by F. M. Busby
“Very nice — I have never seen such a safety vault.”
“We try to take care of our own.”
“Do you really think I need such precautions?”
“Maybe not — but it’s here, so why not use it? At the least, it will impress a few people.”
“All right — but after dal Nardo, I think I would prefer less fortified quarters.” She smiled. “Now bend down and let me kiss you thanks, and you can go home and forget all about me.”
They kissed; then he left her to herself.
After unpacking, she sat to reread some of her notes from the time at Erika’s, and to add to those she had made since her arrival. Her comment to Hawkman had been accurate, she decided — some forms and customs differed, but in essentials Number One’s power system resembled Earth’s. It was newer and less rigid, yes — but from her viewpoint the only important difference was that part of it was on her side. Or, she added mentally, probationally so . . .
She watched twilight engulf the Hills and called to place her order for dinner. “A light meal,” she said. “For the meat, two grilled slices of loin from the — what is the word? — female bushstomper, at any rate. Leave it juicy, please. For the rest — a small plate of fruits and fresh vegetables — whatever kinds you recommend. And a bottle of upland red wine, please.”
She ate in dimming light and sipped wine until light and wine were gone. Then she turned a switch to brighten the room and wondered what to do with her evening. She switched the viewscreen to an entertainment channel, setting the alarm to notify her of incoming calls.
For a few minutes she watched a sports event — two manned captive kites in contest. The object was to down the other, kite and all. It looked dangerous, but somehow the loser caught air at the last instant and landed unhurt — or, at worst, bruised.
Then, after a series of announcements, some political and some commercial, came a drama. The characters did not interest her much, but a world’s dramatic values can reflect its attitudes, so she watched and listened closely.
A middle-aged woman spent much time bemoaning the loss of her brother, gone to space. Her husband lost patience with her; now and then she took lovers, younger men. One evening she made overtures to a young spaceman; slightly drunk, he rejected and insulted her, so she challenged him and killed him in a duel. Rissa had guessed the ending — who could he be but the long-lost brother? She snorted — surely she could write better stories. Then she thought again: could she write to suit the tastes of this world? Probably not.
She reset the viewscreen to its normal communications function and sat brooding. She had not liked the story, but it nagged at her — what was important about it? What was its real theme? Not the foolish woman, not the trite coincidence — finally she had it. “The long view — of course! On Earth it touches very few, but here — “ Yes — on Number One it would be a fact of life, a preoccupation.
By her standards the hour was not late, but with the puzzle solved, she decided to go to bed. For a time she lay awake, belatedly tense and anxious. Dal Nardo was formidable — had she pushed her luck too far this time? Life was sweet . . .
Finally she visualized the man as standing in one small compartment of her mind. She closed that compartment firmly. Then she relaxed and slept.
She lay abed until nearly mid-morning, then spent considerable time in bathing, grooming, and eating breakfast. Finally she could no longer avoid the problem — what was she going to do with herself all this day? She voiced her thoughts aloud. “. . . not supposed to go out, probaly — but he did not say . . .” “Change identities? And probably compromise another one, if any watched Tari come in and — say — Lysse go out.” Abruptly she stood. “Oh, the hell with it. Why should I give them satisfaction by hiding?” She set the screen to record incoming calls and herself recorded a brief greeting for possible callers.
Looking out, she judged the morning to be cool, and put on a jacket. She went out by the main entrance — attempting no evasive, inconspicuous exit — into sunlight and clear, brisk air. Looking about, she decided to walk toward the city’s central part.
In roughly fifteen minutes she reached a district of narrow streets and small shops. Here, walkways were unpaved — night rain had left mud and puddles. As she picked her way through a treacherous patch, someone bumped her from behind. Barely, she kept her balance — but heard a splash and a cry, and turned to see a brightly dressed young man flat in the mud.
“Oh, I am sorry — it is so slippery!” She bent to help him.
