“I see,” said Sylvia, looking pointedly at the interior door that had been left ajar.
“I didn’t say a word. It’s the polite New Avalonian way of covering all alternatives.” Nathaniel momentarily raised his hands in protest as he stepped into the second room with his belt detector. “Clean here, too,” he added after a moment.
“I like this less and less.”
“Maybe it’s not the Avalonians,” Nathaniel murmured.
“The native Artosans here? Or the long arm of the Empire? Or some outsystem?”
The taller Ecolitan shrugged. “As a poor struggling professor must I consider the alternatives.”
“A small amount of that dialogue travels a long way.”
“Yet journeys of light-years, they begin with but one pace.”
Sylvia mock-glared.
Nathaniel grinned.
“I’m cleaning up, dear Envoy. You may do as you please, but I do not intend to continue to look like a frump.” She gestured toward the connecting door.
“The message I have received.” He backed away, then stepped through the door, which closed with a distinct thump. The Ecolitan shook his head. The way everything was going, resolving the trade wars between the Coordinate and the Empire and getting Sylvia out of the Empire had been simple. Now, they not only had to worry about conducting a study and resolving the problems behind it, but he had to worry about Sylvia’s mindset that morality required millions of dead bodies before drastic action could be taken.
He’d been at the Institute too long. That was the way most people thought, and being reminded of it by someone you cared for was a shock.
He pursed his lips.
Or was it that the current unsolved problems always seemed more insurmountable than the past difficulties that had already been resolved? He took a long, slow, deep breath before heading for his own fresher.
Later, with a clean set of greens on, a smooth face, and all the grime removed by a fresher spray not much more sophisticated than a ancient shower, Nathaniel rapped on the connecting door. “Time to head down to the lounge.”
“In a moment.”
“Let me know.” He’d barely seated himself in one of the chairs when Sylvia stepped through the door, carrying her datacase.
“I’m ready for high tea. I’m hungry.”
“Also am I,” he offered in mock seriousness.
She rolled her eyes.
Whaler picked up his own case, then opened the door, noting that the room had no external locks.
“Trusting types, or they want us to be trusting,” said Sylvia.
“Colony planets are often that way. They just execute thieves. It has a rather convincing effect on honesty, even if a few innocents pay as well.”
“Someone always pays.”
Their boots echoed on the polished unicorn tiles as they walked toward the steps and down them to the main floor.
“The lounge is to the left,” he offered.
“I recall.”
Why was he always putting his field boots in his mouth? Sylvia knew where the lounge was. He’d just been making conversation, and he was coming off as incredibly patronizing.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly, reaching out and squeezing his hand. “You didn’t mean it that way.”
“Thank you.” He smiled. “I was trying to fill the awkwardness, and…I’m not very good at small talk that’s not intellectual, and there…” He shook his head.
“Unless you’re playing a role,” she added. “You’re good at that, but I get the feeling you don’t enjoy it with people you like.”
“Right.”
Sylvia knew more about him from a relatively short period of casual observation—or was it casual?—than he’d ever expected.
They stepped through the green-curtained archway into a room that could have been transported from centuries past, with dark wooden tables and matching chairs upholstered in a green velvetlike material. A silver tea service sat upon the wooden cart beside the white-linened circular table, where Robert Walkerson sat facing the doorway. The other tables were vacant.
The port officer rose as they entered the room. “I can see that you two are looking more chipper.”
The two Ecolitans took seats on either side of Walkerson, who sat down and gestured toward the tea cart. “Tea or liftea?”
“Liftea,” answered Nathaniel.
“The same,” murmured Sylvia.
“It’s not the same as real Avalonian tea.”
“Nothing, I have heard, quite resembles the tea of New Avalon, nor the effect it has on those who are unused to it.” Nathaniel inclined his head.
“Try some of the cakes.” Walkerson nodded toward the circular platter in the middle of the table.
