We waited another half hour, just to make sure everything had settled down. Then, once again retreating to the bar, we examined the sensor record.
And found nothing.
“What the bloody hell is this?” Morse demanded, frowning at the reader screen. “This your idea of a joke?”
“Hardly” I said. I hadn’t wanted him along, but he’d insisted, and after his help I couldn’t really refuse him. “Or if it is, it’s being played on the universe at large. We’re talking one very interesting object here.”
“No, we’re talking one very harmless carrybag,” Morse retorted, dropping the reader back on the table. “Unless you’re going to tell me these Nemuti sculptures can morph into brocade dressing robes?”
I spread my hands helplessly. “What can I say? All the signs pointed to the Hawk being in there.”
Morse snorted. “And here I always thought it was the Yandro fiasco that got you kicked out of Westali.”
“Meaning?” I asked, feeling a stirring of anger.
“You’re the big clever Yank detective—you figure it out.” Abruptly he stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, we’re due into Ian-apof in an hour and I have to make sure Ms. Auslander’s packed and ready to go.” He strode out of the bar and headed forward.
I watched him go, then turned to Bayta. “Well?” I invited.
“Well what?” she said. Her eyes were troubled, but there was none of the contempt or disappointment in her face that Morse had just spilled out onto the table. “The sensor must have failed.”
I shook my head. “I’ve already run a self-test. The sensor was working perfectly.”
“Then where is the Hawk?”
“It’s in the Juri’s bag, right where we expected it to be,” I told her. “Before I left the compartment I got a grip on the bag, just to see what the Modhri’s reaction would be, and I could feel something hard and solid in there. Something that felt very much like the slightly bulbous tip of the Hawk that we saw in the pictures.”
Bayta craned her neck to look at the reader’s display again. “I don’t see that at all.”
“Neither did the sensor,” I said grimly. “Apparently, the Hawk and its brother sculptures are sensor transparent.”
She looked up at me, her eyes widening. “They’re
what
? How can that be possible?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “Actually, no, let me back up a little. The Hawk’s not simply invisible—if it was, there’d be a hole in the middle of the sensor image. It’s more like a sensor chameleon, something that takes on and mimics the characteristics of its surroundings.”
“But then how can we see it and take pictures of it?” she protested. “Visible light is just another part of the electromagnetic spectrum; like infrared and radar.”
“How can we see through ordinary glass while it still blocks ultraviolet and some infrared?” I countered. “Like I said, I have no idea how it’s done. Especially since sitting alone all by itself the Hawk must look like
something
on a sensor scan. Otherwise, they sure wouldn’t have been relegated to the status of third-rate folk art.”
Bayta lowered her eyes to the display again, and I could see in her expression that she was starting to work through the serious implications of this whole thing.
Because Unpleasant Theory Number One had just been kicked out of the lineup. Whatever the Modhri wanted with these sculptures, it wasn’t a simple trade of exotic but ordinary artwork for a new homeland site. The Nemuti sculptures were either a weird material ‘a’ la Unpleasant Theory Number Two, or something even worse.
And with their self-generating cloak of sort-of invisibility, even the Spiders’ massive and wide-ranging Tube station sensor system might not have a hope in hell of spotting them.
Bayta was obviously thinking the same thing. “The Spiders can’t detect them,” she murmured. “The Modhri can take them anywhere he wants.”
“That’s the bad news,” I agreed. “The good news is that he apparently still needs the third Lynx to make his plan work.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he offered to let me retire in peace if I got it for him.”
Bayta’s eyes were steady on me. Possibly she was remembering that the Chahwyn were basically forcing me into retirement anyway. “What did you tell him?”
“That I’d think about it,” I said. “It seemed the safest thing to say.”
“But he’ll be watching you.”
“Me and everyone else,” I agreed. “Especially Morse and Penny and the rest of Penny’s friends.”
Bayta grimaced. “Who are going to lead him right to Mr. Stafford.”
I looked around the bar. None of the other patrons was within hearing distance of us. “Hardly,” I said, lowering my voice anyway. “Stafford’s not on Ian-apof.”
Bayta frowned. “But he told them to meet him there.”
“Your classic red herring,” I told her. “You haul out something big and fat and obvious and slap it down on the table in the hope that the bad guys will be so busy staring at it that they won’t notice you sneaking off somewhere else.”
“You’re saying he’s using them?” Bayta asked, apparently still not believing it. “He’s using his
friends
?”
