The Agent Gambit (28 page)

He was contemplating the navigation tank, which seemed at this moment to be filled with busy multicolored fish of varied sizes. "I don't dream," he murmured absently, then shook his head slightly and returned his gaze to her face. "It is my feeling thatthough it is-mushroom soufflé will become just a bit boring in three weeks. Would you care to help me concentrate on a tour of the ship? Perhaps we can find a storeroom containing different kinds of human food."

Her eyes lit. "Coffee!"

He grinned and stood, stretching. "Stranger things have happened."

YXTRANG COMMANDER KHALIIZ
considered the scan-tech's data: A single ship, poorly shielded, with three life-forms showing. No doubt Terran, and normally not worthy of the hunt, but booty had been scarce thus far, and the crew was hungry.

"Enter normal space."

The quarry was abruptly before them: a private yacht, with speed alone to its credit. The Commander had seen two of these in the past; both had been personal spacecraft, owned by individuals rather than a Troop. They'd had no weapons and only pitiful shields.

"Scan contact," the Adjutant announced as the low gong sounded. A moment later, he added, "Intruder scan. We are seen."

In the screen the vessel was turning and beginning to accelerate.

"Local radio," the Adjutant reported. "It seems they are calling for aid!"

"Signals responding?" Khaliiz asked.

"None." The Adjutant's voice was filled with the joyful anticipation of battle.

Khaliiz found an answering joy within himself. "Pursue."

EDGER HIMSELF ANSWERED
the comm and inclined his head in recognition of the caller. "Xavier Ponstella Ing. A pleasant day to you."

"And to you, sir," Ing replied, bowing his head deeply. "I have the information you requested concerning Herbert Alan Costello."

"You are kind. Is there further news, also, of this person's physical state?"

"The fingers have been replaced and the nerves are disposed to grow and the bones to knit. Another few days will tell the whole tale, of course, but the physician is most optimistic."

"This is welcome information. I shall inform my kinsman, who will rejoice."

Ing doubted it, but neglected to say so; it wouldn't do to offend the old gentleman. "In terms of the other things you wished to know: Herbert Alan Costello is employed by a man named Justin Hostro, who is a private businessperson in Econsey. I am sorry that I have been unable to ascertain from Mr. Hostro's assistant the precise amount of Herbert Alan Costello's wages-"

"This person Hostro is known to me," Edger said, cutting him off in a most un-Clutchlike manner. "We have done business together. I shall myself treat with him on this matter. Yes, I believe that will be best." He inclined his head once more to the man in the screen. "Xavier Ponstella Ing, you have been most helpful and courteous. I thank you for your care of my kinsman and for your willingness to allow us our customs. My Clan will not forget."

"It is mine to serve," Ing assured him, "and I rejoice to have served well."

"Joy to you, then, Xavier Ponstella Ing, and a good, long life."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THIS, VAL CON TOLD
himself sternly, must stop. There was no indication, however, that it would do so in the near future.

The visuals, as Miri had said, were easily ignored. One simply concentrated on the next order of business and refused to be turned from one's chosen course by fuzzy doors, edges, or ceilings, or by flaring colors. Such things could not be happening. Thus, one walked through them.

The physical effects were more difficult.

His shirt caressed chest and arms with every move as he delightedly slid his palms down leathered thighs. When he put up an exasperated hand to push the hair away from his eyes, the feel of the thick, silky stuff slipping through his fingers nearly had him weeping in pleasure. Irritably, he put his hand to the flickering wall and dragged it along for several paces before admitting defeat there, as well.

Everything felt so nice!

There was worse. At the moment, Miri was walking ahead, allowing him a fine view of her strong, slender shape and the tantalizing hint of sway to her hips. It was a sight that gave him delight, which was not of itself surprising. He had been aware for some time of taking a certain satisfaction in contemplating Miri's physical self; he had, indeed, noted a tendency to allow his eyes to rest upon her more and more frequently. It had not seemed particularly worrisome.

Now, with the beat of the drive calling forth multiple songs of sensuality from body and mind, it was very worrisome, indeed.

