"Thanks," she said, still in a dream and reaching for human contact. His firm grip brought her back: "Let's get through with this," she said to the real world, tossing her revelation into a mental wastebasket.
Her host led Ayin through the airlocks, past the guards, to the office of the VP Operations. Virgil's governor jumped out of his chair and walked around the desk to meet her.
"Ms. Najjar! How nice to have you here—please be seated," he said, adjusting an armchair.
Ayin inhaled the environment—essential, drab, with a touch of privilege but barely enough to mark the territory. She hated field work, its bare-bones functionality, the lack of the trinkets of power.
"Well, Potter, I'm bringing you a load of trouble in addition to what you have," she said.
"Ms. Najjar," he answered, sitting on the sofa, "Your plan is bold and not without risk. But I think it is a good plan—the best under the circumstances."
"Will we succeed?"
"Probably so. I've instructed the tour guides meticulously. They understand what must be done. They're all trustworthy, the best I have."
"Good. Your baby-sitters will have to herd my urchins with white gloves and steel chains. They'll be arriving today as planned. Let me know when they're all here. You're a competent administrator, Potter, and you know Virgil much better than I do. Make it work—I won't mess up your plan, I'll just carry out my part. And I will remember," she said, standing up. "For now, please show me to my room. I'll stay out of your way."
*
Potter, Ayin, four more people sat in a row along the head wall of a plain conference room. The end chair was empty, its occupant standing to address a crowd of fifty.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Virgil. I'm your chief guide," said the bald, athletic man at the podium. Listening to him was an assembly of the cream of investigative journalism. The small room was full of attentive ears, eyes, and recording machines. "You've been brought here by Ms. Najjar so that you can witness for yourself what is happening on this planet."
Ayin's confidence was waning. How can I hope to make this work? The hounds in this room will roam this cursed planet seeking rot and deceit—and they'll find it, because it is there, she thought, but she maintained her poker face.
"You have all experienced the C-cubed interview and have been inducted and screened as if you were homesteaders. That process was one hundred percent compliant with standard procedure—even the forms you signed. Like all colonists, you were informed of the risks of Virgil in unambiguous terms. You would have been denied admission if your medical checkup foreshadowed problems. In fact," the speaker looked at a notebook, "four applicants were in poor health, and substitutes took their places. You are, to all effects, colonists—except you have a return ticket. I will explain now what will happen during the next three days."
The audience was perfectly silent. The guide continued: "My job—and that of the other guides here," he indicated the four people at the sides of Ayin and Potter, "is to help you tour Virgil as freely as possible. I plan to accomplish that by enforcing the conditions you agreed to upon accepting Ms. Najjar's invitation. You'll be apportioned in five groups of ten, each led by one guide. Let me remind you of your obligations.
"One: You will stay near your guide; if you wish to visit a particular place, you'll ask your guide. Your guide will try to accommodate your request, but the guide's judgment is final. Two: You're free to talk to anyone within a reasonable range of your guide, but you must remain within sight of your guide at all times. Three: Your tour is planned; you will cooperate with your guide's plan. All five groups will visit the same places, albeit in different order. I remind you once more that you agreed to these conditions freely. Failure to comply will result in your immediate departure from Virgil, at your guide's sole judgment."
"Don't you think this is too restrictive?" a correspondent asked.
"Sir," the guide answered, "These conditions will ensure your safety. Virgil is a giant construction site, staffed with professionals and crews who know how to keep out of harm's way. Even so, accidents happen, some fatal. Some accidents happen due to the hazards of heavy construction. Other happen because Virgil's ecosystem is only partially understood. Your job is to find out whether the Tower is maliciously hiding information. Our job is to allow you to do so, and help you run your investigation as safely as possible. You will find your guide reasonable and accommodating, but also firm. I cannot overstate the importance of a collaborative effort."
"How can we visit a whole planet in three days?" a woman said.
"Very good question, ma'am. At present, an insignificant portion of Virgil's surface is inhabited. We planned your visit assuming that you'd be interested in the inhabited part where work is ongoing. There are twenty-five thousand people on the planet, and twenty-two construction sites, five of which are major. It is possible to cover these areas in three days with reasonable detail."
"Does this mean we won't be allowed in the wilderness?" the same woman said.
"That is correct, ma'am. Only xenobiologists and xenobotanists are allowed in unexplored areas. I am not allowed there. Please remember that Virgil is uncharted territory; we don't know what you might find if you start turning stones over."
"Are we allowed to interview your xeno specialists?" a man said.
"Yes, sir. As a matter of fact, that's the first thing on the program, before we split into groups—a wilderness team will take your questions. Let me introduce the tour plan now."
Ayin faded into a daze while the guide reviewed the plan once more. She had drafted it, approved Potter's changes, studied it, even dreamt of it. And now it seemed to her an amateur's joke.
Pilgrim's Dam, Pilgrim's Hope, Pilgrim's Landing, science interview, farms and food supplies, living conditions, health, education, law enforcement, judicial procedure, commercial planning and admin, you name it: she had put a handpicked sample of everything in the tour. Too much—something was bound to go wrong. Her nerves were fraying: The best she could do was to spend three days in her room biting her nails. Three days! Too many—there would be an accident. What had she been thinking? Three hours were too much.
