“Couldn’t say, sir,” Stilton offered, pushing a soft, clean rag into the barrel of the flintlock. “His men seemed uncommon interested in the boat-house, mind you. Took him down to see it after he finished his talk with you.”
Gordon winced. “Damnation,” he said. “A boat-house should probably have a boat in it, don’t you think Stilton?”
“Most like,” Stilton agreed. He poured a tiny measure of powder into the gun with a steady hand. “Specially when there’s all manner of trappings to suggest a boat. Could well lead a man to think the boat was elsewhere.”
“Indeed,” said Gordon. “Ah well. I’m awfully glad it’s summer, Stilton.”
“Why is that, sir?” Gently, Stilton tamped a piece of wadding into the barrel to keep the powder in place, and forced a lead ball after it.
“Because I rather dislike swimming the Long Lake at other times of the year.” Gordon stripped his linen shirt and tossed it to the floor, revealing a deep, powerful chest and muscular arms. “Don’t wait up, Stilton,” he said cheerfully. “I expect I’ll be some time.”
###
His chest was still bare and his dark hair fell in sodden ringlets to his shoulders as Gordon swaggered into the main room of his pied-a-terre in the town of Far Millway, a lissome young blonde under one arm, and a bottle of red wine in his hand. “Look alive, Dorian,” he roared, striding to the fire and turning to warm his backside. “There’s trouble afoot, or I’m much mistaken.”
On the far side of the room, a door opened and Dorian Wilde appeared, sleep-tousled and wrapped in a coverlet. “God in heaven, Gordon,” he said, rubbing at his eyes. “What the devil are you doing? What’s all this racket?”
“Come, Wilde,” said Gordon. “Tempus fugit! Wake yourself and get dressed. Your father’s hounds were cleverer than we hoped. It will take them longer to ride twenty miles around the Long Lake than it took me to swim the mile across, but there can’t be much in it. Have you met young Rosaline, here?” He struck his blonde companion a resounding swat on the arse, and she giggled.
Wilde blinked owlishly. “I have no idea what you think you’re doing, Gordon. Have you any idea of the time?”
“Yes,” snarled Gordon. “Almost too late. Where’s the minx, boy? We’ve much to do and little time to do it.”
“Dorian?” A lovely blonde woman appeared beside Wilde in the doorway. Unlike Wilde, she lacked even the modesty of a coverlet. Gordon guffawed outright, while Rosaline coyly turned her head and looked into the fire.
“Grace, please,” said Wilde, his face scarlet, and he enfolded her in the coverlet with him. “Remember where you are.”
“I’m sorry, Dorian,” she said, running a gentle hand down the contour of his jaw. “I keep forgetting the nudity taboo on your planet. I’ll get dressed.”
“You needn’t be concerned on my account,” Gordon called after her. “I’m quite partial to naked women.”
“Quiet, Gordon,” snapped Wilde. “Grace is still getting used to New Ceres. I’d hoped to keep her clear of bad examples until she found her feet.”
“At least she’s the right size and shape,” said Gordon, looking critically at Rosaline. “Perhaps our Rosaline is a touch more callipygian, but it suits her. Your Grace could use a little more meat on her bones. Still, I think she’ll pass.”
Wilde flicked the hair from his eyes and peered at Gordon. “All right. I can see you’ve got some sort of plan in mind. I’m too tired to argue, so you’d better just explain as I get dressed.” He turned and went back into the bedroom, and Gordon could hear him scuffling about in the darkness, swearing as he banged a shin against the low bed.
“It’s much the same as last time,” said Gordon. He glanced around for a corkscrew, and remembered that he’d thrown the last one at an especially persistent Scientologist missionary just a few weeks ago. With a practiced motion, he knocked the top of the bottle against the stone fireplace. There was a set of large glass tumblers in a rough wooden cabinet under one window. Gordon filled one from the jagged neck of the bottle, then raised it and turned it this way and that against the firelight. “Shouldn’t do this sort of thing with red wine,” he remarked. “Damned hard to tell if you’ve poured yourself a cupful of shards.”
Wilde emerged from the bedroom, looping a silken cravat beneath his chin. “The plan, Gordon,” he said. “Oh, and you can pour me a glass while you explain.”
