Where would they have hidden the book—on Doka, perhaps? Eugene thought that was a misconceived hiding place. The beacon, too, was on Doka; leaving the journal there would have been double jeopardy. Yet, only by a twist of fate Doka had become accessible by frame; if it had not, retrieving the book would have been next to impossible for a long time.
The likelihood that whoever left Doka had carried the book along was real. Everything pointed to two people leaving the planet, one of whom had been naive enough to bite, so to speak, on a frame tracker. Eugene smiled: he'd managed to re-route to himself some of the credit of destroying the base on Vivitar III; that had reaped a lot of glory. Maybe, Eugene thought, the journal had been destroyed with the base. That possibility was substantial but by no means a certainty.
One of ConSEnt's agents on Borodin had planted the lucky frame tracker. At just about the same time, an unusual number of rental shuttles had been stolen from Borodin. Lo and behold, on Locus a large number of rental shuttles were also stolen. One Frank Goldsmith took passage from Locus to Borodin, but not in time to orchestrate both thefts. Locus had no record of a native by that name, but that didn't mean much. If Goldsmith was a rebel, then his accomplice must have stolen the ships on Locus—the rogues were somewhat competent, Eugene admitted. They left a trail alright, but there were lots of doubts about the clues, and no conclusive evidence—except for the lucky strike with the tracker. Too bad their man on Borodin let Frank Goldsmith slip. At the time there wasn't enough to suspect Mr. Goldsmith, and too many officers cared too much about disrupting other people's lives—or their own careers.
That, Eugene decided, would have to change.
Eugene asked himself: where did the other rebel flee to? They had to be together on Locus. One stole the ships, and departed for unknown destination. Frank Goldsmith went to Borodin, stole the ships, took the frame tracker, and eventually wound up on Vivitar III. Where was the other? Was the journal on any of the ships?
Some answers would come together. Eugene was more and more convinced he'd have to investigate an unusually large number of rental shuttle thefts like those on Locus and Borodin. He'd have to work to recover the ships and search them. Retrieving Lenny Duskin's journal was crucial; it would be difficult and very expensive, too.
And then there was Ayin.
'We're losing three to five people a day on Virgil, and nobody knows why. Settlers are dying like flies.' Eugene had leaked the tape. The news was hot—Eugene had soon relished hearing Ayin repeat her message over and over, many times a day. Every soul in the galaxy, Eugene speculated, must have been considering the news.
Ayin's response had been clever.
Her first step had been predictable; he'd been ready. Eugene had lined up his minions and had a plan of action prepared. When the broadcast from Doka became public, he would counterattack. Ayin had given him his ammunition: Her press announcement contradicted directly the broadcast from Doka's beacon. Eugene was radiant. Ayin had either made ConSEnt’s case or dug herself deeper into the mire. Either outcome was good news.
Ayin's second step, however, had been bold, even brilliant: opening Virgil to the press! Eugene admired her move; the woman was able to take a huge risk for a huge reward, and that had caught him unprepared.
There was another piece of bothersome news.
Eugene had learned that among the many reporters Ayin invited to Virgil there were a few superstars, including Max Hopkins. That had struck Eugene, who read Hopkins's columns faithfully—Max was a brilliant man with brilliant ideas and a talent for sharing them.
Soon after the visit to Virgil, Hopkins columns ceased. What happened to Hopkins? Eugene had started a cautious inquiry. UNA, he found out, was noncommittal. No confirmations, no denials: 'Max Hopkins,' UNA claimed, 'is employing his own time in the most befitting manner.'
Was Hopkins on Virgil? Had he been killed? Eugene needed better intelligence—he needed an agent on site. Putting trusted people on Virgil was, however, a challenge; but there had to be a way.
*
Lucretia Ponti lifted the champagne cup in a toast: "Dinner was excellent, Eugene."
"You're as graceful as when we first met," he said.