"Ms. Najjar?" a voice called.
"Uh—Yes?" Ayin said.
"Ms. Najjar, there's a question for you," the chief guide said. "Will you participate in the tour?"
"No, no," Ayin said. "I need to discuss some business with planet-manager Potter. I'll be here when you folks come back."
"Then," the chief guide said, "we can now proceed with the science interview."
That was her cue. Ayin stood up, Potter too. They left the room while the speaker announced a short break. She was out before anyone could approach her and ask her dangerous questions. She sighed in relief. The guide appeared competent at walking the razor's edge—leaving the hounds a leash just long enough to keep them from crying foul.
"Relax, Ms. Najjar, neither of us could do a better job than any of the guides," Potter said.
"I believe you, Potter. However, your guides are the best that you have; those reporters are the best in the galaxy."
"I understand. We're outgunned, but we're playing at home."
"Potter," she said, "I like an administrator who can sell me a silver lining that's not there. Since we'll sink or swim together, why don't you call me Ayin?"
He smiled, appreciating a privilege rarely bestowed: "Well, Ms. Ayin—"
"Ayin," she interrupted.
"—Ayin, what do you say about a cup of tea?"
"I say it's a good idea, Graham."
CHAPTER 28
Nero lay flat on his back on a foam mattress without sheets. He looked at the new tattoo on his arm, read the meaningless number once more. The bachelors' barracks were a concrete slab with walls and a tin roof, furnished with metal bunks and barren of human presence.
It was mid-morning and everybody on Virgil was at work, his host had said; he should rest a few hours, get used to the environment before being assigned.
Kebe should be here soon, he thought.
Split, move to Virgil independently, meet there, check out the territory, figure out what to do next. Very simple, in a sense. He rummaged in his backpack, picked up his small gun, felt the engraving with his tired fingers: For my favorite company man, in case of mutiny. The favorite company man of a long-dead lost love had nothing left now, not even a name. He cradled the gun between his hands, returned it to the backpack. He shook the box with the Cheshire tail. It still held a good supply.
If he didn't find something to do soon... He sat up, organized his backpack. Nobody was around; only sounds of distant activity broke the silence. Nero rearranged his position and began looking for a focus. He stared at an imaginary point in front of him, cutting off peripheral vision first, and nibbling at the edges of his remaining field a bit at a time. The exercise was tedious, fatiguing; but sometimes magic would happen. A tingle began, weak at first, where pelvis and spine attached. He concentrated on it, keeping his eyes closed. He willed it to grow, lulling his senses into ignoring the rest of his body. Mind over matter: no arms, no legs, the tingle became more and more important. When he tingled—he'd found out—his image would quiver; he'd established that much. The tingle became overwhelming; Nero was flushed with heat. He knew that he was gone. He opened his eyes: all appeared normal, but when he snapped his fingers no noise came. Nero thought of himself sitting in the very corner of the barracks—and his perspective changed suddenly to a view from that point. The perspective breakdown broke his concentration; the heat disappeared, the tingle returned, faded, his focus dissolved. He snapped his fingers and the noise echoed on the walls. Nero stood up, and walked back a few meters to his bunk, his starting point.
He was exhausted and drenched in sweat. Lying on his back on the bed, he rummaged for his gun in the backpack, felt the engraving once more. For my favorite company man, in case of mutiny. He may have lost his name, but he hadn't lost, yet.
*
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but even if you were married I can't help you find your husband now. There is no way to figure out who, among the Does, is the John you're looking for. The anonymous plan is intended to make this kind of search difficult."
"What would you do if you were me?" Kebe said to the clerk in front of her. He was supposed to help, but seemed uncooperative. His yellow hair was unkempt and his shirt had a dirty collar. He didn't smell from body odor, but sported a kind of dog-breath. And he was clean shaven—which didn't help his round face and nondescript features.
"Well, it's going to take some luck. It would be a good start to assume that your husband is indeed on Virgil," he smirked, "and that he wants to be found by you."
Kebe felt like slapping him, delivering a big flat one on that insolent face.
He said, "Moving here with two unrelated anonymous packages may make your reunion, hmm, difficult. When you find him, get married—here on Virgil. Your previous marriage was automatically voided."
"Can you tell me how many John Does you received last week?"
Her host shook his head. "Even if I knew, I wouldn't be allowed to tell you."
This was a dead end, Kebe recognized; this moron was no help. She jumped up from her seat, snatching her knapsack. With fitful steps, she turned to exit.
"I'll be waiting for you for our next appointment," the clerk said to her back.
"The hell with you," she said without turning around. Kebe had waited to allow Nero to arrive before her, decouple their moves, make them look like unrelated events. She had been too successful.
Her single quarters were neat rows of chicken coops that housed unmarried women. Once through the door, the glory of her accommodation appeared: plain metal bunks, prefab walls, tall gray lockers, a row of wash basins with mirrors. Some high spirit had found the gumption to put lacy curtains on a window. Kebe dropped her sack and sat on the edge of an empty bed, elbows on her knees, chin in her cupped hands.
