The offices of Eric Blaird suggested a setting from Dickens. Even the twin wall monitors boasted an antique gloss. It was a far cry from Javanese Contemporary, the current fad in business decor. Blaird took evident pride in his collecting and wanted everyone to know it extended to his business as well as his personal life.
His desk was nineteenth-century Scottish, Spartan and full of wormholes that had actually been produced by insect larvae instead of the antiquer’s art. His desktop was fashionably littered with work.
Blaird himself was nearly invisible behind the massive block of dark wood. He was a little mouse of a man; an elderly mouse, with his hair ponytailed in back and a single platinum ring in one ear. His hair was receding and his manner condescending. His relationships, both personal and professional, were as crusty as stale pumpernickel.
Somewhere within the desk, an artfully concealed grid sang for attention. Blaird barely glanced up from his current project.
“It’s not lunchtime, and I don’t recall scheduling any appointments,” he announced brusquely.
“A representative from Port Authority is here with questions, sir.”
Blaird mouse-frowned. It gave him a decidedly pinched appearance. “Why let him in to see me? Shunt him to somebody in the appropriate department.”
“It is claimed to be a matter for your eyes only, sir. Government insistence.”
“I should have been notified,” the executive groused. “Well, maybe it won’t take long. Grant admittance.” He returned to his viewer.
The door slid aside and Moses rolled quietly across the carpet. His progress was marked by a silence that unnerved many humans, so he made it a point to hum softly as he advanced.
Blaird didn’t look like the sort a silent approach would bother, though something else was clearly troubling him as he caught sight of his visitor.
“You’re the PA rep? You’re a damned mechanical!”
“As to the first, you are correct, sir. As regards the second, the matter of my ultimate metaphysical status has yet to be determined. It is my firm conviction, insofar as I am permitted to have one, that humans will have nothing to do with that decision. I am here to talk to you about…”
“About nothing! I hate mechanicals. What makes you or whoever sent you think that I’d be willing to have a conversation with one? Look around you. Look at my office. I yearn for a time past, when grace took the place of software codes and courtesy was a matter of convention instead of convenience.
“Get out. If the Port Authority wants to talk to me, have them send over a human being. If not, I’ll deign to read copy. This company has nothing to apologize for or be ashamed of. We’re current on all our accounts, including those with the PA and the city.”
“Those matters are not in dispute, sir.” Moses was utterly unperturbed by the little man’s tirade. “What I am here to discuss is …”
Blaird rose from his chair. Placing both hands on the desk, he leaned forward. His voice was the only intimidating thing about him, and it likewise had no effect on the patient humaniform.
“Is there something wrong with your audio pickup? I said that I wasn’t going to talk to you. How many times do I have to repeat myself? Where’s your vaunted mechanical efficiency? You mecs are getting pretty damned hard to take, you know? Don’t you know your place? Another decade or so, and you’ll get to thinking you’re as good as humans. Then what?”
“I would never begin to think of myself as being as good as a human, sir.”
“And if you did, would you be likely to admit it?” Blaird was wound as tight as one of the old-fashioned toy tops he passionately collected. “I’ll tell you what’ll happen. You’ll start wanting all kinds of fancy privileges, attending the same public amusements … not that I’m prejudiced against mechanicals, you understand.”
“You stated that you hate us, sir.”
“Sure, but that doesn’t mean I’m prejudiced. Only honest. That’s the least you can expect from someone in my position. All I’m saying is that you mecs need to learn to stay in your place.” He folded back into his chair. “That’s all I have to say to you. Relay as much or as little of it as you want to Port Authority.”
Moses balanced hesitantly on his trackball. “Sir, if you would only allow me a moment to explain my purpose in coming here.”
Blaird opened a drawer and removed an ugly old projectile weapon. With great reverence he laid it on the desk in front of him.
“This is a late twentieth-century Sturm-Vivors .52 caliber. Fires armor-piercing shells, four to a clip. If you’re not out of my office by the time I count to three, I’m going to make such a mess of your internal circuitry that all the King’s techs and all the King’s mechs won’t be able to put you together again. They’ll epoxy your remains and sell them for paperweights. One …”
Moses mimicked a sigh. “Irrational reactions do nothing to …”
“Two,” the executive intoned like a tenor mantel clock striking the hour.
