by Mike Resnick
“I just never found that screaming and threatening did all that much good,” answered Rasputin. “But the operative word in your statement is antagonist." He shrugged, as if momentarily tired of the subject. “Is there anything I can show or explain to you before we go back to my office?”
“As a matter of fact, there is,” said Redwine. “But first, how about answering a silly, question?”
“I'll do my best.”
“Calling the other two sections of the ship the Mall and the Resort makes sense—after all, that's what they are. But what idiot coined the term Home for this end of it?”
“You're looking at him,” answered Rasputin. “And it made a lot more sense when you figure that the other end used to be called the House.”
“As in, a house is not a...?”
“Right. But when the Madonna took over a few years ago, she decided that it was too vulgar, and she changed it to the Resort.” He paused. “I liked my term better.”
“So do I,” agreed Redwine, “It has a certain tasteless elegance to it.”
“Well said,” laughed Rasputin. “All right. What else can I show you?”
“I keep hearing about the Gemini Twins. They wouldn't happen to be hard at work right now, would they?”
“Let's find out,” said Rasputin. He walked over to one of the computers, called up a complicated schedule, and studied it for a moment. “You just may be in luck, Harry,” he announced, walking directly to one of the screens. “Yeah, there they are.”
Redwine joined him and stared at the small holographic display. Two dark-haired young men were sitting on opposite sides of a huge bed composed entirely of alternating layers of silks and furs. Between them sat a rather pretty redhead, perhaps forty years old, clad in a rather insubstantial nightgown. All three held long-stemmed crystal glasses filled with some exotic concoction.
As Redwine watched them—and they appeared so identical that he could differentiate them only as The One on the Right and The One on the Left—first one and then the other began gently stroking the woman's arms and her legs. Occasionally one—though never both together—paused to take a sip of his drink, or to utter some comment which seemed to elicit a pleased reaction from her. Gradually, so slowly that Redwine was hardly aware of it, the intensity of their ministrations increased, and with no awkward pauses or cessation of their gentle touching and stroking, he noticed that they had somehow removed the woman's gown, and that her glass was now on the nightstand.
The tempo of their love-making increased almost imperceptibly. The touches and kisses become more intimate, and still they seemed unhurried, relaxed, leisurely.
Now one of the Twins, now the other, would pause to say something, or simply to offer the woman yet another sip of her drink, while the remaining Twin would lower his lips to an erect nipple, or gently trace little patterns on the inside of her thighs with his fingertips.
Before long the woman began writhing sensually, and the Twins shifted their positions with the precision and timing of skilled athletes—which, decided Redwine, was probably the closest analogy to what they actually were. Intimate kisses and touches increased in speed and fervor, and still neither of them would mount and enter her until the posture of her trembling body made it clear that no other response would be acceptable. Then, by some predetermined game plan, one of the Twins swiftly and gracefully moved on top of her while the other, with no apparent effort, managed to move his body out of the way while still kissing and caressing those portions of her body that were available to him.
“Harry,” announced Rasputin, an amused grin on his face, “I think you're undergoing just a touch of culture shock.”
Startled, Redwine stepped back from the screen and wondered just how long he had been staring in rapt fascination. “You people are expected to watch this objectively?” he said at last.
“After a day or two, so could you.”
“I've seen my share of pornography, and most of it is pretty grubby and sweaty. But those two guys—they make sex look like a ballet.”
“That's why they're so popular,” replied Rasputin. “Though all of our people are pretty skilled. You're welcome to check some of the other screens, if you like.”
Redwine shook his head. “I'm feeling quite inadequate enough, thank you,” he said with a wry smile.
Rasputin nodded knowingly. “Getting used to that aspect of it occasionally takes a little more than a day or two. Shall we go back to my office?”
“I think I'm about ready for that drink,” agreed Redwine devoutly.
A moment later they were sitting down on opposite sides of Rasputin's desk, each with a glass of whiskey in his hand.
“Are you properly impressed with our security system?” asked Rasputin, after taking a small swallow of his drink.
“It looks absolutely foolproof to me,” said Redwine.
“Wonderful!” laughed Rasputin. “You're a very amusing guy, Harry. I hope to hell whatever I discover isn't too damning.” He paused. “That's one of my bad habits: I tend to like my enemies much better than my friends, and then I feel like shit when I have to bring them down. Ever hear of anything that stupid?”
“Every now and then,” said Redwine, trying not to think of the Leather Madonna.
“So,” continued Rasputin, downing his drink, “we might as well be friends while we can.”
“Suits me.”
A light suddenly flashed on Rasputin's desk.
“I'm afraid I have to get back to work, Harry. Do you want me to have someone take you to your new office, or would you rather wait for the Madonna?”
“She's probably still busy. I think maybe I'd better just set up shop and go to work.”
“Whatever you say,” replied Rasputin, rising and escorting him to the door. “We've already got your retinagram on file. We'll program it into the Home and tram computers so you can get in and out of here without an escort.” He turned to Redwine as the door slid open. “Are you really going to make me do all that work finding out what you did to the computer, Harry?”
“I'm afraid so.”
