Authors: Walter Jon Williams
“I think the next is a slow one. Silent Equations, according to my card. Will you join me?”
“Only too.” Meaning, only too happy. “I hope you don’t mind me stepping all over you.”
“I’ll look out for your feet, you look out for mine. Right?”
“Right.” Gregor looked down at her. “Aren’t you supposed to be on the job?”
“I’ve got all the globes dispersed and on autopilot. Nothing much exciting happens at grand balls, anyway.”
Gregor, who could recall at least one hair-raising grand ball on Peleng, jauntily agreed.
“By the way,” he said, looking at her costume. “I think green and purple suit you very well.”
*
“Maijstral.”
“Marchioness.” Sniffs. “Will you join me for the Silent Equations?”
“Happily, my lady.”
They clasped hands, faced one another, then turned their heads toward the orchestra, awaiting the first throb of music. They observed, standing by the orchestra, the Marquess speaking with Baron and Baroness Silverside. They seemed quite intent on their conversation.
“Kotani,” said the Marchioness, “has a plan. He wants to do his next play here, and set its action on Silverside Station. He conceives that this will enhance the station's reputation as a place for society to meet, and will provide a perfect backdrop for his own work.”
“The Silversides seem interested.”
She glanced at Maijstral from the corners of her slanted eyes. “I think it will be a difficult sale. We’ve heard that Silverside has had other offers.”
“Not from anyone of his lordship's stature, I’m sure.”
“Very likely. But no doubt Silverside has been approached by people offering him a greater share of the profits. Kotani keeps his money close. I’ve always thought it his greatest failing as a lord.”
Maijstral glanced at her ladyship's matched bracelets and choker: blue corundum, silver, and diamond, with tiny implanted glowstones hidden in the settings to make them gleam with a subtle inner light. She caught his look, and her sullen mouth turned upward in a smile.
“He is generous, yes, with some things, particularly if it might touch on his own reputation. He is not generous with his time, however. I daresay he'll be in conference with the Silversides all week.”
“I hope your ladyship will not be too much alone.”
She looked into his lidded eyes. “I share your hope, sir,” she said, and then laughed. “But speaking of profits, I hope this evening has been profitable for
you.”
Maijstral gave a lazy shrug. “I thought talk of business bored you, my lady.”
“Most business, yes.”
The orchestra began to play. The couples, holding hands and still maintaining their strict line fore-and-aft, began to revolve around mutual centers of gravity, moving in an unconscious imitation of the singularity above their heads, which, in its predatory orbit, circled the equator of its hapless primary every twelve minutes.
The dancers below, their appetites somewhat less all-embracing than that of the singularity, continued moving in their orbits.
All save one.
*
Geoff Fu George met with Drexler and Chalice in the corridor leading to Baron Silverside’s private residence. Drexler's eyes were closed; he was communicating with the proximity wire in his collar and making mystic passes in the air with his hands. (His sleeves contained detectors.) “A rank of flaxes under the carpet,” he concluded.
“There are leapers set the door. Pulse alarms inside, and tremblers on the floor, ceiling, and walls. More leapers on the picture frames.”
“Right,” said Fu George. One could learn a lot by using the right detectors, and also by burglarizing the offices of Silverside’s contractors. He buttoned his jacket tight and pulsed a mental command to his flight harness, which raised him several inches from the floor. With practiced ease, Fu George threaded his way through the net of flaxes, then paused by the door, scouting it carefully with his energy detectors before stopping to neutralize the leapers. His assistants followed him, as did a pair of micromedia globes. By the rules of Allowed Burglary, assistants were permitted only as far as the door: Fu George had to do the rest himself. Fu George opened the door and coasted inside.
He glanced over Baroness Silverside’s famous art gallery, seeing barren picture frames and pedestals that held only empty air.
Maijstral,
he thought.
You're going to pay for this.
*
When the police made their unmistakable arrival, Maijstral was sitting cross-legged on his bed, massaging his feet and watching a video Western.
Rendezvous at Coffeyville
was one of his favorites. The Western featured Marcus Ruthven as Grat Dalton, and had been directed by the great Fastinn, whose training with the Imperial Theatre had, no doubt, contributed to the tangible, forbidding sense of inevitability that engulfed the main characters as they assembled, plotted, and began the raid that would result in their destruction.
