by Timothy Zahn
Morse nodded back and gave one last look at my rolled-up belt peeking from between his feet, looking for all the world like a large black snail or nautilus shell. Most people, I knew, seldom looked down unless there was some actual reason to do so. I hoped the Juri was like most people.
The door slid open again and the Juri stepped out into the corridor, nattily attired now in full diplomatic regalia. He must really want that promotion to Resolver. “Take me to this conflict,” he ordered Morse.
“This way,” Morse said, gesturing toward the rear door. As he did, I left Bayta and started walking casually toward them.
The Juri glanced incuriously at me as he stepped past Morse and headed aft. Morse fell into step beside and slightly behind him as the compartment door started to slide closed.
And as I reached the spot where Morse had been standing, I gave the coiled belt a gentle sideways nudge with my foot, sending it unrolling across the corridor and dropping its tip neatly across the path of the sliding door.
Quadrail compartment doors had built-in safeties that were supposed to make sure they didn’t close on someone in the process of passing through. But those sensors were clustered midway along the panel. Way down at the bottom, there was nothing but the backup pressure sensors designed to stop the door’s movement before it exerted any significant pressure on a Jurian back claw, Shorshian tail, or Human toe.
The key was that, unlike the main safeties, the pressure sensors would merely stop the door and wait there for further instructions.
The Juri fell for it, of course. There was practically no way he couldn’t have. He’d heard his door closing, he hadn’t heard the soft whoosh of it reopening, and the only person who’d been nearby as it closed—me—hadn’t even broken stride as I walked along behind the two of them at the corner of his sight.
I made sure to keep walking with them all the way to the end of the car. There I courteously allowed them to go into the vestibule first.
As soon as they’d vanished behind the door, I did a one-eighty and hurried back to the compartment. I had maybe ten minutes now while Morse searched in vain for the alleged travelers whose alleged confrontation had sent him looking for diplomatic smoothing in the first place.
Bayta was waiting, her throat muscles working nervously. “See?” I said. “No worries.” I reached into the narrow gap between door and jamb, and as my fingers triggered the safeties, the door gave its little whoosh and slid open again. I ushered Bayta inside, scooping up my belt from the floor as I followed.
The Juri’s compartment had the almost pathological neatness I’d come to expect from ambitious rank-climbing members of the galaxy’s various diplomatic corps. His personal items were precisely positioned, with the clothing hanging in the cleaning rack actually laid out in descending spectrum order of basic color. If the Hawk had been in here, I reflected, I would probably have found it filed alphabetically in his luggage.
“Douse the lights,” I murmured to Bayta as I stepped to the back of the compartment and the wall switch that controlled the collapsing divider wall.
The room went dark. A moment later, I sensed the movement of air that meant she’d joined me. “You ready?” I asked.
“As ready as I’m going to be,” she said. “Wait—the window.”
“Right.” Reaching over to the control, I opaqued the window, cutting off the last bit of faint reflected glow from the Coreline overhead. Moving back to the wall, I pressed my ear against it.
Nothing. Still, given the Spiders’ soundproofing and the clickity-clack of the wheels below me, the courier would have to have a live-spec music party going in there for me to hear anything. “Okay,” I murmured to Bayta. “Glitch number one: now.”
With the room’s lights out, there was no obvious indication that we’d just suffered a quarter-second power flicker. “Ready glitch number two,” I said, and pressed the wall release.
Against my hand, I felt the wall begin to retract.
It didn’t open very far, making it only about half a meter before Bayta’s mental order to the Spiders again shut down power to the double compartment. But that was all I needed. Squeezing Bayta’s arm reassuringly, I slipped through the gap.
The courier had also opaqued his window, with the result that the compartment was as black as a politician’s financial records. Fortunately, our trip in the tender had given me a fair amount of experience in moving around a blacked-out Quadrail compartment. Hoping the courier wasn’t the sort to leave his laundry piled in the middle of the floor, I made my way toward the bed.