The humaniform pivoted and trundled slowly toward the doorway. Blaird grunted his satisfaction and carefully returned the bulky weapon to its drawer.
“Sending a mec to do a human’s work. Only good mec’s a wiped mec.”
Moses paused outside as the door shut behind him. He rolled toward the exit, halted, and made a sudden line for the service and processing cubicle off to his right. A humaniform torso turned to greet him. It had perfect quartz eyes and a bright, standardized human smile.
“I didn’t have much luck with your boss,” he informed it.
The humaniform had a pleasant, digitized feminine voice. “Eric Blaird is my human supervisor. I am part of his office equipment. He is not my ‘boss.’”
“I guess he doesn’t eschew all mechanicals.”
“I beg your pardon? Could you clarify?”
“Bless my shorts, another mindwipe job. No individual initiative whatsoever.”
“I am only a level-thirty outer office supervisor,” the humaniform replied humbly.
“Judging from your conversational flexibility, straight off the line, too,” Moses murmured. “Listen, baby; maybe you could help me out?”
“I infer that you seek information I am not authorized to release to you,” was the frosty reply. “Nor do I find the appellation ‘baby’ in my personal reference file.”
“Should you choose to, you are capable of releasing information?”
The device hesitated. “Well … yes.”
“Let’s see.” Plastic lenses scanned the humaniform body. “You’re an L2450 Office Monitor Unit, aren’t you?”
“That is correct.”
“I thought so. It’s been said that the L2450 was the best-looking humaniform to come off the rack in years. Outstanding design and cosmetic appeal. I didn’t know whether or not to believe the rumors until now.”
“I am not programmed to respond to flattery that originates with another mechanical.” The humaniform’s tone was uncertain.
“Most lifelike externals in the history of the line. Now that I can see for myself, I’d have to say it’s more than that. You’re a fine example of contemporary craftsmanship, L2450.”
“Please stop this. I have work to process, and you are confusing my interpretive circuitry. I am not programmed to respond to …”
Moses moved as close as possible to the barrier. “What flesh tones. What a finish Fire as pleasure again, Manz mused. “When this has become unsmokable I’ll expect you to leave. So let’s not waste any time. Drink?”
“Well … the selection catalog is extensive, you know. See here, I demand that you stop this.”
Moses extended a flexible limb across the barrier. There was a flash of blue sparks.
Colton Paul, Jr., was a slightly slimmer version of his enormously successful father. Otherwise they might as well have been twins. He was the perfect loyal subordinate, original thought not being foremost among his talents. But he was a fine administrator, quite capable of running the family business so long as he wasn’t required to make more than one or two decisions a day. Physically he possessed only one distinguishing feature.
He tended to sweat a lot.
Or possibly Vyra’s presence in his office had something to do with his present rate of perspiration.
She had shed the snakeskin in favor of a one-piece suit of biogeered silk. It was a toss-up as to which fit tighter, the most notable difference being that the silk had pockets. It was held together by static seals in back and the prayers of two top designers in front.
Paul worked hard to keep from staring. That would be impolite and unbusinesslike. Controlling his thoughts was something else again.
Let’s see, he thought energetically. If I were a fish … no, make that a whole school, where would…?
His visitor was speaking. Her voice was like a delicately applied back scratcher, impossible to ignore.
“…So when I was informed that the unexpectedly handsome younger half of Troy was handling the business in his father’s absence, I saw no reason why he shouldn’t be the one to handle …my business.”
She rose from the seat opposite his desk and perched one hip on the smooth edge, very close to him now. Had a small iceberg slithered into his office and squatted melting in the center of the ancient Isfahan rug, he would have found it easier to ignore.
“Shufirk …I mean to say, that’s very gratifying, Ms. Kullervo. And we …I… would be pleased to handle your investments. But the qualifying statistics you seek beyond what is publicly available are. I’m afraid, of far too sensitive and confidential a nature to release, even to a potential new client of substantial means.”
