MIRI WOKE AND stretched slowly, eyes focusing on the clock across the room. Ten hours and change had passed since she'd lain down to sleep. Not too bad. She rolled out and headed for the shower.
Half an hour later, sun-dried and refreshed, she pulled her gun from beneath the pillow, slipped it into the deep pocket of the coverall the valet had supplied, and went in search of protein, carbohydrates, and ideas.
What she found first in the kitchen was coffee! Brewed from real Terran bean, this beverage sat steaming at her right hand as she ordered food and then dialed up the mid-morning local news on the screen set into the table.
The lead story bored her. Something about an explosion at local Terran Party headquarters. One man killed, two injured, one Terrence O'Grady sought in the apparent bombing. An image of O'Grady appeared—it bored her, too, and she hit the REMOVE key in search of something useful.
Transport crash. No lives lost. Robotics Commission to convene today.... REMOVE, she said to herself and punched the key.
She took a sip of coffee, savoring it as much as she had the previous night's liquor. Some people get the right jobs, she thought. Scotch and coffee....
She canceled three more articles in rapid succession, then paused to scan the brief story about six bodies found in an alley in the warehouse district. Juntavas work, police speculated.
A little farther on she stopped the text to read about a rash of vehicle thefts, including four robot cabs. All the cabs had been found in a lot at the spaceport, engines running, memories wiped. She smiled—he hadn't told her where he'd sent them—and hit REMOVE. The paper scrolled across the screen, through Obits and into Classified, as she continued with breakfast.
Juntavas work.
It was unfortunate that anyone had connected the incident to the Juntavas. If she'd been found dead by herself, it would just have been an unsolved murder. Something was going to have to be done about her not being found dead in the near future.
The tough guy seemed to think he had the pat answer for that. A quick and total overhaul, courtesy of Liad: new papers, new name, new face, new life. Good-bye Miri Robertson. Hello—well, did it matter?
Somehow, she admitted to herself, it does. She finished her coffee, leaned to place the cup on the table, and froze, eyes snagging on a familiar phrase.
WANTED: CARGO MASTER. Expd only, bckgrd with exotic handcrafts, perfumes, liqueurs, xenonarcotics. Apply Officer of the Day, Free Trader Salene. No xenophobes, no narcoholics, no politicians. Bring papers. All without papers stay home.
SHE WAS STILL staring at the screen when Val Con entered the kitchen a full two minutes later.
"Good morning," he told her, moving to the chef panel and making a selection.
Miri leaned back in the chair, eyes on the screen. "Hey, you. Tough Guy."
He came to her elbow. Without looking up, she waved her hand at the ad. Arm brushing hers, he bent forward to see, exhaling softly as he straightened, his breath shivering the gossamer hairs at her temple. He sat on the edge of the table and took a sip of milk, swinging one leg carelessly off the floor. She noted that the pockets of his coverall were flat. Gunless.
He raised an eyebrow.
She hit the table with her fist, clattering the empty coffee cup, and glared up at him.
"Who are you? The question was gritted out against clenched teeth. She felt her heart pounding and forced herself to relax back into the chair.
He drank some milk, his eyes steady on her face. "My name is Val Con yos'Phelium, Second Speaker for Clan Korval. I work as an agent of change. A spy."
She pointed at the screen. "And that?"
He shrugged "A tissue of lies tears much too easily. There must be meat and bone beneath." He paused to sip his milk. "I came to this world as Cargo Master on Salene. My papers said I was Connor Phillips, citizen of Kiang. When Salene took orbit, Connor Phillips had an argument with the Chief Petty Officer and as a result of this sudden feud tendered his resignation, effective off-loading of all local cargo. In the meantime, for the sake of ship's morale, he rented this place while he searched for a more convivial berth. And so we have this comfortable refuge in a time of stress." He offered her a smile. "Not too bad a sort, Master Phillips."
She closed her eyes. Every time you get the world by the tail, she thought, you gotta remember there's teeth on the other end.
"Where'd a spy learn to play the 'chora like that?"
His brows twitched together in surprise, and he answered carefully. "My kinswoman, Anne Davis, taught me. It gave her joy to see that I had the talent, when none of her own children did."
"Your kinswoman." She wasn't sure she'd meant it as a question, but he answered it.
"Yes. My—is it aunt? The wife of my father's brother?"
