The Mammoth Book of Nebula Awards SF

with all the riches of the universe.

—O poor one, how can you have gotten through life without losing your feet? Air would be of infinite worth thus only if life were of infinite worth, and even so little as I know of your rich and glorious history proves conclusively that you place very little value on life. Other people’s lives, at any rate. Sad to say, our own history contains a similarly bonehungry period.

—Neither are we that way now, Uncle.

—I die. My brain turns to maggots….

I talked with Uncle for an hour or so but got nothing out of it but a sore soft palate. When I got back to the hotel there was a message from Peter Lafitte, asking whether I would like to join him at Antoine’s for dinner. No, I would not like to, but under the circumstances it seemed prudent. I had to rent a formal tunic from the bellbot.

Antoine’s has all the piedevivre of a frozen halibut, which puts it on par with every other French restaurant off Earth. We started with an artichoke vinaigrette that should have been left to rot in the hydroponics tank. Then a filet of “beef” from some local animal that I doubt was even warm blooded. All this served by a waiter who was a Canadian with a fake Parisian accent.

But we also had a bottle of phony Pouilly-Fuisse followed by a bottle of ersatz Burgundy followed by a bottle of synthetic Chateau-d’Yquem. Then they cleared the table and set a bottle of brandy between us, and the real duel began. Short duel, it turned out.

“So how long is your vacation going to last?” I made a gesture that was admirably economical. “Not long at these prices.”

“Well, there’s always Slim Joan’s.” He poured himself a little brandy and me a lot. “How about yourself?”

“Ran into a snag,” I said. “Have to wait until I hear from Earth.”

“They’re not easy to work with, are they?”

“Terrans? I’m one myself.”

“The !tang, I mean.” He stared into his glass and swirled the liquor. “Terrans as well, though. Could I set to you a hypothetical proposition?”

“My favorite kind,” I said. The brandy stung my throat.

“Suppose you were a peaceable sort of fellow.”

“I am.” Slightly fuzzy, but peaceable.

“And you were on a planet to make some agreement with the natives.”

I nodded seriously.

“Billions of bux involved. Trillions.”

“That would really be something,” I said.

“Yeah. Now further suppose that there’s another Terran on this planet who, uh, is seeking to make the same sort of agreement.”

“Must happen all the time.”

“For trillions, Dick? Trillions?”

“Hyp’thetical trillions.” Bad brandy, but strong.

“Now the people who are employing you are ab-so-lute-ly ruthless.”

“Ma!ryso’ta,” I said, the !tang word for “bonehungry.” Close to it, anyway.

“That’s right.” He was starting to blur. More wine than I’d thought. “Stop at nothing. Now how would you go about warning the other Terran?”

My fingers were icy cold and the sensation was crawling toward my elbows. My chin slipped off my hand and my head was so heavy I could hardly hold it up. I stared at the two fuzzy images across the table. “Peter.” The words came out slowly, then not at all: “You aren’t drinking….”

“Terrible brandy, isn’t it?” My vision went away, although it felt as if my eyes were still open. I heard my chin hit the table.

“Waiter?” I heard the man come over and make sympathetic noises. “My friend has had a little too much to drink. Would you help me get him to the bellbot?” I couldn’t even feel them pick me up. “I’ll take this brandy. He might want some in the morning.” Jolly.

I finally lapsed into unconsciousness while we were waiting for the elevator, the bellbot lecturing me about temperance. I woke up the next afternoon on the cold tile floor of my suite’s bathroom. I felt like I had been taken apart by an expert surgeon and reassembled by an amateur mechanic. I looked at the tile for a long time. Then I sat for a while and studied the interesting blotches of color floating between my eyes and my brain. When I thought I could survive it, I stood up and took four Hangaways.

I sat and started counting. Hangaways hit you like a pile driver. At eighty the adrenaline shock came. Tunnel vision and millions of tiny needles being pushed out through your skin. Rivers of sweat. Cathedral bells tolling, your head the clapper. Then the dry heaves and it was over.

I staggered to the phone and ordered some clear soup and a couple of cold beers. Then I stood in the shower and contemplated suicide. By the time the soup came I was contemplating homicide.

The soup stayed down and by the second beer I was feeling almost human. Neanderthal, anyhow. I made some inquiries. Lafitte had checked out. No shuttle had left, so he was either still on the planet or he had his own ship, which was possible if he was working for the outfit I suspected he was working for. I invoked the holy name of Hartford, trying to find out to whom his expenses had been billed. Cash.

I tried to order my thoughts. If I reported Lafitte’s action to the Guild he would be disbarred. Either he didn’t care, because they were paying him enough to retire in luxury — for which I knew he had a taste — or he actually thought I was not going to get off the planet alive. I discarded the dramatic second notion. Last night he could have more easily killed me than warned me. Or had he actually tried to kill me, the talk just being insurance in case I didn’t ingest a fatal dose? I had no idea what the poison could have been. That sort of knowledge isn’t relevant to my line of work.

I suppose the thoroughly rational thing would have been to sit tight and let him have the deal. The fortunes of Starlodge were infinitely less important to me than my skin. He could probably offer more than I could, anyhow.

The phone chimed. I thumbed the vision button and a tiny haystack materialized over the end table.

—Greetings. How is the weather?

—Indoors, it’s fine. Are you Uncle?

—Not now. Inside the Council Building I am Uncle.

—I see. Can I perform some worthless service for you?

—For yourself perhaps.

—Pray continue.

—Our Council is meeting with Lafitte this evening, with the hope of resolving this question about the mercantile nature of land. I would be embarrassed if you did not come, too. The meeting will be at *ala’ang in the Council Building.

—I would not cause embarrassment. But could it possibly be postponed?

He exposed his arms. —We are meeting.

He disappeared and I spent a few minutes translating *ala’ang into human time. The !tang divide their day into a complicated series of varying time intervals depending on the position of the suns and state of appetite and estrous condition. Came to a little before ten o’clock, plenty of time.

I could report Lafitte, and probably should, but decided I’d be safer not doing so, retaining the threat of exposure for use as a weapon. I wrote a brief description of the situation — and felt a twinge of fear on writing the word Syndicate — and sealed it in an envelope. I wrote the address of the Hartford Translators’ Guild across the seal and bounced up to the courier’s office.

Estelle Dorring stared at me when I walked into the office. “Ricardo! You look like a corpse warmed over!”

“Rough night,” I said. “Touch of food poisoning.”

“I never eat that tang stuff.”

“Good policy.” I set the envelope in front of her. “I’m not sure whether to send this or not. If I don’t come get it before the next shuttle, take it to Armpit and give it to the next Earth courier.”