Far off, above him, on the surface of the lake, he could still hear the sepulchral tolling of the buoy-bell, ringing its warning over and over. The wall he could not see was weakening, splitting open, and the killer algae that had choked all the life out of Lake Virtue were about to burst through it, pounding on his apartment door and leaning hard on the annunciator, just about ringing it off the wall, and the neighbors were bound to hear it, soundproofing or no soundproofing....
Milos Vandar swam up from the depths of his dream-lake, from the depths of sleep, toward the surface of wakefulness and a damnably loud pounding on his door. The annunciator went off again, and its mournful
bong, bong bong
echoed through the apartment. Milos swore to himself and made a mental note, not for the first time, to adjust the annunciator, and have it make some more cheerful sound than that. Every time it went off, it made Milos think of funerals.
He stumbled out of bed, found a lounging cloak to drape over himself, and walked, a bit unsteadily, toward the door. Whoever was pounding on it seemed to think something was dreadfully urgent. Probably some lab assistant in a panic because a sample had gone bad. He resisted the urge to mutter something along the lines of
“
all right, all right, I
’
m coming.
”
No point in it, considering how thick the door was and how much noise his visitor was making out there.
He palmed the lock plate and the door slid out of the way. Milos was surprised and alarmed to find, not a panicked grad student, but a beefy-looking pair of men in severe-looking dark grey uniforms. Milos did not recognize their insignia.
“
You
’
re Milos Vandar,
”
the larger of the two men said, as if that in and of itself was crime enough to justify arrest.
“
Come with us. Now.
”
“
What?
”
“
You
’
re to come with us. Now.
”
The bigger man took Milos by the arm, and pulled him forward. Not enough to hurt or enough to knock Milos off his feet, but just enough for Milos to know the other man
’
s strength, and what he could do if he chose.
“
But—I—it
’
s—
”
Milos tried to speak, but could not find the words.
“
Ease up, Wint,
”
the smaller man—though he was only slightly smaller—said, speaking for the first time.
“
Let him at least get dressed first.
”
“
Yes, please,
”
Milos said.
“
Let me at least get dressed.
”
Astonishing. He had heard of the ancient game of good cop, bad cop many times, and here it was. Even knowing it was, or at least probably was, just a trick, a way to intimidate him, it was still working on him.
“
All right,
”
Wint said in a grudging tone of voice, as if letting a man put his pants on was a vast concession, something that went against all his principles.
“
But make it fast. And keep an eye on him.
”
He let go of Milos
’
s arm and gestured for him to get moving.
“
I, ah, ah, keep my clothes in the bedroom closet,
”
Milos said apologetically, as if he knew it was rude of him not to keep a change of clothes handy there by the door, for the convenience of any secret-police arrest team that happened to stop by in the middle of the night.
“
I have to go get them.
”
“
Go with him, Syd,
”
Wint told his companion.
“
Watch him.
”
It was not until Milos had dressed himself, been led outside, and none-too-gently ushered into his visitors
’
waiting vehicle that it dawned on him to wonder what it was all about. No doubt that was part of their standard technique as well—keep the subject, or victim, as off-balance as possible. Get him to feel intimidated, and he won
’
t have courage enough to cause you any trouble.
By the time he had recovered himself enough to ask what was happening, it was far too late. The two police officers—if they were police officers—sat impassively in the aircar, Wint next to Milos, and Syd in the forward, rear-facing seat. It was obvious neither of them was going to answer questions. Milos found he did not have the courage to ask them anything, in any event.
The military-grade aircar, its windows fully opacified, its blast shutters down, lifted off and flew out of the covered parking area by Milos
’
s house, and on toward wherever it was going. The ever-present rain commenced banging and rattling off the roof of the car the moment it cleared the carport and flew off into the dark, but Milos barely noticed. His fearful imagination was too busy launching out on journeys of its own.
He remembered the stories of what had happened on planets that had gone through bad ecocrises—Go-Down, Glister, Far Haven, and even, in the dim past, Earth herself.The same pattern held on the big habitats and domed colonies, for that matter. When the physical climate went to hell, the political climate deteriorated as well. When things started to go seriously wrong, sooner or later someone would decide the situation called for stern measures, powerful leadership, harsh discipline. In short, dictatorship. Arrest the dissidents, or better still, shoot the scientists, the messengers who brought the bad news.
Had it started here? Had he said something, found something, proved something that the authorities did not like? Was he the only one, the first one to be swept up? Or were the skies full of aircars like this one tonight, flitting back and forth between the homes of the innocent and the headquarters of whoever it was who had just retroactively declared thinking or speaking certain things to be crimes?
All questions he dared not ask. Milos rode in silence and waited for the trip to be over, and the nightmare to begin.
The aircar pitched its nose down and decelerated. They were about to arrive at their destination, wherever that was. It hadn
’
t been a long trip. Was that a good sign, or not?
The deceleration stopped. As best as Milos could tell, the car had gone into a stationary hover. Then there was a shift in the low hum of the aircar
’
s engines, and Milos felt the car moving slowly forward. The sound of the rain on the car roof faded away, and the timbre of the engine sound changed. They were in a covered, enclosed space, a garage or hangar of some kind, inside whatever sort of compound or complex it was.
Milos wondered if he had already seen his last of the outside world. Were they about to bundle him into some dark interior cell, never to be allowed to emerge?
