library,' he sniffed.
Margaret gave a coy smile as if sharing an inside joke. 'Ah, this is an ongoing complaint,' she said. 'People say that the program doesn't always pick the moods and emotions that they expect. The programmer says we are not always aware of what is going on in our subconscious mind. Personally, I find that to be a rather charming and unexpected benefit. However, if you prefer something more traditional ... With a flick of her wrist, the bodhisattva banished the library to oblivion, to be replaced by a featureless dining room with angular furniture.
Natch felt a surge of irritation rise inside of him, and quickly masked it with a PokerFace 83.4b program. Was Margaret trying to test the limits of his patience, or was this just more paranoia?
'Perhaps you would like a tour of the facilities before we dine,' said the bodhisattva.
When they reached the end of the hallway, Natch realized that he and Margaret were not alone. He took a quick glimpse over his shoulder and discovered that they were being shadowed by an imposing hulk of a man with enormous biceps and a pale blonde ponytail slung over one shoulder.
'The atrium of the Surina Center for Historic Appreciation,' said
Margaret as they walked into a vast domed space. 'I don't know whether you got a chance to see it when you came in.' The room was littered with bland statues celebrating the great pioneers of science: Aloretus Monk, Tobi Jae Witt, Albert Einstein, Isaac Newton. Sheldon Surina had a prominent place in the canon, of course, as did his protege and sometime rival Henry Osterman. 'We try to ease visitors in to the deeper exhibits with something gentle on the eyes,' she said, though there were no visitors around to illustrate her point. She motioned at the hallways behind each scientist, all clearly labeled with his or her respective achievement: Relativity Hall. Subaether Court. Gravity Way.
Natch gave a polite nod. The Surinas' inane tourist attractions did not interest him, not when he had to figure out the mystery of this towering figure with the blonde ponytail. The man stayed half a dozen paces behind them like a bodyguard might, and gestured to the sentries lurking at every corner using a hand weighed down with an excessive number of gold rings. But if he were part of the security staff, wouldn't he be wearing the standard green-and-blue Surina livery instead of loose tan breeches and an open-necked shirt?
Then the three of them stepped out of the Center for Historic Appreciation into the central courtyard, and Natch caught sight of a thin copper collar suspended around the man's neck. An Islander!
Natch wondered how he could have missed the other signs: the uneven muscles that sprouted from manual labor instead of electronic OCHRE stimulation, the ruddy complexion from too much time in the sun, the small scars running up and down his arms. Certainly, Margaret couldn't be depending on this man for physical protection. What good were those tree trunk-sized arms without bio/logics?
Who was this man and why was he staring so intently at Natch?
The tour continued for most of the next hour. They made their way through the halls of the Gandhi University and saw the room where Sheldon Surina had lectured for most of his life. Natch peered through the windows of the Creed Surina auditorium and saw the pulpits where teachers and minor bodhisattvas preached the gospel of scientific innovation. He received cursory introductions to a few distant cousins of Margaret's who appeared to be the only civilians wandering the halls. After twenty more minutes of this, Natch grew increasingly bored. Either Margaret had not inherited her father's fabled magnetism, or she was storing up her energy for more important performances.
The Islander, too, appeared to have lost interest in Margaret's spiel. Every time Natch turned around, he found the big man staring at him with two brawny arms tucked in his pockets like siloed missiles. The stare contained neither malice nor menace. If Natch had to choose a word to describe his attitude, it would be skeptical.
A thought occurred to him. Was this whole lap around the Surina compound just an excuse for the Islander to check him out?
As they made their way back to the Center for Historic Appreciation, Natch decided to subject the Islander to a test of his own. He focused all his attention on the Revelation Spire-as the tall protruding spike atop the Surina residence was called-and then pretended to lose his footing. The fiefcorp master would have bet his weight in gold that he would have crashed into Margaret before the Islander could stop him. But in the space of a heartbeat, the Islander lashed out from his rearguard position and gripped Natch firmly at the base of his ribcage. The entrepreneur could feel the rings on the big man's fingers digging into his flesh.
Natch met the Islander's stare, and for a split-second he could see straight through the man's defenses. He saw a look of concern for Margaret's safety that went far beyond any expression a bodyguard would have displayed. This is personal for him, thought Natch. This man is no mercenary.
The husky Islander set Natch back on his feet as he would a toy soldier. For the first time, Natch noticed that the man was about the same age as Margaret. The Islander let a sly grin creep into his countenance. He saw right through Natch's ploy, but instead of being angry, he seemed to appreciate Natch's resourcefulness.
Margaret did not even notice the interruption. The two men exchanged no words as they followed her into the Center for Historic Appreciation and back to the library room, now decorated with a single functional dining table.
Natch made awkward small talk with Margaret as they grazed on authentic Indian cuisine. Curry and cumin danced on the end of his tongue, and he soon found himself settling into a mellow post-vindaloo stupor. Natch was ready to concede to Vigal that his suspicions had been unfounded, that Margaret really just wanted his participation in this upcoming 400th birthday celebration for Sheldon Surina. The Islander popped in and out of the room several times, eating nothing. Natch was no closer to figuring out the man's place in Margaret's retinue, but this was a mystery he could solve another time. For now, Natch wanted desperately to draw the dinner to a close and get back to Shenandoah, where his bio/logic programming bars were waiting.
And then, after the dishes quietly slid into a compartment in a back wall, Margaret leaned forward and pressed her fingertips together. 'You are probably wondering why I invited you here,' she said.
Natch nodded.
'You are here,' said Margaret, 'because Len Borda is planning to have me killed next week.'
The atmosphere became deathly quiet as Natch tried to think of something pertinent to say. Margaret's eyes suddenly glared at him like spotlights. The Islander stood by the door with the intensity of a coiled snake, looking as if he might pounce at any moment. That explains why all those guards are roaming around with itchy trigger fingers.
'So the Defense and Wellness Council is trying to kill you,' said Natch, affecting nonchalance. 'What does that have to do with me?'
Margaret drummed her fingers together. 'Sheldon Surina used to say that we are all connected in a fundamental-'
'Don't patronize me,' Natch snapped. The bodhisattva gave an exaggerated blink of shock, and couldn't resist a sidelong glance at the equally perplexed Islander standing in the doorway. Natch pressed on. 'So Len Borda is going to kill you. That's wonderful. Why should I care? If you're so worried, go send a message to Sen Sivv Sor or John Ridglee. I'm sure they'd love to spread the news all over the Data Sea. But me-I've got a business to think about. I don't have time for politics.'
Margaret's face toyed momentarily with outrage, ventured into amusement, and finally settled on weary fortitude. She laid her palms flat on the table and leaned forward. 'They tell me that the only things you care about are money and power,' she said. 'Well then ... let me translate this into language you can understand. I am about to present you with an opportunity for more money and more power than you can possibly imagine. Number one on Primo's is a child's fantasy by comparison. You can either hear me out, or leave now and go back to fighting for scraps on Primo's. It is your choice.'
Natch could have chosen to be insulted at the way this woman had casually belittled everything he had fought for since the Shortest Initiation. Sharp retorts hovered on the tip of his tongue. But then Natch remembered how easily he had fallen for the bait that the capitalman Figaro Fl had laid out for him all those years ago. I won't be manipulated, he repeated to himself over and over like a mantra. Natch looked at the Islander, who stood, amused, struggling to suppress his laughter. He knew, at least, that Natch had proven his point: Margaret's wealth and pedigree would not intimidate him. So instead of shouting, the fiefcorp master activated a relaxation program called OceanBreez 38 and waited a few seconds for the bio/logic code to suffuse his body with calm.
