“Hold on,” asked Koko, accepting her salad from our self-propellored waiter. “If they were going to cremate you, then how—”
“Just th’ carcass, honey.” She reached down and patted her conical torso. “M’brain’s all nice an’ cozy down here, now. Pretty scary, though, wakin’ up wired to a fare-thee-well, an’ floatin’ in a pickle jar.” She inserted a datachip in a disappearing slot in her chest. “Sesame-seed buns—I love ‘em!”
Maybe this wasn’t the greatest dinner conversation in the world. Suddenly my lamb chop seemed congealed and greasy, not at all appetizing. I hadn’t known Confederate medicine was up to a stunt like this. Clarissa would’ve loved to—no, I couldn’t bear to think about that right now. “If you don’t mind a personal question, Lucy old friend, how in the hell did they get all your nerve connections hooked up right? Aren’t there millions—”
“Billions—by burnin’ up half th’ core time available in Ceres Central fer sixteen solid hours. Y’oughta see my bills. Good thing th’ insurance— Hold on, I see what yer gettin’ at. Winnie, there ain’t no natural law says a frontier hasta be backward. Shucks, all th’ brains an’ talent’s headed out this way these days. You’re here, ain’tya?”
“Yeah, but not for long.” I explained about Clarissa’s disappearance, Olongo’s, too, and the pillage of our home and Propertarian headquarters, winding up with the attempts on my life aboard the Bonaventura.
“Flamin’ frogsnot, Winnie—an’ I thought I was accident-prone! But look, son, whoever’s behind all this, the only hope fer us is right here in th’ Belt. Dontcha understand that yet?”
“I’m sorry, Lucy, I can’t think of anything besides Clarissa. I can’t hang around here while she needs me, damn it!”
“But Winnie—”
“My god, Lucy, what do you—”
“Maybe Clarissa needs us both out here,” suggested Koko.
“Shut up, shut up, both of you, shut up!”
Koko munched her salad, looking hurt. “Yes, Your Redundancy.”
“Okay, I’m sorry. But you understand, don’t you, Lucy?”
“Sure. I’m just as worried about Eddie. Been gone three weeks, an’ if it was done as dirty as th’ dirt they done me...” Her datachip popped out. She replaced it absently with another, this one labeled French fries.
Koko leaned over and gently stroked Lucy’s chassis. “You can tell me about it, Lucy. I won’t bite your head off, like some people.”
“Guess it started when Mark, our Registry Patrolman, mentioned a fewa his customers bein’ outa circulation, ‘thout notifyin’. ‘Course it’s a Free System. No asteroider’s gonna ask ‘Mother-may-I’ ‘fore he takes off sunside on a holiday or goes prospectin’ Outward. Patrols just wish their clients’d let ‘em know more often...Anyway, there was all this Aphrodite hooraw, too—buyin’ up all kindsa claims in th Sargasso, where mosta Rothbard’s registrees was disappearin’ from. Bout th’ same time, this Tormount gruboon contacted me, on accounta my engineerin’ experience with Phobos an’ all.”
“Whasha ‘gruboon’?” asked Koko around the last bite of her hamburger. Anyone who claims gorillas are herbivorous never looked at their teeth very closely.
“Why, honey, that’s a sorry specimen prefers muckin’ around th’ bottom of a gravity well—half th’ population of th’ System, if y’ b’lieve th’ surveys. Don’t understand it m’self, but—”
I raised my eyebrows. “You mean you’ve actually met J. V. Tormount?” Leave it to Lucy to succeed accidentally where even Voltaire Malaise had failed.
“That’s th’ funny part. I’m a pretty fair engineer, usta dealin’ with th’ front office. But I did all my palaverin’ with a coupla flunkies. An Orca, called herself Brahoohoo, an’ a Delphinus name of P’wheet. Figger he’d be any kin t’ Ooloorie?”
I shook my head. “She’s a Tursiops, and besides, if I understand these things, her family name is Eckickeck. Funny you should mention it, she and Deejay are either on sabbatical, or they’ve gone wherever Clarissa and Ed are.” I repeated my conversation with Bertram. “And they’re mixed up with Aphrodite somehow, too, I think.”
