“You are a thoroughly despicable person.”
“Because I pinched your butt, big deal. Big f—”
“Please!” The big man was patting the air with both hands, conciliatory. “Rachel, nobody questions your motivation and Colonel, nobody questions your conditioning. Why don’t we just drop all this and get down to the problem at hand?”
“One little matter first,” Ramos said, still fuming. “I know who Rachel Eshkol is; she was identified in my orders—but who the hell are you?”
“Octavio de Sanchez. I work for the embassy.”
“Well, I’m glad she didn’t just pick you off the street. What do you do at the embassy when you’re not dabbling in espionage?”
“Well, ah, I’m a data analyst for the Vital Statistics section.”
“And how does this qualify you to be in on our little secret?”
“I needed somebody,” Rachel began.
“You didn’t even need yourself!”
“I needed somebody of unimpeachable loyalty who knew Guajana well. To check your disguise, your acting.”
“Who’s acting? What disguise? I… am… Ramos… Guajana.”
“He talks just like him,” Octavio said.
“See?” Ramos threw up his hands. “For this you doubled my risk of exposure.”
“Senor de Sanchez is absolutely trustworthy.” Her image in the cube was leaning forward, flushed with anger.
“Oh, you want to get into that orbit… Octavio, old sport, if I offered you a million P’s to go over to Alvarez’s side—”
“No. He is too unutterably—”
“Two million? Five? Ten? Your life? To keep your children from being tortured to death? Your mother?”
“Yes, I see. Of course. If the price was dear enough, any man would—”
“Any man or woman on this planet—except me.”
Silence for a few seconds. “Then why don’t you just get rid of us… mere mortals,” Rachel said.
“I considered it,” Ramos snapped. “And I didn’t reject it just because I thought you might be of some use to me later on. You won’t be.”
“Then why not just kill us?”
“Or try,” Octavio added, flexing the practice sword.
“For one thing, it would draw unnecessary attention to the operation. For another, even Ramos, the real Ramos, isn’t totally amoral. Certainly not impractical—he doesn’t go around killing people for sport, or just because their existence inconveniences him.”
“He’s killed sixteen people,” Octavio said grimly.
“Seventeen. But always for what he would consider good reason, or at least sufficient profit.” I’ve killed more than that, Otto thought, just to keep the Confederación running smoothly. “Granted, he might require less reason than you would.”
Octavio nodded. “Look, we’re still getting nowhere. Hadn’t we best go over the plan, coordinate our—”
“The plan is unworkable and is rejected as of now. Kidnapping Ramos and sneaking me into his cell, then having me escape… that’s the kind of Goddamn comic opera thing Planning always dreams up.”
“But we have orders—” Rachel said firmly.
“Look at the rank of the man who signed those orders and then consider my rank. The TBII may not be terribly efficient, but in some ways they aren’t stupid… the only reason I have any military rank at all is to keep people like you from hamstringing me.”
“What’s your plan, then?” she said. “How is it any better?”
“The less you know, the better for both of us. You may do two things for me and then, Octavio, you can go back to your statistics and Señorita Eshkol can go back to… whatever she j does for fun.”
“That suits me fine,” she said with heat. “The sooner you get out of my life, the happier I’ll be.”
“What would you like us to do, Colonel?”
Ramos smiled at the cube for a second and turned back to Octavio. “First, get me reliable, inconspicuous transportation to Clan Alvarez. I suppose that would be a horse.” They make noises about interplanetary war and still use draft animals to get around on. “Then, when I’m ready to leave get rid of the real Ramos.”
“Kill him?”
“That would be safest. Use your own judgment.”
“You are forgetting that Señor Sanchez and I are not casual murderers. We’ll kidnap him as planned before and lock him up in the room you’re in now.”
“All right. I advise you to take out the swords first.”
When Octavio left, Ramos flopped down on the bed with a sigh of relief. It was hard work, trying to think like Otto and be Ramos at the same time.
