“Trying to work up spots before my eyes for your alleged psycat to chase.” He fondled the pet which was an affectionate Saturnian crossbreed, an odd blending of Siamese with koala. “She is a beauty. Does she chase her own spots?”
“But of course; all cats do. I’ve finished changing now. Time to go.”
“I’ll walk you to the office.”
“Only as far as the corner, I beg. If we’re seen together at the main entrance first thing in the morning… Well! Do I call you or you me?”
“You call me, and for God’s sake use your own Virginia voice. Don’t spring like a Mata Hari on me.”
“C’est magnifique,” she answered in throbbing spy-sultry tones, “mais ce n’est pas la guerre. Come on, Starjock.”
“I’ll give you the plans for the secret invasion,” he whined, “if you’ll only let me out of your secret thrall.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Coronation
On the King’s gate the moss grew gray;
The King came not. They called him dead
And made his eldest son one day
Slave in his father’s stead.
—Helen Hunt Jackson
After he’d kissed Demi (out of sight of gossip) Winter continued on foot toward the Beaux Arts rotunda. It was a brilliant morning in classy New York, the Jungle-Mother, and the entire Wasp world seemed to reflect his own exhilaration. Anachronistic Christmas displays in shop windows: Hit’s Xmas On Mars!!Send A Gift To Your Loved One!! Porno Valentine decorations posted by striking hookers seeking support. White linens hanging from windowsills to demonstrate sympathy with the Honk Movement fighting for a Dome on Ganymede.
Some sort of advertising parade came down the main stem; a fife-and-drum corps with almost as many twirlers as drummers, making a hell of a racket which was compounded by a street gang of young hoods, “Titan Dukes” their jackets proclaimed in neon, leaping and cavorting in ludicrous passes at the twirlers. Then came the hard-sell float for P+L+A+Z+M+I+L+K with eight farm girls (live) milking eight Holsteins (plastic).
The Synergist stopped dead in his tracks, as though paralyzed by a mysterious laser pistol yet to be invented. “Eight!” he exclaimed. He turned, ran, and caught up with the head of the parade and counted the drummers. “Yes, twelve.” He counted the Titan Dukes, the fifes, the twirlers. “Eleven, ten, nine, by God! Jigjeeze!”
He resumed his walk toward the rotunda, every synergic perception prickling and exploring. He spotted more of the pattern, a toy shop at the entrance to an arcade. There was a magnificent dollhouse displayed in the window. It was set in a miniature park built to scale. On a tiny pond floated seven swans. Winter nodded and entered the arcade. He was not surprised to be led around a corner by a gourmet shop which had six Canadas lying on crushed ice in the vitrine.
“Gig,” he murmured. “Dukes are lords. Canadas are geese. What next?”
All thought of getting back to the rotunda had left him. He explored, sensing, searching, until he found it at last at the foot of a flight of stone steps, a poster for some flower show decorated with a stylized Gold-poppy made up of four rings for the petals and a center ring for the carpel.
“Uh-huh. Five gold rings.”
He mounted the stairs, came into another arcade, passed a pet shop with a window full of puppies, continued, then stopped and shook his head. “Starschmuck!” he muttered and returned to the pet shop. He peered in. At last he saw it: a large cage at the far end. It contained four myna birds. He went in for a closer look.
“Do they talk?” he asked the owner.
“Can’t shut ‘em up. Only trouble is, they holler in Gullah. That’s why the price is so cheap.”
“It figures. Thanks.”
Winter went out the back door, wondering how three French hens would be made manifest. It was managed by a blackboard in front of a restaurant. On it was chalked:
TODAY’S MENU
Poulet Gras Poularde
Poulet de l’Année
Vieille Poule Coq
w. Sauce Indienne
or Sauce Paprika
or Sauce Estragon
Burgundy, Bordeaux, Côtes du Rhône
Before Winter could enter in search of two turtledoves, two young ladies came out. They were dressed in the latest trendy high style, including enormous Eugénie hats. Each had a tiny red jeweled-quail perched on the brim.
“Natürlich,” Winter said to himself. “Ruddy quail. A form of turtledove. Two.”
