“What matter, Jongleur? You are not making sense.”
“The matter of the stolen woman, Habiba.”
“But wouldn’t such a subterfuge be exposed immediately?”
“Not if we confuse them by making it appear legionnaires have taken this matter into their own hands.”
“You really think you can do this?”
“Habiba, I think our past failures may have resulted from too much secrecy. They expect us to sneak into their midst. But if we march in openly in the guise of the Legion . . .”
“You may have something there, Jongleur. I will delay the erasure while you put your plan in motion.”
***
All volunteers for this mission to Seattle will receive double pay and double time-in-service allotment I remind you, this is for the honor of the Legion and to protect one of our own! But we also are eager to acquire this new device Mademoiselle D’Amato demonstrated.
—General Claude Speely DeCazeville, Private Order Number 50112
Late in the afternoon, after exploring only part of Lutt’s house, Nishi sat in a semidaze at the dining room table sipping a cup of tea provided by the automatic kitchen.
It was difficult to accept the wealth she saw. Nishi felt almost guilty. Here she sat at a table of exotic dark wood, her chair a softly cushioned affair that supported her arms. The dark blue kimono she wore was silky against her skin.
She had bathed in a whirlpool bath, showered in a “sensurround” that washed her body in perfumed waters. She had dusted herself with sweet powders and squirted flowery scents onto her skin, then dressed in the kimono left on her bed by someone.
Nishi had not seen the servant’s arrival or departure. Perhaps it had been one of the little robots programmed by the housekeeper.
She finished her tea, inhaling the cloying scent of jasmine, and returned to the automated kitchen. Glass-fronted cupboards and walls revealed kitchenware, preserved foods, blinking lights and the conveyors of the automatic chef. There were signs and labels all around.
One sign above a red button said “Key Lock for Personal Cooking.”
She pushed the button and a mechanical voice from the ceiling asked: “Do you wish only to choose the spices or is an entire recipe to be ordered?”
“Spices,” she said.
Two glass-fronted panels on her left came alight with bright yellow illumination from under the shelves. Nishi bent close to study the labels. “Cayenne . . . Cumin . . . Date Sugar . . . Dobinoi . . . Elm (sweet) . . . Fenugreek . . .” She skipped ahead: “Lemon Essence . . . Marjoram . . . Paprika . . .” All alphabetical. Abruptly, she scanned back to the upper shelves. “Basil!”
There was the spice Ryll so feared. She removed the container, took off the lid and sniffed. Familiar pungency greeted her nostrils. She recalled her father had enjoyed basil in a dish he often ordered. “Wop food,” he had called it. Her Japanese mother had threatened to pour it on his head.
A tear slid down Nishi’s cheek.
Swallowing past a lump in her throat, she dumped the spice into the sink, washed it down the drain and threw away the container. Looking at the ceiling voder, she said: “Basil is never again to be used in this household.”
“Provide a key name for the order, please.”
“By orders of the household chatelaine!”
“So ordered.”
She depressed the red button and the lights over the spices went dark.
As she stood there wondering if this were enough to protect Ryll, the front door buzzer sounded and a wall screen on her right came alive to show a tall man outside the door.
“Lutt? You home, Lutt?” the man asked.
“Who is it, please?” Nishi asked.
“You must be new! I’m Lutt’s brother, Morey.”
“Lutt is not home.”
“Who’re you?” Morey asked.
“I am Lutt’s fiancée. We are to be married.”
“The whore from Venus? He says he’s gonna marry you? That’s great, dearie. He often promises that.” Morey slipped an envelope from his pocket and dropped it into a slot beside the door. “Tell him I brought what he ordered. And if you’re not real busy, how’d you like to invite me in for a little entertainment?”
“I will give him your message,” Nishi said. “And you might tell your mother what you called me.”
“She’s the one told me about you, dearie.”
“Your mother and I have made our own agreement, Morey. After you’ve spoken to her, I will expect your apology.”
A worried frown creased Morey’s forehead. “Agreement? She didn’t say anything about an—”
“Your information may be a little out of date,” Nishi said. “Don’t return unless it’s to apologize.”
She left the kitchen and encountered the housekeeper loitering in the passage to the service area. A gray-haired older woman with vaguely Oriental features, the housekeeper had a knowing gleam in her eyes.
“What is your name?” Nishi asked.
“Mrs. Ebey.”
“Do you often listen to conversations in this house, Mrs. Ebey?” Nishi asked.
A smile twitched the corners of Mrs. Ebey’s mouth. “It’s the only way to survive here.”
“Then you heard my conversation with Lutt’s brother?”
“Him? Trash! Master Lutt never lets him in the house.”
“And what did you think of my exchange with his mother?”
“Watch out for her. She’s trickier than she looks.”
“Are you siding with me, Mrs. Ebey?”
“For the time being. You’re pretty good in the clinches. Are you really a virgin?”
“I am.”
“You may be the first one ever to cross our threshold.”
“Is there a way to secure the door to my room and prevent Lutt from entering?”
“I’ll see to it. You want a palm lock, an eye print or a five-slot key?”
