The Third Lynx

by Timothy Zahn

His gaze unfocused over my shoulder at the crowd of impoverished artists. He was scared all right, right down to his socks. But unlike a lot of people I’d met over the years, he wasn’t going to let fear or panic make his decisions for him. “You still haven’t given me any reason to trust you,” he said.

  I chewed at the inside of my cheek. There weren’t a lot of ways for one stranger to prove to another that he could be trusted.

  But there was one that might work. “Fine. Come with me.”

  I headed back down the indentation toward Fayr and Bayta. Stafford, with only a moment’s hesitation, followed. “How are they doing?” I asked Fayr as I stepped to his side.

  “They’re quiet, and very unhappy,” he told me.

  I looked at the toughs. “Taking the opportunity to make their peace with the Creator, I hope?”

  The leader twitched at that. “If they’re wise,” Fayr said.

  “I don’t think wisdom has ever been much of a burden for any of them,” I said. “But there’s still a chance they’ll get to live out the rest of the night. Maybe even longer than that.” I pointed to the leader. “You know of a nice, quiet place where you won’t be tempted to make trouble?”

  [There are rooms behind the entryway.] he said, his eyes seemingly glued to the bulge in Fayr’s poncho that concealed the Rontra’s muzzle. [We live there.]

  “Who else uses those rooms? Or any of that area?”

  [No one,] he said. [The foundation and walls are damaged. No one else is willing to take the risk.]

  Apparently, plain simple common sense wasn’t any more of a burden for them than wisdom was. “Good enough,” I said. “Fayr, take them back and get them settled in for the night. Keep them quiet, of course.”

  “No fears,” he assured me, gesturing with his gun.

  Silently, the four Tra’ho’seej got up, two of them assisting their still wobbly companion, and filed off through the crowd. Fayr was right behind them. “Why not just use snoozers and put them to sleep?” Bayta asked.

  “Because we may still have some questions for them,” I told her. “Don’t worry, they’re way beyond the point of making trouble. The sight of submachine guns will do that to a person.”

  “What now?” Stafford asked.

  “First, we pretend this is a civilized universe,” I said. “Bayta, this is Daniel Stafford. Stafford, my partner and assistant Bayta.”

  “Pleased,” Stafford said shortly. “What now?”

  “Now we prove ourselves to you,” I told him. “Question: if we’re involved with your uncle’s murder, why haven’t we already killed you?”

  He snorted. “Obviously, you want the Lynx, and you know killing me won’t get it for you.”

  “Right,” I said. “Now, what if we did have the Lynx, and still didn’t kill you? Would that prove we could be trusted?”

  He studied my face. “Probably,” he conceded. “But that assumes I’ll just hand it over to you.”

  “Not at all,” I said, letting my gaze drift slowly around the courtyard as I settled my mind back into Westali investigator mode. The Lynx had to be here somewhere, I knew. Stafford wouldn’t risk stashing it someplace where he couldn’t keep a close eye on it.

  But he wouldn’t be carrying it on him, either, especially not after what happened to Künstler. He also wouldn’t leave it someplace where one of his fellow artists might stumble over it. That left out most of the maze of rooms and cubbies in the amphitheater, which were out of his sight as well as being out of his control.

  Buried in the courtyard somewhere, then? But ground that had been recently turned over was pretty obvious even to a casual observer. Besides, unless Stafford was digging under his own tent—which was itself way too obvious—the operation would be bound to attract unwelcome attention.

  Unless he’d buried it under someone else’s tent? Someone he knew would be gone at a given hour, thereby giving him the necessary privacy, or someone he trusted enough to bring at least partially in on the secret?

  I looked at Stafford, at the taut wariness in his eyes and cheeks and throat. No, he wouldn’t have risked a stranger noticing something odd about his tent and investigating. And he certainly wouldn’t have trusted anyone here that far.

  So it wasn’t hidden in the amphitheater complex or in the courtyard. What was left?

