by Jack Vance
There was also an entry describing the revitalizing mechanism. She glanced at it hurriedly, understanding little. Such things existed, she knew. Tremendous magnetic fields streamed through the protoplasm, gripping and binding tight each individual atom, and when the object was kept at absolute zero, energy expenditure dwindled to near-nothing. Switch off the clamping field, kick the particles back into motion with a penetrating vibration, and the creature returned to life.
She returned the index to its place, pushed herself to the door.
No sound came from outside. Earl might be writing or coding the events of the day on his photograph…Well, so then? She was not helpless. She opened the door, marched boldly through.
The study was empty!
She dove to the outer door, listened. A faint sound of running water reached her ears. Earl was in the shower. This would be a good time to leave.
She pushed the door slide. The door snapped open. She stepped out into Earl’s bedroom, pushed herself across to the outer door.
Earl came out of the bathroom, his stocky fresh-skinned torso damp with water.
He stood stock-still, then hastily draped a towel around his middle. His face suddenly went mottled red and pink. “What are you doing in here?”
Jean said sweetly, “I came to check on your linen, to see if you needed towels.”
He made no answer, but stood watching her. He said harshly, “Where have you been this last hour?”
Jean made a flippant gesture. “Here, there. Were you looking for me?”
He took a stealthy step forward. “I’ve a good mind to—”
“To what?” Behind her she fumbled for the door-slide.
“To-”
The door opened.
“Wait,” said Earl. He pushed himself forward. Jean slipped out into the corridor, a foot ahead of Earl’s hands.
“Come back in,” said Earl, making a clutch for her.
From behind them Mrs. Blaiskell said in a horrified voice, “Well, I never! Mr. Earl!” She had appeared from Mrs. Clara’s room.
Earl backed into his room hissing unvoiced curses. Jean looked in after him. The next time you see me, you’ll wish you’d played chess with me.”
“Jean!” barked Mrs. Blaiskell.
Earl asked in a hard voice, “What do you mean?”
Jean had no idea what she meant. Her mind raced. Better keep her ideas to herself. “Ill tell you tomorrow morning.” She laughed mischievously. “About six or six-thirty.”
“Miss Jean!” cried Mrs. Blaiskell angrily. “Come away from that door this instant!”
Jean calmed herself in the servant’s refectory with a pot of tea.
Webbard came in, fat, pompous, and fussy as a hedgehog. He spied Jean and his voice rose to a reedy oboe tone. “Miss, miss!”
Jean had a trick she knew to be effective, thrusting out her firm young chin, squinting, charging her voice with metal. “Are you looking for me?”
Webbard said, “Yes. I certainly am. Where on earth—”
“Well, I’ve been looking for you. Do you want to hear what I’m going to tell you in private or not?”
Webbard blinked. “Your tone of voice is impudent, miss. If you please—”
“Okay,” said Jean. “Right here then. First of all, I’m quitting. I’m going back to Earth. I’m going to see—”
Webbard held up his hand in alarm, looked around the refectory. Conversation along the tables had come to a halt. A dozen curious eyes were watching.
“Ill interview you in my office,” said Webbard.
The door slid shut behind her. Webbard pressed his rotundity into a chair; magnetic strands in his trousers held him in place. “Now what is all this? Ill have you know there’ve been serious complaints.”
Jean said disgustedly, “Tie a can to it, Webbard. Talk sense.”
Webbard was thunderstruck. “You’re an impudent minx—”
“Look. Do you want me to tell Earl how I landed this job?”
Webbard’s face quivered. His mouth fell open; he blinked four or five times rapidly. “You wouldn’t dare to—”
Jean said patiently, “Forget the master-slave routine for five minutes, Webbard. This is man-to-man talk.”
“What do you want?”
“I’ve a few questions I want to ask you.”
“Well?”
“Tell me about old Mr. Abercrombie, Mrs. Clara’s husband.”
“There’s nothing to tell. Mr. Justus was a very distinguished gentleman.”
“He and Mrs. Clara had how many children?”