“Well,” said Rasputin with a shrug, “if that's the way it's got to be.” He extended his hand. “I'm sure I'll be seeing a lot more of you around the Comet.”
“I never doubted it.”
“If anyone else tries to hassle you, Harry, you let me know,” added Rasputin. “You're my project from now on.”
“I suppose I should thank you,” remarked Redwine dryly, as Rasputin summoned a green-clad woman to take him to his new office.
“We'll just have to wait and see, won't we?” said Rasputin.
Chapter 4
Redwine sat in the Leather Madonna's auxiliary office, surrounded by mementoes of the many worlds she had visited prior to coming to work aboard the Velvet Comet. Part of one wall was covered by a meticulously woven tapestry from Alioth XIV, a plastic case housed an incomprehensible Domarian artifact that bore a tenuous resemblance to a large ashtray, and a wall shelf just to the left of the door held a trio of Denebian stone carvings. The room itself didn't begin to approach the luxury of her office in the Resort, but it had a desk and swivel chair, a pair of tufted sofas, and a small kitchenette.
Suddenly the largest of the three holographic screens flickered to life, and Redwine leaned forward in his chair. A moment later the image of Victor Bonhomme, tall, well-groomed, and conservatively dressed, stared out at him.
“Harry, you know better than to contact me here,” he said by way of greeting.
“This room is secure,” Redwine assured him. “I've changed the code on the door lock, and the skeleton card will keep anyone from monitoring our conversation.”
“All right,” said Bonhomme. “Give me just a minute to make sure I'm okay at this end.” He leaned over his computer console and began checking his security devices, and Redwine got a glimpse of the tall steel-and-glass towers of Deluros VIII through a window behind his head. Finally he straightened up, obscuring Redwine's view o
f the planet. “Everything checks out,” he announced. “What's up, Harry?”
“I think we've got a problem,” answered Redwine.
“Can't the skeleton card access the books?”
“I haven't tried it yet.”
“Then what kind of problem are you talking about?”
“I want you to think very hard before you answer this,” said Redwine. “Does anyone else know why I'm here?”
“Just one person.”
“Who?”
Bonhomme looked annoyed. “You know I can't tell you that, Harry.”
“Could this person have told anyone else?”
“Out of the question. Why?”
“Because the Chief of Security knows your name. He knows there's a connection between us.”
“Not to worry. He probably got it from your personnel file.”
Redwine shook his head. “I got into the main memory bank and changed the file last night.”
“Last night?” repeated Bonhomme, looking mildly disturbed. “He's a damned good man if he's already found what you changed.”
Redwine shook his head impatiently. “You weren't mentioned in the original file.”
“Well, that's a relief.”
“Don't you understand what I'm telling you?” demanded Redwine. “Somebody's put a plant on board.”
“One of the whores?” asked Bonhomme.
“It could be anyone: a prostitute, a technician, even a customer.”
Bonhomme lowered his head in thought for a moment, then looked up and smiled. “It doesn't make any difference,” he said at last. “Whoever it is can't do a damned thing to stop you as long as you've got that card.”
“I don't like it,” said Redwine.
“I don't blame you,” chuckled Bonhomme. “Still, what harm can it do?”
“I don't know, but I thought we'd better talk it over before the Security chief figures out how to listen in on us.” He paused. “I think we should postpone the operation for the time being.”
“No way, Harry,” said Bonhomme. “You were sent there to cook the Comet's books. You'd better start putting them in the oven today.”
“What if I refuse?”
“You won't,” answered Bonhomme, amused. “Oh, you'll threaten to quit, just like you've threatened to quit four or five other times. But we both know you won't, so why don't you save both of us a lot of aggravation and just go to work?”
“Damn it!” snapped Redwine. “I swear to you, Victor, this is the last time!”
“Until the next time.” Bonhomme smiled at him. “Face it, Harry, this is what you're good at. You'd go crazy sitting around in an office just auditing records and finding still more tax breaks for the Syndicate. You may bitch like hell, but you like getting out in the field.”
“Industrial espionage isn't exactly the usual definition of ‘getting out in the field,'” muttered Redwine.
“Come off it, Harry. I think you even like the danger.”
Redwine snorted caustically.
“And I know you like the money,” continued Bonhomme.
“I've got enough to retire on right now.”
“You'd die of boredom in two years’ time.”
“You wouldn't care to bet on that, would you?” snapped Redwine.
“I already have. Nine different times, to be exact—and I've never lost.”
“Yeah? Well, don't push your luck. I'm getting pretty fed up with you, and with whoever it is I'm really working for.”
“But you'll keep working for us, just the same,” said Bonhomme. “We've got a lot of good accountants in the Syndicate, Harry. What makes you the best isn't the way you balance the books—it's the way you fix them. Sabotage is your forte, so why fight against it?”
“There's a hell of a lot of difference between sabotage and subversion,” said Redwine. “If I'm such a great master spy, why don't you ever send me out to ruin the Bello Conglomerate or the Reeling Corporation? Why am I always undercutting Vainmill?”