  I looked past Stafford toward the end of the indentation where he’d been working. Silhouetted against the smoky firelight was the lump of claywork he’d been playing with when he’d been so rudely interrupted.

  Clay.

  I smiled. Rule number one in the investigators’ handbook: if you can’t hide something, disguise it.

  I started into the indentation. Before I’d gone five steps Stafford was at my side. “Where are you going?” he demanded, an anxious edge to his voice. “Don’t mess with my sculpture.”

  “I’m not going to touch it,” I assured him. The fire was still pretty hot, but no longer unbearably so. I reached the inner edge of the indentation and looked down.

  The logs feeding the fire had been stacked in the middle of the pit in a standard crisscross pattern. There were four layers of them, the ones in the top tier mostly burned to ash, those on the bottom blackened but still reasonably intact. Each of the logs was about sixty centimeters long and twenty in diameter, a convenient size for handling.

  Stafford was hovering at my side now, trying very hard not to look nervous and not succeeding very well. “Clever,” I complimented him. “Even if someone figured out where it was, he’d have to wait until the fire died down to get at it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stafford insisted.

  “There’s only one small problem,” I said. “Remember I told you the Viper you came here to buy didn’t exist anymore? That’s because it exploded.”

  He seemed to shrink back a little as he looked down into the fire pit. “What do you mean, exploded? How?”

  “I don’t know, exactly,” I said. “Best guess is that the sculpture’s made of some kind of exotic explosive.” I looked back at the logs, searching the lower tier for one that didn’t show the same scorch pattern as the others on its level.

  And there it was. The closest one, naturally, to our particular indentation. “So far you’ve been lucky,” I said, pointing to it. “You put it there on the bottom, where it’s coolest, and all that glazed ceramic clay wrapped around it probably protects it pretty well from the heat. But we’d still better get it out of there as soon as possible.”

  He looked at me, his eyes uncertain for the first time since I’d met him. “This isn’t just a scam, is it?” he asked hesitantly. “I mean . . . to get me to . . .?”

  “To admit to what I already know?” I shook my head. “As to the Viper blowing up, I’ve seen the damage. In fact, they’re holding an art auction at the museum tomorrow night to raise funds to fix the pit it made.”

  He exhaled carefully. “I’d heard stories,” he murmured. “I thought they were just rumors.”

  “They weren’t,” I assured him. “So. You trust me yet?”

  He gave me a tentative smile. “Well, you at least have to keep me alive until you can get the Lynx out of there, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “While we’re waiting, let’s find a quiet place to talk.”

  The best place for a private chat turned out to be the damaged section of the amphitheater where Fayr had taken the five Tra’ho juvenile delinquents. We kicked the six of them back out into the tunnel—Stafford confirmed that the gang really did help keep out the riffraff at night—and Bayta and I settled down to hear Stafford’s story.

  “He’d been getting offers to buy the Lynx for probably three weeks before the robbery attempt,” he told us. “Strange offers, from a mysterious unnamed buyer.”

  “How strange?” I asked.

  “The man was naming a price way above what the Lynx could possibly be worth,” he said. “That alone made Uncle Rafael suspicious. He started looking into the curren
t status of the rest of the Nemuti sculptures, which was how he found out they’d been disappearing right and left. He doubled the guard on his estate and the gallery and started trying to backtrack the would-be buyer.”

  “Only they got in anyway,” I said.

  Stafford winced. “Yes,” he said grimly. “I think that was what hit Uncle Rafael the hardest. There was no way they could have penetrated the security system without the help of one of the guards.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “There are techniques people in my former line of work would know.”

  He looked sharply at me. “Oh?”

  “And I was out of the solar system when it happened,” I hastened to assure him.

  “I’m sure you were,” Stafford said. “Anyway, Uncle Rafael decided he’d better get the Lynx off the estate before whoever it was tried it again.”

  “So he gave you the sculpture, a handful of cash sticks, some fake ID, and told you to lose yourself?”