“Why so surprised?” I asked. “This is a guy who spent his summer vacations hanging around Rafael Künstler, trillionaire and rabid art collector. Using your friends, acquaintances, and enemies is standard procedure with that crowd.”
“So you’ve said,” Bayta murmured. “It still doesn’t… never mind. But if he’s not on Ian-apof, where is he?”
“That’s the wonderful irony of it,” I said. “He’s—”
I broke off. Across the bar, Penny Auslander had appeared in the corridor. For a moment she stood there, her eyes sweeping the room. Then she spotted us and started across. “Play it cool,” I murmured.
Penny reached the table and sat down. “I need to talk to you,” she said, her voice low and urgent.
“Please; sit down,” I said, gesturing to the chair she was already planted in.
A waste of good sarcasm. “It’s Agent Morse,” she said. “I’m starting to wonder if I can trust him.”
“I thought we were the ones you didn’t trust,” I said.
She lowered her eyes a little. “I didn’t,” she admitted. “But I’ve been thinking about… what happened to Pyotr. Even Agent Morse admits you were somewhere else at the time.”
“Yes, I believe we tried telling you that.”
“I know,” she said tartly, some of the old Penny peeking through. The girl had fire, that was for sure. “I’m trying to say I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted,” I said. “Thank you for—”
“And I want you to come down to the ski resort with us.”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but we have urgent business elsewhere.”
“But we need you,” Penny said. “Daniel needs you. I’m—” Her throat tightened. “Mr. Morse says he’s in danger.”
I thought about Künstler, beaten to death amid the quiet luxury of a Quadrail compartment. “That’s possible,” I conceded. “But Mr. Morse himself seems capable enough of dealing with any trouble.”
“You’re not listening,” Penny said impatiently. “I don’t
trust
him.”
I looked at Bayta, and it wasn’t hard to read her thoughts. I only had a few days left on my Quadrail pass. If I spent those days riding a torchliner from the Ian-apof Station inward to the inner system, I would likely end up stranded there. I would certainly never make it to Ghonsilya and our hoped-for rendezvous with Fayr. “I’m sorry,” I said again. “For whatever comfort it might be, I don’t think anyone’s actually out to hurt Mr. Stafford.”
For a long moment Penny stared at me, her expression bringing the full weight of her family’s wealth and position to bear. I returned her gaze without flinching, and with a twitch of her lip she turned the glare back down to low power. “I see,” she said stiffly. “Thank you for your time.” Standing up, she strode out of the bar and disappeared again down the corridor.
“Some people are never satisfied,” I commented, taking a sip of my iced tea. “I wonder what kind of man she
does
like? Rich kids with rich daddies, I suppose.”
“I don’t know,” Bayta said thoughtfully. “How sure are we that Mr. Morse isn’t a walker?”
I shrugged. “Statistically, the odds are against it,” I said. “We know the Modhri hasn’t made much of an incursion into Human space.”
“Or he hadn’t as of a few months ago,” Bayta countered. “Even then, though, he had some walkers at the UN and other places.”
She had a point, unfortunately. With Earth law banning the import of corals and corallike substances, the Modhri hadn’t been able to bring in the outposts that he’d used as base camps for his infiltration of most of the other societies throughout the galaxy. Still, we knew he’d managed to create a certain presence for himself, mostly among the behind-the-scenes personnel in Earth’s various power centers.
And an ESS agent like Morse probably got out into the galaxy enough for the Modhri to have possibly snared him somewhere along the way.
“It’s certainly possible,” I told Bayta. “But he seems awfully antagonistic toward me for someone with a Modhran mind segment whispering behavioral cues in his ear.”
“Unless the Modhri’s keeping quiet and trying not to influence him.”
“Sure, but why?” I countered. “You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, to dust off an old saying. Even if Morse had a good reason to hate me, it would pay the Modhri to try to suppress that and make him a more enthusiastic ally.”
“Maybe he thought you’d be suspicious of a total stranger who wanted to assist us.”
“Maybe,” I agreed. “On the other hand, we’re fellow toilers in the Intelligence service trenches. That should automatically raise me above the standard random citizen in his eyes.”
“Except that he doesn’t like you.”
“Which the Modhri should be able to suppress, as I said.” I shook my head. “Bottom line is that we’re probably not going to know for sure whether Morse is a walker unless the Modhri makes a mistake.”