He followed the young ladies at a discreet distance, now searching right and left for some kind of tree. There are no trees in that section of the Mighty Metrop., but the ladies entered a towering office building. Above the cathedral entrance was graven in English Gothic: PAIRE BANQUE ALSACIENNE BLDG. Winter began to chuckle. The pattern had turned into a preposterous treasure hunt, and he was wondering what absurd prize he would find at the end.
He went in, crossed directly to the tenant listings and didn’t waste any time; merely glanced at “P,” found “Odessa Partridge—3030” took the express elevator to the thirtieth floor, and there it was, an impressive tree-paneled door labeled PARTRIDGE. Winter entered.
He found himself in what appeared to be a full symphony orchestra waiting for the musicians to appear. He was surrounded by every known instrument; strings, brass, woodwinds, percussion. A charming young lady, no longer wearing a Eugénie hat, approached and greeted him. “Good morning, Mr. Winter. So glad you could keep your appointment. The spinet is ready for inspection. Frances!”
“Spinet?” Winter echoed feebly.
“Well, really, a virginal. You know, a lap-spinet without legs. Frances, please take Mr. Winter to the studio.”
A second charming young lady, also without hat, had appeared and now conducted Winter through the orchestra. “We had trouble bringing it up to concert pitch,” she confided. “I do hope you’re not fussy about a 439 A, Mr. Winter. 435 is the most the strings would hold. In here, Mr. Winter.” She opened the studio door and the bewildered Winter was gently urged in.
“Good morning, King R-og,” I said.
I didn’t think he heard me. He just stared, then. “But you’re the nice lady from Dr. Yael’s talk-in. The diva lady. I thought you should sing Brünnehilde.”
“You never told me,” I said. “I’m Odessa Partridge. In the music trade but not a singer.”
He looked around with his quick eyes; at the thick insulated walls, the double-glazed windows, the stacked music in print and manuscript, the gilt harpsichord, the virginal, the concert grand piano with Jay Yael seated at it, smiling benignly.
“And Dr. Yael?”
“Good morning, son.”
“This is too much for me.”
“No, it isn’t boy. Sit down. I’ve never seen you lose your poise for more than a moment. You’ll regroup.”
Winter backed into a chair and sat, shaking his head. Then drew a deep breath, compressed his lips and looked hard at me. “And this is the prize at the end of the treasure hunt?”
“There! You see?” Yael beamed. “It didn’t take you five seconds, Rogue.”
“But why this ridiculous Roguemarole?”
“We had to brief you on something extremely sensitive,” I told him.
“So? Couldn’t you call?”
“I said ‘sensitive.’ Calls can be tapped. And messages. And word of mouth. The problem was how to bring you here without a clue to anyone, so we relied on your pattern sense, which is unique. No one else has that.”
“Forgive me, Brünnehilde, but you’re sounding like an X-rated spy feature.”
“We had all last night when you were—otherwise occupied, to set up ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas.’”
“Naturally, your name being Partridge. But if it’d been Kallikak?”
“I knew you’d be the only one able to sense the pattern, and if you were tailed, your course would be so eccentric that you’d certainly shake it.”
“Tailed? Oh sure. Rogue Moriarty, they call me,
” Winter laughed. “Paging Sherlock Holmes.”
“This is serious, son,” Yael said.
“Why King R-og?” Winter shot at me.
“You’re brilliant,” I said with genuine admiration. “Because that’s the crux and you’ve synergized it already. Te Uinta’s soul now resides in your left eye.”
“When? How?” Like lightning.
“A week ago. Hunting accident. His suit ripped open by a tusk. He was really too old to encounter an anaerobic mammoth alone.”
Winter swallowed hard. “He had to prove himself. Once a year. It’s the Maori tradition for royalty.”
“And now you’ll have to,” I said. “Please listen, Winter, and don’t zag in. Gig?”
He nodded.