  “Basically. I hopped the next flight out of Paris and headed for the Quadrail.”

  “Did Mr. Künstler also suggest you come to Ghonsilya to find the Viper?” Bayta asked.

  “Actually, that was my idea,” Stafford said. “I’d been off the estate a couple of weeks, just riding the Quadrail and staying away from anyplace where I might be recognized, when I got a message from him. His would-be buyer had surfaced again, this time offering to trade the Lynx for the Hawk that had been stolen from a collector on Bellis. He told me he was thinking about going to Bellis to contact the person and size up the situation.”

  “Secure in the knowledge that the Lynx was well out of the buyer’s reach,” I said grimly. “Unfortunately for him, the buyer didn’t know that.”

  “And I gather arranged an ambush,” Stafford said, a shiver running through him. “What the hell are these damn sculptures, anyway? And don’t tell me they’re just bombs. No one kills just for bombs.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. For the moment, at least, there was no need for him to know about the sensor chameleon aspect. “But for our current purposes it doesn’t really matter. Just on general principles, if the bad guys want something, you want to keep it away from them.”

  “And hope you can stay alive in the process,” Stafford murmured. “Do you at least know who killed my uncle?”

  “We know who ordered the attack,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “It’s not quite clear yet which specific individuals carried it out.”

  “But you’ll get them, won’t you?”

  “The plan is to ultimately nail the whole gang,” I said. “But it might take a while.”

  “Doesn’t it always?” he said. “So what’s the plan? Grab the Lynx and get out of here?”

  “We definitely grab the Lynx,” I said. “The getting out part is going to be a little trickier. It turns out that the gang is holding a couple of hostages for my good behavior. An ESS agent named Morse, who was sent to find you and bring you back to Earth.” I braced myself. “And a young lady named Penny Auslander.”

  Stafford stared at me, and even in the dim light I could see some of the color drain from his face. “Penny’s here? In God’s name—?”

  “Easy,” I soothed him. “She was just following your instructions.”

  He swore under his breath. “She and the others were supposed to go to Ian-apof,” he said. “They were just supposed to throw anyone looking for me off the scent.” He glared at me accusingly, as if Penny’s presence here was my fault.

  Which, technically, it was. “So I gathered,” I said. “Unfortunately, the gang saw through it. Anyway, the point is we have to get them free before we take off.”

  “Do you know where they are?”

  “No, but I know where they’ll be tomorrow night,” I said. “Tell me, in your time here in Paradise have you found out who the best ceramic workers are?”

  “I know a couple of good ones,” he said. “But I can do ceramic work, too, you know.”

  “No offense, but what we need right now is a professional,” I said. “You think you could go get one of them and bring him here?”

  “Probably,” Stafford said, not moving. “What’s the plan?”

  “The plan is for you to go get your sculptor friend,” I said patiently. “That’s all you need to know right now.” I took another look at his face. “Don’t worry, you’re not going to just be sitting around twiddling your thumbs. Oh, and we might need a set of metalworking tools, too, including a small plasma torch.”

  For a long moment he gazed hard at my face. Then, abruptly, he got up and strode out of the room. “I don’t think he trusts you,” Bayta said.

  “Nothing I can do about that,” I said. “If Uncle Rafael’s recommendation isn’t good enough for him—”

  “I meant I don’t think he trusts you about Penny.”

  I broke off. “Oh.”

  For a moment we stared across the room at each other in silence . . . and as I gazed into her eyes something she’d said earlier suddenly penetrated my consciousness. Danger and tension can bring people together. I know that.

  I know that . . .

  I’d thought I’d been accepted into Bayta’s inner circle. Apparently, I’d made it inside that circle a little farther than I’d realized.

  “Bayta, this has nothing to do with you,” I said quietly. “It’s me.”

  “I know that,” she said. “That’s what has me worried. You’ve closed yourself off from people for so long that . . . well, it all just seems to be happening too fast. For anyone, but especially for you.”

  “And especially with someone like Penny?”