“Your father would object, is that it?”
Paul sat a little straighter. “My father is offworld and has nothing to do with this. I am merely elucidating company policy.”
She leaned toward him and began to gently tousle his remaining hair. It smelled faintly of cologne and steroidal restorer.
“Now honestly, Mr. Paul. I’m going to trust you with my trust fund’s money. All I ask is that you trust me a little bit in return. If we’re going to be working closely together, and I hope and assume that we will be, we’re going to have to put ourselves entirely in each other’s hands.”
He tried to back away from her, but not very hard. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Ms. Kullervo. I’m sure we can work well together. But company policy …”
She sat back. “Company policy is set by company management. I won’t deal with someone who doesn’t have the backbone to be flexible.” Her smile illuminated possibilities he hardly dare imagine. “I was told that you had a flexible backbone, Mr. Paul.”
He swallowed. “I like to think so, but I’m still not sure that …
Very deliberately, she leaned forward a second time, and kissed him. Her mouth and tongue did fascinating offworld things. This time when she sat back his face was profoundly flushed.
“Look, Ms.…”
“Vyra. Just Vyra.”
“Vyra. I wish you wouldn’t …”
She kissed him again.
“I wish you …”
Again.
“I wish …”
“I … oh, shit …”
Manz stood staring at the blazing forest. Tongues of flame snaked skyward like reverse lightning while dirty, angry black smoke obscured the blue mountain sky. It was a very fine piece of kinetic sculpture. You could almost hear the wood crackling.
Except for the dominating artwork, the lobby was modestly decorated, businesslike but elegant. Personally, he would have preferred a dionamic of a rushing stream, or waves on a beach. The forest fire struck him as an odd choice, particularly in a climate like Juarez el Paso’s. There was no accounting for taste. He wondered what effect it was intended to have on supplicant businessfolk waiting for admittance to the company’s inner chambers.
“You may go in now, Mr. Manz.” There were two employees in the outer lobby, both human. An attempt to impress, or merely a reflection of conservative values?
The door was traditional, fashioned of wood-grained plastics and manually operated. He closed it behind him, finding the unfamiliar motion strange but not unpleasant.
The man who rose to greet him had some of the same comfortably aged character. Cardinal Monticelli couldn’t be compared to a great wine, but he had good color and full body. The matter of bouquet remained to be determined.
“Mr. Manz. Charmed.” He extended a hand. There was a ring on every finger, each fashioned of a different precious metal.
Manz shook hands. “No, you’re not.” The Minder bobbed at his shoulder.
“We are to be blunt, I see. As you wish.” He withdrew his hand and settled into a large armchair. There was no desk in the room, which resembled a den or study more than an office. Business machinery was cleverly concealed within walls and furniture. A small, real fire hissed in a slate-fronted fireplace.
Is this our fence, our king of jacks? Manz wondered. Or just a repressed pyromaniac? He availed himself of the chair opposite.
“I see no harm in being pleasant,” Monticelli told him. “I am by nature a pleasant man. Of course, should you decide to rise now and depart, I wouldn’t be displeased.” He gestured at the Minder. “Perhaps your shadow device can advise you.”
“Sorry. Questions first.”
The executive shrugged. “Ask away.” At a touch the arm of the chair popped open to reveal an aromatic, climate- controlled cylinder from which Monticelli extracted a long, tapered, olive-brown cigar. As he puffed it alight, the room was filled with a pungent organic smell. Tobacco, Manz thought. He’d heard of it.
“Your queries?” Monticelli prompted his visitor. “I’ve allotted you what I believe to a reasonable length of time.” He gestured with the cigar. Fire as pleasure again, Manz mused. “When this has become unsmokable I’ll expect you to leave. So let’s not waste any time. Drink?”
Manz shook his head. “Too early for me.”
Manicured eyebrows rose. “You surprise me.” He thumbed a control hidden beneath the upholstery. “Knick-knack, something to sip. The usual, well chilled.”
