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The Essential Mindreader
By Steve Gordon
Foreward
Could he truly read minds? That is the most generally held
belief, although even today there are still many who are skeptical.
Few people really knew him, and most of those are either dead,
unavailable, or cryptically refusing to comment. He was said to be a
weird fellow, an eccentric, although perhaps that was part and parcel
of his special ability. Whatever the exact truth of it, he obviously
had an ability of some sort, one that enabled him to determine the
nature and character of other individuals, with little more than an
askew glance. It's really a shame that he got caught up in the
resurgence of the Tauz, and that led to his bitter end; for today there
are many questions that people would have like to have asked of Dalbo
Alto, if only he had lived to answer them.
Prelude
The man sat on the park bench, looking nervously about. First
left, then right. Left, then right.
Dalbo Alto walked idly through the park, not even paying
attention. He was inspecting blades of grass. That he was wearing a
light shelf jacket on a wintery day did not appear to bother him. He
kept his gaze fixed down, not even looking at the man on the bench.
"Concerned, very concerned," Dalbo muttered, not even thinking what he
was saying. Why did the grass always reach a certain height, and then
stop?
A second man approached the bench. He looked around, in a not so
subtle manner, before joining the first man. Dalbo, who was too far
away to hear, continued to look down, keeping his head bowed. Green.
Grass green. Like green on the university dormitory wall. No, more
like the green on the water cooler outside the university office.
"You're late," said the first man.
"There was a surprise inspection in the department.
Unavoidable."
"What have you got?"
"Tauz." The second man nodded, as he uttered the single word.
"You're sure? Particulars," the man snapped.
Dalbo suddenly looked up, as if stunned by an insect. His gaze
was transfixed by a nearby tree.
"Putting the Pres cold. Right after the VP elec-"
There was a crack. No, actually it was a series of cracks. And,
for a moment, all was still.
Dalbo didn't even glance at the gory sight on the park bench. He
was still staring at the tree, looking calmly as a man climbed down
from its leafy branches.
"Projectiles. Pieces of metal. Perforation. Multiple
termination," said Dalbo, in rapidfire fashion.
The man calmly climbed down from the tree, grasping a long rifle.
He looked around, and, seeing the park still deserted, slowly aimed his
weapon at the only witness. Almost casually.
Dalbo watched the man aim the weapon. "Termination. Speeding
velocity of small pieces of metal to end organisms and curb information
flow."
The man's finger tightened on the trigger.
"Bad move, Albert."
The man froze, if in shock. Suddenly, there was a siren in the
air. Dropping his weapon, he fled.
Chapter 1
The beach was a wonderful place. It was good for lying around,
relaxing, doing nothing, nothing in particular. It was just that kind
of place. Clifford Croft couldn't stifle a small yawn as he watched
the waves slowly lapping against the golden yellow sands of Pacifica.
Nice. Relaxing. Peaceful.
And boring as anything.
Clifford Croft knew that when he felt that restless feeling that
it was time to move on. To return to work. In fact, he was seriously
considering making such a move when he turned his head, and noticed
something quite remarkable.
Two men. Dark glasses, three piece ties, seven piece suits.
Even dark hats, too. Nice touch. Very inconspicuous. Croft turned
his head away to glance at some of the more exotic swimwear that was
being worn that sunny morning, as if to look away from what was coming.
Scrunch scrunch scrunch Scuff! The sounds of footsteps came to a
halt. Droplets of sand propelled from the final set of footsteps
splattered on his beach blanket.
"Clifford Croft?" said a voice.
"Umm," said Croft lazily, apparently counting wave breakers out
at sea. "Who?"
"You are Clifford Croft," said the first man.
Croft said mildly. "Is that a question or a statement?"
"It's him," muttered the second man. "Come with us." Reaching
down, he put a hand on Croft's shoulder.
That was his first mistake. Turn twist pressure, and Croft was
standing up, and the second man was on the ground, grabbing his wrist
in pain.
The first man grabbed into his jacket for something, entitling
him to a good swift kick in the stomach, and he went down too.
"They don't make them like they used to," said Croft, grasping
for what the man had been reaching for.
A metal identifier. The golden stars of the Agency.
"Oh," said Croft. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" he
said, deadpan.
Clifford Croft had been with the Agency for nearly eleven years.
The Agency for International Trade and Development. That's what it was
called in diplomatic circles, as well as in the jokes that circulated
throughout the department. Everyone knew it was the leading spy bureau
for the Alliance, that patchwork federation of planets spread across
the outward stretch of the spiral arm.
Croft was a specialist. Not an analyst, an info manager, or an
operative in domestic S&S (surveillance and security). But an
infiltrator, one who penetrated other societies, blending in unnoticed,
unlocking their secrets, and then beating a straight path for home.
That was the hardest job of all, with the highest casualty rate of any
work category in the Agency. Croft had been an infiltrator for nine
years, and an Alpha-K for nearly three years. Which entitled him to a
certain level of pay, a certain level of respect... and a certain level
of arrogance.
Croft took the first spaceflight back to HQ. He was still late,
of course. A.A., Aldman Alderman himself, sat fuming in his office as
Croft marched in. "You're late, Croft!" he said, scowling as his
bulldog jowls bounced up and down accusingly.
"Sorry Chief," said Croft. "A lot of traffic at the shuttle
tube. Unavoidable."
"And was it also unavoidable that you assaulted two of our
operatives on Pacifica?"
Croft shrugged. "They didn't identify themselves."
A.A. shook his head, giving him a look. "Let's stop playing
games. I need your attention for an important matter."
"Are there ever any other kind?"
A.A. scowled.
Croft lay back, closing his eyes. "All right, what are the
Slurians up to now?" Sluria, a medium sized star empire situated along
the borders with the Alliance, was always stirring up trouble.
A.A. shook his head again. "Not Slurians. Tauz."
Croft immediately opened his eyes, and looked forward. But he
wasn't staring at A.A. The Tauz. They had bombarded dozens of worlds,
years ago, including his--Croft suddenly winced, remembering long
nights in bomb shelters... he blinked, and found himself staring at
A.A. again. "The Tauz? They were wiped out a generation ago. Hell, we
wiped them out."
"Yes, I was looking over my predecessor's files on the subject.
But organized crime can never be entirely eliminated."
"Organized crime nothing," said Croft. "They had an organization
across the spiral arm, with armies of resack warships and armies and
research teams. Towards the end they were going into the business of
empire building."
"Yes, I've read the histories," said A.A. mildly.
"But they were wiped out. Forces destroyed, leaders eliminated,"
said Croft, making those statements with a certain hard-edged relish.
"As far as we know," said A.A. "But have they been eliminated,
or merely lying low, fitting together the remnants of their
organization, licking their wounds?"
"Cut through the fat. What's happened?" said Croft bluntly.
"There's been an assassination of one of our consular officials
on Paley Paratus."
"Paley Paratus. Paley Paratus, Paley Paratus... That's in
the... Gamma two sector, isn't it?"
A.A. nodded.
"What's a bit of domestic terrorism got to do with us? Let
Consular Security handle it."
"Normally I would say yes, but the man who was killed was one of
ours. Calner."
"Calner," said Croft, getting a far away look. "I... I knew
Calner. We were in training together. I rather liked Calner," he said
simply, with no visible trace of anger. There was a moment's pause.
"What was he doing in an embassy post?"
"He was operating under deep cover. We received word that
something unusual was going on in Paley Paratus." A.A. lit up a cigar.
"They just had presidential elections there. The president has been
sounding us out about joining the Alliance. Seems he wouldn't mind the
technological and trade benefits." A.A. puffed a little. "It also
seems like there are a lot of entrenched groups in that society opposed
to Alliance membership."
"Where does the Tauz fit in?"
"Wait." A.A. held up a restraining hand. "We got word that
there were some offworld players involved. Someone from the outside
manipulating behind the scenes. We sent in Calner to investigate.
Calner became more and more convinced that the Tauz was involved."
"There you go, mentioning that T word again," said Croft, looking
annoyed. "Where's the evidence?"
"Calner was collecting it when he was shot. Fatally. Along with
his informant." He tossed a dossier over to Croft.
"Hmm... his informant worked in the Ministry of Sanitation?"
"Paratan secret police," A.A. explained.
"Oh," said Croft, rapidly scanning the file. "I suppose it's not
any less original than the Agency for International Trade and
Development." He read some more for a moment, then looked up. "I
don't see anything here that mentions the Tauz."
A.A. grimaced. "Calner's last report was nearly a week old. We
don't know where this lead came from or what made him think the Tauz
was involved. But you, Croft, have a big lead."
"I do?"
"A witness," said A.A., with relish. "One Dalbo Alto." He
handed Croft another file.
"A witness," said Croft. "Well, then it really can't be the
Tauz, can it? They wouldn't have been so sloppy as to leave a
witness."
"He's a very unusual witness," said A.A.
"Unusual?"
"Slightly dysfunctional. Retarded, perhaps."
"What does he do?"
"He's a college professor," said A.A., without a blink. "Our
people were on the scene first. We took him to the Alliance embassy,
where Calner was working from."
"And what did the Paley government think of that?"
"Pleased they weren't," A.A. admitted. "Especially when it
involved the matter of the death of one of theirs. But one of our
people was involved too. There is also the matter of their application
for Alliance membership-"
"So they don't want to rock the boat too much."
A.A. nodded. "We've compromised, promising to work very closely
with them on the investigation. You will cover with the identity of an
investigating detective with the Alliance League of Justice."
"Alliance League of Justice?" Croft frowned. "What in the world
is that?"
"There actually is such an organization, created by the Omnibus
Crime Reduction Act of 2422. It's a mail drop, somewhere on Alliance
Central."
"Uh huh, so they'll think I'm just a cop."
"Precisely. The Paratans may not be aware of the significance of
these murders. You're to go undercover and figure it all out."
Croft started to get up to leave.
"Oh, there's one more thing." said A.A., in a warning tone.
Croft stopped moving. "I never like it when you say 'one more
thing'. It's usually the sort of 'one more thing' I won't particularly
like, as I recall."
"You're getting a partner."
"Now I remember why." Croft commented. "A.A., you know I work
best when I work alone... but if I must have a partner, could it be
someone with at least half a brain? Maybe Preston-"
"We're not pairing you with an Agency man," said A.A., a small
grin on his face.
Croft sat back down. "Just whom or what exactly are you teaming
me with?"
A.A. tossed me another dossier. "Bill Lotnon, D.S.C."
"DSC? DSC? Diplomatic Security Corps? You've got to be
kidding."
"The incident occurred on their turf."
"Calner was one of ours."
"But he was operating under the cover of one of theirs. They
insisted."
"What crap. What unmitigated bureaucratic crap," said Croft, who
was starting to sulk. "Well, he's not going to trail me at every step.
I'll order him to stay behind, to do the paperwork. I'll-" He
stopped, when he saw A.A. shaking his head sadly.
"Wait a minute. I'm in charge, aren't I? Aren't I? A.A., say
something."
"Now Croft-"
"No, no, and no. I will not go on a mission with a jumped up
security guard in charge. Absolutely positively-"
"Now shut up Croft, and listen!" A.A. suddenly yelled. Croft
paused, in mid-statement.
"I just got through several hours of fighting this over at the
Departmental level. They insisted that one of theirs go along. They
insisted that he be given responsibility. The secretary agreed with
them, not me. Lotnon is in charge of the investigation."
Croft's shoulder's slumped.
Then A.A. grinned. "But you're in charge of the mission."
Croft frowned. "What the hell does that mean?"
"You both have joint authority-"
Croft sighed, tuning the rest out. This was going to be a
stinking rotten mission.
"Failure... can not be tolerated." The man with the eyepatch said
that matter of factly, like a lesson for second graders, but those at
attention could not help but shake slightly.
Eyepatch looked at a tall man standing at attention. "This task
was assigned to you, Mr. Bennett."
"The mission was a success, leader," said Bennett, trying hard
not to tremble. "The informant and the agent were terminated."
"But your operative allowed a witness to escape, one who easily
could have been terminated." Fingers, tapping on a desktop. Tap tap
tap.
"I am investigating that further," said Bennett. "The reason, I
mean, why he didn't fire."
"And find out also why he was sloppy enough to leave his weapon
at the scene," said Eyepatch. "And then close the file on him. Do you
understand?" Tap tap.
"Perfectly."
Eyepatch stared at Bennett for a moment, then nodded. "I trust
you will be a good example to the others--one way, or the other." Tap
tap tap.
Croft braced himself as the ship shuddered for a landing. The
passenger vessel Altaco was old, but it was still serviceable. Croft
reviewed in his mind the information he had taken in from the
briefings.
It seemed that someone was definitely trying to destabilize the
government. Calner, the intell officer, had transcribed a good deal of
intrigue that had occurred in the highest circles of Paratan government
over the course of the last year. The reason seemed obvious; Tri-Krell
4. One of the most powerful sources of energy, it was useful for
spacers, civilian reactors, and military purposes alike. Whoever
controlled Paley Paratus would control those deposits.
Croft's first instinct was to suspect the Slurians. This planet
was not too far from the distant fringes of Slurian space, and it was
not beyond the Slurians to use everything from subterfuge to political
assassination to pull neutral planets into their sphere. Especially
those with rich energy deposits.
But Calner had, for some reason, thought the Tauz was involved,
although in his reports he had never detailed why. Croft remembered
him. A reasonably sharp guy, not the brightest, perhaps... but pretty
sharp, by Agency standards. Not the sort of fellow to blindly leap to
conclusions. What trail had he been on?
Customs officials were waiting for him as the ship touched down.
Croft gave a large smile as he hefted his luggage, which contained a
large booty of devices, many of them lethal, that an official from the
Alliance League of Justice would never be expected to have.
