by Ron Goulart
“How’d he—”
“Cruz pixed the satellite, learned from the estimable Jazz that you were en route to the idyllic scenes of your youth and popped over. He’s come up with some interesting, though perplexing, scraps of intelligence.”
“Such as?”
“I’d rather he tell you.”
Smith watched the fields and hills they were driving through. “See that ruined temple up there?”
“A very picturesque pile.”
“That was one of the places where Jennifer and I used to meet,” said Smith. “The place is about five miles from Horizon House, which is on the other side of that hill.”
“In the brief time I’ve been a resident I’ve managed to visit a few of the local inns and pubs,” said Saint. “At a quaint establishment called the Snerg & Racket I encountered a fetching, though fleshy, barmaid who spoke quite highly of you.”
“What the hell brought me up as a topic?”
“Someone mentioned Jennifer Westerland Arloff and your name came up as a result,” replied Saint, drumming his fingers lightly on the steering wheel as he guided the landcar through the afternoon. “One gathers you were somewhat more charming then than you are at present.”
“Why was Jennifer being discussed?”
“The lady has returned to her ancestral home, supposedly to participate in a fundraising fete to be held at Horizon House tomorrow.”
Smith had been watching three pale yellow gulls circling high overhead. “But actually she must’ve come back to question Annalee Kitchen.”
“That was my conclusion, yes, old man.”
“What about Arloff?”
“He remains in the capital.”
Smith said, “I don’t want to run into Jennifer as yet.”
“You’ve little reason to fear that. Our domicile is rather secluded.”
“Can anybody attend these upcoming festivities at Horizon House?”
“Yes, which will afford me an excellent excuse for poking about the premises,” said Saint. “I intend to pay my five trubux entry bright and early on the morrow.”
“You ought to be able to find out most of what we still want to know at Horizon House,” said Smith. “I’ll whip you up a hand-drawn map of the places you better get a look at.”
“One is confident that tomorrow shall prove fruitful.” Saint turned onto a treelined side road.
A half-mile farther along he slowed to drive on through the open gateway in a high wall of faded yellow brix. A brass plate on the righthand gatepost announced that the name of the estate was Tranquil Acres. “Tranquil Acres?” said Smith.
“We’re only renting,” reminded Saint.
* * * *
Cruz had removed his mechanical arm and had it sitting on the top of the big neowood desk in the large den of their countryhouse. Small tools were scattered around on the plyoblotter. He was seated behind the desk, an electropik in his left hand, tinkering with the arm. Out beyond the windows behind him stretched an acre of closecropped yellow grass that eased down to a wide pond. Three pale lavender swans were drifting by.
“You’re right,” Smith said as he paced in front of the empty fireplace. “What you’ve told us does cause me to have some second thoughts about this whole damn mess.”
“It’s good for the system, old chum,” said Cruz, “to find out some of your assumptions were cockeyed.”
Saint was on a loveseat, an album of tri-op photos open upon his lap. “One doesn’t doubt your thoroughness, Cruz,” he said, “yet it’s deuced difficult to believe that—”
“I didn’t rely on what I overheard Bjorn and his henchman saying,” Cruz reiterated. “No, I snuck up on the lads, stunned them both and used a truthdisc on each in turn.” He tapped his metal wrist with the tool he was using. “Syndek did not kill Hal Larzon, and they don’t have the information he was carrying around. Someone else entirely laid the unfortunate fellow low. Winiarsky was to be their first captured Horizon Kid.”
Smith asked, “Does Bjorn have any notions as to who did get to Larzon?”
“He suspects a representative of the Whistler Agency, or mayhap one of the Triplan ops.”
“The Triplan chaps,” pointed out Saint as he absently turned a page in the album, “would have no reason to resort to murder.”
“And nobody at Syndek knows the trigger word,” asked Smith, “knows how to get the carriers to talk?”
“No, Bjorn was going to depend on electronic means to get at what Westerland hid away long ago.” Cruz gave his arm a slow scrutiny before reattaching it to his flesh elbow.
