Perseus Spur

  The guard, who wore the uniform of Rampart External Security, looked over the expensive car and Mimo's Izod sportswear and glowing green tsavorite pinkie ring. He took in my scannerproof sunglasses and snappy sweatshirt proclaiming ok corral—tombstone, arizona, and young Ivor's cherubic bulk. The car stereo warbled "Solamente Una Vez." Finally the guard pocketed the package and hit the gate-opener pad.

  "Prob'ly find your pal barbecuin' out back of his place. Barbecuin' fool, young Clive. Expectin' another guest in half an hour. Female."

  We drove through pleasant streets lined with the most conventional sort of executive dwellings. Many of them had lawns of terrestrial grass and gardens with flowering rose bushes and azaleas. If you ignored the alien trees with their scaly trunks and droopy foliage of blood-clot red or goose-turd green, you could almost imagine you were in Topeka, or some other banal Middle American city. But then you spotted the uniformed Insap gardeners and groundskeepers—skinny ruddy-skinned beings with large heads, a central compound-eye cluster, and grasping beetlesque mouthparts on their inscrutable faces—and you knew you weren't in Kansas anymore, Toto.

  Leighton's place was an attractive bi-level of mortared dark stone, one of four in a wooded cul-de-sac. Mimo parked on the shady side of the turnaround. Something small, black, and furry flew out of a blood-clot tree, glided across the Jag's gleaming hood, and dropped a fecal souvenir that barely missed its target.

  "I'll wait," the old man said, unwrapping a fresh cigar. "I'd only be in the way. Besides, if we leave the car here un-' guarded, these criaturas cagones will make a filthy mess of it."

  I told Ivor Jenkins to follow me as quietly as possible. "If the guy gives me any trouble, you get me out of it. If he refuses to cooperate, your job is to adjust his attitude. Got that?"

  The young athlete smiled sweetly and nodded.

  We slipped into the big back garden, which seemed to serve all four houses, keeping hidden among the rhododendrons and exotic fern analogues. The rear of Leighton's place was clearly visible; the other houses were partially obscured by trees. There was no sign of our subject, but the scene was set for an al fresco dinner for two. In a shrubby niche roofed by a sparkling force-umbrella to thwart picnic-pooping critters stood a table covered with a red-and-white-checked cloth. It held place settings of maroon stoneware, crystal wineglasses, silver, a water carafe, a bowl of salad, sauce boats of dressing, and a cutting board with French bread and a crock of butter. Silvanian champagne was chilling in a quaint wooden bucket, and a bottle of what looked like embargoed vintage Burgundy waited to be uncorked. Sexy saxophone jazz came softly from speakers hidden in the bushes.

  At first I didn't recognize the barbecue grill, situated some six meters away from the table and downhill in a paved area surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. The squatty cone of blackened rock was waist high and topped with a shiny pyro-ceramic gridiron. A pulsating red glow shone from within the cone's aperture, which was a meter or so wide. There was a tiny plume of smoke, and the air above the grill wavered and shimmered with intense heat. I realized then that the outdoor cooker was a natural fumarole, a geological feature that I recalled was common on the northern continent of Seriphos.

  Clive Leighton emerged from the back door of his home after a few minutes and began meal preparations on a rustic stand next to the table. The legal analyst had brought a tray full of makings: a couple of deep purple Yakangus steaks, skewers with baby aubergine and squashlets wrapped in bacon, monster mushrooms stuffed with something, thickly sliced blue onions, a quartered pineapple, a bottle of rozkoz syrup, olive oil, and a collection of spices.

  Leighton was a man of less than medium height, but broad-shouldered and fit. He wore an azure silk shirt with balloon sleeves, fawn slacks, a white chef's apron, and an honest-to-God pah- of blue suede shoes. The careful styling of his chestnut-brown thatch almost disguised his very large ears. As he began to crack peppercorns in a marble mortar, I crept up noiselessly behind him and tapped him on the back. He turned around with a welcoming smile, expecting his lady, and gave a great start when he found me looming over him.

  "Who the bloody hell are you!" he demanded in a nasal drawl.

