by Jack Vance
“How long ago?”
“Ah—two years.”
“And then Earl inherited?”
Webbard pursed his lips. “Mr. Lionel unfortunately was off the Station, and Mr. Earl became legal master.”
“Rather nice timing, from Earl’s viewpoint.”
Webbard puffed out his cheeks. “Now then, young lady, we’ve had enough of that! If—”
“Mr. Webbard, let’s have an understanding once and for all. Either you answer my questions and stop this blustering or I’ll ask someone else. And when I’m done, that someone else will be asking you questions too.”
“You insolent little trash!” snarled Webbard.
Jean turned toward the door, Webbard grunted, thrashed himself forward. Jean gave her arm a shake; out of nowhere a blade of quivering glass appeared in her hand.
Webbard floundered in alarm, trying to halt his motion through the air. Jean put up her foot, pushed him in the belly, back toward his chair.
She said, “I want to see a picture of the entire family.”
“I don’t have any such pictures “
Jean shrugged. “I can go to any public library and dial the Who’s-Who.” She looked him over coolly, as she coiled her knife. Webbard shrank back in his chair. Perhaps he thought her a homicidal maniac. Well, she wasn’t a maniac and she wasn’t homicidal either, unless she was driven to it. She asked easily, “Is it a fact that Earl is worth a billion dollars?”
Webbard snorted. “A billion dollars? Ridiculous! The family owns nothing but the Station and lives off the income. A hundred million dollars would build another twice as big and luxurious.”
“Where did Fotheringay get that figure?” she asked wonderingly.
“I couldn’t say,” Webbard replied shortly.
“Where is Lionel now?”
Webbard pulled his lips in and out desperately. “He’s—resting somewhere along the Riviera.”
“Hm…You say you don’t have any photographs?”
Webbard scratched his chin. “I believe that there’s a shot of Lionel…Let me see…Yes, just a moment.” He fumbled in his desk, pawed and peered, and at last came up with a snapshot. “Mr. Lionel.”
Jean examined the photograph with interest. “Well, well.” The face in the photograph and the face of the fat man in Earl’s zoological collection were the same. “Well, well.” She looked up sharply. “And what’s his address?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Webbard responded with some return of his mincing dignity.
“Quit dragging your feet, Webbard.”
“Oh, well—the Villa Passe-temps, Juan-les-pins.”
“I’ll believe it when I see your address file. Where is it?’*
Webbard began breathing hard. “Now see here, young lady, there’s serious matters at stake!”
“Such as what?”
“Well—” Webbard lowered his voice, glanced conspiratonally at the walls of the room. “It’s common knowledge at the Station that Mr. Earl and Mr. Lionel are—well, not friendly. And there’s a rumor—a rumor, mind you—that Mr. Earl has hired a well-known criminal to kill Mr. Lionel.”
That would be Fotheringay, Jean surmised.
Webbard continued. “So you see, it’s necessary that I exercise the utmost caution…”
Jean laughed. “Let’s see that file.”
Webbard finally indicated a card file. Jean said, “You know where it is; pull it out.”
Webbard glumly sorted through the cards. “Here.”
The address was: Hotel Atlantide, Apartment 3001, French Colony, Metropolis, Earth.
Jean memorized the address, then stood irresolutely, trying to think of further questions. Webbard smiled slowly. Jean ignored him, stood nibbling her fingertips. Times like this she felt the inadequacy of her youth. When it came to action—fighting, laughing, spying, playing games, making love—she felt complete assurance. But the sorting out of possibilities and deciding which were probable and which irrational was when she felt less than sure. Such as now…Old Webbard, the fat blob, had calmed himself and was gloating. Well, let him enjoy himself…She had to get to Earth. She had to see Lionel Abercrombie. Possibly Fotheringay had been hired to kill him, possibly not. Possibly Fotheringay knew where to find him, possibly not. Webbard knew Fotheringay; probably he had served as Earl’s intermediary. Or possibly Webbard was performing some intricate evolutions of his own. It was plain that, now, her interests were joined with Lionel’s, rather than Fotheringay’s, because marrying Earl was clearly out of the question. Lionel must stay alive. If this meant double-crossing Fotheringay, too bad for Fotheringay. He could have told her more about Earl’s “zoological collection” before he sent her up to marry Earl…Of course, she told herself, Fotheringay would have no means of knowing the peculiar use Earl made of his specimens.
“Well?” asked Webbard with an unpleasant grin.
“When does the next ship leave for Earth?”
“The supply barge is heading back tonight.”
“That’s fine. If I can fight off the pilot. You can pay me now.”
“Pay you? You’ve only done a day’s work. You owe the Station for transportation, your uniform, your meals—”
“Oh, never mind.” Jean turned, pulled herself into the corridor, went to her room, packed her belongings.
Mrs. Blaiskell pushed her head through the door. “Oh, there you are…” She sniffed. “Mr. Earl has been inquiring for you. He wants to see you at once.” It was plain that she disapproved.
