Stargate

by Stephen Robinett

  “Dance?”

  “Hm-m-m?” I inspected the corners of her mouth for foam.

  “Dance,” she droned, undulating.

  “I have to—”

  “Dance,” she commanded, oscillating.

  “But—”

  “No dance?”

  “No.”

  Her tongue lolled from the corner of her mouth. I took it to be a sign of disapproval. I followed Smith to our table. Almost immediately, he and Pamela disappeared into the crowd. I could see Smith’s arms flailing over the dancers and catch glimpses of Pamela, writhing. She writhed well.

  “What’s he doing?” I asked Dolores.

  “Pardon me?”

  I shouted above the squealing violaphone. “What’s Smith doing?”

  “He said he was going to look things over!”

  “The only thing he’s looking over,” I yelled, “is Pamela!”

  “I saw you getting an eyeful, too!”

  “Dolores! Please! Don’t start that!”

  The band reached something near ten to the tenth decibels.

  “Dance?” Dolores might have said. It was impossible to tell.

  “WHAT?”

  “DANCE?” Dolores shimmied, signaling her meaning. Abruptly, the band stopped.

  “NO!”

  Smith and Pamela approached. “What are you yelling for, buddy boy?”

  “Smith,” I said, my voice still louder than normal in spite of the pause in the music, “we can’t stay here.”

  “Why?”

  “We’ll all go deaf.”

  “You don’t know what’s good, buddy boy. That’s the Stone Jock up there on the bandstand.”

  “I don’t care if it’s Rudy Vallee or someone else out of your heyday. They pierce.”

  “Rudy Vallee was a little before my time,” said Smith, nodding across the dance floor. “There’s Spieler.”

  I looked across the room. At a table next to the dance floor, Spieler sat with two men and a girl. She looked familiar. After several seconds, I recognized her as my erstwhile dance partner.

  “Does he know we’re here?” I asked.

  “Who knows?” Smith answered. The band struck up. “Let’s dance, Dolores.”

  Smith led Dolores onto the floor. His arms flapped above her bobbing head. Though Smith’s style could have been improved, his enthusiasm seemed boundless. Pamela looked at me, inquiring, over the din, whether I wanted to take a turn around the floor.

  “We might as well get group rates at the chiropractor,” I shouted.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Never mind!”

  Once I got into the music, only my spine felt about to snap. Everything else held up. The amoebas flashed on the walls and the people. Pamela—purple, green, orange—wobbled in front of me, her anatomy threatening to free itself with each twitch. Faces flashed past—Smith, grinning; Dolores, intense, puckering; Pamela, erotic; Spieler, inquiring.

  I tried to talk to Pamela.

  “Miss Rysor!”

  “Pam!”

  “Where did you meet Smith?”

  “At work!”

  “Did he take you anyplace interesting Wednesday?” The gossip in me wanted to know.

  She looked at me, squirming rhythmically. “Wednesday?”

  “Didn’t you go out with him“—someone jostled me—”Wednesday night?”

  “Not me!” She bent forward, shaking her blond hair like someone emptying a dustmop. The music stopped. I stopped. Eventually, Pamela stopped. We headed back to our table. The leader of the Stone Jock—perhaps the Stone Jock himself—announced a fifteen-minute break.

  Smith began to regale Pamela and Dolores with a tale from his youth. I could see Spieler out of the corner of my eye, talking to one of his men, I imagined a contract being put out on us, hit men behind every door. I remembered the white van outside.

  “Smith.”

  “Don’t interrupt,” said Dolores. Dolores thinks she has to improve the creditable job my mother did on my manners.

  “Smith.”

  He continued his story, ignoring me. Pamela and Dolores, round-eyed and breathless, listened.

  “Smith.”

  “Bobby, please!”

  “Smith, Spieler’s coming this way.”

  Smith, annoyed at my interruption, scowled at me. “So?”

  “I just thought you’d like to know.”

