by Mike Resnick
“You've been studying his file for the past week,” said Fiona. “What do you think his reason was?”
“I don't know,” admitted Constantine. “At first I thought he backed off because the tapes were pornographic, but that's not a good enough answer. After all, it's pretty easy to edit them. You can cut out the pornography and still have some pretty shocking footage left.”
“Have you any other explanation?”
He shook his head. “None. I was rather hoping that you might have some suggestions.”
“I do,” she said, reaching for an engraved platinum box, pulling out an imported Altairian cigarette, and lighting it up. “I think our friend Doctor Gold has made a tactical blunder.”
“How?” asked Constantine.
“I think we're being blackmailed—in a very subtle way, to be sure. Since Gold considers himself a good Christian, and a good Christian would never approach us directly and offer not to show the training footage if we'll agree to make such-and-such a concession, I suspect he's trying to make us so nervous waiting for the other shoe to drop that we approach him with an offer.”
Constantine considered her statement thoughtfully for a moment, then shook his head. “I don't think so.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Because everything I've been able to learn about Gold leads me to believe that he's simply not that subtle a manipulator. He never finesses when he can attack a problem head-on.”
“I don't know,” said Fiona dubiously. “That's the one explanation I can come up with that fits the facts.”
“It might even be right,” conceded Constantine. “It just feels wrong. He's not the type to get you into a corner and not go for the jugular.”
“All right,” said Fiona. “You've studied him more thoroughly than I've had a chance to do. Can you suggest some other reason for his actions?”
“I already told you: I can't—which doesn't mean there aren't any. Maybe he feels that this stuff will be more effective if he lets it dribble out over a period of months. Also, let's not forget that he's syndicated on about five hundred worlds; maybe the bulk of them wouldn't air the program if he ran that footage. Not all worlds are as liberal as Deluros, you know.” He leaned back on his chair, his face a mask of frustration. “There could be half a dozen valid reasons. Hell, for all I know, he thinks the faeries look too damned happy.”
Fiona stared at him, a curious smile spreading across her face.
“Do you realize what you just said?” she asked at last.
“Evidently not.” replied Constantine. “At least, I don't feel as pleased with myself as you seem to be.”
“You suggested that the faeries might have looked too happy.”
He looked puzzled. “It was just a thing to say. I didn't mean anything by it. I don't even think I believe it.”
“I know.”
“You're not seriously suggesting that that is the reason he withheld the tape?”
“No, of course not,” replied Fiona. “But the notion of happy faeries has given me an idea.” She paused and smiled at him, enjoying the puzzled expression on his round face. “Richard, I think we've wasted enough time worrying about why the tape was withheld or when he's going to run it. I think it's time to take the initiative.”
“I'll bite,” said Constantine. “What do you think we ought to do?” Suddenly he uttered a self-deprecating laugh. “Of course! I should have thought of it myself! We'll take the two faeries from the ship, put them on video, and let them tell everyone what a wonderful time they're having and how well we're treating them.” He looked inordinately proud of himself.
“That is your idea, Isn't it?”
“Something like that,” said Fiona with a look of satisfaction on her face. “It will take some preparation, though. For one thing, we'll need to decide upon a format. Because of our respect for the privacy of our patrons, we've never invited any journalists aboard the Velvet Comet, and I don't think this is a good time to start.”
“I agree,” said Constantine. “Besides, I want to make sure I control exactly what gets released, and I couldn't do that if I involved the press in this. Hell, they'd probably come up with a feature on how Vainmill tries to manage the news. Another point: whatever our finished product is, I don't think we should send it to the news media the way we passed on your little message to Gold; it would look too much like another apology.” He paused. “I suppose creating some kind of documentary would be best.”
“About the Comet or the faeries?” asked Fiona.
“Neither,” he answered promptly. “If we concentrate on the brothel, the faeries won't get enough attention—and if we concentrate on them, it will seem too defensive, too much like a direct answer to Gold's sermon.” He paused. “Just because Gold is incapable of subtlety and misdirection is no reason why we should be. We're still not going to mention him, or seem to be replying to him. Perhaps we'll run a feature on how the Comet's chefs and medics and costume designers had to adapt to the faeries, which would be one way of continually putting them on display while seeming to be concentrating on someone else. Or possibly we'll focus on how their co-workers have adjusted to them. I don't know—I'll have to give it some thought.”
“We do have to move quickly,” Fiona pointed out. “We can't count on Gold's holding that footage back forever.”
“I know. I'll send a production crew up to the Comet tomorrow to get the feel of the place, and I'll get up there myself as soon as I get their reports and evaluate them—maybe four or five days from now.”
“Is that really necessary?” asked Fiona. “Going yourself, I mean?”
“I think so.”
“You could communicate with them by computer,” she said. “The shuttle flight takes about three hours each way, and you've got an awful lot of work on your desk.”
He shook his head. “I've only seen the faeries on tape—and those weren't even the ones we're going to be putting on public display. Before I put too many of my eggs into one basket, I want to meet them in the flesh.” He paused thoughtfully. “Besides, this documentary is ostensibly about the Comet, not the faeries, so I'd like to get up there and take a look around. Maybe something will catch my eye and give me an idea on how to mount this little classic. I'm sure our production people know their business—but it's my neck that's on the block, not theirs.” He looked at her. “You've actually met the faeries. What are they like?”
