Flinx's Folly

by Foster, Alan Dean;

  It was just a matter of time.

  The woman Ormann was buying dinner for was attractive, slim, dark-eyed and honey-voiced. When he hinted that he might be interested in more than just hiring her to do a little specialized research for him, she put him in his place quickly. "Mr. Ormann-you can drop the false Cavelender name now, I don't work for anyone whose true identity I don't know-you should understand that if you intend to use my services, I prefer to keep my professional and personal interests separate." She smiled around the stimstick that protruded like a small smoking stiletto from her full lips. "You're not my type, anyway."

  "No?" Manufacturing a small smile to go with the small talk, he peered at her over his glass. Rainbow-hued liquid swirled within, effervescing Mozart. "Why not?"

  "You're underhanded and oily. Nothing personal." The stimstick smoked pungently, redolent of jasmine and byyar.

  If calling someone underhanded and oily wasn't personal, he mused as he fought to keep instinctive rising anger under control, what was? He concealed his reaction by taking a long, slow draft of his drink.

  "Calling someone underhanded sounds strange coming from a professional prober like you."

  She laughed softly. She was without question the most attractive felon he had ever encountered. Doubtless her appearance facilitated her work, which consisted largely of gaining access to information and places that would otherwise have been denied to her. And to her clients, he reminded himself.

  "I prefer to think of myself as a subtle seeker after truth. And please-spare me the jokes about penetration. I've heard them all, boredom squared."

  "Then if it's all right with you," he said as he set his drink aside, "we'll skip the rest of dinner along with any further informalities and get down to business."

  "Down or up." She sounded bored. "It's all the same to me."

  He didn't bother to lean toward her; their table had already been privacy-screened. "I'm interested in the background of a recent arrival on Nur. Young man, staying at the Barkamp Inn, room six eighty-three. Has an Alaspinian minidrag for a pet. Never goes anywhere without it. Somehow he managed to dissuade the two men I engaged to teach him a lesson from carrying out their duties. In their own field, they were as reputable and well regarded as yourself."

  "Intriguing. What do you know about your man?" A flicker of more than professional interest crossed her smooth, pale features.

  "Very little, which is why I'm hiring you, mostly-and most upsettingly-that he and my fiancée had some kind of relationship six years ago."

  "And now he's turned up here to complicate your life. What do you want to know about him?"

  "Everything." Unable to restrain his anger and frustration, Ormann's voice had gone low and tight. "Where he's from. How old he actually is. What abilities he might possess beyond the inexplicable one of holding the attention of my fiancée. The names and locations of any relatives, close friends, or romantic involvements. His education and social background, resources, homeworld location, politics, religion-everything."

  She nodded. A small, dark purple recorder drawn from her purse was pressed against his. Information transferred silently. She preferred it that way; it meant she didn't have to listen to the client as much. Also, machines did not try to hit on her. Generally.

  As she rose sinuously from her chair she slipped her recorder back into its holder. "I'll be in touch. When I have something for you."

  He gazed moodily into his drink. "Be careful. I don't know what this Lynx did to the two men I hired. I can't prove he did anything, but I doubt the implausible consequences were accidental. You don't want him doing anything to you."

  "I'm not going to have any contact with him. If everything goes well, as it usually does, I won't even have to talk to him. And I can take care of myself, Mr. Ormann."

  With a short, sharp shove he pushed his glass to one side. Calling for the bill, he glanced at the colorful heads-up, acknowledged the total by waving his hand over it, passed a credcard through the projection, and waited for the receipt.

  "You're sure you have to go? You're an interesting lady and I wouldn't mind just talking to you a while longer." His tone was hopeful.

  She smiled, checking to ensure that her purse was secured to her waist. " 'Talking'? Why, what would your fiancée say, Mr. Ormann?"

  He grinned diffidently. The little-boy pose had served him well before. "She isn't here."

  "And in a few seconds, neither am I," she replied as she pivoted on one glidesole and strode purposefully to the exit.

  Wholly professional, he thought as he rose from the table and wandered off in her wake. He was in no hurry to go home. An early return to his empty home would give him that much more time to wonder what Clarity and her friend were doing. Just talking, Clarity always insisted. Inwardly, he had begun to doubt her. No male conversationalist was that interesting. Not after this many weeks.

  But then, he reflected, he did not know Lynx. In business, he had quickly learned that it was dangerous to generalize. And if Clarity was telling the truth, the young man did not know himself either. Ormann was confident this little bit of self-denigration on Mr. Lynx's part would not impede the work of the very competent woman whose services he had just engaged. He looked forward to finding out all there was to know about his possible rival. Then he would know how to respond the next time.

  Which would most certainly be the last time, he assured himself.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It didn't happen very often. When it did, Vendra was always grateful. The majority of those she was hired to probe were of normal physical proportions, even if their individual social and moral inclinations were frequently more diverse. This young man was conspicuously tall and had red hair and an exotic flying pet that always rode his shoulder. She was able to follow him easily. Without her being aware of it, the professional indifference she affected in order to blend seamlessly into crowds and scenery also had the effect of removing her from the notice of Flinx's singular ability.

