrupted to point out.
A small cloud of reddish dust had appeared to the right of them, about a mile off and coming ever closer.
“Might be commandos, militiamen, guards, guerillas or mercenaries.” Cruz ceased laboring on the engine and pushed another spot on his metal wrist. A small telescope popped out of the end of his thumb. “None of the above.” He offered Smith a look.
There were five mounted men rapidly approaching them on groutback. Big, green snakemen clad in flowing saffron-and-gold robes. “Slavers,” recognized Smith.
“Same conclusion I reached.” Retracting the spyglass, he shut the engine lid. “We ought to be able to handle five.”