"Aunt," she agreed, puzzled by this lapse in his smooth command of Terran.
"More," he said thoughtfully. "She was my—foster-mother. After my mother died I went into her home, was raised with her children."
"Is this any more—or less—real than Connor Phillips?" she demanded. "Do you really know who you are?"
He looked at her closely. "If you are asking if I'm insane, which of the answers I may give will comfort you more? I know who I am, and I have told you. Even when I am on assignment, I know who I really am."
"Do you? That's comforting." She said it without conviction, aware that she was tensing up again.
"Have you a problem, Miri Robertson?"
"Yeah. I do. The problem is that I don't know why you're helping me. Your logic don't hold up. If you were Connor Phillips, why can't you be him again, find a ship, and go away? You can get out of it! The Juntavas don't know who you are—what kind of description can they have? That you're short? Skinny? Dark?" She moved her shoulders to throw off some of the tension.
"The clincher is that you're with me. Without me they look—" She spread her arms. "—and they look away."
The equation had formed in his head, showing him how he might get away, her death balancing his escape. She knew much about him and could be a danger. In fact, he thought, if I—no! He forced the Loop back and down, refusing to know how useful she would be, dead.
Setting his empty glass aside, he began to read the breakfast selections.
She studied his profile, but saw nothing more than polite interest in the information imparted by the selection grid.
"Well?" she demanded.
He lifted a slender hand to select an egg dish, then glanced at her. "I think that last night's reasoning is sound. The Juntavas may have an imperfect description of me. Or they may have a photo image. I cannot afford to ignore that possibility."
Another equation showed itself, this one concerning not her death, but her betrayal. It noted that it was an approximation; the odds were good that her life would buy his own from the Juntavas.
The long lashes dropped over his eyes and he turned back to the panel, choosing hot bread and a fruit. Gathering the plates from the dispenser, he moved back to the table and took the seat across from Miri.
She got up silently, selected a slightly stronger brew of Terran coffee, and returned to her chair.
"So where does that leave me? Instead of wanted by the Juntavas, I'm a political prisoner of Liad, right?"
He shook his head, attention seemingly more than half occupied by slicing a ripe strafle into two equal portions. He offered her half. When she made no move to take it, he placed it on the table by her hands."Where does that leave things?" she insisted, an edge in her voice.
"I think," he replied, swallowing a mouthful of eggs, "that it leaves things where they were in the beginning. We are thrown together. We wish to live. Already each of us has brought something useful to the task of surviving. If we are fortunate, we shall live through the experience. In fact, we make our own fortune simply by doing what must be done, as it needs to be done."
He took a bite of bread, frowned as he reached for the glass that wasn't there, and combed a hand through his forelock, sighing.
"Mutual survival being the goal, I think you should tell me about these people—the man who owes you money and the friend who keeps your things—so that we may plan usefully."
He pushed back his chair and went to ask the chef for more milk.
Miri drank coffee, acutely aware of the weight of the gun in her pocket. She understood about mutual survival: it was why so many of the Gyrfalks had partners. Trust wasn't something that came easily to her; still it was obvious that her companion knew what he was doing in a tight spot.
"Okay," she said slowly. "The man who owes me money—that's Murph. Angus G. Murphy. The third. He was in my unit in the Merc. Decided he couldn't take all the killing." She smiled at the man across from her. "Thought there'd be lots of glory and romance. Anyhow, he wanted out, and it was safer to have him out, if he felt that way about it."
Val Con ate, watching her face as she spoke.
"So, I lent him most of his severance money," Miri continued, "with the understanding that he'd pay it back with interest in three Standards. Been damn near four."
She leaned farther back in the chair, leaving the untouched fruit between them like a challenge. He did not appear to see it.
"Murph is recalcitrant?"
"Absent," she corrected. "Address listed in the poploc. Nobody home." She shook her head. "I didn't have time to buttonhole all the neighbors. Somehow, from the way I remembered him, I figured he'd be home." She sipped her coffee.
"The friend who's keeping my things is Liz. Friend of my mother's, first. Lives closer to where we met than where we are now. Plan is to call her, make sure she's home and gonna stay there so I can drop by and pick up my box."
"And then pursue the search for the absent Murph?"
"Say!" she said, opening her eyes wide and smiling. "You've got almost as many smarts as a real person!"