“What do you recommend?”
“Key. It can’t be picked and if there’s only one, he can’t duplicate it. He can break in, of course, but that’d take hours. This house is built solid.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ebey. I will not forget your help.”
“That’s what I’m counting on. You should know Master Lutt may be a little late getting home. There’s a big party at the main house. He’s to be diverted at the gate.”
“Diverted?”
“They’ll escort Master Lutt to this party.”
“What’s important about the party?”
“The old lady’s parading another eligible female past him. She’s still hoping to beat you some way. Do you really have a lot of whoring stories about Lutt and old L.H.?”
“More than enough.”
“That’s rich. Everybody knows it, of course, but proving it’s another matter.”
“I have proof.”
“More power to you, honey! I hope you soak ’em good. Will you be needing anything else?”
“Not for now.”
Mrs. Ebey went down the hall and turned a corner. The clicking of her heels remained audible for a time and vanished with the sound of a door closing.
Nishi stared at the empty hall, thinking about her new situation. In a way, some of the elements here were not much different from those found on Venus. You had to remain on guard all the time, probing for hidden motives, listening to tones of voices, aware of places where you might be ambushed. Venus had been a good training ground for survival in the Hanson family.
***
Our intelligence reports from Venus make it clear the Legion is taking increased interest in Lutt Hanson, Junior. I recommend a 24-hour watch on him and we should get an agent into that shop of his adjoining the family compound.
—Major Paula Captain, ZP Security memo
For the first time in Dreen memory, Habiba appealed directly to her people, bypassing the Elite and showing herself to everyone as she flew over Dreenor in her cupola. The ranked spiral of Elites below her pr
ovided only the motive power, and Habiba straddled her saddle in regal immensity as she viewed the Taxables massed on the plains in accordance with her orders.
The noonday sun that was filtered by the defensive shield provided dull shadows, and the landscape appeared faintly repellent to Habiba. But she put down such thoughts, fearing they might filter through to her trance-bound Elites.
Using an amplifier in the base of the cupola, Habiba exhorted her people: “Be brave and patient! Trust in my love. The idmage shield guards us well. I work for the betterment of all and a return to the good old days of superb storytelling.”
The people looked up with adoration and responded with a great moan of submission.
“Dreenor must be kept inviolate for Dreens,” she said. “The unbroken succession of our days will be restored.”
Over and over, she repeated this as she flew.
When she returned her cupola to its position at the Cone of Control, Habiba dismissed all but Mugly and sat silently while the Elites filed out. She wondered if her words had restored calm or added to unrest. Jongleur had suggested this appeal after noting the spreading signs of distress among the people.
“It’s the gray sky as much as anything,” he said.
She watched Jongleur leave her presence at the end of the procession and saw him turn a worried look in Mugly’s direction. Jongleur obeyed her command, though, and left with the others. One could always depend on Jongleur’s steadfast devotion.
When only she and Mugly remained, Habiba looked over his head at the Sea of All Things, noting the reflections in the slick surface—gray and oily—a doubled landscape of volcanic cinder walls. The dimness of the light suited the scene.
Mugly cleared his throat, then: “Blessed Habiba, I am overjoyed that you have at last consented to see me.”
“It was imperative we talk, Mugly. You of all my Taxables are most likely to do something I have not anticipated.”
“Habiba!”
“Don’t deny it. I am aware you conceal some of your thoughts from me in a method I do not care to know.”
Mugly, his secret thoughts blocked away from his awareness for what he had anticipated would be a Thoughtcon, felt deep shock at her words. The injustice of Habiba’s accusation struck him bitterly.
Before he could respond, Habiba said, “It has come to my attention that you have been saying the idmage shield is not enough protection from Earthers.”
Because this was among the thoughts he had concealed from himself, Mugly could only gape at her stern countenance. He felt he had been dropped suddenly into an insane situation. Did Habiba mistake him for someone else? Was this truly Habiba?
“If the shield is not enough, Mugly, what else could we possibly do?” she asked.
This was a strange sort of test, Mugly decided. Was she throwing him onto his ultimate resources? The shield not enough? What else could they do?
“All of us wonder how we could defend ourselves should the Earthers attack,” he said.
“And how do you suggest we do this, Mugly?”
“That must be left to you, Blessed Habiba.”
“Just as the first erasure ship was left to me?”
Mugly found this a strange question. He imagined Habiba herself had ordered that ship in some odd way. Was this the method she employed? He remembered no previous such testing, though. Had she commanded him to forget?
“I will obey you in anything, Blessed Habiba,” he said.
“No, you won’t! Jongleur obeys me, you do not.”
“Habiba,” he whispered.
“Out with it!” she commanded. “What would you do to make us invulnerable?”
“Idmage defensive weapons?” he asked.
“I thought that was in your mind!”
Now he was angry. “It was not in my mind until you asked, but drastic times perhaps call for drastic measures.”
“That’s a wishy-washy answer, Mugly,” she accused.
Mugly took a deep breath, smelling the awful odor of his own anger. “Since you insist,” he said, “let us discuss the question of defensive weaponry.”