Bayta shivered. “Or takes him over.”
“Right,” I said, suppressing a shiver of my own. “But at least he can’t do that without our knowing about it. There are definite vocal and facial changes I know how to spot.” I took another sip of my tea. “Meantime, we just pretend Morse is as untrustworthy as everyone else and play our cards as close to our chests as possible.
And
try to get to Stafford before the Modhri does.”
“Yes,” Bayta murmured. “You may have been right about the Modhri not wanting to hurt Mr. Stafford. But at the same time, he won’t hesitate to do so if he thinks it necessary.”
I grimaced. “I know.”
“But you say you know where he is?”
“Pretty much.” I took a last swallow of tea and stood up. “Come on. The least we can do is see Penny and her friends off.”
The Ian-apof Station was fairly small, reflecting the modest size and ambitions of the planetary system itself. As far as I could tell from my encyclopedia, the planet’s skiing, lugeboarding, and rock climbing facilities were about all they had that might appeal to the interstellar tourist.
Still, those facilities were apparently pretty impressive, and the station’s designers had worked hard to make sure that no one who passed through their Quadrail station forgot it. Each of the dozen restaurants, waiting rooms, shops, and sleeping-room facilities had been painted and textured to look like craggy cliff sides, snow-covered forests, or majestic glaciers. With trains stopping less frequently than at larger stations, the Halkas here had even put in a public dit rec facility, whose tall sides had been sloped upward into a Matterhorn-like peak. Looking at it all, I could practically feel frostbite working its way into my feet.
We said our good-byes to Morse and Penny and her friends at the platform. Penny was rather subdued, probably still annoyed that I hadn’t properly fallen all over myself obeying her request to escort her to the inner system. Morse, for his part, seemed to have gotten over the—to him—perceived fiasco of my midnight reconnoiter and had gone back to his normal attitude of simmering dislike.
I was glad to be rid of the pair of them.
Bayta and I watched the group make their way toward the exit hatchway waiting area—apparently Ian-apof transfer station shuttles ran on an on-demand basis—and then headed for the main Quadrail waiting room. “How soon until the next train to Ghonsilya?” I asked Bayta as we walked.
“About two hours,” she said.
Way too long, I decided, to just sit around a waiting room counting the cracks in the fake rock formations. “In that case, let’s get something to drink,” I said, changing course toward a restaurant decorated to look like a very intimidating rock chimney. I’d never done any rock climbing myself, but I’d heard enough stories to know it wasn’t a hobby I would be taking up anytime soon.
“By the way, there was a data chip waiting for you with the stationmaster,” she said as we walked. “I went and got it while you were telling Ms. Auslander—again—that we weren’t going with them.”
I winced a little at the frost in her tone. She very definitely didn’t like Penny. “And?”
“It was from Deputy Director Losutu,” she said. “Agent Morse is indeed who he claims to be.”
“He’s sure?”
“He sent us Agent Morse’s complete ESS personnel file,” Bayta said, handing me a data chip. “From what I glanced at, it looked fine. But you’ll be able to tell better than I can.”
So much for the possibility that the Modhri had tried to throw in a ringer. Still, that had never been more than an outside chance anyway. With modern technologies making a person’s identity easy to check, a charade like that wouldn’t hold up long enough to be very useful. “I’ll look it over later,” I said.
The restaurant’s outside wilderness decor unfortunately carried over to the interior, with the added bonus of a whistling-wind soundtrack running in the background. The floor was painted to give the illusion that your table was halfway up the side of a cliff that even a mountain goat would avoid. Idly, I wondered how many acrophobes they got who took one look and ran out screaming.
Our iced tea, lemonade, and onion rings had just arrived when the door opened, and I looked up to see Morse hurrying toward us. “Where is she?” he demanded.
“Where is who?” I asked, frowning.
“Don’t play the fool,” he snapped. “She’s been trying for the past hour to get me to order you to come to Ian-apof with us.”
“Like you could actually do that,” I said, looking past him out the window. There were maybe twenty or thirty other waiting passengers milling around out there. None of them was Penny Auslander. “When did you see her last?”
“She went to the washroom about fifteen minutes ago,” Morse said, turning to follow my line of sight. “When she didn’t come out, I sent one of the other girls in to check on her. She must have sneaked out the other door.”