“How’d they know about the damn secret at all?”
“The information was sold to them, for the handsome fee of four hundred thousand trubux,” answered Cruz while flexing his metal fingers. “All this was set up by way of blanked pixphone screens, scrambled voices, neutral computer terminals. Bjorn doesn’t know, although they were slipped enough information to convince them there really is a valuable secret to be had, who his contact is.”
“Jove, it must be someone within Triplan then.”
“Or someone at Horizon House.” Smith sat on the edge of a fat purple armchair.
“Our rivals at Syndek are all at sea it would seem, but do either of you chaps have the foggiest notion who dispatched the Larzon bloke?” asked Saint.
Cruz said, “Jared, you know Deac Constiner better than we do. Could he—”
“Nope, not Constiner.” Smith shook his head. “He doesn’t work that way. If he’d found Hal Larzon he’d simply have taken him into a TLB station.”
“Then we have to assume,” said Saint, “that we’ve got competition we don’t even know about.”
“Maybe,” said Smith.
CHAPTER 24
A lizardman on a bicycle went rattling by Saint on the morning road, splashing dust on him. “Sorry, gov,” called the lizard, taking a hand off the handlebars to tip his strawhat.
“Think nothing of it, old chap.” Tugging out a plyochief, Saint brushed at his face and then the front of his three-piece cazsuit. He smiled, continuing to act the part of an amiable tourist.
The Horizon House grounds covered twenty acres and were fenced in by high hedges and stretches of woodland. The main entrance was usually guarded by a massive black wrought iron gate, but that had been thrown open wide this morning. Seated on either side of the gate, at folding plaz tables, were humanoid ladies in flowered dresses and widebrimmed hats. At least a dozen customers for the charity fete were lined up at each table to purchase tickets.
“My, ain’t it grand,” remarked the catwoman Saint took a place behind. “All them lovely towers and all.”
“Have you never seen Horizon House before, Madam?”
Shaking her furry head, she replied, “Not so much as a squint, sir. I live over in the next territory and I’ve not visited hereabouts before.”
The house was imposing, a complex of towers and wings, built of pale rose brix and topped with slanting neotile roofs. There was much wrought iron, considerable clinging ivy of a faded seablue shade. There were many striped tents and multicolored stands set up on the vast lawns, along with a merry-go-round, complete with calliope, and a makeshift track for field events. On a floating dais near the main entrance of the house a string quartet, consisting of two tuxsuited toadmen, a humanoid blonde woman in a sequinsuit and a catman draped in an opera cloak, was tuning up.
“Five trudollars is a bit dear,” observed the cat-woman as she bought her ticket. “But the day’ll be well worth it, I fancy.”
“And the money, dear lady, goes to a good cause.” Although Saint had forgotten exactly what charity was to benefit, he assumed it must be a worthwhile one.
“Yes, that’s certainly true.” She rubbed her paws together. “Well, me for the jumble sale. And you, sir?”
“I shall stroll about for a bit.” Giving her a slight bow, he moved off along a pathway paved with yellow gravel.
Three small catgirls, each in a crisp pink fr
ock, came running at him across the grass. “Please, sir,” said one meekly, “where do you suppose the Children’s Mixed Chorus has gotten to?”
Saint leaned down closer to the trio. “Would you little ladies be strayed members of that organization?”
“Yes, and we’re supposed to start singing right now and it’s not in the tent where we rehearsed yesterday or the day before either.”
Straightening, Saint took a careful look around the front acres. “I fancy I see what looks to be the makings of a mixed chorus flocking into that orange-and-blue tent up yonder.”
“Where, where?” The fuzzy little singer stretched up on tiptoe.
Saint lifted her up to his shoulder. “Next to the lemonade stand, do you see?”
“Oh, yes, and that’s Mrs. Dubay, the Assistant Leader, standing out in front of the tent and looking like she doesn’t know where to set that plate of watercress sandwiches someone’s handed her.”
Lowering the little catgirl to the grass, Saint said, “You’re no longer lost, ladies.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He strolled on.