I could hear the sound of slow breathing now. If the Modhri colony was awake and aware of my presence, he was being very quiet about it. I reached the bed and located the rack above it. There were three good-sized pieces of luggage up there, none of them the easily carried hand bag I was expecting.
Had the Modhri mind segment decided that the shoulder bag idea was too obvious and stashed the Hawk in with the courier’s regular stuff? I hoped not. Opening and digging through someone’s luggage in pitch-darkness wasn’t something I really wanted to try.
But there was one other possibility. Using the sound of the Juri’s breathing to orient myself, I eased my fingertips toward the spot where his chest ought to be.
There it was: a leather carrying bag, about the size of the late Mr. Gerashchenko’s lugeboard case, gripped in the Juri’s arms like a child’s beloved stuffed animal.
I smiled tightly in the darkness. With the sleeper’s arms wrapped around it, the bag would be nearly impossible to steal or open. Even if the Modhran colony was sleeping or otherwise unaware of his surroundings, a disturbance on that scale would surely startle both him and the walker himself awake.
But as I’d told Morse, I wasn’t here to steal anything.
My reader was already tricked out into its sensor mode. Pulling it out, I started moving it slowly and deliberately down the side of the bag, a centimeter or so above the leather.
“Compton,” the Juri murmured.
I froze. The sleeper hadn’t stirred, and the word had come out with a definite slurring to it. Was the Juri talking in his sleep? Setting my teeth, I got the scanner moving again.
“Compton,” the mumbled word came again. “Give me the Lynx.”
I felt the hairs on the back of my neck begin to tingle. This wasn’t anyone’s sleep-talk. The Modhri was talking to me. “I don’t have it,” I murmured.
“Find it,” the Modhri said. “Give it to me. Then you may retire in safety and wealth.”
“Thanks for the offer,” I said, forcing myself to continue moving the scanner in the same slow and steady motion. Maybe in the darkness the Modhri didn’t realize what I was doing. But whether he did or not, it was for damn sure that I wasn’t going to get a second crack at this. “I’ll think about it.”
“Bring me the Lynx,” he repeated. The Juri gave a little sigh and readjusted his shoulders before settling down again.
Conversation over, apparently. I finished the scan and shut down the reader. Then, just out of curiosity, I reached to the top end of the bag and got a grip on it.
The sleeping Juri stiffened, his arms tightening reflexively around his prize. But he didn’t wake up; and I, for my part, wasn’t interested in pushing the Modhri any farther than I already had. Letting go of the bag, I backed carefully across the compartment. As I slipped through the opening, I felt Bayta reach around behind me and touch the control, and the wall slid shut again.
“I heard voices,” she whispered tensely in my ear. “Was that you?”
“Later,” I said, taking her hand and leading her back to the door.
We were sitting in our chairs watching the dit rec comedy playing on the nearest display window when Morse and a disappointed-looking Juri consul headed through on their way back to the compartment car.
TWELVE
We waited another half hour, just to make sure everything had settled down. Then, once again retreating to the bar, we examined the sensor record.
And found nothing.
“What the bloody hell is this?” Morse demanded, frowning at the reader screen. “This your idea of a joke?”
“Hardly,” I said. I hadn’t wanted him along, but he’d insisted, and after his help I couldn’t really refuse him. “Or if it is, it’s being played on the universe at large. We’re talking one very interesting object here.”
“No, we’re talking one very harmless carrybag,” Morse retorted, dropping the reader back on the table. “Unless you’re going to tell me these Nemuti sculptures can morph into brocade dressing robes?”
I spread my hands helplessly. “What can I say? All the signs pointed to the Hawk being in there.”
Morse snorted. “And here I always thought it was the Yandro fiasco that got you kicked out of Westali.”
“Meaning?” I asked, feeling a stirring of anger.