“Did you find out how it happened?” Nathaniel glanced at the handful of cakes in the middle of the green-rimmed, off-white china platter. Two were round and white, several were dark and square, and one had white icing with green stripes.
“Ryster-Jeeves found what looked to be a leak in the fuel line. With all the damage and the heat, it’s hard to tell, but he thinks it was metal fatigue. Our groundcars here aren’t new, and you know what it costs to ship them. We don’t have that kind of manufacturing up yet.”
“There’s not much in the way of mining,” said Sylvia. “How much of a problem is that?”
“Artos doesn’t have satellites and no real hydrocarbons in its geologic past. Metals mining has to go deep.” The Avalonian lifted his cup and inhaled the steam. “We do get some good tea, but it’s chancy yet, and it’s from under plastic.”
“That looks to be good china. Might it be local?” asked Nathaniel.
“It is. Off the highlands of the back continent. Gheric-Shrews found it, but it’s more of a hobby for her than honest commerce.”
Nathaniel tried a small brown cake, the one with green-and-white striped icing, forcing himself to eat it slowly, while not gagging on a texture that seemed heavily saturated with a rather raw substitute for rum.
“Potent, those are.”
“I agree.” The Ecolitan took a long sip of liftea.
Sylvia tried a white cake, and from her polite and small mouthfuls, Nathaniel suspected her choice had been little better than his.
“Did they determine what occurred to your man?”
“The explosion drove glass fragments through him. Ugly. Very ugly.” The Port Chief shook his head. “I can’t believe Helverson’s dead. He seemed such a nice young fellow, and he was fresh from New Brista.”
“Most tragic.” Nathaniel shook his head. “All too often, inadequate capital investment is paid for in the currency of human life.”
“That would be an odd way of putting it.” Walkerson’s tone was even, almost flat.
“Governments are fond of that,” Nathaniel answered. “It is often easier to explain away loss of life with greater facility than investment of credits and resources. When they do not wish to provide sufficient capital assets—whether groundcars, flitters, or fusactors—those under pressure to complete the task at hand are put at greater risk. Some die who would not do so otherwise.” The Ecolitan shrugged. “All those involved shake their heads sadly, decry the tragedy, and continue to undercapitalize the venture.”
“You’ve seen it before, I see.”
“In many places,” Nathaniel agreed. “Gold makes honest men thieves.”
“Do you share your colleague’s cynicism, Ecolitan Ferro-Maine?” Walkerson turned to Sylvia.
“I’d have to say that Professor Whaler is being extraordinarily polite in his phrasing. Governments prefer to spend lives rather than credits.” Sylvia took a sip of her liftea.
“About this survey,” ventured Walkerson after the silence had filled the lounge. “Where will you begin?”
“With a quick survey of the transportation infrastructure, the broad infrastructure, and that of energy supplies and distribution.”
“Dare you say you won’t find anything out of the ordinar
y for a place just out of planoforming. I’d guess it shouldn’t take you that long.” Walkerson offered a chuckle. “You’re high-priced, and I’d wager that means you’ll hurry.”
“It can be difficult to estimate a timetable even before the field work begins.” Whaler smiled. “With the high cost of interstellar transport, we certainly can take the time necessary for a thorough effort. To do less would not be cost-effective, and as an economist…” He offered a shrug, trying to ignore the smothered smile from Sylvia.
“Of course, of course. We wouldn’t expect anything less from the Institute and the Coordinate.”
A woman in a green-and-maroon tunic appeared in the curtained doorway. “Any time you are ready, dinner is available.”
“Old Reeves-Kenn sent over a side for dinner.” Walkerson offered a strained grin. “I trust you two won’t mind if I join you.”
“Not at all.” Sylvia returned his grin with a smile. “Not at all.”
The Port Chief rose and touched the back of Sylvia’s chair. She let him slide it away from the table before rising in her dancer’s gracefulness.
The dining room was almost the same in layout as the lounge, and as empty—except that the tables were set with antique silver, and more china.