“We’ve been using you, without your knowledge, for years and you’ve been invaluable. You’ve been watched and followed. Your code I.D. is ‘Pointer.’” And I told him about our Pert operations and the unconscious role he played in them. He listened intently without interrupting. He was quick and perceptive and didn’t plague me with obvious questions like who “we” were. Once, however, he did dart a glance at Yael, who responded with a shrug.
“Now the crux,” I went on. “That soldier in the Bologna gardens carried a Slice Knife for two purposes. One was for the kill, of course, but the other was to bring your cheeks back to Ganymede.”
“Ah!”
“Yes. He had nothing to do with the Jink girl from Triton or her organization. He was only stalking you as R-og Uinta, king-presumptive.”
“So!”
“So indeed. There’s a small, tough terrorist group who don’t want you. You’re not a Maori. You weren’t raised in the Dome. You’re Honk-corrupted. You’re soft. You can’t be trusted. Etcetera. Etcetera. What’s their answer? Wipe you, and they’re on the wipe. These killers are trained and smart, and that’s why I had to go through the ‘Twelve Days’ caper to bring you here.”
“They’re wasting their time,” Winter said. “I don’t want any part of the king-bit.”
“That won’t make any difference to them. No matter who they acclaim in your place, you’ll always be a present danger. The majority in the Dome will forever homage your cheeks. Their only answer is to bring your cheeks home as trophies of the kill.”
“I’ll abdicate formally.”
“It won’t go down with them. They won’t trust you to stay abdicted. They’ll stay on the wipe until you’re blown.”
“Jigjeeze! What a hell of a scam for a nice goyisha boychick. And now that Demi and I—” He cut himself off. Then; “But you didn’t paper-chase me here just to bring the bad news from Ganymede to Terra. You have something more in mind. What?”
“Go to Ganymede and get yourself kinged.”
“You’ve got to be zigging.”
“Yael will accompany you.”
“What’s the doctor got to do with this?”
“I’ve never told you, son, but Te Uinta paid for your upbringing and education. He believed it could advantage the Maori to be led by a king who was conversant with our ways.”
“Yes, yes,” Winter muttered. “Same like Demi’s Titanian mother.”
“And I owe it to Te to see you through this crise,” Yael continued. “I must; otherwise all our prep. will go down the drain.”
“It’s down already, sir. I’m not the king type and never will be.”
“But you’ll be alive,” I said. “They won’t dare hit you once you’re formally coronated. That would alienate them from the majority completely.”
“What in hell are you trying to do, Odessa, protect me? I can protect myself, now that I’ve been alerted. God knows, I proved that on Venucci.”
“I’m not protecting you,” I flared. “I’m protecting the job you’re doing for us. If you have to live on the alert for hits, you won’t be any use to us. The only patterns you’ll be able to sense will be potential wipes.”
He grunted.
“But if you get yourself coronated, you’ll be safe, back to normal, business as usual.” I let that sink in, then, “And your girl will be safe, too.”
He glared at me. “You bitch,” he said softly. “You unadulterated, natural, organic bitch. You know how to twist a man, don’t you?”
“That’s my business.”
“Yeh. Like music. ‘Music of the Fears.’ Demi will have to be protected while I’m gone.”
“I’ll take care of that.”
“Gig. When?”
I liked him even more for that. Once he’d made a decision, he was ready to act without any fuss. “Noon jet today. Yael’s made all the arrangements.”
“That vig, huh?”
“Best and safest.”
“And you knew you had my number. You’ll explain to Demi after I leave?”
“As much as is good for her to know. Trust me.”
“I have to. Avanti, dottore!” Winter was on his feet moving fast. “Did I ever tell you the one about the mammoth that robbed the jewelry store?”
With the aid and comfort of Meta power, jet travel is a matter of days and weeks which gives the Jap-Chinks yet another stranglehold. It’s the price the Solar must pay for its transformation from isolated outposts into a close community of quarreling planets and satellites, and another torque which turns the Meta Mafia into bootlegging Good Guys. (At a conservative estimate, some 5,271,009 hours have been devoted to researching an analysis and synthesis of Meta. No way, but not to contemn; the ancients put in as much time chasing the Philosopher’s Stone.)
