Demon princes 01 05 the.., p.78
Demon Princes 01-05 The Star Ki, page 78
So then, he asked himself gloomily, what next? He had not yet inspected Panshaw’s office, which in any event was probably a waste of time; indeed, Panshaw had specifically told him so. With no great enthusiasm Gersen returned to Skohune Tower and room 307. Sliding back the door, he scrutinized the room, which already felt disused and dead. To capture a man, the easiest method was narcotic gas. Gersen sniffed the air, which smelled fresh enough. He checked the door casing for sensors, looked along the rug for a hump which might indicate a mine. The rug itself might be woven of explosive fibers, which would upon contact break him into fragments.
Carefully he entered the room, and avoiding the rug, sidled to the desk. Using elaborate precautions, he explored Panshaw’s files, where he found the various leases, enabling certificates, licenses, and grants which originally had been declared Kotzash Mutual’s only assets. Most carried a terse notation written in red ink: “worthless.” The Shanitra lease awarded Kotzash Mutual sole and exclusive rights to “explore, test, develop, and exploit all valuable substances present upon the surface or within the interior,” and prohibited “all other persons, agencies, and entities, including manned or unmanned mechanical devices” from trespass upon Shanitra for the term of the lease, which ran for the term of twenty-six years.
Interesting, thought Gersen, if not particularly illuminating. The key question remained unanswered: why would Lens Larque invest so much time and money on Shanitra?
Gersen found nothing more to interest him.-The details of payments made to Jarkow, or other engineering firms, were nowhere in evidence; presumably they resided in a bank computer.
Gersen called Sweecham’s Bank, and after a series of formalities with which he patiently complied, he was rendered the code which controlled Kotzash financial records.
For half an hour Gersen studied the information presented to him and in the end knew little more than before, although the magnitude of payments made to Jarkow came as something of a surprise. For over a year Kotzash had honored monthly invoices from Jarkow in sums ranging from svu 80,500 to svu 145,720. The payments then dropped off to SVU 42,000. Whatever the search, it seemed to be dwindling and phasing out.
On sudden thought, Gersen looked into the city directory. Jarkow Engineering must necessarily maintain an equipment yard, employment and bookkeeping facilities, transport docks, even a warehouse.
In the directory under “Jarkow” Gersen discovered four entries: a residential address for “Lemuel Jarkow,” another for “Swiat Jarkow,” “Jarkow Engineering” in Skohune Tower, and “Jarkow Corporation Yard,” on Gladhorn Road.
Gersen put away the directory, leaned back on the chair, and tried to formulate a plan of action. Ottile Panshaw had served as a kind of indicator, registering the presence of Lens Larque as a buoy marks the location of a reef With Panshaw gone, Gersen himself became the key to Lens Larque’s whereabouts, in the same sense that a staked-out lamb is the key to the presence of a tiger Gersen winced. Far better that he seek out Lens Larque than that Lens Larque seek him out.
The only investigation which seemed even remotely propitious was contained in the question why did Lens Larque invest so much effort on Shanitra?
Jarkow might know, but Jarkow would certainly tell Gersen nothing. The melancholy draftsman might also know Jarkow’s employees—those who had worked on Shanitra—might know.
Gersen, prickling with the need for action, jumped to his feet. He crossed the room, slid the door open a trifle, looked up and down the corridor, which was empty. He descended to the street Gladhorn Road, according to his map, angled away from the Mall and curved to the northeast.
A cab swung to the curb and halted, as if soliciting his custom. Gersen continued along the Mall, and presently glanced over his shoulder. The cab, old and quite ordinary, distinguished only by a faded white stripe around the skirt, moved out into the traffic and was gone. The driver had been a bulky flat-faced man of uncertain age and unknowable racial background.
Gersen performed a set of procedures designed to frustrate any tracer mechanism which might have been put upon him. On Gladhorn Road he stepped into a clothing store, where he brought gray twill trousers, a pale blue shirt, a belted brown jacket, and a black cloth cap, which he donned on the spot Leaving his former garments on the premises, he went out on the street, now in the guise of an artisan.
