Chapter Twelve

Journal #829

After the rust and incipient riot of Rot’n’art, Hix’s World came as a breath of fresh air quite literally: air quality standards were written directly into the Settlers’ Bill of Rights—in effect, the planetary constitution—by the members of the first colonization. Any device or organism known to emit any of 253 listed noxious gases or any of 728 listed noxious particles in atmospheric suspension was subject to confiscation without appeal. Noise regulations were equally stringent; certain musical instruments were officially contraband unless accompanied by a certificate of performance proficiency from a recognized institution of musical education. Any performer not so certified was subject to expulsion from the planet.

What was remarkable about Hix’s World wasn’t the existence of the regulations—after all, any competent lawyer can probably think of dozens of equally stringent legal provisions around the Alliance. Nor was the total ruthlessness with which they were enforced especially odd; again, almost every society has at some time pursued a “zero tolerance” policy regarding some practice it frowns upon. No, what set Hix’s World apart was the lack of dissent from the standards its original settlers had imposed upon the populace. Some ten generations after the settlement, the only changes in the environmental standards of Hix’s World have been their extension to irritants unknown at the time of founding.

Surprisingly, the result of all this thicket of regulation is one of the most tranquil worlds on which I have ever set foot.

* * *

“All right, we know she’s here,” said Sushi. “So Beeker has to be here too.” He and Do-Wop sat on the low stone wall to one side of the footpath on which they’d been going into town when Nightingale—or someone who looked a great deal like her—rode past them on a bicycle. They’d dashed off in pursuit of her, but she’d had far too long a head start for them to catch her—though they’d certainly tried. And, whether she simply didn’t hear them or deliberately ignored them, their attempts to get the cyclist to stop had failed.

Do-Wop scowled. “Maybe you’re right, Soosh. But the way she was riding that thing, there’s no tellin’ where she’s going. Could be miles from here.”

“Could be,” said Sushi. “But she was coming from Crumpton, which either means she’s staying there—and will be back, probably later today. Or it could be she’s staying someplace else close by and was headed there. In which case, we’ve got a larger area to search …”

“I bet she’s still in town,” said Do-Wop, pointing in the direction in which Nightingale had gone. “Too early in the day for her to ride in, go shopping, and be done already.”

Sushi shook his head. “It’s after ten o’clock, you know—you may like to sleep all morning, but not everybody else does. She could’ve gotten up early …”

Do-Wop cut him short. “Ahhh, you think you know everything, but you don’t know how women shop,” he scoffed. “Woman goes shoppin’ for soap, she’s gotta look at every bar of soap in three different stores. Not just look at it—she’s gotta smell it, and heft it, and look at the color, and read the label, and compare the price, and talk to five, six other people about what kinda soap they like, and then go back to all the other stores again to look at their soap. Me, I’d grab the cheapest soap in the store and go home and wash my hands before she even figured out how much it cost.”

“Hmmm, maybe you’re right,” said Sushi. “I didn’t see her carrying anything, so she probably hadn’t been shopping. Which means instead of following her, we should just wait for her to come back.”

“Good thinkin’,” said Do-Wop, standing up. “I say we both go find a good spot and hang out there and see if she comes past.”

“All right, that makes as much sense as anything,” said Sushi, rising to join his partner. “But we’d better keep our eyes and ears open while we’re walking, just in case she comes back this way.”

“Nothin’ to worry about, Soosh,” said Do-Wop with a grin. “I’m all eyes.”

“Yeah, well, keep ’em open—I’d hate to miss her,” said Sushi. After a moment, he said, “I wonder what she’s doing going out without Beeker. I hope they’re still together—if they’re not, we’re totally wasting our time.”

“Aw, man, Beeker might be old, but he ain’t stupid.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” said Sushi. “Why isn’t he out riding with her? What if she had some kind of accident?”

“Yeah, them two-wheel thingies look dangerous as hell to me,” said Do-Wop.

