Trumps of doom tcoa-6

by Roger Zelazny

  Sitting there, several minutes later, sipping, and letting my mind drift over the perversely plotted events of the past several days, I realized that one of the place’s passing figures had failed to pass. It had come to a halt at my side — just far enough to the rear to register only as a dark peripheral presence.

  It spoke softly: “Excuse me. May I ask you a question?”

  I turned my head, to behold a short, thin man of Spanish appearance, his hair and mustache flecked with gray. He was sufficiently well dressed and groomed to seem a local business type. I noted a chipped front tooth when he smiled so briefly — just a twitch — as to indicate nervousness.

  “My name’s Dan Martinez,” he said, not offering to shake hands. He glanced at the chair across from me. “Could I sit down a minute?”

  “What’s this about? If you’re selling something, I’m not interested. I’m waiting for somebody and — ”

  He shook his head.

  “No, nothing like that. I know you’re waiting for someone — a Mr. Lucas Raynard. It involves him, actually.”

  I gestured at the chair.

  “Okay. Sit down and ask your question.”

  He did so, clasping his hands and placing them on the table between us. He leaned forward.

  “I overheard you talking in the lobby,” he began, “and I got the impression you knew him fairly well. Would you mind telling me for about how long you’ve known him?”

  “If that’s all you want to know,” I answered, “for about eight years. We went to college together, and we worked for the same company for several years after that.”

  “Grand Design,” he stated, “the San Francisco computer firm. Didn’t know him before college, huh?”

  “It seems you already know quite a bit,” I said. “What did you want, anyway? Are you some kind of cop?”

  “No,” he said, “nothing like that. I assure you I’m not trying to get your friend into trouble. I am simply trying to save myself some. Let me just ask you —”

  I shook my head.

  “No more freebies,” I told him. “I don’t care to talk to strangers about my friends without some pretty good reasons.”

  He unclasped his hands and spread them wide.

  “I’m not being underhanded,” he said, “when I know you’ll tell him about it. In fact, I want you to. He knows me. I want him to know I’m asking around about him, okay? It’ll actually be to his benefit. Hell, I’m even asking — a friend, aren’t I? Someone who might be willing to lie to help him out. And I just need a couple simple facts — ”

  “And I just need one simple reason: why do you want this information?”

  He sighed. “Okay,” he said. “He offered me — tentatively, mind you — a very interesting investment opportunity. It would involve a large sum of money. There is an element of risk, as in most ventures involving new companies in a highly competitive area, but the possible returns do make it tempting.”

  I nodded.

  “And you want to know whether he’s honest.”

  He chuckled.

  “I don’t really care whether he’s honest,” he said. “My only concern is whether he can deliver a product with no strings on it.”

  Something about the way this man talked reminded me of someone. I tried, but couldn’t recall who it was:

  “Ah,” I said, taking a sip of beer. “I’m slow today. Sorry. Of course this deal involves computers.”

  “Of course.”

  “You want to know whether his present employer can nail him if he goes into business out here with whatever he’s bringing with him.”

  “In a word, yes.”

  “I give up,” I said. “It would take a better man than me to answer that. Intellectual properties represent a tricky area of the law. I don’t know what he’s selling and I don’t know where it comes from — he gets around a lot. But even if I did know, I have no idea what your legal position would be.”

  “I didn’t expect anything beyond that,” he said, smiling. I smiled back.

  “So you’ve sent your message,” I said. He nodded and began to rise.

  “Oh, just one thing more,” he began.

  “Yes?”

  “Did he ever mention places,” he said, staring full into my eyes, “called Amber or the Courts of Chaos?”

  He could not have failed to note my startled reaction, which had to have given him a completely false impression. I was sure that he was sure I was lying when I answered him truthfully.

  “No, I never heard him refer to them. Why do you ask?”

  He shook his head as he pushed his chair back and stepped away from the table. He was smiling again.

  “It’s not important. Thank you, Mr. Corey. Nus a dhabzhun dhuilsha.”

  He practically fled around the corner.

  “Wait!” I called out, so loudly that there was a moment of silence and heads turned in my direction.

  I got to my feet and started after him, when I heard my name called.

  “Hey, Merle! Don’t run off! I’m here already!”

  I turned. Luke had just come in through the entrance behind me, hair still shower-damp. He advanced, clapped me on the shoulder, and lowered himself into the seat Martinez had just vacated. He nodded at my half finished beer as I sat down again.

  “I need one of those,” he said. “Lord, am I thirsty!” Then, “Where were you off to when I came in?”

  I found myself reluctant to describe my recent encounter, not least because of its strange conclusion. Apparently, he had just missed seeing Martinez.

  So: “I was heading for the john.”

  “It’s back that way,” he told me, nodding in the direction from which he had entered. “I passed it on the way in.” His eyes shifted downward.

  “Say, that ring you have on — ”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “You left it at the New Line Motel. I picked it up for you when I collected your message. Here, let me…”

  I tugged at it, but it wouldn’t come off.

  “Seems to be stuck,” I noted. “Funny. It went on easy enough.”

