"Does the name Henry Balmer mean anything?" Troon asked, watching him intently. "How about Elaine Corley?"
Sarda crumpled up the graphic that he was holding and threw it savagely back in Troon's lap. "What is this shit?" he demanded. "I don't have to talk to you people."
Troon made a sign toward another car parked a short distance away, which Sarda hadn't noticed previously, and a woman got out. There was another figure in there too: a man, wearing a hat pulled low, obscuring his face. Troon opened the window next to him as the woman came across. She was tall and slim with curly black hair, dressed in a patterned sweater and dark pants. "Recognize her?" Troon asked casually.
Sarda jutted his jaw obstinately as she peered into the car. "No, I don't. Why should I? Look, I've just about had it with these games. Is anybody gonna tell me what's going on around here?" The woman stared at him with an expression of disbelief on her face, then shook her head. She seemed distressed, pleading almost, in a strange kind of way. So, she had problems. Sarda had plenty of his own too, just at this moment. "Who are you staring at, lady?" he shot at her. "Look, I don't know you, okay? Is that it? Everybody satisfied?" Troon nodded to the woman. She turned and walked quickly back to the other car. "Right, that's enough. I'm outta here."
Sarda made to move, but Troon's restraining grip on his arm was like a steel clamp. At the same time, the black barred his way with an arm from the other side. In the front passenger seat, the dog growled. "I think not," Troon said, echoing Sarda's own words upstairs at the terminal. The sudden authority in his voice, quiet yet insistent, would have been enough on its own to make him desist. Sarda slumped back, still angry but defeated. "Actually, we're from your medical team," Troon said. "I've got some bad news for you, Leo. Something went wrong with the experiment. We haven't unraveled exactly what yet, but you've been acting strangely, forgetting things, and getting loose all over the place. Now I have to go, but these nice people are going to take you back in again. Try not to worry about it. It's all very comfortable and civilized." Sarda could only look at him, bewildered now. Gently but firmly, Troon took the briefcase that he had been carrying. Sarda wasn't sure why he had been carrying a briefcase. "It's all right, Leo. You won't be needing this. I'll make sure that everything goes back where it belongs."
And then, before Sarda could collect his wits enough to object, Troon was outside, closing the door, and striding across toward the other car. Before Troon reached it, the woman in the suede coat started the motor of the car that Sarda was in, and he felt them moving away.
* * *
The Lowell City offices of the Zodiac Commercial Bank were located in the commercial sector at the inner end of Gorky Avenue, where it joined the Trapezium. Kieran and Sarda-Two arrived ten minutes before the time that Sarda-One had scheduled to meet the delegates from the intermediary that Balmer had set up. They were received by a bank official called Walworth, who ushered them smilingly through to a conference room where four men were already waiting. He indicated coffee brewing on a side table, an assortment of other beverages and snacks, and after gushing at them to call if there was anything else they needed, left them to conclude their negotiations privately. He would rejoin them later to attend to the details.
Two of the men were dressed expensively but flashily, one in a loud striped suit with crimson shirt and white tie, the other in royal blue with glittery links, studs, and rings. They seemed ill at ease in the bank, glancing around surreptitiously as if suspicious of bugs or hidden cameras. The man with them was plainly dressed and more easily forgettable—the technical expert, to vet the contents of the briefcase, Kieran guessed. The fourth, soberly attired in a charcoal three-piece with plain blue shirt and tightly knotted tie, introduced the others as Mr. Brown, Mr. Black, and Mr. Green, and himself as their nameless attorney. He seemed disconcerted to find that Sarda was not alone. "Who's this?" he asked, indicating Kieran. "My understanding was that you were to be the sole contact."