The Daltons, wearing identical grey dusters and moving in line abreast on matched black chargers, trotted toward the twin banks that represented the summit of their criminal ambitions. The town was ominously quiet. Somewhere a dog was barking. Crouching in attics, citizens sighted over buffalo guns. Maijstral gnawed a thumbnail, his nerves humming with suspense.
Someone knocked on Maijstral’s door. It was an authoritative knock: one could not mistake it, and Maijstral had heard it on many worlds, in many rented rooms. The police.
The knock brought Maijstral reluctantly back to the present. He uncrossed his legs and told the room to hold the Coffeyville massacre till later.
Roman entered. His ears turned back in disapproval as he observed the frozen figures of men wearing Stetsons: he was ever dismayed by Maijstral’s low taste in entertainment. “Beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but the police are here. Mr. Kingston is with them.”
“Ah. Our comic.” He rose from the bed, smoothed his dressing gown, and pushed his long hair back from his face.
“Very well,” he said. “I shall speak to the gentlemen.”
Maijstral found Kingston in the front room, his troopers arrayed in a flying wedge behind him. Gregor surveyed them, his mien hostile.
“Just making sure they won’t take anything, boss,” he said.
“Beg pardon,” Kingston said. His face was set in a fuddled smile. “Regrettably, sir, I must search your room. Some objects of value have been missed.”
“Really?” Maijstral said. “Why search my room, of all rooms on the station?”
Kingston gave an elaborate bow. “Sir, your worship can guess why, I’m sure.”
“It is my humor to hear you say it.”
“Very well then, sir. I search your room because there has been stealing going on, and because you have been known to steal.”
“This seems like persecution, Mr. Kingston. Has any witness connected me with the missing objects? I spent my entire evening in public. When were these nameless crimes committed?”
“I know nothing of your evening, sir, but searched you and yours shall surely be.” Kingston swayed as he spoke.
The man is drunk, Maijstral thought in surprise. “I take it, then,” he said, “you have no confidence in your own handiwork. You took care—
very personal
care—to make certain I had no way to practice my profession on Silverside Station. If you really think I’ve been taking things I’ve no right to, you confess yourself incompetent.”
Kingston’s good humor snapped like a twig. “Search ‘em,” he growled, and his troopers spread out over the suite, deploying their detectors.
And found, of course, nothing.
Maijstral returned to his room and participated, while dressing, in the vicarious catharsis of the Coffeyville massacre. He then left his room and, after making certain he was not being followed, walked down deserted corridors to the room of Mr. Dolfuss, where he gave a knock.
Dolfuss opened in a few seconds. He was carrying an overnight bag. “Mr. Maijstral. I’ve been waiting up.”
“The police took a little longer than expected. Perhaps they were a little behind in making their calls.”
“Very good, sir. Sleep well.”
“And you.”
Dolfuss took himself and his bag down the corridor, where he would spend the night on Maijstral’s mattress.
Maijstral, for his part, undressed and happily reposed himself on Dolfuss's bed, beneath which were elements of one of the finest private collections in the Human Constellation, that of the Baroness Silverside.
CHAPTER 4
Silver media globes orbited Baron Silverside like Indians in one of Maijstral’s Westerns circling a beleaguered wagon train. The Baron looked at the globes through red-rimmed, weary eyes. “Miss Asperson,” he said.
“Baron,” said Kyoko. This morning she was dressed in yellow with a silver-wire pattern. It stood out against the subdued decor of the White Room like an explosion in a paint factory. “My condolences on your loss.”
“There is yet time. We may see the objects recovered.”
“That's not likely, is it?” Kyoko Asperson's question appeared all innocence. “You haven’t found the loot after the first few hours, and I wonder how you can expect to find it now that you’ve exhausted all the likely places to look. After all, an entire art collection can’t be hidden very easily. You
built this
station, Baron—where is left to look? Where would you suggest the police go?”
The Baron looked away, found himself looking straight into a media globe, then looked up. He scowled. “I leave that to Mr. Sun, my head of security.”
