Winston Cheng, big hands casually out of sight in the side pockets of his jacket, was watching him stoically. Harry went on: "It looks like the bad machines have got your people, and it would be foolish to assume they don't know who they've got. If your Winnie and Claudia have been kept alive, it's for a reason. You'd know better than I do what kind of help you're in a position to give berserkers."
Before Harry had finished, Cheng was shaking his head slightly, expressing disagreement. "Once the fact of the kidnapping becomes generally known, as it must sooner or later, every ED human in the Galaxy will be watching me to see what happens. If berserkers tried to blackmail me into playing goodlife tricks, they would soon discover that my possibilities of action were severely limited." Goodlife was the universal term, coined by the berserkers themselves, applied to people who, for whatever reason, cooperated with them.
Harry was thinking steadily. "We should discuss the -alternative."
"Which one?"
"You mentioned it earlier, but we haven't really talked about it. I mean the possibility that, despite the good witnesses and the fortuitous recording, some kind of trickery has been worked on you."
"Yes?"
"Maybe, despite what the recording shows, it wasn't really a berserker that snatched your people. Instead, human kidnappers used a disguised ship, devised some kind of superpaddys, and for all I know bribed witnesses—"
Cheng's head-shaking had become emphatic. "You've just seen some pretty good visual evidence to the contrary. But of course the possibility of trickery has been in my mind from the start. The trouble is, that hypothesis simply won't fly."
"Why not?"
"I've already indicated that. Human kidnappers would have the strongest reasons to present their demands, whatever they might be, as soon as possible. To keep me from immediately calling in the Templars or the Force. If they hope to collect ransom, they must first tell me what it is to be. Also they must give me some hope of getting my people back alive."
Harry was thinking that if the kidnapper was truly a berserker trying to extort some favor, Winston Cheng might not be out of the woods yet. There could have been unforeseen delays in the process of formulating demands and making them. The tycoon could soon be getting a delayed message, passed along some circuitous route through several intermediaries, living or unliving, telling him what sort of favor the bad machines required of him to keep his loved ones from being sent back to him one little piece at a time.
Centuries of berserker war had provided ample proof that the enemy was not intrinsically sadistic. The killer machines cared nothing one way or the other about the suffering of any kind of life, any more than they cared for wealth. The berserkers' objective was universal death, not pain. But they had taught themselves to be virtuoso torturers when such behavior seemed likely to advance their cause.
After studying his host for a while, Harry said: "I think it's possible, Mister Cheng, that you've got that message already."
"No. I haven't." Winston Cheng leaned forward. "Look, Silver, we must understand each other. It would be absolutely crazy for me to make the effort I'm making to obtain your help, and the help of others in this horrible situation—while all the time I was secretly negotiating a deal with the enemy.
"Would I give in to blackmail, extortion, by either humans or machines, if I eventually received the message you describe? Yes I would, like a shot—if I could somehow be convinced that the enemy would keep their part of the bargain, and I would get my people back unharmed.
"No. The only reason you're here is that there's been no ransom demand. No attempt at a deal, no bargain. Nothing, not even gloating, which would surely happen if this were from a purely human motive, like revenge. When I say I have received no communication of any kind from any kidnappers, animate or inanimate, I am telling you the simple truth."
There was silence for a while. Harry began to wish that the woman in the background would say something, but that didn't happen. A kidnapping for ransom would at least have offered some kind of hope, but apparently that hadn't happened either. The obvious alternative was the bad one: berserkers had some kind of experiment going for which they needed living subjects.
Harry didn't see any way to avoid discussing it. "It's probably the last thing you want to hear, but you mentioned it yourself earlier. And it is well established that they do that kind of thing. Sorry, but you asked, and I think it's a real possibility."
"I did indeed ask, and I want you to tell me what you really think. Go on."
Harry couldn't find much more to say. From the corner of his vision he could see that the Lady Masaharu had moved forward a couple of steps, as if she could lend support to the man she worked for.
When she finally spoke her voice had become sharp and direct. "Have you no further comments, Mister Silver?"
He got slowly to his feet. "I don't suppose I saw anything in the recording that you people missed, not if you've watched it fifty times. The berserkers look perfectly genuine." Still, he had to admit to himself that the situation had its oddities. "You said there was some attempt at pursuit."