"Kennilworth Troon, gentlemen," Kieran said, smiling pleasantly and extending a hand. "You will appreciate that Dr. Sarda's field of expertise is limited to strictly scientific matters. In a situation such as this, he naturally feels it prudent to avail himself of professional representation—as do your own clients." He placed the briefcase he had been carrying on the top of the table and opened it to reveal a standard comscreen inside the lid, and the interior filled with wads of neatly separated and labeled documents, several folders of papers, and a multiple container for high-density data cartridges. "I think you'll find everything in order," he informed the company breezily, and gestured toward the waiting chairs. "And now, shall we get started?"
19
For the twentieth time, Dr. Henry Balmer, M.D., M.M.C.M., M.S.M.H., F.C.P., paced tensely across the plushly carpeted office of his private practice in the Trapezium's upmarket Wells Place, glared down from the window overlooking an artificial stream bordered with shrubs, which farther on joined the Embarcadero waterways system, and for the twentieth time stomped back to the desk. He had a stocky, powerful build, white hair with a ruddy countenance, and immense eyebrows which he used for effect when switching on the penetrating stare that patients usually expected. Just now, however, the eyebrows were arched into anxious contortions above a dark frown as he drummed his fingers impatiently and stared at the comscreen.
He didn't like being in situations where he had done all there was to do, and the rest was up to others. He didn't like waiting for others, and he didn't like having to depend on them. The feeling of not being in control was something he was not used to. He especially didn't like having to put everything in the hands of a scientist when this kind of money was at stake. Scientists were financially and politically naive by nature—why else would they spend their lives hiding away from the real world and dealing with things instead of people? And the ones like Sarda, "visionaries" who sought to escape even from the reality of things, were the worst kind. But it had needed to be that way. Sarda was the only one of them who officially didn't exist, and could be made to vanish permanently and untraceably after the proceeds were netted.
He extended a finger uncertainly toward the call button of the format being displayed on the screen. But before it made contact, the unit emitted a tone, and the intercom icon indicating his receptionist and assistant, Fay, in the outer office, began flashing. "Connect," Balmer ordered.
Fay's face appeared in a window. "I'm sorry, Dr. Balmer, I know you don't want to be disturbed this morning, but—"
"What is it?" he demanded irascibly.
"Mrs. Jescombe has been through again for the third time. She's sure her attacks are about to start again, and she's insisting—"
"Insisting? What do you mean, `insisting'? Nobody calls me and insists, do you understand? I told you, I have other, extremely important business to attend to today. Deal with it and fix something with her for next week."
"But she says—"
"There aren't any buts about it. Kindly do the job that I pay you to do, which is using some initiative and trying to think and act like a professional. That means doing more than sitting there with your brain disengaged and relaying messages. A counter robot at any workman's flophouse could do that. Is that enough for you to understand?"
Fay swallowed visibly and nodded. "Yes, Doctor." Balmer cut the call and returned to the window. A dark blue car had turned off the throughway and was following the drive toward the front entrance of the building.
On top of everything else, Elaine had been acting strangely, having to be pushed all the time—and, he got the feeling, inwardly disapproving of just about everything. As if this thing weren't difficult enough already. It needed people who trusted him and who would do as they were told, not start questioning and losing their nerve at the crucial moment. Oh, sure, she'd been all confidence and full of herself when she attached herself to him, thinking she could just use his brains and his contacts, and then move on—did she really imagine he had never seen through that? But when she and he
r new scientist friend came to him with their half-baked idea, he had been the one who'd had to take charge and open their eyes to the potential that made it really worth the risks. He'd had the feeling then that she would never have the stomach to see it through. And lately, things between her and Sarda seemed to have been cooling. With a bit of subterfuge, maybe Elaine could be induced to be content and go her way with her third of the initial sum. She had played her part now, after all. If only Sarda had stayed with the plan and remained patient, instead of letting feelings of personal revenge get the better of him over a miserable five million. That made Sarda too unreliable for any long-term consideration. But Balmer needed him around for a while, until the progress payments were completed.