  I suppose I was medium unrecognizable. My cadaverous pallor had been slightly alleviated by the ship's tanner during the trip from K-L, but I was still a wan shadow of my normal bronzed self. My hair, which I had worn almost shoulder length in the islands, had been mowed short in a buzz-cut for my sojourn in dystasis. Huge mirrored sun goggles covered most of my upper face.

  I summoned the no-nonsense tone that cops use to intimidate lowlifes. "Leighton, you've got something I need: the holovid you made on your diving session at Eyebrow Cay. I'm willing to pay whatever you ask for a copy of it."

  "Not fucking likely," he sneered. "Who the devil d'you think you are? Sod off before I call security." He reached for his back pocket.

  I motioned for Ivor to step forward from the concealing greenery, and the executive's puppy-brown eyes bulged with alarm. I said, "We're not leaving without the holo data-dime, Clive. I hope you'll be reasonable. If you refuse, my friend and I are going to do whatever it takes to change your mind."

  He dropped the mortar and pestle on the lawn and shuffled backward away from us. "Wait a mo'! You—you're that boat bum from K-L! But you were supposed to be—"

  "To be what?" I said. "Dead? Is that what Elgar told you?"

  Suddenly Leighton bolted, taking off at top speed toward the house.

  "Get him," I ordered Ivor. But the giant had anticipated me. His bionic-stimulated muscles made him faster than I would ever have expected. He overtook Clive Leighton almost at once, seized him by the back of the belt with a ham-sized paw, hoisted him high, and whirled him around a couple of times in an airplane spin. The Rampart exec's blue suede shoes pedaled the air and he uttered a thin screech.

  "Be quiet," I said, "or my associate will break some of your bones."

  Ivor did something that must have been painful and Clive's scream started falsetto and slid down the scale into a rough moan. He went limp. A dark stain spread around the fly of his fawn slacks. He gasped, "Don't hurt me! Please don't hurt me!"

  I told Ivor, "Put him down."

  The muscle complied, retaining a firm grip on his captive's neck. "This man has micturated in his underpants." Ivor's nose wrinkled fastidiously.

  "Then let's get our little errand over with," I said, "so he can clean himself up before his guest arrives. Into the house."

  Ivor frog-marched Clive Leighton along, and I opened the back door, hoping that none of the neighbors had witnessed the strong-arm exhibition. We came into a superbly appointed kitchen. The stove was La Cornue, the pots and pans were Calphalon, the counters and cabinets gleamed with black enamel, brushed steel, and ivory tile. It was the domain of a serious and very affluent amateur cook. Recalling the fate of my own cherished kitchen, I decided that whether or not Clive Leighton was guilty of criminal conspiracy, I hated his yuppoid guts.

  "Where do you keep your holovid files?" I said.

  Clive seemed to be regaining his courage. "Why should 1 tell you?"

  "To avoid painful damage to your person."

  A sudden grin of triumph. "Gotcha! Now let me tell you something, Cap'n Helly Bloody Throwaway from Kedge-Lockaby! Surveillance cams have tracked us ever since we climbed up the back steps, and you just screwed yourself royally by threatening me with bodily harm. The cam records are in Rampart's central data depository downtown. Tell this ape to let me go!"

  I shook my head. "Clive, Clive, Clive. We both know that the surveillance records won't be accessed unless you file a complaint—or turn up missing or dead. Right?"

  The triumphant look changed to one of wariness.

  "So I'll just have to make sure that none of those contingencies prevail. Now where's the holovid dime?"

  "Go to hell!"

  I turned to Ivor. "Encourage him just a bit more."

  An enormous hand encircled Clive's throat and began to tighten
. Ivor supported the sagging body as the legal analyst gurgled thickly and his face turned puce.

  "That'll do," I said to the giant. "Turn him loose."

  Leighton leaned against his splendid Sub-Zero refrigerator, gagging and gulping air.

  I said, "Clive, you stink. I'd really like to get this over and done with as quickly as possible. You aren't going to report us to Rampart Security. I'll tell you why in just a few minutes. You are going to cooperate—else my associate is going to work you over. He won't break your bones or choke you anymore. Those little ploys were only to get your attention. Do you see that collar on my friend's neck? Normally, it's used to temporarily increase muscle strength. But it can do other things, too. Have you ever heard of tetany? It's a violent spasm of the muscles accompanied by excruciating pain. The collar can bend your spine like a pretzel. Shall we try it on you for size?"