There was an inward flicker, and hanging before his mind's eye was the equation showing him how he might take her to his own-though not their mutual-pleasure. CMS wavered between .985 and .993.

Go away! he snarled silently, and it faded, leaving a taste of metal in his mouth.

A position of less jeopardy was required. Stretching his legs, he came alongside her, which put them both in greater safety-he hoped. She looked up at him, grinning, allowing a glance of the sweet curve of her throat down to what lay hidden by the lacing of the snowy shirt.

He slammed to a halt, eyes closed and teeth gritting. Wrong again, he thought. This is getting to be a habit.

Her hand was warm on his arm, and he snapped his eyes open to find her standing closer than he liked, yet not close enough, looking up at him. Sympathy seemed at war with laughter in her face.

"Little bit of lust never hurt anybody."

He shook his head, as if the motion would clear his brain. "It's been a long time."

"With a face like that? Don't lie to your grandmother." Laughter triumphed over sympathy. "Bet the galaxy's full of green-eyed kids."

"Countless numbers," he agreed. "None of them mine."

"Real waste," she murmured, slipping closer until her hip touched his. Slowly, seeming to take as much pleasure in the sensation as he did, she slid her hands up his arms to his shoulders. "It'll give us something to concentrate on."

His hands of themselves had settled around her waist, holding lightly; he noted that he was trembling. Yes, he thought suddenly, with the surety of a well-played hunch, with no taint of drive-effect attached. Yes and yes and-

No.

Easing back a fraction, be searched her face and found what he sought in the soft curve of her mouth and deep in her eyes. It had been there for a while, he realized with startling clarity, yet she had no notion. For all her life, Miri had played singleodds, and if she could deny what she was feeling before it was conscious, dismiss it as drive-induced pleasure . . . .

He pulled back another inch. "Wait."

She stiffened, mouth tightening. "Guess I'm as bad as Polesta, huh?" Hurt showed on her face-but also relief.

"Oh, Miri . . . ." He dropped his face to her warm, bright hair, rubbing cheek and forehead in its wonderful softness, rumpling her bangs and half unmooring her braid. His retreat was timed to a millisecond; and taking his hands from around her waist required more disciplined timing than the throw that had not broken Polesta's back.

"Well-" Her mouth twisted, and she half-turned away.

He caught one small hand and waited until she turned again to look at him. "When the drive goes off," he said.

She frowned. "What?"

"When we are again in normal space, let us speak of this." He tipped his head, half-smiling. "Don't be angry with me, Miri."

The ghost of a laugh eased the tightness of her face as she pulled her hand away and moved on. "You're a mental case, my friend."

"Watcher."

"Yes, T'carais?"

"Extend to our kinsman Selector my regret for any inconvenience I may cause him by requiring you to accompany me to the place where Justin Hostro conducts business."

"Yes, T'carais."

"Say also to our kinsman that, should he have heard nothing from us-either by comm or by our return to this place-within three Standard hours, he must inform my brother the T'caraisiana'ab of this event, instructing him in my voice that he is to act as he knows is proper in the case, always keeping in his thoughts that Justin Hostro has been adjudged by our failure to return guilty of capturing the knives of four of our Clan."

"Kinsman?"

"Such may overstate the case," Edger said more gently. "But when one deals with the Clans of Men it is well to be prepared for ill-thought action. Do as I have asked. We depart in fifteen of these things named minutes."

THE MEAT HAD
been easy, the pillage of no great worth. But the kill had put fresh heart into the crew, and Commander Khaliiz, satisfied that the luck of the hunt had changed, gave the order to take the ship into the underside of space.

"Which way now?"
Miri asked at the branching of the corridors.

Val Con considered it with his new sense of clarity and gestured to the right. "There."

"You're the boss." She followed him down the indicated hall, grimly looking at the tricksy walls, which was not a good idea. Her eyes slid to Val Con, ahead of her. In some ways, that was not much better an idea, though it offered a more pleasing aspect than the walls. Vividly, she recalled the warmth and the slim strength of him and his hands curved with promise around her waist-and bit her lip hard enough to draw blood as she strove to keep her walk even, though she was shaking with desire.

