The homely face of his son, Elson III, filled the third and final holo. He was proud of Els – just fourteen, president of his class and active in the Young Restructurists Club. He encouraged his son in these activities, for he’d found them invaluable in his own youth. Through being a class officer and the head of committees, you learned how to handle people, how to get them involved in projects, how to get them to work for you.
His son would start at the university next year, and that brought back a swarm of memories for deBloise. He had never planned on going into politics, aiming rather for a long life devoted to being very idle and very rich. Something during his years of higher education had sparked him, however. He didn’t remember exactly what it was, perhaps some of those Restructurist-oriented professors who were so openly critical of the Federation, spending entire class periods in an overt attempt to sway developing minds toward their point of view. Perhaps young Elson deBloise had sensed a path to power within the philosophy of political interventionism.
He entered the political sphere soon after graduation, not as a Restructurist, however. Restructurism was irrelevant then as a philosophy in lower-echelon politics on Jebinose. His name and his position made him welcome in the inner circles of the local machine where he quickly identified the movers and the shakers. He made the right connections, spoke up for the right causes at key affairs, and finally gained enough leverage to be nominated to the Jebinose Senate.
Even as he made his maiden speech before that august body, he was planning the moves that would take him to Fed Central. Jebinose was not yet in the Restructurist fold, was not in any fold, for that matter. The planet was situated near some of the major trade lanes, yet did little trading. There was little there to interest anyone: no drugs, technological hardware, or chemicals – just those damn Vanek artifacts, and a single shipload could handle a year’s output.
So, traders rarely stopped at Jebinose. It was a fact of life. But coupled with the current slow, steady decline of the planet’s economy, that fact of life held great potential as a political issue of interstellar scale. To transform it into such an issue would require some fancy footwork and what his advisers referred to as “the old reverse.”
This is how it would work: It was obvious to anyone vaguely familiar with Jebinose and elementary economics that major traders didn’t stop there because it had a simple agrarian economy with nothing to trade. To make an important political issue of that, you merely inverted the situation: Jebinose had a poor, simple agrarian economy because the traders refused to stop there; if the traders could be made to stop and deal with Jebinose, the planet would undergo an industrial and economic boom. And that’s why Jebinose needs a Restructurist working for her at Federation Central.
You couldn’t spring this on the populace de novo, of course. You had to spend a few years laying the groundwork in the media, dropping phrases like “functional trade sanction” whenever asked about the Jebinose economy, and continuing to utilize the phrase until it was picked up by others. After it had been repeated often enough, it would be accepted as matter-of-fact truth. And if they could accept that amorphous phrase, then they would have no trouble swallowing “the old reverse.”
Used properly, that would be the issue to launch him into interstellar politics. But until the foundation had been properly laid, he must cast around for local issues to keep himself prominently displayed before the public.
And that was when some minor public official suggested that there was too much discrimination against the Vanek in the rural areas where they lived. DeBloise and the other Restructurists in the Jebinose Senate jumped on the idea, and the Vanek Equality Act was soon making its way through the legislature. Elson deBloise, more than anyone else, had staked his political future on that bill. He toured the entire planetary surface speaking on it. If it passed, he would instantly become the fair-haired boy of Jebinose politics and would immediately introduce his manufactured trade issue in a bid for the Jebinose seat at the Federation Assembly. If it hit a snag, it would set his timetable back five, perhaps ten years.
It hit a snag.
And that’s when Cando Proska introduced himself.
Since then he had never had a good night’s sleep on Jebinose.
“That reporter is here, sir,” said his receptionist’s voice.
DeBloise shook himself back to the present and assumed a more upright posture.
“Send him in.”
A nondescript man of average build with dark blond hair and eyes that seemed to be bothered by the bright, natural light of the office strolled through the door and extended his hand.
“Good day to you, sir. I’m Lawrence Easly from the Risden Interstellar News Service and it’s an honor to meet you.”
