by Ron Goulart
“I thought,” put in the tall ambassador, “to show the duchess a little trucking.”
Conger continued to circle the ball room. Another fifty guests, none of them resembled Machado, had added themselves to the crowd since he’d arrived. He decided to check the balconies.
None of the balconies had a railing, each was protected by an invisible force screen. Two cat girls were leaning against the force screen on the first balcony Conger inspected. They were talking in Portuguese to a man Conger guessed was a US embassy security android.
From here he could see the garden where Canguru lurked. He took a pair of specially tinted glasses from the kit strapped to his side. The little blond spy was supposed to send him periodical flash signals to let him know when and if Machado appeared.
As soon as he had the glasses on he saw Canguru’s signal light flashing far below. The tiny specks of light spelled out a coded message.
Translated it said, “What a nitwit code this is. No logic to it at all. Tedious, too, after a few thousand blinks. They made the button on this light in such a way that your thumb starts to ache in no time at all. Well, in case you’re watching … This is to let you know I’ve just received word from one of my sources that Machado will not show tonight. Repeat. Machado is not coming to the dance. Don’t ask me why. You know how these revolutionaries are. It’s a wonder they ever pull off any coups at all. I’ll repeat this nitwit message every ten minutes for awhile and then I’m going to call it a night.”
Giving an invisible shrug, Conger left the balcony. He didn’t see Angelica in the ball room now. Well, he was on orders not to fraternize anyway. Still, he might as well tell her, if he could do it unobtrusively, what he’d found out about Machado.
She was out on the third balcony beyond the bandstand. A smiling Chinese was chatting at the girl, his champagne glass cupped in both plump hands.
Between Conger and the two of them stood an entertainment android mounted on a box-like pedestal. The mechanism was softly playing flamenco music on his silver guitar.
Conger watched the pretty slim Angelica for a moment, deciding it wasn’t safe to talk to her now. He sealed up his invisible coat against the chill wind which came blowing across the balcony terrace. He turned to re-enter the dancing area.
“Wind?” he said to himself.
The force screen wasn’t supposed to let in anything but the view.
Conger carefully crossed to the edge of the balcony. The dots of guards and still-arriving guests moved through the ritual of admittance hundreds of feet down. He stretched out his hand and it continued out beyond the lip of the balcony and into chill dark night. Someone had turned off the guarding system.
He looked toward Angelica just in time to see the smiling red-cheeked Chinese toss his glass away into the night and grab the girl around the waist.
“Hey now!” cried Angelica.
“I wouldn’t do this if it were up to me alone,” apologized the amiable Chinese.
Conger was there beside them now. He caught hold of the girl’s shoulders, pulling back.
Surprised at the unseen force, the Chinese assassin let go of Angelica.
He wobbled back two steps and his heels went over the edge of the balcony. He stayed there on the edge, ticking, arms flapping, neither safe nor falling.
Conger shoved the girl toward the ball room entrance. “Get back inside.”
He lunged, catching at the teetering Chinese’s suit front. He dug in his heels, yanking the plump man in.
When the Chinese was back on the balcony completely he said, “Must be one of those invisible American bastards.” He kicked out at where he guessed Conger’s groin to be.
The estimate was off, but the pointed boot connected with Conger’s stomach anyway. Conger grunted out air, doubling. He got himself straight and moving after a few seconds.
The Chinese ran, swinging out to topple the flamenco android into Conger’s probable path.
Conger swerved. Not soon enough to keep the falling machine from tripping him. He fell on top of it, banging his chin on the sharp metal strings of the guitar.
Angelica let the Chinese run on by her. She then came over to help Conger untangle himself.
The US ambassador and the green duchess were still trucking inside, joined by many others.
The noise of that plus the music of the robot orchestra had kept the sound of Conger’s struggle from attracting attention. No one came out onto their balcony. “Those China II agents aren’t men of their word,” said Angelica, dusting at Conger’s clothes.
