The figure came through the bathroom door so silently that she almost missed it. Only the movement across the bars of light betrayed it. On feet as silent, she slipped around the door and into the bathroom, feeling for the flask, the barest touch, not wanting to make a sound. She picked it up carefully, her face turned toward the room, trying to see in the intermittent flares of livid light.
The figure was at the bed. It leaned forward, reaching. No knife this time. Something else. A growl, almost like an animal as it realized she wasn't there. It turned toward the switch, and suddenly the room was flooded with light. The hooded figure spun around, saw her, lunged toward her, and she sprayed the depilatory full in its eyes, falling sideways as she did so.
It made no sound except a gagging spit. It kept coming, blindly, reaching for the place she had moved toward. Bigger than she. Stronger, too, most likely. It was like a deadly game of feely-find. The creature couldn't see, but it could hear her. She went across the bed in a wild scramble, then out the door into the hall, leaving it open. The stairwell was directly ahead of her. She breathed, "No, no, don't," just loudly enough to be heard, then stepped sideways and knelt by the wall. As the maddened figure rushed toward her voice, she stuck out her foot, and the careening shape plunged over it, headfirst down the stairs. Don darted back into her room and shut the door.
The crashing sound brought colleagues and visitors out into the hall. Don joined them, sleepily tying the belt of her robe. "What was that noise? Did you hear it? What happened?" Voices from below were raised in incredulous excitement.
A man. Must have fallen down the stairs. No, a man's body. He's dead.
What was he doing in the Chapter House? Did anyone know him?
Why was he dressed that way?
A thief? Who would rob a Chapter House? Explorers didn't carry valuables.
The excited interchange bubbled on while Don half hung across the bannister, staring at the black lump on the floor below. Someone had removed the mask, and a blankly anonymous face stared up at her with dead and ruined eyes. Someone who had known where she was. Someone who had known she was alone. How fortuitous for someone that the intruder had broken his neck. Now no one could ask him who had sent him.
6
Three mule riders approaching Splash One early one morning from the direction of the Mad Gap would have been enough to attract the attention of the locals. Three mule riders followed by a small swarm of Crystallites, all of whom were hooting, cursing, and throwing mud, was enough not only to attract attention but to bring the nearest military detachment into overwhelming action. The Crystallites were promptly face down in the mud they had been using as ammunition, their hands and feet locked behind them, and tranquilizer guns were being applied unstintingly to various exposed portions of their anatomies.
"Sorry about that," the Captain in command of the group said to Tasmin, offering him a clean towel from the riot wagon. "They're getting worse all the time. If the Governor doesn't act soon, our commanding officer, Colonel Lang, probably will. Hope it won't be too late."
"How late would it have to be to be too late?" asked Clarin in a bitter voice, trying to get the mud out of her curly hair with scant success. "That last mud ball had a rock in it." A red lump the size of a hen's egg was rising on her forehead, and she looked as disheveled as she did angry. "Our Master, here, preferred we not use our whips on them."
"I saw your troop coming," Tasmin said to the officer in a mild voice. "I thought we could outrun them until you arrived."
Jamieson was regarding the prone figures vindictively, running his quirt through his hands. Tripsinger mules were so well trained it would be unthinkable to use quirts on them; the device was merely costume. Despite this, Jamieson's intent could be read in his face.
"They'd love it if you took the whip to "em," the Captain said, gesturing his permission. "Do, if it'll make you feel better. They consider that quite a mark of holiness, being beaten on. That's why we use the trank-guns. They hate that. Keep 'em tranked up for ten days or so, force feed 'em, then turn 'em loose fatter than they were. They just hate it." He spat reflectively, as Jamieson unobtrusively put the quirt out of sight. The officer held out his hand. "Name's Jines Verbold."
Tasmin took the proffered hand. "It's good to meet you, Captain Verbold. I'm Tripsinger Tasmin Ferrence. These are my two acolytes, Reb Jamieson and Renna Clarin."
The Captain nodded to each of them. "Did I misread something, Master Ferrence, or did you three just come down the hills from the Mad Gap?"