She lowered her eyes. Her lashes were incredibly long, and he knew they were natural. Auburn hair, and milk-white skin. Sharp cheekbones, a soft jaw, a perfectly straight nose. Pearly teeth, and lips to die for—now glimmering with lipstick to match her hair color. Lucretia was a work of art. Her figure could have been the model for the Venus of Milo.
"Don't be coy now. I've always had a great opinion of you, Lucretia, and modesty was never your strong suit." He dabbed his mouth with a fiandra napkin and added: "You've always been unreachable to me, but maybe now things have changed."
She looked at him. "You're the worst womanizer I know, Eugene. Your honey lips whisper the sweetest lies, but those won't get me into your bed. In fact, I think," she added, "that most of your admiration comes from not being able to get into my panties."
Galt laughed softly. "There may be some truth in that, but not much. I do admire you, Lucretia."
"Because I did your homework in college?"
"Oh, come on. That was commerce; I fixed you dinner and you answered my biology questions. Even exchange."
"You're still a good cook," Lucretia said.
"I'm sure you're still the greatest M.D. in the Universe, Dr. Ponti," Eugene answered. He squeezed her hand. "How are you doing?"
She shook her head. "I cope, Eugene. Losing my license hurt; it took away much of my hope, but I recovered. I'm a medical lab manager with Providence now."
"You recovered exceptionally well."
"Bullshit, Eugene. For all the covert help I had, as I told you, I'm coping—that's it."
"Did they close your case for good?"
"The incident?"
Eugene nodded.
"I was a scapegoat, Eugene. The case was buried as soon as possible."
"That," Eugene said, "was a terrible miscarriage of justice."
She shrugged. "Thornton died six months ago. Maybe now the truth will surface, if the case is ever reopened. I couldn't convince anyone to reopen it—too much politics involved. My fall was hard, and I'm still on the ground."
"I agree it was Thornton's fault," Eugene said shaking his head, "but a Seeo is too much of a sacred cow to shoulder that much blame in public."
She looked at him sharply. "What do you know about it, Eugene? You're an outsider, what do you know?"
"A lot more than you would think. I'm a powerful man, Lucretia. I can have your case reopened—I can let you practice medicine."
She looked at him askance: "And in exchange, you want my bed? Eugene, I thought more of you."
His gaze was intense. "As much as I'd like it, that's not my proposition." He relaxed, pushing himself back in the chair: "Even if I must confess I've thought about it."
"Eugene, you're a snake as usual. Going to bed with you in exchange for my license is too much of a temptation—but then again, you're a subtler man than that, and that's why I'm listening to you. What do you want from me?"
Eugene raised his eyebrows. "I want your soul, Lucretia. How would you like to be an undercover agent for ConSEnt?"
CHAPTER 34
Proficiency in autogenic teleportation was Nero's first goal. Teaching it was his next one. He had achieved zero-wait takeoff by training for days on end, hour after hour, sweat droplet after sweat droplet. Nero could now disappear as soon as he closed his eyes.
His first objective had been met, but not many people seemed to care. Or value his effort and results.
Shopping for Jenus's lab was in progress. That was the goal on everybody's mind. Backstage, Nero had prepared a curriculum to mentor his daring disciples' hearts and minds, but he had no disciples yet.
; Jenus's lab was being rigged up in the basement of the solar furnace; everyone was helping there. From time to time, someone asked Nero how he was doing, expecting a summary: "I'm doing fine, all is going well." Topics in autogenic teleportation, by common consent, pertained only to the initiated. Nero had become once more a lonely man on a foreign planet.
Kebe was falling—had fallen?—for Jenus. Nero realized that was exactly what he'd asked for; but it didn't taste the way he'd expected. And he couldn't help thinking Kebe was going to get hurt. For all her indomitable attitude, Kebe was as fragile as fine crystal; she'd built her life around how not to let anybody find out. And they'd agreed to stay out of each other's romantic lives. Or had they? Nero needed another real job, and he'd find one for himself.