“No, you don’t — not again! Keep your hands to yourself.” Slowly he got his feet under him and stood. She saw that he was tall and slim, near his biological mid-twenties. “Now, then,”he said. “Your name?”
“Tari Obrigo — and I really am sorry — I did not see you.”
When she spoke the name, he nodded, and she knew. This one is not much of an actor. He said, “Not likely you didn’t. You tripped me, as an insult — to ruin my clothes and make me look foolish. Well, we’ll see about that. I don’t — ”
“Who are you, by the way?” “Blaise Tendal — and for what you did, I challenge you. No limit.”
His clothes were bright enough, but cheaply made. “A moment, first — let us clarify the matter of status. Are you sure you are eligible? I am Hulzein-connected.”
Impatiently he nodded, “I know who you are. I — ”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Well — there’s the formalities, you know.”
“You still have not told me your status, Blaise Tendal.”
“In a minute.” He waved her words away. “Is your connection by blood? By marriage?”
“Neither — and you knew that, as well.”
“That’s right. So I’m eligible. My wife’s a dal Nardo. Good enough?”
Smiling, she nodded. “Quite suitable. But still I am afraid I cannot oblige you.”
“The hell you can’t! If you don’t know the rules, here they are — you meet me or get down on your knees in the mud and apologize. Otherwise I’ll whip you through the streets. What do you say now, Obrigo?”
“That you have overlooked a superseding rule. Previous challenges must be honored before new ones may be made. You will have to wait your turn, Tendal. I am committed to meet someone else first.”
“I don’t believe you! Who?”
“Who but Stagon dal Nardo?”
Tendal’s face went vacant. “He didn’t tell me — now I’ve gone and ruined my clothes for nothing.”
Rissa laughed. “Oh? Moments ago you said it was I who did it.”
“Well, you did!” He scowled at her, then grinned. “So he caught up with you after all! I’d like to’ve seen you when he challenged you.”
“I wish you had — for it was I who challenged.” He said nothing but his look was skeptical. She said, “Tell me — how much was he to pay you?”
“I — oh, swallow your tongue!” He made as if to spit at her, then turned abruptly to leave. On the slick mud he slipped and nearly fell again — only by flapping like an awkward bird did he keep his footing. He paused to look back and glare, for she was laughing helplessly. Then he walked away, striding stiffly, placing his feet with care.
Rissa wiped her eyes and shrugged. Was this the peril from which she must be guarded?
She resumed her walk and came to a section of food-serving stalls. The spicy aroma of one tidbit — chopped meat wrapped in thin dough, deep-fried and served on a stick — aroused her appetite. But breakfast was too recent, and when she looked more closely the cleanliness of the place did not impress her, so she walked on.
The sun was well past zenith when she turned back toward Maison Renalle, and lower when she reached it. She went to her room; before checking on possible calls, she ordered food. She tried to describe the things she had seen. “. . . on a stick, yes. Do you make them here?”
“We can, certainly. How many would you like?”
“Of the size they serve at the
market stalls? Three, I think. If it would not be too much trouble.” The other’s gesture said it would not. “And a little of . . .” She ordered bits and pieces, as for a picnic. “And — no, nothing more. That will do, thank you.”
She opened a flask of brandy and poured half-full its ornate cap that doubled as a glass. Sipping, she set the screen to replay any calls that might have come in.
The first was an elderly man — quite bald, with a thin, bony face and gray goatee. “My name’s Bleeker, Ms. Obrigo — Alsen Bleeker. I’ve got to talk to you, about the pirate — I mean spaceman — Captain Tregare. It’s urgent; I must see you before — while you’re still — very soon. I’m in my office every day; anyone can tell you where it is — “ and he gave the address, which meant nothing to Rissa. “Call me as soon as you view this. Please!” She thought; The old fool has the tact of a sledgehammer, making it so obvious he expects dal Nardo to kill me!
