No doubt the cybercosm, if not its human associates, had an inkling, or more than an inkling, of such activities. But as long as the preserve wasn't actually being damaged, it seemed willing to let things ride. Why provoke enmity? Enough was brewing elsewhere.
"He's good with his hands," Fenn said. "I'd guess he travels from wherever he's based, village to village, homestead to homestead, doing minor jobs for folks who don't have much in the way of robots or other modern equipment. Jobs they could do, but he'll handle it cheaply."
Lars chuckled. "Leaving them added time for stuff like fishing, hey?" He rubbed his chin. "Hm-m, I suppose he has to hitch rides, except where a bus runs. But he could easily do that. No, I haven't heard of anybody who'd fit."
"You may well have, Rachel," Fenn prompted. "That's why I came here."
"You don't care to say what you want with him?" she asked slowly.
"It's nothing that can hurt you or your people," Fenn vowed. They should not know. "We're old friends, aren't we? You understand I wouldn't play you a dirty trick."
"Yes, you are an old friend," she murmured. "From way back when you were a kid with your dad. And he's an oath-brother of ours."
Fenn waited. His heart slugged.
She reached decision. "I have heard of a mozo like that," she said. "We judges keep a sort of grapevine going, just in case. A stranger settled in Munsing two-three years ago. Calls himself, m-m, let's see, yes, Robin."
"How'd he get in?" asked Lars, interested.
"Way I heard," Rachel explained, "a man who comes to these parts now and then to hunt, he brought this Robin along and left him in charge of a cabin he'd bought. He's been back a couple of times for short visits, but otherwise, Robin lives there alone."
It tingled in Fenn. So at least one Gizaki has that kind of money, he thought. Or maybe the cult paid it out, figuring a refuge for Pedro Dover was a worthwhile investment.
"Yes, Robin keeps to himself, except when he goes around tinkering," Rachel went on. "Nobody minds him. I suppose by now they take him for granted. Munsing is pretty lonesome."
Somehow Fenn kept his voice level. “Muchas gracias. That does sound like the man I'm after."
"Excuse me," Rachel said, "but I am a judge and I've got to ask. You do have an honest purpose, don't you?"
Fenn met her eyes. "Yes," he replied. "Very honest."
She relaxed, smiling. "That's sufficient for me. Now tell us what's been happening to you. You'll stay for dinner, won't you?"
The inn was a house with a few spare rooms, austerely but adequately outfitted, which the owner rented to transients. Night had fallen when Fenn arrived walking down a street gone dark and ringingly cold. He was glad not to meet anybody. Checking in, he said little to the landlord and went straight upstairs.
There he sat down and stared at a wall. It had been a strain to uphold cheerfulness, hour after hour, with Lars and Rachel. He must keep telling himself that he wasn't actually betraying their trust. The end of his hunt in sight, he felt none of the joy he had awaited.
After a while he growled and turned to the phone. He ought to call Wanika. Data search found her aboard Mal-olo and a general request quickly brought her to the cabin they shared. Midday light came in through the ports to lave her bare skin and lose itself in the blackness of her hair.
"Fenn!" she cried happily. "Where are you? How are you?"
"I'm all right," he said. "I may be returning soon."
"Already? Wonderful!" She hesitated. "Then you— you've found Pedro Dover?"
"I'm not sure." He regretted having told her his purpose. He definitely did not want her to know what his ultimate intent was. "I may have a clue. If it's wrong, well, I've been thinking. I can't let this become an obsession, doing the police's work for them. I may give up and come back to you."
Not if it really is a mistake, he thought. Then I'll keep on. But if it isn't—They'll wonder in Munsing why he suddenly left with an outsider, but they'll guess it was a personal matter. Maybe, come spring, someone will find the body in a melting snowbank in the woods. But no one will likely make a fuss that could bring detectives in from outside. They'll quietly dispose of the remains, without any serious investigation.
Though I'd better not visit Forester country ever again.
"I haven't quite made up my mind," he said. "We'll see." The words felt slimy.
"I can hope," Wanika said. "Pedro Dover under arrest and you back here." Her mood faded. "You have a message entered, waiting till it's given your whereabouts," she told him dully. "From Mars."
"Oh?" His heart jumped. "Just a minute." The phone in the room was reasonably capable, to accommodate tourists. It could handle encryptions that weren't crack-proof quantum but adequate for most communication. He set it to employ the code he and Kinna had agreed on. "Relay, please."
"Yes," Wanika said. Her image vanished.
Fenn waited and wondered through a few seconds that stretched. When last he'd heard from Kinna, she was not yet over her distress at the Republic's occupation of the Threedom. It had gone bloodlessly, and so far the cities were peaceful. But the Inrai, the outlaws, had taken all their equipment, all their strength, into the wilds. After they attacked several convoys, no ground traffic that wasn't strictly local moved in Tharsis. Although the constabulary had refrained from counteraction and now relied entirely on air transport, she feared for her Elverir.
Her image appeared, and his pulse sang. Between locks more tousled than usual, the pert face was alive with eagerness and the gray eyes lambent. She quivered. Her voice torrented.