  And she was patient. The unpretentious hotel where he was living served as a place for her to begin her work. After alternately cajoling and teasing the desk clerk, she was eventually allowed access to the guest records. Most of these were privacy sealed. That stopped her for about three minutes. Unfortunately, the available portion of her quarry's record was concise and contained no useful information. He had simply registered. In order to satisfy her client she needed to access a lot more than that.

  Her patience was rewarded one morning when Flinx unexpectedly entered a branch of a well-regarded chain of jewelry shops. She followed him inside, waving off the eager attendant who offered to assist her. Pretending to examine a display case filled with rings, she allowed her attention to wander in her quarry's direction. With the aid of another salesperson, he was inspecting bracelets and necklaces. Her client would be relieved to learn that the handsome young man was not looking at rings.

  Buy something, she found herself thinking at him. Buy anything, but preferably something expensive. The more expensive the item, the more carefully the store's in-house security system would check the purchaser's background. The more information it gleaned, the more there would be for her to copy.

  She froze. Suddenly, he was looking at her. Before she had time to retreat or react in any suitable way, he was striding directly toward her. The closer he came, the larger the brightly colored winged reptiloid on his shoulder became.

  "Excuse me, miss?" He had a nice voice, she decided, pleasant, almost boyishly charming, the voice of someone you instinctively wanted to help. She forced a smile. "Do you mind if-?" He broke off, frowning uncertainly. "You seem upset."

  "I do?" She continued to smile, stayed relaxed, her respiration only slightly elevated. How did he know she was upset? She forced herself to remain calm. "I guess expensive jewelry always makes my heart race."

  He looked uncertain. Then he shrugged, discounting his initial impression, and held something out for her to see. "I'm buying a present for a
lady friend. What do you think of this?" Faceted gem-stones sparkled before her eyes. "I'm trying to make a statement but not to overwhelm. I'm afraid this might be too flashy."

  She was so relieved she almost laughed aloud. All he wanted was the opinion of another woman. Making a show of studying the necklace, she inquired with utmost seriousness, "What color is her hair? Her eyes?" He told her, and she nodded. "Needs more green-emerald, tsavorite, celetine. Meteoric peridot is nice, and unfake-able." She handed the necklace back. "Lucky girl."

  She almost laughed a second time. This tall, gangly, somehow endearing young man was blushing slightly. "She's not a girl, and I'm not so sure she's all that lucky. Thanks for your suggestions." Turning away from her, he went back to his chair and resumed conferring with the salesman. The creature riding his shoulder had never looked up.

  Relieved, she returned to her inspection of the ring case. Expect the worst, she mused, and it's liable to come knocking. Hope for better, and you're often rewarded. Having maintained her self-control throughout, she was convinced he suspected nothing. Why should he? She'd done nothing suspicious.

  Her heart raced ever so slightly when he handed a different, greener necklace back to the salesman, who took it into a back room. When the man returned moments later with a small, discreet package, she knew that the purchase had been made. She waited another ten minutes before wandering over in the salesman's direction, to make sure that the customer he had just waited on had indeed left the store.

  "Nice young man, that," she said, gazing casually at the rows of fine necklaces in the case.

  The salesman nodded agreeably. "Very soft-spoken, very polite. A pleasure to wait on, though when he first walked in he had no idea what he wanted."

  "But you managed to find him something." She smiled admiringly.

  The salesman shrugged modestly. "Part of the job. You apparently helped some yourself, with your suggestion. He told me."

  She nodded back. "The necklace he finally bought. Expensive?"

  The salesman's businesslike demeanor was replaced by hesitation. "You saw the piece he showed you. What the gentleman finally purchased was similar in style and execution. A very nice piece. Why do you want to know?"

  "Because having seen what he brought over to me, I find I might be interested in something similar myself."

  The smile returned. "I'd be delighted to assist you."

  She examined more than a dozen examples of the Nurian jewelers' art, fussing over first one and then another. Finally tiring of the masquerade, she settled on one and asked the price. When he told her, she touched a finger to her lower lip and asked, pouting, if he had something in the same design but with slightly larger stones. He did indeed, and would be back in a minute with several to show her. As he retreated to the back room, he left his sales processing unit on the case in front of her. She glanced around hastily. There were two other salespeople on the floor, and both were providentially busy with customers of their own.

  Taking the special search unit from her purse, she slipped it over the store processor. The device she favored for such work was small, innocuous in appearance, and preprogrammed with enhanced keying information she had gleaned from her quarry's hotel. Working silently, her device quickly tapped into the processor's program to search for a certain recent sales record. Finding it, the probe then reached out, racing through citywide, planetwide, and ultimately Commonwealthwide data hubs. Though both the probe and its unique programming were lightning fast, she still found herself urging it on impatiently.

  A subtle vibration in the body of the device indicated that results had been achieved. She removed it from the store processor and slipped it back into its carrying pouch just as the salesman was returning with another tray of necklaces to show her. Continuing to play the game, she inspected them for another ten minutes before sending him back for still another tray of samples. Almost as soon as his back was turned, she attached her device to an equally compact expanding recorder drawn from her purse and began to review the results of her stealthy and highly illegal search.