“Bicycling’s supposed to be good exercise,” said Sushi with a shrug. “It’s fun, too—I used to ride one at summer camp, out on Earpsalot. But there could be other reasons Beeker’s not with her this morning. Maybe he had some shopping of his own to do …”

“No way Beeker’s gonna spend all morning on that. I bet there’s somethin’ fishy goin’ on …”

“What is it with you, anyway?” said Sushi. He stopped walking and turned to point a finger at his partner. “Two minutes ago you were saying Beeker wasn’t out with Nightingale because he didn’t want to ride a bicycle; now you say there’s something fishy because he isn’t. Don’t you listen to yourself? Or do you just like to contradict people for the sake of argument?”

“What the hell you talkin’ about? I never contradict nobody,” said Do-Wop, his hands on his hips.

“You do it all the time,” said Sushi. “Especially me, and I’m getting tired of it.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Do-Wop. “Listen up, wise guy …”

They were still arguing hotly when Nightingale gently honked her horn and zipped past them on her bicycle, headed back to Crumpton.

* * *

Lieutenant Armstrong took a deep breath. Everything was going according to plan—so far, at least. Barring some disaster, General Blitzkrieg would be happily occupied during his stay, out of the company’s hair, and blissfully unaware that Captain Jester was off-planet. The essence of the plan was for Blitzkrieg to win—ideally, by a narrow enough margin to keep the general from walking off with a significant bundle of Omega Company’s cash. Just to be on the safe side, Armstrong had instructed the caddies to make certain the general always had a good lie, and that the florbigs left his ball alone, and that his drink was never empty.

To Armstrong’s great relief, the general had taken to Omega Company’s new golf course like a Zenobian realtor to virgin swampland. And the Andromatic robot duplicate of Captain Jester—originally built to impersonate Phule in his capacity as owner of the Fat Chance Casino—evidently had the general completely fooled. The robot was custom-built to escort rich customers around a gambling resort. So the robot “Phule” came from the factory programmed to play a respectable golf game—automatically modulating its game to play just a couple of strokes worse than the opponent.

Flight Leftenant Qual had been briefed on the plan, of course. Armstrong wasn’t entirely sure just how much Qual understood, or whether the Zenobian was sufficiently in command of his game to play his part without mishaps. The little Zenobian’s style was completely unorthodox, with both feet usually coming off the ground when he swung. Qual got excellent distance off the tee with his cut-down clubs, but his shots seemed to have a near-magnetic attraction to the deep rough and the bunkers. That should have resulted in a horrible score, but despite spending most of his time in the hazards, Qual had pulled off some near miracles with his short irons and putter, and shot a very respectable thirty-nine on the first nine. Armstrong had had to sink a couple of fifteen-foot putts to keep Qual and the robot from taking the lead. He did his best not to think of what the general’s mood might be if he’d missed them …

But after nine holes, the score was just where it ought to be: the general and Armstrong were one up against Qual and the robot. General Blitzkrieg had hit something over a hundred balls, but by incredibly selective scorekeeping had managed to put only forty-two strokes down on his scorecard. It was his custom to hit as many as four drives—“Just getting a feel for the course,” he’d say—then play whichever ball happened to lie best. “This is the one I hit first, right?” If an approach shot went astray, he’d take another mulligan or two. What was most astonishing to Armstrong was that Blitzkrieg appeared to have no notion whatsoever that his score for the front nine was in any way questionable.

In any case, General Blitzkrieg was in the lead, and in a good mood. The florbigs had left his ball entirely alone; he’d had a long, cool G&T after the front nine; and now he was gleefully rehashing every good shot he’d made—some of them completely imaginary, but not even Qual was clueless enough to challenge him on that point.