"Fenn, Fenn, the wildest thing; I've got to record it for you right away! Elverir—Scorian—P-p-pmserpina—" She caught her breath and laughed. "My tongue's too poky. The news is overrunning it, on large, clattery feet. Let me try and get organized."
When she spoke again, it went fast but steadily. "Elverir—he's back in Belgarre. Inrai aren't constantly on patrol; they take awhile in the outback and then go home and carry on their daily lives another while. They need to, and the outfit needs it, to keep supplies coming. And it makes it harder for the constables to know who's involved and who isn't. That's even more so these days, with the Threedom under occupation. I'm hoping Elverir can stay a good long time. Forever, if I had my wish. This is so horrible; people of good will like my parents set against people who want freedom—'' She swallowed. "I'm sorry. I'm getting things all tumble-jumbled. I should leave off what matters most to me and stick to what matters to you." A fleeting smile. "After all, it's you I'm talking at. And... and Fenn, what you care about, I do too, because it's important and—because it's you, trouvour—" The blood ran high in her face. She hurried on.
"Well, Elverir gave me the news. He had it from Scorian, the chief of the Inrai, insofar as they've got a chief. It's supposed to be confidential, but I suspect Scorian knew Elverir would share it with me and didn't actually forbid him to. I'd guess Scorian wouldn't mind word getting to the Lahui Kuikawa, for whatever they may try to do about it. But he'd rather the Synesis not know that you know. That's my guess."
She looked straight out of the screen. He half reached forth, blindly, as if to take her hands.
"Fenn," she said, "a ship from Alpha Centauri is approaching Proserpina."
Thunders rolled through his skull.
After another moment she proceeded, as calmly now as he would have expected of one who'd spent her life coping with a planet that wanted to stay dead. "The Lunarians at Centauri must've beamed word when it left, so the Proserpinans had a lot of years' advance notice. I s'pose the Synesis—well, the cybercosm, anyway— detected it some time ago, radiation from the shock wave in the interstellar gas and so on, but hasn't said anything public, for whatever reason. The Proserpinans think it, the cybercosm, would've intercepted the ship if it could, but didn't have anything on hand that was able to. Maybe all the superspeed craft are away off exploring among the stars, like we're'told they are. Or maybe the accusation is untrue and unfair. I do wish the cybercosm would te
ll us more, don't you? Chuan says it tells us as much as is wise, but—"
Fenn thought that the fact the Proserpinans knew the ship was coming would suffice to stay the cybercosm's hand.
"Well," Kinna continued. "The reason why the Proserpinans think this, and why they've suddenly let the Inrai know. Ordinarily they wouldn't have, that's not in Lunarian nature. But the nearness of the new craft, and ideas they've meanwhile been swapping back and forth with the Centaurians, that's led them to wonder mightily about what the great secret is that a solar lens has discovered. They're convinced it is a secret, a fact, not just a scientific puzzle, and means something tremendous. That sounds reasonable to me. Why shouldn't a puzzle be published?" A pang crossed her countenance. "And dear old Chuan, the way he's kind of flinched whenever the subject came up between us and right away changed it—
"Anyhow, you remember, don't you, the Proserpinans tried in the past to orbit a couple of lenses of their own, and failed. They think it was sabotage by minirobots, but it could've been a tricky project going awry. I'd rather believe that. Whichever, they've concluded that probably one particular lens made the discovery, or most of the discovery, the one looking toward the center of the galaxy. I'm not sure why. But the Lunarians at Centauri and the Terrans at those farther stars, they've been carrying out astronomy too. Maybe they've found nothing very surprising in any other direction, and haven't got the means to investigate closer. Maybe that's one of the things Proserpina's heard from Centauri.
"The Proserpinans sent an expedition to that lens to try and find out what's in its database. They learned it's guarded by systems they didn't care to annoy. Maybe every lens is, maybe not, but that's an enormous bunch of arcs to search, isn't it?"
Kinna stiffened herself. Her tone resounded clear. "There's something cosmic at stake, seems like, and it may well be part of the Centaurian ship's mission. The Proserpinans want to know more. The only thing like allies they've got in the inner System is the Inrai, and that Star Net Station sitting on Pavonis Mons doubtless has the information on file. Maybe the Inrai can do something. I don't see what or how, but away off where they are, the Proserpinans might not understand the problem very well, or it might be Lunarian recklessness, a feeling of nothing much to lose.
"Anyhow, what with the Threedom occupied, the Proserpinans couldn't just shoot a tight beam from a ship well off in space, and they had to assume every quantum code has been compromised. They sent a superfast little field-drive vessel, robotic, swinging in close by Mars. It threw a wide beam across the Tharsis desert. A few Inrai receivers were bound to catch the message. The craft sped off homeward, and we—we have the word, for whatever we can do with it."
Her gaze captured him, whom she had not been seeing or speaking to in real time.."What you can do with it," she finished softly. "If that's nothing, don't feel bad. The next transport from Luna doesn't leave for months and months. Meanwhile, anything can happen"—her grin flashed defiant—"and prob'ly will. But I did have to tell you, trouvpur."
