Demon princes 01 05 the.., p.69
Demon Princes 01-05 The Star Ki, page 69
Gersen drew back out of range of Panshaw’s vision, should he be wearing night-glasses. He touched his detector to the conductive trail he had sprayed upon the wall and turned high the volume. For a moment he heard nothing. Then: the sound of moving hardware, the creak of the opening door. Again silence, as the room was surveyed. Next footsteps and then a soft voice, apparently speaking into a transceiver: “Nothing. No one here.”
Soft and faint in response came Panshaw’s voice: “Has there been disturbance?”
“Apparently nothing.”
“Perhaps a false alarm. I’m coming up.”
Watching through the window, Gersen saw Panshaw move off toward the front.
Gersen immediately stepped through the window and out upon the surface of the dome. Again he touched the detector to the conductive trail. Presently he heard Panshaw’s voice: “What caused the alarm?”
“Lumen impact, brief and low-intensity.”
Silence. Then again Panshaw’s voice, cautious and thoughtful. “Nothing seems disturbed .... Peculiar. I wonder about that man. Still I am often over-subtle. He may be exactly as he represents himself.”
“That in itself is an over-subtle idea.”
“Possibly true .... We have a mystery on our hands, which will annoy Big Bird. But first things first, which I measure by what is likely to cause Bird the least vexation. In this case, Cahouse comes first. The fellow at Traveler’s Inn must wait his turn.”
A grunt, then: “Cahouse is not at Inkin’s Shade. I may be out several days looking for him.”
“Go your best speed, but get the work done. It will be at your own initiative: I am leaving at once for Twanish.”
“So soon? You had better stay here and collect shares.”
“I do as I am told. Well, so much for a false alarm. I see nothing to keep us here .... A moment! The door into Litto’s. I believe it has been forced. The paint is broken ....” A mumble of words which Gersen could not distinguish; then the shuffle of hurried footsteps.
Gersen ran back across the dome, dropped down upon the entrance ramp, gained the shadows of the kiosk before turning. The windows of both offices showed light; as Gersen watched a dark shape appeared briefly at Litto’s window, then disappeared.
Gersen returned the way he had come. Crossing Central Plaza he noticed a troupe of musicians in the Sferinde Gardens. They played for a large group of Methlen all wearing an evening costume of yellow and white, the men with pale blue sashes.
Gersen watched a moment; then smiling a trifle wistfully he continued to the Traveler’s Inn.
Behind the reception counter stood Daswell Tippin. The sight of Gersen brought a curious expression of surprise and concern to his face. Gersen approached the desk. “Why do you look at me like that?”
Tippin blurted, “Someone called asking for you, not five minutes ago. I thought you were in your room, and said as much.”
“Who called?”
“Well—he gave no name.”
“Panshaw? No? Ruk? I see. Well, no great affair. I am going to my room now, so you were only five minutes wrong—a trivial period. Do you agree?”
“I agree absolutely!”
“Where will I find Nihel Cahouse?”
“At Inkin’s Shade; he’s Fogle Clan; many Fogies live at Inkin’s Shade.”
“What if he is not at Inkin’s Shade?”
Tippin threw out his hands. “He might be anywhere.”
“Do not mention my interest in Cahouse to anyone.”
“Your interest in Cahouse is taken for granted,” growled Tippin. “I’d be telling nothing new.”
“Still—keep a quiet tongue in your head.”
“Indeed, indeed, indeed! My tongue is as secret as if it had been torn out!”
Gersen went up to his chambers, which he inspected carefully. Then, installing alarms of his own across doors and windows, he bathed, went to his couch, and slept.
9
From Peoples of the Coranne, by Richard Pelto:
The Darsh espouse each other only through calculation. The women judge the weight of the man’s duodecimates; the men taste the woman’s cooking and test the comfort of her dumble: so are Darsh marriages made. The two probably will not engage in sexual congress; both will surely go out on the moonlit desert to pursue their amatory affairs—
The marital relationship is formal and cool. Each party knows what is expected of him or her and, even more keenly, what he or she expects. If thwarted, the woman retaliates with rancid ahagaree or scorched pourrian; the man in his turn will throw less duodecimate upon the table, and spend his time at the beer gardens.