I looked at Bayta. Sneaked out, or was helped out. “Where are the rest of them?” I asked, pulling out a cash stick and plugging it into the table’s jack to pay for the drinks and onion rings that it looked like we weren’t going to be enjoying.
“At the shuttle waiting room,” Morse said. “I told them to stay together and not move until I got back.”
“Were they good with that?” I asked as the three of us headed for the door.
Morse made a noise in the back of his throat. “Who knows? I don’t exactly have authority to order
them
to do anything, either. Are you telling me Ms. Auslander
didn’t
come looking for you?”
“If she did, she didn’t find me,” I told him, pausing outside the restaurant to take stock of the situation. “Okay. She didn’t get on a shuttle, because you would have seen her.”
“Correct,” Morse said. “Besides which, none have docked since we arrived.”
“Ditto for any trains,” I said. “Ergo, she’s still somewhere in the station.”
“Brilliant, Holmes,” Morse growled. “Problem: there are fourteen buildings, not counting the Spiders’ private ones, and only three of us to search them all. If she cares to, she can play hide the button all day.” He looked at Bayta. “Unless you can persuade your Spider friends to join in the hunt.”
Bayta looked along the curved Tube floor to a pair of cargo trains with Spiders swarming busily around them. “They’re all already occupied,” she told him. “We’ll have to do it on our own.”
Morse grunted. “Lovely. Any suggestions as to where we begin?”
“We begin by splitting up,” I said. “Like you said, there’s a lot of ground to cover.”
“I thought you’d probably say that.” Morse pointed toward one end of the station and a triad of gift shops clustered around a restaurant. “I’ll start with that end.”
“We’ll take the other,” I said. “I suggest you start at the far side and work your way back toward the middle.”
“Thank you; I
do
know something about the technique,” Morse said acidly. Giving the area around us one final visual sweep, he strode off toward his target buildings.
I took Bayta’s arm and headed us off in the other direction. “You think she’s in danger?” Bayta asked quietly.
“I don’t know why she would be,” I said. “The Modhri must have realized by now that she doesn’t know where Stafford is.”
“Maybe Mr. Künstler told them he didn’t know where the Lynx was, either.”
I grimaced. At which point the walkers had beaten him to death just to make sure. “Point,” I conceded. “The Modhri doesn’t seem to be the trusting sort.” Directly ahead of us, a wiry Pirk with an expensive plumed headdress came to a halt in front of one of the schedule holodisplays, his hands idly preening his feathers as he gazed up at the listings.
It was the sort of thing Quadrail travelers did all the time. Problem was, this particular traveler had been looking at an identical display when Morse and Bayta and I had first emerged from the restaurant not two minutes ago. Either he had the galaxy’s worst short-term memory, or he wasn’t here to look at schedules. “But we can sort out the details once we find her,” I continued, keeping my voice casual. “Why don’t you start with those two cafés over there”—I pointed to the buildings nearest the working Spiders—“and I’ll hit the dit rec and sleeping-room buildings.” I indicated the two windowless structures directly past the Pirk. “If she’s not there, we’ll expand the search to the service buildings.”
“You think we should split up?” Bayta asked, her tone making it clear that she herself didn’t think much of the idea.
“We’ll be all right,” I soothed, patting her shoulder and then giving her a gentle push. “Go on, get going. Meet me here when you’re done.”
She studied my face a moment. But whatever her doubts or suspicions, they weren’t strong enough to override her basic tendency toward obedience. Turning, she headed toward the two cafés.
I let her get a few steps away, then continued toward the Pirk. He was still studying the display, standing in fact directly between me and the dit rec building. As I veered a little to go around him, he swiveled and tufted his ear feathers in the traditional gesture of greeting. [Ah—a Human,] he said in scratch-voiced Karli. [May your day be rich with joy and profit.]
“May your day be likewise,” I said, touching my hand to the top of my ear in the proper response by those of us whose biomechanical design had somehow neglected the need for full-range ear movement. “You are well?”
[Well and most content,] he replied. [I have just finished savoring the pleasure of one of your classic Human dit rec dramas. Its name—what was its name again?]
“I’m afraid I can’t help you on that,” I said politely. This Pirk seemed even more aromatic than usual for his species, and I had to force myself not to widen the circle I was already making around him.
[
Ten Angry Men
,] he said suddenly, his ear feathers making little circles. [That was the title.
Ten Angry Men
.]