In the meantime, Elaine worried him. He hadn't been able to raise her, despite making calls all morning, and she had been curiously absent the evening before. He turned, went back to the desk yet again, and tried her number once more. A code on the screen announced that she was unavailable, even on priority. Balmer swore to himself, hoping that she hadn't broken down and done something stupid at this crucial moment. It had probably been a mistake to include her in the deal at all.
The intercom icon flashed again. "Connect," he snapped at the machine, and then, "Yes? What now?" as Fay's face appeared, looking apprehensive.
"You have a visitor, Dr. Balmer."
"Who?"
"A Dr. Sarda. He's saying—"
"Sarda?! What's he doing here? He was supposed . . . I'll be right out."
Fay was already escorting Sarda across the outer office when Balmer emerged. There was a confused look on Sarda's face. Balmer caught him by the shoulder and ushered him toward the doorway into his own office. "What in Hell are you doing?" he muttered. "I told you not to come to this office. What's happened?"
Sarda looked at him blackly. "Am I supposed to know you? What happened with the experiment? He told me you'd be able to give me some answers."
"He? Who?" But Sarda was taking no notice, his eyes darting around the office as if for clues. Balmer looked questioningly at Fay, who was hovering uncertainly a few feet back. She glanced toward the waiting area on the far side of the reception desk.
"He was with another man. I guess he didn't stay—a big black guy. I never saw him before."
"Jesus!" Balmer pushed Sarda inside his office. "Get me Walworth at the Zodiac Commercial Bank, right away," he called back at Fay as he closed the door.
Sarda shook his arm away angrily. "What's this about? Everyone's talking about banks. I was told you had answers. Now it's looking to me like you don't know anything either. I want to know what in Hell's happening. Who are you? What place is this? And why was I brought here?"
"I'm Balmer, for God's sake."
"Is that supposed to mean something?"
"Elaine's professional partner. Yes?"
"Who is Elaine?"
Balmer shook his head. This couldn't be happening. "Look, you work for Quantonix, right?"
"I'm aware of that."
"And the TX Project?"
"What's your connection with the TX Project?"
"If you want answers, just answer my questions first, please."
"I went into the process. I don't remember coming out."
"You never did." Balmer groaned. "Are you telling me you know absolutely nothing about our—" The desk comscreen beeped. It was Fay.
"I've got a Mr. Morch calling from somewhere called Quantonix Researchers in Lowell. He says it's in connection with the visitor you have in there: Dr. Sarda. . . ."
"Yes, yes. Put him through."
The features appeared of a fleshy faced man with thinning hair combed straight back. "Dr. Balmer?"
"Yes."
"Hello. My name is Herbert Morch. I'm a director of Quantonix Researchers, here in the city. We're looking at applications of certain quantum physical effects."
"How come he doesn't know you if you're working with them?" Sarda asked Balmer.
Balmer licked his lip. "Just give me a moment," he muttered. Then, to the screen, louder, "Yes?"
"We've just received a call from an Elaine Corley, whom you apparently know. She tells us that a subject of one of our research programs is there with you right now and is experiencing some disorientation problems—a Dr. Leo Sarda. I don't know where you fit into things, Dr. Balmer, but this could be serious. We're on our way over right now. I'd appreciate it if you'd do whatever you can to keep Dr. Sarda comfortable, and if you can, please try not to let him leave the premises. We'll be there soon. Thank you." The screen blanked before Balmer could reply.
"How long ago was the TX—" Sarda began, but the screen immediately sounded a tone again.
"Mr. Walworth from Zodiac," Fay's voice announced over the image.
"Mr. Walworth? Look, I'm an associate of Dr. Sarda, who was due to meet some people there this morning. I'm just calling to say I'm sorry he couldn't make it. We had a slight hitch." Balmer forced an oily smile. "But everything's under control. Please apologize to our clients and ask them to bear with us."
Walworth looked puzzled. "I'm not sure I understand, Mister . . ."
"Er, Balmer. Dr. Balmer."
"Dr. Balmer, Dr. Sarda was here, on time, with Mr. Troon. Everything went smoothly. They left about fifteen minutes ago."