"Clifford Croft, Alliance League of Justice, how are you?" said
Croft, putting on a large idiotic grin.
The customs officials smiled in return. One of them, coming
forward with an extended hand, revealed himself to be something other
than a customs official. "Tal. Tal Zack, Mr. Croft, but you can call
me Tal. I work at the embassy, I'm here to drive you there."
"Then let's be on our way," said Croft.
He felt the restraining hand of one of the customs men. Croft
immediately had to suppress his instinct. Instinct told him that the
man should be flying through the air, crashing towards the ground.
Funny thing, that instinct.
But Croft just gave a broad smile and said, "What's the problem,
my friend?"
"We have to check your bags, sir."
Croft smiled again. "Diplomatic Pouch. Diplomatic immunity."
"Are you an embassy official?"
That started a lengthy tussle. No, he wasn't an embassy official.
Yes, he was a representative of another government. But they had
orders to search... an interplanetary incident? No need to insist.
gab, gab, gab....
Croft listened to a short concerto in his mind, blocking out the
blatherings of the customs officials. He knew the routine.
Bureaucrats always had to flex their petty muscles before they would
permit anything.
After the customs officials were suitably worked up, Croft was
allowed to proceed. With bags decidedly unexamined.
"Gee Mr. Croft, you seemed very calm about that."
Croft nodded, saying nothing. But he did make a comment when,
getting into the car, he saw an occupant already in the back seat.
"Mr. Croft, good to meet you," said the man, extending a hand.
He was a middle aged fellow with a small moustache.
Croft didn't touch the proffered limb. "To the embassy, Tal."
"Mr. Croft?" said the man, in a slightly hurt tone.
"Mr. Lotnon," said Croft, in a neutral tone. Croft was like
that. He had nothing against Lotnon, nothing personal; he just didn't
like the idea of working with anyone else. Especially someone who
wasn't with the Agency.
"How did you know who I was?"
A complete moron, Croft thought immediately. But he said,
politely enough, "Well, I could have made a lucky guess. Or I could
have figured out that you were the most likely person they would send
to meet me." He paused for a moment, then added, "Or I could have seen
the picture in your file."
"My... my file? You read a file on me?" said the man,
flabbergasted. Evidently he hadn't been offered a similar opportunity
with regard to Croft. "Just what sort file is there on me?"
"Not much of one," said Croft cooly, examining his nails. "Your
still likeness isn't even very good. You were scowling."
Lotnon, or Bill, as Croft thought of him, did his best to imitate
his photo. But then he forced it all down, and gave an insincere
smile. "You'll be expected to pay your respects to the Ambassador when
you arrive."
"Um?" said Croft, stuffing a cigar in his mouth.
"And I think you should know that the Ambassador doesn't allow
his staff to smoke in the embassy," said Lotnon.
"Got a light?"
The aircar slowly turned into the embassy driveway. A pair of
Alliance marines snapped to attention as they exited the car. Croft
eyed their laser pistols warily. "Powerpack fully charged?"
"YES SIR!" said the marine.
"Good. You might be needing it." Embassy security had been
beefed up after the assassination. In Croft's opinion security could
never be tight enough.
Tal led them to the ambassador's study. Croft wasn't half done
with his cigar and, despite glances, Tal's (fearful) and Bill's
(worrisome), the wrapped weed lay reassuringly between his lips.
Ambassador Califar came forward to greet them, hand outstretched,
a smile on his lips... which faded a little, when he saw that Croft was
smoking.
"Mr. Croft," he said, a little less warmly than he had intended.
"Ambassador."
The Ambassador proceeded to give them the Speech. How terrible
the incident was. How helpful the Paratans had been. How they must
respect local customs, and be sensitive to the problems of the region.
Croft nodded attentively as he tuned the ambassador out, mentally
composing a list of weapons and gear that he would take with him on his
first outing.
When the Ambassador was done, Croft started to tune in again. "-
expected to work with the local authorities. A Lieutenant Markna will
be getting in touch with you... beyond that, I think we've covered a
lot of ground." He paused for a moment, deep in thought. "Oh? Oh,
yes. Breakfast at 7, Lunch at 13, Tea at 17, and Dinner is at 19."
The Ambassador stood up to leave.
"One more thing, Mr. Ambassador." said Croft, holding up a
restraining hand. "The witness."
"The witness?" The Ambassador looked puzzled. "Oh, yes, Mr.
Alto. You'll find him downstairs." He walked by Croft, making a face
as he passed through cigar fumes. "Oh, and Mr. Croft, about that
cigar-"
"Yes. Got an ashtray?" said Croft.
"-I've already talked to Mr. Alto," said Lotnon, as they walked
down the stairs.
"Yeah, I've seen the transcript," said Croft.
"Still, I don't see any harm in your talking to him," said
Lotnon, considering.
"Thanks," said Croft, without a trace of sarcasm. He reached for
the door to the witness' room.
"But be gentle. He's a sensitive fellow-"
"I will," said Croft, closing the door in Bill's face.
Lotnon, annoyed, opened it again, coming in.
"Can't you find somewhere else to go?" said Croft, letting the
annoyance freely grace his features.
"I'd like to be present."
"I thought you already talked to him."
"Yes, I did, but-"
"But me no buts," said Croft.
"Conflict," interjected a new voice.
They both turned, and Croft got his first good look at Dalbo
Alto. He had entered the room so engaged in argument with Lotnon that
he had only peripherally looked at the occupant.
A small, middle aged man sat in a hard wooden chair. He had
unkempt hair, wisps of which shot off in all directions. His eyes,
which seemed to roam, had an uneering tendency to suddenly stop, and
stare, as if stabbing through something.
"Mr. Alto," said Croft, putting a false smile on.
"Hello."
"My name is Clifford Croft. I'm with the Alliance League for
Justice." Only the Ambassador and Lotnon knew his true identity. "I'm
here to help."
"Untrue statement."
Croft raised an eyebrow. Why was this man talking like a
machine? And which statement was he referring to? "What do you mean?"
he asked.
But the man remained silent.
"Well, let's get down to facts. Your name is Dalbo Alto."
"My sound-designate. Accurate."
Croft raised his eyebrows, but said nothing immediately. Looking
at Alto's dossier, he said, "Says here that you're a professor of
philosophy at Paley Prime University."
Alto nodded.
"What were you doing in the park, Mr.... mind if I call you
Dalbo? You can call me Clifford," said Croft, giving a warm smile.
"Sound designations are irrelevant."
Croft took that for an assent. "What were you doing in the park?"
"You know the answer," said Dalbo.
"I'd prefer to hear it from you."
"Request of duplicative information is illogical."
"Not if intent is to affirm accuracy of previous information,"
said Croft, getting into the swing of things.
Dalbo considered, then nodded. "Purpose of extra-campus
excursion was to exercise locomotive functions."
Croft nodded. "You were taking a walk. Who did you see in the
park?"
"There were two individuals in a stationary mode. They were most
secretive."
"What makes you say that?"
"It was obvious," said Dalbo.
"All right. What then?"
"They were perforated."
"Perforated? They were killed."
"Metal strips launched at high velocity penetrated vital organs,
terminating those organisms."
Lotnon whispered to Croft. "He always talks like that."
"What happened then?" said Croft, waving Lotnon off.
"Terminator, perched in a segment of foliage, reduced altitude-"
"Climbed out of a tree," Lotnon whispered.
"And then," said Croft.
"Departed."
Croft frowned. "Was there anyone else in the park?"
"No."
"Did the assassin see you?"
"Yes."
"You're telling me that you were the only witness, the assassin
saw you, and he didn't kill you."
"Correct."
"He just dropped his weapon, and left."
Dalbo was silent.
"That's all I was able to get out of him," Lotnon said.
Croft frowned. "Dalb, what did this assassin look like?"
"Human."
Croft made a noise. "We're all human here, Dalbo. You'll have
to be more specific than that. Hair color?"
"Dark."
"Tall? Thin? Clothes? Scars?"
"He was a man," Dalbo answered, shrugging as if there were no
more to be said.
"How far away was this man from you?"
Dalbo considered. "At his closest approach.... 18 feet.
Eighteen feet, two inches."
"You can't describe what he looked like, but you know his
distance from you, down to the inch...." Croft sighed. Then he
frowned. "Wait a minute. You said approach. You said he approached.
Did he approach you?" This was key. Lotnon's interrogation log had
made no mention of this.
Dalbo paused. "Momentarily," he said faintly.
"Then he turned away?"
Dalbo was silent.
"Dalbo, when you're silent, do you mean yes, or no?"
Dalbo looked at Croft with piercing eyes. "You're not nice."
"What makes you say that?" said Croft intently.
"You hurt people. The sounds you make are not true."
Croft gave a gentle smile. "I'm only trying to help. You know
your life may be in danger. If whoever killed these two men decides to
come after you, you won't have a chance, unless you're protected.
Isn't that why you agreed to come to the embassy?"
Dalbo shrugged, as if it were an irrelevancy.
"Now, you said the assassin turned towards you. Was the rifle in
his hands?"
Dalbo nodded.
"Was it pointed at you?"
Dalbo nodded.
"What did the assassin do then?"
"He dropped his weapon, and fled."
Croft paused, and stared hard at Dalbo. For a moment, there was
silence. Then Dalbo, seeing something in Croft's expression, flinched,
jerking back.
"You're not nice, no," Dalbo decided.
"Croft!" said Lotnon, not quite aware what had transpired, but
sensitive to the fact that Dalbo was agitated.
"You're the nice one," said Dalbo, matter-of-factly. "Take him
away. He is bad."
"Bad?" said Croft, still expressionless. "What do you mean?"
"You pretend to be mild, but you are an issuer of negative
stimuli. You pleasure in dispensing it."
"I do?" Croft mused. "Perhaps I do." He drew a concealed
blaster from a holster in his jacket. Adjusting the settings, he
pointed it at Dalbo. "This is how I dispense negative stimuli. Would
you like a taste of it?" His face was granite; his tone, matter-of-
factly.
Dalbo wasn't quivering now, he was merely only looking curiously
at the blaster. But Lotnon was livid. "Croft! Whatever do you think
you're doing!"
Croft didn't lower his weapon. "Get out," he said, in a low
voice.
"You can't order me around! We're co-partners in this
investigation, why-"
Croft turned to him, and his eyes were still. "I'm not going to
ask again."
Lotnon opened his mouth, but no words came out. He looked at the
expression on Croft's face, and his resolve faded. "You haven't heard
the last of this," he said, marching out.
When the door was closed Croft turned back to Dalbo. He moved
his chair close to Dalbo, a few mere inches away.
"Now normally, I'm a nice guy," said Croft, allowing a small
amount of warmth to creep back into his expression. "I'm a regular
mister happy. But one of my friends has been killed, and something big
is happening. You're blocking me, and I want answers."
"I do not respond to negative stimuli," said Dalbo, raising his
chin.
Croft sighed for a moment, then looked defeated. "If you don't
respond, you don't respond," he said, turning away for a moment. Then
he raised his weapon and fired, point-blank, at Dalbo's left hand.
"Ow!" said Dalbo, jerking it away. He held his shot limb
gingerly with his other hand.
"Well, for a man who doesn't respond to negative stimuli, you
certainly put on a good show of it, even where the lowest blaster
setting is involved."
"You shot me." Incredulous.
"Oh, your hand's probably a little red, at worst. The skin will
dry and peel off, in a few days."
"You shot me."
"It was only the test setting," said Croft. He adjusted the
setting on the blaster. "But this is setting four." He aimed it at
Dalbo's right foot. "The next time I shoot, there isn't going to be
anything to grow back."
"What do you want to know?"
"Why," said Croft simply, without elaboration.
"I spoke to him. My verbalizations interrupted his decision
chain."
"What did you say," said Croft, keeping the business end of his
blaster pointed in a menacing direction.
"Bad move, Albert."
"That's it?"
"Affirmative."
"Albert? Why did you call the man Albert? Did you know him?"
"No."
"Then why did you call him Albert?"
Dalbo paused. "He looked like one."
"Then he dropped his weapon, and ran."
Dalbo nodded.
Croft raised his blaster. His finger tightened on the trigger.
"You will not fire," said Dalbo, no longer looking concerned.
"In any event, you have what you want."
Croft paused, and then nodded for a minute. Dalbo had called his
bluff. "How did you know his name?" he said, lowering the weapon.
"It just seemed right," said Dalbo.
"Hm," said Croft. He took out a metal device from his pocket,
attaching one end to Dalbo's wrists. Then he repeated his latest line
of questioning.
Croft's eyebrows went up as he checked an indicator. Dalbo was
telling the truth, as he saw it.
"What do you mean, he looked like an Albert?"
"He just did."
And Dalbo was telling the truth. Either that, or he was a very
skilled liar. Which was entirely possible.
Croft removed the device from Dalbo's wrists, and reflected. If
Dalbo were lying, why did the assassin flee? Could Dalbo be an
accomplice who got caught at the scene of the crime? Unlikely, since
he would have had ample time to escape. Could the assassin have been
afraid of Dalbo for some reason? Again unlikely.
But if Dalbo were telling the truth, his story might make some
sense. The assassin, surprised that Dalbo knew his name, might have
surprised enough to drop his weapon and flee, especially if time were
short and the authorities were closing in.
But how did Dalbo know his name?
Dalbo observed Croft, watching the wheels turning.
"Intelligent."
"What?"
"Moderately intelligent, but still bad," Dalbo concluded.
"You can't treat me that way, we're partners, and if you ever do
that again, I'm going to go to the Ambassador."
Lotnon had barged in on Croft's quarters at the embassy later
that evening. Croft sat calmly in a chair, smoking a cigar.