  Clive said, "You swine!"

  I repeated, "Where is the holovid dime?"

  The reply was almost inaudible. "In the library. Upstairs."

  He would have a library.

  We ascended, Clive leading the way, and entered a large, rather messy room. There were shelves of genuine paged books as well as dedicated magslates, e-books, and hundreds of data-storage containers. Clive sullenly pointed to a cluttered table. Almost lost amid the empty Diet Coke and beer chillinders, dirty coffee cups, printouts, and bottles of Maa-lox and Zintrin, was a red plastic box. I opened it and found a neat collection of coded 1.5cm disklets in tylar envelopes.

  "Find me the dime you recorded on Kedge-Lockaby," I said.

  Clive propped himself against the table, glowering at me. Finally he took the filecase, spoke to it, and handed over the tiny envelope that had popped into the eject tray.

  The holocamera sat on a shelf with other technotoys. I inserted the dime into the instrument, set it for internal view, fast forward, audio off, and looked into the eyepiece. I hoped to hell I'd find what I was looking for. If I didn't, I'd have to waste time going after the other three sport divers—each resident on a different planet—trusting that they wouldn't find out I was gunning for them and destroy the evidence before I could get my hands on it.

  At first I thought I was out of luck with Clive Leighton's holo. The object of my search was notably camera-shy, except when the faceplate of his diving equipment obscured his features as he swam among the fishies. But finally I came to the scene where the drunken young executives, belowdecks in Pernio, celebrated after making successful shots of the dancing ruby prawns. Clive had panned his camera unsteadily over his companions. Three of the men were smirking and grimacing, and the fourth, only briefly glimpsed, was as impassive as granite. I froze the stone face, zoomed in on it, and smiled in satisfaction.

  I had my mug shot of Bronson Elgar.

  Unless he changed his features again, I'd be able to find the assassin if he was on any of the Spur worlds. And with luck, a forensic anthropologist might even get a positive ID through bone structure.

  I lowered the holocam. After extracting the data-dime, I returned it to its envelope and tucked it into my wallet. Clive Leighton watched me, exuding pure hate. He seemed about to say something nasty but shut his mouth when Ivor laid an admonitory paw on his shoulder.

  I now began to feel distinctly debilitated, so I found the relevant control pad on my medicuff armlet and gave it a prod. The subcutaneous vaporizer shot stimulant into me, but unfortunately the perk-up wasn't immediate. I looked around. A straight chair heaped with slates and prints stood beside the desk. I dumped the stuff on the floor and sat down, motioning Ivor to unhand the prisoner.

  "I'm still not sure whether you're part of the conspiracy against Rampart or not," I said to Clive. I was careful not to mention Galapharma. "If you are, I hope you realize that your life isn't worth a bootful of warm piss—as the cowpokes would say in my old hometown of Phoenix, Arizona."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," the legal analyst growled.

  "Did Bronson Elgar tell you and your three friends that I was killed on the comet?"

  "Comet? What comet?"

  I wagged my head sadly at his obstinacy. "You poor bastard. When Bron finds out that I'm still alive—and that you caved in and gave me a dime with his image—he's going to go ballistic. He knows I'll use that picture to run him down.

  You've managed to endanger the whole conspiracy against Rampart, Clive. I wouldn't want to be in your pretty blue shoes."

  "You're insane! I don't know anything about Elgar. I never even met the man until the day of the dive. And I've got nothing to do with any conspiracy. I'm completely loyal to Rampart." He had retreated to a corner of the room, as far away from Ivor and me as he could get. He adjusted the twisted chef's apron to hide his damp crotch.

  "How about your diving buddies?" I said. "Are they loyal, too?"

  "You're damned right they are! All of us are Rampart stakeholders. We'd be crazy to do anything to harm the Starcorp."

  I looked at him thoughtfully. "Maybe you're innocent after all. On the other hand, perhaps you four were forced to go along on the trip in order to prove yourselves to Elgar's backers. To make your first bones."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "A reference to ancient history. Over two hundred years ago, members of Sicilian organized crime gangs had to demonstrate their commitment to the group by killing one of its enemies—a gesture of good faith that was also self-incriminating."

  "What utter rot! Who's supposed to be behind this alleged conspiracy of yours?"

