by Sharon Lee
Miri blinked. "Which brother is that?"
"The youngest of my many, he whom you call Tough Guy."
"Right." She considered it. "Edger, did Tough Guy tell you he was going to-ah-marry me?"
"Alas, he did not, which I do not feel is like him. But I am persuaded that the matter slipped his mind, for he has no doubt been preoccupied with his art, planning, perhaps, his next composition." They rounded another corner, this time without incident.
"We were only made aware last evening, when it was seen he had given you the knife-within-a-stick, which he carried when first he came to us," he continued. "And then also was I assured that he had meant no insult by failing to speak, since he had chosen first to wed in our manner, with the gift of a blade. His own people, I believe, exchange gemstones or jewelry, which he gave later, in our presence."
"Hmmm. Is it okay for a person to take a lifemate without telling anybody they were going to? Even the person they were going to marry?"
Edger considered it. "I have heard of such things among humans," he said after a time. "But I am certain that my brother would not behave in such a manner, for he is kind and would wish to make certain his attention was not repugnant."
She stopped, staring up at the bulk of him. Edger stopped as well, creating an effective block to traffic. People detoured around them.
"He's what?" She heard her voice crack and swallowed.
"My brother's heart is gentle," Edger said, his big voice surprisingly quiet. "He would hurt no being, nor thing, that was not his sworn enemy. Nor would he willingly cause distress. I have seen him to weep with one whose mate lay slain and comfort in his arms a babe nearly larger than himself. It is not possible that he would wed you without your knowledge and goodwill."
There was a long silence during which Miri kept her eyes closed and concentrated on breathing. Crazy, crazy, a voice in her head repeated. Crazy as the six of diamonds.
Edger's voice rumbled over her head and she opened her eyes to look up at him.
"And have you not found him so?"
She extended a hand and captured two of his three fingers. "I guess I don't know him that good," she said seriously and shook her head slightly, as if to clear it. "Thanks, Edger. I'm glad we could talk."
He inclined his massive head, allowing his fingers to remain within her grasp. "I, also," he said.
"That's our boy!" Pete yelled, slapping the chief's shoulder.
The other man nodded and cut back into the net. "That appears to be him, Officer. Do not, repeat, do not approach the suspect. He is highly dangerous. We will be sending specialists from Headquarters. I want you to keep track of him, if it's possible without showing or risking yourselves. And find out where that turtle's staying. It's possible the girl's waiting there."
"Yes, sir," Charlie said, struggling manfully to keep his fume under wraps. "When do you think your specialists will be here, sir?"
"Three hours, at the outside," the chief said. "I'd get on the net to your Station commander and set up the timetable. You keep track of that boy. What'd you say they were doing?"
"They appear to be renting a car, sir. It might take 'em awhile, though, if they're looking for something the turtle can fit in, too."
"Right. Over-ah, Officer?"
"Sir?"
The chief considered Charlie's face rather more carefully than Charlie wished he would. "Just don't let them get in the car and drive away, Officer, okay? We want to clean this up fast, before the boy hurts somebody else." The chief leaned closer to the screen. "Just so you know-Charlie, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir." Charlie restrained himself from hitting the cutoff toggle and gave the chief his best wide-eyed wonder look.
"Well, Charlie, I know you're thinking that this boy doesn't look like much. Shows how deceptive looks can be. He's responsible for the deaths of five people in a robbery in Mixla City. Lined 'em up and shot 'em-just like that." He snapped his fingers. of 'em was a little girl-eight years old, Charlie."
Charlie made appropriate noises, which wasn't really necessary, since his partner was making enough for both of them.
"So be careful, but keep a line on him. Remember that he's a Liaden-don't have to tell you how slippery that bunch is, do I?" The chief nodded at the screen. "Carry on, officers." He touched the disconnect.
Pete whistled in admiration. "Wish I'd thought of that."