  Some of the information she scanned made sense but was decidedly lackluster in content. Some was already known.

  Some of it made no sense at all.

  Her device insisted the home address given was false. Yet that had not triggered the store's security programming. And nearly everything else except the most recent information provided by the man was provably false. It gave her pause.

  Why would such a pleasant, seemingly innocuous young man need to falsify even the most basic and straightforward facts of his background? Only one thing did not ring untrue, and it should have. That was the size of her quarry's bank account. It was much, much too big. Unless he had acquired a truly impressive inheritance from some major Trading House or great family, no one as young as her quarry should properly have access to such extensive credit. And if he had inherited, then why all the elaborate subterfuge to conceal everything about his background? The two did not add together.

  Then, to her astonishment, wisps of smoke began to rise from her device. Very compact, very efficient, and very expensive, it began to fry before her eyes. Emerging from the back room, the salesman saw what was happening, quickly set the new tray of necklaces aside, and grabbed a small fire extinguisher, whose contents he proceeded to spray onto the smoking machine. She did not object. Clearly, the device was already damaged beyond repair. Nevertheless, she was as careful to pack away the ruined remnants lest its true nature be discovered as she was to thank the salesman and apologize for the incident.

  She left the store hurriedly, her thoughts churning. Her probing had begat an unanticipated response; swift, precise, limited, and thorough. It smacked of a warning. She was brave but not foolhardy, courageous but not stupid. Common sense had ruled her dealings and saved her from more than one unpleasant encounter.

  What was it Ormann had tried to tell her about the two men he had sent after the tall man? Something had happened to them. Something Ormann had been unable to find an explanation for. From within the depths of her purse she could still feel the lingering warmth of the cooked device. No explanation for that, either. She knew only one thing for certain: whatever defensive programming she had triggered was expensive and sophisticated. She and it had something in common, then.

  Every intelligent person realizes it when she falls short of the level of her competition. But only the really smart ones know when to accept that.

  * * *

  Ormann was so surprised to see Vendra in his office that he forgot to be angry. "What are you doing here?" he asked tightly as he entered and made sure the door sealed tightly behind him. "We're not supposed to meet here!"

  "Why not?" Vendra was clearly more tense than she had been the last time they had met. "Afraid your fiancée will walk in on us?"

  "What do you want?" His tone changed from upset to one of controlled excitement. "You have something for me? Information?"

  She nodded. "I sure do." She passed him a folded printout.

  "What's this?" Taking a seat behind his desk, he looked as puzzled as he sounded.

  "Confirmation of your refund." Turning, she started back toward the door. "I'm declining your tender."

  "Wait, wait a minute." He moved to intercept her. "You can't do that."

  "It's already done."

  "But-but why?" He was genuinely bemused. Then his expression darkened. "He did something to you, didn't he? That redheaded bastard did something to you just like he did something to the two guys I sent after him before."

  She shook her head. "He did nothing to me. I learned a couple of things I didn't like, that's all."

  "So you did manage to find something out about him. Well, tell me, what?"

  "No harm in your knowing." She sniffed diffidently. "I followed him into a store where he bought something moderately expensive."

  She smiled in a way he didn't like. "You'll probably find out about that yourself. Anyway, I had time-not much time but enough-to probe th
e store's purchasing system. I use a highly customized piece of equipment; very small and very efficient. Never had any trouble with it. It worked long enough for me to learn that your friend has a good deal more credit to his name than would appear at first glance."

  Ormann's confusion showed in his reply. "How much more credit?"

  She considered how best to explain it to him. "Not enough to buy your company but more than enough to buy the hotel he's staying in. In the absence of any evidence to the contrary, I'm supposing it to be some kind of inheritance."

  He nodded. That, at least, dovetailed somewhat with what he knew about Lynx. "What else did you learn?"

  "That I don't want to have anything to do with him. Based on years of experience, my professional advice to a client would be to do the same. But, of course, your interest extends beyond simple curiosity.

  "Something responded to my device's prying. Not with the usual jamming programming. It actually totally toasted the unit and it's supposed to be able to shield itself against such attacks. It always has defended itself successfully in the past." She shook her head warningly. "To the best of my knowledge, only military countermeasures can do what was done to my device."

  "You think the kid is military?"

  "I think the man is dangerous. What happened to my device tells me that. My instincts tell me that. I don't know what you think he might have done to the muscle you hired to go after him, but I don't want to hang around him long enough to find out. And I don't want him doing anything to me. He's too quiet. Big, loud, boastful antagonists I can deal with. It's the silent, self-possessed ones who make me edgy. Keep your money, Mr. Ormann. And don't call-I won't answer." She unsealed the office door and departed, leaving one bewildered and angry executive in her wake.

  What now, Ormann? he asked himself. You hire two of the best to beat Lynx up; they come back all touchy-feely hand in hand without having laid a finger on him. You hire the best investigator in Sphene and she comes back scared. Clarity continues to see and sympathize with him. You can't touch him yourself because that would immediately cause her to move even closer to him-not to mention that you'd have to deal with that minidrag.