“Oy, service isn’t included you know,” the cabby said in a surly voice.
“I noticed,” Allenson said.
The man opened his mouth but Allenson cut in first.
“Is there a problem?” Allenson asked, coldly, fixing the man with a gimlet gaze.
The cabby looked at Allenson carefully, possibly noting for the first time his height, and the breadth of his shoulders.
“No, governor,” he replied.
“Good,” Allenson said, “I will give you a tip.”
The cabby brightened.
“The next time I hire a cab I expect it to take the direct route or I’ll take a crop to the driver. Pass the word.”
“Yes, governor,” the cabby said.
The little confrontation had quite cheered Allenson up. It felt good to be in control of a situation. The shyster had given him an excuse for some morale-boosting intimidation.
The villa’s maître de porte stood under an umbrella. The man was suitably solemn but a twinkle in his eye suggested that he had noted and enjoyed the exchange.
“Sar Allen Allenson, I believe I am expected.”
The maître consulted his datapad.
“Yes, Sar Allenson, if you would be good enough to come with me.”
The maître escorted Allenson up the drive, holding the umbrella to keep the rain off Allenson’s clothes. A footman opened the front door and the maître whispered something in his ear.
“If you will follow me, Sar Allenson,” the footman said.
He led the way down a corridor into a central garden illuminated from concealed lighting in the surrounding peristyle. The area was paved, plants being restricted to pots laid out in geometric patterns. Fish swam slowly in a long rectangular pool in the center. They fluoresced yellow, blue and orange as they moved up and down the pool.
“Sar Allen Allenson of Pentire, Inspector General of the Cutter Stream Militia.”
The footman announced Allenson through his lapel microphone. A plump short lady, in a green gown that made her look like a brightly colored waste bin, rushed over and kissed him on both cheeks. He had started to bow, which was fortunate as it lowered his head sufficiently for her to complete the gesture without having to jump up and down.
“Sar Allenson, how delightful you could attend my little soiree at such short notice,” she said. “You must be terribly busy with official business.”
“I am honored, Lady Redfern,” Allenson said, aware that he was stiff.
“Let me introduce you to the other guests,” she said.
Lady Redfern bustled, that was the only way to describe her extraordinary energy. She towed Allenson in her perfumed wake like a battleship behind a tug. The next few minutes were a whirl of faces and names that blended into a montage. He bowed to men and air-kissed women. On the way he managed to acquire a glass of wine and a canapé, which made the expected social gestures all the more difficult to perform.
And then another guest was announced and Lady Redfern was off. He tasted the wine. It was actually rather good, not that he was a connoisseur but he had attended enough parties at Destry’s to enable him to distinguish quality from plonk.
He took a bite of the canapé. It had a sour taste like rotting fish. He glanced around hoping to find somewhere to dispose of the thing. A man caught his eye and sauntered over. He was slim and rather short. Something he tried to hide with high-heeled boots and a tall conical hat.
“These suburban parties are a bit of a bore, are they not?” the man asked.
He did not wait for an answer.
“I see you made the mistake of trying one of our hostesses’ canapés,” he said. “She has them prepared specially. Ghastly, aren’t they? Edwina claims that they are made to an ancient Old Earth recipe. It’s no wonder the third civilization fell if that was the best they could do. Do you want me to get rid of it for you?”
“I was looking for, ah, somewhere . . .” Allenson’s voice trailed off.
The man took the canapé from his unresisting hand. With a practiced flick of the rest he chucked it behind him across the floor, winking at Allenson as he did. A huge fat man in a yellow suit laughed uproariously as some sally from a woman whose breasts were as prominently displayed as her teeth. He stepped back, grinding the sweetmeat under his heel.
“My name’s Lekhurst, the man said holding out his hand. Allenson attempted to shake it but discovered he was being handed a card. It read “Lekhurst Stores, purveyors of fine uniforms, in association with Redfern Dealing”.