“Sure,” said Jean. “Right away.”
Mrs. Blaiskell departed.
Jean pushed herself along the corridor to the loading deck. The barge pilot was assisting in the loading of some empty metal drums. He saw Jean and his face changed. “You again?”
“I’m going back to Earth with you. You were right. I don’t like it here.”
The pilot nodded sourly. “This time you ride in the storage. That way neither of us gets hurt…I couldn’t promise a thing if you’re up forward.”
“Suits me,” said Jean. “I’m going aboard.”
When Jean reached the Hotel Atlantide in Metropolis she wore a black dress and black pumps which she felt made her look older and more sophisticated. Crossing the lobby she kept a wary lookout for the house detective. Sometimes they nursed unkind suspicions toward unaccompanied young girls. It was best to avoid the police, keep them at a distance. When they found that she had no father, no mother, no guardian, their minds were apt to turn to some dreary government institution. On several occasions rather extreme measures to ensure her independence had been necessary.
But the Hotel Atlantide detective took no heed of the black-haired girl quietly crossing the lobby, if he saw her at all. The lift attendant observed that she seemed restless, as with either a great deal of pent enthusiasm or nervous. A porter on the thirtieth floor noticed her searching for an apartment number and mentally labeled her a person unfamiliar with the hotel. A chambermaid watched her press the bell at Apartment 3001, saw the door open, saw the girl jerk back in surprise, then slowly enter the apartment. Strange, thought the chambermaid, and speculated mildly for a few moments. Then she went to recharge the foam dispensers in the public bathrooms, and the incident passed from her mind.
The apartment was spacious, elegant, expensive. Windows overlooked Central Gardens and the Morison Hall of Equity behind. The furnishings were the work of a professional decorator, harmonious and sterile; a few incidental objects around the room, however, hinted of a woman’s presence. But Jean saw no woman. There was only herself and Fotheringay.
Fotheringay wore subdued gray flannels and dark necktie. In a crowd of twenty people he would vanish.
After an instant of surprise he stood back. “Come in.”
Jean darted glances around the room, half expecting a fat crumpled body. But possibly Lionel had not been at home, and Fotheringay was waiting.
“Well,” he asked, “what brings you here?” He was watching her covertl
y. “Take a seat.”
Jean sank into a chair, chewed at her lip. Fotheringay watched her catlike. Walk carefully. She prodded her mind. What legitimate excuse did she have for visiting Lionel? Perhaps Fotheringay had expected her to double-cross him…Where was Hammond? Her neck tingled. Eyes were on her neck. She looked around quickly.
Someone in the hall tried to dodge out of sight. Not quickly enough. Inside Jean’s brain a film of ignorance broke to release a warm soothing flood of knowledge.
She smiled, her sharp white little teeth showing between her lips. It had been a fat woman whom she had seen in the hall, a very fat woman, rosy, flushed, quivering.
“What are you smiling at?” inquired Fotheringay.
She used his own technique. “Are you wondering who gave me your address?”
“Obviously Webbard.”
Jean nodded. “Is the lady your wife?”
Fotheringay’s chin raised a hairbreadth. “Get to the point.”
“Very well.” She hitched herself forward. There was still a possibility that she was making a terrible mistake, but the risk must be taken. Questions would reveal her uncertainty, diminish her bargaining position. “How much money can you raise—right now? Cash.”
“Ten or twenty thousand.”
Her face must have showed disappointment.
“Not enough?”
“No. You sent me on a bum steer.”
Fotheringay sat silently.
“Earl would no more make a pass at me than bite off his tongue. His taste in women is—like yours.”
Fotheringay displayed no irritation. “But two years ago—”
“There’s a reason for that.” She raised her eyebrows ruefully. “Not a nice reason.”
“Well, get on with it.”
“He liked Earth girls because they were freaks. In his opinion, naturally. Earl likes freaks.”
Fotheringay rubbed his chin, watching her with blank wide eyes. “I never thought of that.”
“Your scheme might have worked out if Earl were halfway right-side up. But I just don’t have what it takes.”
Fotheringay smiled frostily. “You didn’t come here to tell me that.”
“No. I know how Lionel Abercrombie can get the Station for himself…Of course your name is Fotheringay.”
“If my name is Fotheringay, why did you come here looking for me?”
Jean laughed, a gay ringing laugh. “Why do you think I’m looking for you? I’m looking for Lionel Abercrombie. Fotheringay is no use to me unless I can marry Earl. I can’t. I haven’t got enough of that stuff. Now I’m looking for Lionel Abercrombie.”
VIII
Fotheringay tapped a well-manicured finger on a well-flanneled knee, and said quietly, “I’m Lionel Abercrombie.”
“How do I know you are?”
He tossed her a passport. She glanced at it, tossed it back.