  “He had to, sooner or later, didn’t he?” Smith returned to his tale. Spieler approached and halted near Smith’s elbow. He looked different than the pictures in the Merryweather file. Not older, just harder, more intense.

  “And then,” said Smith, glancing up at Spieler as if he were a waiter, suddenly discovered at the table, “the man said—” Smith’s voice trailed off. “Hi, Fred.”

  Spieler, his lean face impassive, scrutinized Smith. Sizing him up? Probably.

  “I understand,” said Spieler, “you’ve been applying for work at one of my companies.”

  I heard a faint New England intonation in Spieler’s voice, inherited from his parents.

  “Man’s gotta eat,” said Smith.

  “I could have you thrown out, Mr. Smith.”

  “You could,” said Smith, smiling. “But you won’t.”

  “I won’t?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m the piece in the game that doesn’t fit.”

  Spieler looked startled. Somehow, Smith had touched a nerve. “What game is that, Mr. Smith?”

  Smith waved his hand at Spieler, pushing aside the question. “Come on, Fred. Don’t play dumb. You’re a direct man. Be direct.” Before Spieler could answer, Smith turned to Pamela. “Do you like football players?”

  “Sure.”

  I could see she did. Too bad for us old ping-pong men.

  Smith nodded at Spieler. “Fred here was a quarterback at UCLA. In eighty games, he only took to the air thirteen percent of the time. Ground games. Slug it out. That’s Fred. Sixty-three percent of his ground plays went through the middle. There’s something to that.”

  Spieler listened, smiling faintly. “That was a long time ago, Mr. Smith. People change.”

  “Not much. You saw us here. You came over. You could have sent someone else.” Smith glanced at Pamela. “Fred’s a direct man.” He looked up at Spieler. “As long as you’re here, have a seat.”

  Smith continued his asides to Pamela. “You see what I mean? Direct. Right to the point.” He looked at Spieler. “I want to talk.”

  “So talk.”

  “Why do you need armed men at your Space Operations Center?”

  I flinched. Smith was no end-run man himself. By Spieler’s expression, calm yet courteously attentive, Smith could have been asking where he got his cravat.

  “We’ve had a rash of old men running through the facilities. We don’t want them to get hurt.”

  “How bad is Merryweather going to hurt you when the Big Gate’s finished?”

  “Not much. We have established markets.”

  “Come off it, Fred,” said Smith, lighting a cigar. He puffed, working up a substantial ember and blowing out smoke. “He’s going to break your back and you know it.”

  “There are doubts,” said Spieler, glancing at me, “that the Gate will be finished. If anyone were capable of finishing it, and if it were finished, and if it worked, we estimate some encroachment on our markets.”

  “Encroachment!” hooted Smith. “You won’t have any markets, to encroach on.” He puffed the cigar. “Next question. Why do you have two spacecraft standing off the Big Gate?”

  “Mr. Smith, as you no doubt know, I try to keep my Saturday evenings free of business concerns.”

  The more I watched Spieler, the more impenetrable he seemed. He listened to Smith, showing little reaction. Once or twice, his cheek, tinted green by the club lighting, twitched. It could have been the smoke from Smith’s cigar, irritating his eye. In another context—meeting Spieler at a party or at work—I woul
d have described him as quiet. Knowing his background and remembering Norton, his silence seemed threatening, unpredictable.

  Smith bearded the lion.

  “Try this on for size, Fred. The major capital investment of Spieler Interstellar is in, drone ships. Your first shipload made you a billionaire. Since then, you’ve sunk everything into the fleet. The odds were with you. In spite of the cost, the, financial risk was low. If only ten percent of your fleet returned, you would profit. Then Merryweather started the Big Gate. Word got out. Spieler Interstellar stock slipped. It’s down eighty-seven points now and still going.”

  “Eighty-six.”

  “The rats are leaving the sinking ship. You had to stay competitive or hit the showers. You would never hit the showers. You have to play, don’t you? But how? Any day Merryweather will pull a hunk of rock out of that orbiting mother lode and tie it to your feet.

