THE DARK-HAIRED YOUNG woman in the front seat turned as Nathaniel and Sylvia settled into the back of the groundcar.
“Anne-Leslie, these are the professors,” said Bagot, turning as well. “This is Anne-Leslie Hume.”
“Nathaniel Whaler, and this is Sylvia Ferro-Maine.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” offered Sylvia.
“I saw you at Madame Evanston’s, but…I was busy, and I did want to make sure GB got something to eat.”
As Bagot eased the groundcar out onto the highway toward Lanceville, a groundlorry rumbled by in the twilight headed westward.
“He’s in a rush,” observed Bagot. “Probably wants to get home.”
Nathaniel wondered.
“What’s Faro’s like?” asked Sylvia.
“It’s nice.” Anne-Leslie wore a dark green jumpsuit and a white scarf. “I’ve been there once or twice—with the family. You can get things besides fish and algae, and Faro has his own still, where he makes his own stout and beer—his brother is a small grower way south. They say that he makes more by growing barley for Faro than what the big growers pay for beans.” She looked at Sylvia, almost asking if she’d said too much.
“What have you eaten there that you liked?” asked Sylvia. “Is there anything especially good?”
“I don’t know as there’s…well…they say that the pork changa is good, and I liked it.”
Nathaniel laughed good-naturedly. “I cannot say I’ve ever heard of pork changa. This sounds like an adventure. Might you enlighten me?”
“Stop sounding like an economist,” teased Sylvia.
“But that is what—”
“Not tonight.” Sylvia smiled indulgently and looked at Anne-Leslie. “I haven’t heard of it either, but it sounds good.”
“It is. It’s all wrapped up in a crust, covered with real cream sauce, and filled with just about everything—peppers and seasoned pork and onions…”
As they entered Lanceville, a second lorry roared by, once more shivering the old groundcar.
“Can you drive by the piers on the way to Faro’s?” asked Nathaniel. “Not stop. Just drive by?”
“Sure, professor. That will only take an extra couple of units. Lanceville’s not exactly huge.” After a moment, Bagot added, “If I might ask, sir…?”
“I wonder whether something’s being unloaded at the port.”
The two in the front exchanged glances, but neither spoke.
“Can’t you ever stop the economics?” asked Sylvia, squeezing Nathaniel’s hand reassuringly, even as she let out a long sigh.
“I will try. After the harbor, I will try.”
“Try harder,” suggested Sylvia in a wry tone.
A faint smile creased Anne-Leslie’s lips.
“How about desserts?” asked Sylvia.
“I like their chocolate rum tort,” said Bagot.
Anne-Leslie shook her head. “You would.”
“That means it is strong and large,” suggested Nathaniel.
The young woman in the front seat nodded emphatically.
Bagot turned onto the harbor drive and slowed the groundcar. “Do you need me to stop?”
All three harbor piers were lit, and two held tugs and barges. A third tug, pushing a high-riding barge, appeared to be steaming seaward. On the two piers, loaders lifted a variety of crates onto waiting groundlorries. Four other lorries waited at the foot of the empty center pier.
“No. That will do. They do what they do, and—”
“Enough,” said Sylvia firmly, a glint in her eye.
“Thank you, Bagot. Let’s go eat.”
“Thank you, honored economist and professor,” said Sylvia.
Faro’s was less than a kilo from the harbor—in what looked to be a converted store. The windows were blocked with dark, louvered interior shutters, and the floor was a polished gray stone.
After stepping into an atmosphere of muted incense, spices, and cooking oil, the four waited a moment. Most of the nearly twenty tables were taken.
A heavyset woman wearing a floor-length full maroon skirt and an orange blouse scurried toward them. “Four? We have a large booth…”
“That’s fine,” said Nathaniel.
The booth was lit, dimly, by a hanging ceramic oil lamp that shed almost as much smoke as light. The two Ecolitans took the seats with their backs to the wall.
After checking the menu, and tentatively deciding on the pork changa, Nathaniel turned to Bagot. “You grew up here, and your father worked for the Port Authority. My father was a datamanager, and the last thing I ever wanted to do was manage data. How did you end up at the same place?”
“I guess I never thought about it that way.”
“What would you gentles like to drink?” asked the server, a slightly thinner version of the hostess.
“A glass of Kenward,” said Sylvia.
“I’ll try that,” added Anne-Leslie.
“Stout,” said Bagot.
“Grawer.”
“Soon as I get those, I’ll take your order.” With a snap of her head she was gone.
“That’s…you know…?” offered Anne-Leslie.
