They grew light again as the machine slowed and turned onto a short spiral ramp that led down into a pool of cool light. It diffused from the flat ceiling and the pale, ice-green walls, glowed in the business plaques that were projected at ten-meter intervals along the corridor. The windscreens faded, more quickly than they’d gone dark, and Heikki caught her breath. Heikki/Santerese did not generally deal with the top-rank corporations; this was a class above what she knew.
The corridor widened at last into a wide turnaround, the central island filled with enormous and expensive plantlife. Heikki’s eyebrows rose as she recognized Terran palms and Aliot flowering groundvines among the profusion, and she hastily schooled her face to its most neutral expression. The jitney swung around the island then, and slid to a halt in front of a marble-pillared door. It could be trompe-l’oeil, of course, Heikki thought, as she slid her paycard through the sensor and levered herself out of the cramped compartment, or at least cast stone built up from powders, but somehow she didn’t really believe it. It took an effort of will to keep from tapping the pillar like a yokel as she passed it, to see what it was really made of.
The open lobby was as filled with greenery as the island, and surprisingly crowded, though the clustered plants did much to absorb the sounds of conversation. Heikki allowed herself a single slow glance, her eyes sweeping across the room, then started toward the central podium. Most of the people were of the secretarial classes, data clerks and system monitors, marked by their too-fashionable clothes and the badges that clasped their collars. There were a few executives, however, the richness of their impeccably tailored coats and trousers visible even at a distance, and a single programmer stared disgustedly into his data lens, his face turned deliberately and offensively into the high side of his collar.
The young woman seated behind the podium’s triple keyboard looked up sleepily at Heikki’s approach, heavy lids lifting slightly to reveal slit pupils. The cat’s-eye lenses, Heikki knew, were a recent fashion.
“Can I help you?”
Heikki returned the lazy stare, lifting an eyebrow at the lack of title. “My name’s Heikki. There should be someone meeting me.”
At the sound of her voice, pitched a little too loud for ‘pointer convention, she saw several of the lounging figures straighten, heads turning into their collars. Corporate touts, all of them, she thought, and allowed her lip to curl in open contempt, set to wait and watch in the entrance lobby, ready to report any interesting or unusual arrivals to their employers. Well, boys and girls, here I am. Make what you want of it.
“Gwynne Heikki?” The cat-eyed woman’s metallic voice gave no hint of emotion.
Heikki nodded.
“Just a moment.” The woman swung sideways in her chair, and touched keys on a different board. Out of the corner of her eye, Heikki saw a man in a neat, very plain suit straighten abruptly and start toward the podium. As he came closer, she could see the thin wire running along his cheek from the plug in his ear.
“Dam’ Heikki. I’m Pol Sandrig. Director Mikelis sent me to meet you.”
“That was kind of him,” Heikki said, and put out her hand in greeting. Sandrig took it with a deferential little half bow.
“If you’ll follow me?”
“Of course,” Heikki murmured. Sandrig was not quite what she’d expected: the cloth of the suit was much too good for a high-ranking secretary, but a person of higher status should not have been sent on such a menial errand. Of course, Mikelis might be sending him in order to convey a message to his rivals—everyone knew the floor lobbies were full of touts, and staged their meetings accordingly—but that didn’t explain what that message might be. She eyed Sandrig warily as he moved ahead of her through the maze of corridors. No, not a secretary, she thought, and I don’t like not knowing what this may mean.
Sandrig paused in an inner lobby, where another woman sat at a multiboard podium, and said something in a low voice, his mouth half hidden behind his collar. As was polite, Heikki took a half-step backward, making sure she did not hear. The woman—she was older, her face unpainted, and there was a slight bulkiness in the breast of her otherwise perfectly tailored jacket that marked her as a private securitron—nodded, and touched keys. Sandrig glanced over his shoulder then, and smiled.
“Director Mikelis is waiting,” he said. “This way, please.”