To her surprise, he laughed—a sound oddly at variance with his tightly controlled face and unemphatic voice. There was joy in his laugh. Miri filed that information away with the echoes of the music he'd pulled from the 'chora.
"The best course," he said, "is for you to call your friend Liz and explain that you will need your things. Explain also that you will not be coming yourself but will be sending an associate—"
"Wrong."
He shook his head. "Consider it. The risk is less—they may know me; they do know you. And in the time it takes me to accomplish the errand you may be profitably employed in locating Murph." He waved his hand toward the common room.
"The comm is quite adequate. The planet is at your disposal."
She stared into the dregs of her coffee, considering it. Her own life was one thing, but to gamble Liz on the feeling that an undoubtedly deadly stranger meant her well? A Liaden stranger, just for fun. Liadens were known for playing deep: it seemed a source of racial pride. Miri closed her eyes.
Judgement call, Robertson, she said to herself. You trust him at your back or you don't.
She opened her eyes. "Liz hates Liadens."
The straight brows pulled together, his mouth nearly twisted, and he thumped the half-full glass on the table.
"It seems that all the galaxy hates Liadens," he said. He pushed his chair back to balance on two legs, taking a sharp bite out of his strafle.
Somehow, that decided it. Miri rose, deposited her cup in the clean-up slot and headed to the big room.
"I'll call her," she said over her shoulder.
Liz was at home. She was also unhappy to learn that Miri would be sending her "partner," rather than coming to collect the box herself.
"Since when have you had a partner, anyway?" she wanted to know, brown eyes shrewd. "You always played single's odds."
"Times change," Miri told her, trying to sound as if they had.
Liz snorted, eyes softening. "How much trouble you in?"
"More'n last week, less than next. You know how it goes."
Liz did know; she'd been a mercenary herself, after all.
"It can stay here, you know. Might slow you down if you need to get a move on."
"That's so," Miri said. "But I'm going on the Grand Tour. No telling—"
"When you'll be back," Liz finished for her. "Okay, send your partner around. Description? Or do I just hand it over to the first slob says they're here for Redhead's box?"
She grinned. "Short, I guess. Skinny, maybe. Brown hair—needs to be cut. Green eyes. Male." She bit her lip and looked Liz full in the face. "Liaden."
But, to Miri's surprise, Liz only nodded. "I'll be watching for him. Take care of yourself, girl." Her image faded.
Miri turned away from the comm to see Val Con behind her, positioned so that he could see the screen, yet not be seen himself. He had exchanged his coverall for dark leathers and dark shirt. A worn belt was around his waist; equally well-used boots were on his feet.
He did not appear to be armed.
Miri opened her mouth, remembered the primitive little blade that had saved her life, and closed her mouth without comment.
"Your friend expects me."
"You heard it." She hesitated. "Make sure nobody follows you there, okay? Liz and my mother..." She moved her hands, shapelessly. "Liz is all the family I got."
His smile flickered into being. "I will be careful." He gestured, enclosing the apartment in a hand-sweep.
"This is a secure place. There is no need for you to leave. No need for you to let anyone in. I let myself out and let myself back in. You are free to search for Murph via the comm. It is scrambled and traceless."
She tipped her head to one side. "You're telling me I'm safe?"
He half-smiled, shoulders dipping in a gesture she was unsure of. "Forgive me," he murmured, "but, yes, I think so."
She grinned, shaking her head as she turned back to the comm.
"Just get me that box without getting killed, okay? I'll have Murph nailed by the time you get back."
"Okay."
She turned in time to see the door to the hallway closing behind him.
THE CALL TO the residence of Mr. Angus G. Murphy III was less than satisfying. Mr. Murphy's direct-comm had been temporarily disconnected, the visual told Miri, and messages might be left at another number. She dialed that number, found it to be an answering service, and broke the blank-screen connection instantly.
"Don't call me, I'll call you," she muttered, frowning. It would be best if he didn't know she was on-world.
Well, it would have to be the neighbors, then, though she disliked that tack. With her luck, the next-door neighbor would be a local Juntavas boss, with her picture on his desk. She could blank the screen, of course, but who would give info to a blank screen?
Blank screen was out, she decided. But her own face was also out.
She snapped forward in frowning study of the commboard. Fancy, she decided, after a few minutes. Sire Baldwin had had no better in his palatial home. Leaning back and letting her eyes rest on the understated luxury of the room around her, she was reminded that money and taste were very different matters. After all, look at the lovers Baldwin would bring home.
