Pettridge looked almost defiant.
Van laughed. “Actually, Mr. Pettridge, from what I have already seen, you’ve been very resourceful, and very industrious.” Not to mention honorable, Van reflected. “I don’t have as much time as I would like. So why don’t you take me through each of the clients quickly, and give me a quick report?”
“Yes, ser.” Pettridge cleared his throat, then called up the Weathe Mercantile account. “DIS was here on Weathe before the ink was dry on the economic security regulations. They’ve had—DIS, I mean—terrible cash flow problems, and they’ve been looking for smaller multis with cash potential all over the Republic…”
Van listened for almost two hours. His own cross-checking through the records convinced him that Pettridge had been both honest and effective.
“…so, even with all the troubles, we’ve managed to generate revenues around seventy percent of the previous year, and that doesn’t count the cash from the Ensign acquisition. That, I feel, is a solid effort in difficult times…”
More like miraculous, Van thought. “Mr. Pettridge. You’ve behaved honorably and well. Unlike some. For that, you’ll be recognized and rewarded. Director Desoll and I will do our best to see to that.”
“I’ve done what I thought best, ser.”
“You’ve done well,” Van said. “Very well.”
“Thank you.”
“We need to handle one other matter.” Van accessed the office systems, which had far greater scope than anything available to the Joyau through the orbit station, and put in an inquiry for Commander James Baile, RSF. The response was near-instantaneous. There were only two references.
Van read the first, then the second, frowning.
“What is it?” asked Pettridge.
Van had the office systems print both even as he reread the second article once more.
James P. Baile, Commander, RSF. 14 Quatre 1131 N.E.
James P. Baile died suddenly of natural causes while on home leave between RSF assignments…survived by Merilee Watkins, former wife, and three children…
Both articles had the same date, and that date was one month before the Fergus had been transferred to Scandya.
Van studied the accompanying holo of the late commander. So far as he could recall, the man was the same, except Baile looked older in the holo image than he had in relieving Van.
Abruptly, Van understood the meaning of his nightmare.
He rose quickly, then stopped. He couldn’t catch the up-shuttle to orbit control any sooner.
“What’s the matter?” asked Pettridge.
“It’s something involving another project,” Van replied. “I never thought it would come up here, but it’s something I’ll have to deal with much sooner than I’d ever thought.” He tried to offer a smile that didn’t appear forced. “You’ve done a praiseworthy job here under very difficult conditions, and I will make sure the managing director knows this. Thank you very much.”
Van paused. He had transfer access, even on Weathe. “Just a moment.” He went to the office systems once more, accessing Cambrian Holdings, and making the transaction. “You’ll find that there’s an immediate fifty-thousand-credit bonus in your account. Until we see where everything is going, I can’t promise more, although I will recommend more. But you deserve immediate recognition for honesty and hard work.”
For a moment, Pettridge just stood there.
“Go ahead, you can check it, if you don’t believe me.”
Hesitantly, Pettridge accessed his account. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to. We appreciate your work.” Van stood. “Keep doing the best you can. That’s all we can ask.”
Pettridge smiled, broadly.
“What about your assistant?” Van asked.
“Annabel? She works very hard.”
“Say…five thousand?” Van asked.
“She would be pleased.”
“Tell her that we took your recommendation for her bonus.” Van made the second transfer, then picked up his case and opened the office door.
Back in the front office, he turned to Pettridge. “Thank you very much. I appreciate your willingness to come in on such short notice. As I said before, you’ve done an excellent job under difficult conditions.” He looked at the assistant. “Good day, Annabel. Keep up the good work.”
The woman smiled, but Van could sense the puzzlement behind the professional expression.
Once outside the building and out in the late afternoon sunlight, Van accessed the publicnet and called for a groundcar. He waited less than three minutes before a green groundcar appeared. He slipped into the car.
“Where to?” asked the woman driving.
“Is there a good restaurant near the shuttle terminal?”
“Alkady’s isn’t bad.”
“We’ll try it.”
“Alkady’s it is.”
As the driver eased away from the building, Van noted a dark gray vehicle pull out, but it dropped back, then turned. Was he becoming paranoid, looking at every shadow?
Alkady’s had a green-and-white-striped awning, covering outside tables that were not being used in the coolish fall evening. That was one aspect of interstellar travel that had always fascinated Van—that he could go from summer to winter or spring in days.
The host escorted him to an inside booth, paneled in dark-varnished rough wood. There, Van studied the menu, quickly, and was ready when the server appeared.
“What’s the best meal you have that isn’t fish?” Van asked.
“The golden pheasant,” replied the server.
“I’ll have it, with a pale ale.”
“O’Reilly’s all right?”
“Fine.” Van had never heard of O’Reilly’s, but he wasn’t a connoisseur, either.
The O’Reilly’s was an undistinguished pale ale, but not objectionable, and he was thirsty, and hungry. The pheasant was better, although he pushed aside much of the fruit compote, and the red potatoes were excellent.
Later, when Van stepped from Alkady’s into the twilight, he glanced around. Parked down the side street was a dark gray groundcar. He wasn’t certain, but he thought it was the same one.
Quickly, he stepped back into the restaurant, where he motioned to the host.
“Is there a tube train that goes from