Starting tomorrow, he would have to move fast. A pity: he would’ve liked to supervise the abduction. Perhaps the prisoner would be killed, trying to escape.
Thinking more like Ramos now, that’s good.
4.
To get to Clan Alvarez, Ramos had to go over two hundred kilometers, through Clans Tueme and Amarillo. It took him two full days, riding the spavined nag Octavio had supplied him with. The second time he stopped for rest (and recreation), at an inn just across the Amarillo-Alvarez border, the prostitute he hired turned out to have known Ramos for years. She remarked about how gentle he’d suddenly become, but seemed relieved rather than suspicious.
What other important aspects of Guajana’s life did the PO section know absolutely nothing about? Ramos hoped his amnesia story would cover him.
He had called the Vista Hermosa before crossing the Tueme border, and Octavio had told him that the abduction had gone smoothly, according to plan. No violence; just a certain amount of money passed around, some personnel suddenly transferred. Guajana was safely locked away in the hotel. There was a reward out for his recapture, but the physical description on the notice was inaccurate. The ruse would work for two days (until a new poster, with picture, could be issued), which gave him plenty of time to get safely into Clan Alvarez.
It was a tiring way to travel. Except in some of the larger towns, which had stone or macadam streets, most of the roads were crushed gravel. Every time a nonequine transport passed, it would pepper Ramos with a shower of pebbles and raise a cloud of stringent dust that would take several minutes to settle in the hot still air. The big ground-effect trucks, which passed about every half hour, were especially diverting, giving Ramos a nice familiarity with the jungle. He learned from one painful experience that horse and rider had to get behind a couple of meters of bush when one of the huge vehicles lumbered by; that or die a slow death by flaying in one day’s journey.
By the time he reached Castile Alvarez, Ramos was covered with a half centimeter of crusted dust, aching with scratches from thorns and flung pebbles, and nearly paralyzed with saddle sores. He left his horse at a public stable, soaked for an hour in a hot tub, had his larger wounds treated, bought a rough massage and a new suit of clothes, and walked slightly bowlegged to the castle.
The castle was an airy fantasy of glass and polished steelite—obviously rather new, although more than a century out of date by the architectural standards of more civilized planets. Guarding the front gate were two pairs of men with crossed pikes, trying not to look uncomfortable in their foppish, archaic uniforms. Their armament was more ornamental than functional, but it was backed up by two megawatt-class lasers in shiny steelite bunkers flanking the road. A sign directed visitors to a small dome beside one of the bunkers. The laser’s large green eye tracked Otto as he passed in front of it.
Inside, the dome had brick-red walls with black tile underfoot and what looked like a tiny woman seated at a miniature desk across from the entrance. In the subdued light it was hard to see the faint cube lines, but it was obviously a holographic projection.
The woman was plain and efficient-looking. “Please give me your name and the name of the department or person with whom you have business.”
“My name is Ramos Mario Guajana. I believe I am to see el Alvarez.”
“Oh… no, sir, that’
s quite impossible.” She looked at him expectantly. Ramos just looked back.
“Just a moment, please.” She tapped out something on the keyboard in front of her. “That’s Guajana with an ‘a’?”
“Yes.” She tapped some more and watched a screen to her right.
“Oh—Mayor Guajana, you are supposed to report directly to Commandante Rubirez… does he have a regular office?”
“Uh… I don’t know.” ‘Mayor’ Guajana? Another little detail that Planning had missed; he was a field-grade officer.
“Let me see whether I can trace him.” She played with the keyboard some more and talked quietly into a microphone.
“Commandante Rubirez is in the Library, in the Rare Books Room,” she said with a tone of dismissal.
“Where’s that?”
“Pardon me?” Furrowed brow, cocked head.
“Look, I’m a field operative; I don’t know my way around this town. Where is the library?” With exaggerated simplicity, she told him: south half of the sixth floor of the castle.