He'd stopped and was bent close to the wall, seeming to study something. Though how anybody could study
anything
in the present sense-storm was more than Miri could fathom. She leaned against the opposite wall and waited.

Val Con had put his hands against the wall and seemed to be trying to square something off. After a few minutes of effort, he shook his head and straightened.

"What's up?" she asked.

"This is the storeroom we want," he said, not turning to look at her. "But it's locked, and I can't see the keyplate properly-it keeps running and shifting."

This was absurd! There was food and drink and music on the other side of the door-he knew it! To be thwarted now by something so minor as an inability of physical eyes to perceive-

The answer formed just behind his eyes, in the space reserved for Loop phenomena, and hung there, glowing, its aura strongly reminiscent of hunch. The keyplate configuration was clear. He thought of the pattern he saw, and the door slid open, untouched.

He stood staring.

"I didn't know you could do that," Miri commented from across the hall.

"I can't," he said and stepped forward. The open door to the storeroom was not an illusion. He walked through.

A moment later, Miri pushed away from the support of the wall and went after him.

That proved to be a mistake. The moment she crossed the threshold, odors of every kind assailed her: spices, wood-shavings, wool, mint, musk. Added to the visuals and the textual and the need, it was too much. Much too much.

She sat down hard on the first thing that looked like it might be real. Arms wrapped in a tight hug around her own chest, she hunched over, eyes closed, shaking like a kid in a fever.

She would never make it. Eight hours? Impossible!

"Miri. Miri!"

"What?" The word was a hoarse gasp.

"Put out a hand and take this.
Miri.
Put out a hand and take this. Do it now."

Obviously, she was not going to have any peace until she did what he said. She managed to get one arm unwrapped and, after a hard struggle, opened her eyes.

Val Con sat on the shifting floor at her feet, holding out an open bottle of wine. She took it from him, blinking.

"Now what?"

"Drink."

"Drink? Out of the
bottle?"
Her laughter sounded shrill in her own ears, but any joke was better than none.

"It was difficult enough finding wine without wasting time looking for glasses," he said repressively. "Drink."

She shook her head. "Always telling me what to do. No
reasons,
just-"

"Alcohol depresses the senses," he said. "Drink your wine."

"You go to hell!"

He drank. "I suppose," he murmured pensively, "I could pour it down your throat."

"Bully." But she took a pull, drinking it like kynak, not for taste, but to get drunk.

After a time she paused for breath, grinning and shaking her head. "And I had you figured for a kid from the right side of town."

He lifted a brow. "As distinct from the left side of town?"

"As distinct from the wrong side of town." She paused to gulp more wine.
"I'm
from the wrong side of town-no money, no prospects, no education, no brains."

"Ah. Then you figured correctly. Clan Korval is very old; we've had a great deal of time to amass wealth. Quite likely money accounted for the excellence of my education, which made it easier to qualify for Scout training." He took a long drink. "I don't think brains are the sole property of people from the-right side of town, however."

"Yeah?" She leaned forward, which was taking a risk, even though the shakes had largely departed. "Why'd you say no, back there?"

Both brows raised. "Enlightened self-interest. The drive is still engaged."

"Could've fooled me." She sat back and drank deeply. "How'd you pull that gimmick with the door?"

He took a slow swallow and set the bottle on the bucking floor at his side. "When I became halfling it was seen that I had an ability to-pick up objects-without physically touching them. Within my Clan, such abilities are not unknown. However, testing found my talent too insignificant to train, though I was given instruction in its control, so it would not affect my normal activities.

"The talent neither grew nor disappeared, merely remaining at the same level into my adulthood. I played with it occasionally, but it was too much of an effort to use seriously. By the time I had reached forth with my mind and brought a cup to myself from across the room, I could have walked the distance, picked the cup up in my hands, sampled the contents,
and
been much less tired." He paused to retrieve his bottle and drink.

"Then it vanished. I-" He took a breath, reviewing sequences in his mind. Yes, the timing was correct. There was much there that required Balance . . . . "I believe that the-energy-generated by certain nonsurvival functions is what fuels the Loop."