Mikelis’s office was a two-room suite in the heart of the office complex, the outer room carpeted and lit in tones that reflected palely from the polished, almost-white wood-grained furniture. Yet another woman sat behind an electronic desk, a second, dark-haired woman in a brocade suit leaning over her shoulder. As the door opened, the dark-haired woman straightened, frowning, and Sandrig said quickly, “This is Gwynne Heikki, Electra.”
“Ah. Good.”
The woman at the desk touched a button, cooing into her filament mike, “Ser Sandrig and Dam’ Heikki are here, Director.”
The inner door slid back instantly, and a voice from the desk speaker said, “Come in, please.”
Sandrig gestured politely, and Heikki stepped into the inner office. To her surprise, both Sandrig and the dark-haired woman followed her, the latter still frowning moodily.
Mikelis’s office was almost aggressively plain, the lighting frankly artificial, curtains drawn across the media wall, the plain desk littered with printouts and a crooked stack of datasquares. Mikelis himself was equally plain, a stocky, grey-eyed man in a dark suit trimmed at collar and cuffs with nailhead opals. He rose politely at their entrance, but his eyes were still on the workboard lying on the desk.
“Dam’ Heikki, I’m glad to meet you. I’m Rurik Mikelis, If you wouldn’t mind waiting just a moment—”
“Of course not,” Heikki said, and took the seat she had not been offered. To her surprise, none of the ‘pointers seemed offended by the gesture—Mikelis, in fact, looked almost relieved. He stooped over his board for a moment longer, fingers busy on a hand-held shadowscreen, then flipped off the workboard. He reseated himself behind the desk then, sweeping papers and datasquares indiscriminately aside.
“Thank you for inquiring about the bid, Dam’ Heikki,” he said, “and for being willing to give us a consultation. You’ve met Pol Sandrig, my research liaison, and this is Electra FitzGilbert, director of operations.”
The dark-haired woman gave a curt nod. Heikki smiled back, deliberately overpolite, and murmured, “Delighted to meet you.” Behind the platitude, however, her mind was searching. Director of operations: she would be the person responsible for the lost ship, while Sandrig was at least partly responsible for its cargo. An interesting combination, she thought, and folded her hands neatly in her lap.
“I understand from Dam’ Santerese that you’re generally familiar with the course of events,” Mikelis went on. “Before we go into any more detail, however, I would have to ask you to sign a bond of silence.”
“Of course,” Heikki answered. “And while I’m looking at your terms, perhaps you’d like to look at our rough-estimate bid? Based of course on the first information we have.”
“Yes, thank you.” Mikelis slid a viewboard across the table, the screen lighting at his touch. Heikki fished the correct datasquare from her belt and laid it on the desk, then turned her attention to the viewboard. The lens setting blinked in the upper corner; she slipped her data lens from her belt, adjusted the bezel until the numbers matched, then squinted through the lens. Letters sprang to life on the screen: it was a standard form, pledging her to silence regarding the subjects discussed at this meeting—time, date, and place were specified in excruciating detail—for a year and a day, and named a heavy fine for breaking the agreement. She nodded, and reached for the stylus clipped to the board.
“This seems reasonable,” she said aloud, and scrawled name and verification code at the bottom of the form.
“Excellent,” Mikelis said, and even FitzGilbert looked a little less thunderous. “So, to business, then. As you know from the various reports, we lost a latac—an LTA—over the back country, on what should have been a routine flight from Retego Bay to Lowlands. Under normal circumstances, we’d expect to have a record of the course from the automatic locators, or at least to be able to home in on the beacon after the craft went down. The locators failed in-flight, and the beacon did not function. The latac was carrying a new crystal matrix, which was potentially extremely valuable. But I should let Electra tell you about the latac, first.”
What, no mention of Foursquare even now? Heikki thought. She looked at FitzGilbert, who grimaced.
“The crew has not walked out, which, coupled with the mechanical failures, begins to look like sabotage to me. Mik tells me you lived on Iadara—then you know what the set-up is.”
Heikki nodded, suppressing her impatience. Mikelis —or one of his underlings—would have gone through her records as a matter of course; the point hardly seemed worth making. When something more seemed to be expected of her, she said, “There’s triple redundancy in the locators, or there was thirty years ago, and the crash