Balmer was beyond rational thinking by now. He pushed Sarda forward in front of the screen, gibbering almost incoherently. "I'll explain why in a moment. . . . The money . . . He'll recognize you. . . . Ask him if the funds went into your account."
Still not understanding, his face darkening with suspicion, Sarda confronted the screen. "You know me, right? Were some funds paid into an account that I have with you?"
"Yes, I know you of course, Dr. Sarda. . . ." Now it was Walworth's turn to be bewildered. "But if you're with Dr. Balmer, why does he think . . ." Walworth shook his head, evidently deciding that it was beyond him, or else none of a respectable bank official's business. "Anyway, yes, the funds were paid into your account here, and have been transferred onward in accordance with your further instructions. . . ."
20
Kieran stared distantly over the remains of the evening meal, while June attended to dishes in the kitchen area. There was no word in the English language that rhymed with "orange," she had claimed. A few feet away, Teddy hunched on one of the breakfast-bar stools, eying Guinness as he lay sprawled on the edge of the living area, chin resting on paws.
"An Irishman green,
Can take the potheen,
But an Irishman orange,
Just falls to the flooranj-,
Ust doesn't seem able,
To stay at the table."
He looked triumphantly across. "Were we playing for forfeits?"
June shook her head despairingly. "Kieran, you're impossible."
"But surely it can't come as a surprise. You know that my creative genius knows no bounds. In fact, I'm considering a project to popularize Shakespeare in the American South by translating it into redneck. I thought the first sample might be As Y'All Like It. What do you think?"
"I refuse to think anything. I'm putting it down to nonadaptation to the gravity and the air mixture here. It can affect some people strangely, you know . . ." she looked at him hesitantly, "except that for you, I suppose, it isn't that strange."
"Scoff if you will. You'll regret it one day, when women are flocking around in a feeding frenzy after they put up a statue to me in Atlanta. Or maybe they'll give my name to an expressway across Alabama and the Carolinas. Won't you feel proud to have known me, then?"
"Are you sure you wouldn't rather an airport?"
Kieran considered the suggestion gravely. "Well, okay . . . but I wouldn't settle for less than international."
Before June could reply, the room's sound system chimed for an incoming call. She took it on the comset that she had placed nearby, listened for a few seconds, and then switched the call to the mural screen in the living area for Kieran to join in too. "It's Leo and Elaine
, from Phobos," she informed him. "Donna got them places on a Triplanetary lifting out tonight. They're just about to board."
"Splendid!" Kieran got up and moved to the couch to be in the wall unit's viewing angle. June joined him a moment later. The screen showed Sarda, minus mustache and with his hair trimmed and darkened, pointing a comset while he stood with Elaine, both wearing sunglasses-like imaging spectacles, reflected in one of the mirror panels provided in public places to afford two-way visual connection for handheld devices. Their old feelings had come back in a flood within hours of pulling off the stunt the day before. Kieran had urged them to get away from Lowell that same night, before any repercussions had a chance to catch up with them. They had been sitting out the day at the transfer terminal on Phobos while one of Kieran's ubiquitous "friends in the business" juggled with reservations and pulled wires.
"Hey, Kieran, so we're on our way," Sarda greeted. "TP Sirius clipper, lifting out at three-ten local standard for the Ceres sector. After then . . ." he shrugged, grinned, and gripped Elaine's hand, "who knows?"
"Well, I've no doubt that you'll both end up doing something interesting," Kieran said. "There's enough in the kitty to keep you comfortable for a while, anyhow. Just watch the deals out there. If it sounds too good to be true, then it probably is."
"I don't know how to thank you enough for what you did," Elaine said. "June, I'm so glad that you picked a man who's curious about everything."
"It can have its moments," June answered dryly.
"Our commission more than covered the costs," Kieran said. "So, you see, I'm just as brazen and commercial as the rest, really."
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