The calliope was slightly off key, but the merry-go-round was a handsome thing. There were gilded neowood horses, grouts, giant snergs, wolos, unicorns, bears.
“Jove, that must be the woman in the case,” Saint told himself, slowing.
Coming down the brix steps of Horizon House was a young woman who was, judging by photos he’d seen, Jennifer Westerland Arloff. She wore a simple suitdress and did not appear to be especially happy.
Saint paused at a display of homebaked pies and cakes, still watching Jennifer as she made her way onto the grounds. “Not a bad looking creature, although on the slender side,” he decided. “Yet hardly the type, one would think, to drive a man to ruin and despair. Yet she did just that to Smith…or rather Smith did that to Smith and blamed this young lady. Seriously doubt she’d have that effect on me, though, of course, I’m a bit more hardhearted than is Smith.”
“…hooglyberries,” the plumpish lizardwoman behind the bake table was saying to him.
“Beg pardon?”
“The pie you’re admiring is made from fresh hooglyberries.”
“Ah, indeed? One’s mouth commences watering,” he informed her. “Ere I depart, I’ll purchase it.”
“Best do it now, since hooglyberry pies sell exceptionally well.”
“Reluctantly I must take my chances, since I don’t wish to be burdened with it as yet.”
“I could put it aside, sir, with your name on—”
“What you could do for me, my dear,” confided Smith, “is answer a rather personal question.”
She blinked. “Well, I suppose if it’s—”
“Can you tell me where to find the restrooms?”
She pointed toward the big house. “They’ve been set up on the north side of the mansion.”
“Thank you so much.” He smiled, bowed and moved on.
On the north side of the house, according to the map Smith had drawn for him, there was an entry to a part of the house Saint very much wanted to see.
* * * *
Saint paused in the silent shadowy hallway to admire the thick patterned carpeting he was treading on. “Quite charming,” he murmured.
From his breast pocket he took Smith’s drawing of the Horizon House floorplan for this section of the sprawling mansion. The first room he wanted to get a look at ought to be just around the next turning.
“Oh, I say, this will never do,” said a thin, rattling voice behind him. “No, no, dear me, not at all.”
Executing a slow about face, the green man found himself confronting a large chromeplated robot butler “Were you addressing me, my man?”
“These fetes, these fetes. Such low types come flocking,” sighed the butler. “And when one of them actually intrudes upon—”
“There appears to be some misunderstanding,” said Saint with a smile. “I happen to be, and I’m rather puzzled at your not recognizing me, Beemis, Count Japhet Seagate. I am a longtime chum of dear old Mrs. Westerland and—”
“No, you aren’t. You’re nothing more nor less than a seedy gatecrasher, no doubt intent on making off with the plates after tracking up the runners.”
Saint gave a resigned little smile. “Well, you’ve certainly seen through me.”
“Now then, march your squatty form out of here at once,” ordered Beemis. “Or I’ll be forced to…um…that’s…odd…”
“Eh?”
“I seem to be…yes…having…trouble remembering…”
“Don’t fret about that, old thing,” advised Saint. “I’m simply using my telek powers to diddle with your brain. The idea being that you’ll forget all about my visit.”
“You…shan’t…”
“It’s not difficult at all to manipulate the components of your thinking system,” Saint explained. “You’ll remember my hasty visit not at all. And you’ll remain here, glued to the spot as it were, with that barmy expression on your moon face for exactly one-half hour. Understand?”
“Yes…understand…”
Saint resumed his prowl.
CHAPTER 25
“You ought to cultivate the ability to relax,” suggested Cruz, who was reclining in a wicker armchair in the shady arbor at the rear of their countryhouse.
Smith was pacing the grass, twisting a short length of vine between his fingers. “Saint’s overdue,” he said.
“No doubt he dallied to kiss a few hands. These charity bazaars draw exactly the sort of well-to-do matrons among whom he shines. No need to—”
“Here he comes.”
The green man was sauntering toward them from the direction of the house. “One sincerely hopes one hasn’t kept all and sundry waiting,” he said. “I paused within to shower and change.”