Fiona smiled. “I was a little too busy becoming chairman to pay much attention to them.” She shrugged. “They seemed like pleasant little creatures. Actually, Doctor Gold was much more interested in them than I was, though in retrospect I suppose that's completely understandable.”
“Did he speak with them?” asked Constantine.
“Really, I hardly noticed them at all—and I didn't spend all that much more time on him. You'd have to ask the Steel Butterfly about that.”
“I intend to. I gather she was his watchdog for most of the time he was up there. Maybe she can tell me something about him that everyone else has overlooked.”
“Do you seriously expect the madam of the biggest brothel in the Republic to give you an insight into Thomas Gold?” she said sardonically.
He shrugged. “You never know.”
She uttered an amused chuckle. “Sometimes I wonder about you, Richard.”
“I wasn't being facetious. Among other things, a madam has to be a bit of a psychologist; her job is figuring out what makes people tick and anticipating their needs. And everyone has needs—even Tom Gold.”
“He's managed to keep them pretty well hidden thus far,” observed Fiona dryly.
“That doesn't mean they aren't there. Maybe he'd like to spend the night with the Steel Butterfly. Maybe he's a repressed homosexual. Maybe he's dying to order a steak in one of the restaurants. Maybe he's a compulsive gambler, or a secret drinker.” He chuckled.
“Hell, maybe he wants to sneak off with one of the faeries.”
“And maybe you'd better
get your mind back on your documentary, she said.
Constantine considered the various weaknesses had listed, rejected them all, and sighed.
“Maybe I'd better,” he agreed.
Chapter 7
Simon Gold walked to the door of his father's study and commanded it to open.
It remain closed.
Puzzled, he repeated the order. Nothing happened.
Finally, frowning, he reached out and knocked on the door.
“Go away!” snapped Thomas Gold's voice.
“Open the door, Father,” said Simon. “I have to speak with you.”
“Not now. I'm busy.”
“This is urgent.”
He heard his father muttering furiously to himself and ordering his computer to deactivate. Then there was a moment of silence, and finally the door dilated.
“What is it?” demanded Gold, his voice strained.
Simon stared at his father's haggard face, momentarily startled.
“Are you all right?” he asked at last.
“Of course I'm all right!” snapped Gold. “Was that your urgent business?”
“No,” responded Simon, puzzled by his father's attitude. “It was merely a question, precipitated by the fact that you look very pale and drawn.”
Gold's face softened somewhat. “I apologize for yelling at you. It's just that I'm getting sick and tired of your mother's pounding on the door every half hour and asking me when I'm going to be done.”
“Why not just work with the door open?” suggested Simon, walking over to a couch that was in serious need of recovering. “You always used to.”
“Do I have to work with the door open for the rest of my life, just because you have fond memories of it?” demanded Gold, the color rushing to his face.
He swiveled on his chair to face his son. “My work habits are my own business, and nobody else's.”
“I had no intention of offending you, Father,” said Simon stiffly. “Let's let the whole subject drop.”
“Fine,” said Gold impatiently. “All right. You're here and I'm listening. What's so important that you had to interrupt me?”
“I just received a communication from Richard Constantine,” began Simon.
“Vainmill's new head of Entertainment and Leisure?” asked Gold, frowning. “Why did he contact you?”
“Because your computer hasn't been accepting messages for the past three hours.”
“I didn't want to be disturbed,” said Gold. “What does Constantine want?”
“Have you ever heard of a man named Vladimir Kozinsky?”
“Not to my knowledge,” answered Gold. “Should I have?”
“Probably not. He's an engineer from Declan IV.”
“That's a long way from here.”
“Well, he's here now—and he's dying.”
“I'm sorry to hear that.”
“And,” continued Simon, “he wants you to administer the Final Blessing to him.”
Gold shook his head firmly. “That's out of the question. I'm much too busy.”
Simon nodded approvingly. “That's what I told Constantine you'd say. Who would you like me to send in your place?”
“Just a minute,” said Gold suddenly. “What does Constantine have to do with this?”
Simon grinned. “There's a chance that some Vainmill employees may be facing a charge of murder.”
“Maybe you'd better tell me exactly what happened,” said Gold.
“Well, as I said, Kozinsky is from Declan IV. Evidently he's been listening to you lambasting Vainmill and the Comet for the past four weeks, and he finally became so incensed that he came all the way to the Deluros System, took a shuttle to the Comet, and tried to explode a bomb in the airlock.” Simon seemed amused.
“Good God!” muttered Gold, genuinely distressed. “He didn't succeed, did he?”
Simon shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. They spotted the bomb the instant he entered the airlock.”
“Of course,” said Gold distractedly. “If they can scan newcomers for signs of disease, there was no way he could smuggle an explosive through.” He stared sharply at his son. “What happened then?”
“I gather he went berserk and started attacking the Security team with his bare hands.” Simon shrugged. “In the ensuing melee, he was mortally wounded.