*
After picking tomatoes he readied himself, and before he knew it he had jumped. In front of his eyes and over his skin was now the desert wilderness that a ghost had shown him long ago. The air was sauna-hot: he wouldn't be able to endure it for long. If he breathed through his open mouth, it soon dried completely; sweating profusely, he'd need water shortly. Nero had worked bare-chested, and now he cursed himself for not wearing a shirt or a hat. Sunlight was so intense, even his tan would not keep him from becoming sunburned.
Around him, scattered rocks littered the red sand. He could see hills nearby and an impressive mountain far on the horizon. Presumably, he was in the desert belt that wrapped the equator of Virgil. The smell of the sand filled his nose, and the aftertaste of stale dust tainted the back of his mouth. Desolation encompassed him. Struggling vegetation dotted the landscape like maverick hair on the scalp of a bald man. The nearby blades of a black plant stuck out of the ground to challenge its bleakness. He approached the closest bush and looked at it.
The bush was made of three upright dark blades of unequal length; the tallest was a meter high; all were polished, even shiny. Their surface was taut. He touched one blade with a stone; the stick swayed. Nero picked up a second stone and tried to smash a blade between them. The blade was supple, yielding under his strikes as if inflated; repeated attempts induced a puncture that hissed savagely, releasing a scalding puff of gas. Burned, he dropped both stones and nursed his injured hand. In front of him, the blade collapsed like a burst balloon.
His hand hurt, but only a part of it was reddening. The stone had taken the brunt of the leaking steam, protecting his skin. Nero looked at the collapsed blade. With his the good hand, using a handkerchief, he folded it in a small bundle that he wrapped and tucked in his pocket.
This was the end of his escapade; his brain, too, was about to turn to steam. The onset of a headache was warning him to curtail his curiosity. Nero retreated, seeking a convenient place to sit down and jump home. He realized he was getting dizzy and collapsed at the foot of a boulder, feeling too unsteady to reach the shade. Nero was striving to pull himself together when the world began spinning...
*
When he woke up, the pain in his head was so intense he wanted to cry. Thirst was unbearable. His hand had a large, angry blister on it, which he thought of puncturing to drink the fluid. The sun was not beating on him directly any more, which meant that too much time had gone by since he fainted.
If he didn't get out of there, he'd die. He needed to concentrate, to jump away. The pain was good because it kept him awake, but it would make concentration difficult. Nero struggled to assume his favorite lotus position, his body aching, his head unbearable. His mind refused to stay on track or concentrate.
Point of no return. Think of the point of no return. Conscious sleep... he thought.
Conscious sleep! He was fighting to stay awake, how could he attain conscious sleep? Nero faded in and out, he was and he wasn't, and then he didn't know the difference. Visions came. Seas of Cheshires descended from heaven to lift his spirit to stand judgment. Visions of hell itself appeared to him, fractal nightmares and universes of shifting tendrils without a where or a when. He had become an atom of the universal here and now, a self-aware dust mote in the matrix of reality.
If this is death, it's going to be boring, he thought.
*
Contrary to his expectations, Nero realized he was waking up. His head was bandaged—most of his body was bandaged. Pain was a pervasive, subdued feeling. The last thing he remembered was the desert at Virgil's equator, the heat, the thirst.
He peeked from under his eyelids. He was in what looked like a hospital, in a common room with other beds, few of them occupied. A drip was spiked into his arm.
He considered the opportunity to call for help: why not? No reason to delay the inevitable. He stirred, tried to speak—a gasp came from his lips. Nero cleared his throat.
"Hello, nurse?"
A little louder: "Anybody here?"
Steps echoed on the vinyl floor, out of his field of vision. A peaceful face appeared, a woman just out of her youth with brown hair in a white cuff.
"Well, hello there," she said.
"I know this sounds silly, but how did I get here? How long have I been here? How am I doing?" His lips were badly cracked and started bleeding halfway through his hoarse string of words.