“You don’t have to do that. Nobody can see me except you.”
“Well, I don’t like looking at grimy spies.”
“Was that guy Big Mac’s partner?”
“Yes, his name is Jerry Ting,” replied Angelica. “I assumed we had a truce for tonight. I wouldn’t have danced with them, though Big Mac is a pretty fair ball room dancer, if I’d known they had orders to kill me tonight. Those guys never let down.”
“How are you?”
The pretty girl raised her eyebrows. “Me? Oh, I’m in excellent shape,” she said. “Thanks, by the way, for rescuing me.”
“I figure I can co-operate with NSO that much.”
Angelica reached out, smoothing down Conger’s hair. “There. Are you here anticipating Machado?”
“I was.”
“You’ve already heard then that he’s not going to show.”
“Yeah, I was hunting for you to tell you about it.”
“That was very thoughtful,” said Angelica. “Though I’m sure it won’t endear you to your home office. Want to escort me home to my hotel?”
Conger watched her. The night wind came drifting across the unprotected terrace and gently flicked at her hair. “Okay,” he told her.
The Gypsy violinist said, “Hey, cut that out.”
Conger stepped back from him, frowning. “Don’t you have a turn off switch?”
“Well, certainly not,” the middle-sized violinist replied, lowering his fiddle and adjusting his crimson head scarf. “I’m a living breathing human being, not a robot.”
“You play like a robot.” Conger returned to the green plyo hammocksofa he’d been sitting in when the Gypsy fiddler entered Angelica’s hotel suite and commenced an air.
“Boy, are you a grouch,” said the middle-sized man. “Miss Abril ordered the Intimate Dinner For 2, you know. Which includes two Gypsy musicians.”
“Where’s the other one?”
“I thought, you big sourpuss, you didn’t want any Gypsies.”
“I don’t,” replied Conger. “I’m just making small talk before I throw you out.”
“I’m glad Muscha came down with the Etruscan flu and didn’t come along with his tambourine,” said the Gypsy, working his way across the living room toward the exit door. “Oh, before I go, do you want me to punch up the candles?”
“Candles?”
“Yes, grumpy, you get two authentic romantic real tallow candles to go on the table when you order the Intimate Dinner For 2. They come out of a slot in the dining room,” explained the slowly retreating man. “I’m supposed to punch the candle button after I do my Romany medley.”
“I’ll take care of the candles.”
The Gypsy shook his head and his golden earrings tingled. “Well, I’ll get back to the soccer match I was watching.” He let himself out.
Conger rocked gently in the hammock sofa, watching the black Rio night and then the door of Angelica’s bedroom.
After a few moments more the lovely dark girl reappeared, wearing a fresh short-skirted evening dress. “Jerry Ting tore a couple holes in my other dress trying to assassinate me,” she said.
“Who were you talking to?”
“A Gypsy.”
Angelica sat on the edge of a suspended redwood chair. “Anyone I know?”
“He comes with the dinner,” said Conger. “You apparently ordered the Intimate Dinner For 2.”
“I’m not very hu
ngry. The intimate dinner has small portions,” said the slim dark girl. “Or were you particularly starving?”
“Nope.”
“I didn’t order it because of the intimate business, but because of the small portions. You understand?”
Nodding, Conger said, “You also get two candles.”
“In addition to the Gypsy?”
“Two candles and two Gypsies actually, but one of them is sick.”
“Where are the candles?”
“I have to push a button.” Conger rose, walked in the direction of the dining room.
The girl reached out a hand.
Conger slowed, stopped beside her.
She said, “We don’t really need candles.”
“They’re not essential, no.”
“As a matter of fact, I had two or three little sandwiches at the president’s doings. And you’re always swallowing some kind of food pill.”
“So?”
“So we could forget about dinner all together.”
“Yeah, we could.”
“Good.”
Conger took hold of her.
