UN would have become in Sol system, with the psychists 'adjusting' everybody into peacefulness and the ARMs suppressing dangerous technology… which is to say,
“Maybe they do some good after all.” Jonah finished checking the wire garrotes that lay coiled in the seams of their clothing, the tiny repeating blowgun with the poisoned darts, and the harmless-looking fulgurite plastic frames of their backpacks that you twisted so and they went soft as putty, with the buckle acting as detonator- timer.
“It fits with what we know about you-know-who, as well.” The room had been very carefully swept, but it didn't hurt to take some precautions. Not mentioning names, for one; a robobugger could be set to tag conversations with key words in them. “Unconventional. Wonder why he has human infosystems installed, though? Ours aren't
“Well, they're more versatile, even the obsolete stuff here on Wunderland. I think—” she tugged at an ear “—I think it may be the 'ware he's after, though. Ratcat 'ware is almost as stereotyped as their hardwiring.”
Jonah nodded; software was a favorite cottage industry in human space, and there must be millions of hobbyists who spent their leisure time fiddling with one problem or another.
“So we just set up in business and enter a bid?” he said, flopping back on the bed. He was muscular for a Belter, but even the .61 Wunderland gravity was tiring when there was no place to get away from it.
“Doubt it.” Ingrid murmured to the system. “Finagle, no joy. It's handled through something called the Datamonger's Guild: 'A mutual benefit association of those involved in infosystem development and maintenance.' Gottknows what that is.” A pause. “Whatever it is, there's no public info on how to join it. The contracts listed say you-know-who takes a random selection from their duty roster to do his maintenance work.”
“Perhaps our Japanese friend.”
“Perhaps.” Ingrid sank back on one elbow. “But what we really need are some local contacts,” she said slowly. “Jonah… we both know why Intelligence picked me as your partner. I was the only one remotely qualified who might know anyone here… and I do.”
“Which one?” he asked.
She laughed bitterly. “I'd have thought Claude, but he's— Jonah, I wouldn't have believed it!”
Jonah shrugged. “There’s an underground surrender movement on Earth. Lots of flatlander quislings; and the pussies aren't even there yet. Why be surprised there are more here?”
“But Claude! Oh, well.”
“So who else you got?”
She continued to tap at the console. “Not many. None. No one from the old days, none I'd trust, anyway. Except Harold.”
“Can you trust him?”
“Look, we have two choices. Go to Harold, or try the underworld contacts. The known-unreliable underworld contacts.”
“One of whom is your friend Harold.”
She sighed. “Yes, but— well, that's a good sign, isn't it? That he's worked with the— with them, and against—”
“Maybe.”
“And a bar is a good place to meet people.”
And mostly you just can't wait to see him. A man who'll be twice your age while you're still young. Do you love him or hate him? I still say it's damned iffy, but I guess it's the best chance we have. At least we'll be able to get a drink.
“This is supposed to be a
Ingrid ignored him, focusing on the knot in her stomach and the clammy feel of nervous sweat across her shoulders under the formal low-necked black jumpsuit. Harold's Terran Bar was crowded tonight, and the entrance- fee had been stiff. The
Gottdamn, but that takes me back.
Claude had had an enormous collection of classical music, expensively enhanced stuff originally recorded on Earth, some of it on hardcopy or analog disks. His grandfather had acquired it; one of the eccentricities that had ruined the Montferrat-Palme fortunes. A silver-chased ebony box as big as a man's head, with a marvelous projection system. All the ancient greats, Brahms and Mozart and Jagger and Armstrong… they had all spent hours up in his miserable little attic, knocking back cheap Maivin and playing
“Jonah,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. “This is too public, and we can't just wait for him. It's… likely to be something of a shock, you know? That musician, I knew him back-when too. I'll get him to call through directly, it'll be faster.”
The Sol-Belter nodded tightly; she squeezed the forearm before she rose. In space, or trying to penetrate an infosystem, both rank and skill made him the leader; here the mission and his life were both dependent on her. And on her contacts, decades old here, and severed in no friendly wise.
Ingrid moistened her lips; Sam had been on the edge of their circle of friends, and confronting him would be difficult enough. She wiped palms down her slacks and walked over to the musicomp; it was a handsome floor model in Svarterwood, with a beautiful point resonator and a damper field to ensure that nothing came from the area around it but the product of the keyboard.
“G'tag, Sam,” she said, standing by one side of the instrument. “Still picking them out, I see.”
“Fra?” he said, looking up at her with the dignified politeness of a well-raised Krio country-boy. She saw for the first time that one side of Sam's face was immobile; she recognized the signs of a rushed reconstruction job of the type they did after severe nerve-damage in the surface tissues.
“Well, I haven't changed
His features changed, from the surflike smoothness of a well-trained professional to a shock so profound that the living tissue went as rigid as the dead. “Fra Raines,” he whispered. The skilled hands continued over the musicomp's surflike, but the tune had changed without conscious intent. He winced and hesitated, but she put a hand on his shoulder.
“No, keep playing, Sam.
