He still had some time left to check out this Rmrl. Jo had told him that the Vanek tribe had set up a vigil of sorts on the spot in the alley next to Jeffers’ store where Junior had died; it was the one place where he could always be sure of finding a Vanek, no matter what the time of day.
Today was no exception. Easly rounded the corner of the store and there, cross-legged in the center of a crude circle of stones, humming and jiggling the coins in his cracked earthen bowl, sat a lone Vanek beggar.
“Wheels within wheels, bendreth,” he intoned as Easly approached the circle.
“Sure,” Easly replied, stopping with his shoes a few centimeters from the stones. “Can I speak with you a minute?”
“Speak, bendreth.”
He squatted and looked at the beggar. Pupils dilated from a long watch in the shade of the alley gazed out at him from beneath hooded eyelids but appeared to be focused on something other than Easly, something neither of them could see. The blue-tinted skin of the face was wrinkled and dusty. This was one of the older Vanek.
“I want to know about Junior Finch,” Easly said in a low voice, after glancing around to be sure that he and the beggar were alone in the alley.
The Vanek’s mouth curled into a poor imitation of a human smile. “He was our friend.”
“But he was killed.”
The smile remained. “Wheels within wheels, bendreth.”
“But who killed him?”
“We did.”
“But why?”
“He was our friend.”
Easly was getting annoyed. “But why would you kill a man you say was your friend?”
“He was different.”
“How was he different?”
“Wheels within wheels, bendreth.”
“That doesn’t tell me a damn thing!” Easly said, his voice rising. “You’ve said you killed him. Just tell me why.”
“He was our friend.”
“But no one kills somebody because he’s a friend!”
“Wheels within wheels, bendreth.”
Easly made a guttural sound and rose quickly to his feet. If he thought the beggar was deliberately trying to be evasive, he would have understood that and accepted it. But this was apparently the way the Vanek mind worked.
Or was it?
“Do you know Rmrl?” he asked abruptly.
The Vanek’s pupils contracted noticeably, and for an instant he actually looked at Easly rather than through him.
“We all know Rmrl,” he replied.
“Where is he at the moment?”
“Among us.” The eyes resumed their indeterminate gaze.
“How can I find him?”
“Wheels within wheels, bendreth,” the beggar said, and jiggled his alms bowl.
Easly growled and strode away without leaving any coins. How could he hope to glean any coherent information from a member of a half-breed alien race that killed the man who tried to help it, then made a shrine of sorts out of the place where they murdered him? The whole trip had been a waste of time. He hadn’t even enjoyed the scenery.
He spent the early part of the next morning gearing himself up for his meeting with deBloise. This was the prelude to his investigative work: getting a feel for the man. And for that he needed personal contact. His object was to find out anything at all that might be useful against him – anything. Jo seemed to be playing for keeps on this one.
He arrived at Sector Representative deBloise’s plush homeworld offices a little early and watched the receptionist until she motioned him into the next room.
DeBloise stood and waited for him behind his desk. He had a bigger build than Larry had expected – probably muscular once, now tending slightly toward puffiness – but the dark hair and the graying temples were familiar, as was the cordial smile fixed on the face. Easly reflexively disregarded the comfortable, friendly exterior; his research had shown beyond a doubt that there was a core of diamond-hard ambition hiding beneath.
“Well, Mr. Easly,” deBloise said after they shook hands, “what do you think of our fine planet so far?”
“Very nice,” Easly lied as he took the indicated seat.
“Good. How can I help you?”
“The Risden Service is doing a series of reports on human-alien relations, and the most intimate such relationship, of course, exists here on Jebinose with the Vanek.”
DeBloise nodded. “It must be remembered that the Vanek are not totally alien; they are a mix of human and alien. But I can see why they would be of prime interest in such a series. Where do I fit in, however?”
“You were one of the principal sponsors of the Vanek Equality Act, were you not?”
DeBloise inclined his head.
“Well then, that makes you a principal figure in modern Terran-Vanek relations, and your files would be of invaluable assistance to me. Might I have access to them?”
DeBloise considered this; there was extraordinary potential here for a massive amount of good press. “I could give you selective access. I’m sure you understand that I couldn’t possibly open all my files to you.”
“Of course. Whatever you think best. Now, there’s also another important figure in Terran-Vanek relations: Joseph Finch, Jr., I believe.’
There was a barely perceptible cooling of deBloise’s attitude at the mention of Junior’s name. “I’m afraid I didn’t know him at all. Never met him.”
“But that was quite an impassioned speech you made about him on behalf of the Equality Act after his death. I heard a recording – very moving, even after seventeen years.”
“Thank you,” deBloise replied with a bland smile. “But one didn’t have to know him personally to be moved by his death. I knew what he was trying to do: he was trying to bring equality to those less fortunate than he; he was trying to bestow a little dignity on the Vanek; he was going out on a limb for a fellow rational being. I understood him perfectly, and I’m willing to wager that if he were alive today he’d be very active in the Restructurist movement.”