Next were two commercial calls of the kind she supposed were made routinely to all new residents. One wished to rent her a ground or aircar; the other offered a tour of the Slab Jumbles area, at the southern end of the first range of Big Hills. On second estimate, she decided those bids might not be so routine, after all. In strange vehicles and wild countryside, accidents can happen. Dal Nardo wished her dead — perhaps any means would do. Since she was not interested in either offer, just yet, she shrugged and filed the ideas for future consideration.
Her meal arrived; she sat and nibbled on one of the somethings-ona-stick — it was delicious. Then she pushed the button again.
Hawkman’s displeased face appeared on the screen. “You are foolish, to go out at this time. Well, no point in scolding — if you’re seeing this you’ll scoff at caution, and if — well, either way I’m wasting breath.
“At any rate, assuming your luck’s holding, call me as soon as you can. I’ll be available all evening.” The screen blanked.
Quickly, as she ate, she sampled the remaining messages. Each was a commercial inquiry; as soon as she determined that, she punched on to the next and was done with the lot in less than a minute. Then she punched the red-in-blue button.
The girl who answered was one who had escorted Rissa on a walk near the Lodge, but Rissa could not recall her name, so she smiled and said, “It is pleasant to see you again. May I speak with Hawkman Moray, please?”
She waited briefly and Hawkman appeared. “I am sorry if you worried,” she said, “but as you see, I am unharmed.” Before he could answer, she told him of her brush with Tendal. “If he is a sample of the quality of dal Nardo’s paid killers — ”
“Hold on, there.” Hawkman frowned. “Blaise Tendal may have appeared clumsy, but he’s not. He fights with or without weapons and has more kills than any hired duelist living — except one, and she’s retired. Tendal’s socially inept, yes — he’s not intelligent and in some ways he’s not sane. He especially hates women — he’s impotent with them. You’re lucky he didn’t forget all rules and attack when you laughed at him.”
“But he said he is married — and to a dal Nardo.”
“Yes? Wait — I’ll check the public records, on the computer channel.” She saw his upper arm move, but his hand was offscreen. After a time, he said, “The marriage was registered the day you arrived here — dal Nardo wasted no time making sure his pet killer would have status to match you.”
“But at that time he did not know my exact status.”
“Making sure, I said. Now let me show you how far the man will go. Tendal’s married to Stagon’s own daughter, who is still a season or two short of puberty.”
“Is that sort of thing legal here?”
“So long as the bride stays home and the marriage isn’t consummated until suitable, it’s legal enough. But here’s how it would have worked, Rissa, in dal Nardo’s planning. After Tendal killed you, the marriage would be annulled and Tendal would be paid a settlement for his consent — not a hired duelist’s fee for killing
Stagon’s enemy.
“Do you begin to understand what you’re faced with here?”
“Oh, yes, Hawkman.” She smiled. “It is so much like Earth that I feel right at home.”
He could not hold his laughter, but then he sobered. “Almost, your confidence makes me feel it with you. But logic tells me — Rissa, perhaps you should reconsider — return to the Lodge, wait for the next ship and leave on it. Or change identities again and start over, here. Life is such a fragile thing, and dal Nardo is anything but fragile.” Eye to eye, he looked at her. “Don’t you understand? The more I think on it, the more I fear you’ll be killed.”
A shudder racked her. “I know, Hawkman. I have to fight that thought myself, or else it might make itself true. So do not reinforce it, please. Because there are no choices — I have pledged to meet dal Nardo and there is no way I could bring myself to break that pledge. Now tell me — is there word yet of the time and place for that meeting?”
He shook his head. “Not yet — his second hasn’t called me. Perhaps because he hoped Blaise Tendal would act first. And — yes, I knew you wouldn’t renege on your challenge — but I couldn’t help suggesting it. Rissa — at the least, won’t you come back here and consider alternate plans?”
“Yes — and no. I will return, because the boredom of one room is too much for me and because it is unkind to cause you worry by going out. But my plans are firm — and at the Lodge I can practice them more efficiently.”
She made a grimace. “It was a mistake, Hawkman, for me to take residence in One Point One so soon.”
