It was late afternoon when the follow-up call came from the gem broker.
‘The Tripsinger was lookin’ for a woman named Vivian Terree. She had a kid, a baby. You want ’em?’
‘Find out where they are. Find out if they’re planning to leave Splash One. Let me know.’
There were other calls, back and forth, as the Spider tugged on other webs and the information flowed in, culminating in a final call to Harward Justin.
‘The Explorer synthesizer that Donatella Furz reported missing seems to have ended up in Tasmin Ferrence’s possession.’
‘A Tripsinger?’
‘He had an Explorer model, green, two handled, with a threefold panel. At least he had it when he turned up in Splash One. I don’t know where it is now.’
Harward made note of this, along with the fact that the Tripsinger had been looking for a specific woman and child. Then he sat, putting all the information together.
Donatella Furz had had an Explorer box with a special translator insert. That box was now in the possession of a Tripsinger from Deepsoil Five. Lim Terree had died near Deepsoil Five. Tasmin had come hunting for Terree’s wife and baby. Tasmin had shown up, armed, in time to help Donatella Furz escape a very well laid trap.
Connections. Nine times out of ten, it was safest to assume complicity whenever there were connections.
The time was growing close, very close. He could conceive of only one source of threat to his plans. Not the Explorers. They were under control. The Tripsingers, however, could be trouble. So far, there was only this one man – Tasmin Ferrence. Just one. If there were more….
Anything Justin did would have to be done at once. He had trusted to underlings too many times already. And so had Spider Geroan.
Besides, there was all that money on Serendipity.
He summoned a trusted secretary. ‘Get hold of Chantiforth Bins and make an appointment for him to see me early tomorrow morning. Then call Spider Geroan and ask him to be here at the same time.’
His last call of the night was to the satellite surveillance teams. By morning, he would know almost precisely where Don Furz and her new friends were to be found.
12
In Deepsoil Five, Thalia Ferrence had adapted reasonably well to the presence of her sister, Betuny, who had arrived from Harmony with scant possessions. Since her arrival, however, Thalia had acquired the habit of strolling off several times during the day and almost always at dusk to the low wall that separated the shrubby garden of her house from a narrow roadway and the brou fields beyond. When she had been much alone, she had ached for company. Now that her sister had come to keep her company, she ached to be alone. Betuny was all right. She cooked well enough, old recipes from their childhood that Thalia relished as much for the nostalgia they evoked as for their slightly disappointing flavor. Betuny maintained the house well, too, being scrupulous about keeping each thing in an accustomed location so that Thalia would not stumble or fall over unexpected barriers.
But Betuny chattered, commenting endlessly on everything, and Thalia found herself wearying of her sister’s voice, wanting nothing, neither food nor a neat house nor company, so much as silence. Betuny had a theory about Lim’s death. Betuny thought she understood Celcy’s character. Betuny considered it wicked of Tasmin to have gone off like that. Betuny philosophized about the Presences. Betuny knew a way to raise the money to have Thalia’s eyes fixed – every day a new commentary or a new plan, each more fly-brained than the last, each day the same voice, going on and on and on.
So, Thalia had announced her need of a few moments’ meditation from time to time, flavoring the announcement with a spice of religious fervor, and Betuny had manners enough to accept that, albeit reluctantly, though she could not really respect it. She had, however, gone so far as to drag out an old chair and put it in the corner of the wall where Thalia could find it easily. Thalia could sit there for an hour at a time, musing, her head on her folded arms atop the low barricade, listening to the soft sounds of doors opening and closing, women calling children in to supper or to bed, the shushing pass of quiet-cars, and more often than not a chorus of viggies sounding much closer than she remembered hearing them when she could see.
There were few loud or aggressive sounds, and the voice that accosted her from across the wall one evening came as a shock even though she had heard the slow gravelly crunch of feet approaching down the road.
‘Are you Thalia Ferrence?’
She nodded, uncertain. It was a cold hard voice, not one she recognized, and she was very good at recognizing voices.
‘Tasmin Ferrence’s mother?’
She nodded again, paralyzed with fear. Had something happened to Tasmin? She started to ask, but the voice went on relentlessly.
‘Are you blind?’
She bridled. ‘That’s not a nice thing….’
‘Never mind. I see you are, lucky for you. You have a daughter-in-law? A grandchild?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘My daughter-in-law is dead. And the baby she was carrying.’
‘Not Tasmin’s wife. The other one. The one who changed his name. Lim’s wife.’
She could hardly speak in her eagerness, her joy, her disbelief. ‘Lim had a wife? A child?’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘No. I didn’t know. Where are they?’
There was a snort, more of annoyance than amusement. ‘That’s what I was going to ask you.’ Then the crunch of retreating feet.
‘Wait,’ she cried. ‘Wait! Who are you? How do you know?’
No answer. Nothing but the usual soft sounds, the far-off chorusing of viggies. She rose to feel her way along the path and into the house. She was, after all, the widow of a Tripsinger and the mother of another. There were certain courtesies that the citadel ought to be able to provide. After considering carefully what she would ask – no, demand! – she