Bagot frowned.
“Susanna…the one…”
“Right oh. I didn’t recognize her.”
“I’ll bet you were one of those boys who drooled after her.”
Bagot flushed.
“Be easy on him,” said Nathaniel. “We all make mistakes.”
“Like that blond one in New Augusta?” asked Sylvia with a broad smile.
Nathaniel winced.
Anne-Leslie and Bagot laughed.
“Here you are.” Susanna set two wineglasses, a tumbler, and a mug down on the brown synthcloth. “And what would you like tonight? The special’s sea-grilled baskmod.”
“Would you suggest the pork changa or the house pie?” asked Sylvia.
“They’re both good. Depends on how spicy you like things. The pork’s pretty spicy.”
“The house pie.”
“Pork changa” came from Anne-Leslie, and then Bagot.
“The same,” added Nathaniel.
“You were saying how you ended up at the Port Authority,” prompted Sylvia, after a moment of silence following the server’s departure.
“Jem wanted me to be a rover, said he could get me on at R-K. It never grabbed me. There was talk about opening a branch of the University of Camelot here, but it didn’t happen. Pa said the growers were against it…” The younger man looked at the glass of stout, then sipped it.
The Ecolitan refrained from wincing at the thought of drinking anything alcoholic and warm.
Susanna dropped a longish basket of bread on the table, barely hesitating as she passed, and Nathaniel offered it to Sylvia, then to Anne-Leslie.
“I imagine growing up here was difficult,” said Sylvia, looking toward the younger woman.
“We were pretty lucky, I guess. Better off than some.” Anne-Leslie sipped the Kenward. “It’s better now, a little anyway. I can remember the year everything came out of plasticpaks.”
“After the tox-rain?” Bagot shook his head and looked down at his stout, then took a quick swallow, almost draining it.
“I’m sorry,” apologized the younger woman.
“It happened. Can’t change that.”
Nathaniel and Sylvia exchanged quick glances.
“I walked by the school the other day. Was that the one you attended?” asked the older Ecolitan.
“Same one. Both Anne-Leslie and I went there. That’s the only one there is, really, here on ConOne. Never got away with much, not after Ma started working there.” Bagot laughed.
“It sounds like your mother didn’t let you get away with much anywhere.”
“She still works there, and she still doesn’t.”
“So…you went to school there, and then you went to work at the port.”
“They owed him that, what with his father,” interjected Anne-Leslie.
“How did your father end up with the Port Authority?” asked Sylvia gently.
Bagot looked at Anne-Leslie, then at Nathaniel, who sipped the too-strong Grawer.
“He was with the Fusiliers, the Green and Tans. That’s what Ma says, anywise. Pa never would talk about it. After New Avalon took Hibernia, they offered him…’ cause he was such a good pilot, I guess, they offered him a job anywhere he wanted except Hibernia.” Bagot hurried another swallow of stout.
Nathaniel had the feeling that someone other than Bagot would be driving the groundcar.
“Here you go, gentles, and a good go it is!” Susanna spread the plates around the table, then set a small dish at each plate filled with a scoop of something. “And there’s your pinko.” She looked at Bagot’s empty glass.
The younger man nodded.
“What might be pinko?” asked Nathaniel after the server left.
“It’s a kind of local sherbet, some mutated raspberries, and it tastes pretty good.” Bagot snorted. “One of the few things besides cattle that taste good, and pinko’s the only one that’s cheap.”
In the lull after Susanna provided another glass of stout to Bagot and as they began to eat, Nathaniel picked up fragments of conversation at the adjoining table.
“…sure he’s the young fellow from the port…other one might be his brother…”
“Too tall…Bagots are short…”
“…new to me…”
The pork changa was mild, and the Ecolitan wondered. “Is the house pie…lightly seasoned?”
“Bland,” murmured Sylvia.
He offered her some of the pork.
“That’s good,” she murmured after eating a mouthful.
He took a small spoonful of the pink sherbet and had another. “The changa’s quite good, and so is the pinko,” he announced loudly. “A good recommendation.” He nodded to Anne-Leslie. “A good recommendation.”
The young woman flushed slightly.
“How do you find working for the Evanstons?” asked Sylvia quickly.
“Madame Evanston is easy to work for. She tells me what she wants, how she wants it done, and, if I don’t know, how to do it.” Anne-Leslie smiled. “The best parts are that unless I mess up, she leaves me alone, and the food is good and free, and there’s plenty. Sometimes, she’ll even send some home with me. And clothes for the little ones.”