“Because Vainmill's the biggest of them all, and that's the prize we're playing for. You know that, Harry.” He paused. “We're working for a very bright, very ambitious person, you and I. Instead of feeling angry, you ought to be grateful. Look at where we were when we started; then look at how far we've come.”
“Over the corpses of nine Vainmill subsidiaries,” replied Redwine sullenly.
“Vainmill will survive,” said Bonhomme patiently.
“Look, you know the Old Woman is retiring next year. When the person we work for surveyed the situation, there were half a dozen likelier candidates for the job. Now there's only one: Rubikov of Entertainment and Leisure. He fought for the Comet when no one else wanted it, so all we have to do is do a job on the books and we've eliminated the last stepping stone.”
“Then will I know who I'm working for?”
Bonhomme chuckled. “Then the whole fucking Republic will know who you're working for.”
“I still don't like it.”
“The artistic temperament,” remarked Bonhomme sardonically.
“When this job is through, our man is definitely in?”
“Our person is definitely in,” Bonhomme corrected him carefully.
“Then why do you think you're going to send me out to do more of this stuff ?”
“Because our employer recognizes your true value, Harry. You don't belong cooped up in an office.”
“Yeah? Well; that's my fee for putting our person of indeterminate gender into the catbird's seat:
I want an office of my own, I want the job I was trained to do, and I never want to hear from you again.”
“You'll be pounding on my door two months later, begging me to rescue you from a life of boredom.”
“Don't you be too goddamned sure of that!” snapped Redwine. “Maybe I'm getting a little older and a little more tired than you think. Maybe, just once in my career, I'd like to do something constructive.”
“Maybe,” agreed Bonhomme. “But I doubt it. Don't forget, Harry—you practically begged me for those first two assignments.”
“I was hungrier then.”
“It took us ten months to transfer you to Entertainment and Leisure and place you where we wanted you. How come I never heard a whisper about your moral qualms during all that time?”
“Because I wasn't working on a ship that had a plant who knew about us!”
“Don't carry on so, Harry. Even if they can connect us, so what? I've been an officer in four of Vainmill's five divisions. It would be decidedly odd if we hadn't run into each other somewhere along the way.” He checked his chronometer. “You've wasted almost twenty minutes, Harry. Hadn't you better be getting back to work?”
“If they catch me I'll tell them everything I know about you,” promised Redwine.
Bonhomme chuckled. “If they catch you, you'll bluff and lie and bluster your way out of it. That's why you're the only man I trust.”
“Well, you'd better find someone else after this job is over.”
“Come to Deluros when you're through, and we'll talk about it, Harry,” said Bonhomme, touching a section of his desk with a long forefinger and breaking the connection.
Redwine stalked over to the kitchenette, found a bottle of Alphard brandy, looked for something stronger, couldn't find it, filled up a glass with the brandy, and downed it in a single swallow. He poured another glass, then walked over to the sofa and sat down.
The frustrating thing was that Bonhomme was right: he'd probably go stark staring crazy if he had to go back to working full-time in an office. Espionage wasn't much—certainly no honor or pride of accomplishment accrued to it—but it was all he had.
He sipped his drink, more slowly this time, and wondered if this emptiness he felt was unique to him, or if it was common to everyone. Many times he had wanted to ask someone about it, but part of the emptiness was caused by the fact that he had never found anyone he could really talk to. Certainly not his ex-wife, though their parting had been
relatively amicable.
Not his three daughters, who were pleasant and cordial enough, but whom he understood about as well as he understood a six-legged chlorine-breathing native of far Teron. Not his fellow employees, who felt that the Good Life consisted of a portfolio, two homes, three mistresses, and four pension funds.
The funny part was that he had really tried. He had worked hard at being a good husband and a good father and a good accountant, and he still didn't know what had gone wrong, or why he had jumped at the chance to start working for Bonhomme. Certainly it wasn't from any sense of moral commitment; he didn't even know who his employer was. He had told himself originally that he was doing it for the money, but that wasn't true: his needs and tastes were simple, his only luxury was his book collection, and he had been well-paid long before Bonhomme ever came along.
He guessed that it was the excitement and the danger, which provided him with the certain knowledge that he was alive when he had been absolutely sure that he was just passing time, alone and isolated, from the womb to the grave. And because he cherished the knowledge that he mattered, even if only to someone whose identity was a mystery to him. So he mastered his new craft of destroying companies as competently as he had mastered his old craft of auditing them. Better, even.
Which led to still another question that he had nobody to ask: was everyone better at destroying things than fixing them, or was it just him?
He had the sinking feeling that he was unique, and he had a strong suspicion that those people who would think of him as a dashing and romantic figure if they knew what he really did were the same ones who currently considered him to be a fulfilled and successful man. Redwine sighed. He would be happy to settle for either description, instead of the one that was true: a hollow man, who had been lonely and empty for so long that he was half-convinced that this was the natural order of things.
He looked down at the pin he always wore, tried to envision the bright, hopeful young man who had earned the right to wear it, and wondered exactly how he had come all the way from there to here.
He stared at the pin for a long time. Finally he shrugged, finished his drink, and walked over to the computer.