Gladhorn Road curved to the east, past small shops and miscellaneous enterprises, rooming houses, taverns, restaurants, dim stores dealing in curios, apothecaries, barbers, public clerks. At the outskirts of town Gersen came upon the Jarkow Corporation Yard, where Jarkow maintained his equipment conveyors, rotary torches, gantrys, vertical stabbers, thrusts, loading pods, a pair of mobile cranes. To one side stood a row of small buildings. The first showed a sign EMPLOYMENT OFFICE Across the doorway hung a second sign NO HIRING TODAY. Beyond were a payroll office and tool warehouses, then a small landing field, on which rested a pair of weatherbeaten personnel carriers and a heavy cargo lift.
For want of a better occupation, Gersen entered the employment office Behind a counter sat an old man with a scarred brown face “Sir=“
“I saw the sign,” said Gersen “Does that mean there’ll be no hiring tomorrow?”
“That’s my guess,” said the clerk “We’re just closing down a big job and there’s nothing else on the boards. In fact we’ve laid off most of our crew.”
“What’s the job you just finished?”
“Big exploration job, up on Shanitra.”
“Did they find anything?”
“Friend, whatever they found I’m the last man they’d tell.”
Gersen turned away and sauntered back out to the street Opposite he noticed a ramshackle building decorated with extraordinary lightning bolts of black and white on a background of brick red. The roof supported a large sign as garish as the building itself a crescent moon with a naked girl reclining in the concavity, she held aloft a goblet of pale liquid from which floated electric sparks. The sign displayed a legend SIAR-UANDIRER’S IN.
Gersen crossed the street. The music of a euphonium, played with gusto and decision, waxed louder as he approached. In his farings across the Oikumene Gersen had known many such taverns, where he had witnessed many strange events and heard many odd tales, not a few of them true.
He entered a long low-ceilinged room, heavy with beer fumes. In the far corner a hatchet-faced old woman in a gown of black tinsel, her skin toned white, her hair dyed blue, played the euphonium, at the other end was the bar a single slab of petrified wood. In between groups of men and a few women sat at wooden tables Alone at a table to the back sat a large Darsh, brooding into a huge tankard of ale.
Gersen went to the bar. A shelf to the rear displayed a multitude of beer mugs, imprinted with as many emblems Gersen saw a number of familiar labels: Veigence and True Companion from Alphanor, Oblademe and Old Subterlaneafi from Copus, Smade’s Own from Smade’s Planet, Bass Ale, Hinano, Tusker, Anchor Steam from Earth, Mahogany Select from Derdyra, Edelffimpschen from Bogardus. Gersen felt himself in the presence of old friends. In the spirit of the time and place he requested a flask of the local brew, Hangry’s White Ale, which he found eminently palatable.
Turning, he looked around the room. At a large trestle table sat a group of men whose conversation identified them as employees of Jarkow Engineering. They had consumed considerable beer and spoke in loud positive voices, making no effort to dissemble their opinions.
“—told Motry that if he wanted me on that man-killer he’d have to give me back my swamper and also some kind of shroud to bar the dust. He promised, and I ran the dingus for a month and got scabs and red-nose and all else, and then I find that Motry gave my swamper to old Twaidlander, who runs that little tri-nozzle about two hours a day, and never dirties a finger.”
“Motry’s a strange one. You got to handle him right.”
“Well, I don’t work for Jarkow anymore and I might just explain things to Motry.”
“He’s still up on the job, with the technician.”
“The two of them can blow each other up, for all of me.”
Gersen took a seat at the table. “You gentlemen all work for Jarkow?”
An instant silence while he was appraised by six pairs of eyes. One said curtly, “Not now. The job’s washed out.”
“So I was told at the hiring office.”
One man said, “You arrived on the scene about a year late.”
Another grumbled: “You didn’t miss much. Bad food, low pay, and Claude Motry for superintendent.”
“And no bonus!”
Gersen said thoughtfully, “Not much chance of a bonus unless they found a lode of black sand.”
“They couldn’t find black sand because there’s none out there. Everybody knows that, except the rich lunatics who paid the bills.”
Gersen suggested: “Maybe they weren’t looking for black sand.”
“Maybe not, but what else is there to look for?”