Sylvia looked at the younger woman inquiringly.
“Martha-Elizabeth and Laura-Olivia…they’re the youngest. Clothes out of anything but synthcloth are still hard to come by.”
“The big growers don’t like sheep. I heard tell that there’s a small herd on ConTrio, but that wool doesn’t get here.” Bagot took another swallow of the stout and finished the second glass, holding it up for a refill. “Nothing gets here.”
“Another?” asked Susanna, sweeping by and taking the glass.
“Another.”
Anne-Leslie glanced at Bagot, but the younger man avoided her eyes.
“It seems like things are improving somewhat,” began Nathaniel. “The Blue Lion is being redecorated and refurbished.”
“It looks nice,” said Anne-Leslie, “but they don’t pay very well.”
“Your stout,” announced the server, setting it in front of Bagot. “Would anyone like dessert?”
“The rum cake,” said Bagot.
“The nut cake,” added Anne-Leslie.
“I think I’ll pass,” said Sylvia.
“I also.” Nathaniel knew, again, that too much food was tightening his trousers.
“I still can’t believe you drooled after her,” commented Anne-Leslie after the server disappeared into the kitchen area.
“It was…a long time…ago.” Bagot took another hefty swallow of the warm stout.
“You were saying that the Blue Lion does not pay well,” prompted Nathaniel, recalling the disappointed waiter there.
“No. I looked there.”
“No one pays well on Artos, ’cept the Port Authority,” added Bagot.
“They only hire men.” Anne-Leslie’s eyes glinted.
Bagot looked down into his half-full glass.
Susanna dropped the two deserts before the two younger diners. “Need anything else?”
“Just the bill, if you wouldn’t mind,” said Nathaniel quietly.
The server nodded, then slipped the paper oblong onto the table.
After she left, Nathaniel asked, “Did you know Helverson very well?”
Bagot swallowed a large mouthful of the dark cake before answering. “Didn’t know him…mush…at all. The chief…said he was a former grenadier, special services…” Bagot looked up and offered a wide and sloppy grin. “Just for you…” The grin slowly faded.
Anne-Leslie’s hand went to her mouth.
“That’s all right,” said Sylvia. “We thought that might be the case. He’s one of the few not born here on Artos, right?”
“Thass…right. You…win the prize, professor.” Bagot slowly ate another bite. “Good…cake…good…food…”
Abruptly, Bagot grinned even wider, and then put his head on the table, right beside the remnants of the chocolate rum cake.
“GB…oh, GB.”
“Perhaps we should go.” Nathaniel rose.
Sylvia nodded.
After paying the check and including enough for a tip, Nathaniel simply lifted the slight form of Bagot right out of his chair and carted him to the groundcar.
“What will happen to him?” asked Anne-Leslie as Whaler eased the limp figure into the backseat beside her.
“Not a thing. Because he didn’t say anything at all. Not that I heard,” said Nathaniel.
“You planned this.” The young woman looked from one Ecolitan to the other.
“No. He only had three glasses of stout. I had no idea he was that sensitive to alcohol. The only thing we planned was to get him to talk about Artos.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Yes, it does,” said Sylvia while Nathaniel shut the door and slipped behind the wheel. “People who live someplace take their world for granted. You need stories about friends, family, little things that happen to get a better view.”
“That’s what Madame Evanston says…but you’re professors.”
Nathaniel wanted to slam his forehead. The term “madame” finally registered, and he knew what his subconscious had been trying to tell him about Vivienne Evanston. She had to be Frankan.
“We have a study to do,” said Sylvia. “In the end, economics is about people, and the numbers don’t make sense without knowing about people. Professor Whaler spent most of a day just walking through Lanceville, looking and listening.”
“Oh…”
Nathaniel eased the car into the street. “Where should we drop you off?”
“No,” said Sylvia. “I think we should drop GB off first—if Anne-Leslie can show us where.”
Nathaniel nodded. “Fine. GB first.” That made sense, especially given how worried the young woman was.
“We don’t live that far apart, really. GB still lives with his family. So do I.”
“In town here?”
“Yes. Three streets ahead, turn left.”
“That’s a long bicycle ride out to Madame Evanston’s. I assume you ride,” said Nathaniel.
“I do, but it’s flat and easy, and in the morning it’s cool. If they have a big party or something, I stay there for the night.”
“It’s another five long blocks to his house.” Anne-Leslie turned in the seat and glanced down at Glubb Bagot. “Are you sure he’ll be all right?”
“He’ll be fine.” Sylvia reached back and touched her shoulder. “Except for a splitting headache.”
