Since then it had remained a mystery. Someone had tried to kill her. She didn’t know who, and she wasn’t sure why. Not a torture killing like Gretl’s; nothing weird about it; just a straightforward attempt at murder!
A Crystallite assassin? That’s why Explorers studied self-defense, after all, because of the threat posed by fanatics. It could have been. In which case, the intended victim might not have been Don Furz particularly, but simply any Explorer. However, Crystallite assassins were said to scream religious slogans during attacks. Certainly they had done so during the Jut Massacre and in several other assassinations since. This person, male or female, had been silent.
Was it someone who knew what Don had found out? One of those twenty the Explorer King had mentioned? Then how had he or she found out? What did they know?
Was it someone from BDL?
What would her trusted friend think about it? She had been unable to pass the word along until yesterday.
Now she realized the doctor was looking at her oddly, obviously wondering at her long preoccupation. ‘I was just trying to figure out some way to have the scar removed now,’ she said to explain her abstraction. ‘But it can’t be done. There just isn’t time. Other than the scar, how am I?’
‘You’re thirty-three years old, in perfect health, in beautiful shape, with no evidence of any disease whatsoever. You’ve got the muscles of a stevedore and the reaction time of a prime jetball ace. What else can I tell you? Here’s a copy of the report. The duplicate will be placed in your record.’ He cocked his head and looked at her quizzically.
Don grinned. No matter how often she told herself it was foolish, she always approached the annual medical exam with the suspicion it would find her in some lingering illness. Each time, the report relieved her anxiety, and she took the copy now with a sense of reprieve.
She called Fyne Blanchet from a booth in the lobby of the medical building.
‘I made a lunch date for you with your elderly relative,’ he said. ‘She’s a little hard of hearing, so I hope she got it straight.’
‘When and where, Blanchet?’
‘Thirteen hundred at the Fish House on Bayside Street. She told me, among many other things, that she doesn’t eat red meat.’
‘Who can afford red meat? I can’t.’ Pasture land was strictly limited on Jubal, and red meat was the epitome of luxury. Fowl was more usual. Fish, more common yet.
‘I’m waiting for a call back from your niece, and Link Emert would love to have cocktails with you after work. He says seventeen hundred at the ’Ling Lounge, just down the block from his office.’
‘Fine. I’ll check back with you after lunch.’
Lunch at the Fish House was as predictable as any meal with Cyndal. Close inspection of the menu to determine whether there was anything on it she could not eat. Each such item read aloud. Querulous inquiry into the morals of anyone who would eat said item. Further finicky attention given to ordering copiously from among items that she could eat. And, finally, greedy consumption of said items, right down to the polish on the plate, while discoursing upon the flavor of every mouthful.
If anyone had an ear trained on Cyndal, Don hoped they enjoyed the experience.
‘Very nice, Donatella. Very generous of you. What do you hear from your dear mother?’
‘Just the usual, Cousin Cyndal. She’s still greatly involved with the local gardening group there in Deepsoil Twelve. She asked to be remembered to you.’
‘Such a lovely woman, your mother.’
Donatella, who had quite another view of her parent, smiled and said nothing. When she left the restaurant, the waiter came running after her with her bag, which she, as usual, had forgotten.
‘Blanchet? Did you get hold of Fabian?’
‘Dinner tonight or breakfast tomorrow, whichever you prefer.’
‘Oh, make it dinner tonight. Then I’ll have the morning to sleep in and luxuriate before starting back to Northwest. Tell her – tell her to pick a place and I’ll meet her there at twenty hundred. I’m going to do some shopping before I meet Link Emert. Thanks, Blanchet.’
When she arrived at the ’Ling Lounge, she found Link already ensconced behind a table, his mobile chair hidden by it. Link usually arrived early in order to make his disability less apparent.
‘Donatella!’ He half rose, pushing up with his arms to give the appearance of someone with legs that worked, then seated himself again to reach out for her hand. She did not lean down to kiss him. He had been very explicit about the pain that caused him, so she didn’t do it. Also, her hair was flattened and drawn back severely and she was wearing a not very becoming suit that made her legs and torso shapeless.
‘I don’t want to want you anymore,’ he had said to her once, the words hissing out between clenched teeth. ‘Don’t you understand, Don! It hurts to want you. It hurts to want anything!’
So, she looked as unwantable as possible, within the bounds of what might be acceptable in a place with the effrontery to call itself the ’Ling Lounge. Predictably, it was decorated with phoney ’lings, plastic crystals that reached from floor to ceiling. Variations on Tripsinger themes pounded from speakers. ‘Interesting place,’ she said, gesturing with disdain. ‘How long has this been here?’
‘Oh, less than a year. It’s an appalling tourist trap, plain and simple, but the drinks are good.’
Tourists! Lord. That’s a word I’d read about but never thought to hear in Jubal, Link. Tourists!’
‘More of them all the time, Don. There’s even some guy down in Bay City who advertises interior trips for tourists, with Tripsingers and the whole score.’
‘He’s out of his mind!’
‘No. He takes them out by the Deadheads, sings them through with some mish mash, then gives them a look at the Crazies, “accidentally” blows up a Crazeling or two, and brings the tourists back all agog. They think they’ve been in peril.’
‘And he