“Okay. Now—you have twenty thousand. That’s not enough. I want two million…If you haven’t got it, you haven’t got it. I’m not unreasonable. But I want to make sure I get it when you do have it…So—you’ll write me a deed, a bill of sale, something legal that gives me your interest in Abercrombie Station. I’ll agree to sell it back to you for two million dollars.”
Fotheringay shook his head. “That kind of agreement is binding on me but not on you. You’re a minor.”
Jean said, “The sooner I get clear of Abercrombie the better. I’m not greedy. You can have your billion dollars. I merely want two million…Incidentally, how do you figure a billion? Webbard says the whole setup is only worth a hundred million.”
Lionel’s mouth twisted in a wintry smile. “Webbard didn’t include the holdings of the Abercrombie guests. Some very rich people are fat. The fatter they get, the less they like life on Earth.”
“They could always move to another resort station.”
Lionel shook his head. “It’s not the same atmosphere. Abercrombie is Fatman’s World. The one small spot in all the universe where a fat man is proud of his weight.” There was a wistful overtone in his voice.
Jean said softly, “And you’re lonesome for Abercrombie yourself.”
Lionel smiled grimly. “Is that so strange?”
Jean shifted in her chair. “Now well go to a lawyer. I know a good one. Richard Mycroft. I want this deed drawn up without loopholes. Maybe I’ll have to find myself a guardian, a trustee.”
“You don’t need a guardian.”
Jean smiled complacently. “For a fact, I don’t.”
“You still haven’t told me what this project consists of.”
“I’ll tell you when I have the deed. You don’t lose a thing giving away property you don’t own. And after you give it away, it’s to my interest to help you get it.”
Lionel rose to his feet. “It had better be good.”
“It will be.”
The fat woman came into the room. She was obviously an Earth girl, bewildered and delighted by Lionel’s attentions. Looking at Jean her face became clouded with jealousy.
Out in the corridor Jean said wisely, “You get her up to Abercrombie, she’ll be throwing you over for one of those fat rascals.”
“Shut up!” said Lionel, in a voice like the whetting of a scythe.
The pilot of the supply barge said sullenly, “I don’t know about this.”
Lionel asked quietly, “You like your job?”
The pilot muttered churlishly, but made no further protest. Lionel buckled himself into the seat beside him. Jean, the horse-faced man named Hammond, two elderly men of professional aspect and uneasy manner settled themselves in the cargo hold.
The ship lifted free of the dock, pushed up above the atmosphere, lined out into Abercrombie’s orbit.
The Station floated ahead, glinting in the sunlight.
The barge landed on the cargo deck, the handlers tugged it into its socket, the port sighed open.
“Come on,” said Lionel. “Make it fast. Let’s get it over with.” He tapped Jean’s shoulder. “You’re first.”
She led the way up the main core. Fat guests floated down past them, light and round as soapbubbles, their faces masks of surprise at the sight of so many bone-people.
Up the core, along the vinculum into the Abercrombie private sphere. They passed the Pleasaunce, where Jean caught a glimpse of Mrs. Clara, fat as a blutworst, with the obsequious Webbard.
They passed Mrs. Blaiskell. “Why, Mr. Lionel!” she gasped. “Well, I never, I never!”
Lionel brushed past. Jean, looking over her shoulder into his face, felt a qualm. Something dark smoldered in his eyes. Triumph, malice, vindication, cruelty. Something not quite human. If nothing else, Jean was extremely human, and was wont to feel uneasy in the presence of out-world life…She felt uneasy now.
“Hurry,” came Lionel’s voice. “Hurry.”
Past Mrs. Clara’s chambers, to the door of Earl’s bedroom. Jean pressed the button; the door slid open.
Earl stood before a mirror, tying a red and blue silk cravat around his bull-neck. He wore a suit of pearl-gray gabardine, cut very full and padded to make his body look round and soft. He saw Jean in the mirror, behind her the hard face of his brother Lionel. He whirled, lost his footing, drifted ineffectually into the air,
Lionel laughed. “Get him, Hammond. Bring him along.”
Earl stormed and raved. He was the master here, everybody get out. He’d have them all jailed, killed. He’d kill them himself…
Hammond searched him for weapons, and the two professional-looking men stood uncomfortably in the background muttering to each other.
“Look here, Mr. Abercrombie,” one of them said at last. “We can’t be a party to violence…”
“Shut up,” said Lionel. “You’re here as witnesses, as medical men. You’re being paid to look, that’s all. If you don’t like what you see, that’s too bad.” He motioned to Jean. “Get going.”
Jean pushed herself to the study door. Earl called out sharply: “Get away from
there, get away! That’s private, that’s my private study!”
Jean pressed her lips together. It was impossible to avoid feeling pity for poor gnarled Earl. But—she thought of his “zoological collection.” Firmly she covered the electric eye, pressed the button. The door swung open, revealing the glory of the stained glass glowing with the fire of heaven.