Another argued: “Even so and irregardless, they never did a proper exploration. All shallow tunnels, no deep probes. Where they’d hope to find sand is deep, and nowhere did we tunnel deep. More of a mesh or a network, as if they were looking for something shallow.”
“Out in Section D we went down a good half mile before we made our horizontals.”
Gersen spoke for a round of drinks and the workers gave him their cordial best wishes.
Somewhat to the side sat a young man wearing workman’s breeches with a fine green jacket and yellow shoes. In a quiet voice, to no one in particular, he spoke a single word: “Twittle.”
One of the workmen nudged Gersen. “Watch this now. Watch the Darsh.”
Gersen looked at the Darsh, who as before sat staring into his beer.
“Pfit,” said the young man in yellow shoes.
The Darsh brought his hand to the tankard and began to flex heavy red fingers.
“Prat,” said the young man.
The Darsh lowered his head between his shoulders, but still did not raise his eyes. The young man jumped to his feet and went to the door. Along the street came a stout gentleman with a moony face, a pair of glossy mustaches, wearing a fine Mongrel suit.
“Phut,” said the young man, and quickly ran off down the street. The Darsh jerked to his feet and lumbered out the door. The stout gentleman attempted to move aside but the Darsh seized him, threw him to the ground, kicked his round rump, poured a mug of beer over his head, then slouched off down the street.
The gentleman in the black suit sat up, to stare in perplexity this way and that. Slowly he rose to his feet, shook his head in wonder, and continued on his way.
The workers returned to their conversation. “The strangest job I ever worked,” said one. “I’ve mined twenty-six asteroids, and never wasted ten minutes on such a block of pumice. All surface scum, so I told Motry. He wouldn’t listen.”
“He never cared one way or another, so long as Jarkow paid his wage.”
“Not Jarkow; somebody by the name of Kotzash.”
“Whatever, they had us boring like weevils through cheese, and now they’re satisfied at last!”
A newcomer had come to stand by the table. “Don’t be too sure! We just got finished today laying out ropes of dexax—Motry and the technician are arranging the wires. Once they blast, Motry says we’ll go back and tunnel some more. I asked him: ‘Motry, what in the name of Delilah’s hind leg are we looking for? Then I could keep my eyes peeled ‘ He just give me his sarcastic grunt and says ‘When I need your advice I’ll ask for it’ ‘Take it anyway, Mr. Motry,’ I say ‘It’s free’’ And he says, ‘Free advice is worth what it costs, and how come you’re standing here advising instead of working?’ ‘Because, Mr. Motry, I’ve finished my job ‘ ‘Then punch out your ticket and take the carrier down to land. The job is done for now’’ So I come on down, and just now got my pay There’s nobody left up there but Motry and Jarkow and a couple of technicians rigging some kind of radio contact.”
Gersen sat a few minutes longer and presently decided that the workmen knew no more about the Shamtra project than he did himself. He took his leave, and returned up Gladhorn Road the way he had come. At the clothing shop he resumed his usual garments and walked along the Mall to the Commercial Hotel Before entering his room he took careful precautions for fear that someone might have visited him, leaving an unpleasant surprise. He found nothing out of the ordinary.
He took his lunch in the hotel restaurant, hardly noticing what he ate. During the last few hours much had occurred, but nothing from which he could derive meaningful information.
He left the restaurant and went out on the Mall, watching to right and left. He saw nothing to threaten him, unless—was that cab with the white stripe around the skirt the same cab which had accosted him earlier? He could not be sure. He crossed the Mall and went into the park. For ten minutes he walked the gravel paths, wondering what to do next Lens Larque was somewhere near at hand perhaps in a space vessel, perhaps on Methel itself.
Gersen’s mind had become tired, he was bored with his problems and saw no way to escape them. On impulse he went out to a side street, where he signaled down a passing cab one which displayed no faded white stripe around the skirt. He told the driver, “Take me out to Llalarkno.”
As before, the driver made difficulties “That’s like a big private park. The Methlen don’t like visitors, in fact they put probation points against any cab they catch with tourists.”
“I’m not a tourist,” said Gersen “I am an interworld banker and a man of great importance.”
“All very well, sir, but the Methlen draw no such distinction.”