Lucy came to the end of her French-fries recording and cued up a milk shake. “Mercury, is it? Well, I always figgered there were other possibilities to th’ Broach. Next thing they’ll be scoopin’ hidey-carbons outa Jupiter with it.”
“How did Ed get involved in all this?” asked Koko. “Was he one of Rothbard’s disappearances?” She’d mopped up her lunch and was starting on dessert—the only gorilla I know personally who will publicly admit to liking bananas. I was interested in seeing how she’d handle a banana split in freefall—it’s just a little lumpy for the nozzle of a baggie.
“Naw, we’re a long, long way from th’ Sargasso Cluster. See, we were gettin’ ready t’diversify a little out on Bulfinch: giant arctic hares. Been a bristlecone’s age since I tasted fried rabbit, an’ we figgered it’d be a real commercial item. But we needed capital. That’s why I was thinkin’ this Aphrodite proposition over real serious-like. Only they up an’ broke off negotiations, an’ I couldn’t even get through to flunkies after that.”
“Hmm. So Ed started doing a little digging.” I had every reason to understand his bump of curiosity. I had one just like it, myself. “Say, do you suppose it’s all right to smoke in this place?”
“Why ever not?” Lucy answered. “Could use a coffin-nail, m’self.” She shuffled through her stack of datachips again, and popped one into the slot—and popped it right out again. “Nope, smoked that one already.”
I fished one of my stogies out from under my suit. “Sorry I can’t offer you one of mine, Lucy, or even a light.”
“Lemme do th’ honors.” A tiny flame blossomed from her manipulator-tip. “A regular walkin’ Swiss Army knife these days, ain’t I? You’re right, Eddie couldn’t leave it alone. Mebbe he was gettin’ bored with homesteadin’, or just tryin’ t’raise our rabbit money. He let th’ truck-garden an’ th’ goldmine go, started pokin’ into th’ Cluster disappearances on a contingency arrangement with Rothbard’s. Even ordered up a whole mess of expensive Broach-detectin’ gear—”
“Hold on. You mean from Laporte Paratronics?”
“Dunno. I was off doin’ a little freelance legal work. Before I’d got back he’d took off like a Fed outa Philly, leavin’ me a message he’d be home in a few days. Only—only he wasn’t, Winnie.” She stopped for several moments then, collecting her thoughts. It was eerie, listening to her familiar voice in the semidark. The shock was fresh each time I looked over and saw the machine her mind had become imprisoned in.
And I thought I had troubles.
“He musta had some long-haul travelin’ in mind, ‘cause he left his brand-new Cord at home an’ rented a half-gee flivver with oversize tanks. I got back an’ found that Hamiltonian medallion in his desk, gave you a holler, then beat it over here—Eddie’s car’s faster’n mine—t’try an’ trace him through th’ rental.”
Koko’s banana split arrived via “airmail,” prepared upon a miniature bed of nails—the kind of thing they use in florists’ shops. She lifted the transparent lid, carefully speared a maraschino cherry, and closed the top again. “And what did you find out?”
“Never got a chance t’find out nothin’. I’d just got settled in at th’ Admiral Heinlein Arms, when some fluke-infested backshooter up an’ killed me.”
***
Step by every other step. I’d laid my plans so far, only to see them demolished by events. Lucy’s resurrection had made a shambles of my latest intentions. We finished lunch by trying to figure out who was going to do what, and when. I had a spaceship to catch in something like thirty-eight hours. Koko wasn’t too enthusiastic about making similar arrangements for herself. Lucy, who’d counted on our help, was still adamant on tracing Ed.
Meanwhile, the most impressive case of jetlag in at least my personal history was beginning to catch up with me: a journey of a couple hundred million mil
es, filled with unexpected perils and altogether too much exercise to suit my sessile inclinations. Lucy agreed to escort Koko on a brief exploration of Pellucidar Gardens; it’s no fun seeing an amusement park alone. In the meantime, I intended to explore my own way back into the sunshine and get a few hours’ overdue sleep. We parted at the corner outside, where the park across the way appeared to be an independent floating world-within-a-world—though I understood there were titanic supporting columns elsewhere, linking it to the city. A million varicolored lights and moving signs peeked enticingly through the heavy covering foliage. The Möbius-coaster blasted by, its passengers shrieking gaily.