Easly nearly choked, but managed to keep a straight, attentive expression. “What about the Equality Act, sir? Would it have passed without Mr. Finch’s death?”
“Definitely. Not with such resounding unanimity, perhaps, but it would have passed. It was an idea whose time had come. That bill, by the way, was pending before Finch came to Jebinose.”
“And on the reputation you earned with the passage of the Equality Act, you went on to successfully run for a planetary representative seat at Fed Central, is that correct?”
DeBloise paused and scrutinized his interviewer. “Are we talking about human-alien relations or my political career?”
“The two are somewhat intertwined, don’t you think?”
“Somewhat.”
This writer, Easly, had a manner about him that deBloise did not care for… made him feel as if he were under a microscope. He’d have to run a check on the man before he let him anywhere near his files.
The intercom chimed and waited to be recognized. “I thought I told you not to disturb me for the next few minutes,” deBloise said.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the receptionist said, “but Mr. Proska is here and wishes to see you immediately.”
The casual observer would have noticed nothing. But Larry Easly’s training enabled him to pick up certain cues immediately. His attention became riveted on deBloise.
The man was terrified. At the mention of the name “Proska,” his body had become rigid; there was the slightest blanching of the skin, the slightest tightening of the mouth. To a trained observer, Elson deBloise was transmitting acute fear. His voice, however, was remarkably calm when he spoke.
“Tell him I’ll see him in a moment,” he said to the air, then turned back to Easly. “I’m very sorry, but some urgent business has just come up and I’m afraid we’ll have to cut this interview short. I’m leaving for Fed Central in a few days but will probably return within a standard month. Please check with my secretary and make another
appointment.”
“But your files–” Easly began
“We can attend to that next month.” DeBloise rose. “But right now, you must excuse me.”
Easly muttered a thank-you and made his exit. He was bitterly disappointed – those files were crucial to his investigation. As he reentered the waiting room, he saw only one occupant besides the receptionist. A small, sallow, balding man sat with his hands on his knees, and rose as Easly left the inner office. Easly was about to classify him as a timid nonentity until he caught a glimpse of the man’s eyes as he passed. There was not a hint of timidity – nor love nor fear nor hatred nor mercy, for that matter – to be found there.
This was undoubtedly the Mr. Proska who struck such fear into the heart of the powerful, secure, influential Sector Representative Elson deBloise. It was suddenly very obvious to Easly that Mr. Proska had some sort of hold over deBloise; finding out just what that was might prove useful.
“Excuse me,” he said to the receptionist after the door to the inner office had closed behind Proska. “Wasn’t that Harold Proska?”
The receptionist smiled. “No, that was Cando Proska. Perhaps you know his brother.”
“Does he have a brother?”
“I couldn’t say.” She shrugged. “I believe he’s an old friend of Mr. deBloise’s. He stops in now and then. But I really don’t know a thing about him.”
“I must be thinking of someone else,” he said, and sauntered out of the waiting room.
An old friend, eh? he thought as he walked across the hail and stepped into the down chute. He fell at the rate of one kilometer per hour until he passed the “Ground Floor” sign, then grabbed the handles and pulled himself out of the chute and into the lobby. No old friend of mine ever scared me like that!
Pondering his next move as he stepped out into the late morning sunlight, Easly suddenly remembered that he was on a Restructurist world. And all worlds within the Restructurist fold had a policy of maintaining what they called a Data Center, a centralized bank where vital, identifiable statistics of all natives and permanent residents were kept on file. The information stored usually included date of birth, place of birth, parents’ names, education, employment record, present location, and so on.
Easly flagged a flittercab and headed for Copia’s municipal complex. He idly wished that all planets had Data Centers – it would certainly make things easier for someone in his line of work – but then banished the thought when he realized his own vital statistics would be listed.
The Data Centers were a natural outgrowth of Restructurist philosophy, which viewed humanity as a mass and approached it as such. As a result, the government on a Restructurist world was highly centralized and geared its actions toward what it decided were the common denominators of the collective. To determine those common denominators – to “better serve the public interest,” as it was wont to put it – the government had to know all about the public in question.
Thus the Data Centers. And since all men were brothers, all should have access to the data. This was the Restructurist version of a truly “open society.”
Individuals like Larry Easly and Josephine Finch and Old Pete posed a thorny problem for Restructurist theory, however: sometimes consciously, most often unconsciously, they refused to accept the common denominator for themselves and persisted in sticking their heads above the level of the crowd. They thought brotherhood was a nice idea but they didn’t think it could be institutionalized. And they never ceased to be amazed at the amount of garbage other people would swallow if the sugar coating were laid on thick enough.
The flittercab dropped him off before a complex of Neo-Gothic abstract buildings that housed the municipal offices of Copia. From there it was no problem finding the Data Center. Slipping into an empty booth, he punched in the name Cando Proska. If the little man had been born on Jebinose, his name would definitely be listed. If he were an immigrant, there was still a good chance to locate him here.
A single identity number flashed on the screen. Easly punched it in and hoped for the best.