“I’m afraid that I forgot to bring my cards,” Allenson said, patting his pockets as if an incompetent dresser had inadvertently left the offending items behind. He was, he thought, getting the hang of this.
“No matter,” Lekhurst said. “I know who you are, Sar Allenson, the new Inspector General of Militia. Have you seen the Militia on parade?”
“No,” Allenson replied.
“Disgraceful,” Lekhurst said, tutting and shaking his head. “All they have is an armband, no ceremonial uniform at all. I have a fine selection of cloths and designs.”
They made small talk for a while before Lekhurst excused himself and disappeared.
“I noticed your glass was empty, so I took the liberty of bringing you a replacement.” The speaker was a lady of mature years in a severe black business suit. In one hand she held two glasses and, in the other, a lit cigar.
Allenson noticed that his own glass was indeed void of refreshment so he took one of the glasses off the lady, depositing the empty one on a passing canapé tray. The canapés were not going well. The lady drew a deep inhalation of her cigar. She blew the smoke upwards. It rolled lazily up to the level of the villa’s roof in blue spirals. There it exploded outwards in ripples. It was like looking at water poured into an upside down pond. Now he came to think about it, no rain fell. There must be a static field above the garden.
“My card, Sar Allenson,” the lady said. “I’m Lady Ranko.”
Allenson dutifully took and read it: “Ranko Security and Armorers, in association with Redfern Dealing”.
“Have you seen the arms used by the Militia?” the lady asked.
“Ah no,” Allenson replied.
“Total junk,” the lady said. “Many of them were donations, with half a dozen different calibers and a dozen different power supplies.”
“Sounds a logistic nightmare,” Allenson said.
“Damn right,” said the lady, puffing on her cigar. She coughed, looked at it and frowned. “My genesurgeons forced me to give up for a while during my last desenescence. I have not yet properly reacquired the habit. You have to work at a vice.”
“I guess so,” Allenson said, wondering why anyone would want to.
“Come to me when you need new weapons. Those crooks at Salo Arms will offer you a cheap deal but they sell reconditioned crap from the Home Worlds. The stuff is jigged up to just about survive a few test fires.”
“Thank you for your advice,” Allenson said. “I shall certainly keep it in mind.”
There was a pause in the conversation. Allenson had no idea what to say. Then an idea occurred.
“I say,” he said. “I believe that man is trying to catch your eye.”
Allenson pointed at random.
“Oh, him,” she said, her lip curling. “I suppose he wants another whine about the alarm system we installed on his warehouse. It’s hardly my fault he hires incompetent staff. Still, I had better sort him out. Excuse me.”
“Of course,” Allenson said, to her retreating back.
Somehow his glass had emptied once more so he acquired a full one. He took the precaution of slipping a detox tab into his mouth with the first sip of wine. He wandered along the length of the pool, watching the ornamental fish change color. He had the impression that the garden was a larger pool, one filled with barracuda. A fish rose to the surface and blew a bubble. He leaned over for a better look. Rings of bubble-gum pink passed down the fish’s otherwise yellow body.
<
br /> “That is truly hideous,” Allenson said, to himself.
An amused feminine chuckle sounded from under his elbow. He jerked upright, spilling his wine into the water where it fluoresced deep blue. The fish flipped its tail and the wine dissipated like an ink drop in a stream. The woman laughed again, covering her mouth with one hand.
“They are rather hideous,” she said, “but it is a little unkind of you to try to poison them.”
Allenson winced. “I believe you, ah, may have misheard me.”
“Really?” the lady asked, raising an eyebrow. “What word did you use then—horrendous, horrible, horrific?”
Allenson tried desperately to think up a word that sounded like hideous but meant the opposite. The best he could come up with was “humorous”, which was not much of an improvement. To cover his confusion, he bowed.
“Allen Allenson,” he said, introducing himself.
“I know,” she said. “Our new Inspector of Militia, the guest of honor at our little soiree.”