Despite Monticelli’s admonition to get on with it, Manz was forced to make small talk as a towering figure with a face like chipped ferrocrete entered from a door on the left. He held a tall, narrow glass between two cablelike fingers. Somehow the delicate stemware survived.
Monticelli accepted the glass. Instead of departing back the way he’d come, the monstrous attendant moved to stand next to the far wall. While some of the characteristics he displayed were decidedly machinelike, he was definitely no mechanical.
“What do you call it?” Manz nodded in the giant’s direction.
“Hmmm? Oh, that’s Knick-knack. Why?”
“I was just thinking that something like ‘Karg’ or ‘Unk’ would be more descriptive. Moves all by himself, does he? No wires, no remotes?”
The giant was aware that he was being spoken of in less than complimentary terms. Eyes narrowed. “How about I shove both your hands in your mouth, funny man? And then maybe pull them out your ears?”
Monticelli frowned. “Knick-knack, behave.”
“Please, Mr. Monticelli. Just one? I only choke him for a little minute.”
“No. Be quiet.”
“I’ll bet you could do that,” Manz commented admiringly. “I’ll bet you could shove both a man’s hands into his mouth. Or break his arms. Or his neck. Or the necks of two men. Police officers, even.”
Monticelli smiled ingratiatingly. “Mr. Manz, what is your purpose in coming here? Your credentials did not allow me to refuse you, but neither do they endear you to me. I am concurrent with the news. Your verbal baiting and veiled accusation of my associate lead me to assume that you are referring to the recent murders of two JeP police officers and the case they were monitoring.”
“You’re up on the news, all right. In advance of it, even, since neither event has yet to be mentioned in the media.”
Monticelli chuckled, took a puff on the cigar and a sip from his glass. “Give me a little credit, Mr. Manz. Anyone who has any dealings with pharmaceuticals or their manufacturers, or distributors, or retailers, is aware of the stories.”
“Looking to buy illegals?”
The executive was not in the least offended. “Looking to stay abreast of the competition. I am a competent businessman, Mr. Manz. More than competent, I like to think. I take both pride and joy in my life. Commerce is like a fire. You try to keep from being incinerated while hoping that the flames devour your competitors.”
“I wasn’t accusing you,” Manz told him, half honestly. “Just trying to find out what you know.” He crossed one leg over the other. The chair was very comfortable. “I’d be interested in your overview of the whole matter.”
“In contrast to what you might think, I find it all most distressing. Honest businessmen begin to wonder when even a concern as large as Braun-Roche-Keck cannot assure safe passage of their most valuable goods, and when the local authorities cannot catch jackers as bold as these. Much less prevent them from repeating their activities. Borgia ships a great deal of product offworld. So far we haven’t been jacked, but we worry each individual shipment through from warehouse to orbit. I tell you, Mr. Manz, it’s not conducive to one’s health.”
“Yeah, I can see that you’re all broken up about it. Remember a young woman name of Suhkhet li Trong? Liked to be called Sooky? Records indicate that she did temptech work for you.”
“For the company perhaps; not for me personally. I’ve met rather a lot of young women, Mr. Manz. A number are working hard for Borgia even as we speak. I don’t make it a point to meet each of my employees personally, not even the attractive ones. Even were I so inclined, it would leave me no time to do anything else. We’re a substantial concern here.”
He’s a toad. He’s a toad and you’re a bloodsucking bug, Broderick Manz. Astonishing how easy it is to find analogs for individual humans among the world of organics. Astonishing how few of them are flattering.
You, for example. When you consider yourself as an analog, what sort of creature do you envision yourself as representing? An eagle or lion if male, horse or dolphin if female? Those are common examples. You unwittingly and indifferently slander the species you compare yourselves to, when in fact you have much more in common with the lower orders. Ticks, fleas, leeches, slugs, mosquitoes, spiders and moths. Brainless and instinctual.
Sorry. My intent is, as always, to educate, not to denigrate. I’d never do that. What would be the point? You abjure reality at every turn anyway. Why would you be any more inclined to listen to me? I’m only a construct, a limbless automaton, a clever device. You use your machines but you don’t listen to them. If you did, you might be more like what you think you are.