Armstrong had won the last hole with a par four; the other three players had holed out in five, with Qual and the robot “Captain Jester” both missing tough six-footers. True to form, General Blitzkrieg had picked up his thirty-foot uphill putt once Armstrong’s ball was in the hole, saying, “that one’s a gimme now.” In any case, Armstrong had the honors, and responded by thumping a number two wood straight down the middle with a clean shot at the fat of the green. “Great golf shot,” said Captain Jester with a broad grin. It was uncanny how much the robot resembled its prototype, right down to the nuances of behavior; it was exactly the way the real captain would have responded.

Qual and the general followed, and for once both somehow managed to keep the ball in the fairway, though short of Armstrong’s drive. Now the robot was up, waggling a driving iron at the teed ball. “Let’s see if I can put this one past you, Armstrong,” it said, shading its eyes to peer down the fairway.

The general said, “Ten dollars says you can’t.” He’d made three or four similar side bets and lost all but one of them, but if he had any memory of his losses, it didn’t deter him. Maybe it was his way of putting pressure on an opponent.

“Like taking candy from a baby,” said the robot. “You’re on, General—watch this!” It took a long backswing, then brought the club head down on the ball with frightening velocity. The ball streaked off down the center of the course, seemingly inches off the ground.

Whether by sheer blind luck, or as a cleverly disguised way to let the general win another hole, the robot’s drive was aimed directly at a low, flat rock perhaps forty yards down the course. If it had hit at almost any random angle, it would have bounced off in some unpredictable direction—most likely, into the deep rough. But, as luck would have it, the ball hit square on almost the only face of the rock perpendicular to its line of flight, and before anyone could say a word, it had rebounded directly back to the tee and struck the robot square in the forehead with a sickening thunk. As three horrified golfers and four openmouthed caddies looked on, the robot crumpled to the ground—seemingly lifeless.

* * *

Phule had spent a good fraction of the morning learning that if Hix’s World had a private detective agency, it was extremely private. Secret might be a better description—at least, there were none listed on the Net, nor in the business directory, nor in the phone books. And Carlotta, the receptionist who’d greeted him upon arrival, showed no sign of comprehending what he was looking for when he asked her advice. He was beginning to wonder if anybody on Hix’s World did anything that required investigation, improbable as that seemed.

In fact, it didn’t make sense at all. There was certainly a government here, and Phule had even seen evidence of a police force, although not one that would have impressed visitors from a built-up world like Rot’n’art or New Baltimore. And he had no doubt that people here were swindling their business partners and cheating on their spouses just as frequently as on any other world he’d been to. But he couldn’t for the life of him figure out how they found out what was going on—unless everybody did their own private investigations. Which is what it looked as if he was going to have to do if he was going to find Nightingale—and ultimately, Beeker.

So: back to square one. He knew they were here, and in fact they couldn’t be far away. If he visited the nearby hotels and rooming houses, he had a good chance of either spotting them or getting a desk clerk or waiter to recognize them by description. It would be labor-intensive, but it was fairly straightforward.

Alternately, he could start visiting places they were likely to go, hoping to intercept them there. That also required time, but a bit less legwork. He could pick a museum gallery or a park bench and wait—if he picked the right one. It’d be just his luck to spend hours inspecting the crowds someplace they’d already checked off their list. What kind of attraction would Beeker be drawn to? He realized he had no better idea than he’d had on Rot’n’art.

Well, one thing they had to do was eat. And even if their hotel had a four-star restaurant, they’d likely want to sample the others in the neighborhood, if only for a change of scenery—or to avoid a special trip back in the midst of a day of sightseeing. That was the ticket! He’d pick a popular lunch spot near tourist spots and lie in wait for them there. The Directory of Local Attractions provided by the hotel gave him the names of several likely spots; he chose one, got directions there, and headed out.

Encore Silver Plate was a little cafe and wine bar with outdoor tables half a block from the main shopping street in the largest nearby town, New Yarmouth. The walls were hung with works of local artists, all priced for sale, and none to Phule’s taste. But the place was obviously popular—nearly full, in fact—and the colorful sign in front was large enough to catch the eye of any jaded shopper looking for a place to take a lunch break. Best of all, the outside tables gave a clear view along the street in both directions, as well as of the foot traffic on High Street.

