By work shift the next day Great-Uncle Rathmen has surfaced in Gunalaht—“perched like a vulture over his bank accounts,” as Constantine remarks. Constantine is on his way to a cabinet meeting and Aiah walks along beside him, moving fast to keep up with his long strides.
“I’ve received Sorya’s report,” he says, “concerning the duty officer who sabotaged the airlock mechanism and propped the doors open to allow a thread of plasm to enter. And the other guards on watch obeyed his orders to keep the doors open, even though they must have known how dangerous it was.”
“Timing was crucial,” Aiah says. “You can’t leave a plasm sourceline just sitting there in a prison for hours. This must have been prearranged, and in detail.”
“By Rathmen’s lawyer, we presume, as well as the duty officer.” A wry smile touches Constantine’s lips. “The duty officer cannot be found, and is presumably either at the bottom of the Sea of Caraqui or sitting next to Rathmen atop a new bank account in Gunalaht. And the lawyer, we are told, is ‘unavailable’—a good idea, since under martial law we could confine him to Rathmen’s old cell and search his mind for evidence of guilt.” He gives a sigh. “And no one will believe this was not by prearrangement of the government. No one.”
Aiah looks at him. “Was it?”
He stops dead in the corridor, and a thoughtful frown creases his brow. “Who?” he wonders. “Who would do such a thing?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. Rathmen’s interrogations were almost complete. We have enough to blackmail him into cooperation fifty times over. Free, he could be of use passing information on to, say, one of our intelligence organizations.”
She does not want to mention Sorya by name, but she found it odd that Sorya should personally want to control the investigation into what after all was merely a prison breakout.
Constantine considers this for a moment, calculation visible behind his eyes. “I do not find your theory entirely persuasive,” he says, “but I will explore the possibilities. And I think…” He pauses for a moment. “Rathmen is condemned to death,” he says finally. His expression turns hard. “Perhaps the sentence should be carried out regardless of his current location. It would do much to correct any erroneous impressions this escape may have created.”
Aiah thinks about this. “Dangerous,” she says.
“Taikoen,” Constantine says. The single word, spoken softly in Constantine’s resonant voice, seems to vibrate in the air for a long time. Aiah feels a palp of cold horror touch her neck.
“No,” she says instantly; and then, because she has to justify this instinct, says “No” again. “Too dangerous,” she adds. “It would be remarked. We don’t want Taikoen known, or even rumored.”
He gives her an equivocal look. “I would not in any case order such an extraordinary sanction on my own authority… Drumbeth, at least, will have to concur, though I will not tell him the means.” He smiles. “I am a
Amusement tickles Aiah’s backbrain.
Constantine probably repeats these words, like a prayer, every day.
THIRD RECORD-BREAKING MONTH!
“We in Caraqui are uniquely suited to test your theories,” Constantine says. “May I light your cigaret?”
“Don’t bother,” Rohder says, and lights his new cigaret off the old.
Constantine is all charm, all attention. His manner suggests that Rohder is the most important, most fascinating thing in the world.
Rohder seems oblivious. A splendid meal has been laid on in the Kestrel Room, not a single thing grown in a vat, and Rohder eats a few bites and pushes it away. Fine wines and brandies are rolled out, and Rohder asks for coffee. By way of showing his familiarity with Rohder’s achievements, Constantine offers endless compliments on
Constantine puts his lighter back in his pocket, calculation glowing in his eyes. He hasn’t given up yet.
Aiah sits between them at the table, nibbling her food and watching this contest of champions. She knows Constantine’s charm—she has had this intensity turned on her, and knows how difficult it is to resist.
Indeed, she reflects, she had
Her onetime boss sits in his cloud of smoke, oblivious not only to Constantine’s attentions but to the glorious view from the outcurving windows. Rohder’s gray suit manages somehow to be both expensive and ill-fitting. His lace is dotted with ash and cigaret burns. His three-hundred-year-old skin, though crisscrossed with a network of fine lines, is pink and ruddy with health, and he peers vaguely at the world from watery blue eyes.
“Caraqui’s infrastructure,” Constantine continues, “is suited to constant experimentation with plasm- generating distance relationships. Over eighty-five percent of the metropolis is built over water, on big barges or pontoons. This has formerly been considered a disadvantage as regards plasm generation, because we can’t build as tall as other districts. Less mass, less plasm.”
“I noticed from the aerocar that the buildings seemed small,” Rohder says.
“The barges are strung together with cables, or with bridges that, generally speaking, are to one extent or another engineered with a certain degree of flexibility in their spans.”
A light snaps on in Rohder’s eyes as if someone has just thrown a switch. For the first time he seems aware, his mind focused on his environment.
“You can alter the relationships between the barges?” he asks.
Aiah recognizes the hint of a smile that touches, feather-light, the corner of Constantine’s mouth. The smile that says, at last, at last, he has found his way.
“Yes,” Constantine purrs. “Absolutely. Imagine what you could do in Jaspeer if you could move entire city blocks around to find the proper geomantic relationships. Well,” and the smile rises full, white incisors gleaming, “well, here it is possible.”
Rohder’s look is intent. “What is my part in all this? Can’t you do this yourself?”
“I am Minister of Resources,” Constantine says, “which in our local political cant means plasm. Resources I have, but not all those I would wish, and my greatest need is for minds. Minds such as yours do not come along every day.”
“I do not think,” Rohder says, “that quite answers my question.”
“I will create a new department within Miss Aiah’s division,” Constantine says. “I think I have enough credit with the triumvirate to be able to do that, particularly when I explain how, and to what degree, our nation may be enriched by such an action. You will be the head of it, though unless you have some strange, unfulfilled desire to be involved with personnel matters, funding, and so on, I will make an effort to find some sympathetic deputy, agreeable to you, to take that business off your hands.” He leans forward and looks close into Rohder’s eyes, searching for understanding.
“I want you to devote yourself to working your theories out in practice. I will provide you with all necessary support, with aerial surveys and as much computer time as you deem necessary.”
Rohder draws on his cigaret as he absorbs this, and lets the cigaret dance in the corner of his mouth as he replies.
“And what do you plan to do with this plasm if I can generate it for you?”
“Ah…” A laugh rolls out of Constantine’s massive chest. “That is the critical question, isn’t it?” He leans even closer, lowers his voice in intimacy. “If it’s made available to other departments, then it will simply be diverted into fulfilling the other ministers’ agendas. I wish to preserve any plasm generated by your theories for other work— other
Rohder absorbs the word
“Have you read my book
“Are you familiar with Havilak’s Freestanding Hermetic Transformations?”
“Yes.” Rohder nods. “Improving the plasm-generating efficiency of structures that already exist by altering their internal structures through magework. It’s an old idea, far older than Havilak.”
“Of course.” Conceded with a smile. “That part of my work is just a popularization.”