"Yes. Quite unsuccessful. But it did succeed in establishing that Mister Cheng's people were not carried off in the direction of any known or suspected berserker base."
"Oh? Where, then?"
"There were convincing indications that the strange abductor had set its course for a certain peculiar solar system, part of this extended stellar neighborhood. That system is informally called the Gravel Pit, not previously known to be a haunt of berserkers."
A sheaf of technical data appeared, and Harry studied what it told him about the Gravel Pit—it appeared to be one of the vast number of solar systems that were absolutely devoid of life. If life had ever established a foothold there, it had doubtless been obliterated early on.
"It is, as you can see, somewhat overpopulated with planets and planetoids."
That was an understatement; the system looked like a shooting gallery of flying rocks, a great spinning centrifuge of innumerable collisions. There the kidnapper seemed to have deliberately lost itself and its haul of freshly acquired prisoners in the system's bizarre mechanics of swarming multiple planets and planetoids.
So far Cheng hadn't specified exactly what he wanted Harry to do, but it wasn't hard to see where this presentation must be headed. Mentally, Harry was already shaking his head: No. No sir, no thanks, too bad you brought me all this way for nothing. No new ship for Harry Silver. The results of this hour of uncomfortable talk would be strictly limited: for the visitor a small handful of superb chewing pods—and for the grieving old man only a flat turndown.
The great man's voice had settled into a monotone. It sounded more implacable than grieving. "Harry, you must know what I'm about to ask of you. But let me state it plainly. Whatever the nature of the power that took my granddaughter and her son, I'm going after it—or them. I would do it if the villains were humans, and I'm going to do it if they're machines. If rescuing Winnie and Claudia alive proves to be impossible, I will do the next thing that needs to be done, and make their killers pay. I'm putting a maximum effort into this."
With a firm gesture, signaling the concealed projector, Winston Cheng swept away the ghosts of his two missing people, still cheerfully playing.
Again the silent woman had moved a little closer. The Lady Laura was standing with arms gracefully folded and chin raised, regarding Harry as if he were a doubtful real estate investment she had committed herself to make.
Meanwhile Cheng was doing something that brought the big holostage up out of the floor again. In a moment he began to show clear detailed images of two armed yachts that he told Harry would soon be available for the punitive expedition.
"Two yachts." Harry said distantly. He had sat down again, and now leaned back, rocking slightly in his chair. "Both of them really tough, I suppose. Even tougher than the one that already got grabbed and turned inside out?"
"Yes, actually. Both of them are bigger and faster vessels than the one that was so inexcusably taken by surprise in that attack. Yes, and these are tougher too. Harry, trust me, what I can show you at this moment is only the beginning. More force is on the way. And there's something else. I am neither deluded nor bluffing when I speak of a secret weapon."
"Secret weapon."
"Yes. But I can't go into any details on that subject until you're definitely signed on."
Harry had no comment. He waited, in silent patience. He thought he owed this man the courtesy of hearing him out, getting the full presentation.
Winston Cheng drew a deep breath. He paced the room. He went on: "I assure you, the expedition I intend to send into the Gravel Pit will have a much better chance of success than would seem likely on first consideration. I'm putting together a fine team of people—the Lady Masaharu is the chief coordinator"—Harry glanced in her direction, and she lowered her eyelids briefly in acknowledgment—"who are, as you can imagine, all very capable, dedicated, and experienced.
"Harry, I intend to have you as a member of that team. In fact, you may be its key component."
"No, thanks."
His prompt refusal made very little impression. "I haven't finished. What I could discover of your official record is impressive, and your reputation, among those who know about such things, even more so."
"I would have thought that certain parts of my official record might disqualify me."
"Not from this job."
The impossibly luxurious chair seemed finally to have decided just what support Harry's body needed. At least it had stopped violating his personal privacy in subtly suggestive ways. He was turning the plain-looking ring round on his little finger. When he spoke, there was still no enthusiasm in his voice. It was as if he were simply going down a required checklist. "I take it you've already called the Space Force."