CHAPTER 9
Angelica was holding tightly to him. Conger opened his left eye, then his right. The large round bedroom was starting to fill with early morning sunlight. On the other side of the one-way drapes artificial birds were clicking on to twitter.
The room noticed Conger was awake, sent a fat silver coffee machine rolling over the blue floor to him. “ Bom dia, good morning,” whispered the coffee pot. “How do you like your fresh-ground real Brazilian coffee, senhor? With rich thick cream and a heaping spoon full of …”
“No coffee,” answered Conger out of the right side of his mouth.
The lovely dark Angelica murmured in her sleep, sliding her palm higher up his bare chest.
“What then, senhor? The Intellectual Ritz Hotel can offer you fresh-brewed China I tea, made . . .”
“Usually,” Conger told the machine, “I don’t drink anything until after I jog and do my exercises.”
Angelica woke. “Who are you talking to, Jake?”
“The coffee pot.”
“Oh.” She rested her head against his shoulder.
Another machine had popped out of the wall to come rolling, rattling, up to the bedside. “ Bom dia, senhor. Would you like a stack of American-style flapjacks made from enriched bleached flour and smothered in artificial …”
“No.” Conger sat up, carefully, and made a shooing motion at the tank-shape breakfast machine. “I don’t eat anything until after I jog and do my exercises.”
“I can take your order, senhor, and serve you on the completion of your activities,” suggested the machine. “Perhaps you’d rather have succulent pork links deep fried in …”
“No.” Swinging out of bed, Conger pushed at the mechanism.
“Ah,” said the breakfast machine, “I see it all now. You are in love, so your appetite is gone. You have been smitten with the arrow of what you Americans call Don Kewpie.”
“Dan Cupid,” said Angelica. She rolled onto her back, stretching her arms. “Why don’t you guys get back in the wall? I’ll call you when I need you.”
“But of course,” said the coffee pot. “We only appeared when we did because it is the policy of the Intellectual Ritz to …”
“Back,” said Conger.
When the servomechanisms were all away Angelica remarked, “Well.”
Walking round to her side of the bed, Conger sat.
“I hadn’t,” said Angelica, “really anticipated.” She waved one slender hand sideways.
“Neither had I,” he said, “exactly.”
She drew her knees up and the all-season sheet fell away. “When I suggested we co-operate, back in Portugal, I didn’t exactly …”
“Yeah, I know.”
From the living room of the hotel suite the door called, “There’s a suspicious character lurking out in the hall, senhorinha.”
“Oops.” Conger ran to his side of the bed to grab his kit off the night table. He strapped it on, went running into the living room.
“Put some clothes on before you tangle with anybody,” called Angelica.
“Take a look at this rascal,” said the door. “Should he be someone you know, which is hardly likely, I will admit him. Otherwise it’s the house dick for him.”
The door’s view hole irised open to reveal Canguru in a white two-piece tourist suit and off-white shoes. The blond little spy was carrying a bunch of tulips, shifting from foot to foot. “What a way to build a door,” he was saying. “The bell push way up there and when I ring it my finger gets all smudgy.”
The door told Conger, “I took the precaution of fingerprinting him, senhor, in case you want to run a check on him with the International FBI.”
Conger approached the talk hole. “What is it, Canguru?”
“I assume,” said the little agent, “you’re not in there against your will.”
“No,” said Conger. “How did you find me?”
“How do I find anybody? I work at it.” Canguru moved closer to the door. “I have a couple of important messages for you.”
“I’ll meet you back in my hotel in an hour or so.”
“Too important to wait that long.”
Frowning, Conger said, “Okay, hang on. I’ll let you in shortly.”
“They keep this hall much too warm, especially on such a fine, for Rio, spring morning as this.”
Back in the bedroom Conger started to get into his clothes. “Mind if I talk to my contact out in your living room for a few minutes?”
“Not at all.” The pretty Angelica was still sitting in bed with her knees drawn up. “Is it that curly-haired little one?”