“Take mine,” Gordon offered, and filled a second tumbler while Wilde drank. “It’s simple. I’ve a phaeton at the livery stable. You collect it, and hire a pair of horses. Then you pick up a blonde, female passenger dressed in Grace’s clothing, and head for the nearest sizable town. Dennington, I think — it’s big enough for a couple of people to get lost easily enough. Of course, it’s Rosaline you take with you. Meanwhile, as soon as the coast is clear I slip away with Grace in tow. Once she’s set up in a suitably safe location, I give you the signal, and you rendezvous with your lady-love.”
“Seems complicated,” said Wilde, setting down his glass. “Why don’t I just take Grace with me in the first place?”
“Where will you go?” countered Gordon. “Your father knows all your bolt-holes, Wilde, but I promise you he doesn’t know mine. I can hide Grace in perfect safety, and we can smuggle you to her side as soon as matters cool a little.”
“It makes sense, Dorian.” Grace stood in the bedroom door, demure in a floor-length dress of forest green. “We only made it this far by using Mister Gordon’s house.”
Gordon made a conscious effort to breathe evenly. Suddenly, it was easy to understand how Dorian had lost his head over the woman. Naked, Grace had been disturbingly attractive, provoking a kind of fluttering in Gordon’s belly that he’d almost forgotten. Clothed, now…The soft drapery of the green gown lent a mystery to her willowy form, and Gordon found his pulse racing as he looked into her wide, dark eyes. Deliberately, he turned away and slid his arm around Rosaline’s shoulders. “There you are, Wilde. Even your lass agrees.” He gave Rosaline a gentle shove. “See if you can fit into one of Grace’s outfits, Rosaline. And Wilde,” he said as the women disappeared into the bedroom to practice their mysterious female magic, “Treat the young lady nicely, will you? Take her to the theatre, buy her a few new things — this is quite a favour she’s doing you, after all.”
Wilde glanced back over his shoulder to be sure the women were out of earshot. Then he turned a serious face on Gordon. “And you,” he said. “Treat Grace properly, please. None of your usual Lord Byron performance art routines. She’s very special to me. I’ve only known her a little time, but it seems like…” he searched for words. “I don’t know,” he admitted finally. “She takes my breath away, Gordon.”
Gordon shook his head, damp locks shedding water. “Ah, Dorian. You’ll break half the hearts in New Ceres with this news.” Smiling gravely, he laid his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “I’ll do the best I can by her, Dorian. You know well enough what that means.”
Briefly, Dorian laid his hand on Gordon’s, and met his friend’s gaze candidly. “Thank you,” he said. “You’re the best friend a man could ask for, Gordon. I’m in your debt.”
“Nonsense,” replied Gordon. “Really, I think you’re doing me a favour. I do love antagonising your father, and this latest escapade of yours seems likely to render him apoplectic. How could I possibly refuse?”
Wilde laughed, and dropped his hand. He tossed the last of his wine down his throat, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’d best fetch that phaeton of yours,” he said, moving with some reluctance towards the exit. He glanced longingly back toward the bedroom, and sighed. “Send Rosaline down as soon as you hear me. I shan’t come up.”
Gordon nodded, and pushed him out the door.
Wilde must have paid the liverymen well, for the phaeton appeared behind a fully harnessed pair of horses in only a few minutes longer than it took to dress Rosaline in one of the fashionable gowns Wilde had bought for Grace. Dr
aped in a travelling cloak complete with hood, Rosaline was bundled down the stairway and into the little carriage with sufficient noise and fuss to ensure that curious small-town eyes and ears were certain to notice, despite the hour. Gordon watched from the top of the stairs until the phaeton disappeared into the mist off the lake. At last, he turned and went inside, barring the door behind him.
“Now,” he said to Grace, who sat on a low wooden chair, staring moodily into the dying fire, “What are we going to do with you?”
She stirred, and glanced at him. Once again, the touch of that dark gaze made him shiver, and he looked out the window to escape it.
“I thought I’d try to sleep,” she said. “But there’s only the one bed.”
“I’ll stay out here,” said Gordon quickly. “In case someone comes.”
