She didn’t know that they would begin with a new rescue mission.
XXXII
Arriving on Asborg, Hebo was surprised at the depth of his disappointment on learning that Lissa Windholm had lately departed and wasn’t expected home for several years. He considered going back to Jonna himself.
But no, he couldn’t make any further profit yonder. His capital had dwindled substantially. If he wanted to accomplish anything, he’d have to set in train the lengthy, complicated processes of transferring what valuta he had banked on other worlds to this one.
As for women, Inga was a lively town.
He found a small apartment in it and settled down to collect the information he needed. The database on the colliding black holes was public, huge, and rapidly growing. Most of it was quite beyond his comprehension. Interpretations of the material gathered yonder were streaming out, highly technical articles on this or that aspect, occasional popularizations interspersed.
More would be coming in. Two or three Houses, notably Windholm, were preparing in partnership to send some robotic probes that would conduct further observations. Probably a few of different origin were “already” there, though the Susaian Dominators, for one, would play such cards mighty close to the vest. However, it’d take a large fleet of those little craft, and an indefinite time span, to follow the course of post-collision evolution reasonably well.
Any proper expedition, crewed and in a big ship, would cost a bundle. Even what he had in mind, if it was feasible at all, would take more than he could pay for at the moment.
He must go ahead cautiously. The first order of business was to gain a better idea of what the situation really was, what to look for, what to provide against. Or try to look, try to provide.
Simply getting the gist of what was available meant slow, hard work. His brain wasn’t built for theoretical physics. He studied at certain hours of the day, after which it was a relief to deal with knowledge less cosmic. Nor was he built for sitting unbrokenly in one place and filling his head. He sallied forth, sought recreations, struck up casual friendships, and, when opportunity offered, sounded people out. There was no Neocatholic church anywhere on the planet, but once in awhile he attended Josephan services.
He had been thus occupied for about three months, and local fall was turning into winter, when his phone chimed, lighted the screen with a visage he didn’t recognize. Wall transparencies showed dusk setting in and the city coming aglow. The hills where he’d spent the day tramping trails, wind rustling fallen leaves while wildlife fleeted and flew around him, were lost to sight. His lungs missed that freshness, but his muscles were comfortably tired.
The face was pale of complexion, black of eyes and curly of hair, chiseled as sharply as it gazed at him. “Good evening, Captain Hebo,” said the voice. “Do you remember me? Romon Kaspersson Seafell. I was with the
“Uh, sure,” Hebo lied. Although he’d kept more of his newer than his older memories, he’d had the program remove what seemed like mere clutter. Not that he’d identified each recollection individually, of course—a practical impossibility. The program had learned
Romon nodded. “Otherwise your contacts were by communicator, with our leaders, and through them with the authorities here, negotiating a payment for your discoveries. Oh, yes.”
Didn’t he approve? Hebo wasn’t yet familiar enough with Asborgan culture to always know what somebody meant by something. “How did you learn?” he asked curtly.
Romon’s mouth bent in a rather stiff smile. “No offense. I quite understand your position, and was happy to see that you did get a reasonable reward. I’ve wondered how things went for you since then.”
“How did you learn I’m in town?”
“You’ve made no secret of your presence.”
“Nor blared it out.”
“Still, you’re not nobody, Captain Hebo. You’re the man who made that remarkable find. Your arrival was a news item in these parts.”
“Pretty small.” What little brief fame might have been his was eclipsed by the black hole sensation, perhaps especially so on Asborg. He’d foreseen that, and counted on it. This felt like an intrusion on the obscurity he preferred for the nonce. “Why didn’t you get in touch before, if you wanted to?”
“To tell the truth, the item escaped me. As you say, not exactly first-projection news, and not followed up. I retrieved it a couple of days ago, when I’d been told you were here.”
“And?”
Romon appeared to suppress exasperation. “Captain Hebo, I simply want to be friendly, and trade anecdotes. And we might possibly discover we can do business. May I invite you to dinner? Tomorrow evening, perhaps?”
Hebo had been intending to meet a lady then. Well, he didn’t think she’d be too annoyed if he called and apologized for suddenly having to reshuffle his plans. “All right, why not?”
He smelled something on the wind, whatever it was.
XXXIII
The Baltica enjoyed a setting as elegant as itself, a clear dome atop one of the tallest towers in Inga. City lights shone, flashed, fountained to the edge of sight, under a moon ringed with a frost halo. Designer flowers bedded among the tables deployed multitudinous colors, animated the air, and trilled a melody that evoked springtime in the blood. Stepping in and seeing the customers, Hebo felt distinctly underdressed. Nonetheless, when he spoke Romon’s name he was conducted with deference to a table in a reserved alcove. He’d come a trifle early, so he wouldn’t be in strange surroundings, and ordered a beer to keep him company while he looked around. Quite a few of the women on hand were worth looking at.
Romon entered on the dot, immaculate in blue tunic, red half-cloak, and white trousers tucked into silver- buckled boots. On his left shoulder, a ring of tiny diamonds glinted around the emblem of his House. Contrast made the man with him doubly slovenly. Besides, the fellow was short, squat, ugly—a kind of arrogance, not getting that dark, hooknosed face remodeled. He stood unsmiling as Romon introduced him: “Captain Torben Hebo, I’d like you to meet Dr. Esker Harolsson Seafell.”
Hebo rose. The other ignored his proffered hand, though a shake was customary on Asborg, and gave him a nod. “Esker Harolsson?” Hebo blurted. “The physicist who—observed those black holes? But I thought you were a Windholm.”
He never had been much good at tact, he realized, and doubtless never would be.
“I changed my patrons,” Esker snapped. Evidently he hadn’t wanted that publicized. They could have arranged it.
“House Seafell was honored to adopt him,” Romon said, as if to gloss over the surliness.
“And I’m, uh, honored to meet you,” Hebo said. The honor didn’t feel overwhelming.
They sat down. Romon ordered a martini, Esker a whiskey over ice. Hebo decided to bull ahead. “Why’ve you come along, if I may ask? What you did, what you’re working on, is way beyond me.”
“I thought you might have questions you’d like authoritative answers to,” Romon made reply. His manner intensified. “Inasmuch as you’ve been retrieving not just popular accounts of the matter, but everything, including new interpretations and theories as they appear.”
“How do you know that?”
The drinks slid up from the table port. Romon sipped his before replying, “You didn’t request an anonymous address.” Esker took a pretty deep swallow of his.
“No, why should I?” Hebo countered. “And why should you keep watch for everybody who wants full reports?”