  Her lip twitched. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Hurt is my middle name,” I told her, trying to strike a little lighter note. “I can handle it.” I stood up. “Come on.”

  “What are we going to do?” she asked, standing up, too.

  “We start by getting the Lynx,” I told her. “The fire should have burned down enough by now.”

  “What about Ms. Auslander and Mr. Morse?” she asked.

  “Well, we can’t just leave them here,” I said reasonably. “Much as I’m tempted in Morse’s case.”

  “So again, what are we going to do?”

  “Whatever it takes,” I said. “Come on. I want the Lynx in hand before Stafford gets back.”

  NINETEEN

  Fayr had said earlier that Ghonsilya was a relatively poor world, as these things went, with only a few of the utterly obscenely wealthy that formed the upper crust on many other planets. Still, the place clearly boasted at least a fair representation of the only moderately obscenely wealthy.

  And judging from the crowd still flowing into the Magaraa City Art Museum’s auditorium, it looked like every one of them had turned out for the auction.

  I was seated in one of the aisle seats about three-quarters of the way back from the stage when Bayta returned from her reconnoiter and sat down beside me. “Anything?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I saw three Halkas, but they weren’t the Modhri’s soldiers. At least, they weren’t either of the two we’ve met. You?”

  “I’ve collected a lot of dirty looks for hogging the aisle seats,” I told her. “Other than that, nothing.”

  She peered up over the heads of the people, mostly Tra’ho’seej, seated around us. “What if he doesn’t come?”

  “He will,” I assured her. “The big question is what kind of backup he’ll have with him.”

  “He doesn’t want the local police authorities in on this,” she reminded me.

  “Unless he’s brought in walkers high enough in the pecking order to keep the cops under control.”

  Abruptly, Bayta craned her neck upward a little. “Frank—that Tra’ho in the back of the room in the rider chair,” she said. “Is that one of the oathlings from last night?”

  I studied the distant alien face. “Could be,” I said. “Especially in that chair. He’s probably still having trouble with his b
alance.”

  “But he is now able to see,” a gruff Halkan voice said from above me.

  I looked up. It was Gargantua, standing in the aisle beside me, glaring intimidatingly down his bulldog snout at me. There was no sign of his sensor cane, so apparently his eyes had recovered, too. “There you are,” I said conversationally. “How’s it going?”

  “You have the item?” he asked, ignoring the attempt at small talk.

  “You have our friends?” I countered.

  His eyes flicked to my jacket, then to the empty area beneath my chair. “Where is it?”

  “Nice and safe and easy to get to,” I assured him. “When we see our friends.”

  He studied my face a moment. “They await in a car out front.”

  “Good,” I said. “Bring them here.”

  “You have my word they’re unharmed.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I said. “Bring them here anyway. The trade’s going to happen in this room.”

  Gargantua’s gaze lifted almost furtively to the crowd around us . . . and with a sudden and unexpected flicker of empathy I had a glimpse of just how vulnerable the Modhri truly was. His main body was composed of lumps of coral, helpless against a determined attack, while his only allies were co-opted beings who had no loyalty to either him or his cause, but who had to be literally forced to do his bidding.

  The Modhri had been designed by the Shonkla-raa as a secret weapon, someone who would operate in the shadows. Now, with the truth of his existence out in the light, he was fighting not only for conquest, but for survival.

  Ruthlessly, I crushed back the flicker of sympathy. Sympathy of any sort was a weakness the Modhri could turn to his advantage, exerting limited influence through telepathically planted thought viruses that traveled the lowered mental resistance lines that existed between friends and trusted associates.

  Fortunately, unlike the irresistible control he had over his walkers, thought viruses could be successfully fought, provided you didn’t let them get a foothold. “We’re still waiting,” I reminded him.

  “They have arrived.”

  I turned around in my seat. Flanked by two more Tra’hok oathlings in rider chairs, Penny and Morse were standing in the back of the room. They were steady on their feet, looking around the room, and seemed to be all right.