“Did you get into Horizon House?”
Saint, who was wearing a two-piece off-white lounge-suit, arranged himself on a neowood bench and, carefully, crossed his legs. “All went according to plan,” he answered. “I had a peek at Mrs. Westerland’s parlor, Jennifer’s study and both the Horizon House computer rooms. I had to temporarily incapacitate one robot butler, two robot guards and an android housemaid who was actually named Fifi. None, of course, will recall my brief intrusion.”
“So now you can, since you’ve had a look at the layouts, teleport anything that’s in—”
“By the bye, I caught a glimpse of Jennifer,” added Saint. “She’s looking rather wan and—”
“Mrs. Westerland’s files first,” Smith told him.
Nodding, Saint locked his hands over one knee and shut his eyes. “Won’t take a moment,” he promised.
There was a faint popping, then a thin plazcovered folder materialized on the bench beside him.
“Better allow me to peruse it first,” offered Cruz, reaching over to pick it up. “In case it contains the triggering phrase, Jared. Just looking at it might cause you to pop into a trance state.”
“Go ahead.”
Cruz settled back into his chair, leafed through the several sheets of faxpape. “Only one item of interest herein,” he announced finally. “Triplan, Ltd. is actually owned by Mrs. Westerland, Jennifer Arloff and her husband. Seems the late Doctor Westerland formed this company on the sly some years ago.” He closed the folder, passed it over to Smith.
Taking it, Smith told Saint, “See what you can find in Jennifer’s study.”
“Yes, I know exactly what’s wanted from therein.” Concentrating again, he produced a plazcovered book.
Cruz checked through that first. Finishing, he coughed into his metal fist. “These are safe for you to scan, Jared,” he said. “They do, however, present us with a source of perplexity.”
“How so?”
“These are Jennifer’s confidential memos to herself on the recent phases of the quest for her father’s lost secret.” Cruz tapped the book against his thigh. “According to these only three people know about the secret in all its as
pects. That’s Jennifer, her mother and Arloff.”
“Jove, then one of the three has to be the person who’s doublecrossing Triplan,” said Saint, “selling tips to Syndek and sending Larzon on to glory, eh.”
“We got hold of this information,” Smith reminded him. “That means someone else could’ve, too.”
“It wasn’t anyone from Syndek,” said Cruz. “I confirmed that with Bjorn. They haven’t as yet tapped any Triplan or Horizon House sources of information.”
Saint said, “I can’t swear to this, yet I’m near certain no one except myself has been probing Triplan or Horizon House.”
“How do you know that?”
He rubbed at his curly orange hair. “One can sense that sort of thing, old man. Obviously I’m not completely certain, since it’s a feeling rather than—”
“Okay, let’s say you’re right,” said Smith. “Why would any of these people doublecross the others?”
“Money’s always a good motive,” mentioned Cruz.
“Meaning that if one of them got the secret all to himself, there wouldn’t be any splitting of profits.”
“And Syndek could probably be blamed.”
“I’d hazard a guess,” said Saint, “that Arloff is the most likely candidate. I find it difficult to accept your Jennifer betraying her own mother.”
“She’s not my Jennifer, but I agree. She and her parents were very close, loyal and—”
“I wouldn’t rule anyone out,” put in Cruz.
“Even so,” said Smith, “I’d better arrange to meet with Jennifer. We have to talk.”
Cruz eyed him for a few silent seconds. “You still haven’t gotten over—”
“If her husband’s working against her, I have to mention that fact to her, Cruz.”
“She won’t believe you, old chum. I’ve known a lot of other men’s wives in my time and this seems like—”
“Now get me whatever the computers have on Annalee Kitchen,” Smith told the green man.
“Yes, have that in a jiffy.” He closed his eyes tight. A moment later several sheets of yellow faxpape were in his hands. Saint glanced through the material. “Yes, this is an account of the extracting of the portion of the secret that the Kitchen woman carried in her head. The information itself is also here, along with the triggering phrase. Which phrase is a sequence of numbers not words.”