"That, naturally, is the first place I turned. I spoke to a general who told me, in effect, that the chance of any berserker captives being recovered alive, especially after the lapse of so many days, was simply much too small to justify the expenditure of time and wealth in such an enterprise, not to mention the severe risk to people and ships. Though the Force of course sympathizes with my loss, they have their own methods and timetables for fighting berserkers, et cetera, et cetera."
Harry was still waiting. The Lady Masaharu, now primly seated in what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary chair, was listening patiently, her face revealing nothing.
Winston Cheng drew a deep breath. "I'll anticipate your next question, Harry, and tell you I've also communicated with the Templars, at a very high level in their chain of command. Of course they too gave me their sympathy—though I thought they were just a little chilly—and expressed a hope that in the future something might be done about this particular enemy. They saw no possibility of dispatching any expedition to the Gravel Pit in the near future, because they assume the two missing people must have been killed—or effectively turned into something less than human—many days ago.
"They also tell me that Templar resources are already stretched too thin. To be fair, I must admit they're probably telling the truth in that regard."
Harry was silently trying to remember certain rumors that he had heard, to the effect that Winston Cheng and Templars had a long-standing feud in progress. On the question of what exactly had brought the feud about, the rumors disagreed. He saw no point in bringing up that subject now.
He sat still, having reached a kind of truce with his chair. The old man was physically closing in on him, walking slowly toward him, eyes fixed in an unwavering stare.
"Now I'm coming to you, Harry. To you and a few others, as I said—all carefully chosen men and women, some of whom you may know. I realize it's taking time, precious time, to do things this way, but we must make our very best effort if we are to have any chance of success at all.
"I said before that we're going to have a better chance than people realize. When you're signed on, you'll see who the rest of my crew are, and I think you'll be impressed.
"In my offer to you, I mean just what I said in my message. Give me an honest, all-out effort, and I'll buy you the ship you want—or, if you prefer, and are willing to wait, have it built to your specs. On top of that, if our effort succeeds—by that I mean if we can get at least one of my people out alive—I'll throw in a good bonus. Let me emphasize, a good one.
"It would be foolish to try to minimize the danger of this expedition, but if you're killed, I, or my estate, will send that bonus to your heirs. Of course we can put this all in writing, if you like."
There was silence for three or four breaths. Harry could feel sympathy with Templars or anyone else who felt themselves stretched thin.
Winston Cheng was silent too, having stopped his steady advance. He was skillfully not pushing Harry, not trying to hurry him, but waiting. He had even turned his head away. The romping, gentle game his two heirs played had started up again, and it was as if he drew some kind of nourishment from watching their bright insubstantial images.
At last Harry said: "I repeat, Mister Cheng, I'm sorry about your loss. I really am. And I'd give a lot to have the kind of ship you're offering. But the neatest, sharpest vessel in the Galaxy won't do me a bit of good if I'm dead."
The Lady Masaharu got to her feet and turned her back to Harry. Behind her back, the long-nailed fingers of her clasped hands made a knot.
Winston Cheng did not even blink, much less turn away. He seemed neither surprised nor angered. He was facing Harry again, hands casually in the side pockets of his jacket, listening calmly, waiting to hear more.
Harry went on. "What it comes down to is, you're planning a private-enterprise kind of raid on a berserker base."
"That's exactly what I'm planning, yes."
"Let's consider that for a minute. No one has ever seen this supposed berserker installation, no robot scouts have taken pictures of it."
"That's quite true. Unfortunately."
"We don't have any idea of its size or strength, or where it might be, maybe within a billion kilometers, inside this Gravel Pit system. We don't even know for sure that it's there at all. The berserker could have started out on a course directly toward that system and later changed directions."
"An accurate appraisal of the situation, as far as it goes—-proceed, Harry."
"All right. Suppose it is there. Berserker ground installations come in a variety of sizes and configurations. Whether they're big or small, I assure you nobody's ever yet run into one that's weak. Launching an expedition against a base of unknown size and strength is a job for a major task force, including several battleships—not a couple of armed yachts and maybe a secret weapon. And you say the only two organizations in the Galaxy who could put a real task force together have already told you that in this case they don't want to try."
"And so—?"
"So. My answer has to be the same as theirs. I'm just not sorry enough for your troubles, or hungry enough for a ship, to throw my life away, signing on for the kind of thing you're talking about." To himself Harry thought: My wife would kill me if I did.