"Well, well," she said, "it's nice you're in good spirits. You've been here a few days, according to your chart. As for the rest, the doctor told me she wanted to see you as soon as you woke up, so hang on a minute here." She turned and left.
A beauty with incredible auburn hair came to Nero's bed. "Mr. Doe, the nurse tells me you just woke up."
"Truly," Nero said, "I did wake up."
She glanced at his chart. "So you want to know how you got here."
Nero looked at her without replying.
"You staggered into a store on the main drag and collapsed onto the floor. Nobody saw how you got to the store to start with—do you remember the incident?"
Nero shook his head, mindful of his bandage.
"You sported the worst sunburns I've ever seen. Be grateful for your medications, or you'd be unable to lie on your back—or your front, for that matter. You were this close," she held index and thumb a centimeter apart, "to death."
"How long?" Nero asked.
"Excuse me?"
"Before I'll be able to get back to work."
"Weeks, if you were another patient."
"Another patient?" Nero said.
"In your case a few days, I guess. Your recovery is prodigious. I attended your dressing changes because I didn't believe the nurses."
"Excuse me?"
"Virgil is a weird place, Mr. Doe. Strange things happen, and your recovery is one of them. What are you? Why do you heal so fast? Where did you get so badly burned? And," she pulled a sample bag containing a black specimen, "what is this? Are you the person some call the Magician?"
"You're a curious person, Doctor...?"
"Ponti, Mr. Doe."
"Dr. Ponti, I'm Mr. Doe because I have a past to forget. And this incident is a big help, because I can't remember anything."
"So you don't remember what this is?" She said, shaking the bag with the black leaf that had burned Nero's hand.
Nero shook his head.
"There's a new alkaloid in this vegetable tissue. It may have hallucinogenic property, and maybe other exotic effects perhaps related to your recovery."
Great, I stumbled onto a new street drug, Nero thought.
"Mr. Doe, I don't care if you deal drugs, but you're pissing me off if you keep mankind from another miracle like penicillin! Where did you find this? And are you the Magician or not?"
"Yes, I was the Magician. But I got tired of that bar number." How am I going to explain where I found that blade—that leaf? he thought. "And I don't know what that blade is."
"Can I believe you, Mr. Doe? You're lucky you'll be out of here before I lose my self-restraint."
She turned around and walked out of Nero's sight.
*
Kebe sat on the grass, watching Nero carefully. The mid-afternoon air was fragrant with unusual smells, and a warm breeze carried distant noises. All around, the vegetation was luscious. The setting sun tinged the sky with touches of gold. "What did you think you were doing?" Kebe said.
Nero glanced around, as looking for someone else: "Who, me?" he replied.
"Yes, you. What on earth were you trying to do? Look at yourself, you're peeling like a baked apple and may as well have been dead if not for some sort of miracle."
Nero laid down, his back on the ground. He turned on his side, plucked a blade of grass and stuck it between his teeth, then rolled onto his back. "Contributing to the future of mankind—isn't it what everyone is doing now on Virgil?"
"What's the matter with you, Nero?" Kebe said.
Nero stared up into the sky; Kebe looked at him. He closed his eyes, and reappeared at her other side.
Kebe gasped. "Don't do that to me!"
"See? I'm a freak."
She closed her eyes into a thin slit. "You're making yourself a freak. What's eating you?"
Nero folded his arms under his head. "Nothing I'm willing to admit to, Kebe. I'm chomping at the bit. I want to teach someone what I'm learning. I need more Cheshire tail, I want people to take interest in what I'm doing. I want to feel useful, instead of being the Wonder Warlock."
"You risked your life to get some attention? For all we know, nobody else may be able to do what you can. You are the key to bringing this gift to mankind. You're irreplaceable—why did you take a chance like that?"
"Miscalculation, Kebe. Once more."
"What were you doing?"
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