“You’re the big clever Yank detective—you figure it out.” Abruptly he stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, we’re due into Ian-apof in an hour and I have to make sure Ms. Auslander’s packed and ready to go.” He strode out of the bar and headed forward.
I watched him go, then turned to Bayta. “Well?” I invited.
“Well what?” she said. Her eyes were troubled, but there was none of the contempt or disappointment in her face that Morse had just spilled out onto the table. “The sensor must have failed.”
I shook my head. “I’ve already run a self-test. The sensor was working perfectly.”
“Then where is the Hawk?”
“It’s in the Juri’s bag, right where we expected it to be,” I told her. “Before I left the compartment I got a grip on the bag, just to see what the Modhri’s reaction would be, and I could feel something hard and solid in there. Something that felt very much like the slightly bulbous tip of the Hawk that we saw in the pictures.”
Bayta craned her neck to look at the reader’s display again. “I don’t see that at all.”
“Neither did the sensor,” I said grimly. “Apparently, the Hawk and its brother sculptures are sensor transparent.”
She looked up at me, her eyes widening. “They’re what? How can that be possible?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “Actually, no, let me back up a little. The Hawk’s not simply invisible—if it was, there’d be a hole in the middle of the sensor image. It’s more like a sensor chameleon, something that takes on and mimics the characteristics of its surroundings.”
“But then how can we see it and take pictures of it?” she protested. “Visible light is just another part of the electromagnetic spectrum, like infrared and radar.”
“How can we see through ordinary glass while it still blocks ultraviolet and some infrared?” I countered. “Like I said, I have no idea how it’s done. Especially since sitting alone all by itself the Hawk must look like something on a sensor scan. Otherwise, they sure wouldn’t have been relegated to the status of third-rate folk art.”
Bayta lowered her eyes to the display again, and I could see in her expression that she was starting to work through the serious implications of this whole thing.
Because Unpleasant Theory Number One had just been kicked out of the lineup. Whatever the Modhri wanted with these sculptures, it wasn’t a simple trade of exotic but ordinary artwork for a new homeland site. The Nemuti sculptures were either a weird material à la Unpleasant Theory Number Two, or something even worse.
And with their self-generating cloak of sort-of invisibility, even the Spiders’ massive and wide-ranging Tube station sensor system might not have a hope in hell of spotting them.
Bayta was obviously thinking the same thing. “The Spiders can’t detect them,” she murmured. “The Modhri can take them anywhere he wants.”
“That’s the bad news,” I agreed. “The good news is that he apparently still needs the third Lynx to make his plan work.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he offered to let me retire in peace if I got it for him.”
Bayta’s eyes were steady on me. Possibly she was remembering that the Chahwyn were basically forcing me into retirement anyway. “What did you tell him?”
“That I’d think about it,” I said. “It seemed the safest thing to say.”
“But he’ll be watching you.”
“Me and everyone else,” I agreed. “Especially Morse and Penny and the rest of Penny’s friends.”
Bayta grimaced. “Who are going to lead him right to Mr. Stafford.”
I looked around the bar. None of the other patrons was within hearing distance of us. “Hardly,” I said, lowering my voice anyway. “Stafford’s not on Ian-apof.”
Bayta frowned. “But he told them to meet him there.”
“Your classic red herring,” I told her. “You haul out something big and fat and obvious and slap it down on the table in the hope that the bad guys will be so busy staring at it that they won’t notice you sneaking off somewhere else.”
“You’re saying he’s using them?” Bayta asked, apparently still not believing it. “He’s using his friends?”
“Why so surprised?” I asked. “This is a guy who spent his summer vacations hanging around Rafael Künstler, trillionaire and rabid art collector. Using your friends, acquaintances, and enemies is standard procedure with that crowd.”
“So you’ve said,” Bayta murmured. “It still doesn’t … never mind. But if he’s not on Ian-apof, where is he?”
“That’s the wonderful irony of it,” I said. “He’s—”
I broke off. Across the bar, Penny Auslander had appeared in the corridor. For a moment she stood there, her eyes sweeping the room. Then she spotted us and started across. “Play it cool,” I murmured.