Suddenly grinning, she bounced to her feet and ran to her sleeping quarters.
Standing before the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the valet-room, she let down her hair and combed it straight. A few moments later the valet supplied a quantity of glittering jeweled pins and nets to confine the whirls, knots, and bunches the copper-colored mass had assumed. Likewise, she obtained cosmetics, gilded earbobs, rings of eight different sizes and metals, and a necklet of glazed silver flowers.
After some thought, she decided the coverall was just right for the occasion, but she unsealed the neck seam a little farther—and a little farther again, after consulting the mirror. She grinned at her reflection, paused to add just a dash more emphasis under each eye, and headed back to the comm.
SHE CHOSE A firm with its single office in the most prestigious of high-rent facilities. Setting her face into what she hoped was simpering unease, she punched up the code.
"Mylander and Zanthal Collections," the receptionist told her.
Miri stretched her mouth in a closed-lip smile. "Good afternoon," she said in her best Yark accent. "I'd like to talk to somebody about—'bout this guy, see? He owes me a bundle an' won't pay."
The receptionist blinked, then recovered. "Why, surely. I'm certain that our Mr. Farant would be delighted—"
"Naw," Miri said. "Naw. Look, honey, this is—delicate, y'know? You got a woman up there can talk to me?" She stretched her mouth into the unsmiling rictus again. "Girl stuff, honey. You know."
The receptionist swallowed. "Well, there is Ms. Mylander."
"Aw, geez," Miri protested. "Not the boss herself?"
"Not exactly," the receptionist admitted, shakily. "Ms. Susan Mylander is Ms. Lavinia Mylander's granddaughter."
"Oh! Well, hey, that's great! I'd be real pleased to have a little girl-talk with Susan, honey. You just tell her Amabel Gleason's on the screen, okay?"
"Certainly, Ms. Gleason," the receptionist said, falling back on the comforts of training. "If you'll hold just one moment—" The screen offered an abstract in soft pastels to soothe Miri's eyes while she waited. She moved a hand, pushed two keys, and settled back into an attitude of watchful expectation.
The screen cleared after a time sufficient for the receptionist to have located Ms. Mylander and imparted all the details of her caller's manner, with embellishments. Miri performed her smile for the dark young woman in sober business attire.
"Ms. Gleason?" the young woman asked. Her accent was the cultivated drawl of the elite.
Miri ducked her head. "Ms. Mylander, it really is nice of you to talk to me and everything. I just didn't know where to turn, y'know, and when that pretty young lady who answers your phone said you were in—" She fluttered her jeweled hands, rings flashing. "Some things you just gotta talk to another woman about."
"Indeed," the other woman said. "And just what did you wish to speak with me about, Ms. Gleason?"
"Well, Ms. Mylander. I—could I call you Susan? I mean, you're so friendly and everything—" Miri leaned forward, jumpsuit gaping.
The woman in the screen took a deep breath. "If it makes you feel better, Ms. Gleason, by all means call me Susan."
"Thanks. So, Susan, there's this guy, y'know," Miri waved her hands again, rolling her eyes. "There's always a guy, ain't there? Anyway, we date for awhile and he likes me and I like him Okay—I mean, he's got some money, an' a steady job on the shuttle as a grease-ape. Don't mind buying a girl a few presents, taking her out to nice places...." Miri shrugged, taking her time about it. "Asks me to marry him—standard hetero contract; progeny clause says he'll take care of any kids we have while we're married, even if we don't re-up." She paused.
"I am familiar with the standard co-habitation/progeny contract, Ms. Gleason. Did you sign it?"
"Well, yeah, we did. I moved into his place. 'Bout three months later, shows I'm pregnant. I figure everything's okay, 'cause of the progeny clause—" She broke off, bowing her head sharply and raising a hand to wipe at her eyes. "Bastard walked out on me."
There was a short silence. Miri raised her head again, bravely displaying her smile.
"I don't quite understand, Ms. Gleason, what this has to do with Mylander and Zanthal," Susan Mylander said with professional puzzlement.
"I'm gettin' to that," Miri said, visibly getting a grip on herself. "It's that he left. Contract had three years to run. I have the baby and he says forget it, contract's no good, 'cause it ain't his kid!"