“So you are advocating it, at last!”
“I’m not advocating it! You raised the question!”
“It’s a bitter day when you place such a false accusation on your own Habiba,” she said.
“False accusation? But you’ve been—”
“Enough! I warn you, Mugly, you are not above censure.”
“Habiba, I am trying to serve you as best I can, and the question of defensive weapons—”
“Will be dropped immediately! If we create weapons, the possibility of a pre-emptive attack against Earth will dominate every thought. This would lead inevitably to the destruction of all we hold dear. Even the most high-minded could not prevent the march of annihilation that would overtake our universe. I will not tolerate the existence of weapons on Dreenor!”
Mugly trembled, aghast at the thought that had suddenly occurred to him.
“But isn’t the erasure ship a weapon?” he whispered.
Habiba stared at him in stunned silence. Mugly was right. The awful thing already had happened. She began to shudder uncontrollably.
“Habiba, I’m sorry,” Mugly said.
Her voice was an ugly husking appropriate to the gray gloominess of this day. “It is too late for sorrow, Mugly.”
***
While crediting the Raj Dood with saving him, Woon invoked “national security reasons” in refusing to give details of the famed Venusian guru’s heroic exploit. Woon said he was held the entire time on the Moon in a tiny cell without any human contact. The abduction, he accused, “was an act of violence by hideous alien creatures too awful for me to describe.”
—From the Seattle Enquirer
Lutt had never seen his mother more obvious in her attempts to control him. In some ways, she was worse than Father, he thought.
She had chosen the “underwater room” of the main house for her gathering and, at nightfall, the lake lights had been turned on beyond the armor glass to illuminate exotic fish swimming there. A Titicaca shark swerved past the glass as Lutt, wearing a dark maroon tuxedo, entered. He thought the shark appropriate. A room full of sharks would certainly attract their brethren.
Phoenicia met him at the foot of the stairs with a young woman in tow.
“Lutt, darling, here’s Eola VanDyke come all the way from Spokane just to be with us tonight.”
He glanced at Eola VanDyke’s tabloid-familiar features—hard eyes to go with sharp bones and a frame of highlighted blond hair. She was packaged in a ball gown of silvery fabric that lifted her breasts to unbelievable points. He stared deliberately at her cleavage and grinned.
“Eola VanDyke,” he said, taking her hand. “May I call you VD?”
“Lutt!” Phoenicia gasped.
Eola’s features darkened with a rush of blood but she managed a faint laugh.
He released her hand and turned his attention to the hard babble of voices in the room, seeing two bankers and their wives, Morey already drunk, several of Phoenicia’s older female friends and their husbands, Eola’s parents, standing by the undertake window and trying not to watch the meeting at the foot of the stairs. And, of course, a sprinkling of Hanson Guards decked out in Louis XIV livery to serve the drinks and hors d’oeuvres.
“Where’s Father?” Lutt asked.
“Your father is not feeling well and retired early. I worry so about him, Lutt. He is so anxious for you to assume your proper position in The Company.”
“The Company,” Lutt said, looking at Eola. “That’s what we call our many holdings. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
“There are so many stories about you,” she said, “one does not know which to believe.” Only a slight trembling in her voice betrayed her anger.
“Very good!” he said. “Believe them all, especially the worst ones.”
“You’re being simply awful,” Phoenicia complained.
“J
ust being myself, Mother.” He nodded toward Eola’s parents and winked. “I think your mother’s trying to get your attention, Eola,” he said. “And I need a drink.”
Eola excused herself and, when she had gone, Phoenicia flared at him. “Why do you test my patience this way? You’re one of the most eligible bachelors in the world. Even the rival media report your encounters with young women and Eola is a sweet girl.”
“I’m engaged to a sweet girl, Mother.”
“You really should take more time to consider that liaison,” Phoenicia said. “You know I’m thinking only of you, dear, when I say you should marry into a better family. And-Eola—”
“Is duller than dull, Mother. It’s the dullness of being born rich and letting your brain atrophy.” He captured a drink off a tray. “Shouldn’t I go look in on Father?”
“He said he did not want to be disturbed.”
“Did he send for the doctor this time?”
“You know he never tells me.” She brushed a speck off his lapel. “I’m glad you took time to change into this tuxedo. You’re really quite handsome when—”
“Mother, stop it. Your guards insisted and I didn’t feel like making an issue of it. However—” he pulled up one pants leg to reveal bright orange and yellow plaid socks “—I did keep my socks on.”
Tittering laughter revealed that others had seen his display.
Phoenicia paled and started to say something but thought better of it.
In a loud voice heard clearly throughout the room, Lutt said, “I’m going to find Father and drag him back here.”
In a low voice, Phoenicia said, “Lutt, he distinctly said he was not to be disturbed.”
Ignoring her, Lutt said, “If I bring Father back, that’ll restore me in my mother’s good graces. We can’t have a party without the old man himself.”
Phoenicia threw up her hands. “You’re incorrigible!”
Lutt gave her a pecking kiss on the cheek and, carrying his untasted drink, went back up the stairs. Where would L.H. be? In his study, most likely.