Nathaniel concentrated on driving the heavy antique, following Anne-Leslie’s intermittent directions.
The small boxy house was like all the others on the street, brick with a red tile roof and a small stone stoop.
Nathaniel lifted the snoring form from the rear seat and headed up the low step.
“Oh…what happened? Is he all right?” The gray-haired woman with the lined face wore faded trousers and a shirt—clean—that was gray from too many washings.
“He should be fine, except for a headache. He drank three glasses of stout too quickly,” explained Nathaniel, as he followed Bagot’s mother into the front room.
“Best you put him on the sofa there.”
“Tell him I’m sorry, but I’ll bring the groundcar to the Port Authority in the morning.”
“The Port Authority in the morning?”
The Ecolitan nodded, then stepped outside and walked swiftly back to the groundcar. “And now you, young woman.”
“Turn left at the corner.”
Bagot’s dinner partner lived just south of the main highway that bisected Lanceville.
“Thank you for dinner,” said Anne-Leslie as Nathaniel pulled up outside another square brick dwelling. “I’m sorry…about GB. It’s just that…”
“We’re sorry,” said Sylvia. “We certainly didn’t mean…”
“No…you wouldn’t know. I didn’t know.” She flashed a warm smile. “I’ll check on him on the way to work.” With that, she slipped from the groundcar and walked swiftly to the darkened door of the house and inside.
“So…what have we found out?” asked Sylvia as they pulled away from the boxy brick house where they had left Anne-Leslie.
“Helverson was there to protect us, and Walkerson was probably ordered to ensure we finished our study. Walkerson’s ambivalent about it, because he’s worried that Helverson might be checking on him as well.”
“Do we really know that?”
“No. That’s a guess, but Walkerson was more upset about the lost equipment than about Helverson, and Helverson was one of the few recent arrivals from New Avalon—if not the only one.”
“Sebastion’s moving heavy equipment out to the ranch—military stuff?” asked Sylvia.
“That’s a guess, but it’s probably either that or construction equipment that could be used as such.” Nathaniel turned the groundcar back to the south at the next cross street.
“Ah…”
“I want to drive by Kennis’s armory. Or what I think is an armory.”
“You are worried.”
“Yes.”
Nathaniel let his breath out slowly when he saw that, except for the entry, the LN building was dark. “We’ve got some time.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know. Days at least. Maybe weeks.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Stop a Galactic war…somehow.”
“From a backwater colony planet? With an economic study?”
“Not just from here. Tomorrow we need to plan when to leave for New Avalon. We don’t want to be on an Avalonian ship or a Fuardian one, and I’d really not want to travel on a Halstani vessel either.”
“My…aren’t we picky.”
“Picky?” Nathaniel eased the groundcar back onto the main highway heading for the Guest House.
“I’m sorry. But you’re doing it again. This is like New Augusta. You spew forth all of this and expect me to follow along.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, but I suppose it sounds that way.” He took a deep breath. “All right. There’s a civil war—or a rebellion—brewing. Everything points that way. I can’t prove it, but I’d bet on it.” He laughed harshly. “In fact, I am. Our lives probably. Artos can’t produce the resources necessary to fight such a war, nor enough productive equipment, but I’d guess they’re here somewhere, and they didn’t come from New Avalon. They also have an oversized bean conversion facility that produces too much liquid fuel, but prices remain high, and that doesn’t happen if there’s a true surplus.”
“Fuel and energy for combat vehicles?”
“That’s another guess. And someone has been shipping them in, probably to both Kennis and the R-K bunch.”
“I see.” Sylvia’s voice was low in the darkened car. “That means some outside interest wants to create a civil war, and then use it as a pretext to take Artos. New Avalon has been feeling the pinch for a long time and doesn’t want to plough any more capital investment into Artos, and because they don’t, that’s created the opportunity.”
“I’m guessing, but that’s what I see. Oh…and I’d bet that Vivienne is Frankan, and that she’s still got ties there. That just dawned on me.”
“You didn’t realize that?”
“No.”
“So who’s behind this civil war?”
“I wish I knew. We’ve seen traces of the Federated Hegemony, the Frankan Union, and the Conglomerate.” Nathaniel shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d bet it isn’t the Franks, but I couldn’t say why. Then, my guesses aren’t doing that well now. I do know that we have to get to New Avalon before it blows. Am I being too obscure?”
“No. Although, for an economist, dear, you certainly get involved in some interesting situations.”
That wasn’t the half of it, not even half, he feared.