Wint checked a status panel, nodded, and punched the open code into the door lock. The car door clamshelled up and out of the way, and Wint the bad cop stepped out. Milos followed, somewhat hesitantly, with Syd, the good cop, urging him on.
They were in a gloomy, anonymous, completely undistinguished covered parking garage for aircars. There were
dozens just like it throughout the city. The place was utterly empty except for Milos, his guards, and the car that had brought them. A few lights gleamed here and there, and directory signs pointed to upper and lower levels. If there were any clues to his whereabouts to be gleaned from small details, Milos was far too distracted and disturbed to take any notice of them.
Wint and Syd gave him very little time to take in his surroundings. They immediately marched him off toward a passenger lift a few steps from where the aircar sat. The doors closed the moment they were inside, and the car started moving at once, without anyone pushing a button or speaking a command.
The lift car moved up, and that gave Milos at least some hope. They were not taking him down to any subterranean bunker. Up was good. Up at least meant the hope of windows and light.
Or else, of course, it meant nothing at all. Milos abandoned his effort to find meaning. Short ride or long ride, elevator up or down—such things were meaningless with no context. No sense guessing in the absence of data. He would know more soon enough—unless, of course, they never told him anything at all.
The lift came to a halt, the doors opened, and the three of them stepped out into a distinctly unsinister corridor. The lights were at a dim setting, and it was difficult to make out the placards on the doors. The two guards ranged themselves on either side of Milos, each holding him by a forearm. They led him down the hallway toward a pair of larger double doors that retracted into the walls before he could read the lettering on them.
They swept through a reception area and down an interior hallway. The guards stopped at a certain door that slid open at their approach. They shoved Milos into the room. The door slid shut behind him, leaving the guards in the corridor.
Milos was alone in a small, windowless box of a room. Even in his disoriented and terrified state, it was plain to him that the room had never been intended as a cell, or a prison. It had more of the look of a never-used storeroom, or perhaps a work cube for a low-ranking office drone.
But rooms had been put to uses other than those intended, now and again. Perhaps all the proper cells were already full to bursting, and the coup leaders were forced to use whatever rooms they could find to hold their numberless prisoners.
There was a plain, slightly battered-looking worktable in the center of the room, and two equally battered metal chairs, one positioned to face the door, the other facing the opposite way. For want of anything else to do, Milos sat down in the chair that faced the door. He folded his hands together on the tabletop and stared at the door, waiting for someone, anyone, to show up and tell him what was going on.
He did not have long to wait. Ten minutes after his arrival, the door slid open and then shut behind a thin, almost emaciated-looking man who stood there, staring at Milos. The newcomer was holding a flat-read panel in his hand. He had a strange expression on his face, almost as if he had caught Milos breaking some sort of rule, and was deciding whether or not to call him to account for the infraction. There was something familiar about him. He looked as if he belonged in the background, rather than front and center. Milos felt certain he had seen him in the back of a crowd, or with someone else.
“
There you are, Dr. Vandar,
”
the man said, as if he had been looking all over for him, and Milos had kept him waiting.
“
So glad you finally got here.
”
Milos looked at the man. He had come up against his sort many a time in the past—a petty functionary who worried about the rules more than the point of the rules. Milos had learned the hard way that the best way to deal with such people was to let them think they
’
d won. Quite automatically, he sat up straighter, took his hands off the table, and tried to look suitably apologetic.
“
I
’
m afraid I didn
’
t know I was expected.
”
The newcomer looked irritated, and the lines of his face fell naturally into the expression.
“
How much did they tell you? The men who collected you and brought you here?
”
“
Nothing at all.
”
“
You don
’
t know why you
’
re here?
”
the man asked, sitting down in the other chair at the table. It was plain from his attitude that he had seen Milos before and expected to be recognized. The two of them had met, and recently. Milos dared not risk insulting the man by asking who he was.
Milos shook his head hopelessly.
“
No. Perhaps something about my work met with your—disapproval?
”
“
Disapproval? On the contrary. You
’
re here because of the high quality of your work at Lake Virtue.
”
Suddenly, the light went on. Milos knew who his inquisitor was. Aither Friable—no, Fribart, that was it. Fribart, Jorl Parrige
’
s assistant. Once he thought back to that day, Fribart fell into place in his memory. The assistant, the spear-carrier, the one at the back of the crowd.
What the devil was a nonentity like Fribart doing in the middle of a palace coup? And what did Lake Virtue have to do with it? What would a coup want with biologists?
“
Has—has Senyor Parrige taken over?
”
Milos asked.
“
I beg your pardon?
”
“
Is it a takeover? A coup? Has your—ah, boss—taken over? Was he the one who ordered me to be arrested, or brought in, or whatever you want to call it?
”
Fribart now looked not only annoyed, but confused.
“
Coup? Arrest? I don
’
t know what you
’
re talking about. I sent two men around to ask you to come down here and give us your opinion on an urgent matter, that
’
s all.
”
“
I see,
”
Milos said, though he was far from clear on the situation. Either Fribart was being disingenuous in the extreme, or else there was a lot going on in Parrige
’
s name that Fribart—and Parrige—did not know about. But at least it seemed there was no coup, and it was seeming a great deal more likely that Milos would be able to walk out of the room a free man.
“
The men who didn
’
t arrest me likewise didn
’
t tell me about any such urgent matter,
”
he said.
”
They had no knowledge of it,
”
Fribart said impatiently.
“
But let us not get lost in side issues. Are you willing to help us or not?
”