  “Maybe your finger’s swollen,” he remarked. “It could have something to do with the altitude. We’re up pretty high.”

  He caught the waitress’s attention and ordered a beer, while I kept twisting at the ring.

  “Guess I’ll just have to sell it to you,” he said: “Give you a good deal.”

  “We’ll see,” I told him. “Back in a minute.”

  He raised one hand limply and let it fall as I headed toward the rest room.

  There was no one else in the facility, and so I spoke the words that released Frakir from the suppression spell I had uttered back aboard the Shuttlejack. There followed immediate movement. Before I could issue another command, Frakir became shimmeringly visible in the act of uncoiling, crept across the back of my hand and wound about my ring finger. I watched, fascinated, as the finger darkened and began to ache beneath a steady tightening.

  A loosening followed quickly, leaving my finger looking as if it had been threaded. I got the idea. I unscrewed the ring along the track that had been pressed into my flesh. Frakir moved again as if to snag it and I stroked her.

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks. Return.”

  There seemed a moment of hesitation, but my will proved sufficient without a more formal command. She retreated back across my hand, rewound herself about my wrist, and faded.

  I finished up in there and returned to the bar. I passed Luke his ring as I seated myself, and took a sip of beer. “How’d you get it off?” he asked.

  “A bit of soap,” I answered.

  He wrapped it in his handkerchief and put it in his pocket. “Guess I can’t take your money for it, then.”

  “Guess not. Aren’t you going to wear it?”

  “No, it’s a present. You know, I hardly expected you to make the scene here,” he commented, scooping a handful of peanuts from a bowl that had appeared in my absence. “I thought maybe you’d just call when
you got my message, and we could set something up for later. Glad you did, though. Who knows when later might have been. See, I had some plans that started moving faster than I’d thought they would — and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  I nodded.

  “I had a few things I wanted to talk to you about, too.”

  He returned my nod.

  I had decided back in the lavatory definitely to refrain from mentioning Martinez yet, and the first things he had said and implied. Although the entire setup did not sound as if it involved anything in which I had any interest any longer, I always feel more secure in talking with anyone, even friends — when I have at least a little special information they don’t know I have. So I decided to keep it that way for now.

  “So let’s be civilized and hold everything important till after dinner,” he said, slowly shredding his napkin and wadding the pieces, “and go somewhere we can talk in private then.”

  “Good idea,” I agreed. “Want to eat here?” He shook his head…

  “I’ve been eating here. It’s good, but I want a change. I had my heart set on eating at a place around the corner. Let me go and see if they’ve got a table.”

  “Okay.” He gulped the rest of his drink and departed.

  …And then the mention of Amber. Who the hell was Martinez? It was more than a little necessary that I learn this, because it was obvious to me that he was something other than he appeared to be. His final words had been in Thari, my native tongue. How this could be and why it should be, I had no idea. I cursed my own inertia, at having let the S situation slide for so long. It was purely a result of my arrogance. I’d never anticipated the convoluted mess the affair would become. Served me right, though I didn’t appreciate the service.

  “Okay,” Luke said, rounding the corner, digging into his pocket, and tossing some money on the table. “We’ve got a reservation. Drink up, and let’s take a walk.”

  I finished, stood and followed him. He led me through the corridors and back to the lobby, then out and along a hallway to the rear. We emerged into a balmy evening and crossed the parking lot to the sidewalk that ran along Guadaloupe Street. From there it was only a short distance to the place where it intersected with Alameda. We crossed twice there and strolled on past a big church, then turned right at the next corner. Luke pointed out a restaurant called La Tertulia across the street a short distance ahead.

  “There,” he said.

  We crossed over and found our way to the entrance. It was a low adobe building, Spanish, venerable, and somewhat elegant inside. We went through a pitcher of sangria, orders of pollo adova, bread puddings, and many cups of coffee, keeping our agreement not to speak of anything serious during dinner.

  During the course of the meal Luke was greeted twice, by different guys passing through the room, both of whom paused at the table to pass a few pleasantries.

  “You know everybody in this town?” I asked him a bit later.

  He chuckled. “I do a lot of business here.”

  “Really? It seems a pretty small town.”

  “Yes, but that’s deceptive. It is the state capital. There’re a lot of people here buying what we’re selling.”

  “So you’re out this way a lot?”

  He nodded. “It’s one of the hottest spots on my circuit.”

  “How do you manage all this business when you’re out hiking in the woods?”

  He looked up from the small battle formation he was creating from the things on the table. He smiled.

  “I’ve got to have a little recreation,” he said. “I get tired of cities and offices. I have to get away and hike around, or canoe or kayak or something like that — or I’d go out of my gourd. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I built up the business in this town — quick access to a lot of good places for that stuff.”

  He took a drink of coffee.

  “You know,” he continued, “it’s such a nice night we ought to take a drive, let you get a feeling of what I mean.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, stretching my shoulders and looking for our waiter. “But isn’t it too dark to see much?”

  “No. The moon’ll be up, the stars are out, the air’s real clear. You’ll see.”