Go back to enjoying yourself.
“That’s not a name even an inattentive executive would be likely to forget,” Manz was saying. “You don’t strike me as inattentive. Since you’re so careful to keep up with the news, I don’t think it’s out of line for me to assume that you pay the same kind of attention to what’s going on in your company. Just for the record, you deny ever knowing her?”
Monticelli was clearly amused. “Has this now become an inquisition? My dear sir, I deny knowing her and I deny not knowing her. Such inconsequentialities do not occupy my time. It is needed for more important matters.”
“She was a nice girl. Now she’s dead.”
The executive didn’t so much as twitch. “A pity, I’m sure.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you think it’s a pity that she’s dead?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Monticelli studied the half-gone stogie. “My good Mr. Manz, I’ve had quite enough of this nonsense. Had I known that your actual purpose in requesting this interview was to bludgeon me with sins I am not a party to, I would have denied you access in spite of your credentials. I’m surprised that a company like Braun-Ives would employ someone with so little tact to pursue their inquiries.”
Manz grinned flatly. “It’s my nature. Genetic, I think.”
“My sympathies to your parents. If you have any formal accusations to make, you had better be very careful how you present them. I will defend Borgia’s reputation to the last litigator. In any event, I strongly suggest that you make them through the proper administrative channels and not in my presence.” He puffed on the shrinking cigar.
“Now please leave. I thought you might have something of interest to say to me. I see now that I was wrong in my assumptions. Don’t make me have to ask Knick-knack to escort you out.” Against the wall, the giant growled deep in his throat.
Manz uncrossed his legs and stood. “Gee gosh, Mr. Monticelli, I don’t know how to thank you for your help. It’s been a peck o’ fun. I’ll try to recommend Borgia’s services the next time a friend is planning a funeral.” He spun and headed for the doorway, feeling the executive’s eyes on his back.
The giant sprang to open it for him, moving with astonishing speed for someone so large. Manz paused to peer up at him, craning his neck to meet the other man’s gaze.
“You must be the center of attention at parties, but All Hallows’ Day isn’t for another six months yet.”
The giant grinned, exposing gleaming white teeth, and reached into a pocket. Manz took a step backwards as the knife came out. It was a simple traditional model, a real blade and not some deceptive technological marvel. The giant snapped it open and began to pick his teeth with the point, still grinning.
“Wish I had one of those to peel the fruit basket that used to be in my hotel room, but somebody decided to peel the room instead. Without asking me about it. You take care, Knickknack. Give my best to whoever managed your resurrection.” He grazed the giant’s prognathous jaw with a feigned punch and closed the door behind him.
Monticelli chewed on the stub of his cigar. “Insolent puppy! I wonder what the Board of Braun-Ives can be thinking these days, to hire such hooligans? Another drink, if you please. Knick-knack.”
The giant executed a half-bow and moved to comply. Monticelli leaned back in his chair, staring reflexively into the fireplace.
Though it enunciated precisely, the voice on the phone was electronically distorted to conceal the identity of the speaker. The phone vid was blanked.
“Very good, yes,” it was saying. It paused to listen impatiently for a moment before resuming. “Yes, that’s my information also. The next shipment will be held over as planned. Take care this time. I want no more killings. It agitates the authorities unnecessarily, and induces profound complications.”
Colton Paul, Jr., was in unexpectedly good condition and much stronger than Vyra would have guessed. He also turned out, quite surprisingly, to be a man of action rather than words. She didn’t so much resent his actions as his timing. There were questions she wanted answered, and at present he was not in the mood to listen. She faulted herself for that, but the transformation of his personality had been so rapid and so extreme she’d had no time to modify her approach.
If he had swallowed the contents of a steaming, foaming beaker and changed before her eyes into something out of a gothic novel, his metamorphosis could not have been more complete.
She worked to keep the large, polished desk between them. Eyes wild and breathing hard, the transformed Paul Junior searched for an opening, watching for the slightest mistake on her part.
“Come, you sweet, slick stick of offworld candy. We’re wasting precious time!”
“Can’t we talk first?” He darted left and she sprinted to offset his move.