Phule ordered a large coffee and settled himself at a table near the curb, with a local newsprint he’d picked up on the way into town. A look around at the clientele suggested that the place was frequented equally by locals and off-worlders here to see the Floribunda Fete.

The tourists sat in small groups, ostentatiously dressed in expensive walking or cycling outfits, noisily comparing notes on maps and guidebooks or off-world newsprints. The locals—most of them wearing casual outfits that wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow on any of the settled worlds of the Alliance—also kept to themselves, swapping hilarious gossip about their neighbors or playing some local card game, which looked to be an improbable cross between cribbage and tonk. They paid no attention to the tourists, who returned the favor.

Phule wasn’t especially interested in either group, except for a particular pair of tourists. He’d already determined that neither Beeker nor Nightingale were in the cafe or on the nearby streets. He took a sip of his coffee, opened the newsprint, and sat back in a position where he could see along the street in both directions without lowering the paper or otherwise making it obvious he was looking for someone. He figured that even if someone noticed him scanning the crowd, they were most likely to assume he was—like at least two other men in the cafe—a bored tourist awaiting his wife’s return from a shopping expedition.

An hour passed; Phule bought a second coffee and some kind of sweet pastry, overtipping the girl behind the counter—if he had to sit at his table a long time, he didn’t want her to get too annoyed at him, maybe even decide he looked suspicious and call the authorities on him. He’d already lost interest in the newsprint. But he’d made up his mind to stay here till after lunchtime, then move on to someplace else and take up the vigil there—unless he got a break first.

After another hour, he was beginning to regret the two coffees, good as they were. There was a restroom inside the cafe, of course. But to use it was to risk missing Beeker or Nightingale, should they by chance pick that very moment to pass by. He sat there a while longer, crossing and uncrossing his legs as he wondered what professional detectives did in this situation. Finally, after convincing himself that the odds of missing his quarry were so slim as to be negligible, he gave in to the inevitable and went inside.

Naturally, he’d been gone mere seconds before Beeker and Nightingale strolled slowly past the cafe, stopping to read the menu and peer inside before moving on down the street. But by the time Phule was back outside, they’d turned the corner. He never knew how close he’d come to finding them.

Worse yet, he never finished reading his newsprint. If he’d gotten as far as the sports section, he could have seen a headline reading: “Rot’n’art Edges NB in Alliance Cup.” In smaller type, just below, it read, “Greebfap Beams in Shot at Beeper to Ice OT Win.”

* * *

“Why do you want to go to the captain’s hotel?” asked Sushi. “Rembrandt ordered us not to let the captain know we’re here trying to help him. Or did you forget that?”

Do-Wop shrugged. “I didn’t forget nothin’,” he said. “Thing is, we’ve seen Nightingale twice already. So we know she—and Ol’ Beeky—has gotta be close. But the captain, he don’t know that. So we’re gonna leave him a ’nonymous tip sayin’ the people he’s lookin’ for are right here under his nose.”

“Well, that makes sense,” said Sushi. He found a piece of paper and jotted down a brief message. He folded it, wrote on the outside “To Capt. Jester,” and stuck it in the pocket of his jumpsuit. “OK, let’s go,” he said.

They walked over to the local bike shop, where they rented a tandem model, the cheapest alternative for two traveling together. True to form, Do-Wop was initially reluctant to trust himself to the “two-wheeled thingie.”

“Aww, come on,” said Sushi. “Little girls can ride these things. What’s the big, brave legionnaire afraid of?”

“Fallin’ off and breakin’ my neck,” said Do-Wop, eyeing it warily. But after a little more joking, Sushi persuaded him to give it a try. Sure enough, he picked up the knack in short time and admitted that it came close to being fun. That was likely to change the first time he took a fall, but Sushi coached him in the basics, and soon he was satisfied that his buddy was ready to roll.