They've got him in their hospital, up there on the Comet. According to Constantine, he's too weak to move. I gather he's not expected to last out the day.”
“He's on the Comet?” repeated Gold, a tremor of excitement in his deep voice.
“Yes. Would you like me to send Malcolm Dill up there?”
“No,” said Gold.
“Who do you want to send?” persisted Simon.
“I'll go myself.”
“But I thought you said —”
“I've changed my mind,” said Gold.
“Father, there's no need for you ever to set foot on the Comet again,” protested Simon. “We have hundreds of men and women on Deluros who can administer the Final Blessing. Why not simply send one of them?”
“Are you trying to tell me my duty?” demanded Gold hotly.
“I am simply pointing out, as I did before the horserace, that any time a man of your stature visits the Comet for any reason at all, you tend to legitimize it.”
“Before I go I'll make sure that Constantine understands that this is a private act of mercy,” replied Gold. “'There will be no cameras and no publicity.”
“You can't accept the word of a man like that,” said Simon. “His loyalty is to Vainmill.”
“It's in his best interest to keep this thing quiet,” answered Gold. “If the press get their hands on this story, it's only a matter of time before some other madman tries to emulate Kozinsky. Constantine's no fool; he can see that as clearly as I can.”
“Then send someone else,” said Simon. “Constantine's reasons for keeping it quiet will remain just as valid, and you won't have to subject yourself to that environment again. It's an evil, sinful place.”
“Then how can I send someone else up there?” asked Gold.
“Men of God have no business aboard the Comet.” replied Simon adamantly.
“By the same token, Daniel shouldn't have entered the lion's den.”
“He only did it once,” said Simon doggedly. “If he'd entered it a second time, they might have torn him to shreds.” He paused. “By your own admission, the one time you were there you made a wager on a horserace. Who knows what might happen if you go again?”
“If he'd listened to you, Jesus wouldn't have walked among the lepers or laid his hands on the sick,” answered Gold irritably.
“He was Jesus,” said Simon. “You're just a man.”
“What do you think I'm going to do?” snapped Gold. “Ravish the madam?”
“The Velvet Comet is a house of sin and degradation, and it corrupts everything it touches. Why subject yourself to it if it's not necessary?”
“It is necessary—and I'm getting a little sick of having you impugn my integrity!” He glared at his son. “I'm Thomas Gold! Nothing is going to tempt me from the path of righteousness!”
“I'm not questioning your motives, Father.”
“Good.”
'But I am questioning your judgment,” continued Simon. “I can see no valid reason for your going up to the Comet, and I can see numerous reasons for staying here.”
“No valid reason?” repeated Gold. “What about giving spiritual comfort to a member of my church?”
“Kozinsky's going straight to hell no matter who gives him the Final Blessing,” said Simon coldly. “You know it and I know it. He tried to kill the entire crew of the ship.”
“I thought you approved,” said Gold sardonically.
“Certainly not, although I understand why he tried to do it. If he had succeeded, it would have meant that God approved of his methods. The fact that he failed simply means that God prefers your method of fighting the Comet—and that in t
urn means that Kozinsky was trying to commit murder and will burn for all eternity.”
“That's one of the more farfetched rationalizations I've ever heard,” said Gold.
“Just because he's a member of the Church of the Purity of Jesus Christ doesn't make his behavior acceptable,” answered Simon.
“And just because his behavior is unacceptable doesn't mean that we have to turn our backs on him. He's a dying man, and he needs spiritual comfort.”
“Father, may I speak frankly?” said Simon.
“That's what I thought you were doing,” replied Gold with more than a trace of irony.
“You've not been yourself since you returned from the Comet,” said Simon, ignoring Gold's comment. “You lapse into silences at odd times, you've lost weight, Mother tells me you have trouble sleeping more than a few hours at a stretch, you have nightmares, you —”
“Your mother talks too much,” said Gold.
“She's worried about you,” said Simon. “So am I.”
“You wouldn't even know about my weight loss or my nightmares if she hadn't told you.”
“But I'd know you had accepted stolen goods into your house, and had not condemned the people who committed the robbery,” continued Simon.
“I thought we'd been over that before,” said Gold.
“We have,” said Simon. He stared directly into his father's eyes. “I'm simply trying to point out that before you went to the Velvet Comet you had no trouble sleeping, and that you would never consider condoning the theft of anyone's property, even your enemy's. Even your work habits have changed—you lock yourself in your room, you spend hours with your computer without producing anything, you don't answer your messages. Furthermore, you've become positively single-minded about the Andricans. You've spoken about them to the exclusion of all else during your last three sermons.” He paused for breath, then continued: “I don't know what you saw aboard the Comet, but obviously it has had a detrimental effect on you.”
“I appreciate your concern,” said Gold, “but you're reading too much into the natural infirmities of late middle age. Most men my age have some trouble with their sleep and their digestion. It's nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, for a man of my years, I would say that I'm in remarkably good health. As for the faeries, they're a very weak link in Vainmill's defenses; I'd be crazy not to keep talking about them.” He stared at his son. “Despite what you may think, my five hours aboard the Velvet Comet really haven't turned me into a mental and physical wreck.”