  I ignored his question. "Did Elgar give you a cover story to justify my murder? Did he even bother to tell you how a down-and-out charter-boat skipper could threaten the big scheme?"

  "You're out of your mind! You've no proof of any of these wild allegations."

  "How about my word," I suggested, "against yours?"

  "That's rich! Who'd ever believe a Throwaway with no civil rights?"

  "The Chairman and CEO of Rampart might. Simon Frost."

  Clive Leighton burst into near hysterical laughter. "Now I know you're a flaming nutcase!"

  "Tell him who I am, Ivor," I said.

  The huge man smiled benignly. "This is Asahel Frost. He's old Simon's youngest son."

  "That's ... preposterous." The haughty accent faltered into a whine.

  "No," I corrected him. "It's something else altogether. It's why you aren't going to lodge any complaints with Rampart Security, and why you're going to tell me everything I want to know."

  Inside dive's lawyerly mind, jigsaw puzzle pieces were clicking ominously into place. A hunted expression passed fleetingly over his features, and at that moment I was certain of two things. He was an active participant in whatever chicanery was going down—

  And he was going to crack.

  "Let me verify my identity," I said in friendly Good Cop style.

  Throwaways have no credentials. But there was an impressive computer on a stand by the desk, so I called up the New York Times for 12 October 2229. I printed the front page, walked over to the cowering analyst, thrust the page under his nose, and took off my sunglasses.

  My portrait was in living color. I had more hair then, a brave smile, and hollow, hopeless eyes. The adjacent headline said: review board recommends ultimate censure for ACCUSED ICS OFFICIAL.

  Clive Leighton took the print and read the article, horrified gaze flicking back and forth between it and my face. "It—It says here that Simon Frost repudiated you."

  "We kissed and made up."

  "Oh?" He managed to be archly skeptical.

  "My father is here on Seriphos," I said. "Tomorrow there'll be a meeting of Rampart's Board of Directors. He and I will both be there. The agenda deals with the conspiracy."

  "You can't prove I'm disloyal!"

  "Maybe not," I said. "But an interstellar corporation is hardly a court of law, is it? If the chairman is convinced of your guilt, you're buggered, Clive. And I'll convince him. You can count on it."

  We stared
at each other for a silent beat. Then I added, in a kindly fashion, "Or course, if you were to go with me voluntarily to the board meeting and tell all, I could persuade my father to be lenient. Instead of nuking your double-crossing posterior, he might let you emigrate to a wildcat world in the Sagittarius Whorl where Bronson Elgar and his masters will never find you. We could give you a new ID, set you up in a small business—"

  Ivor said brightly, "Maybe you could open an espresso stand. Never too many of those."

  Clive Leighton winced. He was just about hooked. "Tell the Board of Directors... what?"

  "Everything—including the names of other conspirators known to you and the organization behind the plot. We'd use psychoprobe machines for verification afterward, of course."

  The door chime rang and a female voice cooed over the intercom: "Cliveykins, it's me!"

  "Oh, my God," he moaned. "Lois is here! What am I going to do?"

  "Never mind her. Tell me who recruited you and your three friends for the big scam. Was it Bronson Elgar? Someone in Rampart itself?"

  Ding-dong. "Clive, dear? Are you there?"

  "Speak up!" I suddenly took hold of his silk shirt with both hands and yanked him toward me. I was a lot bigger than he was, and he had no idea that I was almost ready to keel over from accumulated stress and decrepitude. The stench of his urine mingled with the acrid adrenaline odor of renewed terror. "What was your role supposed to be—infiltration of Rampart for general espionage and data-theft, or something more active? Like sabotage?"

  Ding-dong! "Darling, is something wrong?"

  "I was ... we were . .." He shook his head and mouthed a despairing obscenity.

  "The organization behind the conspiracy!" I barked. "Is it one of the Hundred Concerns? Answer me!" I shook him like a doll.

  "Stop it! For God's sake! I can't think straight. We were never specifically told who the principal was, although I had my suspicions. The recruiting ... there's so much to explain. And Lois—"

  "Send her away."

  "I can't! Look at me, for Christ's sake!"

  "Then I'll do it."

  "No! She'll know something's wrong if you try to put her off. Tonight we were going to... she and I are very close."