Ramos tried, with his newly discovered majorhood, to pull rank on the palace guards when they asked for his sword. The captain of the guard coldly informed him that the palace guard was outside the military’s chain of command and he could surrender his sword or be burned on the spot. He handed it over. A metal detector bleated as he walked through the gate; they got his pistol, too.
Tangy cold inside the palace. Ramos realized it was the first air-conditioned air he had breathed since getting out of the little T–46. The first floor was all expensive woods and plush carpeting; mediocre paintings alternated with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Too much empty space—it was an arrangement that owed less to aesthetic than to easy defense. Any or each of those mirrors could conceal a squad of armed men. Alone on the acre-sized rug, Ramos felt a hundred eyes on him.
The elevator “boy” wore the palace guard uniform and was armed with short sword and laser pistol. He didn’t say a word to Ramos, and already knew where he was going.
There was only one other person in the main room of the library, a clerk filing tapes behind a desk. He was also armed. Ramos was getting the feeling that everybody in the castle was armed except TBII agents.
“Which way to the Rare Books Room, amigo?”
The clerk took off old-fashioned spectacles and blinked at Ramos. “You can’t go in there. Occupied.”
“I know.” Ramos drummed his fingers on the desk top. “I have an appointment with the Commandante.”
“Ah. This way.” The clerk led Ramos through a labyrinth of tape files, periodical racks, bookcases. They came to a door marked with a single ‘B.’ “Just a moment.” He rapped on the door and opened it slightly.
“I told you I was not to be disturbed,” came a frosty voice from inside.
“A gentleman says he has an appointment with you, Commandante.”
“I don’t have any appointments with anybody.” The clerk was a surprisingly fast draw; he had the pistol steady on Ramos’s breastbone before the Commandante said “any.”
“I’ll get rid of him, sir.”
“Wait,” Ramos said, almost shouting. “I’m Ramos Guajana.”
“Ramos?” A book snapped shut; sound of papers rustling and heavy footsteps muffled by carpet. A bearlike head thrust itself from behind the door at a surprising height.
“Ramos,” he growled with what might pass for affection. “Put that gun away, fool; Alvarez should have two such good men.” Two long strides and he enveloped Ramos in a crushing embrace. Then he held him by the shoulders and studied him, head wagging back and forth, looking more ursine all the time.
“They have used you poorly, old friend.”
“Not as poorly as they might have, Commandante. I was to be hanged.” He shuddered, sincerely. “Or worse.”
“Commandante?” He took Ramos by the arm; steered him into the Rare Books Room. “When was I other than Julio to you?”
“Sir… Julio… that’s another thing. They beat me regularly, severely—”
“That’s evident.”
“—and I seem to have lost my memory. All memories of the past ten years or so.” He lowered himself into any easy chair. “This seemed to be the logical place to go after I escaped, from the nature of their questioning.” He took a chance. “I do vaguely remember… you.”
A shadow, perhaps doubt, passed over the Commandante’s bearded face, then was gone. “And well you should.” He chuckled, turned around abruptly, and scanned the leather-bound volumes lining the wall. He selected a thick book titled Philosophical Discourses, held it to his ear, and shook it. It gurgled pleasantly. “‘Philosophy is the highest music,’” he quoted in Spanish; then he removed the bottle and two glasses from the hollow book and decanted a healthy portion of brandy into each glass. He handed to one to Ramos.
“Grünweltische Branntwein. This is—” he checked the label—“Eisenmacher ’36. It might be well to start developing a taste for it.”
Ramos held up his glass. “We will fill swimming pools with it.” They laughed and drank.
“Then you remember something of the Plan?”
Ramos shrugged. “No more than is common knowledge. My captors—is that the right word?—in Tueme implied that my killing that boy had something to do with it. I also got the impression that they were not too much in favor of the Plan.”