PROSKA, Cando Lot 149, Hastingsville
Male
Age: 44 Jebinose years
Height: 1.58 M Weight: 68.2 Kg
Parents: Carter & Dori Proska (Both deceased)
Developmental environment: SW sector. Copia
Religion: none
Political affiliation: none
Marital status: unattached
Offspring: none
Education history: Copia Psi-school, age 5-10
Copia Secondary, age 11-16
Employment history: Clerk, Jebinose Bureau of
Standards, age 19-27 (voluntary termination)
Current employment status: none
Little question that this was the man: height, age, weight, it all seemed to fit. He noted with interest the fact that Proska had dropped out of psi-school at age ten. That was certainly unusual because there’s no such thing as losing a psi-talent – you’re born with it and it stays with you the rest of your life. The purpose of a psi-school is to hone and develop a native talent; therefore you have to be able to demonstrate psionic ability before being accepted into such a school.
And you didn’t quit. People with psi-talents were always in demand; even those with the most mediocre abilities were assured a good income for the rest of their lives. Proska had been a student there for five years, which meant he had some psionic talent. Why did he drop out?
And why hadn’t he put the talent to use? He had spent eight years at the bottom rung in a government office that even in the best of times was notable only for its nuisance value. Then he quit again. No employment for the last seventeen years. Also strange.
Not much information, but Easly was satisfied with it as a starting point. And as a little extra bonus, something had clicked in the back of his mind as he was reviewing the information; he couldn’t place it right now – his brain often made correlations without immediately informing him – but he knew from experience not to push it. Sooner or later it would come to the surface.
He decided that a quick look at Proska’s living quarters was in order and wrote down the address. It was a calm, sunny day so he rented an open flitter and took it up to a high hover level where he could put the vehicle in a holding pattern and consult the directory. The autopilot code number for the aerial co-ordinates of Lot 149, Hastingsville, was F278924B. Easly punched it in, set the speed at slow cruise, and leaned back to enjoy the ride.
It took longer than he anticipated. Instead of heading him toward inner Copia, the autopilot took him northeast and outward. He had originally expected to find himself over one of the poorer areas of the city, but now he was entering a suburb.
The flitter stopped and hovered over a sprawling mansion located in the center of an obviously well-to-do neighborhood. He allowed the flitter to lose altitude so he could get a better look. The house consisted of four octagonal buildings connected in an irregular line and built at varying levels. The landscaping had been extensive: the rest of the lot was covered with an intricate pattern of color-co-ordinated shrubbery. A “149” on the landing platform confirmed the address.
Not bad for a man who hasn’t worked in seventeen years, Easly thought. Not bad at all.
As he dropped lower, a number of bright red lights began to flash from the roof and landing pad, a warning that clearance was required from below before he would be allowed to land. Easly veered off and followed the fenced perimeter of the property all the way around. His trained eye picked up traces that indicated the presence of a very effective and very expensive automated security system.
He was about to make another pass over the house when his peripheral vision caught sight of a moving object to his left: another flitter was approaching. He gave the guide stick a nudge and moved off in the opposite direction at an unhurried pace. The other craft seemed to hesitate in the air, then landed at Proska’s residence. There were two men inside – he was almost positive they wer
e deBloise and Proska – and they did not leave the vehicle right away.
Cursing himself for his carelessness in renting an open flitter, he picked up speed and altitude and set a course in the general direction of Copia. Of course, he did have an excuse or two: he had made the erroneous assumption that Proska would be living at a low socioeconomic level, and that his home would be somewhere in the capital city where an extra flitter in the air would go completely unnoticed.
But Hastingsville was not in Copia; it was in an exurban area where his hovering craft was like a vagrant leaf in a well-kept swimming pool. If deBloise had recognized him, then Easly’s cover was most certainly in jeopardy. His policy in any situation such as this was to assume the worst. That being the case, the wisest thing he could do at this point was to get off-planet immediately.
But there was one more thing he had to check before leaving. He looked up the aerial co-ordinate code number for the psi-school in Copia, punched it in, and sat back to review what he knew so far as the autopilot took over.
Proska was blackmailing deBloise. That much was obvious. Easly had no idea what the lever was, but it had to be a big one. Proska had no doubt squeezed the mansion and a generous annuity out of deBloise’s personal fortune in return for his silence. But there was more going on besides simple blackmail. DeBloise was in actual physical terror of the little man.
The reason for that could, perhaps, be found at the psi-school.
The flitter stopped over an imposing, windowless, cuboid structure. Easly landed and walked inside. He waited until someone who looked like a student strolled by.
“Excuse me,” he asked a boy who looked to be about ten standard years of age. “Who’s the dean?”
“Why, Dr. Isaacs, of course.”
“How long’s he been dean?”
The boy shrugged. “How should I know? Check the plaque over there. You should be able to figure it out from that.”
Easly approached the indicated wall where a silvery metal plaque listed all the deans and their period of tenure since the school’s founding. A man named Jacob Howell had been dean thirty-four years ago. That was the man he wanted.