She came close, rising on her tiptoes to put her arms around his shoulders. The scent of her was like roses and the sea and fresh bread and all manner of lovely, heady things. Gordon clenched his fists, and kept his arms at his sides as she kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered in his ear. Her breath was hot, and Gordon thought she must surely feel the pounding of his heart, but she slipped away and closed the bedroom door behind her, and he sighed out a great, heaving breath he did not know he had been holding.
“Oh Dorian,” he murmured. “The things I do for you.”
Then he built up the fire until it blazed cheerfully, and settled himself into the big, leather chair that faced it. He had a great deal to think about.
###
The rattle of someone trying the door brought Gordon from a fitful doze. He shook his head to clear it, and quietly pulled the heavy brass poker from its place by the fire.
The door rattled again. Then, before Gordon could think to move, it burst inward, the heavy wooden bar yanking free of the wall with a crash. For just an instant the doorway was filled by the square bulk of Rudolf Benton, but he flowed with disturbing grace into a roll which brought him to his feet in the centre of the room, poised in a fighting crouch.
Gordon offered him a slow handclap. “I don’t suppose it occurred to you to knock?” he drawled.
“You!” Benton’s lips curled back from square, yellowish teeth. “Where’s the girl?”
“Interesting,” said Gordon. He rose to his feet, and casually prodded at the fire until it flared. Rather than returning to his seat, he chose instead to lean on the back of the chair, putting its bulk between him and the other man. “I thought it was Dorian who concerned you.”
Benton hesitated. “Of course,” he said. “But the girl too.”
Gordon shrugged. “It is of no account. Both have gone. They took a phaeton perhaps an hour ago, after I warned them of your interest in my missing boat.”
“There was a second boat, then?” Benton had a voice like rocks being ground together. Thicker vocal chords, Gordon assumed. Something to do with a heavy-gravity background, no doubt.
“There was no second boat. I swam. I’m fond of swimming.” Gordon watched the other man warily. “You may leave now. If you act swiftly, you and your men may overtake them on the road to Dennington.” There was no point in lying. Benton would automatically assume he had lied in any case.
The offworlder turned his blocky head this way and that. “I will search the premises first,” he said. “Then I will leave. My men are already in pursuit of the phaeton. There is no need for me to hurry carelessly.”
“This is a private residence,” said Gordon carefully. “You have no legal authority to search it. I am not inclined to permit such a search. I will act as I am legally entitled in defense of my home.”
Benton pulled himself upright, and splayed his broad hands. “I am a Heavy Man,” he said. “I am adapted to half again the gravity of this world. I am very fast, and very strong, and my training is extensive.”
“Hum,” said Gordon. He raised the brass poker and held it like a sword in the St George guard above his head. “If we are exchanging warnings, I must say that I am not without resources of my own. I have considerable experience at swordplay, for example.”
The two men eyed each other for a moment. Finally Benton nodded. “All right. I will explain. The matter is complex. The girl is not what she seems. She is an agent of Free Minerva. Her purpose in coming to New Ceres is to create sympathy for her movement, and to shift New Ceres politics to favour them in the struggle. Your world will suffer as a consequence.”
“Seems quite a task for a young girl,” said Gordon. He maintained his defensive position, watching Benton intently.
“She is adapted for her work,” said Benton. “Biologically engineered with technologies near impossible to detect. I have been assigned to neutralize her.”
“Nevertheless,” said Gordon. “You have no authority to do so under New Ceres law. The girl has entered this world legally, as a refugee. Until she commits an illegal act, she has the protection of New Ceres.”
The Heavy Man took a deliberate forward step. “Do not interfere,” he said. “You are respected locally as a poet and a public figure. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Nevertheless,” said Gordon, and he slid cat-like from behind the chair in a fencer’s crouch.
Benton took another step and waited, his eyes dead.
Gordon shuffled a half-step, aware of the uncertain grip afforded by his stockinged feet on the rough woollen carpet. Benton stood at ease, arms by his side. A direct attack would be certain to fail, Gordon knew. Stratagems must suffice.