“Not yet,” he said. “But we can bring them around. Or do without them. We’ve gotten the support of Diaz now, much more important. Heavy industry.” He stood up abruptly.
“But we can talk about this later. You must be tired.” More curious than tired, Ramos thought, but best not to press too much.
He nodded. “It was an arduous journey.”
“See Teniente Salazar down at the officers’ billets. I’ll call and make sure you get a good place.”
“I’d be grateful.”
“And…ah! Would you crave… feminine companionship?”
“In a relaxed sort of way, yes. My most urgent desires I satisfied at various inns between Tueme and here.”
Julio clapped Ramos on the back—gently—and laughed. “Some things they could not change.”
5.
Ramos found that his rank—which was new, Teniente Salazar told him—entitled him to his choice of private quarters. There were only two billets available, though. Ramos took the second, even though it seemed more subtly bugged, because it was cleaner and he was expecting company. A girl named Ami Rivera; Julio had said they’d been close, before. He would warn her about his indisposition.
A clerk brought over a duffle bag of personal effects belonging to the real Guajana. Ramos found out disappointingly little about himself from the items in the bag. There were swords: blunted epee, saber, and foil for practice; functional saber and epee. Three sets of clothes, civilian. No uniforms. An opened package of pistol targets. Three books from the castle library; one of short stories and two on fencing theory (these were bound technical journals; Ramos looked for his own name but didn’t find it). The only thing that didn’t have some practical use was a beat-up harmonica with no upper octave. There was also a little bag of things evidently dumped from a desk drawer—anonymous stationery, pencil stub, eraser, two dried-out pens, postage stamps stuck together, a half-smoked box of dope-sticks but no matches.
Maybe the TBII’s Sherlock section could comb through this collection and tell you everything from Guajana’s ring size to his preference in women. To Ramos, to Otto McGavin, after an hour of close inspection, it was still just five swords, three sets of clothes, and a bunch of kibble. Anything he could infer from that he already knew.
Ami came by about sundown and fixed Ramos trimorlinos secos, a regional seafood specialty. She was a laughing, worldly, handsome woman about Ramos’s age. He enjoyed talking with her and making love with her, and never could decide whether she’d been sent to spy on him.
The next night was a slim young thing named Cecelia who had rather more exotic tastes than Ami but
didn’t talk much. The third night it was one Private Martinez, rather dumpy and male besides, who had been sent to bring Ramos to the Commandante’s billet.
Ramos had anticipated just a larger version of his own austere quarters, but Julio’s “billet” was a rambling stucco mansion in the shape of a squared U, built around a carefully tended garden.
Julio was in the garden, sitting under a large tree at a table covered with papers. A bright lantern hanging from a branch above him hissed softly and threw a circle of soft yellow light around him; the smell of its burning mixed pleasantly with the perfumes of the garden. Julio was scribbling rapidly and didn’t hear Ramos and the private approach. The private cleared his throat, signalling.
“Ah! Mayor Guajana. Sit, sit.” He waved at a chair across the table from him and went back to his writing. “I’ll only be a moment. Private, find the cook and bring us some wine and cheese.”
After a minute he laid the pen down with a slap and gathered the papers together. “Ramos,” he said, stacking the pages, “if they ever offer you a colonelcy, turn it down. It’s a first step to a lingering death by writer’s cramp.” He shoved the papers into a portfolio and laid it on the ground. “I have your next… ah.” He was silent while the soldier laid out four kinds of cheese and poured wine.
“That will be all, Private.” He sniffed the wine exuberantly and tasted it. “I suppose rank does have its privileges.” Ramos compared this opulence to Colonel McGavin’s Earthside quarters. He mumbled something in agreement, but privately noted that rank’s privileges varied from army to army.
“I have your next assignment, Ramos. Are you familiar with Clan Cervantes?”
“Only as an area on the map.”
The Commandante waggled his head in amazement. “And we visited it together, a two-week hunting trip, not five years ago.”