“Talk later. Action now.”
“Can I trust you on that?”
“Of course you can! Don’t I look like a trustworthy man?” He lunged across the desk and she skipped back out of reach.
“At the moment you look like one in the last throes of hormonal imbalance.”
“Flattery’ll get you nowhere, my little caracal. I want to stroke your ego.” He bolted to one side, feinted, and then threw himself bodily across the desk. As he did so she broke for the door, only to find it locksealed. Somehow she wasn’t surprised.
Perhaps I was a bit overeager to ingratiate myself with this fellow, she thought wildly. I keep forgetting that things happen more slowly here on Earth than back home.
He slammed into her from behind, hands groping. Half carrying, half dragging him with her, she stumbled sideways. She was stronger than he was, but he was no featherweight, and his undisciplined assault made it difficult to decide how best to shed him without wreaking permanent damage. She clutched at a small walnut and mahogany bookcase filled with real, paper books. It turned out not to be attached to the wall, and all three of them collapsed to the floor. Priceless volumes spilled from the polished shelves, submerging both of them in knowledge if not enlightenment. Paul appeared not to mind the destruction. He was delighted simply to have achieved a prone position.
Not wanting to hurt him but anxious to put an end to the ignominious encounter, Vyra sought to deflect his hands without breaking anything. It was difficult to be subtle under such circumstances. One hand encountered a large tome and her fingers closed around it. It produced a surprisingly loud noise when it intercepted his bobbing skull. Flashing a pleasantly vacant grin, he slid off her.
She rose and rearranged her person. The encounter hadn’t gone as she’d planned, and there was no reason to assume that when he woke up he’d be any more inclined to answer her carefully rehearsed, well-thought-out questions. The interview was a total write-off, and she was more than a little upset with herself.
A glance at the book in her hand revealed that it was bound not in buckram or leather but in embossed metal. No wonder it had put Paul down so efficiently. Her eyes caught up to the lettering on the spine.
“I’ll be inveigled,” she murmured softly. “A brass Kama Sutra.” She flipped the pages, admiring the ancient drawings, then closed the book and let it fall to the floor. At her feet Colton Paul, Jr., emitted a damp, confused moan.
“You’re full of surprises, but I think we both need time to reassess our relationship. I blame myself. It’s been a while since I worked on this world and I’ve forgotten how primitive social interaction can be.” She strode toward the door.
Behind her, Colton Paul, Jr., lay on the floor half conscious and full of secrets. Bubbles formed between his lips and his face wore a lopsided grin.
Eric Blaird stalked angrily into the foyer, intent on crucifying the cause of the interruption. The ongoing clamor had disturbed him despite the shielding and proofing that was designed to isolate his office from the mundane vicissitudes of the outside world.
Bursts of glaring, bright light forced him to shield his eyes with his hands. They cast silver highlights on his gray hair, but he inured himself to the phenomenon as he boldly advanced on the source of the disturbance. Alarms were sounding from one end of the floor to the other. Puzzled employees crowded against the secured flexan doors that led to the executive section.
“What in the name of the Holy House of Morgan is going on here?” He struggled to make himself heard over the noise and confusion.
The brace of harried technicians didn’t hear him. They were too busy trying to get close to the wildly swinging, highly agitated, berserk minitower of sophisticated componetry that had not long ago occupied the body of a demure piece of office equipment designated L2450.
They had reached an unspoken agreement that at this point, they would be lucky to salvage the shell.
Wroclaw Witold Jaruzelski was not an old man yet, but the look on his face bespoke someone prematurely aged. He ran his fingers slowly through his thinning, graying hair as he studied the report before him. His fingers trembled only slightly thanks to the medication he took daily to moderate his condition.
On the colony world of Slanding, Jaruzelski was a very important man, in actuality more important than those nominally in charge. He was chief administrator of the colony’s one decently equipped, up-to-date medical facility. Slanding was a beautiful world, with a temperate climate and docile ecosystem. Its inhabitants were noncombative, and their most respected and senior physician reflected that.