In the morning, an hour before Cora-rise, the woman awakes the man, who sullenly dons his day-clothes and goes to look at the sky. He utters a phrase of rather hollow optimism, in loose translation: “It will be good!” and sets off to his sift. The woman looks after him with a dark phrase other own: “Go to it, fool!”
Late in the day the man returns. As he steps under the shade he takes a final glance around the sky and says, again in rather hollow tones: “Asi achih!” which means, “And so it went!” The woman, watching from the shadow of her dumble, merely chuckles quietly to herself.
Gersen awoke at dawn. Rays of Cora-light flashing across the desert nearly parallel to the surface cast long black shadows across the plaza Looking from his window, Gersen thought of Rigel-light, also white and brilliant. At the distance of Alphanor Rigel-light seemed cool, brittle, crackling with overtones of violet Cora-light, received at closer range, sizzled and stung.
Gersen dressed in loose gray trousers, a striped blue-and-white singlet, air-pad sandals conventional hot-weather garments across the human universe Using the communicator, he called the Mining Journal, and learned that the offices would not be open for yet another hour.
Descending into the empty lobby, Gersen went out into the garden where he found only a few conscientious tourists. He breakfasted upon tea, fruit, pastries, and cheese imported across unknown distances As he left the garden, water began first to drip, then to fall in veils, from the parasol rims Day had started in earnest, Cora’s assault must be thwarted.
Gersen went directly to Dindar House Ignoring the fusty halls of the first floor, he ascended to the premises of the Mining Journal: a room long and wide, dominated by an enormous relief map of the Wale along one wall. The front counter showed a checkerboard surface of jasper and jade and supported to the right a rack of glass vials containing the various fractions of black sand, with small disks of the corresponding metals below, and to the left a faultless cube of pyrite a foot and a half on the side.
A man of middle years, grave, deliberate, and wearing an urbane gray beard, came to the counter “Sir, your needs?”
“I represent Cosmopolis” said Gersen. “I’ve been sent out to do a short series on Dar Sai and the Darsh My budget allows for the hiring of a local aide, hopefully someone from your staff.”
“My staff consists mostly of myself. But I’ll be glad to assist you, as a hireling or otherwise.”
“Excellent My name, incidentally, is Kirth Gersen.”
“I am Evelden Hoe What sort of thing are you doing?”
“Perhaps a set of biographical sketches I’ve been told to look up a certain Nihel Cahouse, possibly resident at Inkin’s Shade.”
Hoe pulled at his beard “I know the name Hmm I can’t quite recall the connection Let’s check the index Come along, this way, if you will.”
Hoe took Gersen into a back room “This is our library, so to speak. Our index is in fair shape, if it’s appeared in the Journal we’ll find it” Hoe seated himself before a buttonboard and screen. “Nihel Cahouse. Here he is I remember the story now Shall I give you the gist of it? Or do you care to read the news piece?”
“I’d just as soon hear it from you.”
“Cahouse is a Fogle, out of Inkin’s Shade, and a sandminer. At a place called Jamile Wallow he located a rich sift and won over a thousand ounces of sand. He went back to Inkin’s Shade and found a hadaul in progress—or maybe he simply went back for the hadaul, which is more likely. He bet like a man inspired and when the day was over he’d won five thousand ounces—a princely fortune. At this time Kotzash Mutual was a going enterprise. The Kotzash comptroller, a certain Ottile Panshaw, happened to be on hand. Cahouse converted his sand into six hundred Kotzash vouchers.
“Two days later the Kotzash warehouse was looted. Nihel Cahouse lost everything and became the topic of a sad news item.”
“Where is he now? Still at Inkin’s Shade?”
Hoe touched buttons “Here’s a followup.”
On the screen appeared a brief paragraph.
