I stepped back into the compartment and touched the control. The door started to close; and as it did so, I quickly leaned my head back out again.
The two Halkas were still walking away from me. But there was no longer any sign of staggering or wall- tapping. Just as there hadn’t been the pupil dilation of a real Halkan high.
Fake drunks. And by inference, a fake errand.
I pulled my head back again before the door could close far enough for the automatic safeties to kick in, letting it slide shut in front of me. “Who was it?” Bayta asked, coming out of the washroom.
“A couple of Halkas looking for a friend,” I told her as I snagged my jacket from the clothes rack. “You didn’t happen to notice anyone following you when you got back onto the Quadrail just now, did you?”
Her forehead creased. “I don’t know—I wasn’t really watching. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said as I punched the door release. “Don’t wait up.”
The two Halkas were already out of sight, having either passed through the car’s rear door or else gone into one of the other first-class compartments along the way. Not especially feeling like ringing door chimes at this hour, I continued to the end of the car and pushed the release. The door slid open, and I crossed the swaying vestibule into the first-class coach car beyond.
Late evening it might be by the Spiders’ clocks, but you wouldn’t have known it from the activity level. The card games were still going strong, several of the chairs having been repositioned as old conversation circles had broken up and new ones formed. The overhead lighting had been dimmed to a soft nighttime glow, but with each seat sporting its own reading light the only difference was that the brightness started at chest height instead of up at the ceiling. A few of the passengers were dozing in their seats, sonic neutralizers built into their headrests suppressing the commotion around them.
There were several Halkas in evidence, some of them playing cards, others conversing or snugged down for sleep. I zigzagged my way slowly through the car, looking at each of them in turn. Halkan faces were difficult for human eyes to distinguish between, but I’d had some training in the technique, and I was eighty percent sure that none of these were the ones I was looking for. Certainly there wasn’t anyone dressed the way my visitors had been.
I’d made it halfway through the car, and was starting to pick up my pace toward the rear door, when a human voice cut through the general murmur. “And Yandro makes five.”
I froze in my tracks, my eyes darting that direction. An older man in a casual suit was sitting a couple of seats to my right, his face half in shadow from his reading light, his lips curled in a sort of half smile as he gazed up at me. “Come, now,” he said reprovingly. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your own catchphrase.”
For another second I stared at him, my mental wheels spinning on their tracks. Then my mind edited in the missing mustache and beard, and it abruptly clicked: Colonel Terrance Applegate, Western Alliance Intelligence. Once upon a time, one of my superiors. “It wasn’t
“My apologies,” he said, holding up a hand. “A poor attempt at humor. Please, sit down.”
I hesitated. As far as I was concerned, tracking my two Halkas was way higher on my priority list than reminiscing about the bad old days. Especially with one of the people who had made the last of those days so bad in the first place.
But on the other hand, we were on a Quadrail, and aside from the restrooms and first-class compartments there weren’t a lot of places aboard where anyone could hide. And I had to admit a certain curiosity as to what a midlevel West-ali officer’s rear end was doing in a first-class Quadrail seat. “An extremely poor attempt. Colonel,” I told him, stepping through the maze of chairs to an empty one at his side. Swiveling it around to face him, I sat down. “So how are things at Westali?”
“About the same, or so I hear,” he said. “And it’s
I looked significantly around the car. “Looks like you traded up.”
He shrugged, retrieving a half-full glass from his seat’s cup holder. “Debatable. I’m working for the UN.”
“How nice for you,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. I’d never been able to prove it, but I’d long suspected there had been UN pressure behind Westali’s decision to sack me. “And you’re already up to whatever rarefied level gets you expense chits for first-class Quadrail travel?”
“Hardly,” he said dryly. “I’m just here to hold the hands of those who are.”
“Don’t tell me you’re back on bodyguard duty.”
“Don’t laugh,” he warned, his lips smiling but his voice only half joking. “I could still take on five of you young whelps and beat you to a pulp.”
“I’m sure you could,” I said, deciding for once in my life to be diplomatic.
“But, no, I’m actually more of a consultant,” he went on. “Deputy Director Losutu is on his way to talk with the Cimmaheem about buying some starfighters, and he wanted a military expert along to check them out,”
So Biret Losutu was here, too. This just got better and better. “Isn’t that a little risky, politically speaking?” I suggested. “I thought the UN’s official stance was that Terran-built starfighters are as good as anything else on the market.”
Applegate snorted. “And you and I both know what a piece of Pulitzer-Prize-winning fiction
I thought of all the crocodile tears shed on my behalf as I was summarily kicked out of my job, some of those tears coming from Applegate himself. “I don’t suppose they invented the art of political spindrift, either.”
“Fortunately, that won’t be necessary in this case,” he said with a wry smile. “The Cimman fighters are slated for duty at Yandro and New Tigris. We both know how many people will see them
“There’s still the hole that much money will leave in the UN’s budget,” I pointed out. “
“Maybe,” he conceded. “But you know what they say: A billion here, a billion there, and pretty soon you’re talking about real money. Anyway, we’re only talking about half a trillion for the eight fighters we’re looking at, unless we decide to go with something bigger. That’s what I’m here to help decide.” He took a sip of his drink, eyeing me over the rim of his glass. “But enough about me. What are
“Nothing much,” I said. “A little sightseeing.”
“Really.” His eyes flicked to the door I’d come through a minute earlier. “Who died and left you the fortune?”
“It’s business sightseeing,” I said. Fortunately, I’d already worked out a cover story, though I hadn’t expected to need it this early in the trip. “I’ve been hired by a big travel consortium to scope out new vacation packages to pitch to jaded tourists.”
“Ah,” he said with a knowing look. “And, of course, a proper scoping requires proper accommodations?”
“Just part of the job,” I agreed. “Unfortunately, we also cater to the less than obscenely wealthy, so I’ll be switching to second- and third-class seats not too far down the line.”
Applegate grunted. “A pity,” he said. “I gather you’re skipping New Tigris and Yandro and starting your survey with the Jurian Collective?”
“What makes you think I haven’t already checked them out?” I countered.
“Two things.” He lifted up a finger. “One, because we both know there’s nothing at either place that would entertain a tourist for fifteen minutes.” He smiled wryly as he raised a second finger. “And two, because I saw you get on at Terra Station.”
I blinked. “You were
He nodded. “Came in along the diplomatic route via Rome and Elfive,” he said. “Damned torchliner ran late, too—we nearly didn’t make it. Why, shouldn’t I have been there?”
“No, of course you should,” I said, feeling some professional annoyance with myself for not having noticed him. Global awareness was something field agents were supposed to cultivate. “I didn’t mean it that way. Was Losutu there with you?”
“No, he and the Cimman sales reps came on at New Tigris,” Applegate said. “They’d been out there looking over the system.”
“And where were you exactly?” I persisted, still not believing I could have missed spotting him.