"Is it?" Ms. Mylander asked, staring in what seemed to be fascination.
Miri wriggled her shoulders. "I think so. 'Course, there's a problem with it being so close to the time we signed and all. I didn't know he was gonna propose contract and—well, I ain't dead, y'know, Susan. An' grease-apes work the shuttle two weeks on, two weeks off."
"I'm still not sure I understand why you need a collection agency, Ms. Gleason."
"He owes me money," Miri cried, voice rising. He signed a contract said he'd pay for any of his brats I had while we were married. Could've been his as much as anybody else's. An' we were married." She took a deep breath and let her voice even out a little. "He owes me a bundle of cash. An' he says he won't pay. That's why I need a collection agency, Ms. Mylander. To get my money for me."
"I—see." Ms. Mylander paused. "Ms. Gleason, I'm afraid that you do not need a collection agency at this point. What I advise you to do is engage legal counsel. If you speak to a lawyer, and he deems it proper for you to bring suit against your husband for breach of contract, wins the case for you and has your husband ordered to pay you a specified sum, and if your husband then refuses to pay that sum, Mylander and Zanthal will be happy to assist you." She steepled her fingers under her chin. "You must really engage counsel first, though, Ms. Gleason, and abide by the judgment of the courts as to whether your husband is responsible for your child or is liable for voiding the contract. We are not able to help you with those matters."
"Oh," Miri said, bright mouth turning down at the corners. She forced another horrible smile, though her face was beginning to ache. "Well, that's fine, then, Susan. I know a couple lawyers. Real go-getters." She bent to the screen once more and reached out as if to touch the other woman's hand.
Ms. Mylander was made of stern stuff. She did not flinch from the impossible caress, though her mouth tightened.
"Thanks an awful lot for your help, Susan," Miri cooed, and hit DISCONNECT.
She laughed for five minutes, leaning back in the embracing cushions and howling, tears running out the corners of her made-up eyes. When she was sure she could navigate, she went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
Resuming her seat in front of the comm, she began to edit her tape.
LIZ ANSWERED THE door herself and stood looking down at him.
Val Con made the bow of youth to age, straightening to find her still frowning at him from her height.
"I am here," he said softly, "for Miri's box."
Wordless, she pulled the door wider and let him in. After making sure the locks were engaged, she led him down a short, dark hallway to a bright living room. He stood in the entranceway as she moved to what seemed the only chair—indeed the only surface—not piled high with booktapes.
"Come here, Liaden." It was a command, delivered harshly.
He made his soundless way across the room and stopped before her, hands folded loosely.
She surveyed him silently and he returned the favor, noting the dark hair shot with gray, the lines about mouth and eyes, the eyes themselves, and the chin. This was, he saw, a person used to command, who knew command as responsibility.
"You're here for Miri's box."
"Yes, Eldema," he said gently, giving her the courtesy title of the First Speaker of a Clan.
She snorted. "Tell me Liaden: Why should I trust you?"
He raised his brows. "Miri—"
"Trusts you," she cut in, "because you're beautiful. It's a fault comes with growing up where nothing's beautiful and everything's dangerous—real different from sunny Liad."
He stood at rest, waiting.
Liz moved her head sharply. "So, you grow up on a world like Surebleak, manage, somehow, to get off, finally encounter beauty. And you want to give it every chance. You don't want to believe that a pretty rat's still a rat. That it'll bite you, just as sure." She clamped her mouth into a straight line.
Val Con waited.
"I don't care if you got three heads, each one uglier than the next," she snapped. "I want to know why I should trust you."
He sighed. "You should trust me because Miri sent me here. You must judge whether she would do so—besotted as she must be with my beauty—were I a danger to you."
She laughed. "A little temper, is it? You'll need it." She sobered abruptly. "What kind of trouble's she in, she needs to send you at all? Why not come herself?"
"It is not the kind of trouble it is safe to know by name," he said carefully. "It is only ... trouble."
"Ah. So we all get in that kind of trouble once, now, don't we?" There was no particular emphasis; he thought she spoke to herself. Yet she continued to stare at him until Val Con wondered if he were growing another head.
"You're going with her when she leaves? Eh? To guard her back? She called you her partner."
"Eldema, when we go, we go together. I think it very likely that we will outrun the trouble. Lose it entirely." There was no flicker of the Loop, giving the lie to this piece of optimism, for which he was grateful.