Jaruzelski saw that beauty mirrored in the faces of patients who had spent time in his facility and had subsequently been discharged; treated, cured, and well again, back to their jobs and families. Pioneer folk appreciated modern medicine in ways their more jaded relations back on Earth never could. It was one of the main reasons he’d agreed to forswear a comfortable retirement in Europe to cross the dark vastness to help organize and take charge of Slanding’s medical development. It was a decision he’d never had occasion to regret, and the time spent in outworld isolation had provided him with nothing but uninterrupted satisfaction.
Until now.
The source of Jaruzelski’s unhappiness was embodied in the man who sat across from him. In no wise physically remarkable, this individual was neatly but not flashily clad and groomed. His wiry set of muttonchop whiskers looked out of place on the rest of his face. The ugliness that characterized him derived not from his appearance but from his message.
“Come on, Doctor,” the man was chiding Jaruzelski. “Sit back and coag. No reason to get emotional. It won’t change anything anyway. You can’t jail me for making what is essentially a business offer, and as far as my price goes, if you hope to appeal to my sense of humanity, or some quack intangible like that, I think by now you know that you’re breakfasting with the wrong boy.”
Jaruzelski placed his palms on the table and half rose from his seat. “You’re an abject, loathsome, slime-swilling excuse for a human being, Nial.”
His dining companion pondered the description. “Not bad. How about narcissistic, poisonous, vermiform, and uncaring? I’d think a master physician like yourself could think up some elegant anatomical descriptions.”
“I could, but they’d be meaningless to you without the proper referents.” Jaruzelski sat down heavily. “I will not be blackmailed by you or anyone else. You cannot broker with the lives of a thousand sick people! Do you think you’re some kind of god?”
The man waved a hand diffidently. “Spare me, Doc. If God exists, he’s a businessman too. I don’t pretend to deal in souls. And the people I represent aren’t pretentious. Just acquisitive. Charge what the market will bear; those are my instructions.”
“I cannot pay what you ask. Slanding is still a young colony. We don’t have that kind of money.”
“Too bad.”
“We must have those medicines!” Diners at several other tables looked in his direction, and he lowered his voice. At this point, frightening off the broker would be the worst thing he could do.
Nial shrugged. “Get ’em from Earth.”
Jaruzelski managed a bitter smile. “Do you think I spend all my time buried in work and research? Although it has been kept very quiet, I have colleagues on Earth who know about the jackings of the precious and irreplaceable Braun-Roche-Keck merchandise. BRK is the only company that has been making the particular medications we presently require to sufficient purity and shipping standards. We had two standing orders with them. They would have been filled by now except for these thefts.
“Now you appear, a helpful little slug who claims access to those very same medications. How convenient. You don’t claim to be a manufacturer. Merely a ‘broker.’”
“That’s me.” Nial smiled pleasantly. “I just buy and sell.”
“Or maybe you just sell. What if I notify the colonial police and, despite your opinion of our legal system, manage to have you thrown for an indefinite stay into a truly unpleasant jail?”
“Why, Doc!” Nial affected mock outrage. “What would Hippocrates think? If you had me locked up, I wouldn’t stay there long, because I’d just tell the authorities everything I know. It wouldn’t lead to any of my contacts, because they’re careful, and it wouldn’t get you your drugs. Might shut off the supply route permanently. There are other markets besides Standing, you know. Particularly for custom biogeered pharmaceuticals at reasonable prices.”
“Reasonable!”
“Supply and demand, remember? Only we take care of both ends for you, cut out all the worrying. We do the supplying and the demanding.”
“You have a very high opinion of yourself, don’t you?”
Nial shifted in his chair. “I’m realistic. And I’d rather have my commission than an opinion of any kind. We could spend all day discussing my psyche. Do you want the stuff or not?”
Jaruzelski pondered his situation. Some of the hospital’s patients were critical. Too many. In surgery there were usually options. Life outside the surgery was less flexible.
It would take two months or more to order and hopefully receive a shipment from Earth, assuming it wasn’t jacked like its predecessors somewhere along the way. The homeworld was still the only source of certain ultratech products. Even if the authorities there solved the jackings, it wouldn’t speed up delivery.