“An excellent drama,” I agreed. The other standard response to Pirkarli aroma, aside from creating more distance, was to talk a lot, permitting more air to bypass the nose on its way in and out of the lungs. “But I believe you’ll find the title is actually
Twelve Angry Men
.”
[Ah, yes, indeed,] he said. [That was the number. Thank you. We shall have to remember that.] His ears flattened slightly. [Rather,
I
shall have to remember. You have no such need, as you already know.]
“You’re welcome,” I said, nodding as I finished my half circle and thankfully started widening the distance between us. “A fine furtherance of the day to you.”
[And to you. Human.] Briskly, he strode away.
Mentally, I shook my head. A dit rec drama, and the number twelve. If they ever handed out prizes for unsubtlety, the Modhri would take the top three places.
From the outside, as I’d already noted, the dit rec building looked like a miniature Matterhorn. Inside, I discovered, its designers had gone even more overboard. The central corridor, instead of carving a clean, straight line through the middle of the building, twisted like the meandering path of a drunken sailor trying to find the door. Its walls were craggy and angled, the light overhead dim and diffuse, the overall effect that of a narrow northside mountain crevice straight out of some Icelandic saga.
Even more impressive, it came complete with a set of Icelandic trolls.
There were three of them, all Halkas, grouped loosely together in the corridor like watchful statues a few meters past the door marked
12
. The biggest of them was an unexpectedly familiar face: the Halka on the Bellis-bound Quadrail who’d pulled me away from Künstler’s dying body and tossed me down the Quadrail corridor.
One of the other two was the fifth walker from Jurskala, the one who’d conveniently disappeared during our mad chase after Pyotr Gerashchenko. Apparently, the Modhri was consolidating his best forces here. Probably not a good sign. Watching the Halkas out of the corner of my eye, I opened the door and went inside.
Public viewing facilities like this normally included a variety of room sizes, ranging from those suitable for single viewers to larger ones that could accommodate groups of ten to fifteen. Room Twelve was in the middle of that range, with five large seats arranged in a semicircle around the dit rec display. At first I thought the room was deserted, but as I walked around one end of the semicircle I saw there was a single middle-aged Human lying along the farthest of the seats, his head pillowed on one armrest and his knees angled somewhat awkwardly over the other. There was a silk scarf across his face, as if there to shield his eyes from the dim light, covering everything down to his upper lip. His mouth was slightly open, his breathing the slow and methodical rhythm of a man in deep sleep. Playing to itself on the display was a classic Harold Lloyd dit rec silent comedy.
“Nice choice,” I commented quietly as I continued around the end of the seats and came to a halt facing the sleeping man. “A silent dit rec means no annoying soundtrack to interfere with your friend’s nap.”
“Thank you,” the man said.
Though not really the man, of course. The stiffness of his shoulders, the subtle tightness of voice and jaw and throat muscles, were all I needed to know that I was once again speaking directly to the Modhri.
“You’re welcome,” I said. “You’re both missing a good dit rec, though.”
“He needed the sleep,” the Modhri said. “And I find Human humor tedious.” He stretched his arms once, the gesture somehow making him look even less Human than he already did. Unhooking his legs from the chair arm, he swiveled himself back up into a sitting position. The scarf covering his face started to slip off, but he got a hand up in time and readjusted it back into place. “Please; sit down.”
“That’s okay—I’ve been sitting all day,” I said, staying where I was. Sitting in any of the remaining chairs would mean putting my back to the door, which I wasn’t interested in doing. “What did you want to talk about?”
“The third Lynx, formerly owned by the Human Künstler,” he said. “I want it.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said. “What I
don’t
understand is what kind of appeal an old Nemuti sculpture can possibly have for a galaxy-spanning supermind like you.”
“They intrigue me.” He paused, as if searching for the right phrase. “Perhaps they will go well together on my mantel.”
“I thought you said you didn’t like Human humor.”
“I said it was tedious,” he corrected. “I didn’t say it wasn’t a useful tool. What would it take to persuade you to deliver the Lynx to me?”
“Number one: I’ve seen how trustworthy your promises are,” I said. “Number two: you couldn’t afford me even if I
did
trust you. And number three: I haven’t got the Lynx.”
“But you know where it is,” he said. “That puts you ahead of the fools who seek the Human Stafford on Ian-apof.”
“You don’t think he’s there?”
“You
don’t think he’s there,” the Modhri countered. “Else you would be preparing to travel to the inner system with them.”