“Seven.”
“And the oldest inherits the station?”
“The oldest, always the oldest. Mr. Justus believed in firm organization. Of course the other children were guaranteed a home here at the station, those who wished to stay.”
“And Hugo was the oldest How long after Mr. Justus did he die?”
Webbard found the conversation distasteful. “This is all footling nonsense,” he growled in a deep voice. “How long?”
“Two years.”
“And what happened to him?”
Webbard said briskly. “He had a stroke. Cardiac complaint. Now what’s all this I hear about your quirting?”
“How long ago?”
“Ah—two years.”
“And then Earl inherited.”
Webbard pursed his lips. “Mr. Lionel unfortunately was off the station, and Mr. Earl became legal master.”
“Rather nice timing, from Earl’s viewpoint.”
Webbard puffed out his cheeks. “Now then, young lady, we’ve had enough of that! If—”
“Mr. Webbard, let’s have an understanding once and for all. Either you answer my questions and stop this blustering or I’ll ask someone else. And when I’m done, that someone else will be asking you questions too.”
“You insolent little trash!” snarled Webbard.
Jean turned toward the door. Webbard grunted, thrashed himself forward. Jean gave her arm a shake; out of nowhere a blade of quivering glass appeared in her hand.
Webbard floundered in alarm, trying to halt his motion through the air. Jean put up her foot, pushed him in the belly, back toward his chair.
She said, “I want to see a picture of the entire family.”
“I don’t have any such pictures.”
Jean shrugged. “I can go to any public library and dial the Who’s-Who.” She looked him over coolly, as she coiled her knife. Webbard shrank back in his chair. Perhaps he thought her a homicidal maniac. Well, she wasn’t a maniac and she wasn’t homicidal either, unless she was driven to it. She asked easily, “Is it a fact that Earl is worth a billion dollars?”
Webbard snorted. “A billion dollars? Ridiculous. The family owns nothing but the station and lives off the income. A hundred million dollars would build another twice as big and luxurious.”
“Where did Fotheringay get that figure?” she asked wonderingly.
“I couldn’t say,” Webbard replied shortly. “Where is Lionel now?”
Webbard pulled his lips in and out desperately.
“He’s—resting somewhere along the Riviera.”
“Hm…You say you don’t have any photographs?”
Webbard scratched his chin. “I believe that there’s a shot of Lionel…Let me see…Yes, just a moment.” He fumbled in his desk, pawed and peered, and at last came up with a snap-shot. “Mr. Lionel.”
Jean examined the photograph with interest. “Well, well.” The face in the photograph and the face of the fat man in Earl’s zoological collection were the same. “Well, well.” She looked up sharply. “And what’s his address?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Webbard responded with some return of his mincing dignity.
“Quit dragging your feet, Webbard.”
“Oh well—the Villa Passe-temps, Juan-les-pins.”
“Ill believe it when I see your address file. Where is it?”
Webbard -began breathing hard. “Now see here, you
ng lady, there’s serious matters at stake I”
“Such as what?”
“Well—” Webbard lowered his voice, glanced conspiratorially at the walls of the room. “It’s common knowledge at the station that Mr. Earl and Mr. Lionel are—well, not friendly. And there’s a rumor—a rumor, mind you—that Mr. Earl has hired a well-known criminal to kill Mr. Lionel.”
That would be Fotheringay, Jean surmised.
Webbard continued. “So you see, it’s necessary that I exercise the utmost caution….”
Jean laughed. “Let’s see that file.”
Webbard finally indicated a card file. Jean said, “You know where it is; pull it out”
Webbard glumly sorted through the cards. “Here.”
The address was: Hotel Atlantide, Apartment 3001. French Colony, Metropolis, Earth.