  “Merryweather put up relay satellites to his space station. Your technical people told you it could mean only one thing. The interface phase-shift problem for ungrounded matter transmitters had been solved. If the solution applied to your drone ships, it meant you could send people.

  “Drone ships go out empty. Everyone knows an empty leg on any type ship is wasted space. Why not send out people? Passengers pay more per pound than rocks. You got the phase-shift solution somehow—”

  “Smith,” I interrupted.

  “Quiet, buddy boy.”

  “Smith, you’re talking too—”

  Spieler looked at me, his expression cutting off my protest. “Let him talk.”

  Let him talk, hell! Smith was about to blow the whole thing. Why? A rational explanation eluded me. I remembered Smith’s after-dinner conversation on Monday evening, describing his relationship to his daughter and son-in-law. It boiled down to one thing. Smith wanted to be considered a competent adult, someone capable of dealing with the world no matter what the world tossed at him. His family refused to give him that respect. He thought he had figured out Spieler’s motives. He wanted Spieler to know it, to appreciate it. Smith pictured Spieler as his personal enemy. If his enemies respected him, he knew it was given only because it was due. His enemies had respected him once. They would again.

  I stood up. “Let’s get out of here, Smith.”

  Smith jabbed an index finger at me. “Sit down, buddy boy!”

  “Smith, you can’t do this. You’ll blow—”

  “I can do any damn thing I please! Ask Horace.” The intensity of his feeling showed in his face. “Now, sit down!”

  I sat down. Smith looked up at Spieler.

  “You got the phase-shift solution, but you learned something in the process. Merryweather had a flying wedge play tucked away. When did you realize it was all over? Three months ago when Norton wouldn’t play on your team? Hell of a guy, that Norton. He didn’t give a damn about money, did he? How much did you offer him? Half of everything, wasn’t it?”

  Spieler’s eye twitched. He remained silent.

  “Half! And he laughed at you. He was a-mean son-of-a-bitch, that Norton. He didn’t care about money. He didn’t care about his wife—and she was no help to you. She can’t do long division without a computer. She could repeat what Norton said but she didn’t understand enough of it to make any sense. Norton only wanted one thing in his life and he already had it. He wanted his Gate finished, his precious theory verified. You knew Norton. The Gate would work. A man like that couldn’t fail. Did you have him killed or did someone just oblige you, knowing it would please you?”

  “Smith,” I said. His tirade was turning sour. Accusing Spieler of sharp business practice was one thing. Accusing him of murder could get us killed.

  “Just a minute, buddy boy. I’ve got one more question.”

  Behind Spieler, the band mounted the stage, preparing to blare.

  “You’d better make it quick,” I said, watching the saxophonist limber up.

  “My question, Freddy, is what now? No one’s irreplaceable and Norton’s been replaced.”

  Spieler stood motionless, glaring at Smith. Slowly, a smile broke on his face, a smile I can only describe as a snarl, muted but twisted. I felt I was staring directly into Spieler’s mind. When he spoke, quietly, his voice had a force of will and determination I have never heard from anyone else.

  “I’ll win, Smith.”

  The band blared, drowning any response from Smith. Spieler turned and pushed his way violently into the dance floor crowd.

  Smith motioned for us to leave. We followed him. I knew Smith had blown it, revealed everything we knew about Spieler. I made up my mind to talk to Mr. Merryweather. Smith was old. His judgment had become distorted. He wanted to prove he was still hero, the eternal damn hero.

  Outside, I tried to talk to Smith. He smiled pleasantly at me. Nothing had happened, said the smile. Old Smith, the hero, was on the job.

  “Now we’re cooking,” he said.

  “Now we’re cooked, you mean. How in hell’s name do you expect to deal with that man when he knows everything we know?”

  “You worry about Norton’s Gate and I’ll worry about Spieler.”

  I caught Smith’s sleeve and stopped him. Dolores and Pamela paused, looking at me.