With a cry, Gordon sprang forward and slashed at the Heavy Man’s knee with the poker. At the last instant, his foot slipped on the rug, and he stumbled. Seizing the opportunity, Benton moved in close, arms wide like a wrestler — but Gordon turned the feigned slip into an extension, and whipped the poker round with redoubled speed to smash into the offworlder’s head.
At least, that was the plan. What actually happened was something else again. Benton, without so much as looking at the poker, lifted his left hand and caught it with a loud slap. His arm didn’t even quiver under the impact.
“Damnation,” said Gordon, yanking ineffectually at his weapon.
“I am faster, stronger, and better trained,” said Benton in his grinding voice. He tightened his fist on the poker, tendons standing out on his forearm, and the brass rod bent. “Get out of my way, or you will be hurt.”
Gordon glanced at the trapped poker, then met Benton’s eyes with a cool, level gaze. “I think not,” he said. “There’s one more thing I’d like to try first.”
“Eh?” That was all Benton had time to say before there was a sharp crackling noise, and a sudden stink of burning pork. Still clutching the poker, Benton seemed to hurl himself backwards, high-gravity muscles propelling him in a flat arc which ended with a crash at the wall. He collapsed to the floor and twitched fitfully for a moment, then subsided. Quickly, Gordon knelt beside him and lay a hand on his throat. “Dead,” he said. “Good riddance.”
“What happened? How did you do that?”
Gordon looked around, to see that Grace had appeared in the bedroom door. At least this time she’d remembered to wear a robe. He quickly searched what was left of Benton, clumsy and shapeless in death, palming a certain small but very interesting object before he rose to his feet. “Ah, Grace,” he said. “Truly, you are a vision. How much of it is real, I wonder?”
She looked from Benton’s corpse to Gordon, her face a pale mask in the wan firelight. “I don’t understand. He — he seemed to jump in the air. You didn’t do anything, but he was dead.”
There was a loose skirting board next to the fireplace. Gordon kicked it, and it fell away. From the cavity behind, he withdrew a dusty bottle, and held it up. “Old Earth Burgundy,” he announced. “I’ve been saving it for an occasion. This would qualify, I think.” He broke the neck against the fireplace, and filled a glass which he held out to Grace. “Drink?”
She shook her head, staring at him with something like horror on her face.
“Never mind,” said Gordon. “You don’t know what you’re missing.” He looked down at Benton, lying on the floor, and raised the glass in salute. “To the better man.” He drained the wine in one long swallow, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and turned once more to Grace. “When you took on this assignment, you didn’t really imagine New Ceres was completely defenceless, did you? Please —” he held up a hand, forestalling whatever she might have said. “Don’t bother lying. Benton knew perfectly well what you are, and why you are here. He was sent to prevent your efforts to destabilise New Ceres for your advantage, and possibly to achieve such advantage as he could for his own side.” Contemptuously, Gordon spat a shard of glass onto the floor next to Benton’s body, and poured another glass of wine.
Grace looked sorrowful. “So you believe what he told you?”
Gordon spat out another shard of glass. “I didn’t need him to tell me. I’ve been expecting you, or someone like you. Poor Dorian. Eligible bachelor, son of a prominent government figure, and hopeless, romantic champion of the downtrodden masses. What better target could you hope for? We of New Ceres may eschew technology, but we’re far from stupid. With this influx of refugees, it was always obvious that some would be provocateurs.”
The robe slipped from her shoulders as Grace put her hands on her hips. Gordon doubted it was an accident. “Who are you?” she said, challenging him with a look.
“My title is Proctor,” he replied, “Though you will not find it listed anywhere. I was born long ago on Old Earth, and hired by the government of New Ceres for my talents, which are many. Particularly, they include a certain amount of biological engineering. I carry genes from the electric eel of Old Earth, which was capable of generating enough voltage to kill a grown man. I am much larger, and correspondingly more efficient.” He took a mouthful of wine, savouring the bouquet for a moment. When Grace said nothing, he continued. “And you? They’ve done something to make you more attractive to men, I know.” He glanced down at his crotch briefly, and laughed. “Yes. Obvious, really. Is it pheromonal?”
“Partially.” She had the decency to look embarrassed. “The human vomeronasal organs aren’t really very good at handling pheromones. I can also control far more of my musculature and circulation than you. I can dilate my pupils at will, for example.”