Shortly before sunset, Sparline brought the aircar. As they took Rissa’s luggage aboard and the flight began, the tall woman said little. After two attempts at conversation, Rissa said, “Have I displeased you? I had no such intent.”
After a look ahead, Sparline turned to her. “No. I’m concerned, partly about you and partly — oh, I don’t know.”
Rissa looked at her. With her hair parted and worn in two coils covering the ears, the contours of her face were changed — not softened, exactly, but emphasized differently. “Even without disguises, Sparline, you seldom look the same. It is an enviable trait.” Then; “I appreciate your concern, but do not let it tax you, for that would weigh on me also and lessen my chances. But — what else disturbs you?”
Sparline looked ahead again and changed course slightly. “I’ve been riding myself with spurs — drawing blood from my own flanks, you might say — for the way we dawdled, testing you. If we hadn’t, you might have reached Bran Tregare in time.”
“No! The ship had been closed for hours. Tregare could not have opened it without a battle with Bleeker’s men.” Bleeker! She’d forgotten to tell Hawkman . . .
“You know that for sure?” Rissa nodded. “Well, then — I guess I can quit blaming myself. So — tell me about dal Nardo — and Blaise Tendal. Hawkman’s not much of a reporter.”
The telling, interrupted by many questions, whiled away the rest of the flight.
Her room was the same; someone had neatly stowed the things she had left behind. She bathed and changed and was brushing her hair when the dinner summons came. The Tari Obrigo curls looked a bit limp, she thought, so she tied them back at her nape and went downstairs.
Liesel and Sparline were at the table, set for four, with wine before them but no food as yet. Liesel waved Rissa to a chair and reached to touch her hand. “I’ve heard of your adventures; I’m pleased you survived them. Have some wine. Hawkman’s delayed — some kind of skywatch alert — we won’t wait.”
“Thank you.” Rissa sat. “I hope your own business was successful?”
“Adequate. Fennerabilis is nicely stalemated at the Windy Lakes.” She paused. “Hawkman also told how you tried to reach Bran Tregare. Pride says our problems are none of your business — but pride be damned! I’m grateful to you for trying.”
Rissa felt a rush of warmth for the older woman. “I am sorry I left it so late, but I was told — I did not want to estrange
myself, so I waited until the last. And when Tregare had to seal the ship — it happened during the previous night.”
Liesel shook her head. “I should have kept in touch; I usually do. But things got — snicky, the young folks call it — and I was too busy to check on what I thought was a stable situation here.” She laughed, but her face did not show laughter. “I’m no good at delegating authority — even to Hawkman or Sparline, who use it every bit as well as I do.” Now she relaxed visibly. “All right — have you met any other interesting people, besides dal Nardo and Gustafson and that freak Blaise Tendal, who kills because he can’t bed a woman honestly?”
“In a way. There was a call recorded — I forgot to tell Hawkman — from the old man Alsen Bleeker, the one who caused Tregare to seal ship early.” As nearly as she could recall it, she repeated the message. “For myself, I have no reason to call him. But if you think it might be useful, I will do so.”
Two boys entered with a serving cart and began to distribute its contents. “Don’t serve Mr. Moray’s place yet,” said Liesel. “Leave the cart; his food will stay hot.” Then, to one boy, “Carlin, when you’re done with this, fetch a communicator terminal, please.” The boy nodded. Liesel said, “Rissa, I think you’d better see what the man has to say. Aside from the normal push-and-take, we’ve had no quarrel with him — now maybe we do. This snick with Inconnu shows that we and the ships waste too much effort trying to suck each others’ blood — effort we should save for when we need it against UET.” She sighed. “It’s too bad it took so long, and a personal grievance at that, to convince me.”
Rissa waited until the boys left; she saw that Liesel was talking over their heads, but unsure of the lines here between open and secret information, felt she had best not try to do the same. Then she said, “You will want me to accept information but not give it. Correct?” Liesel nodded. “And shall I ask questions, or is it too likely I would ask the wrong things?”