"And Dalbo tells me you shot him! I'm sorry, but I'm going to
have to report that. You can't just-"
"Dalbo spoke to the assassin," said Croft. "Did you know that?"
"-he... what? Did he tell you that?"
"Obviously your interrogation left something to be desired.
Perhaps you might include that little fact in your report back to
central." Croft puffed contently, giving a small smile.
"What... did he say?"
"Why don't you ask him?" Croft suggested.
"See here, Croft, we're supposed to be working together. My
bosses told me that, and your bosses told you that."
"I work alone," said Croft, turning his swivel chair a bit away.
"You think... you think that because you work for the League of
Justice, that you're head and shoulders above me. Well, let me tell
you something, I've done twice the time you have in a security service.
And in my years at diplomatic security-"
"Ever killed anybody?"
"Killed? Why... no?"
"Ever uncovered a spy ring, single-handed?"
"By myself? Why....?"
"Then why are we talking?" said Croft, reasonably enough. The
chair was turned totally away now.
"How is your investigation progressing, Mr. Croft?" said the
Ambassador, at breakfast the following morning.
"As well as can be expected," said Croft guardedly.
"He shot me," said Dalbo, commenting rather matter of factly. He
gave a stare at Croft, with wide accusing eyes.
There was a pregnant pause for a moment at the breakfast table.
Then Croft, looking up, started to chuckle softly. Others slowly
joined in.
"Mr. Alto's a real character," said Croft, grinning mildly.
"So I see," said the Ambassador, with a confused look on his
face.
Lotnon, sitting to the side, gave Croft a dirty look, but said
nothing.
"A Lieutenant Markna from the local security forces has been
trying to get in touch with you, Mr. Croft."
"Eggs!" said Dalbo.
"What?" All eyes turned.
"They are yellow. These eggs are yellow. They should be green.
The eggs should be green," Dalbo repeated, staring down at his plate.
"Yes, well, green eggs are out of season," said the Ambassador.
"It's really the same taste, merely a difference in coloration-"
"Green. Eggs must be green."
"You don't want your eggs?" said the Ambassador.
Dalbo shook his head.
"How about a piece of zomcake?" Ambassador Califar suggested.
"Eggs. Green eggs."
"Or some pancakes?"
"Eggs! Green!"
"We don't have any green eggs," said Califar.
Dalbo folded his arms resolutely, and sat back in his chair.
Croft was laughing quietly in his chair, as he ate his yellow
eggs. The Ambassador glared at him. "Do you find something amusing,
Mr. Croft?"
"Um hm," said Croft, still smiling. He locked glares with the
Ambassador.
"I told you that Lieutenant-Inspector Markna is looking for you."
"I heard you the first time," said Croft, with a distinct lack of
interest.
"Yes, she tried, several times, but was unable to reach you. Is
your comlink not in order?"
Croft slowly buttered his toast. "Hm, could be, could be," he
said taking a slow bite. "I have been having some difficulty with it."
"Then perhaps you will be so good as to contact her on another
line. You are supposed to be working with the local authorities, you
know."
Croft didn't comment. Lotnon seemed to be peeved. Ambassador
Califar looked peeved. Dalbo was peeved. "Eggs," he muttered
pitifully, in a soft voice that no one else heard.
After breakfast Lotnon cornered Croft in his quarters.
"If you like my room so much, why don't we switch?" said Croft
reasonably.
"You've got an attitude, don't you?" said Lotnon.
"I told you. I work alone. If you feel you need me, feel free
to tag along. But don't get in my way," said Croft simply. He started
to put on a jacket.
"Where are you going? You're going out? Wouldn't you care to
look at the murder weapon first?"
"I have," said Croft. "Last night, in the lockup in the
basement. It's a rifle, bullet projectiles. Nearly as common as
lasers on this planet. A throwback to the old days."
"And?"
"And, it looks local. Beyond that, I have no idea." Croft
descended the stairs to the basement.
"I've been in communication with Lieutenant Markna of the local
authorities. She has offered to try to identify the source of the
weapon, if we can provide it for her."
"No," said Croft flatly.
"No? Croft, isn't this the sort of decision we should be making
jointly?"
"No," said Croft, opening the door to Dalbo's quarters. "Hey,
want to go on a little trip, Dalb old buddy?"
Dalbo gave one look at Croft, the look of a wild, trapped animal.
But he merely said, rather sedately, "Do you intend to shoot me again?"
"If the need arises," Croft promised.
They took a short walk, not far from the embassy. The park was
deserted, just as it had been the day... the event had happened. The
only indication of the violence of the week before were a number of
small holes in a certain park bench.
Croft and Lotnon walked around, inspecting the area. After
inspecting the bench, Croft made Dalbo show him the tree the assassin
had emerged from. Croft actually climbed up its branches to search for
clues.
Dalbo resumed counting blades of grass. Let's see, where had he
left off? Ah, yes 756, 757, 758-
"See anything?" said Lotnon, looking up at Croft in the tree.
"Nice view," Croft grunted. He climbed down. "Let's see, where
were you standing, Dalbo?"
Dalbo's attention was suddenly frozen. He became distracted, so
distracted that he lost his count again. It was not the vocalizations
of the violent one. No, it was something else. Another mind, so
intent on malice that it was simply transmitting it in waves. Dalbo
looked up, giving an odd stare to a young man coming down the walkway.
Croft immediately came close to Dalbo. "What, Dalbo?"
"That man."
Croft didn't look at the approaching individual, but said, "Yes."
"He is coming to kill you."
Croft gave a big smile. "You don't say?" Out of the corner of
his eye he saw the man walk closer.
"May I watch?" said Dalbo plaintively.
"Why do you have such an attitude?" Croft wanted to know.
The man came closer. In seconds he would pass Croft and Dalbo.
Croft noticed one hand jammed conspicuously in the man's seven piece
suit.
"I do not have 'such an attitude'," said Dalbo. "Would you be
very friendly to someone who had shot you?"
"Am I going to keep hearing about that until the day I die?"
"Perhaps not as long as you might think," Dalbo muttered, looking
down at the man approached.
The man walked by without incident, exchanging a curt nod with
Croft and Dalbo.
But when he had travelled several feet past them he whirled,
drawing a weapon from his pocket, and aimed it straight at Croft and
Dalbo.
But only Dalbo was there. Croft was nowhere to be seen. The
man's eyes narrowed for a moment in confusion... until he felt a tap on
his shoulder. He didn't even get the chance to turn about before the
open end of a palm slammed into his face. The man fell to the ground,
stunned.
"Fisticuffs. Violence breeding violence," said Dalbo
analytically.
"You bet your green eggs," said Croft cheerfully.
"Who are you? Who sent you here?" Lotnon shouted.
The man, chained to a wall in the basement of the embassy, was
sullenly silent.
"Bill," said Croft. He made a gesture with his finger, pointing
to the door.
"Not again," Lotnon groaned. He sighed. "Promise me you won't
be unusually brutal."
Croft just smiled at him.
"That's what I'm afraid of," he said, as he walked out the door.
"Hey, why do I get a bad reputation? I'm a regular Mr. Smiles,"
said Croft.
"No, you're not. You're a bad man. You shot me," said Dalbo,
who was also present. He turned to leave with Lotnon.
When the door closed behind him, Croft turned to his guest, his
smile as broad as ever. "I really did shoot him," he said. "And he's
a friend. Just imagine what's in store for you."
The man grimaced but said nothing.
"There was no identification on you, Mr. X, but I think we will
be getting some answers." Croft fished through a bag of equipment.
"I'm normally a patient man, but my reservoir of good will runs dry
when someone tries to kill me. Funny, isn't it?" he said, withdrawing
a metal disc from the sack.
"What's that?" said the thug, speaking for the first time.
Croft put the disk on the man's forehead, where it stuck.
"No, wait, I'll talk-"
"Yes, of course you will," said Croft reassuringly, pushing a
button on the disc.
The man's panicky features immediately became blank. As Croft
knew they would. This was the typical effect of a volitional dampener.
The dampener freed up the decision-making areas of the mind, usually in
the area where personality was formed, and allowed clear access to
uncensored memories. Croft was confident that the man would tell all
he knew.
And he did. His name was Rato Gurta, and he was a typical thug
for hire. He had been paid a small sum to knock off Dalbo "and anyone
else who happened to be with him at the time". No, he didn't know who
had hired him, although he gave Croft a rough description of his
contact. Once his job was complete he was supposed to report to such
and such address, where the bulk of his payment would be waiting for
him.
"And that's where you will go," said Croft. "When you wake up,
you will not remember any of this. All you will know is that you have
completed your mission." One of the special features of the disc was
the ability to implant suggestions in the recipient's brain.
Croft made arrangements for the man to be dumped in the park. He
checked his chrono. In the interim, he had a few hours. He summoned
Dalbo.
"Are you going to shoot me again?" said Dalbo.
Croft evaded the smalltalk. "Who told you?" he asked bluntly.
"More specificity required."
"Answer the question," said Croft quietly.
"You wish to know how I had identified the assailant?"
Croft nodded.
"You may not be pleased with the answer."
"So try to be pleasing."
Dalbo gave a small shrug. "He simply looked like a killer."
Croft didn't bother hooking Dalbo up to his portable lie
detector. But he did hold up the metal disc.
"No," said Dalbo, recoiling. "I speak the truth,"
"And you're going to speak some more of it." Croft affixed the
device, despite Dalbo's feeble protests. He pressed the activating
button, and said, "Now. How did you know that man was about to
attack?"
"I have told you this before," said Dalbo mildly, removing the
device from his forehead.
For one of the few times in his life, Croft was speechless.
"I've had the warehouse under observation for several hours,"
said Lotnon. "Nobody's come in or out, except for our bird, who went
in a few minutes ago. If there's anybody in there, he's been waiting
for our man for some time."
Croft nodded. They were on the other side of town, in an
industrial warehousing sector. "Let's move in."
They entered the large warehouse, slowly making their ways
through the rows and shelves. "It could take us forever to search
through all this."
Croft nodded, withdrawing an indicator from his pocket. It was
flashing in a northerly direction. Good.
"What's that?" said Lotnon, staring at Croft's device.
"A trans detector," said Croft, as he walked. The device beeped
insistently as they got closer.
"Oh. You comtagged him. That's smart thinking."
"That's why I get the big bucks," said Croft, walking more
quickly now.
They found Rato Gurta in a few moments, lying in a pool of his
own blood.
"He got his payoff," Croft commented.
Lotnon was about to rebuke Croft, when they both heard the sound
of running footsteps. They both ran for the entrance, but by the time
they got outside, all they saw was an aircar, zooming away far in the
distance.
"Yeah, I did the job, Al."
"Dead? The man is dead?"
"Deader'n a door hatch."
"Then how come there's no news?"
"Too soon. Not discovered yet. Where's my payment?"
"You want payment? Here, have some payment."
"Bam! Bam! Bam!"
Croft sighed, turning off the tape. "What is this culture's
fascination with metal projectile weapons?"
"Well, it looks like we've lost our lead," said Lotnon, looking
slyly at Croft.
Croft made no comment. Al. Their captured assailant had said
Al. That could be short for Albert. The original assassin. Croft,
still taciturn, retired to his room for the evening.
He spent half the night reading the file that had been prepared
on one Dalbo Alto.
Single, 34 years of age... which surprised Croft, as the man
looked much older. Five foot two... not very "alto", was he? Parents
killed in tragic accident... grew up in orphanage... loner... studied
and obtained a H.D.G. in philosophy, and quickly became an associate
professor of philosophy at Paley Prime University. Taught something
called Reductionist Stimulism.
Croft scanned the rest of the file. No politics, no money
problems, no criminal records... the man looked like an ordinary
citizen.
But that was just the view from the file. The man was, at the
least, extremely eccentric. And he seemed to have some talent... He
had the ability to resist the volitional suppressor. And he somehow
had identified that assailant in the park... two assailants in the
park.
Croft hadn't been there when Calner had been assassinated. He
didn't know and perhaps would never know what had really occurred. But
he had been there today, when Dalbo had told him, matter of factly,
that an unknown man was about to kill him.
How had Dalbo known? Had it been intuition? Could he judge, by
the way the man's hand was jammed in his pocket, by the way he was
walking, by the way he was looking, that the man intended to kill them?
Was that possible to believe?
If it wasn't, there was only two other possibilities. The first
was that Dalbo knew this man, meaning he was in league with the
assassins.
Croft thought this was extremely unlikely. He found it very hard
to believe that Dalbo was working with the killers. Whatever Dalbo
was, it didn't seem likely that he was a figure in organized crime.
And there had been no reason for him to be present at the scene
of the first murder. No, Dalbo had been an innocent bystander.
Which left one other possibility.
Dalbo Alto could read minds.
Croft frowned, then turned in for an uneasy sleep.
"That man."
"Yes."
"He is coming to kill you."
There was a sound of scuffling, and then the tape was turned off.
"Standard procedure," said Bennett, standing stiffly at
attention. "We had a sound boom trained on them in the park the entire
time."
"Very interesting," said Eyepatch. He leaned back in his chair.
"Do you have anything else to add?"
"Negative," said Bennett.
"I see," said Eyepatch. "Mr. Morilla," he said, nodding
slightly.
There was a flash of a narrow beam of light, a scream and a large
thump, as Mr. Bennett fell to the ground.
"That is the price of failure in this organization," said
Eyepatch.
There was silence in the room for a moment, while Eyepatch tapped
his fingers. Tap tap. "Now, have we dispensed with old business?
Good, on to new matters."
He turned to the two other operatives in front of him. These
were his most senior people.
"That was very interesting information, nonetheless. Who is
this... Dalbo Alto? Is he an agent?" Eyepatch asked.
"I have performed a standard background check. He has no known
ties of any kind," said one of the operatives.