The chief grinned, leaned forward, and punched the line for Econsey 'quarters. "Pretty good, wasn't it? A little atrocity goes a long way, Peter." He frowned at the busy signal from the board, cleared the number, and tried again.
"Better get your guys ready. Fifteen of the best ought to do it. I'll add twenty Mixla cops and twenty from Econsey." The line was still busy and he punched the disconnect. "Have 'em here in an hour. Can do?"
"Can do."
THE THIRD CAR had possibilities. The little guy was leaning over the engine; the slender hand hooked around the edge of the fender was all that kept him from tumbling headfirst into the workings. With the other hand he tested connections, checked fluid levels, and poked at the various brain-boxes. This went on for some time, while Honest Al and Handler waited, Al trying not to wring his hands.
Finally he was through, having ascertained whatever it was he had been trying to ascertain. He slid off the fender and rubbed the palms of both hands down leathered thighs.
"The engine is sound," he said, speaking over Al's head to the turtle, "and of a strength sufficient to our purpose."
"Oh, yes," Honest Al broke in eagerly. "It's one of the earlier models, when there was a demand for speed and size. It's not as new as the other two vehicles we discussed, but certainly a very fine piece of equipment."
The little man smiled at him. "Age does not matter in this case. Utility does. You see the size of the T'caraisiana'ab. The others of the Mission are built on comparable proportions." He nodded at the car. "I think that this vehicle might serve the Mission well. However, there are one or two other requirements."
"Certainly, certainly," Honest Al said, beaming. "This car was at the top of its line. Royalty, she was."
The little man smiled again and waved a hand, indicating the interior. "One concern-I believe the seats are adjustable?"
"Why, of course."
"Of course," the customer echoed. "But are they individually adjustable, I wonder?" He pulled open a door.
"The case is this," he murmured. "While most of the Mission are rather-large and will require sufficient space in which to ride, there are others of the Interface Team who are somewhat smaller. One such as myself, for instance," he said, smiling at Al, be hard put to drive this vehicle, were all the seats adjusted to accommodate the prime members of the Mission."
"There is this control here." Al demonstrated, varying the heights of each of the six individual seats, as well as moving them back and forth.
"Ah," the little man said in admiring accents. "That is excellent."
"And, of course, there is a private comm, plus an auxiliary band, whereby you may monitor weather reports, stock market closings . . . ." He twisted the dial as he spoke, demonstrating, while his customer murmured appreciatively.
"There is also, in this model, an environmental control-here-if their excellencies prefer, perhaps, a richer oxygen mix? More humidity? And this control polarizes the windows, if they find our light uncomfortable."
"Royalty, indeed," the little man said.
"And here," Al said, tapping a small dial set by itself in the far corner of the board, "is the emitter, which we will set to emit the proper code for the status of your Mission. In this way the police need only direct a reading beam at your vehicle to discover that you are persons of importance and should not be impeded."
"Wonderful," the other said, smiling. "I am certain that this vehicle precisely suits our need." He stepped back, frowned suddenly, and stood gazing at the mint-green exterior while Al's stomach sought refuge in his shoes.
"I am not sure that this color is as pleasing
as it might be."
Honest Al's stomach returned to its original location. "How foolish of me!" He motioned to the little man, who attended him once again at the control board. "This device here-we manipulate it so. Now look."
The customer did as he was bid and, upon discovering that the exterior was now a brilliant yellow, grinned like a boy.
"Do you find that color pleasing?" Al asked hopefully.
"Let me speak with the T'caraisiana'ab." He moved away to where that person still stood gazing absently at the vehicle under discussion.
"We are almost decided, brother," Val Con said, switching to a liquid mix of Clutch and Liaden, "and I thank you for your kindness in accompanying me. Would you now care to watch the exterior of the vehicle and tell me when it has achieved a color that gives you pleasure?"
Handler rested his large eyes on the small form of his now-youngest brother. "I to choose the color?" he cried, gladdened. "It is you who are kind, brother, and I who am honored. I shall, indeed, watch and call out to you when the shade pleases me."