She nodded suddenly, then reached to the overflowing table at her side and produced a black lacquer box from amidst a pile of tapes. It was a double hand's width of his small hands wide and twice that long—too odd-shaped to fit comfortably into pocket or pouch.
Liz frowned and fumbled further on the table, locating a less-than-new cloth bag with a drawstring top. She slid the box inside, drew the string tight, and handed him the sealed package.
He stepped forward so claim it, slipping the string over his shoulder.
"Thank you." He bowed thanks. When it became apparent that she had no more to say to him, he turned to go.
He was nearly to the hall when she spoke. "Liaden!"
He spun in his tracks, quick and smooth. "Eldema?"
"You take care of Miri, Liaden. None of your damn tricks. You just take the best care of Miri you can, as long as you can."
He bowed. "Eldema, it is my desire to do just that."
He turned on his heel and was gone.
Liz sighed. She had had nothing else to say, except—but the girl knew that. Didn't she?
She heard him work the lock; heard the door open and close, gently.
After a while, for old times' sake, she went to make sure he'd locked the door on his way out.
MRS. HANSFORTH WAS excited. It had been years since she'd received a ship-to communication, but still the circuit was as she remembered it: a little scratchy, with occasional odd delays and the constant feeling that the mouth wasn't quite saying what it looked like it was saying.
Of course, it was disappointing that the beam wasn't meant for her, but disappointment was outweighed by the excitement of the event and the chance to gossip.
Yes, she told the dark-haired and serious young lady in the screen, she knew Angus quite well. A nice boy, not given to wild parties or exceptional hours. And his fiancée was a lovely girl. It was really a shame he wasn't in town to receive the message himself....
Where? Oh, with the students off at the University, he and his fiancée had taken several weeks to go to Econsey. They'd wanted some time alone and hadn't had the calls forwarded. Surely, they couldn't have been expecting....
Hadn't known she was going to be in-system? Oh, such a shame ... But Mrs. Hansforth got no further; after all, this was ship-to, and such things were fabulously expensive. The serious young lady said something about some research Angus had done in his traveling days. Well!
Mrs. Hansforth asked the young lady to leave a message, and was so sorry to find that she'd only be on planet for a few hours. The chance of reaching Angus in that time did seem very small....
Perhaps on the return trip there would be time, Mrs. Hansforth heard. Or perhaps Ms. Mylander would be able to beam ahead next time. But research—you know how it does take one about....
Mrs. Hansforth agreed, though she'd never been off-planet, herself.
When the connection was cut, Mrs. Hansforth was sorry. But, still, a ship-to! Why, Angus must be more important in his field than she had realized. Imagine!
MIRI LEANED BACK in the chair, flipping switches and smiling slightly. Engineering the delay hadn't been hard at all—simply a matter of bouncing her signal off seven different satellites and across the single continental landline about three times. Her new partner had called the unit "adequate." She wondered if understatement was his usual style.
Now, sipping some exquisite coffee, she considered the information gathered. Not much, but maybe something. Flipping another series of toggles, she tapped "Econsey" into the query slot.
The door cycled at her back and she was up, spinning, hand on the gun in her pocket, as Val Con entered, a blue drawstring bag slung over one shoulder. He stopped just inside the room, both eyebrows up and a look of almost comic horror on his face.
She pouted and took her hand off the gun. "You don't like my makeup!"
"On the contrary," he murmured. "I am awestruck."
He slid the string off his shoulder and held the bag out. She nearly snatched it away from him, plopping crosslegged to the floor by the 'chora. The box was out in a flash, and she ran her pale fingers rapidly over the shiny black surface before cradling it in her lap and looking at him.
"How'd Liz do?"
"On the whole, I'd say she came off better than I did," he returned absently, staring at her as he drifted forward to sit on the 'chora's bench.
The hair. Was it really possible to twist, torture, and confine one head of hair into so many unappealing knobs and projections? But for the evidence before him, he would have doubted it. She'd also smeared some sort of makeup on her face, imperfectly concealing the freckles spanning her nose, and done something else to her eyes, making them seem larger than usual, but exquisitely lusterless. The color of her cheeks had been chosen with an unerring eye to clash with the color of her hair, and the blue on her lips was neon bright. Every piece of jewelry—and there was far too much of it—vied with the other for gaudery. He shook his head, lost in wonder.