Allenson held out his hand to receive the inevitable business card. The lady looked at it quizzically. Time stretched out, tenths of seconds lasting hours, and he flushed with embarrassment.
“How gallant of you,” she said, pressing her glass into his hand. “Something sparkling, if you please?”
“Yes, indeed, a drink,” he said. “Sparkling, right.”
It took a little time to track down suitable drinks and make his way back to her. He was accosted twice by men who extolled their products and pressed business cards into his hand. The lady stood where he had left her, gazing into the pool. He studied her as he returned. She was petite and a little plump, homely even. However, her gown was expensive, and it suited her perfectly. He was impressed by the way she had disguised his social gaffe. He guessed her age as little more than his own, making her the youngest woman at the party.
“I’m sorry about mistaking you for . . .” Allenson’s voice trailed off.
She laughed again with genuine mirth, her eyes sparkling.
“I am not sure that I have forgiven you yet. Has childbirth aged me so much that I look like a hardnosed businesswoman in the arms trade?
“Indeed not,” he said, sheepishly. He scraped around for something suitable to say. “You are here with your husband?”
“There is no husband,” she replied, the mischievous smile back on her lips.
“Ah, I, ah, see,” he said, cursing his social clumsiness.
“He died,” she added.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Allenson said, wondering how he could extract himself from this topic.
“No need,” the lady replied. “He was much older than me and he drank himself to death.”
“I did not think that was possible for a gentleman in this day and age?” Allenson asked.
“It depends how hard you try,” she replied. “The genesurgeons can only do so much.”
“I am Trina Blaisdel, by the way.” She held out her hand.
He took it in his own and bowed over to air kiss it.
“Forward of me to effect an introduction, I know, but I suspect that I you might never get around to asking me for my name.”
“I am happy to meet you, Lady Blaisdel.”
“You shall call me Trina and I shall call you Allen. See there is no limit to my boldness tonight.”
A woman wearing what looked like a purple chicken on her head approached. Trina slipped her arm determinedly through Allenson’s.
“You will have to excuse us, Lady Jignal, but my cousin, Sar Allenson, was just about to show me Sar Redfern’s collection of neo-primitive art.”
“Hmm! Nobody told me you were related to the Inspector General, Lady Blaisdel?” Lady Jignal asked.
“A distant link, through marriage,” Trina said, steering Allenson away.
“Are we related?” Allenson asked, when they were out of earshot.
“No idea,” Trina replied. “But I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“I thought this was a social not a business occasion,” Allenson said.
“Naive boy,” Trina replied. “Everything is a business occasion in Manzanita City. The neoprimitive art is in an alcove over there.”
She nodded slightly to indicate the direction.
“I don’t actually know anything about neoprimitive art,” Allenson said.
“Who does?” Trina replied. “It’s just fashionable junk.”
Allenson laughed. He was astonished at how at ease he was in Trina’s company. He normally felt clumsy and ill at ease around young women.
“I hate social occasions. I never know how to hold myself or what to say,” Allenson said.
“Maybe you should just try relaxing and being yourself,” Trina said. “I doubt that you know enough of the world to invent a convincing construct. I know I don’t. Besides, I rather like the real Allen Allenson.”
She squeezed his arm.
CHAPTER 12
The Daemon Drink
“Good afternoon,” Hawthorn said, sarcastically, when Allenson joined him at the interview table.
Allenson automatically checked the time on his datapad. “Oh come on, spare me the hyperbole. It’s true I’m a little late . . .”
“Over an hour late,” Hawthorn said, with a degree of relish.
Allenson was usually obsessively punctual, unlike Hawthorn. He was also prone to reprove Hawthorn for this fault so he could hardly object to the man enjoying the moment.
“Sorry, I was late getting to bed,” Allenson said, holding up a hand as a gesture of contrition and sitting down.
“Yes, I know,” Hawthorn said. “You woke me when you knocked over the vase stand in the corridor.”