Easly
EASLY’S CREDENTIALS as a news service reporter were the best money could buy. It was a useful identity, allowing him to roam and ask embarrassing questions. It secured him an interview with deBloise himself within the span of one local day – it was difficult for any politico to turn down free exposure in the interstellar news media.
He had done all the research he could on the way out from Ragna, and now he had the rest of the day on his hands. Danzer wasn’t too far away, so he rented a small flitter for a quick run to the little town. Jo had told him about her father’s murder there and he wanted to have a look… for her sake.
And for his own. Easly had approached the Junior Finch aspect of the Jebinose trip as he would a typical missing person case. His routine in such was to learn all he could about the individual in question before starting the leg work; he liked to feel as if he knew the quarry before initiating the search. In Junior’s case he had found that unsettlingly easy.
Old holovid recordings in the Finch family library were the starting point. There weren’t many. None of the Finches was crazy about sitting still for cameras, it seemed. He did manage to find one, a long one, recorded at what must have been a family outing shortly before the death of Jo’s grandparents in the flitter crash. The viewing globe filled with woods, grassy knolls, a pond, and for a short while, Junior Finch sitting under a tree with a five- or six-year-old Josephine perched on his lap. They were posing and the family resemblance was striking, especially since Jo’s hair had been lighter then.
But Easly’s eyes had drawn away from the child who had grown to be his lover and come to rest on Junior. He felt as if he were looking at a slightly distorted reflection of the adult Josephine, recognizing parallels that went beyond build, facial features, complexion. There was a whole constellation of intangible similarities pouring out of the globe: the relentless energy forever pushing to find new channels, the undefined urgency that so typified Jo’s character as he knew her today percolated below Junior’s surface even in the midst of pastoral tranquillity.
But not until the camera had panned to the right, placing Junior on the periphery of the visual field, did the uncanny similarity between Jo and her father strike him full force. Junior stood leaning against a tree, staring at nothing, his arms folded, his mind obviously light-years away from the family picnic. It startled Easly because he’d caught Jo hundreds – thousands! – of times staring off into space that same way, steeped in the same private world.
There were other recordings, and on the trip to Jebinose Easly had studied them, watching Junior’s every move. He found something immensely appealing in the man’s quiet intensity and became increasingly involved in him… fascinated, infatuated, haunted by the shade of a man he had never met, yet felt he had known most of his life. It bothered him.
The tragic course of Junior’s life saddened him, and annoyed him as well. What made a grown man drop a top position with a respected firm like IBA, a firm presented with interesting, challenging problems on a daily basis, and travel to a place like Jebinose?
He smiled as a thought came to him: probably the same thing that made a nineteen-year-old girl forsake a life of ease and luxury to singlehandedly challenge the IBA board of directors and ou
tworld conventions as well. He then realized why he felt so close to Junior Finch: Josephine, for all the adulation and admiration she lavished on the memory of her grandfather, had grown into the image of his son.
And now he was gilding toward the death-place of that son, her father. She had given him three names: Bill Jeffers, Marvin Heber, and a Vanek named Rmrl, or something like that. The first would be easy to find if he still ran the store.
He missed Danzer on the first pass, but circled around and followed a dirt road back into the center of the tiny town. Jeffers’ name was still on the sign above the general store, so he made that his first stop.
Jeffers wasn’t there at the moment, but a clean-shaven, heavy-set young man who professed to be his son asked if he could help.
“I’m looking for Marvin Heber,” Easly said. “Know where I can find him?”
“He’s dead. Died sometime last spring.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You a friend of his?”
“Not really. A friend of a relative of an old friend of his – you know what I mean.” Young Jeffers nodded. “I was supposed to stop in and say hello and see how he was. Oh, well.”
He strolled out onto the boardwalk. It was hot and dry outside and a gust of wind blew some dust into his face. He sneezed twice. Hard to believe people still lived like this.
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.