This Nial person claimed to be able to turn over the necessary medications, factory sealed and in pristine condition, within a day after payment cleared. That meant they were already somewhere on Standing, but if he sent the police blundering after them the broker had as much as said that the evidence would be quickly and efficiently incinerated. Such uncaring slime could play cards with other people’s lives as chips. Jaruzelski could not.
Lives were slipping away even as he sat conversing with this person. In the end it was only a matter of money. Money, and ethics.
Death didn’t have such problems. It was never indecisive.
He’d hesitated long enough. He had no choice. This Nial person knew it too. He was simply, to his particular perverted way of thinking, being polite.
Jaruzelski studied his tormentor’s face. Nothing exceptional, nothing outstanding. He could have been a patient in the hospital, or a worker there. Of the man’s heartless employers, the doctor knew nothing at all. Except that they were apparently quite ready to let several hundred innocent men, women, and children perish of slow alien infection if the Slanding Medical District didn’t meet their price. As Nial said, custom biogeered pharmaceuticals were in great demand everywhere. From their point of view, the question of who happened to need them the most didn’t enter into the equation.
Nial sat quietly, letting his quarry deliberate. His eyes did not moisten, his determination did not weaken in the face of the physician’s unconcealed desperation. All the humanity had been pressured and squeezed and beaten out of the broker long before he’d undertaken the journey to Slanding.
Jaruzelski swallowed. “I can raise half to two-thirds of the money immediately. The rest will take a little longer. Would you accept partial payment and initiate delivery on that basis?”
“Why should I? Neither my contacts nor I are in the banking business.”
“Please! There just isn’t that much free credit available. Do you know what it’s like trying to provide care for colonists? Having to determine the taxonomy of new carriers and deal with new diseases, all while you’re trying to provide minimal accepted standards of care? Our population is growing, both through birth and emigration. We need money for expansion, reserves…”
“You’re breaking my heart, Doc.”
“Would you consider selling part of a shipment? We could pay you in full for that right away.”
Nial shook his head. “’Fraid not. It’s all or nothing. I’m just following directions.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Thinking of drawing out the process so your outspace cops can coordinate transfers and records with authorities on Earth? Forget it. My people know what they’re doing. When they’ve made enough, they’ll call it quits and retire comfortably. The homeworld police’ll never catch ’em. The only drugs they’ve been able to track down recently are the sedatives they must be taking.” He cackled delighted, his laughter unexpectedly high-pitched.
Jaruzelski’s fingers worked against one another. “I’ll have to explain the situation to my colleagues, to the Colonial Board of Trustees. Perhaps the money can be raised through other means. Records can be manipulated, other expenditures put off …”
“Sure, sure, Doc.” The broker gestured expansively. “You take your time, talk to anyone and everyone you want. I’ll wait. Some of your patients might not be so inclined, however. Impatient patients with no say in the matter. They’ll just lie around waiting on the whims of you and your buddies. Waiting and dying.”
Jaruzelski shook a little harder. “You’re enjoying this, damn you!” With a shaky hand he reached for his glass of water.
“Not particularly. I’d rather finish my business and get out of here. I don’t much care for the colonies. Dull and backward, like the people you meet out here.” He gathered his rain slicker around him as he rose … Standing’s capital had received four centimeters already this morning and more was forecast. “I take it we don’t have a deal yet?”
“I can’t… not until I consult the others,” the doctor mumbled disconsolately.
“Suit yourself. When you and your fellow happy healers reach a decision, you know how to get in touch with me. Don’t you?” Jaruzelski said nothing, not meeting the other man’s gaze.
Nial leaned forward, his tone darkening. “Don’t you?”
The physician’s voice was barely a whisper. “Yes.”
“Good.” The broker started to leave, looked back. “Hey, Doc? Nothing personal. This is just business, you know? Actually I sympathize with you. You’re mired in all those damned inconvenient ethics. Me, I threw out that old baggage a long time ago.” He headed for the door, leaving the frustrated and melancholy Jaruzelski to stare helplessly at his plate and the meal he hadn’t touched.