Nihel Cahouse, the erstwhile millionaire, has returned to the desert. He’ll go back to Jamile Wallow and seek another sift.
“That’s a fairly recent item,” said Hoe “About three months old.”
“How will I find Jamile Wallow?”
“It’s west and southerly I’ll show you on the map.”
“Good, but first another topic Lens Larque, who stole Cahouse’s sand.”
Hoe’s face became still and guarded “That is a name we mention very quietly at Serjeuz.”
“Still, he is Dar Sai’s most famous citizen, and he’d certainly be the subject of one of my stories.”
Hoe showed an uneasy smile “Understandable. He is an amazing man Incidentally, he dislikes unfavorable publicity, and he has far connections. In short, he is not a man to be trifled with.”
“So I am told Have you ever met him?”
“Not to my knowledge. I hope never to do so.”
“What about photographs? Are any in your files?”
Hoe hesitated, then muttered: “Probably not. Nothing useful.”
“Our conversation is naturally confidential,” said Gersen. “The Mining Journal will not be quoted, nor named as a source; still, Cosmopolis needs a picture. In fact, it would be worth fifty, or even a hundred svu.” Gersen placed down a certificate. Hoe touched it with tentative fingertips, then regretfully drew his hand away. “I have no recent photographs. But only a few days ago I happened to notice something in an old picture .... I don’t know whether or not it’s what you want.”
“Show me the picture.”
With a glance over his shoulder, Hoe pushed buttons. He spoke in a suddenly brassy voice: “What I am about to show you is a collection of quaint old clan-pictures, recorded over many years. Where would you like to start?”
“With the Bugold Clan.”
“Certainly. This is the oldest photograph on file. It was recorded almost two hundred years ago. Look at those people! Aren’t they a picturesque sight? In those days the Bugolds were something of an outlaw clan; perhaps they show us their most ferocious expressions .... Here is something more recent, possibly thirty years old. The Bugolds again, and almost demure by comparison. On this side stand the ‘bungle boys’; over here are the ‘kitchets,’ as they are called. During these fleeting transitory months, the Darsh women are at their best. Look at this girl with her straight body and flashing eyes! She is really quite handsome. Now these are the young bucks, no longer ‘bungles’ but not yet fleshed out into the full reek of Darsh manhood. Look at this one in particular! I don’t know his name, but I am told that he later committed a theft and became what the Darsh call rachepol. Who knows what has happened to him? ... Do you care to look at other photographs?”
“Later, by all means. I’d certainly like copies of these two; they make a most interesting study.”
Hoe depressed a toggle and facsimiles fell into a tray. “There you are, sir.”
“Thank you.” Gersen tucked the photographs into his pocket;.
Hoe did likewise with the money.
“I’m in something of a rush just now,” said Gersen. “Show me Jamile Wallow, or better, give me the coordinates, and I’ll be on my way.”
Hoe touched buttons and handed the print-out to Gersen.
“Will you be returning soon?”
“In a day or so.”
“Our conversation is of course confidential.”
“That goes without saying. In both directions.”
“Naturally.” Hoe escorted Gersen to the door. “Until our next meeting, my good wishes.”
At the tourist shop Gersen rented a late-model skimmer and desert wear: a process which, undertaken through the instrumentality of a languid clerk, took an extended period. Gersen envisioned Bel Ruk fleeting through the stars toward Jamile Wallow, and became agonized with nervous frustration, which he managed to dissemble. At last he was given freedom of the vehicle. He jumped into the cockpit, pulled up the cowl, arranged the sunscreen over his head, then took the craft aloft. He swept through the veil of water, up at a slant, away from the clustered parasols of Serjeuz, away to the west.
He fixed the autopilot to the coordinates of Jamile Wallow, pulled the speed control far back, and relaxed into the seat. Below slid the desert in a thousand subtle variations: a gravel plain, sand dunes breaking against outcrops of black tuff, an area of wind-scoured canyons, a plain of pale sand heaving in mounds and swales around a settlement of three parasols: Fotheringay Shade according to the map. On the northern horizon stood a solitary parasol:
Dugg’s Shade.