A small wilted green salad smothered in oil lay beside each diner’s plate, and on each plate was a green napkin. Nathaniel slipped his napkin onto his lap, feeling the slickness of crude polyester fabric.
The serving woman slipped large china platters before the three, beginning with Sylvia. On each plate were heaped slabs of rare meat and an old white lump that looked like a fallen souffle.
“Local beef,” said Walkerson. “Say it’s better than the best even on Olympia. One of the few organics that people will pay to transship, and not much of that.”
Nathaniel nodded. “There never was much bulk cargo traffic, and it seems like there’s even less these days.” He cut a small bite of the beef, and chewed, not that he had to work, since the meat practically melted in his mouth.
“It’s all ultra-tech or information technology traffic. We wouldn’t have that except jumpshifting’s a few hundred years faster than beam traffic.”
“Why was Artos planoformed in the first place?” asked Sylvia. “The records aren’t exactly clear…”
Walkerson finished a mouthful of the beef. “Who could say these days? It was started back under the House of Spenser, when there was the hope that the Barna-Barltrop jump generators would allow cheaper travel. They did…”
“But not enough,” finished Nathaniel.
“Then land got so expensive on New Avalon, Hibernia, and the older planets that the agricultural processors pushed for Artos.”
“Foods won’t pay for planoforming. They can’t even be shipped profitably, except as a luxury good, and you can’t ship enough beef or anything agricultural to create a fraction of the revenue—” said Sylvia.
“Perhaps it was the way of life,” offered Nathaniel, glancing at the Avalonian.
“Right on, professor. The old agricultural types ran the system, and they persuaded the High Council…and the rest is history.” Walkerson hacked off another chunk of beef and chewed heartily.
“They are not so powerful…now?”
“No,” mumbled Walkerson. “High-tech interests, like everywhere…they hold the High Council now, not that you could prove it.”
Nathaniel wanted to nod and shake his head simultaneously. As with everything else he’d ever done for the Institute, the complexity was building faster than his understanding.
“With the current emphasis on direct-data injection,” Sylvia said, “I imagine that agricultural concerns on a planet barely post-planoforming take a low priority in Camelot.”
“You saw the state of our groundcar,” pointed out Walkerson. “It’s like that with everything we can’t manufacture here. Some of the locals, like Reeves-Kenn, are putting credits into developing more of the infrastructure, but there aren’t enough credits in a small economy to do everything that’s needed, and Camelot hasn’t cared for generations.”
Nathaniel nodded and took a last bite of the tender beef. Hungry as he had been, he found himself unable to finish the huge slab of meat on his plate. Sylvia had eaten less than half of hers. Walkerson had left nothing, not even the soggy mass meant to have been a facsimile of ancient York pudding.
“You didn’t finish it all. Good beef, Reeves-Kenn has. Right proud of it, he is, and with reason. His grandsire was the first to make it work—started with embryos, he did, and made a fair shilling when there wasn’t much else edible but hothouse sawdust and plasticframe soy.”
“He sounds very successful,” observed Sylvia.
“He is. The family owns twenty percent of ConOne here. The hydrocarb facility is mostly theirs, although a bunch of the other growers put up the credits, too.”
“I had thought we might look at that facility. It might be a good place to commence.” Nathaniel leaned back in his chair, feeling far too full. He’d barely gotten his weight back under control from the beating it had taken on the Old Earth mission, and that probably because of forced starvation in the Institute hospital, and here he was, overeating again.
“As you wish, professors.” Walkerson glanced toward the archway.
Nathaniel took the hint. “We must not keep you too long, and we do need to recuperate ourselves.”
“You’ve been most kind,” added Sylvia.
“Only my job. But I should be running along. Madeline will be worrying.” The Port Chief smiled and stood.
So did the Ecolitans, and the three walked slowly out of the apparently empty dining room and toward the main entrance.