Jean memorized the address, then stood irresolutely, trying to think of further questions. Webbard smiled slowly. Jean ignored him, stood nibbling her fingertips. Times like this she felt the inadequacy of her youth. When it came to action—fighting, laughing,’ spying, playing games, making love—she felt complete assurance. But the sorting out of possibilities and deciding which were probable and which irrational, when she felt less than sure. Such as now…Old -Webbard, the fat blob, had calmed himself and was gloating. Well, let him enjoy himself…She had to get to Earth. She had to see Lionel Abercrombie. Possibly Fotheringay had been hired to kill him, possibly not Possibly Fotheringay knew where to find him, possibly not. Webbard knew Fotheringay; probably he had served as Earl’s intermediary. Or possibly Webbard was performing some intricate evolutions of his own. It was plain that, now, her interests were joined with Lionel’s, rather than Fotheringay’s, because marrying Earl was clearly out of the question. Lionel must stay alive. If this meant double-crossing Fotheringay, too bad for Fotheringay. He could have told her more about Earl’s “zoological collection” before he sent her up to marry Earl…Of course, she told herself, Fotheringay would have no means of knowing the peculiar use Earl made of his specimens.
“Well?” asked Webbard with an unpleasant grin.
“When does the next ship leave for Earth?”
“The supply barge is heading back tonight”
“That’s fine. If I can fight off the pilot You can pay me now.”
“Pay you? You’ve only done a day’s work. You owe the station for transportation, your uniform, your meals—”
“Oh, never mind.” Jean turned, pulled herself into the corridor, went to her room, packed her belongings.
Mrs. Blaiskell pushed her head through the door. “Oh, there you are…” She sniffed. “Mr. Earl has been inquiring for you. He wants to see you at once.” It was plain that she disapproved.
“Sure,” said Jean. “Right away.”
Mrs. Blaiskell departed.
Jean pushed herself along the corridor to the loading deck. The barge pilot was assisting in the loading of some empty metal drums. He saw Jean and his face changed. “You again?”
“I’m going back to Earth with you. You were right. I don’t like it here.”
The pilot nodded sourly. “This time you ride in the storage. That way neither one of us gets hurt.…I couldn’t promise a thing if you’re up forward.”
“Suits me,” said Jean. “I’m going aboard.”
“Take-off in an hour.”
When Jean reached the Hotel Atlantide in Metropolis she wore a black dress and black pumps which she felt made her look older and more sophisticated. Crossing the lobby she kept wary look-out for the house detective. Sometimes they nursed unkind suspicions toward unaccompanied young girls. It was best to avoid the police, keep them at a distance. When they found that she had no father, no mother, no guardian, their minds were apt to turn to some dreary government institution. On several occasions rather extreme measures to ensure her independence had been necessary.
But the Hotel Atlantide detective took no heed of the black-haired girl quietly crossing the lobby, if he saw her at all. The lift attendant observed that she seemed restless, as with either a great deal of pent enthusiasm or nervousness. A porter on the thirtieth floor noticed her searching for an apartment number and mentally labelled her a person unfamiliar with the hotel. A chambermaid watched her press the bell at Apartment 3001, saw the door open, saw the girl jerk back in surprise, then slowly enter the apartment Strange, thought the chambermaid, and speculated mildly for a few moments. Then she went to recharge the foam dispensers in the public bathrooms and the incident passed from her mind.
The apartment was spacious, elegant, expensive. Windows overlooked Central Gardens and the Morison Hall of Equity behind. The furnishings were the work of a professional decorator, harmonious and sterile; a few incidental objects around the room, however, hinted of a woman’s presence. But Jean saw no woman. There was only herself and Fotheringay.
Fotheringay wore subdued gray flannels and dark necktie. In a crowd of twenty people he would vanish.
After an instant of surprise he stood back. “Come in.”
Jean darted glances around the room, half-expecting a fat crumpled body. But possibly Lionel had not been at home, and Fotheringay was waiting.
“Well,” he asked, “what brings you here?” He was watching her covertly. “Take a seat.”
Jean sank into a chair, chewed at her lip. Fotheringay watched her cat-like. Walk carefully. She prodded her mind. What legitimate excuse did she have for visiting Lionel? Perhaps Fotheringay had expected her to double-cross him…Where was Hammond? Her neck tingled. Eyes were on her neck. She looked around quickly.