Winter and Yael arrived at the main lock of the Maori Dome via terrafoil (Ganyfoil?). It was the second of the three days of direct sunlight and it was reasonably bright and pleasant. If the interior of the Dome resembles anything it’s Rapa Nui, i.e. “Great Rapa,” otherwise known as Easter Island.
There are differences, to be sure. It’s circular rather than triangular. No thatched huts; the little houses are drywall. No giant stone images; instead, huge carved tribal totems (with left eyes of inlaid mica) before each family of houses. All delightfully primitive, but the central kampong in which the Maori assemble to exercise, compete, quarrel, gossip, ceremonize, u.s.w., covers the ultramodern Dome maintenance system which, after the JonesDome disaster on Mercury, is Death City taboo for any except authorized technicians to enter.
Yael had been invaluable on the outjet. He dyed Winter with a sepiawoad to conform to the Maori brown skin, this over Winter’s bitter objections. (It’s believed that woad induces impotence.) “Public relations, son. The impotence has never been verified, and anyway the dye will be worn out by the time you get back to your woman.”
“And so will I, from worrying.”
“Just worry about the mammoth.”
They passed through the lock and entered the Dome, expecting pandemonium—Yael had lasered advance notice of their arrival—but were met with solemn ritual. The twelve tribal chiefs, feathered, pearled, necklaced, braceleted and ankleted, were in a semicircle. They genuflected, advanced, and gently stripped Winter naked.
“Oparo? Is that you?” Winter stammered, half in Polynesian, half in English. “I’ve been gone so long. Tubuai? We used to wrestle; you always beat me. Waihu? Remember the time we tried to climb your totem and got walloped? Teapi? Chincha?” No answer.
There had never been a coronation in Winter’s lifetime so he didn’t know what to expect, but he discovered that all his anticipations had been wrong. No frantic mobs, no cheers, no drums, no song; instead he was escorted, stark naked, across the deserted kampong in stately silence and reverently desposited alone in the Te Uinta palace which he remembered so well.
It was enormous by Maori standards, ten separate rooms, now all bare. The house had been stripped of everything; it was merely four walls. Winter squatted in the center of the main hall, which had been as much of a throne room as the Maori cared for, and waited for the next move. There was none. He waited, waited, waited.
“I wonder if the doctor is getting the same treatment
,” he wondered, stretching out on the floor.
(Yael was being lavishly entertained. They remembered him with affection.)
“I suppose I’m supposed to be in solemn meditation,” Winter meditated. “The awesome responsibilities facing me. What I owe to my ancestors and my people. So. On my honor I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law…
“And this guy came to his jewelry store early one morning to catch up with his paper work. He got there just in time to see a truck back up to his store. The rear opened and this hairy mammoth got out, went to the store window, smashed it with his tusks, and scooped up all the goodies with his trunk. Then he got back into the truck and it drove away…”
There was a rustling and a chiming. Winter looked toward the sound and discovered that a brown girl had crept into the room. She had the typical black wavy hair—the Maori are either straight or wavy, never curly—attractive Polynesian features and an adolescent body. He could see that because she wore a chain of chiming silver scallops around her waist and nothing else.
“What the hell is this?” he asked himself. “Part of the ritual? My future consort and queen? They ought to let me choose for myself.”
The girl wasted no time. She was against him in a moment, silently entwining and exciting, and it seemed to him that she was giving one hell of an audition for the consort role until he felt the initial slash against the back of his knee. His trained reflexes were like lightning. He drove the knee up into her crotch and smashed the razor-edged shell out of her hand. As she doubled over in agony he muttered, “The hamstring-bit, huh? Odessa was right. These cats are no clowns. The mammoth hunt would’ve been real jaunty-jolly with me hamstrung.”
He picked the helpless girl up and gave himself the satisfaction of biting her rump hard enough to draw blood before he threw her out the front door like a piece of trash. Then he slammed the door to give notice that he’d take on anything, and settled down again on the throne-room floor, alert for further action. He didn’t yet realize that the attack and his response was reverting him to the sanguinary for which the future king had been trained.
THE DECEIVERS Page 6