With that settled, they hopped on the rented tandem and set off for Phule’s hotel. Not surprisingly, La Retraite Rustique was in a considerably fancier neighborhood than their own modest digs. Several of the neighboring properties appeared to be large country estates, perhaps in the same family since the time of the Founding. So when the two of them pulled their well-used tandem up to its front door, the doorman appeared ready to direct them to the delivery entrance.

His attitude didn’t improve when Do-Wop tossed him a small coin and said, “Yo, bud, make sure nobody messes wit’ da ride.”

“I am certain it will be perfectly safe while you are gone,” said the doorman with just the faintest emphasis. His left eyebrow lifted a fraction of an inch.

“Great, I knew I could trust ya,” said Do-Wop as he followed Sushi through the door. The doorman gave the door a baleful look, then turned to the coin he’d caught in midair. After a moment, he shrugged and pocketed it. After all, it’d buy him a coffee or a nut bar no matter where it came from.

Inside the lobby, Sushi and Do-Wop stopped and looked around for a moment. For all its pretense at rustic simplicity, La Retraite fairly reeked of money. The hardwood floorboards were nearly a foot wide, with tight, clearly delineated grain that indicated old-growth timber to a practiced eye. The art on the walls was all original, and while the artists’ names weren’t familiar to the two legionnaires, Sushi suspected (rightly) that they would be to any visiting connoisseur. Even the lighting was of a discreet tone that gave a suggestion of candlelight without the trouble of wax drips or smoke.

Their admiration was broken by a deep voice. “May I be of help, gentlemen?” The tone somehow made it clear that the final word was included as a matter of courtesy, with the speaker carefully reserving his personal opinion as to its relevance.

“Sure,” said Do-Wop—coming here was his idea, so he felt entitled to take the lead. “We’re lookin’ for Captain Jester, Space Legion. This is where he’s stayin’, right?”

“Offhand, I couldn’t say,” said Robert, the concierge—for that was who had greeted them. “Perhaps you could tell why you want to know.”

“Just so happens, we got a ’nonymous message for him,” Do-Wop said out of the side of his mouth.

“Really,” said the concierge with a hint of a smirk. “And what makes you think we would convey anonymous messages to our guests—assuming this captain is, in fact, one of our guests?”

“What, are you playin’ the dumbs with me?” said Do-Wop, putting his hands on his hips. “Yo, I can play the dumbs, too.”

“Relax, buddy,” said Sushi, putting a hand on Do-Wop’s shoulder. He turned to the concierge. “My friend here didn’t quite make himself clear. We need to get a note to the captain, and there’s a little something to make sure it gets to him.” He offered the message, along with a folded bill. “If he asks, you didn’t see who brought it, OK?”

“I’m afraid it’s not OK,” said Robert, looking down his nose at the note and the bill. “I don’t see what legitimate business one of our guests could have with the likes of you two.”

“Whaddaya mean?” growled Do-Wop, making a fist. “Y’know, this honker’s startin’ to rack me off …”

Sushi grabbed his partner’s arm. “Easy, buddy. The guy thinks we’re not fancy enough for his place. We’ll get our message to the captain some other way. Come on.”

“OK,” said Do-Wop, glaring. “I guess we better get outta here before I stink up the rich people’s air.” He turned on his heel and walked away so rapidly that Sushi had to hurry to keep up.

* * *

According to the literature in Phule’s hotel, travelers came from light-years away to enjoy the annual Floribunda Fete on Hix’s World. And, to judge from the variety of costumes and accents Phule saw and heard around him in the hotel dining room and in the nearby town, that was no exaggeration.

Unfortunately, what he’d seen of the festival didn’t impress him. Maybe it just wasn’t a guy thing—most of the male tourists he saw seemed as little interested in the abundant flowers as he was. Just as likely, he was too focused on trying to find Beeker and the Port-a-Brain to have much attention left over for the colorful blossoms that decorated every home and business he passed. Some of the ones he noticed were sort of pretty, but he wouldn’t have come halfway across the galaxy to enjoy them. Probably he wouldn’t even have crossed the street.