"We did. Is there something wrong with that?"
"I didn't know anybody could get through the Gap."
Tasmin expressed amazement. "I used an old, old Password, Captain. I suppose it could have been lost, though that's hard to believe. It's been in my library since my father's time, maybe even his father's. I think it's an original Erickson. It never occurred to me it wasn't generally known."
"Well, that'll be news to please some people I know of. They've had people trying the Gap, trottin' up there and then trottin' down again, for about the last year."
"It's those crazy key shifts in the PJ," said Clarin thoughtfully as she rummaged in one pocket. Something moved beneath her fingers, and she scratched it affectionately. "And those high trumpet sounds. They aren't anything you'd think of, normally."
"And how Erickson thought of them, God knows," laughed Tasmin. He felt a rush of sudden elation. Despite the mudflinging fanatics, the incident was an omen, a favorable omen. Things were going to go right in Splash One. He was going to find out everything he needed to know. The weight of mystery would be lifted. There would be no more questions. He turned to the acolytes, wondering if they felt as euphoric as he did to be at the end of the journey.
Jamieson evidently felt something. The boy's face shone with interest as he looked down onto the city. During their travels, he seemed to have become less preoccupied with the girl he had left behind and increasingly interested in where they were going and what they were doing. Or perhaps it was the girl who was with them, although Tasmin had not seen him make any obvious move in her direction. Still … propinquity. An excellent remedy for absent friends, propinquity—although it would be hard to know whether Jamieson had been encouraged or not, Clarin being so self-contained. She was an inveterate pettifier—Tasmin would have bet she had a crystal mouse in her pocket right now, one she'd caught stealing food from the camp. She was friendly and always thoughtful, but cool. Tasmin had come to appreciate her during this trip. He approved of her restrained manner, her calm and undemanding demeanor, though he did so without ever considering what that approval implied.
"I said," the officer repeated, breaking in on Tasmin's thoughts, "I said, where are you staying?"
"The citadel," he replied, almost without thinking. Where else would a Tripsinger stay but there, among his own kind? "If they have room for us."
"Do you know your way there?"
"Not really. I've been in Splash One before, but it was years ago, when I did a lot of trips to the Coast." This city looked nothing like the smallish town he remembered. This city swarmed, bubbled, erupted with ebbs and flows of citizenry, trembled with noise. "Thank God for one hundred meters of Deepsoil," he murmured only half-aloud, intercepting Clarin's empathetic glance.
"It's amazing, isn't it?" she agreed. "I saw it two years ago on my way down from Northwest to Deepsoil Five. I think it's doubled in size since then."
"Well, it's enough changed that I'm going to send a man with you as a guide," the Captain told them. "There are Crystallites in the city, too, and they consider anyone in Tripsinger robes as targets of opportunity. I'm in charge of a stockade of troublemakers, a whole disciplinary barracks full, and I swear they're less trouble than these damn fanatics. I suggest you leave the mules in the citadel stables after this and wear civilian clothes in town. It's not foolproof protection, since they may recognize your faces, but it'll help."
"What are we allowed to do," Jamieson asked, "to protect our
selves?"
"Anything you bloody well can," Verbold replied. "Up to and including killin' a few of 'em. Like I said, once the Governor gets off his rounded end, we'll have a clearance order on 'em and that'll put an end to it."
"Clearance order?" Clarin asked.
"For the maintenance of public safety, yes, Ma'am. The relocation camp's already built, down the Coast about ten miles. Power shielded and pretty much escape proof. Put 'em in there and let 'em have at each other if they have to have at somebody. Everyone knows it has to be done. What's keeping his excellency is beyond us—all of us. Somethin' devious no doubt." He pulled a face, begging their complicity. It had not been a politically astute thing to say.
"Any rumors about the delay?" Jamieson demanded.
"Oh, there's always rumors," the Captain said, turning away brusquely. He had said too much. Besides, they knew what the rumors were: The Governor was being given a share of the pilgrimage money; he was being paid off by the fanatics.