I watched my friends drift across the canyon, Lucy pulling Koko along behind her, then consulted a map on my face-screen, thoughtfully broadcast by the Merchants Association. Even with its hood down on my chest, the damn smartsuit was useful; I was getting dependent on it already.
When there are at least sixteen outfits doing business at any one street corner, things can get confusing. I took a promising combination of tow cables toward the elevator, getting lost only twice on the way, finally whisked to the surface, where I stepped out into the hotel lobby, happy to have my feet planted beneath me once again, if only at the puny rate of ten pounds per extremity.
I stepped up to the desk. “I’m Win Bear—checked my bags here earlier. I’ve a room reserved until Lord Kalvan departs for Earth.” I looked around. After several hours below, the walls and ceilings seemed strangely empty, almost going to waste.
The clerk punched up the relevant data. “That’s right,” she answered. “Your room is on the third floor, number 313. I also see you have a message, and—hmm, that’s odd—the manager wants to see you when it’s convenient.” She checked the time on the suitscreen hanging down in front of her like a big rubber pocket watch. “He’s going to lunch in fifteen minutes —be back an hour after that.”
“Let’s make it now and get it over with.” I let the little chimp lead me back through a hallway, open the office door, and let me in.
Some State-side feminist once cracked that a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle. This wasn’t exactly a bicycle, and a porpoise isn’t exactly a fish, but she’d better apply for a new metaphor—or is it simile?—anyway: the hotel boss, decked out from snout to tailfins in rubber underwear, was resting in a lightweight wheeled metal frame. “Mr. Bear, I presume. I’m Criickleer Ackackack Sweenie. Please come in and take a seat.” His quadricycle rolled forward smoothly, a manipulator similar to Lucy’s extended from the frame to shake my hand, then pulled a chair for me around to face the desk.
I sat.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Bear, but something odd has happened I think you should know about.”
“Plenty of odd things seem to be happening to me lately. What is it now?”
The slightest whisper of mechanics, and his arm extended once again, offering a box of cigarettes. I took one, wondering how all this shiny gadgetry was operated. His claw-tip snapped into flame just like Lucy’s had an hour ago. He lit one for himself and stuck it in his blowhole.
“Well, I try to run a good house here. So it pains me to admit it, but someone tried to steal your luggage—simply walked by and took it off the rack in the lobby. Our security circuitry noticed, of course, and we recovered it undamaged.”
My personal effects, it seemed, were getting more and more in demand every day. First the intruder aboard the Bonaventura and now this. Just call me the Man with the Million-Dollar Underwear. “How about the thief?”
“Quite the oddest thing of all. She collapsed spontaneously as soon as we apprehended her. She’s in Nivenville Emergency right now, and the Healer there gives her very little hope.”
I thought this over. “Did they mention anything about a ‘brain-bore’?”
“Let me think—a little circuit box, no larger than a herring?”
I nodded. So did he, in a fishy sort of way.
“Well, they say it’ll be some time before...Will you be available for the inquest?” He blew a thin stream of smoke from the back of his head. I hope they won’t be quite so anxious to get me buried when the time comes.
“Depends. If the Bonaventura’s still at Gunter’s Landing, I suggest your local sawbones contact a gorilla name of Francis Pololo. His testimony’ll be a lot more valuable than mine. He knows something about brain-bores—enough to hate them thoroughly. As for me, I hate to be uncooperative, but there’s an emergency back home, and whoever wants me to stick around here better be faster on the draw than I am. I’d go over to the clinic now, but I’m way behind on sack time, and I gather it’ll wait.”
“Possibly forever, Mr. Bear, possibly forever.”
I let myself out of the office and went upstairs. Maybe I was simply suffering fatigue of the surprise-muscles: suburban ski-lifts; wheeled porpoises; talking garbage cans (as long as Lucy wasn’t around to hear it). The room seemed a nice, quiet oasis of familiarity until I realized that this, in itself, was another surprise.
Furniture, for example: given one-tenth gee, the rugscaping ought to be futuristic, spindly. That’s the way they show it on the Telecom. But furniture anywhere is built more to withstand bodily wrecking power than gravity. Plunk yourself into a chair, it’s still gotta take your full momentum—and it’s far easier to high-velocity plunk at lower gees. If anything, I noticed the furniture gets heavier—scoots around a little less that way, I guess.