“Sorry,” Allenson said again.
“You’re in a surprisingly good mood for someone who had only four hours sleep. Why were you so late anyway?” Hawthorn asked.
Allenson shrugged.
Hawthorn looked at him suspiciously.
“You pulled at the party, didn’t you?” Hawthorn asked.
“It’s true that I met a lady,” Allenson conceded.
“You little beauty, you only went and pulled.”
“An unattractive expression,” Allenson said.
“I suppose you went back to her place?” Hawthorn asked, resting his chin on one hand.
“She had no escort so, as a gentlemen, I was obliged to see her safely home,” Allenson replied, stiffly.
“Of course you were,” Hawthorn said with a grin. “And no doubt she expressed her appreciation by inviting you in for refreshment.”
“Well, yes,” Allenson replied.
“And?” Hawthorn asked, raising an eyebrow.
“We discussed the incarnate poets of the Early Galactic Period,” Allenson replied. “We discovered that we both admired the work of Suggersun.”
There was a silence before Hawthorn sighed.
“The awful thing is that I believe you,” Hawthorn said.
“Who have we got lined up for interview,” Allenson said, changing the subject.
“Only three people have responded so far to our call for a guide,” Hawthorn said.
“The advert was a long shot,” Allenson said. “I suppose we might as well get on with it. Who’s the first candidate?”
“I haven’t been able to find out much about him,” Hawthorn replied. “He’s young and well connected and that’s about it.”
“Doesn’t sound inviting,” Allenson said. “Nevertheless, wheel him in.”
Hawthorn went to the door and called in the first interviewee. Allenson studied the candidate while Hawthorn made the introductions and explained the duties. He was a young man dressed in expensive, fashionable clothes. He flopped down in the interview chair without waiting for an invitation. Allenson asked a few routine questions to put the candidate at ease, although this candidate would be comatose if he was any more at ease.
“So what makes you suitable for the position of Hinterland guide?” Allenson finally asked, getti
ng to the nub of the issue.
“Well, I think that a short spell as a guide would be very beneficial for my personal development,” the young man replied.
“I see,” Allenson said, somewhat nonplussed by the answer.
“Have you experience as a guide?” Hawthorn asked.
“Oh yes,” the young man replied. “When my club, I’m a member of the Roosters, you know. Anyway, when my club got lost in the backcountry I took charge and got us out.”
Hawthorn looked al Allenson and raised an eyebrow as if to say “Roosters”? Allenson shook his head slightly. He had never heard of it.
“The Roosters is a social club?” Allenson asked.
“Oh yes,” the interviewee replied, “for young people of an adventurous disposition. It’s very exclusive, don’t you know, difficult to get into.”
“What are the entry qualifications?” Hawthorn asked.
“One has to come from a decent family, the right sort, you know,” the young man replied.
“How did you find your way out of the backcountry?” Hawthorn asked.
“I buzzed my father’s butler and he picked us up in our aircar,” the young man said proudly. “I have a lot of initiative, you see.”
“Yes I can see that,” Allenson said drily. “Didn’t you have maps on your datapads.”
“Well, yes, but they can be so confusing,” the young man replied.
“Have you been into the hinterland?” Hawthorn asked.
“No, that’s why I am so keen to go,” the young man replied, brightly.
“Is there anything you want to ask us?” Allenson asked, bringing the interview to a close.
“Ah, yes, the Roosters are playing the Old Rottinghamians at footy on the twenty-ninth of the next. We will be back on time, won’t we, as I wouldn’t want to miss the match? It’s an important annual fixture.”
“I am sure that won’t be a problem,” Hawthorn said solemnly.
Hawthorn rose and showed the interviewee to the door. He was still burbling about exciting opportunities when Hawthorn firmly shut it. Allenson put his head in his hands.
“Shall I show the next one in?” Hawthorn asked.
“Why not, it can’t get any worse.” Allenson said. “Who is he?”
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 16