PRIVATE messages by translight were hideously expensive. The com-techs in Upperside Shipcity had seemed very impressed, Kearn thought.
He himself certainly was, his hands almost shaking as he cued the message cube to play back in the privacy of his quarters on the shipcity. Tonight was the meeting between the Feneden and Iftsen. There had been quite a few messages, as well as art arrangements, offers of temporary liaisons of several types, and assorted wines, all from those hoping he could somehow help settle this conflict. Many were from art dealers whose livelihoods were potentially threatened by the Feneden dumping stolen Iftsen art into a lucrative and expensive market.
But nothing like this, Kearn thought. It would take his year’s salary to send this one message. He sat forward, eyes intent.
“Dear Lionel,” he read. Dear Lionel? From a friend? He couldn’t recall any rich ones—at least none he hadn’t thoroughly antagonized long ago searching for funds for his quest.
“Dear Lionel, I want to wish you luck. It has always seemed a regrettably necessary part of interspecies’ negotiation. I also wish to share something with you. The Iftsen’s Messenger was a bluff. They have never built or owned a planet-killing weapon; I do not believe they are capable of doing so. Only you need know this. The Iftsen’s false weapon was stolen, but, if they believe its secret remains intact, they will replace it with something equally harmless, and lie about it equally well. And species like the Feneden are young enough to need a reason to respect the rights of others.”
Kearn stopped reading, awed by the trust this message implied, excited by its implications. He wondered again who could have sent it. Perhaps I’ve been noticed at last by someone high in the government, he told himself, dizzy with delight. A Deputy Minister—or better! With this information, combined with his own dream-driven insights, he had every chance to be successful tonight. He could save lives.
It wasn’t wrong to want more than that, Kearn assured himself. His superiors had been silent concerning his indiscretion with the Russell III. Finding Lefebvre had helped, but he’d known they were simply waiting to pounce. Maybe this message was a sign that, if he could pull the Feneden and Iftsen together, he could save his career at the same time.
“I am young as well, Lionel,” the message continued, confounding all his hopes and preconceptions at once. Who was this? Kearn asked himself, suddenly fearing the answer.
“I make mistakes, but when I do, I do my best to fix them. I believe I have made such a mistake in hiding from you. When you are ready to find me, I will be there. If you ever need me, I will come. Esen-alit-Quar.”
Kearn’s lips repeated the name without sound as the message faded and disappeared.
It hadn’t been a dream, after all.
“Mediator Kearn?”
Kearn started, only then aware he’d been sitting and staring at the now-empty cube long enough to have cramped his back. “Yes?” he said to the steward standing in his doorway, a young Human.
“The facilities await your inspection, Mediator Kearn. May I escort you?”
“I know the way, Steward,” Kearn said impatiently, his mind reeling with unexpected possibilities and equally unlooked-for disasters, finding it difficult to focus back on his task. “Let the decorators know I’ll be there in a moment.”
The steward hesitated. “What is it?” Kearn demanded.
The young Human colored, then smiled shyly. “I wanted to say, sir, I’ve admired you for years. I’ve followed your hunt for the Esen Monster in the newsmags—not that I think they’d carry all the real facts, sir. I wanted you to know, sir, that I believe in what you are doing. I hope you find it and kill it. You’ll save us all.”
It was Kearn’s turn to hesitate, overcome by a rush of pleasure as heady and uncontrolled as though some drug had flooded his veins. Fifty years, he thought, wildly. I’ve waited fifty years for this. “Thank you, Hom—”
“Cristoffen, sir. Michael Cristoffen.”
“I appreciate your zeal, Hom Cristoffen. Perhaps you’d consider applying as crew on my ship when you’ve completed your apprenticeship here.”
Kearn used one finger to tip the empty message cube into the recycle slot on the table.
“I can always,” he added, “use more true believers.”