She sighed. "Otherwise life is clumpety-clumping along. Our disagreements about policy and suchlike awfuls haven't split the family; we can still laugh together. I look forward to hearing from you when it's convenient—for you, I mean; it always is for me—and even more to seeing you again when you can get here. Don't worry. We'll come out on top of this hash-heap somehow, see if we don't. Bye."
She blew him a kiss, which she-had never done before, and the recording ended.
Fenn sat for almost an hour, hardly moving.
Again the early winter night, air so cold that it felt liquid in the nostrils, starlight brilliant on snow but hemmed in by shadow walls of forest, silence except for a frosty scrunch under Fenn's boots. His breath puffed white and vanished. At his back, the clustered homes of Munsingreceded into the dark. Ahead of him, the windows of a solitary cabin glowed yellow.
His goal. He had called today from Thistledew, first to an arbitrarily chosen resident, explaining that he wanted to contact Robin but didn't know what name that person used in the phone register, thereafter to this place. For that he had used audio only and hinted at a meeting for conspiratorial purposes. Response was eager, with directions for finding his way and an hour when they would not be disturbed. No question remained in his mind. His search was finished.
Finished also were turmoil and doubt. A steely peace dwelt in his breast. He had a task before him, and then he could leave.
When he came to the door, he knocked, another archaism among the Foresters. The sound boomed hollow. The impact hurt his chilled knuckles. The door opened. He stepped through, swung about, and closed it behind him, yanking the knob from a slackened grasp.
"What's this?" Instant alarm trembled in Pedro Dover's voice. He drew back from the man who loomed over him. His visage was indeed altered, but after all his poring over the image, Fenn would have known that gawky frame at the bottom of a black hole. The cabin was cluttered, dirty, overheated, and ill-smelling. He felt a faint satisfaction; he had awaited as much.
"Who are you?" Pedro Dover shrilled. "You're the one who called? What do you want? Don't stand there staring at me!"
"If you come along quietly," Fenn told him, "nobody need have any trouble. The local constable will fly you to the nearest regular police station and turn you over, and that will be that."
"What—what're you jabbering about?"
"You don't recognize me, eh? I happened to be on hand when you were egging a mob on against a well-meaning little sophotect in Mondheim. And I didn't see you, or you wouldn't have lived, but I was present when you murdered a close friend of mine in Tychopolis. A Keiki Moana, a metamorph seal, remember?"
Pedro Dover screamed. He snatched for his sheath knife. Fenn's fist leaped. The blow shocked back into his shoulder. The face before him exploded in red ruin. Pedro Dover lurched back. Fenn followed with a left to the belly, just under the rib cage. Pedro Dover fell, flopped, and fought for air.
"Don't worry," Fenn said. "You're not worth killing." He put a foot on the creature and held it down while he phoned for the constable.
17
GUTHRIE WOKE.
It happened instantly, at the closing of a switch. No dreams faded out of him as he opened the shells over his optics, extended them on their stalks, and gazed around. He had been inactivated—in a sense, dead—and now he was again functioning—in a sense, alive.
Thirty-five years, he thought, as close as makes no difference. What's the universe been up to?
Before pursuing that, he meshed himself with the ship's instruments and computers. The data reassured him. Everything that could be under control was. Not that he had ever doubted the vessel he'd renamed Dagny. But something unforeseeable might go wrong for her, or right for an enemy.
No, he was on his flight plan, still decelerating but not far from his goal, bound back into the Solar System after more than a millennium away.
You could hardly tell by vision. Stars crowded sable clarity, the Milky Way girdled heaven with its crooked winter road, nebulae glimmered, the Andromeda galaxy lay huge, wan, and mysterious: sights he had seen at two other suns and in between, very little changed by his crossing a mere few light-years. Only Sol marked this region out, and at almost six hundred astronomical units' distance, it was only the chief among the stars, fiercely brilliant but casting no more than a third again as much illumination as a full Luna above Earth. Nevertheless, Guthrie dwelt on its image for many minutes.
Juliana, he thought. Your ashes lie yonder, strewn on the Leibniz Mountains of the Moon where it's always day, mingled with the ashes of my first body, the body that knew you.
Dagny enclosed him in silence. She was no c-ship, no Yeager, minimal in mass and thereby able to fly close to the velocity of light. She was a cruiser, also running on field drive but originally meant for interplanetary work. Thus she was amply big to carry cargo, accommodations plus full life and medical support for several humans, and the weapons that the Lunarians of Centauri had installed for h
im. Seen from outside, she was a conoid, not quite a hundred meters in length, broadening from the bow to a rounded base about forty meters in diameter. Hatches, airlocks, and a few streamlined turrets studded the matte skin. Antennas and dishes were newly deployed, stretching forth skeletal to catch what signals and other information they could. With speed down to a few score kilometers per second and dropping, the particle deflector field was at low strength, invisible, no longer a glow like St. Elmo's fire streaming aft from ahead of the hull.
Guthrie muttered an oath and pulled out of his reverie. The instruments showed three ships under high boost on what must be interception paths. They were plasma-drive, but surely formidable. At any minute a voice on a laser beam would challenge him. He'd better get briefed.
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