The little man came back to the car, throwing a smile to Al as he passed, and sat in the driver's chair. He manipulated the proper device.
The exterior of the car faded from bright yellow to gold to amber to bronze to tan to brown to sienna to-
A big voice boomed in a tongue Al did not understand, startling him out of his stupor. The vehicle before him was of a hue known to antiquarians as "fire-engine red."
The little man climbed out of the driver's chair and beheld what he had wrought, eyes narrowed slightly, as if he were staring into too bright a light. His gaze caught Al's and he shrugged.
"Ah, well. We will rent this car," he said, coming to Al's side and taking his arm. "The Mission is to be on-world for one local year. Let us pay you now for two years' rent, so that you have security on your investment. Is that satisfactory?"
Honest Al blinked, letting himself be gently guided back to his office. "Oh, yes," he managed. "Very satisfactory."
"Good. I am right in assuming that you will be able to adjust the emitting device now, so that we may drive the vehicle away?"
Al nodded, bereft of words.
"Excellent," the little man said amiably. "Now, about your fee. Would you prefer Terran bits or Liaden cantra?"
JUSTIN HOSTRO HAD a nice operation, Miri thought. His office was nearly as classy as Sire Baldwin's, though the taste in wall art and knickknacks was different. More cosmopolitan, she thought. Baldwin had been a devotee of the Art Terran, primarily, though an original Belansium had hung in his library.
There were two Belansiums in Justin Hostro's inner office, each depicting a planet seen from space. The quality that made each a treasure was the evocation of the feeling of actually being in space, with this world hanging before you, filling the big window on the obdeck.
Miri moved her attention from the paintings to Justin Hostro, seated comfortably behind his rubbed steel desk.
"This is the sum we have agreed upon. Please count it and be certain that we have not misunderstood each other," he was saying.
Edger complied with this request, opening the pouch he was offered and removing the clear plastic rolls of coins. Liaden money, Miri saw, keeping control of her face. A bloody fortune in Liaden money. And this was just the fifty percent up front. For knives guaranteed to break.
Edger split the rolls into piles of seven each and brushed each pile back into the carrying pouch. He inclined his head. "The sum is correct in that it is the first half of the total agreed upon."
"Good." Mr. Hostro smiled and slid a sheet of printout from the folder before him. "This is the list of locations for the first shipments. I desire that three hundred go to each site, for a total first shipment of 3,000 blades. To aid you, the document lists each location by its Trade designation and by the local name." He passed the sheet to Edger, who took it carefully and scanned it.
"This shall be done," he said, folding the sheet and placing it in the pouch with the money, "within the next year Standard, as we discussed. The first shipment is required at the first location within three months Standard, is that correct?"
"That is correct," said the man behind the desk.
"Then," Edger said, rising and inclining his head, "we understand each other very well."
Mr. Hostro stood also, bowing his royalty-to-royalty bow. "I am pleased that it is so. It is rare to find camaraderie in business dealings. May we deal long and profitably together."
"May we so indeed," Edger replied. "It is very pleasurable, doing business with you. I hope in the future we shall deal as well." He began his turn and Miri, in her role as aide, moved to the door, going through first to check the hallway. Edger came after, and the door closed behind them.
Justin Hostro sat down behind his desk, the tiniest of lines between his fine brows. "Matthew."
His aide approached the desk. "Yes, Mr. Hostro?"
"That woman, Matthew. I feel that I have seen her face before. Perhaps in our files?" He made a steeple of his impeccable fingers. "Yes. In our files. Recently. Find out who she is, please."
"At once, Mr. Hostro." The aide removed himself to the file station in the corner of the room and began the search.
THE MANUAL WAS OLD and hard to read. Al squinted at the screen, trying to make out the index. White letters wavered on a flickering gray background, defeating his eyes. He sighed and looked apologetically at the little man, glad that the turtle had remained outside.