"Then I suggest you perform an unstandard check. There are two
possibilities: he either recognized Gurta, implying he has
unprecedented knowledge of this organization... or he did not know
Gurta, implying something else. Perhaps something even more
dangerous."
A tall woman to his right said, "Do you want me to get involved?"
"Not yet, Lalilla. You're very much involved in Project
Democracy, are you not?"
Lalilla nodded.
"Continue your work. I think we will give Mr. Morilla a chance.
I trust he is properly motivated, are you not, Mr. Morilla?"
Morilla nodded vigorously.
"Croft, the embassy comsystem has been buzzing all day," said the
Ambassador, the next day at breakfast.
"Really?" said Croft, chomping on some pancakes.
"It was Lieutenant Markna. Surely you've gotten in touch with
her, haven't you?"
"Green eggs!" Dalbo shrieked.
"What is it now?" said the Ambassador, with a tired glance at his
guest. Dalbo had a plate of steaming green eggs before him.
"I don't want them. I want zomcakes."
"Yesterday you were demanding green eggs."
"Green eggs on Tuesday. Zomcakes on Wednesday."
"What's the difference?"
"Green eggs on Tuesday. Zomcakes on Wednesday."
"I don't know if we still have any-"
"Zomcakes!" Dalbo shrieked.
Califar snapped his fingers; immediately a food server rushed up,
whispering something to him. "If we have them, you'll have them," he
said, reassuringly.
"Zomcakes."
There was silence at the breakfast table for a moment. "Croft?"
said the Ambassador again.
"Hm?"
"Markna?"
"What about her?"
"Have you gotten in touch with her yet?"
"Hm? Oh, sure, sure."
"You have?"
Lotnon gave Croft a dirty look.
"Of course," said Croft, taking another bite. "I've called her,
once or twice, but never reached her."
"She says that her number is a direct line that leads only to
her."
"Perhaps she was taking a sonic shower," said Croft.
For a moment the two locked stares. "Since you two have such
difficulty getting together, I've invited her over, right after
breakfast."
Croft immediately stood up, bringing a napkin to his lips.
"Sorry, can't make it. Got a lot of work to do."
"Croft! May I speak to you in my study, right now," said the
Ambassador, without even pretending to smile.
The long breakfast table was silent.
"Certainly, Mr. Ambassador," said Croft calmly.
When the doors were closed behind them the Ambassador exploded.
"Croft, do you know what it is to cross a superior in front of
subordinates?"
Croft shrugged, taking out a cigar. "I don't really mind. You
mean well."
"Well, you're not going to continue with this attitude... and
TAKE THAT FOUL WEED OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!" The Ambassador fairly screamed
it. Croft lowered his hand a millimeter, but that was all.
"You will follow my instructions or I will have you recalled. I
am still the head of the diplomatic mission here on Paley Paratus."
Lotnon, who had tagged along, was enjoying watching Croft being
cut down to size. He smiled broadly, every time Croft looked his way.
"You're welcome to try," said Croft. "But allow me to make a few
points clear to you."
"Yes," said the ambassador, ready for anything.
"One. I'm not attached to the embassy staff. Even my cover
identity is not attached to the embassy staff. All you can do is boot
us from the embassy grounds, in which case I will put myself up in one
of the more luxurious hotels here on Paley Prime."
"Two. You couldn't get me recalled, basically because you have
no pull with either the Alliance Council or my real employers."
Real employers? Lotnon thought. What did that mean?
"Three. The reason you have no pull is because you are a fly, a
political pipsqueak with barely enough political pull to get a posting
here."
"Four. If you continue to irritate me, I will let it be known to
the real Alliance League of Justice just what part you played as a
certain campaign treasurer in a certain political campaign six years
ago, and where certain political payments ended up."
The Ambassador was nearly speechless. "What... how do you... you
have no proof!"
"A word to the wise, Ambassador: you shouldn't brag about your
exploits to the local criminal class; some of them just might see a
percentage in selling you out," said Croft. He lit his cigar, and
puffed in the Ambassador's face. "Now, are we done?"
Outside Lotnon hissed, "That wasn't a wise thing to do. The
Ambassador is a powerful man."
"Let'm eat zomcake," Croft declared. "We've got work to do."
"Do have some tea, Mr. Croft."
Croft didn't like tea, and he politely declined. He sat before
an old, bearded man wearing thick spectacles. Professor Bo Chalo,
Renown Professor of Philosophy and chairman of the philo department at
Paley Prime U.
Croft's appearance here was not immediately intuitive. The more
logical thing to do would have been to try to learn more about the
origins of Gurta, the hired killer. Or to try to get a lead from the
original murder weapon. Which Croft fully intended to do. And yet he
felt obligated to take a detour, to come here. Dalbo didn't seem to
fit into any of this. Perhaps in order to understand things better he
needed to understand Dalbo better.
"Tell me more about Dalbo."
"Why do you not talk to him yourself? Is he not in your
embassy?" Then Bo Chalo laughed, and it was a hearty laugh, even for
his age. "If I know Dalbo, I'm certain that he's perplexing you, just
as he's perplexed most everyone else."
"That's why I'm here," said Croft. "I'm told you're the closest
thing he has to a friend. You're the one who hired him to teach here.
If anyone understands him, it's you."
"I'm flattered, Mr. Croft, but in order to understand the man you
must have some understanding of the motivations which drive him. Are
you at all familiar with the subject of Reductionist Stimulism?"
"I understand it is the subject that Dalbo teaches."
Bo Chalo nodded sagely. "Yes, I can see you know nothing about
it, nothing at all." He cleared his throat. "It is a subject you
should learn about, Mr. Croft, if you wish to learn about Dalbo." He
handed Croft a book.
Croft read the title slowly. "'Everything you wanted to know
about Reductionist Stimulism... but were afraid to ask'. Hardly
original."
"Books these days must have catchy titles if they are to sell
well, Mr. Croft."
"But surely you can tell me more about Dalbo than simply handing
me a book of the philosophy he teaches."
"It is more than just the philosophy he teaches, Mr. Croft. It
is the philosophy he is. He fully subscribes to the philosophy of RS.
Now, you would ask me again, what is RS? Well, I will give you a
short, imprecise answer, the only one that time permits. Reductionist
Stimulism says that an individual should take all stimuli--sight,
hearing, sound, touching, and tasting--and reduce such stimuli into its
component parts. As if one were a research scientist, minutely
analyzing every component of every experience of life."
"But his affect...."
"Dalbo takes it one step further. He prefers to be a
dispassionate observer, not letting emotion get involved. Have you yet
compared him to a computer? You would not be the first, and it is a
common enough comparison, where Dalbo is concerned. But though he may
mask emotions, he still has them. And he has no great computing
ability that a machine may have."
"Does he have any great abilities?" said Croft, trying to sound
casual.
Chalo raised his eyebrows. "Well, he is a brilliant scholar, as
well as an admirable professor. I'm afraid the professor who is
substituting for Dalbo is not the teacher that Dalbo is."
"That's not what I meant," Croft frowned.
"What do you mean, then?" said the Professor, looking slightly
quizzical.
"Does he have special... insights into people?"
Chalo nodded. "Ah, you've discovered that too. Yes, Dalbo does
seem to be able to instinctively sense what a person is about. He's
very empathic."
"How so?"
"Well, he can sometimes perceive, merely by one's body language
or facial expression, just where one's train of thought lies. He's a
most unusual individual."
"Uh huh," said Croft, standing up. Could he be right? Was Dalbo
little more than a person with a sharp eye? "Thank you, Professor."
"If I can be of any further assistance, please let me know," said
Bo Chalo.
"A Lieutenant Markna was here to see you," said Tal, when he
returned to the embassy.
"I met with her," said Lotnon.
"Good, good," said Croft bruskly, walking past him as he headed
downstairs to the basement.
"She found it most curious that you are refusing to meet with
her. It's most embarrassing for us, you know."
"Most embarrassing," Croft parroted. He sighed, but only for a
moment. The last thing he wanted or needed was collaboration with the
locals, for several reasons:
1) They would only slow him down.
2) Until he discovered the scope of the conspiracy, it was very
possible that local law enforcement could be involved in this mess,
and, most importantly,
3) Croft worked alone.
"Hello, Dalbo," said Croft, entering Dalbo's little room.
"Felicitation," said Dalbo. "Form of polite greeting. How is Bo
Chalo?"
Chapter 2
"How did you know-"
"Query anticipated. I detected the scent from his pipe on your
garments."
Croft smelled his clothes. He didn't smell anything.
"Talk!" he snarled. "How do you do it?"
"You have to be more specific."
Croft took a deep breath. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you
can read minds."
"Irrational. Minds are not books, they cannot be 'read'."
"And it's impossible. No one can read minds," said Croft.
"Then, by your analysis, I cannot read minds."
Croft frowned, considering. Then, he realized something. He had
never asked, not directly. "Dalbo? Can you sense the thoughts of
others?"
"No," said Dalbo.
"Then how-"
"I am very intuitive. I have great insights into people. Has
Chalo told you of Reductionist Stimulism?"
Croft held up the book Chalo had given him.
"Obviously unread. The study of stimuli is meant to be a
rigorous one. One, such as myself, who is skilled at analyzing stimuli
and reducing it to its component parts can often gleam more of it than
a layman can."
"So what am I thinking now?" said Croft, frowning.
"It does not work that way," said Dalbo.
"If what you say is true, then even if you cannot read minds, you
possess a certain... insight into people that others do not have."
"Correct statement."
"Then you can help me in my investigation. You can be my
partner!" Croft gave a broad grin.
"Illogical. You have a stated preference for working alone."
"Nonsense," said Croft, putting an arm around Dalbo. "We'll be
best of pals."
"I sense gross insincerity."
Croft's smile faded. "Dalbo, you know they're trying to kill
you. If you don't stick with me, sooner or later they're going to
succeed."
"I do not know who they are-"
"Of course you don't-" Croft stopped. Dalbo had known the name
of one of the assailants.
Suppose that Dalbo, in that return trip to the park, had, being
very intuitive, sensed that an assassin was coming to kill. Grant that
as a given.
But how could the most intuitive person in the world know the
name of the original assassin, the one who had killed Calner and his
contact?
The conclusion was inescapable. If Dalbo was not connected to
this crime organization, then he had the ability to read minds.
But how to prove such a wild theory? The volitional dampener
hadn't worked. What would? If only he had a full fledged mind probe.
Croft frowned, making a decision. "Come on," he said. "Let's
get to the bottom of things."
"Where are you going?" said Lotnon, seeing Croft packing Dalbo
into an embassy car.
"Here and there," said Croft.
"I'm coming with you," said Lotnon, dashing into the car.
Croft glared at him. "If you insist." He fished something out
of a pouch. "But first, put this over our license plate."
"This" turned out to be another license plate, with an adhesive
on the back.
"Why?"
"I don't want to advertise any more than I have to that we're
foreigners here. We may all speak the same language but that doesn't
mean that I have to ride around in a car labeled "embassy vehicle--
shoot me"."
"Oh, all right," Lotnon grumbled.
He got out of the car, affixing the license plate. Then he
returned, and started to open the car door, but found it wouldn't
budge.
"Hey!" he yelled, rapping on the window.
"Thanks," said Croft, driving off.
"You are bad," Dalbo observed.
"You ain't seen nothing yet," Croft answered.
The gunshop was empty that afternoon, which is just as Croft
preferred it. Croft had done more than bit of research in the embassy
intel files and he had come to this particular weapons dealership for a
very particular reason.
"Hello," said a man, sporting a prominent moustache.
"Hi," said Croft, sporting a long, thin case. Dalbo, muttering
to himself, started to count the guns mounted on the walls. Dark rifle
barrels. They all had dark barrels. "What can I do for you?" said
the man, smiling cheerfully.
"A special gun. Projectile launcher," said Croft.
The man waved his arm. "Well, as you can see, we have many of
those. Was there anything in particular?" Dalbo
stiffened, as a new thought intruded. Violence. Croft was preparing
himself to commit an act of violence. Crude, so crude.
Croft slowly opened the case he was carrying, revealing a long,
thin rifle.
The man's grin faded as he took the weapon, looking it over.
"Yes... very professional job... hm..." He looked back at Croft.
"You wish to trade?"
"Yes, yes, I do. Information for a reward."
The man smiled again, but he was clearly nervous.
"Perspiration. Sign of unease," said Dalbo, commenting idly as
he let his finger run along the glass countertop of the gun display.
Smooth glass. A form of quartz? Yes, cryptoquartz, it was
cryptoquartz.
"If I wanted to buy a gun like this, where would I go?" said
Croft softly.
"There's no manufacturers logo on it, no serial number... I can't
really say."
"I think you can... I think you specialize in all sorts of
special guns, like these."
The man's arm started to whip underneath the counter but Croft
was quicker, wacking the man in the arm with the rifle.
"Ow!" said the man, wincing, as something dropped from his hand
in a clatter. He blinked, and when he looked up again, he found
himself looking down the barrel of a blaster.
"Would you like to try a more modern weapon?" Croft asked.
"I didn't make it... I swear it..." said the man, looking
nervously.
Croft said, "Dalbo?"
"Negative stimuli eliciting truth. A common enough technique."
"You should know," said Croft, with a smile. He turned back to
the proprietor. "You were saying?"
"It could be a number of sources..." the man looked nervous as
the blaster waved in his face. "But I know who might know...."
"I thought you might," said Croft. "Who?"
"Gunman." The man whispered it, quickly looking around left and
right.
"Who?"
"Gunman. That's his name, what he calls himself. Does a lot of
specialty work. Projectile firearms."
"Could you tell me where he can be found?"
The man could and, as it turned out, he did.
"You've been very helpful. Thank you," said Croft, watching the
man grasp his tender arm.