“The replacement groundcar will be here tomorrow after breakfast. It’s at your disposal until you leave, professors.” Walkerson bowed. “A pleasure meeting you both, and I would hope to see your report, once it’s completed.”
“We will ensure you are among the first to see the infrastructure report.” Nathaniel inclined his head.
With an overly broad smile, the Avalonian nodded and turned.
After the door closed, Nathaniel turned to Sylvia. “Tired? Ready to get some sleep?”
“Yes and yes.”
The two climbed the stairs side by side, not meeting or passing anyone.
“I get the feeling that we’re the only guests.”
“I’m sure we are,” Nathaniel answered. “I don’t imagine Artos has that many official government-sanctioned visitors.” He paused before opening the unlocked door to Sylvia’s room, then held it, and stepped into the room behind her. “It was a good meal, better than the tea.” He fingered his chin, not quite looking at her in the dimness—the only light diffused into the room from the hall lamps through the half-open door.
Sylvia pressed the plate at the base of the lamp on the table, set her datacase down, and turned back toward him. “And?”
“The beef—it shouldn’t be that good, but I couldn’t say why.”
“You’re thinking like an economist, trying to quantify everything.”
“I am one, you know.”
“A very good one, according to the official bio.”
“A tired one,” he admitted, closing the door to the corridor, sliding the bolt to the locked position, and looking toward the half-open door that joined the rooms.
“Me, too.”
“Leave the door unlocked—the one…”
“I know which one you had in mind.” She raised her fine, dark eyebrows.
“I worry.”
Sylvia hugged him, then kissed his cheek. “I know, and you’re right, and I won’t lock it. But I’m tired, and…let’s leave it there right now. Please?”
Nathaniel hugged her. “All right.” He let go slowly, and her lips brushed his cheek again.
“Living happily ever after doesn’t work as easily as the trideos say,” she offered with a smile.
“I’m discovering that.” He touched her hand, squeezed it briefly.
/> “Good night.” Sylvia’s words were warm, but firm.
He closed the door between the rooms gently and then groped his way to the light, shaking his head as he did. Stupid! He was behaving like a love-besotted bull, and it could get him killed. He set down his datacase on the table and looked to the bed where he’d left his field pack.
It had been searched, as he’d expected, and not well.
Later, with the lights out, Nathaniel lay back on the too-soft bed, simultaneously appreciating the cool air provided by the antique air conditioning and ignoring the continual whirring.
They’d been on Artos less than a day, and already someone had targeted them, with a well-planned “accident.” Unlike the assassination attempt he’d weathered on his first day in New Augusta on Old Earth, which had been half attempt and half warning, the groundcar accident had been no warning. Then, neither had the attempt in Harmony.
Why? What was it that they weren’t supposed to find—or see? And how many other accidents were waiting to happen? What could possibly be hidden on a colony planet barely out of planoforming? It couldn’t be anything obviously technological or military. EDI concentrations could be spotted from orbit, and would be all too apparent. Besides which, the planet clearly didn’t have the industrial basis to support a military establishment, and, even if it did, New Avalon certainly had the right to put military establishments wherever it pleased.
Rebels? That didn’t make sense, either. The government wouldn’t allow a survey if it were trying to hide a rebellion, and would have asked directly for assistance if it weren’t. Then, was there an outside influence that New Avalon couldn’t afford to note publicly? That didn’t make sense. At least, he didn’t feel it did, even if Artos did happen to be the key to controlling the Three System Bulge.
Or were Sylvia and the Prime right? Was someone out to get him? Or the Institute?
He shook his head slowly. He just wasn’t that important. Anyone doing the “survey” would have been targeted. Wouldn’t they?
He blinked, then yawned. Finally, he closed his eyes.
IX
IN THE MORNING, another pale green groundcar waited in the shade of the portico of the Guest House, the window of the driver’s side open. A round-faced young man, black-haired and clean-shaven, sat behind the wheel, his eyes on the doors.
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