The men's quarters were on the other side of Pilgrim’s Landing, which wasn't far, but promiscuity was discouraged, her host had said. No unplanned visits to the barracks of the wrong gender: For that, there was a Tower-supplied dating service, where one could get a new date every four months. "We encourage stable relationships," her host had said. And then, of course, there were the bars. Or rather the bar, open for two hours after each shift. That seemed the only place for a casual pick-up, which also meant she'd have to fend off swarms of pretenders. There was a church, too. It might have a tamer—if any—singles environment.
Which shift was Nero working? He should have been here a while, perhaps a week or more. By now he was wondering what had happened to her. He'd start looking for ways to nose around. Kebe reasoned he wouldn't do much, as they agreed she'd make the first move; but soon he'd be worried. What would he do?
He'd try to find a way to let her know where he was.
Kebe decided she'd try to harvest the beat before anything else. After looking at herself in the mirror, she adjusted her bra, smelled her armpits, and went out looking for the bar, which she found within a short walk—short enough to realize how small Pilgrim's Landing was. The electronic tag on the door claimed the place would open in five minutes at 12 AM. It really said midnight, even though the day shone bright and the air was warm.
That was the interesting part of the briefing, Kebe thought. Dog-breath had said the Tower imposed on Virgil to run by the 24-hour Earth's day, even if its days clocked at 24 hours, 53 minutes and a bunch of seconds; so daylight or darkness had little to do with clock time. The bar was opening at 12 AM, in the middle of the day, for the end of the four PM to midnight shift—the ‘third third shift’ Dog-breath called it. She walked up and down the main drag until the doors to the bar opened.
The Tower subsidized soft drinks and hot beverages; alcohol was expensive. Kebe settled for coffee and found a prime position in which to listen to as many conversations as possible. Soon she was happy she had picked coffee, as much of the dialogue was dull. Stock homesteaders patronizing bars were no different than bar patrons anywhere. Two men approached a table next to hers; diligently she lent her ears.
"Darnest thing, that trickster," one said, sitting down. "I lost two weeks pay."
"Yeah, I heard about him—the guy on first third, right? Didn't believe it myself," his companion said, "but never gambled; I heard he always wins. First-rate disappearing trick."
Kebe's coffee went down the wrong pipe; she coughed and spilled her cup on the table. Oh, Nero! First third—where do I find you? Here at the end of your shift?
"May I help you with your coffee—can I bring you another one? Or perhaps something stronger?" A stranger in dirty overalls was mopping her table with a handkerchief.
"No thanks," Kebe said, standing up. "Nothing personal, mind you," she smiled. "I just realized I forgot something important." She approached the nearby table.
"Who's the trickster, and where do I find him?" she said.
"I don't know who he is," said the gambler, "just that he's good entertainment. Hey, what's a cutie like you doing in this place? You should be dating the planet-manager. Sit here, come on!" He said slapping a free chair. "Drinks are on me."
"Thanks, but I'm taken. Where do I find him?"
"Here, at the end of first third. Who's the lucky one? Don't bet against the magician, you'll lose your shirt!"
"I won't," she said walking to the door.
She heard his mate mutter, "I'd like it if she lost her shirt." And a cackle of laughter.
*
Nero was out picking tomatoes. He figured this was a good job—as long as he didn't have to keep it for long. The cranky time-keeping of Virgil meant farm hands had to carry two jobs, one for the dayl
ight and one for when the shift was dark. Nero's dark job was as an apprentice concrete hand; when his shift was at night, he worked at a round-the-clock site. Each of his job assignments would last on average a bit less than two weeks, he'd been told. Unskilled pay was lousy, but conditions were better than on Earth.
The Tower had to be insane to impose the 24-hour synchronization discipline. The cost on efficiency had to be staggering. When specialized skills were involved, the policy was more sensitive, he'd been told. On the other hand, he had to admit that the timekeeping exercise reminded all the parties of who exactly was in charge. Timekeeping was a brutal political statement, not an economic one.
Tomatoes grew well on Virgil. He picked a few more, putting each in his neck bag. He stopped and ate one—a little fringe benefit. When the bag was full, he walked to the conveyor to empty it.
Work was dull, but he'd grown accustomed to dullness. On the good side, it was predictable. He could even enjoy it in small doses. Worry about Kebe bothered him; ten days had gone by without news. He willed himself to believe that Kebe had her reasons for not showing up yet. But just in case, he had decided to make himself known to her. Lacking a more sensitive approach, he'd begun playing the autogenic teleportation trick. He dared other patrons to unmask his trick, collected wagers, and performed. Of course, so far he was on top. His profile, however, was becoming too high.
Lucifer—Virgil's sun—moved slowly across the sky and brought break time. Nero walked off far enough to be out of sight, hidden by the thickets of widow's fans around the farming area. Widow's fans were tall, aromatic bushes with velvety leaves that stung like hell when touched—painful, but rash and pain disappeared in minutes. Leaves grew and fell in ten-day cycles; once on the ground, old leaves writhed and lost the sting, acquiring a sweet scent. Somebody, he had heard, was trying to turn the leaf paste into a spice.
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