"Do not feel bad," said Dalbo. "At least he did not shoot you."
They drove to a poorer section of Paley Prime. The roads were
lined with metastrips and even, towards the end, with asphalt. Finally
they saw a rickety old house with the sign, "Children's Toys for sale"
on the top.
"This is it?" said Croft. "A toy outlet?"
As they entered a small bell on the back of the door was jarred,
and it tinkled gently. Sure enough, the store was filled with little
toys: matchcars, stuffed animals, plastic figurines... and then there
was the proprietor.
"Can I help you, sir?" said the man. He had a scarred, crooked
face, and looked as if he had seen better days.
"Yes," said Croft. "I'm looking for... Gunman."
The man frowned. "There is no one here by that name."
"Bluto sent us," said Croft patiently. "We're in the market for
a special item."
Gunman looked around, nervously sensing a trap.
"What can I do for you?"
"Do you always conduct business here?" said Croft, waving his
arms at the stuffed animals around them.
"No," said Gunman.
He took them down a flight of stairs into a basement. There, on
a number of worktables, were rows of guns.
When Gunman turned around to face them they saw he was pointing a
pistol. Straight at them.
"Hey," said Croft mildly. "What's this all about?"
"Bluto did not send you. He would have called first."
Croft cursed inwardly. But he continued to smile. "Does that
matter? We're looking for someone who made a special gun. We're
willing to pay for the information."
"How much?"
"5,000, if you can tell us who it is," said Croft.
"Let's see this weapon," said Gunman.
Croft took it out of the case, handed it to Gunman.
"Ahh... ahhh... the lines... good work, good marksmanship... yes,
I can tell you who did this. But it will cost you considerably more."
"How much?" said Croft. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught
Dalbo nodding his head, and turning away.
"Everything!" Gunman raised the pistol. His finger tightened on
the trigger, just as Croft delivered a sweeping kick that sent the gun
flying out of his hand and the bullet plowing into the ceiling.
Both men rolled on the floor for several moments, each pummeling
each other with mighty blows. Despite his apparent condition Gunman
fought with a wild ferocity.
"Fisticuffs," said Dalbo, idly observing. "Accelerated impacts
imparted on sensitive areas of flesh, with the intent of disabling
opposing organism."
Gunman swung at Croft, only to get his blow blocked by an arm.
With the other arm Croft delivered a crushing blow, and Gunman, dazed,
stopped moving for a moment.
Croft, slowly getting up, drew his blaster. But Gunman was not
moving.
When Gunman regained his senses, he found himself tied to a chair
in his basement.
"Welcome back, my friend," said Croft, grinning.
"False welcome. Sarcasm, designed to aggravate, rather than
calm," said Dalbo.
Croft continued to smile, as he picked up one of Gunman's
weapons. "Who bought that gun from you?"
Gunman was silent.
Croft had left his volitional dampener back at the embassy.
Truly a pity. Croft aimed the rifle at Gunman. "A projectile weapon.
Much like the one you sold. The one that killed one of my friends."
He squeezed the trigger, and there was a loud crack. Gunman
involuntarily jumped.
A bullet hole appeared in the wall, just to the right of where
Gunman was seated.
Gunman winced at the sound. "I had nothing to do with it!"
Croft put that weapon down, picked up another. "Is this one
balanced just as well? I hope so, because I'm going to try to part
your hair down the middle." He took aim.
"I can't tell you! They'll kill me!"
"And I'll kill you if you don't," said Croft. He took aim, and
fired.
"Ow!" Gunman yelled. One of his ears was bloody.
"My, did I miss? I was aiming for the top of the head. Here,
let me try again-"
"No, no!" Gunman cried. "No more!"
"Who was he?"
"Contract killer. I have seen him before."
"Name?"
"Albert Guzan."
"I want a description of what he wears, what he looks like, what
his habits are, and where I can find him."
The Big Man was a seedy bar on the outskirts of Paley Prime.
Everyone there was drinking largely undiluted alcohol from huge quart
glasses. Only a few bothered to have flavor inserted into their
drinks.
Croft sat there, sipping a glass of water.
"A fabrication," said Dalbo.
"What?"
"Fabrication," said Dalbo. "You claimed you were firing to part
Gunman's hair. Instead you purposely aimed for his ear."
"You know, Dalb, old buddy, I'm beginning to think that you can
read minds."
"I told you, there is no such thing as mind reading," said Dalbo.
"Sure, sure, fine. Just be sure to let me know when we encounter
our friend." Despite the description that Gunman had been kind enough
to provide, Croft had brought Dalbo, the only eyewitness, along to make
a positive identification. Croft had realized that this Albert Guzan
might also be able to recognized Dalbo, so he had thoughtfully garbed
Dalbo in a floppy hat and dark glasses, which actually was not too
conspicuous, considering some of the more odd garments, often made of
plastic or leather, that the bar's patrons were wearing.
They sat for some time, catching bits and pieces of the
discussions around them. Every other word was a rowdy "Yeah, yeah" or
other grunts of approval. Suddenly, a giant man sat down next to
Dalbo, carrying an enormous glass.
"Hey, bud," said the man.
"Felicitation," said Dalbo, correctly identifying the
verbalization.
"Fell what?" said the man, genuinely puzzled. What little
portion of his brain that still functioned was having trouble
processing words greater than two syllables in length. He started to
slowly mouth the word to himself, but found that he had already
forgotten it.
"You're new here," said the man.
"If you're referring to the fact that I have not frequented this
physical location overoften, that would be a correct statement of
fact," said Dalbo.
"You talk funny too," said the man. He raised his voice, a
little menacingly, "You're not one of them-"
"He isn't," said Croft, butting into the discussion. "He never
was, and, when they tried to recruit him, he refused to join."
"What?" said Dalbo, not catching any of this.
"Hey, I ain't talking to you," slobbered the man, staring at
Croft with red eyes.
"Sit back and relax," Croft advised softly.
"I don... don not need to listen to you!" the man stirred.
"Croft," said Dalbo quietly. He was looking away, in another
direction.
"Why, I outta-" his words were stifled, as a swift blow to the
back of the neck caused him to collapse onto the bar counter. Croft
looked around; in the hustle and bustle of the bar, no one had even
noticed. Appparently.
"Where?"
"The table in the corner."
Croft looked, and saw their prey. A fairly nondescript man,
average height, average looks... perfect for an assassin who needed to
blend in.
Croft looked around. Apprehending the man in this crowd was
definitely not his first choice. Croft needed him alive. Better to
get him alone.
The man, Albert Guzan, was talking animately with another person.
The other person was a large, animated man, who tended to laugh with
great bursts of "har har har!". Finally, he pointed upstairs, and the
two climbed a flight of stairs, going into a private room.
"You wait here," said Croft looking around at the rowdy bar.
Suddenly, in one corner, a rowdy pushing fight started.
"On second thought, come with me."
They climbed the stairs. No one appeared to pay them any
attention. When they reached the room that Croft had saw them enter,
he put an ear to the door for a moment.
Then he nodded, drawing his blaster. Kicking the door open, he
forced his way in.
Albert Guzan was lying on the floor, looking very very dead.
Croft firmly believed this to be the case because the man's throat had
been profusely cut, and his chest hacked to pieces, for good measure.
"Heh heh... what?" cackled the big man, turning to examine this
new intrusion.
Croft leveled his blaster "You won't find much to laugh at when
I'm through with you, fat man-"
Suddenly the door came flying in Croft's face. There must have
been an accomplice behind the door. Croft jumped back, but the door
still hit him with some force, slamming against his head.
Croft didn't pass out, not quite, but the next time he found
himself thinking clearly he was outside the door, which was now closed.
"Croft," said Dalbo, tugging at his arm.
"What? Huh?" Dalbo was pulling him down the stairs. Croft
tried to struggle with him, but he was still dazed. Halfway down Croft
said, "Wait, no!"
He was still arguing when the explosion erupted, taking out half
the upper level.
It was only later that Croft figured out that Fatso and his crony
(or cronies?) had slipped out the window, and scampered down the roof,
leaving a time delay explosive in their wake. A great way to get rid
of the evidence.
But at that moment Croft only groaned, finding himself covered
with dust and small pieces of rubble. The patrons on the level below
were shrieking, although some of the more intoxicated ones were still
laughing.
With a woozy head Croft managed to drive back to the embassy.
After swallowing a few painkillers, he managed to find his way to bed.
Knock knock knock.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
The sounds reverberated in Croft's head.
"Go 'way," he said, burying his head in a pillow.
"You cannot escape justice," said a voice, as the door creaked
open.
Croft opened one bloodshot eye. "I'll have to talk to the
Ambassador about getting a lock for that door."
"Indeed, the Ambassador wishes to see you," said Lotnon. "But he
is only the first of many-" He looked more closely at Croft. "Are you
hurt?"
Croft looked in a mirror, saw his red eyes, the bruise on his
cheek. "Whatever gave you that idea?" He felt the knob on the side of
his head he had received the night before when the door had slammed in
his face. It had stopped throbbing, and wasn't overtly noticeable.
Good.
"Lieutenant Inspector Markna is here to see you," said Lotnon.
"Eh?"
"About, among other things, a bombing that occurred last night.
You wouldn't know anything about it, would you?"
"Not a thing," Croft gasped, struggling to get up. He rifled
through his possessions, found and swallowed a balance pill, and almost
immediately everything came into focus.
"That's strange, as Dalbo tells a different story," said Lotnon.
"Oh, that Dalbo, he's such a joker, always telling stories," said
Croft, straightening up before a mirror.
Lotnon pointed to a garment on the ground encrusted in white
dust. "There's still debris on your jacket."
"Uh, really?" said Croft, combing his hair.
"Lieutenant Markna is waiting," said Lotnon.
"I'm sure," said Croft.
Fifteen minute later Croft descended to the parlor room, where a
young woman accompanied by two uniformed policemen sat. She waited
impatiently, glancing at Croft as he walked by. "Where is he?" she
muttered.
"Oh, you're still waiting for Mr. Croft?" said Croft, assuming a
humble composure.
"Yes."
"He'll be down in just a few minutes, I'm told," said Croft
sweetly.
"Thank you," she said, giving him the once look-over.
"You're welcome," said Croft, heading for the front door.
He had almost made it when Tal stepped forward. "Mr. Croft,
there's a guest here to see you."
Croft swiveled around, saw the immediate stares.
"Thank you, Tal," he said in a tone dripping with sarcasm.
"You're welcome, Mr. Croft," said the young man, misunderstanding
entirely.
"I really mean it," Croft said. He turned, sighing, and
returned to the sitting room.
"You... are Croft?" said the young woman.
Croft sighed. "You can't fool them all. You are...."
"I am Lieutenant Inspector Cessna Markna of the Paley Prime
Police. These are my associates, officer Stacon and officer Gurwick."
"Gentlemen," said Croft. "What can I do for the PPP?" he said,
with a straight face.
"Mr. Croft, you can start by telling us what you have been doing
the past few days here. We are supposed to be conducting a joint
investigation," said Markna, not without a trace of irritation.
"And we are," said Croft smoothly. "I was just making a few
preliminary findings."
"Did these preliminary findings include the murder of a man at
the Barosho Warehouses? Or the explosion in the South Quarter last
night?"
"Explosion? I didn't hear any explosion." said Croft.
"We also have a sworn complaint by one Mr. Versto, an arms
merchant of questionable repute, who claimed you assaulted him and then
engaged in verbally vexatious conduct."
"We had a talk," said Croft, with a smile.
"Mr. Croft," she said impatiently.
"Who are you going to believe, me, or a man you yourself said
have called of questionable repute? Is there a law against verbally
vexatious conduct, anyway?"
"I understand your conduct went beyond the simply verbal," said
Markna.
Croft lit up a cigar, and started puffing suggestively in her
direction. "I'm just doing my job."
"Mr. Croft, you may have diplomatic immunity, but that does not
protect you from deportation. I suggest-"
"Threat. Statement of consequences that flow from action."
Someone new had entered the room.
"Mr. Alto," said Markna, immediately brightening. "How are you
doing?" Suddenly, she seemed intensely distracted by Dalbo's presence.
"Statement of condition is satisfactory," said Dalbo. He stared
at her, like a specimen studying a lab sample.
"Mr. Alto, you really don't need to remain here in the embassy.
You can come back with us, and receive police protection-"
"He shot me," said Dalbo, interrupting.
"What?" said Markna.
"He-"
"Ha ha ha," said Croft, quickly putting an arm around Dalbo.
"What a kidder. If I shot him, would he be standing here joking with
you?"
Dalbo looked uncomfortably at Croft. "Please, not to touch."
Croft slowly removed the arm. Dalbo looked at his shoulder with
a pained expression, as if it had been irreversibly contaminated.
"I repeat, Mr. Alto, you can return with us," said Markna.
Dalbo considered for a moment. "No," he said slowly.
"Why not?" said Markna.
"Death," said Dalbo cryptically. Then, without a further word,
he paddled out of the room.
After a short pause, Croft said, "He likes it here. We feed him,
entertain him-"
"You're merely lucky that we were able to squelch the press
reports of this murder. If it got out that your embassy was harboring
the only eyewitness to the murder of-"
"One of our people," said Croft. "One of our people was killed
too, remember?"
They matched glares, for a moment. Then Markna said, "We have
been asked to cooperate with you. Are you going to work with us?"
"Yes," said Croft, after some thought. "In fact, as a symbol of
goodwill, I will turn the murder weapon over to you. Perhaps your
weaponry specialists can trace it back to its maker."
Markna's face brightened in surprise. "That's very generous of
you, Mr. Croft."
Croft nodded. The tension in the air eased somewhat. But Markna
pressed on.
"What do you plan to do next?"