Aloud, he rephrased the silent thought: "I've got a family too, who are kind of depending on me."
Winston Cheng was still not astonished—or even much -surprised, it would appear—by the flat rejection. It was hard to tell if Harry's announcement of a family of his own was something the old man had expected or not. His voice had softened somewhat. "Is that so? Where are they?"
"On Esmerelda. We've lived there a few years now." Then Harry shook his head. "Hell, that's not quite right. They've lived there. I drop in from time to time, when I'm not out on a job."
The woman, poker-faced again, had turned back to face the boss and his visitor.
Winston Cheng was nodding thoughtfully. Some of the intensity had faded from his voice. He seemed not so much discouraged as philosophical, almost as if he had expected Harry to refuse. Not that he gave any impression of giving up. He said: "Esmerelda's a pretty place. I've been there." And after a moment the old man asked: "Got a picture, Harry?"
"Matter of fact, I do." Harry reached into a pocket, drew out a small cube, and squeezed its sides. Beside his chair, two glowing images popped into existence, solid-looking, life-sized and standing upright.
Not nearly as elaborate a display as Winston Cheng's, whose two lost souls were once more moving gracefully in the background. But Harry's show was not bad either. A slender, young-looking woman with blond hair, dressed in a silvery but simple gown, sat in a plain chair holding hands with a five-year-old boy who stood beside her, wearing only shorts.
The two of them were gazing at each other as if they shared a happy secret. The boy's hair matched his mother's in curliness if not in color, and he had a lot of Harry's face, though fortunately not the broken nose. Every time Harry looked at his family it bothered him a little that Becky had subtly enhanced her image. She was trying to improve, as she thought, her appearance—but she didn't need to do that.
Winston Cheng was silent, gazing at the display. He stood regarding it somewhat longer than Harry had expected.
"My congratulations," the old man said at last, convincingly.
"Thanks."
Winston Cheng sighed. "How about a drink? You look like a drinking man to me."
"Don't mind if I do. Scotch, if you've got it."
"I think we might manage that."
It was the woman and not a robot who poured the drinks in an adjoining room, a smaller chamber that reeked less of power. The Lady Masaharu performed the task efficiently, silently declining to take even a symbolic few drops for herself. When she sat down it was again at a little distance from the men, as if once more determined to stay apart from their confrontation but remain available if needed.
Winston Cheng, sitting on a plain chair, nursing his own glass of fine amber liquid, made it plain he had not yet given up on Harry. He resumed the campaign by drawing Harry out on the subject of what details he would like in the next ship that he owned. Then he made sure Harry understood that the very vessel he was describing now lay within his grasp.
Cheng was too shrewd a salesman to belabor this particular prospect with talk of money, money, money. He had not got to where he was by so seriously misjudging the people he was trying to persuade. Instead, he expanded on how well his two yachts were going to be armed—intriguingly avoided even mentioning the secret weapon again—and offered to clear up any other misunderstandings that might help to change Harry's mind.
When these efforts failed to sell the customer, he perceptively abstained from what would certainly have been an unproductive effort at the hard sell, and graciously offered Harry a ride to anywhere in the charted portion of the Galaxy he would like to go.
Winston Cheng's expression had changed into a faint, sad smile. "Having practically kidnapped you to get you here, I figure I owe you that much. What'll it be—Esmerelda?"
That was tempting. Really tempting—but no. Harry would accept a return ride back to Cascadia, where the Cheng courier had picked him up, but he didn't want to be under any obligations.
In this room he had gratefully chosen a plain chair too. "Thanks anyway, Mister Cheng. Just take me back to where you found me, I've got some unfinished business there regarding a leased ship."
"There'll be a little something for you when you get on the courier."
Harry raised his voice a little. "Thanks, Mister Cheng, but I can't—"
"No no. Nothing like that. My parting gift consists of nothing more than a prepaid courier message capsule. Just in case you change your mind."
"I won't. But thanks."
And a liveried, blank-eyed robot servant came to show Harry out. The last impression he took with him of the magnificent apartment and its occupants was the woman's face, her pale eyes regarding him with an absolutely unreadable expression.