She caught the headshake and smiled a ghastly smile that consisted only of bending her sealed lips and creasing her cheeks.
"You do think I look nice, doncha?"
He folded his arms on top of the 'chora and nestled his chin on a forearm. "I think," he said clearly, "that you look like a whore."
She laughed, clapping ring-laden hands together. "So did the woman at the collection firm!" She sobered abruptly, slanting lusterless eyes at him. "Your face was wonderful! I don't remember the last time I saw somebody look so surprised." She shook her head. "Don't they teach you anything in spy school?"
He grinned. "There are some things that even spy school cannot erase. I was raised to be genteel."
"Were you?" She regarded him in round-eyed admiration. "What happened?"
He ignored this bait, however, and nodded toward the comm. "Murph?"
She sighed. "On vacation with his fiancée in some place called Econsey—southern hemisphere. That's what I know. I was gonna see what else the comm knew when you came in and insulted my hairdo."
"Econsey is situated on the eastern shoreline of the southern hemisphere," he told her, singsonging slightly as he read the information that scrolled before his mind's eye. "It sits at the most eastern point of a peninsula and is surrounded on three sides by the Maranstadt Ocean. Year round population: 40,000. Transient population: 160,000, approximate. Principal industries: gambling, foodstuffs, liquors, hostelries, entertainment, exotic imports." He paused, checking back, then nodded. "Juntavas influenced, but not owned."
Miri stared at him; whatever expression may have been in eyes and face was shielded by the makeup.
"Mind like that and it's all going to waste."
Irritation spiked from nowhere and he frowned. "Will you go wash your face?"
She grinned. "Why? You think it needs it?" But she rolled to her feet, box in hand, and headed for her room. Behind her, Val Con flipped open the cover and touched the keyboard plate.
In the bathroom, Miri stripped the rings from her fingers and the bobs from her ears, jangling them along with the necklet and hair jewelry into the valet's return box. A glance at the readout showed that her leathers were at long last clean and the jumpsuit joined the gaudy jewelry. She closed the lid, hit the return key, and turned to the sink.
It took longer to scrape the gunk off her face than it had to put it on—the eyeshadow was especially tenacious—but a clean face was eventually achieved and, moments later, a braid was pinned in a neat crown around her head.
Her leathers slipped on smoothly, sheathing her in a supple second skin; she stamped into her boots, tied the knot in the arm-scarf, and carried the belt with its built-on pouch back to the sleeping room.
Sitting on the edge of the tumbled platform, she picked up the lacquer box and spun it in her hands like a juggler, hitting each of the seven pressure locks in unerring sequence. There was a click, loud over the soft drift of 'chora music from the other room. Miri set the box down and raised the lid.
Opening the belt-pouch, she pushed at the back bracing wall until she coaxed the false panel out, and laid it aside.
From the box she took a key of slightly phosphorescent blue metal, a thin sheaf of papers, a badly-cut ruby the size of a Terran quarter-bit, a loop of pierced malachite, and a gold ring much too big for her finger, set with a cloudy sapphire. She stowed each item in the secret space in the pouch. Then she removed the last object, frowned, and sat balancing it in her hand.
The room's directionless light picked out a slash of red, a line of gold, and a field of indigo blue. She flipped it to the obverse, and light skidded off the polished metal surface, snagging on the roughness of engraving. As she'd done a hundred times since she'd gotten the thing, she ran her finger over the engraving, trying to puzzle out the alien characters.
In the room outside her door, the comm unit buzzed once ... twice.
Miri dumped the disk among her other treasures, sealed the hiding place, and was on her way to the door, threading the belt around her waist as she went.
VAL CON WAS on his feet and moving as the comm buzzed a second time. He touched BLANK SCREEN and GO.
His eyebrows shot up as he saw one of his four captors of the night before standing in the lobby below, a squad of six ranged at his back, and he shook his head to banish the feeling of creeping déjà vu.
"Mr. Phillips?" demanded the man he recognized.
"Yes," Val Con said, taking the remote from its nesting place atop the comm.
"Mr. Connor Phillips," the leader insisted. "Former crew member on the Salene?"
Val Con strolled across the room to the bar. "It would be useless to deny it," he told the remote. "I was Cargo Master on Salene. To whom am I speaking? And why? I left instructions that I was not to be disturbed." He set the remote on the shiny bartop and activated the refreshment screen.