Croft smiled sheepishly. "I plan to recover for a day or two. I
got a bit battered about during the past two days--I need a little
rest."
Markna nodded. Croft arranged to have the rifle brought to her,
and she and her officers departed.
"That was very charitable of you, Croft. But weren't you giving
up an important lead?" Lotnon wanted to know. He had been silent
during the meeting, hoping to give Croft enough rope to hang himself
on; but had been surprised, even somewhat pleasantly, by how the
meeting had ended.
"We are supposed to be working with the local authorities, aren't
we?" said Croft. "We have to work together. We're all on the same
team, all for one and one for all, that sort of thing, right?" He
turned away, so that Lotnon couldn't see the expression on his face.
Dalbo reentered the room. "Are they gone? Good. When do we
eat? Barberries. I must have barberries."
"Not so fast, Dalb old man," said Croft. "I just want to express
my appreciation with your decision to stay with us. I'm touched, of
course. I realized we were developing a bond, but I didn't think-"
"You are a bad man. There is no joy in remaining with you."
"Then why did you?"
"To go with them would have meant death."
"What kind of death?"
"A not very nice one." And that is all Dalbo would say on the
subject.
Later that morning Croft surveyed the scene across the street.
He suspected that Markna might be keeping an eye on him. Sure enough,
parked just opposite the embassy proper was a man, sitting in an
aircar.
For a moment Croft considered the possibilities. Could it be the
enemy? No, it was too obvious, too plain. This was a message from the
good Lieutenant-Inspector, who perhaps still didn't fully trust Croft.
For good reason.
Croft hummed as he removed tools from one of his diplomatic
pouches. He hummed a happy song as he put the weapon together. When
he was done he had a state of the art laser rifle, complete with
autosilencer mounted at the tip.
Croft opened the window of his room, which faced out on the
street. Lining up the crosshairs, he took aim at the aircar's junction
grid, near the bottom of the aircar, on the side facing the embassy.
Still humming, he depressed the trigger.
There was no sound, of course, but someone on the street might
have seen a small flash. In fact the occupant of the aircar looked
around, as if he had seen something out of the corner of his eyes. But
after a short time he settled down and resumed his vigil.
Croft laughed softly. He collected Dalbo and they went to the
embassy aircar parked outside.
"Where are we going?" said Dalbo.
"To pursue a lead," said Croft. But leads were getting mighty
thin. The gun trail had led to the assassin, but the man had
unfortunately expired before Croft had gotten the opportunity to
question him. Calner's notes had not indicated precisely what he was
after, or whom. The only remaining lead concerned the official who
Calner, the day he was killed, had arranged to meet.
Duncan Pos, of the federal department of sanitation.
When Croft started the aircar, he immediately saw the driver
across the street sit up and take attention.
"Amateur," Croft said, a sneer on his lips. Once the aircar had
levitated upwards he gunned the car out of the driveway.
The man in the waiting vehicle started to start his aircar too.
But he quickly found it wouldn't inflate. Instead, there was a small
bang, and black smoke started to waft out of the engine area. Croft
gave a merry wave as he drove by.
"Sabotage. Use of energy to disrupt metal device harnessed for
locomotive power."
"You should do poetry," Croft marvelled, as he gunned the engine.
The federal bloc was a city within a city. Technically part of
Paley Prime, the capitol of Paley Paratus, the federal bloc actually
occupied a good third of the city, and, following the third rule of
bureaucracy, was expanding at a healthy clip every year, absorbing
privately owned land at a prodigious rate, like an amoeba swallowing
its prey.
"Like an amoeba swallowing its prey," Croft murmured, mostly to
himself. Dalbo looked sharply at him, but said nothing.
When they had appropriately stashed the car, Croft turned to
Dalbo. "Dalb, old buddy, I got a favor to ask of you."
"A request. To perform, or not to perform an action that this
lifeform might, of its own volition, do or not do."
"You're a regular unabridged definicomp, aren't you," Croft
marvelled. "Listen. We're going to go into a situation. It might be
kind of dangerous, right?"
"Dangerous." Dalbo repeated the word dully.
"We're going to infiltrate another spy organization. If they
discover what we're doing, they probably won't take kindly to it."
"But you have diplo-"
"Diplomatic immunity won't protect you from a two-by-four coming
between the eyes. You read?"
Dalbo considered, then nodded. "What do you wish of me?"
"Keep giving me your insights, when you can sense'm. But more
importantly, I need you to lie."
"Lie?" Dalbo seemed a little horrified.
Croft saw that. "Ok, well, let me rephrase that. Just don't be
so quick to blurt out the truth. Don't contradict what I'm saying,
that's all I'm saying."
"So you wish me to allow your falsehoods to remain untainted by
truthhoods."
"Exactly."
"That is not acceptable. I would be contributing, by passivity,
to falsehood."
Croft nearly pulled at his hair in frustration. "Listen, Dalb,
do you know about white lies?"
"Falsehoods of lesser import-"
"It's a figure of speech. Listen, do you know what happens if
one of my so-called falsehoods is discovered?"
Dalbo shook his head.
"Me, I get killed. That's ok, that's what I signed up for, it
goes with the job and I have a load of life insurance with the company.
But what about you?"
"What about me?"
"Are you ready to give up a content life of counting grass and
catered breakfasts? Or being the roving dictionary man?"
"What?"
"They may just lobotmize you, of course, in an effort to see what
makes you tick. You wouldn't mind that, would you? They'd just make
two little holes-"
"I will not puncture your falsehoods," said Dalbo quickly.
"Good. If you could even agree with me a little, that would be
even better. And if you get any of your hunches-"
"I do not get hunches-"
"Whatever you call them. Let me know. Subtly. Huh?"
Dalbo nodded.
"Then let's go."
The Federal Department of Sanitation was located in a tall
building off one of the main plazas. Croft knew that Paley Paratus's
main spy agency operated under the auspices of the FDS, but he doubted
that some or even most of its members were spies; after all, the
Federal Department of Sanitation had to pick up the garbage too.
"Yes?" said a receptionist with a nasal voice.
"I'm here to see a friend," said Croft, giving a broad smile.
"His name is Duncan Pos, but I'd like to surprise him-"
"All guests must be announced."
"Yes, well, I'd just like an exception-"
"All visitors must come between 14 and 16," said the secretary.
Croft sighed. "I guess that settles that." He gave an
exaggerated sigh, and a small smile, one that brimmed with the goodness
of milk and honey. "Say, could you just tell me which section he works
in, so that when I return-"
"I'm afraid you'll have to talk to Mr. Pus yourself."
"Pos," Croft corrected. "Thank you for your time," he said,
pulling Dalbo out of the office with him.
"Failure. Unbefitting a great spy."
"Wait," Croft promised. Then he said, "What makes you think I'm
a spy?" As far as Dalbo knew, he was with the Alliance League of
Justice.
"It does not take a "mind reader" to figure that out," said
Dalbo.
"Smart fellow," said Croft. "Come on. Let's go one flight up."
"To where?"
"Another receptionist."
"My name is Albu Two, and I'm with the State Bureau of
Investigation," said Croft, instantly parroting the local accent as he
flashed a badge to the receptionist. Croft had done his homework;
there really was a State Bureau of Investigation on Paley Paratus. The
badge, though, was a plastifoil model straight out of the Agency's arts
and craft shop. But who would know?
Certainly not this woman. She took a deep breath, the kind of
breather that comes with a confrontation with the law, and she said,
"Officer... Two. What can I do for you?"
Croft always picked rhyming name as his aliases, mostly because,
having a nearly fatal habit of forgetting them, he needed a memory
device to help keep them in mind. "I'm here on official business."
That was always a good thing to say. "Let me see the supervisor in
charge.
The supervisor turned out to be one Mr. Agust. "Our computer
database? Why would you need access to that?"
"It's official business," Croft snapped, irritated that he wasn't
getting the respect that he deserved.
"You'll have to go to the head office to get an official entry
password," said Agust.
"Why can't I just use yours?" Croft asked.
"Oh, I'm afraid that's impossible. That's only for official
Bureau of Waste Powderification use. You'll have to go to the head
office for that. Ninety third floor."
Croft nodded, glowering.
The supervisor on the 93rd floor said to him, "Agust said to come
here? You have to go to the office of passwords. That's on the
fourteenth floor. We only deal with man-made disasters here. Like
sewer overflow."
The person in charge on the fourteenth floor said, "They told you
this was the password division? Why-"
"HALT!" said Croft. Half the clerical workers in the room
stopped typing. "Give me your password, now. Or I'll have you
arrested for... irritation of justice." He had actually meant to say
obstruction of justice, but it seemed to serve almost as well.
The man, quaking, considered, then nodded. He took Croft and
Dalbo to a small cubicle office.
"Close the door, Dalbo," said Croft, stretching his fingers as he
studied the keyboard.
"Intimidation. Excellent weapon for combatting paper warriors."
"You just got to growl at'm, Dalb," said Croft. He studied the
menu, started depressing keys.
Once he had entered the personnel file, he entered DUNCAN POS.
The screen returned, immediately NEGATIVE ID.
"Negative ID," Croft frowned. "Even if this fellow no longer
worked here, there should be some record...."
"Self-Vocalizations. Irrational speech mode, when communicating
with oneself."
"Machines are like people," said Croft, busy typing away.
"You... just... have... to push the right buttons."
Suddenly, a list appeared on the screen.
"Inappropriate metaphor. Logic fallacy," said Dalbo pleasantly.
Croft worked the keyboard. He had just searched the personnel
datebase to come up with a list of employees in every bureau and
division within the Department of Sanitation. Now he punched up a list
of the bureaus and divisions in the Department of Sanitation, and
compared the two.
And whistled, when four words came onto the screen. "Croft,
you're a genius," he said.
"Exaggeration. Statement of opinion, not fact."
"See for yourself," said Croft. "It seems that every bureau in
the Department of Sanitation has employees but this one."
And they both looked at the screen.
BUREAU OF TELEPHONE SANITIZATION
"That's it," said Croft.
"What?" said Dalbo.
"Where the spies are, Dalbo, old buddy." Croft punched up the
floor plan, found the location of the Bureau of Telephone Sanitization.
Of course, it would only be a front office, but access to their
computers should be sufficient to get him what he needed.
When they had reached the right floor, Croft looked around. It
appeared to be just like any other floor of the Federal Department of
Sanitation. But there were cement pillars on either side of the
entrance hall--weapon detectors, Croft felt sure. How was he going to
get past those?
The only thing to do was to go back to the aircar and store his
blaster. Croft didn't like the option, but it was his only choice.
He started to turn towards the elevator, when a voice caught him.
"Can I help you?"
Dalbo minutely shook his head, not to answer the man, but rather
to signal to Croft. Croft caught it, immediately becoming alarmed.
But he tried not to show it.
Croft said, "Uh, forgot something, I'll be back in a moment. He
pushed the down button-
and the door of the elevator opened up, revealing a combat team
with long barreled weapons, all aimed straight at Croft.
And suddenly armed men, all in plainclothes, streamed out from
behind the pillars. All pointed weapons at Croft and Dalbo.
Croft looked around. "That's all right. I'll wait for the next
one."
Croft was searched, of course, and they uncovered a good deal of
his devices, some of which he was not happy to have fall into enemy
hands. There was no possibility of escape, however, as guns were
leveled at him and Dalbo during this entire process.
Finally he and Dalbo were blindfolded. They were walked around a
little, and apparently up a flight of stairs. When their blindfolds
were taken off, they found themselves sitting in a little office.
"I should have known," said Croft, as vision abruptly returned.
"Yes, you should have," said Lieutenant Inspector Markna.
"How did I slip up? Or did you manage to trace me here?"
"Come, come, Mr. Croft, you don't expect me to reveal our
professional secrets," said Markna, smiling broadly.
"I should have known that they wouldn't put a lowly police
lieutenant on the case," Croft commented.
"And I should have known, or rather I knew, that they wouldn't
put an Alliance League of Justice agent on this investigation," said
Markna. She leaned forward. "We verified quickly enough what your
friend Lotnon was. But there was no verification of any sort about
you. Apparently no one had even heard of this Alliance League of
Justice. So what are you, Mr. Croft? Alliance Security? Agency?"
"I work for the water department," said Croft. "Just like you."
Markna gave a thin smile. "Don't think that you're the first to
joke about our..." she waved her arms at the offices around her.
"...camouflage."
She looked over a box of equipment on her table. She picked up a
disc, and raised an eyebrow. "And what would this be?"
"Alliance top ten musical hits," Croft said.
"Perhaps we should affix it to your forehead and play a few
songs," said Markna. She started to reach over her desk, but Croft
made no move. She stopped, in mid-motion, and gave a grin. "A
volitional paralyzer. Very advanced. We've been wanting to analyze
one of these for a long time. I don't know if even Alliance Security
has of these."
"You're remarkably well informed, for rubbish collectors," Croft
remarked.
"Oh, yes, we collect all sorts of... rubbish... which we dispose
of," she said, giving Croft a sharp glance. "As with your Agency, we
are the leading Intel organization in the Paratan government, as I'm
sure you know. And we are fully capable of investigating this matter."
"As it concerns one of your agents, I'm sure you'll be
impartial."
"I assure you, Mr. Croft, we are just as anxious as you are to
find out why one of our people was killed."
"Who was he? What was he working on?" Croft asked.
"Would you like to see the body?" she said.
Croft shook his head. He knew that any useful information would
long since have been removed. "You're evading the question."
"So I am." She gave a deep breath. "All right. I'll be as honest
with you as you have with me. How does that sound?"
Croft glanced at the armed men outside the office. "Right now,
it's the best deal I can think of."
"Oh, please don't be so melodramatic, Mr. Cr- may I call you
Clifford?"
"If it suits," said Croft, shrugging.