An hour passed and another. Cora kept pace with the skimmer, bearing gradually to the north as the skimmer slanted south.
Below, another lonely shade, uninhabited and derelict: Gannet’s Shade, according to the map. No water flowed over the parasol; the vacant dumbles hunched under a tangle of seared brambles and skeleton trees. On the map, a red circle indicated its dead condition. Gersen looked along the course to Jamile Wallow, which was marked by a small red asterisk: still an hour away.
Gersen’s mood grew taut. Depending upon Cahouse’s whereabouts, Gersen calculated that he had either an hour’s advantage over Bel Ruk, or a disadvantage of two or three hours. If Bel Ruk had preceded him to Jamile Wallow his mission became dangerous.
At the horizon appeared a low plateau, and, where a low ravine cut down to the desert floor, Jamile Wallow. Gersen saw a makeshift parasol, fabricated of arafin tubing and metal-coated membrane. The structure had been damaged; the parasol tilted drunkenly to the side, dripping random gouts and spatters of water. The parasol shaded three shacks. One had partially collapsed; two were in little better condition. Fifty yards south, in full Cora-light, beside a corroded clutter of mining equipment stood a tool shed built of algaic planks.[35]
Gersen lowered the skimmer and drifted around the shade, perceiving no signs of life. He made a second circle, then landed the skimmer behind the cluster of huts. He lowered the cowl and was instantly struck by a waft of hot desert air. He listened .... A forlorn plash of dripping water, a sighing of wind in the trusswork of the parasol; otherwise, silence.
The heat began to prickle at Gersen’s skin. He pulled the hood up over his head and activated the air-cooler. Over his eyes he fitted translucent metal hemispheres and slipped his feet into desert shoes. Alighting from the skimmer he surveyed the landscape. To one side the desert spread stark and far; to the other, a hopper, a rickety conveyor, and a heap of dun sand indicated the site of Cahouse’s workings. Overhead the sagging parasol spilled an irregular trickle of water. Nihel Cahouse was nowhere to be seen, and Gersen felt a hollow sense of defeat.
He went to peer into the stone huts, to discover only trash and a few trifles of dilapidated furniture. The fourth shed, fifty yards south, evidently housed the power module, the wellhead, and the water pump. Gersen started across the open space to investigate. A moving glint in the sky caught his attention. He froze to a standstill and instantly identified the object as an approaching aircraft; apparently a skimmer similar to his own.
Gersen ran back under the parasol in excitement and exhilaration: if Eel Ruk were aboard the skimmer, he evidently had not yet found Nihel Cahouse. Gersen jumped aboard his own skimmer, jerked at the controls, and slid it behind the pile of tailings. He threw several broken sheets of arafin roofing over the skimmer, achieving a reasonable camouflage. He armed himself with his projac and hand gun and dodged behind the tailings pile. Here he alarmed three scorpion-like creatures, each a foot long, mottled white and tan with orange underbodies. They erected rows of glinting scales, glared from hooded emerald eyes, waved whip-stings, and began a purposeful sidelong encirclement. Gersen destroyed them with quick pulses from his hand gun, creating three small tinkling explosions.
Gersen looked up into the sky. The approaching skimmer was hidden behind the parasol. His place of concealment, he decided, was short of satisfactory; crouching and trying to merge into the hillside, he ran out to the plank shed. Ducking around to the back, he hopped high and twisted in midair, and barely avoided stepping Into a hollow crowded with a dozen basking scorpions. The stings jerked erect; emerald eyes flashed and blinked. Gersen killed them with a single pulse of power, then dodged behind the shed.
Overhead hung the skimmer: a craft enameled green and black, somewhat larger than Gersen’s rented vehicle. It slid under the parasol and dropped to the surface. Two men in Darsh desert gear alighted. Their faces, hooded and disguised by metal eye-guards, were unrecognizable. So, too, however, was Ottile Panshaw, whose frame was distinctively slight. The two men stood looking glumly about the shade, much as Gersen had done.