Tasmin shook his head at Jamieson, and he subsided. Tasmin did not want to discuss planetary politics or the Planetary Exploitation Council here on the public way, surrounded by soldiers who might repeat anything that was said, in or out of context, accurately or not. What the Captain chose to say was the Captain's own business, but Tasmin had a lifelong habit of caution. He leaned from the saddle to take the officer's hand once more. "Thank you, Captain. I'll tell the Master General of the citadel how helpful you've been." The Master General of the Splash One Citadel was also the Grand Master of the Tripsinger Order, Thyle Vowe. Favorable mention to Vowe was not an inconsiderable favor, and the Captain grinned as he stepped back and saluted them on their way.
They reached the citadel without further incident, were welcomed, then lauded when it became known that Tasmin had come down from the Mad Gap with a long lost Password. There was good-natured teasing of the citadel librarian, some not so good-natured responses from that official, followed by room assignments for the travelers, provision for cleaning the clothes they had with them, and obtaining more anonymous garments to be worn in town. Grand Master Thyle Vowe, it seemed, was at the Northwest Citadel and would not return for some days. Tasmin wrote a note, including some laudatory words about Captain Verbold—including his probable political sympathies—and left it for him. It was late afternoon before all the details were taken care of and Tasmin could get away.
The two acolytes were lounging in the courtyard, obviously waiting for him, Clarin, predictably, with a gray-furred crystal mouse—so called because its normal habitat was among the crystal presences—running back and forth on her shoulder.
"Private business," Tasmin said, trying to be more annoyed than he actually was. Now that the time had come, he was having a fit of nerves, and the false hostility in his voice grated even upon his own ears.
"No, sir," said Clarin, apparently unmoved as she pocketed the mouse. "You've told us all about it, and we need to go with you. We can help you find Lim Terree's manager or agent or whatever he is." She was saying no more than the truth. In the long evenings over the campfire, they had learned more about one another than any of them would have shared in the stratified society of the citadel. They were almost family—with the responsibility that entailed.
Tasmin, suddenly aware of that responsibility, found that it made him irritable. "I can do that alone." Could he? Did he want to?
"You might be set upon, Master. We've inquired. It's best for Tripsingers to go in company, so the Master General of this citadel has ordered." Jamieson was factual, a little brusque, avoiding Tasmin's eyes. With sudden insight, Tasmin realized the boy was not speaking out of mere duty and would be wounded if he were rebuffed.
He took refuge in brusqueness of his own. "I hope you two haven't been chirping."
"Master Ferrence!" The boy was hurt at being accused of being loose mouthed.
Jamieson's pain shamed Tasmin for his lack of courtesy, and he gritted his teeth. "Did you get a car?"
"Yes, sir. That greenish one over there."
"Looks well used, doesn't it?" The vehicle appeared to have been used to haul hay, or perhaps farm animals; it sagged; the bubble top was scratched into gray opacity.
"Well, there were only two to choose from, and the other one was pink." Jamieson gave him a sidelong glance, assaying a smile of complicity, still with that expression of strain.
Tasmin flushed. Did he have the right to reject friendship when it was offered? Was he so determined upon his hurt he would hurt others to maintain the appearance of grief? He reached out to lay his hand on Jamieson's shoulder, including Clarin in his glance. "If you're so damned set on being helpful … " Tasmin had already made a few calls from his room, locating one of the backup men Lim had had with him in Deepsoil Five and obtaining from him the name of Lim's agent. "We're looking for a man named Larry Porsent, and we're supposed to find him in the Bedlowe Building, Eleventh Street and Jubilation Boulevard." Under his hand, Jamieson relaxed.
The streets were scarred with new and half-healed trenches; the building they sought was under construction with the first two floors occupied even while all the turmoil of fabrication went on above. They dodged hod carriers and bricklayers and representatives of half a dozen other construction specialties as they climbed the stairs to the second floor.
"When do you suppose they'll start putting lifts in these buildings," Jamieson complained. "I've done nothing in this city yet but climb stairs. They've got Clarin and me in dormitories five flights up."