"Yes, I can see we are going to be great friends. You may call
me Cessna." She paused, giving Croft a stare. "I assure you, Mr.
Croft, if we had wanted to harm you, you would have been dead days ago.
You may not believe it, but we are on the same side in this-"
"Then why was one of my people set up?" said Croft. "If the
meeting leaked, it didn't come from our side."
"Did it not? That's one aspect we have to investigate."
"What was Duncan Pos working on?"
"Mr. Pos worked in... sensitive matters."
"Ooohh, sensitive matters. Sensitive matters. Thanks, that
really helps. That narrows it down a lot. I wouldn't have guessed
that. Can I write that down?" said Croft sarcastically.
"That's all I can tell you at this time. Perhaps if you told me
what the assassin said to you, before you so ungracefully blew up the-"
"Come off it, Cessna. You know that I didn't blow up the bar."
"Then who did?"
"A fat man who chuckles a lot."
"Mission accomplished," said Morilla, with a small grin. The fat
man looked very pleased with himself. "The assassin is terminated."
"Very good, Morilla," said Eyepatch. "And what of the witness?"
"Very unusual, sir. He seemed to know the name of our operative,
despite our inability to connect him with our organization. Or any
organization."
"Very puzzling, is it not?"
"No."
Eyepatch turned, to another of his assistants. "Yes, Morilla?"
"I have performed a thorough research into this man's background.
He has performed a series of unexplained feats."
"Feats? Explain."
"Seemingly, they are small incidents. Once he helped apprehend a
criminal in a line up, when he had never seen the victim before.
Another time he located a small boy lost in a large tract of bushes.
Another report suggests that he has at times answered questions of his
students even before they have been asked."
"Meaning?"
"This man may have some mental power that we do not understand."
"Interesting. Such a man could be of great use... or a threat.
A matter worth further investigation, don't you think, Mr. Morilla?
Where is he now?"
"You may go," said Markna curtly, handing back Croft his
equipment. But she paused when she came to his blaster. "I don't know
if I should return this."
"We're on the same side, remember?" said Croft.
"Yes, yes we are," said Markna, sounding unconvinced. But she
handed the blaster back anyway. But Markna held a small disk in her
palm.
"Ah, you forgot..."
"This?" she held up the volitional dampener. "I don't think it's
a good idea to let you go around involuntarily mind probing our
citizenry. I'll keep it, for your good behavior. Besides, our
scientists really would like a look at it."
Croft sighed. If this was the price that had to be paid for his
freedom, that was that.
Markna called, and two guards entered her office. They were
Stacon and Gurwick, the same men who accompanied her to the embassy.
"Are you certain you don't want to remain with us, Mr. Alto?"
Alto, shuddering, shook his head slightly.
"Very well. You are free to go."
"Free to go," Croft echoed hollowly. He still wouldn't believe
it, not until they were out of the building and unescorted.
"I didn't tell them where you were," was the first words Lotnon
said when they returned to the embassy.
"I believe you," said Croft. "Partially, because I think you're
a man of character, but mostly, because I didn't tell you where we were
going. In fact, I'm curious to discover just how they managed to nab
me so easily. Was I that obtuse to the garbagemen?" He shook his
head.
"What do we do now?" said Lotnon.
"A good question," said Croft. "I'll have to put some thought to
it."
That night at dinner the Ambassador said, "Croft. I received a
call from Lieutenant Markna."
"Water!" said Dalbo, predictably interrupting.
The Ambassador sighed. "Right there, in the cup next to you, Mr.
Alto."
Dalbo shook his head. "Wrong water."
"What? You want bottled water?" said the Ambassador.
"Water. I want cold water."
Califar frowned, touching the water vase. "Feels pretty cold to
me."
"The water must be 44 degrees. This water is at least 53
degrees. The water must at be at least 48 degrees. 44 is best, but at
least 48. This is not 48. I need 48. I want 44, but I need 48."
"Dalbo, Dalbo!" said Croft, breaking the chain. He dumped some
icecubes into Dalbo's cup. "Ok?"
Dalbo shook his head. "The temperature must be evenly
distributed. Some parts will be too cold, others too hot-"
"Then stir it," said Croft harshly.
Dalbo, withering, nodded slightly, gently twirling his finger in
his glass.
"You may use a spoon, Mr. Dalbo," said Califar. He turned to
Croft. "What was I saying?"
"You were complimenting me on the job I'm doing here," said
Croft.
"Was I? No, that wasn't it. Not at all. It was that Lieutenant
Markna."
"Yes?" said Croft, trying hard not to pay attention as he gobbled
down his dinner. Dalbo continued to stir his water nervously with his
finger.
"Says you're working well together. Glad to hear it."
"Um," said Croft. That was just Markna, to give him a friendly
reminder.
Or maybe there was more to it than that. There was a strong
political component to this investigation. With Paley Paratus on the
verge of applying for Alliance membership, the federal authorities
didn't want to take any action which would ruffle Alliance
sensibilities. Lieutenant Inspector Markna of the local police
wouldn't defer to such a standard. But Agent Markna of the secret
police might, if she were senior enough.
Just what had Duncan Pos been working on?
That night, Croft resolved to find out. Under the cover of
darkness, he slipped out of the embassy, climbing over one of the side
walls. Then after walking a few blocks he climbed aboard public
transportation and made his way back to the federal bloc.
It was time to make a return visit to the Department of
Sanitation.
The building was closed at this time of night, of course. And
the floor housing the Division of Telephone Sanitization was bound to
be riddled with a number of security devices.
There were two guards at the main desk, just inside reception on
the ground floor. They both sat in chairs, looking bored. Probably
they were just ordinary security guards. The real security baffles
wouldn't be encountered until he made it to the seventy second floor.
The guards had been kind enough to leave the main door open,
giving him an unobstructed view. Whistling a somber tune in the bushes
outside, Croft took some equipment out of a pouch slung over his
shoulder. In moments he had a sniper rifle assembled.
Croft stared at the guards, aiming carefully. This would have to
be done very carefully, very carefully....
Croft fired, there was a silent twing!, and a tiny dart lodged
itself in one guard's chest. He slumped backward in the chair,
dropping some vile brew he had been drinking.
Croft heard the other guard say, "Rolf? Rolf, you can't sleep on
the job."
Croft fired the trigger again, and the second guard clasped his
neck, and fell to the ground.
Grinning, Croft put on a reflec mask and entered the building.
He waved to the security camera. If there was anyone on the other end
of it, they would already have been tipped off. But somehow Croft
doubted it.
Croft had infiltrated so many secure facilities that he knew
precisely how security thinkers thought. Only protect areas that
needed to be protected. Therefore the guards here were only a token,
mere doorwardens to protect the building as a whole. It would have to
be on seventy two that he would need to be more careful.
After rearranging the guards into more natural dozing positions,
Croft entered the elevator. And pressed seventy one.
Floors seventy two through seventy five were reserved for the
Division of Telephone Sanitization. They would undoubtedly have
numerous security measures. But floor seventy one, as Croft found out
when the elevator door opened, was the Bureau of Landfill Aesthetics.
"Have you planted flowers over your landfill today?" said Croft,
reading a plaque on the wall. Grinning, he walked into the department,
which appeared deserted. Croft did not trust appearances, however, and
he gave the floor a cursory search, just to make sure that that was the
case. Looking around, he then found a tall chair, and proceeded to
stand on it. Then Croft took out his blaster, and set it for maximum
burn.
As he carved a hole in the ceiling Croft felt a little
vulnerable, standing up there on a chair in the middle of an empty
department. But even with the enormous power drain on his blaster he
still would have more than enough spare power packs to shoot a goodly
number of people, if the need should arise.
Two powerpacks later, he burned through. He slowly removed a
heavy chuck of ceiling masonry that was still sizzling at the edges.
And looked up at a piece of metal.
Croft groaned. He had made a hole right under a large desk.
Sighing, he moved the chair over two feet to the left, and
started again.
When he was done he cautiously poked his head up.
As luck would have it, he was in a small cubicle, one with a
computer terminal. Croft struggled, climbing up one floor. When he
got there he looked around.
The cubicle he was in was darkened, and for that he was grateful.
But guards roamed around in the distance, seemingly on constant patrol.
Croft looked up. There were cameras, mounted in the ceiling.
Thank goodnessly none of them were pointed directly at him. But
if Croft had to guess, he would have given odds that these cameras were
manned. If he took out these guards, an immediate alert would be
raised.
Croft sat on the floor, pulling the keyboard to him. He used a
little pocket light to dimly illuminate the keyboard, while
occasionally glancing up at the screen.
"Hm... hm hm," said Croft, when he was ready. And then he took
out the special disk.
Cessna Markna hadn't been fortunate enough to find the special
disk, which had been hidden on Croft's person rather more closely than
the volitional suppressor. On impulse he had placed the small disk in
the heel of his shoe, and the sloppy searchers hadn't found it.
Croft pressed the START button and the screen flashed
ID?
Croft nearly chortled as he inserted the special disk. It
contained a computer program designed to crack any computer system.
"Any computer system?" Croft had asked the technical branch,
rather skeptically.
"Computers operate on certain basic principals," the tech had
said, rather impatiently. "This program will operate to take advantage
of them-"
"It will work on all systems?" said Croft. "What about ours?"
He had moved to insert it into a nearby terminal.
"Ah, well, that's had a special safeguard added."
"Ahah!" Croft had said.
With that incident in mind Croft inserted the disk. Nothing was
perfect; it was even conceivable that the program could fail, and the
system could trigger an alarm. He had an uneasy feeling that he
wouldn't have such an easy time getting out of the Department of
Sanitation again, especially under these circumstances.
The disk hummed and hawed as the program invaded the computer
system. There was a pause, for a moment, and then the screen flashed.
ID ACCEPTED.
PRESS ENTER FOR MAIN MENU
"I follow instructions," Croft chortled, removing his prize disk.
He started typing vigorously, only occasionally looking up when the
sounds of footsteps grew close. His typing sounded loud, but he knew
that it couldn't be heard more than a foot or two, and albeit faintly
at that.
He was in! He had actually penetrated the computer system. This
system was not to be confused with the official FDS database
downstairs; this was the intelligence community's network.
Croft punched up PERSONNEL and entered DUNCAN POS.
The screen flashed, and then came up with a complete file.
Croft whistled. Pos hadn't been some minor bureaucrat--he had
been in charge of an investigative team in the division of internal
affairs.
The division that this spy agency had set to investigate itself.
What had he been investigating? That wasn't immediately clear.
But the file stated that Pos had been investigating the division of
escort security.
Croft punched up an ID of the division of escort security. Then
he gave another low whistle.
The division of escort security was in charge of protecting high
government officials.
What would make a presumably dedicated agent in charge of rooting
out corruption of his own spy agency want to reveal information to the
Alliance? Especially when that agent was investigating domestic
security?
It painted an alarming picture, and Croft didn't like it.
Croft tried to access Pos's private note file, but that seemed to
have been wiped clean. Obviously he hadn't been the first to get to
the file.
He punched up a request of the other records Pos had been
searching. It was a long list, and Croft spent a few minutes scanning
it. But he noticed an immediate pattern.
Pos had been investigating the influence of foreign corporations
with offices on Paley Paratus. Specifically, Kroton Paley, Ltd.
The Kroton Corporation.
Croft suddenly snapped his head up. A small part of his mind had
been assigned the task of listening for the pacing guards. He had
heard motion, and then it had suddenly stopped. Croft cautiously poked
his head around the corner of the desk.
A guard was standing there, not ten feet away. He frowned, as if
something were wrong.
Then another guard called to him, and he turned away.
Time to go, Croft thought. He turned off the computer, and
started to ease his way down the hole in the floor.
As luck would have it, his hand slipped, and it hit against the
corner support of a chair, dragging the chair a few inches along the
ground, making a small scraping sound.
When there is total silence, or near total silence, they say the
sound of a small noise is amplified.
They were right, of course.
Croft heard silence.
Then he heard heavy footsteps, coming his way.
He didn't even pop his head up, but let himself drop down on the
chair below, scampered off of it, and started running. With any luck it
would take them at least a few minutes to find the hole.
But it wasn't thirty seconds later that Croft heard the hoot hoot
of the alarms. He immediately turned away from the elevator bank and
headed for the stairs. Heading up.
He was on the seventy first floor. There were exactly one
hundred floors in the building--the Paratans having a penchance for
round numbers, no doubt.
But Croft, taking two stairs at a time and utilizing trained
breathing techniques, was only mildly winded when he reached the top
and opened the roof door.
He didn't spend much time admiring the night view, although he
did look down. Already security forces were gathering at the base of
the building.
Croft looked around. There was a thick wire, insulated by a
strip of rubber, a comm net, maybe, that connected to a nearby
building.
Nearby was a relative term. In the darkness the nearby building
was over five hundred feet away.
Endurance wasn't a problem; Croft, attaching a little motor on
wheels to the cable, could glide across with ease, tethered to the
motor.
Capacity was. Croft was not certain whether the wire would hold
his weight.
Croft looked down. Sooner or later, the guards would make their
way up here.
He sighed, and locked the motor on the wire. Then, hanging on,
he started his trip across. It shouldn't be so bad, he thought.
He was still thinking that when the line snapped. Croft fell...
and hit the solid surface, hard.
Chapter 3
Croft groaned. His left side felt sore. Pushing himself, he got
up, brushing fragments of the roof material off of his clothes. He
looked across his shoulder. The edge of the rooftop was only a few
feet away. It was a good thing he had started climbing while he was
still over the roof.
Croft heard sounds of feet pounding at the stairwell. They were
coming.
Croft got behind the stairwell, brandishing his blaster. He
hurriedly doublechecked the setting just as two men emerged.
Both were in some sort of law enforcement uniform, complete with
goggles and helmets. Good.