“He’s the only contact I have.”
“You really ought to ask for a bigger field allowance.”
Dressed, Conger kissed the girl.
As Canguru stepped into the living room, he handed over the flowers.
“For the young lady. I picked them last night in the public gardens, figuring you can always find something to do with a bunch of tulips.”
“What are the messages?” Conger dropped the yellow and red flowers on a floating coffee table.
“Your boss, Senhor Geer, is unhappy about your being friendly with the young lady,” said Canguru. “He says to knock it off or he’ll tie a can to your tail.”
“How did Geer find out about it?”
“ Sinto muito, senhor.” The little spy locked his tiny hands over his waist, watching them. “I’m afraid I told him when I answered your phone this morning.”
Conger’s left eye narrowed. “How did you come to answer my phone?”
“It kept ringing,” said Canguru. “Your shower stall is equipped with a phone, you know. All that buzzing began to interfere with my singing, so I answered.”
“You took a shower in my shower?”
“The one in my room at the Ultimo Splendido Hotel doesn’t work right,” explained Canguru. “I can get only tepid water and maple syrup. What they must have done when they connected the …”
“You mentioned two messages. What’s the other one?”
In a much quieter voice than he had been using Canguru said, “I know where they revived Machado.”
“Sandman’s lab?”
“At least one of his temporary labs. I think you should be able to find out something by visiting the site.”
“Okay,” said Conger. “Wait for me down in the lobby.”
“I prefer the street. They keep the lobby way too chilly here,” said Canguru. “How long will you be?”
Conger said, “I don’t know.” He walked toward the door of Angelica’s bedroom.
CHAPTER 10
The jungle was creeping higher up the giant dome which covered the town. Shaggy ropey vines, dark green, had crawled thirty feet up the curve of the pale yellow dome. Thin tendrils, rich with spadelike leaves, snaked and snarled among the vines. Wide flat scarlet flowers seemed
splashed against the clear wall which protected The American Colony from the Brazilian jungle. Fist-size spiders jittered in and out of the intricacies of foliage. Multi-color birds fluttered down and then away, down and away.
The midday sun burned a crisp gold straight up. Under the dome the air was cool, smelling faintly of Midwest prairies and farmhouse kitchens.
Conger tossed one of his robot cameras on its feet, gave it an encouraging pat. “Go get a picture of that statue.”
The camera hopped to the statue, which consisted of three late 20th Century landcars mangled together and sprayed with puffed rice.
While the robot camera snapped, Conger looked around the Colony. He was visible, dressed in a three-piece tourist suit and a narrow brim pseudo-straw tourist hat. This town was several hundred miles inland from Rio, made up chiefly of the houses and shops of expatriate artists, writers and communicators from the United States.
According to Canguru, who had stayed behind in Rio de Janeiro, the lab used to revive Machado had been set up here. Nearly a hundred tourists were roaming the streets with Conger.
As far as he knew Angelica was in Rio, too. She hadn’t been angry when he told her he’d better start working alone again. She’d smiled quietly, said something about love and duty. The thing was, Conger missed the slim pretty girl. He was thinking about her now, when his mind should be on … what’s his name. Machado. On Machado and Sandman.
Whistling to his camera, Conger started walking for the studio of the artist he wanted to see.
At the corner a man with a thin dark moustache smiled at him. “You’re going to be very interested in my work,” he said. Behind him were a row of pleasant white cottages.
“Oh, so?” Conger bent to allow his camera to jump into his arms.
“I’ll save you a lot of time by explaining I’m the finest artist in the colony.”
From the opposite direction two middle-aged women in flowered tourist suits were approaching.
Conger halted beside the artist. “Well sir,” he said, “I want to get a look at everything, but I might as well start off with the best.”
The two women turned onto the path leading to one of the cottages.
When one of them reached out to turn the doorknob, the moustachioed artist called out, “Don’t touch, ladies.”