Someone in the hall tried to dodge out of sight. Not quickly enough. Inside Jean’s brain a film of ignorance broke to release a warm soothing flood of knowledge.
She smiled, her sharp white little teeth showing between her lips. It had been a fat woman whom she had seen in the hall, a very fat woman, rosy, flushed, quivering.
“What are you smiling at?” inquired Fotheringay.
She used his own technique. “Are you wondering who gave me your address?”
“Obviously Webbard.”
Jean nodded. “Is the lady your wife?” Fotheringay’s chin raised a hair’s-breadth. “Get to the point.”
“Very well.” She hitched herself forward. There was still a possibility that she was making a terrible mistake, but the risk must be taken. Questions would reveal her uncertainty, diminish her bargaining position. “How much money can you raise—right now? Cash?”
“Ten or twenty thousand.”
Her face must have showed disappointment.
“Not enough?”
“No. You sent me on a bum steer.” Fotheringay sat silently.
“Earl would no more make a pass at me than bite off his tongue. His taste in women is—like yours.”
Fotheringay displayed no irritation. “But two years ago—”
“There’s a reason for that.” She raised her eyebrows ruefully. “Not a nice reason.”
“Well, get on with it.”
“He liked Earth girls because they were freaks. In his opinion, naturally. Earl likes freaks.”
Fotheringay rubbed his chin, watching her with blank wide eyes. “I never thought of that”
“Your scheme might have worked out if Earl were halfway right-side up. But I just don’t have what it takes.”
Fotheringay smiled frostily. “You didn’t come here to tell me that.”
“No. I know how Lionel Abercrombie can get the station for himself…Of course your name is Fotheringay.”
“If my name is Fotheringay, why did you come here looking for me?”
Jean laughed, a gay ringing laugh. “Why do you think I’m looking for you? I’m looking for Lionel Abercrombie. Fotheringay is no use to me unless I can marry Earl. I can’t I haven’t got enough of that stuff. Now I’m looking for Lionel Abercrombie.”
VIII
Fotheringay tapped a well-manicured finger on a well-flannelled knee, and said quietly, “I’m Lionel Ab
ercrombie.”
“How do I know you are?”
He tossed her a passport She glanced at it, tossed it back.
“Okay. Now—you have twenty thousand. That’s not enough. I want two million…If you haven’t got it, you haven’t got it. I’m not unreasonable. But I want to make sure I get it when you do have it. So—you’ll write me a deed, a bill of sale, something legal that gives me your interest in Abercrombie Station. Ill agree to sell it back to you for two million dollars.”
Fotheringay shook his head. “That land of agreement is binding on me but not on you. You’re a minor.”
Jean said, “The sooner I get clear of Abercrombie the better. I’m not greedy. You can have your billion dollars. I merely want two million…Incidentally, how do you figure a billion? Webbard says the whole set-up is only worth a hundred million.”
Lionel’s mouth twisted in a wintry smile. “Webbard didn’t include the holdings of the Abercrombie guests. Some very rich people are fat The fatter they get, the less they like life on Earth.”
“They could always move to another resort station.”
Lionel shook his head. “It’s not the same atmosphere. Abercrombie is Fatman’s world. The one small spot in all the universe where a fat man is proud of his weight.”
There was a wistful overtone in his voice. Peculiar, she thought it.
Jean said softly. “And you’re lonesome for Abercrombie yourself.”
Lionel smiled grimly. “Strange.”
Jean shifted in her chair. “Now well go to a lawyer. I know a good one. Richard Mycroft. I want this deed drawn up without loopholes. Maybe I’ll have to find myself a guardian, a trustee.”
“You don’t need a. guardian.”
Jean smiled complacently. “For a fact, I don’t.”
“You still haven’t told me what this project consists of.”
“Ill tell you when I have the deed. You don’t lose a thing giving away property you don’t own. And after you give it away, it’s to my interest to help you get it.”