I inventoried the contents of my nearly purloined overnight bag and briefcase: nothing missing as far as I could tell; peeled off my smartsuit and slid between the magnetically anchored sheets. Then I remembered with a groan that there was still some message waiting for me at the desk.
“That’s right,” said the Telecom, “you’re Mr. Bear in 313.” Ever notice how hotel clerks seem anxious to assure you of your own identity? “One minute...here it is. You’re scheduled for a stasis-berth aboard the Lord Kalvan late tomorrow night? Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Bear, Lord Kalvan’s departure has been postponed, indefinitely.”
“What?” This was getting ridiculous. “How come? Can’t you get me another ship? It’s an emergency.”
“I’m very sorry, but this seems to be an emergency, too, a general warning out for all interplanetary travel: unseasonally energetic solar flares, it says here. No passages accepted until further notice.”
I thought about Deejay and Ooloorie. Were they safe, way down there by the fire? Or were they simply little wisps, blowing in the photon wind by now? Wait a minute, could their tinkering have caused this disaster? That was a hell of a thought!
And so was this one: Clarissa needed me, and I was marooned.
8: The Brain-Bore
The first year we were together, I often wondered whether Clarissa didn’t feel she’d married down. Her being a high-powered surgeon and me a two-bit shamus, I mean. I shouldn’t have worried: detectives are disgustingly respectable and middle-class in the Confederacy. Everybody’s middle-class in the Confederacy.
Healers lack the bulge that U.S. doctors throw around: there’s a hell of a lot more of them; they have to get out and hustle, make house calls. So things even out.
Now Clarissa could be that special kind of physician, even in Laporte, the kind with rich hypochondriacal customers and a solid-platinum stethoscope. She’s good enough, got that kind of touch. I believe she could snap the mummy of Ramses II out of his slump, have him up and dancing the mazurka in a week. Three days if he watched his diet.
But what I remember is a hundred gut-bending nights like the one I spent handing her silverware, trying not to look down while she stitched together what was left of a six-year-old neighbor kid who got precocious with a can of pistol powder. Eight full hours, and when that was done and I thought I could crawl away somewhere and throw up quietly, she pulled the well-singed ruins of an alley cat—a ragged little scrap of bloody fur—out of stasis where she’d placed it and repeated the whole performance so the little guy could wake up in the morning with his kit
ten buzzing on his chest.
Like I said, she’s got that kind of touch.
***
I didn’t take that room clerk’s word, but ‘commed H T & H myself. Also Pan-Confederate, TransSystem—if there’d been an interplanetary Avis, I’d have tried them, too. Each and every one was sitting tight, hoping the fireworks would sputter down. Outward traffic was still lifting: engine shields in the south end of a northbound hull are good for solar radiation—until turnover—and there wasn’t any shortage of cus-tomers or crew willing to bet old Sol’d get over his hiccups in a day or three. But Sunward was a differently complected critter: nary a spacehand in the Belt who’d gamble salary and bonuses against winding up barbecued.
By this time, I was wide awake again. I chipped a note for Koko, learned by trying to reach Forsyth that the ‘coms were down for the duration, then decided to see for myself what passes for medical care in the asteroids.
Confederates regard hospitalization as a shameful relic of the past—like whipping the insane or invoking Sovereign Immunity—the worst punishment you can inflict on a sick person. Consider all the interesting diseases gathered there in one location, the inevitable bureaucratically rotten food, continuous disturbances just outside your door, the way they wake you up for sleeping pills.
My one stateside experience as a surgeree—perforated in the wallet muscles by a .22 slug—had been all of that: tottering along the slickly waxed linoleum like Methuselah on his nine-hundred-first, leaning weakly on a treacherously unsteerable IV hanger; the midnight PA operator hollering “ICU, ICU, respiratory arrest!”, then a few minutes later, “Nice try, ICU”; elderly neighbors coughing, snorting, wheezing, moaning in the certain knowledge that, if this wasn’t the visit that’d finish ‘em off, the next one would for sure; the middle-aged contractor I roomed with, inexorably growing hooked on soap operas; the lilting murmur of Extreme Unction somewhere down the hall.
These are a few of my favorite things.