"Perhaps I'd better call the Registration Office. My eyes aren't as young as they used to be."
The little man was all concern. "Trouble, sir? Here, let me see if I can make it out. Of course: 'Diplomatic Uses, Y'" He manipulated the advance. "I'll have it in just a moment, if you would care to write it down."
Honest Al scrabbled under the counter and came up with a piece of torn pink cardboard and an age-old stylus.
"Here it is," his customer said. "Much easier than bothering the Registration Office, don't you think? The code we need is: DY3"
"DY3," Al read back, "9736"
"Correct."
"Well, that's fine. I'll just go out and program the emitter and you're on your way. Another five minutes, sir." He paused and made as much of a bow as his paunch would allow. "Thank you, sir, for your help."
The little man smiled. "It was no trouble," he murmured, turning off the manual. He waited until Al was safely outside before he spun the wheel back.
"Edger, I'm gonna leave you here, if that's okay. Got some business to take care of."
"It is permitted," Edger replied. "When will you return to us?"
Miri shrugged. "In a little while, I think. Nothing complicated, but it's gotta be taken care of."
"I understand. Go and resolve your business, young sister. I look forward to the time when we shall see each other again."
She grinned, shaking her head, and moved off across the street. She turned around once to wave, but Edger wasn't looking.
THE BRIGHT RED CAR pulled against the curb half a block ahead and discharged its passenger.
Charlie pulled off to the side and likewise discharged his partner, reminding him that his only job was to keep the turtle in sight and stay out of sight himself. Then it was time for Charlie to be after the red car again.
The driver of the car did not seem to be aware that he was being followed. He drove safely and within the speed limit to a self-service lot in the seedy edge of town backing onto the hyatts. He chose a parking space facing the exit and got out to deposit the proper number of bits in the box.
Charlie pulled the cruiser across the nose of the red car and popped out. By the time he got around to the front, the driver of the other car was leaning against the door, arms crossed over his chest, waiting.
Charlie approached unhurriedly, nodding. "Danny."
"Officer Naranshek," the boy returned with distant politeness. Charlie shook his head and sighed.
"Thought it might interest you to know," he said, "that the
cops have an All-Point out on you and your sister. Calling you armed and dangerous." He glanced at his wrist. "In about two hours the big boys from Mixla 'quarters'll be here to round the two of you up."
Danny nodded. "Thank you. I appreciate your concern."
"Yeah, well, you can stop appreciating it," Charlie growled, "cause it ain't for you, it's for your sister,"
"I know," came the even reply. "But I am grateful, nonetheless."
"Are you?" He took a breath. Ah, what the hell. "Mixla Chief says you shot five people there, one of 'em a baby girl."
Both eyebrows rose. "Lies. But I thank you for that information, as well."
"I know he's lying," Charlie said irritably. "But the point is, nobody else will. Human nature just naturally wants to expect the worst. More fun hunting lions than it is pussycats."
The boy smiled faintly, unfolded his arms, and moved away from the car. "You'd best leave. It would be very dangerous, I think, if you were seen talking to me. Thank you again." He walked around the back of the car, heading across the lot toward the hyatts.
Charlie got in his car and backed it around. As he pulled out of the lot he looked in the mirror and was in time to see the boy vault to the top of the fence and drop to the walk on the other side, sure as a cat.
"Mr. Hostro?"
"Yes, Matthew?"
"If you would step over here a moment, sir, I believe I have the woman's file."
Justin Hostro slid back from his desk and walked leisurely to the file station to lean over his aide's shoulder.
"Yes, I believe so. Excellent likeness, don't you think, Matthew? Miri Robertson." He laid his hand lightly on the other man's shoulder. "Fax me a copy of the file, please. I feel I should review the case before deciding upon our course of action."
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE YOUNG MAN in the alcove had never been happier in his life. Being endowed with a poetic cast of mind, he found that the conceit pleased him and set out to expand upon it as he sat next to the potted melekki tree, waiting for his beloved to appear.