  I got the tab, paid up, and we strolled out. Sure enough, the moon had risen.

  “Car’s in the hotel lot,” he said as we hit the street. “This side.”

  He indicated a station wagon once we were back in the parking lot, unlocked it, and waved me aboard. He drove us out, turned at the nearest corner, and followed the Alameda to the Paseo, took a right leading uphill on a street called Otero and another onto Hyde Park Road. From then on traffic was very light. We passed a sign indicating that we were heading toward a ski basin.

  As we worked our way through many curves, heading generally upward, I felt a certain tension going out of me. Soon we had left all signs of habitation behind us, and the night and the quiet settled fully no streetlights here. Through the opened window I smelled pine trees. The air was cool. I rested, away from S and everything else.

  I glanced at Luke. He stared straight ahead, brow furrowed. He felt my gaze, though, because he seemed to relax suddenly and he shot me a grin.

  “Who goes first?” he asked.

  “Go ahead,” I answered.

  “Okay. When we were talking the other morning about your leaving Grand D, you said you weren’t going to work anywhere else and you weren’t planning on teaching.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You said you were just going to travel around.”

  “Yep.”

  “Something else did suggest itself to me a little later on.”

  I remained silent as he glanced my way.

  “I was wondering,” he said after a time, “whether you might not be shopping around — either for backing in getting your own company going, or for a buyer for something you have to sell. You know what I mean?”

  “You think I came up with something innovative and didn’t want Grand Design to have it?”

  He slapped the seat beside him.

  “Always knew you were no fool,” he said. “So you’re screwing around now, to allow decent time for its development. Then you hunt up the buyer with the most bread.”

  “Makes sense,” I said, “if that were the case. But it isn’t.”

  He chuckled.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Just because I work for Grand D doesn’t make me their fink. You ought to know that.”

  “I do know it.”

  “And I wasn’t asking just to pry. In fact, I had other intentions completely. I’d like to see you make out with it, make out big.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I might even be of some assistance — valuable assistance — in the matter.”

  “I begin to get the drift, Luke, but — ”

  “Just hear me out, huh? But answer one thing first, though, if you would: You haven’t signed anything with anybody in the area, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think so. It would seem a little premature.”

  The roadside trees were larger now, the night breeze a bit more chill. The moon seemed bigger, more brilliant up here than it had in the town below. We rounded several more curves, eventually commencing a long series of switchbacks that bore us higher and higher. I caught occasional glimpses of sharp drops to the left. There was no guard rail.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m not trying to cut myself in for nothing. I’m not asking you for a piece of the action for old times’ sake or anything like that. That’s one thing and business is another — though it never hurts to do a deal with someone you know you can trust. Let me tell you some of the facts of life. If you’ve got some really fantastic design, sure, you can go sell it for a bundle to lots of people in the business — if you’re careful, damn careful. But that’s it. Your golden opportunity’s flown then. If you really want to clean up, you start your own outfit. Look at Apple. If it really catches on you can al
ways sell out then, for a lot more than you’d get from just peddling the idea. You may be a whiz at design, but I know the marketplace. And I know people — all over the country — people who’d trust me enough to bankroll us to see it off the ground and out on the street. Shit! I’m not going to stay with Grand D all my life. Let me in and I’ll get us the financing. You run the shop and I’ll run the business. That’s the only way to go with something big.”

  “Oh, my,” I sighed. “Man, it actually sounds nice. But you’re following a bum scent. I don’t have anything to sell.”

  “Come on!” he said. “You know you can level with me. Even if you absolutely refuse to go that way, I’m not going to talk about it. I don’t screw my buddies. I just think you’re making a mistake if you don’t develop it yourself.”

  “Luke, I meant what I said.”

  He was silent for a little while. Then I felt his gaze upon me again. When I glanced his way I saw that he was smiling.

  “What,” I asked him, “is the next question?”

  “What is Ghostwheel?” he said.

  “What?”

  “Top secret, hush-hush, Merle Corey project. Ghostwheel,” he answered. “Computer design incorporating shit nobody’s ever seen before. Liquid semiconductors, cryogenic tanks, plasma — ”

  I started laughing.

  “My God!” I said. “It’s a joke, that’s what it is. Just a crazy hobby thing. It was a design game — a machine that could never be built on Earth. Well, maybe most of it could. But it wouldn’t function. It’s like an Escher drawing — looks great on paper, but it can’t be done in real life.”

  Then after a moment’s reflection, I asked, “How is it you even know about it? I’ve never mentioned it to anyone.”

  He cleared his throat as he took another turn. The moon was raked by treetops. A few beads of moisture appeared upon the windshield.

  “Well, you weren’t all that secret about it,” he answered. “There were designs and graphs and notes all over your work table and drawing hard any number of times I was at your place. I could hardly help but notice. Most of them were even labeled ‘Ghostwheel’. And nothing anything like it ever showed up at Grand D, so I simply assumed it was your pet project and your ticket to security. You never impressed me as the impractical dreamer type. Are you sure you’re giving this to me straight?”