  “You’ll worry about Spieler,” I mocked. “This is not some kind of game, you know! You and Spieler fighting it out for King of the Mountain! If you’re right that he’s involved in Norton’s death, he may become involved in ours! Did you see that man’s face when he left the table? He wanted to break your neck with his own hands!”

  “Yep. Did you see those eyes?”

  “Yes, I saw them! That’s what, I’m talking about!”

  “And that mouth—twisted like that.”

  “Smith, you love this, don’t you?”

  “He’s nuts, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Spieler.”

  “You’re the one who’s nuts!”

  Dolores broke in. “I did feel kind of sorry for Mr. Spieler the way Scarlyn was browbeating him.”

  “Sorry for him!” I yelled. “Wait until a bomb flies through our front window and see how sorry you feel!”

  “Bobby, don’t get hysterical.”

  “I’m not getting hysterical! Smith here just gave away the whole game!”

  “I’m sure Mr. Smith knows what he’s doing.”

  “You people are all blind!”

  Smith put his hand on my shoulder. “Robert, why don’t you worry about something important.”

  “Like what?”

  “The Gate, or—”

  “Or what?”

  He pointed down the street. “The two guys in that white van.”

  XII

  The van followed us home. On the freeway, Smith pulled out from the Guide lane and stepped on the Ferrari. The van dwindled behind us. He slowed, letting it catch up.

  “What was that for?”

  “Now they know I’m letting them follow me.”

  “This is just a big game to you, isn’t it, Smith?”

  “Bobby, don’t be obnoxious,” said Dolores.

  “Sure, it’s a game.”

  “Do you care who wins?”

  “I’m paid to care. Look at it this way. If someone said, here’s a high stakes poker game. I want you to play. I’ll take the winnings but I’ll suffer the losses. I just want you to play. Would you play?”

  “It depends.”

  “For someone like Horace.”

  I thought about Mr. Merryweather. “Probably. But this isn’t a poker game. And how do you know those two are following you? They could be following me.”

  “Oh, Bobby,” said Dolores. “You’re so egotistical. Why would anyone follow you?”

  “I did replace Norton, you know.”

  “Robert’s right,” said Smith. “I’d rather be wrong.”

  At times, the world is against you. I could see it was my time. People like Smith, blabbing their heads off to people like Spieler. People like Dolores, accusing me of e
gomania. Me! I sulked the rest of the way home. All I wanted was a phone. Mr. Merryweather had to know about Smith.

  Smith pulled up in front of our house. The van parked down the street.

  “I’ll drop you two here,” said Smith. “As soon as you get inside, check the street from the window. If our friends are still there, call a cop. If not, I’ll handle it.”

  “OK, hero.”

  Smith looked at me. “What was that crack for?”

  “Forget it. Let’s go, Dolores.”

  Pamela got out and pushed the seat forward. Dolores and I followed.

  “Good night, Pam.”

  “Good night, Bob.”

  Dolores and I walked up the path to our front door. Dolores was muttering something. I asked what her problem was.

  ” ‘Good night, Pam,’” she said while I looked for my key. ” ‘Good night, Bob.’”

  “Dolores. Please.”

  “Good night, ootsy-cootsy little Bobby.”

  “You don’t like her?”

  “I like her just fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

  Inside, I checked at the window. The van was gone. I went to the phone and called the Merryweather Building. They put me through to Mr. Merryweather, who was out of the building.

  He came on the screen wearing a Mao jacket. I must have look startled.

  “When in Rome,” said Mr. Merryweather. “What can I do you?”

  “It’s Smith.”

  I told him about Smith and Spieler. He listened, possibly smiling. It was difficult to tell. Inscrutable.

  When I finished, he thought a moment.

  “Robert.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ten years ago, I got a call very much like this one. From Phillip. Smith was a menace. Smith was insane. Smith was this and that.”

  “I don’t see what Duff has—”

  “I admit Phillip had other reasons. Smith was apparently zeroing in on him. But the tenor of the conversation was the same. I also admit Smith’s actions sound peculiar.”