Penny reached the table and sat down. “I need to talk to you,” she said, her voice low and urgent.
“Please; sit down,” I said, gesturing to the chair she was already planted in.
A waste of good sarcasm. “It’s Agent Morse,” she said. “I’m starting to wonder if I can trust him.”
“I thought we were the ones you didn’t trust,” I said.
She lowered her eyes a little. “I didn’t,” she admitted. “But I’ve been thinking about … what happened to Pyotr. Even Agent Morse admits you were somewhere else at the time.”
“Yes, I believe we tried telling you that.”
“I know,” she said tartly, some of the old Penny peeking through. The girl had fire, that was for sure. “I’m trying to say I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted,” I said. “Thank you for—”
“And I want you to come down to the ski resort with us.”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but we have urgent business elsewhere.”
“But we need you,” Penny said. “Daniel needs you. I’m—” Her throat tightened. “Mr. Morse says he’s in danger.”
I thought about Künstler, beaten to death amid the quiet luxury of a Quadrail compartment. “That’s possible,” I conceded. “But Mr. Morse himself seems capable enough of dealing with any trouble.”
“You’re not listening,” Penny said impatiently. “I don’t trust him.”
I looked at Bayta, and it wasn’t hard to read her thoughts. I only had a few days left on my Quadrail pass. If I spent those days riding a torchliner from the Ian-apof Station inward to the inner system, I would likely end up stranded there. I would certainly never make it to Ghonsilya and our hoped-for rendezvous with Fayr. “I’m sorry,” I said again. “For whatever comfort it might be, I don’t think anyone’s actually out to hurt Mr. Stafford.”
For a long moment Penny stared at me, her expression bringing the full weight of her family’s wealth and position to bear. I returned her gaze without flinching, and with a twitch of her lip she turned the glare back down to low power. “I see,” she said stiffly. “Thank you for your time.” Standing up, she strode out of the bar and disappeared again down the corridor.
“Some people are never satisfied,” I commented, taking a sip of my iced tea. �
�I wonder what kind of man she does like? Rich kids with rich daddies, I suppose.”
“I don’t know,” Bayta said thoughtfully. “How sure are we that Mr. Morse isn’t a walker?”
I shrugged. “Statistically, the odds are against it,” I said. “We know the Modhri hasn’t made much of an incursion into Human space.”
“Or he hadn’t as of a few months ago,” Bayta countered. “Even then, though, he had some walkers at the UN and other places.”
She had a point, unfortunately. With Earth law banning the import of corals and corallike substances, the Modhri hadn’t been able to bring in the outposts that he’d used as base camps for his infiltration of most of the other societies throughout the galaxy. Still, we knew he’d managed to create a certain presence for himself, mostly among the behind-the-scenes personnel in Earth’s various power centers.
And an ESS agent like Morse probably got out into the galaxy enough for the Modhri to have possibly snared him somewhere along the way.
“It’s certainly possible,” I told Bayta. “But he seems awfully antagonistic toward me for someone with a Modhran mind segment whispering behavioral cues in his ear.”
“Unless the Modhri’s keeping quiet and trying not to influence him.”
“Sure, but why?” I countered. “You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, to dust off an old saying. Even if Morse had a good reason to hate me, it would pay the Modhri to try to suppress that and make him a more enthusiastic ally.”
“Maybe he thought you’d be suspicious of a total stranger who wanted to assist us.”
“Maybe,” I agreed. “On the other hand, we’re fellow toilers in the Intelligence service trenches. That should automatically raise me above the standard random citizen in his eyes.”
“Except that he doesn’t like you.”
“Which the Modhri should be able to suppress, as I said.” I shook my head. “Bottom line is that we’re probably not going to know for sure whether Morse is a walker unless the Modhri makes a mistake.”
Bayta shivered. “Or takes him over.”