Gersen produced a five-svu certificate “I am also able to pay the fare.”
“As you say, sir. But if I am approached and notified, then you must pay the impositions.”
“Agreed,” said Gersen “Take me to Oldenwood, the Chanseth house.”
The glades and dells of Llalarkno worked magic upon Gersen’s nerves As he looked off at the half-hidden houses, his fears and compulsions began to seem unreal.
At Oldenwood the driver slowed the cab “The Chanseth residence, sir.”
“Stop just a moment,” said Gersen. The driver reluctantly obeyed Gersen threw open the door and stood up on the boarding flange Past a bank of flowering shrubs and a sprawling candlenut tree a lawn sloped down to Oldenwood Somewhat beyond the house Gersen glimpsed a group of young people dressed in white, yellow, and pale blue They seemed to be watching a game, perhaps tennis or badminton, played beyond Gersen’s range of vision.
“Come, sir,” said the driver in a voice of urgency “Banker or even interworld financier, they won’t like you peering and staring. They have a mania for privacy, these Methlen.”
Gersen returned into the cab “Drive over to Moss Alrune.”
“As you wish, sir.”
At Moss Alrune Gersen descended from the cab and despite the driver’s anxious protests, walked around the grounds, appraising the house, the meadow which sloped down to the lake, the surrounding trees. He heard no sound but a faint trilling of insects.
Gersen returned to the cab “Take me back into Twanish.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Gersen alighted at the Canna-Crux Bank, where he arranged for the purchase by Cooney’s Bank, through its affiliate, the Canna-Crux Bank, of that property known as Moss Alrune, from the estate agent representing Cytherea Azel.
15
From “The Avatar’s Apprentice,” in Scroll from the Ninth Dimension.
On that fateful afternoon the very skies showed portents a lurid gloom in the east, a cloud of meaningful shape over Ymmyr Marsh in the west.
Since dawn’s first flush Marmaduke had paced the parapets, overlooking the horde which cloaked Maninguez Plain Everywhere showed the flux of sinister purpose. Along Shadim Road manciples drove their war-wagons Cham River could not be seen for barges loaded with engines, tormentors, and gibbets Halfway up the Yar swarmed the multitudes; from north to south their beacons flashed.
At last Holy Bernissus, in stately robes, stepped out upon the parapets. He raised high his arms in benign salute, but the hordes expressed a hateful sound which, mingling from all quarters, produced the dull wavering roar of stormy surf.
Bernissus shook his head in sorrow and drew somewhat back. For moments he gazed across the plain, stroking his beard.
Marmaduke reverently came forward “Holy Sir, it seems that we two stand alone against this vindictive multitude.”
Bernissus uttered Words “It is well.”
Marmaduke stood back in perplexity. “Most Excellent. Illuminate my ignorance, if you will. How may we find satisfaction in these lonely conditions?”
Bernissus spoke Words. “In good time all will be made known.”
“I am grateful for the assurance,” said Marmaduke “In sheer truth this odious horde has unnerved me.”
“Feltaw cannot prevail,” were the Words, “even though he has wrought a great and busy mischief.”
“Holy Appodex allow me to enumerate the victims of his cruel hoax. Of the horde now pullulating across the plain, all are either Devanants or Oblatics, with the exception of ten thousand Cathars Many know syllables of the Unspeakable name Yonder stand the Purple Myrmidons, yonder the Hypogrotes of Lissam, yonder the Glames, who at least show us the etiquette of facing forward inasmuch as they go into battle with naked backsides. The Swans of Porving cluster around their Magnates, they menace us with standards on high. I recognize Obus of Thraw, Vilnisser, the Red Cockatrice, Pleighborn, Flynch, and Sandsifer of Hutt. Not ten days ago they burned blue incense at fanes along the Wayvode.”
Once more Bernissus moved forward to stand in majesty, the wind blowing back his robes and white beard Raising arms on high he issued a slogan, which whirled down Maninguez Plain and broke against the Yar in flashes of lightning. The enemy quailed but presently took courage and thrust high their standards They shouted “The Decretals must be altered! We nominate Felfaw for the Column! Bernissus, falsest of the false, must be cast down!”