“Understandable, sir. It is his area of expertise.” Kyoko smiled. “Would it be possible for me to speak to Mr. Sun?”
“He is very busy. You understand, I’m sure.”
“Still, sir, it would be fascinating for my viewers to see such a man at his craft. His job must be an intricate one, and he is charged with considerable responsibility. After all, you must have spent a small fortune altering the design of the station so as to accommodate his security schemes. I’m sure my audience would like to discover whether it is well spent.”
Baron Silverside began to stroke his burnsides. “Matters of finance are of little importance beside the comfort of my guests, madam,” he said. “But if you wish to see Mr. Sun at work, I will try to arrange it. I only trust you will not reveal any of his secrets to your public.”
“I will be discreet, my lord. Thank you.”
The media globes ceased their rotation and arranged themselves in formation above Kyoko’s head. Bidding the Baron adieu, she felt entirely satisfied with the interview.
Kyoko wanted to see this policeman, this Mr. Sun. Events were beginning to form a pattern in her mind, and Mr. Sun was part of the pattern, an important one. She had begun to see him as one element of a triptych, Maijstral and Fu George and Sun, each orbiting Silverside Station as Rathbon's Star was being orbited by its devouring companion, each held in place by the tension of mutual antagonism.
Kyoko Asperson was not just an interviewer: she fancied herself a dramatist, a dramatist who worked with living, unknowing subjects. Seeing a pattern in life, and making it come to the fore fully realized, flowing before the enraptured eyes of her audience.
There were dramatic possibilities here. One had only to make certain the possibilities were realized.
*
A Cygnus robot hummed past Gregor as he reached for the lock with his left hand and performed a quick snap-off. Pleased with having done the job one-handed, Gregor opened the door and stepped into the ballroom. The huge oval room was empty of people. Robots polished the floor, unimpressed by the awesome light of Rathbon's Star. Gregor smiled.
Reviewing wiring diagrams in his head, Gregor turned on his harness repellers and rose toward the ceiling. He'd spent the morning assembling devices patched together from harmless objects purchased in the Electronic Boutique and Gadget Faire, and now he intended to give them a field test.
*
“Pearl Woman. You're looking dashing.”
“Kotani.” She sniffed Kotani's ears and offered three fingers. “How are your schemes prospering?”
Kotani drew himself up. “Schemes?” He put a hand to his heart. “I, my dear? Schemes?”
She took his arm. “I observed you in consultation with Baron Silverside last night, Kotani. I know you wouldn’t be devoting so much time to a self-important dullard unless you had something in mind.”
Kotani gave a graceful smile. “Oh, very well,” he said, “I have
projects,
certainly. But I would never
scheme.”
He sniffed. “I’m not Drake Maijstral, after all.”
Pearl Woman smiled. “How do your . . . projects . . . fare, then?”
“Things are going forward. Some details remain.” He looked at her. “I missed you at luncheon.”
“I had some fruit in my room. I’m racing this afternoon, remember.”
“The Baron's oddsmakers are giving you five to three against.”
“And the odds on the Duchess?”
“Even.”
“Perhaps I should affect a limp. That would change the odds a bit.” Pearl Woman stretched one leg behind her and massaged her thigh thoughtfully.
“You're planning on winning, then?”
“Of course. You know me, Kotani. I don’t toss competitions. Besides,” she gave a private smile, “I’ve just come back from the racetrack. I was doing a little practicing while everyone else was having lunch. I know a few tricks that her grace has probably not encountered in her amateur league.” She started to walk again, limping slightly, then frowned.
She adjusted the limp, making it a bit more subtle.
Kotani smiled at her performance. “My bets will be on you, of course.”
“Thank you, Kotani. Your confidence bolsters me. You always had a good head for money.”
*
“Baron Silverside.”
The Baron's color rose at the sound of Maijstral’s voice, and his burnsides seemed to prickle aloft like the nape hair of a growling animal. Maijstral did not offer him a handclasp, nor (so far as Maijstral could discern) did Baron Silverside take note of that fact.
“Maijstral,” said the Baron.
“Baron, I really must complain about your police. I know they have their duty to perform, but their activities amount to nothing short of harassment.”