"Don't see why we gotta check here," said one. "Ain't no way of
escaping here."
"Captain said we gotta check everywhere," said the other, turning
around, not really expecting to find anyone.
He turned out to be quite surprised. It showed on his face, just
as Croft shot him. Then, in rapid succession, he shot his partner, who
was only then swiveling with his gun.
Croft had just finished putting the uniform on and was grappling
with the helmet when one of the comlinks on one of the bodies crackled.
"22, report. Halsto?"
Croft fitted the helmet on, putting the goggles in place. He
picked up the comlink gingerly, holding it like it was a stick of
dynamite.
"22, report. Halsto, where are you?"
Croft reluctantly pressed the transmit button. "Halsto," he said
in a quick, raspy voice.
"Halsto, at last. Anything on the roof?"
"Nope," said Croft, speaking as short as possible.
"Then get back to 94 and assist in the search there. He's still
in the building, that's for sure."
"Understood," said Croft.
Getting out of the Department of Sanitation proved to be more
simple than Croft had expected. Croft was ignored as he walked by
groups of congregating troops idling by the entrance at main reception.
Croft had nearly made it when he saw Cessna Markna, being briefed by
one of her men. Her glance caught Croft, and then passed on.
Croft would have been surprised if it hadn't; in this helmet and
goggles, he didn't think anyone would have recognized him. He made his
way back to the embassy.
"Croft, where have you been?" said Lotnon.
"Out for a night walk." Croft had ditched the uniform before
returning to the embassy. The fact that he had managed to leave
undetected obviously indicated that the embassy was not watched as
closely as it might be.
"Lieutenant Inspector Markna called. She wanted to talk to you."
"I hope you told her I was asleep."
"Yes." Lotnon bit his lip. "But she insisted on speaking to
you."
Croft sighed. "So naturally you caved in, discovered I was gone,
and told her that."
"No," said Lotnon.
"No?" said Croft, a little surprised.
"When I saw you weren't there, I told her that I had woken you
up, and you told me you weren't talking to anyone," said Lotnon. "I
think she believed that."
"Probably not," said Croft. "But I'm surprised by you, Bill.
You actually covered for me. I'm beginning to think we're on the same
side."
"We will be, if you tell me what's going on."
"All right," Croft side. He provided a brief synopsis of events.
"You broke into the office of the secret police?" said Lotnon,
surprised.
"A little louder," Croft suggested. "I think there's someone
down the street who didn't hear you."
"What are you trying to do, get us kicked off-planet?"
"I am trying to conduct an investigation-"
"Then let's work with them, not against-"
"Listen!" said Croft. "Stop moving your lips, and listen.
Calner didn't tell anyone he was going to this meeting. No one. It
was pure chance that a jogger from the embassy discovered this...
incident before the authorities did. No one on our side knew."
"So?"
"Calner was obviously set up. Calner's contact obviously leaked
to someone. Someone in their secret police. Now do you see why I
don't work with them?"
"You think the secret police is behind it?"
Croft nodded. "At least, some one in it must be involved. But
there might be more to it than that."
"More?"
"Didn't they teach you anything in training? External
influences, man. That's what we've got to look for."
"There may not be any."
"True, but there's no harm in looking into it. Besides, this
smells like an external conspiracy.
"Why?"
Croft didn't explain further. All he said was, "I'm tired, and
Markna will undoubtedly be here in the morning, and I'd like some
sleep. May I?"
"On one condition," said Lotnon.
There was a silence. "Yes?"
"Take me with you. I covered for you, now you work with me."
Croft sighed. "All right, all right."
Lieutenant Markna didn't show up that morning. Croft found that
odd, to say the least. Although he had been careful to conceal his
identity from the security cameras, it wouldn't take a great deal of
guesswork to figure out who had invaded their security.
But Croft was comforted by the fact that even if they figured out
it had been him, they wouldn't know what he was after or what he had
found. All they would know is that someone accessed their database for
a reason they did not know.
But now Croft had a lot to think about. Escort Security. Duncan
Pos had been investigating Escort Security. Something was going on in
the department in charge of protecting government officials. Was a
government official in danger?
Croft picked up a copy of the embassy's weekly briefing.
It hit him immediately. Of course.
The Vice Presidential election.
Paley Paratus was much like hundreds of other worlds that elected
their leaders. But unlike most of said worlds Paley Paratus elected
their Presidents and Vice Presidents separately; indeed, they were even
elected at different times, to serve different, usually overlapping
terms. Presidential elections had been held last year, and now Vice
Presidential elections were about to be held. In two weeks time.
What could be worth killing for?
A conspiracy involving one of the Vice Presidential candidates.
It was just a hunch, but a nasty one.
And where did the Kroton Corporation fit into this?
The Kroton Corporation. Undeniably the largest multi-planetary
corporation in the galaxy, with major offices on nearly every inhabited
world. Makers of industrial tools, spices, foodstuffs, mining
equipment, power generators, pharmaceuiticals, clothesware, cookery,
building material, spaceships, computers, holoscreens, refining
equipment... in short, most everything. And with economic power came
political clout. Often through legal means, but often not.
Croft frowned, and went to the embassy terminal. Much of the
information he sought was available on the public record, so he did not
need to stretch his resources too much.
Croft sat back nearly an hour later. It was all there, on public
record. Oh, there were dummy entities employed as middle men, but
Croft had quickly trace through those, delving deep through the
database to find the truth. Paley Kroton, the Paley Paratus subsidiary
of the Kroton Corporation, was donating large amounts to one of the
Vice Presidential candidates. Really large amounts.
For some reason Kroton wanted Ebert Mos of the Justice for
Society Party to win the VP slot. It could well be a standard
arrangement--political contributions in return for lobbyist favors
after the election. Or there could be something more.
Croft had been surprised not to see Cessna Markna at breakfast,
and he was doubly surprised (pleasantly) not to see the Ambassador.
The waiter told him the ambassador wasn't feeling well today. It was
turning out to be a fine morning.
Croft had virtually recovered from his ordeal. The bruises on
his face no longer showed, and aside from an ache in his leg (from last
night) and a small bump on his head (from the night before), he was
basically whole again.
Dalbo toyed with his blugibles at breakfast, toying with the
little fruits.
"No... no...." he muttered.
"Something wrong with the breakfast, Dalbo?" said Croft. "Are
the blugibles not of the right color, or the right shape?"
"This one is too sour," said Dalbo, pointing to one of them with
a little bite in it.
"Well, try another."
Dalbo indicated another with a single bit mark in it. "This one
is too ripe."
"Well, try another," said Croft.
"It is a waste of effort," said Dalbo dismissively.
Croft bit into one. It tasted a little sour, but he grinned.
"Mmmm, and this one tastes just right!"
After breakfast Lotnon said, "What are we going to do now?"
"We," said Croft, "are going to the Kroton corporation."
In a few minutes Croft, Lotnon, and Dalbo were driving along in
an embassy vehicle.
"Why did you bring Dalbo?" said Lotnon. "Now that the assassin
is dead, what further use is he?"
"Bait, my friend, bait." Croft grinned at Dalbo. "I also liked
his insights." He had not shared all his suspicions with Lotnon,
partially out of reflex, but mostly because he just wasn't sure what
Dalbo's special ability was. The jury was still out on whether Dalbo
could read minds.
"Bad man, using talents of good, through coercion."
"Oh?" Croft raised an eyebrow. "You could have stayed with
Cessna and her friends."
"Killers!"
"I know, I know, they're killers. Why do you keep saying that?"
Dalbo would give no answer.
After a moment Lotnon said, "I don't think we're being followed."
"I'm not surprised."
"I am,' said Lotnon. "There were not one but three cars ringing
our embassy today. I can't help but wonder why they aren't following."
"Maybe because they don't need to. Maybe because they know where
we're going."
"How?"
"Ah, an intelligent question."
Croft slowed the aircar to a halt, pulling up to a curb. Then he
took a device out of his pocket, and started to scan the aircar.
"What's that?"
Croft said nothing, but raised an eyebrow when the device gave a
loud beep.
It was pointing straight at Dalbo.
Croft pointed a finger. Dalbo moved over.
Croft, feeling around, pulled a little button out of the aircar's
upholstery.
"You can sit back now," said Croft. He ran across the street, to
an aircar stopped at the light.
"Excuse me sir, do you have the time?" said Croft.
"Bug off," said the driver, annoyed.
"Sorry," said Croft, departing quickly.
When Croft returned, he gunned the engine.
"Where's the comtag?" said Lotnon.
Croft only grinned.
After a short drive they parked the aircar and disembarked.
Croft looked at the number on a large building ahead of them. "404,
that's it," he muttered.
As they approached the entrance he turned to his companions.
"Guys, follow my lead."
Lotnon nodded, and Dalbo said dejectedly, "I have already agreed
to tacitly assist in your falsehoods."
"That's the spirit," said Croft.
They entered the main reception. A pretty receptionist threw
them a cheery smile. "May I help you, gentlemen?"
Croft flashed a badge. "Federal Department of Sanitation. We're
here in official business."
"Oh. I'd better get you someone in charge."
"Someone in charge" turned out to be one Mr. Arbois. He seemed
to be quite perplexed with his visitors.
"But I tell you we have followed all building codes, strictly to
the letter."
"Then you have nothing to worry about. Let us inspect your 22nd
floor."
"But... that's the executive floor. There are people working
there!"
"And perhaps dying there. If your gauche makers don't have the
proper screens on them, your people could be getting more and more lung
cancer by the minute. When those beans are roasted and cooked in
boiling hot water, have you ever considered the fumes? Have you?
They're more dangerous than second-hand smoke. How would you like to
have lawsuits on top of your head? On top of "obstruction of
justice"?" Croft gave an icy stare, to add to the effect.
"Oh... I don't know..." Mr. Arbois hurried off to make a call,
perhaps to someone who did, for when he got off the com, he nodded.
"You can go up. But please be discreet."
"Discrete is my middle name," said Croft.
"No it isn't," said Dalbo, unable to contain himself.
A few minutes later... "-only gauche maker is out here, at the
secretarial station."
"Oh," said Croft, disappointed. He took out a device (a light
meter, actually) and started scanning the gauche maker, much to the
amusement of the secretaries.
"Really," tittered one. "Are we all going to get the coffee
disease?"
"Madam," said Croft, with a cold eye, "Have you ever seen anyone
who has been subject to forty years of second hand coffee fumes?"
The secretary, a little numbed, had to admit that she hadn't.
Croft just tisked-tisked, shaking his head as he turned away.
"Is it... is it ok?" said Arbois, trying to speed up the process.
"Ok? Ok?" said Croft, repeating it slowly. "Oh. Ok. Yes,
it's fine. But can this be the only gauche maker on your entire
floor?"
"Yes, it's the only one..."
"What about the one in the executive boardroom?" said one of the
secretaries.
Arbois gave her a cold glance. "Oh yes, there is one there, now
that you mention it...."
"Then let us not delay," said Croft.
The gauche maker in the boardroom looked innocently enough. But
when Croft raised his device, it buzzed alarmingly. He frowned,
looking concerned. "We have a possible breach here."
"What? Oh?" As if suddenly aware of the danger, Arbois shrunk
that. At that moment Croft, leaning against the edge of the
countertop, palmed something underneath it.
"Wait. Let me check it with a more sensitive detector." Croft
fished something else out of one of his pockets. It was his comtag
detector.
It beeped reassuringly. Croft visibly relaxed.
"What... what does it say?"
Croft nodded. "We caught it just in time. There should be no
significant aftereffects. I suggest you get yourself a new gauche
maker though, immediately."
"Immediately," said Dalbo. "High priority, in near contiguous
time frame."
"Of-of course we'll replace it," stammered Arbois.
At that moment a tall, dignified man stepped in from an adjoining
room. "What's going on here?" he said.
"Nothing, Mr. Slanda... just health inspectors," said Arbois.
"And we were just leaving."
"Making egress, with alacrity" Dalbo commented.
"Um," said the one called Slanda, walking out before they could.
Croft could see that Arbois was starting to give Dalbo some
strange looks. "We're outta here," Croft said quickly.
"What was that all about?" said Lotnon.
"A half inch of metal and wiring," said Croft.
"Huh?"
"A device to transmit audio sound into radio waves."
"What?
"A comtag."
"Oh." That slowly sunk in. "Why?"
"This way, when we shake things up, we'll see what falls."
They sped along in the aircar. "Where are we going now?" said
Lotnon.
"To shake things up," said Croft, gunning the engine.
As chance would have it there was a shareholders meeting of
Kroton Paley the very next day. Shareholder meetings were required to
be held every month for all corporations doing business on Paley
Paratus, according to the Paratan corporate code, and Croft was
fortuitous enough to have acted just before a meeting.
Needless to say, he went to the meeting as a shareholder.
He had bought one share, that very day; not under his real name,
of course, but as one Algo Talgo. Again Croft selected a rhyming name,
if only for ease of remembering.
Lotnon, Dalbo, and Croft showed up at the shareholder's meeting.
It was held in a large auditorium that seated several hundred
shareholders, only a few of the thousands who might have shown up but
undoubtedly had better things to do with their free weekend day,
Paratans being accustomed to working six day weeks.
The gavel banged and the meeting was called to order. The
chairman of the board took the gavel. Croft recognized him
immediately; it was Mr. Slanda, who he had briefly met in the corporate
offices. Slanda was a short, heavyset man who spoke in a gravelly
voice.
"This meeting is called to order," said Slanda. "Let's get down
to business."
Croft looked at the sheet he had been handed at the door.
PALEY KROTON LTD.
Agenda for 11.24.3011 Meeting
1) Old business
a) Frivolous suit
2) New Business
a) Finances
b) Message fro |