On the other hand, it did seem that Beeker must have come here for the festival—as he’d discovered, the planet was booked solid for weeks in advance. As far as Phule could tell, his butler had never shown any particular interest in flowers. Of course, as he’d already discovered, he knew far less of Beeker’s tastes than he’d realized. Maybe it was Nightingale who’d convinced him to come, though that seemed out of character, too—or maybe he just didn’t know her all that well. Obviously, somebody had made advance reservations for the couple well before Nightingale had joined Omega Company. He stared out the window at the gardens where he’d seen Nightingale two days earlier, trying to figure it out. How could he know so little about people he’d lived with for months—in Beeker’s case, for years?

He realized that beating his head against these puzzles was beginning to give him a headache. What he needed was a walk in the fresh air. He slipped on a light jacket—the evening air could be brisk, even in Floribunda season—and headed downstairs to the gardens. But no sooner had he entered the lobby than he was waylaid by Carlotta, the receptionist at La Retraite Rustique.

“Captain Jester,” she said, wide-eyed. “I must warn you—you are being followed by two very suspicious men!”

“Really?” he said. “What do they look like?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “I have not seen them myself, but they approached Robert, the concierge—he was immediately put on his guard, and sent them away without telling them anything. But you must be aware at all times—you may be in danger!”

“A Legion officer is used to danger, ma’am,” Phule assured her. “But I think I’ll have a word with your concierge in any case. No point walking into something blindfolded if you can get advance knowledge. And thank you for the warning.”

Robert looked so competent, distinguished, and professionally discreet that Phule easily could have believed he’d been selected for his role by Galactic Central Casting. The concierge nodded politely as Phule approached him. “Yes, sir?” he said with an inflection suggesting that he was awaiting orders.

“Your receptionist tells me a couple of fellows were asking about me,” said Phule. “She says they were suspicious characters, so I thought I should follow it up, just so I don’t get caught off guard. What can you tell me about them?”

“Not a great deal, I’m afraid, sir,” said Robert. “They were rather young; I’d guess in their early twenties. They were dressed all in black—that seems to be much the fashion at that age—and they asked if you were staying here. I sent them right away, of course.”

“Asked for me by name, I assume,” said Phule.

“Exactly, sir,” said Robert. “Name, rank, and branch of service—Captain Jester of the Space Legion, they said. Well, I didn’t like the look of them at all. Not that I’d have given them information even if I thought they were princes. That’s not what Madame employs me for, if you know what I mean.”

“And I’m glad to hear it,” said Phule. “Can you tell me any more what they looked like?” Phule had no idea who might have some reason to be looking for him. He’d settled accounts with the Intergalactic Revenue Service sufficiently to get them off his back for several years to come. He didn’t think the Lorelei Mob wanted anything more to do with him, after he’d shown them what kind of muscle the Legion could bring to bear on its targets. And while he’d probably left some ruffled feathers behind, he hadn’t made any real enemies on his visits to Cut ’N’ Shoot or Rot’n’art.

“Well, as I said, they were young and dressed in black,” said Robert. “Both males—I don’t think I said that. One of them was probably of Earth Asian ancestry; the other was big-city trash of some sort, to judge from his accent.”

“Hmmm …” Phule pondered. “Thank you; I’ll have to keep an eye out for them.”

Outside in the garden, he mulled over what the concierge had told him. The description he’d been given could fit dozens of people, including several members of his own Legion company—Do-Wop and Sushi in particular. Of course, it was unlikely that the two of them were on Hix’s World. The expense alone would have prevented it. In any case, if the concierge was describing them accurately, the black-clad youngsters would be fairly obvious here on Hix’s World, with its crowds of casually—but expensively—dressed tourists and ecologically correct locals. But if the two really meant him trouble, he’d have to be on the lookout. Just what he needed—something else to worry about.