"My name is Peter Smith. I'm working with the police in the investigation of the explosion that took place at Terran Party Headquarters last night."
Val Con dialed a double brandy from the selection list "I am unenlightened, Mr. Smith. Unless I understand you to say that I am suspected of causing an explosion in—where was it? Terra Place?"
"Terran Party Headquarters." There was a real snarl in that correction, then a pause, as if for breath. "We're looking for a man named Terrence O'Grady, who caused the explosion and disappeared. We're asking everybody who's come on-world during the last fifteen days to answer a few questions about the—incident. Refusing to assist in a police investigation, Mr. Phillips," Pete said, with a very creditable amount of piety, "is a criminal offense."
Val Con dialed another brandy. "I am chastised."
Across the room, the door to Miri's bedroom opened and she came out, buckling her belt as she walked. She paused briefly in front of the comm screen before continuing on to the second bedroom.
"Mr. Smith," Val Con said, dialing yet another brandy. "It is really of no interest to me whether or not you catch this—individual—who blew up these headquarters. However, since you have already disturbed me, and since I have no wish to be treated as a criminal, you may as well ask your questions."
"That's fine," Pete said. "Now, if you'll tell the receptionist to let us up, we'll just take a few minutes of your time—"
"Mr. Smith, please. I said you may as well ask your questions. I did not say that I would welcome you into my home. The presence of a police representative would place me in a very awkward negotiating position at this moment."
Miri laid his gun silently on the bar and was gone, vanishing into the kitchen. Val Con dialed a brandy, clipped gun to belt, and waited.
After a pause, Pete's voice came again. "Okay, Mr. Phillips, if that's how you want it. Where were you last night between 10:45 p.m. and midnight?"
Miri reappeared, raised her brows at the row of brandy snifters on the bar, and passed silently on to survey the comm screen.
"Last night," Val Con said easily, "I was engaged with friends. There was a party, with fireworks and conversation." He dialed another brandy.
"I see. You can, of course, supply the name and address of your friends," Pete said. In the lobby, he jerked his head and two of his squad moved toward the elevators. Miri walked back to the bar.
"I can," Val Con was saying. "I won't. But I can."
"I see," Pete said again. "Mr. Phillips, do you know a man named Terrence O'Grady?"
"No." Val Con handed two brandies to Miri and waved toward her bedroom. She stood still, frowning; he reached into the depths of the bar, produced a flamestick, and tucked it in her belt. Enlightenment dawned with a grin of delight, and she departed on her mission.
"Mr. Phillips, I'm going to have to insist that I see you."
"Mr. Smith, I'm going to have to insist that you produce a legal document giving you the right." Miri was back for two more brandies, which she carried into the other bedroom. Smoke was beginning to waft from the doorway across the room.
"Have you any other questions?" he asked Pete.
"Why did you leave your post on the Salene?"
"It was not as profitable an association as I had hoped for, Mr. Smith. But I fail to see what that has to do with your problem. Salene did not ship explosives. I met no one there named O'Grady. I have met no one named O'Grady since I have been on Lufkit. I doubt if ever in my life I have met anyone named O'Grady, but I give you leave to explore the possibility." Smoke wisped sweetly from his former bedroom to billow with the smoke from Miri's.
He stopped dialing brandies and splashed the contents of one of the remaining snifters on the carpet around the bar. Miri appeared, picked up two more glasses, and carried them to the comm chair and the sofa, touching the flamestick to the cushions.
"Mr. Smith?" Val Con asked the remote.
Miri came back for the remaining snifters and began to splash the carpet.
"What?" Pete snapped.
"Have you other questions? I really must return to my own business." He held up a hand, stopping Miri from igniting the carpet.
"Any other—yeah, I do." Pete took an audible breath. "Are you a geek, Mr. Phillips?"
"Are you a horse's ass, Mr. Smith?" Val Con hit DISCONNECT. Miri touched the flamestick to the carpet.
Somewhere within the building, bells began to ring; a hiss of water striking flame came from Miri's bedroom as the sprinkler system activated itself. There were shouts from the hallway.
Miri and Val Con were already through the kitchen escape hatch. He slammed it to, twisted two knobs, and spun to find her shaking her head.
"Real genteel."
He grinned. "Thank you."
Then they were moving without haste down the small service corridor, toward the larger world beyond.