"They'll put in lifts when lift mechanisms are defined as essential," Tasmin said indifferently. He had been given a pleasant suite on the second floor of the citadel, overlooking a walled garden. "Or when there gets to be enough demand to fabricate them locally. Right now, it takes tenth place behind a lot of other needed supplies like medical equipment and farm machinery and computers. There's the office."
The name was painted in lopsided letters on a raw, new door. Inside they found the tenant crouched on the floor, trying to assemble a desk. He was a short, plump man with a polished pink face that gleamed with sweat and annoyance as he tried to fit a part into a slot that obviously would not hold it. "Larry Porsent," he introduced himself, clambering to his feet with some difficulty. "What can I do for you."
"I'm Tasmin Ferrence."
"Yes." There was no indication the man recognized the name.
"I'm Lim Terree's brother."
The man scowled. "I'll be damned. Really? I didn't know he had a brother. Didn't know he had any kin at all. Except his wife, of course, and the kid."
"Wife!"
"Well, sure. You mean you didn't know? Well, of course you didn't know or you wouldn't be surprised, right. I'm kind of slow on the launch today. Not my day. Not my season, if you want the truth. Perigee time. Lim's death just about finished me off."
"He was a major client?"
"He was damn near my only client. He wanted all my time, and I gave it to him. Would've worked out fine, too, if he hadn't gone crazy. I mean, since you're his brother and kin and all—these your kids? Nice lookin' kids. Why in the name of good sense would a man take every credit he's saved up in ten years and spend everything he's got settin' up a tour of the dirt towns! You can't make that pay. Everybody knows you can't make it pay. I told him. I told his wife, Vivian, and she told him." He ran both hands through his thinning hair, then thrust them out as though to beg understanding. "Why would a man do that?"
"You mean, the tour to Deepsoil Five wasn't a financial success?"
"Hell, man, no tour to the dirt towns is a financial success! They're always a dead loss. Only time we do 'em, ever, is if BDL banks 'em for us. I mean, any of us, any agent, any performer. BDL pays it out every now and then, just for the goodwill, but there's no audience there. How much can you make, stacked up against what it costs to get there?"
Jamieson asked, "You're telling us that Lim Terrée used his own money to pay for the trip?"
"Everything he had. Down to the house and his ki
d's savings fund. And since you're his brother, I can show you a few bills that didn't get paid if you're interested in clearing his good name."
Tasmin shook his head, dizzied by this spate of unexpected information. "Lim had a very expensive comp on his wrist when I saw him last."
"He did, indeed. And I wish I had it now. That was a gift, that was. Guess who from? Honeypeach herself. The Governor's lady."
He spat the word. "Poor old Lim couldn't sell it or he was dead. He couldn't lose it or he was dead. All he could do was wear it and try to stay out of her bed. People that upset Honeypeach end up buried. She's a crystal-rat, that one. Teeth like a Jammling, and she wanted to eat him."
"Terree's wife," Clarin said, sympathetically aware of Tasmin's confusion. "Where would we find her?"
"You'll find her at home, such as it is, over the fish market, down at the south end. Or you'll find her in the market, guttin' and scalin'. She and the kid have to eat, and Lim sure left her without the wherewithal. She left a registered job with the Exploration records office to have Lim's kid, and they sure won't take her back … "
"I may have some other questions," Tasmin said, shaking his head. "Right now I'm too confused by all this to know. We can find you here daytimes?"
"If I can make it through the next few days, you can. I've got a few comers lined up. One of 'em's bound to break orbit. None of 'em are Lim Terrée, though, I'll tell you that. He was a genius. A damned genius. He could do more with a music box than any other three people. If you find out what made him crazy, I wish you'd let me know." He dropped to his knees and began working on the assembly once more, oblivious to their departure.
In the car there was a careful silence. Tasmin was trying to fit what he had just learned into the structure he had postulated, and it did not fit. A pennyless Lim Terrée. A man who had told the truth when he said he hadn't the funds to help Tasmin with their mother's needs. Why?
Tepper,Sheri - After Long Silence Page 11