Suddenly the door slid open with a pneumatic hiss. The pilot, his face lined and elderly, which seemed perfect for his spotted gray coloring, led the way, clipboard in hand, and, behind, she saw the massive load- master. Both were apparently talking, and it was a few seconds before she realized that they were talking not to one another but to a third party almost hidden between them.
Mavra’s first thought was that Korf was too tall; almost 170 centimeters, wearing a curious porkpie hat from under which massive folds of gray-white hair drooped and mixed with a full beard of similar color. Only the eyes and the nose were visible, and the rabbi’s general build was obscured by a heavy black coat that reached his knees. If appearances were worth anything, he was twenty kilos too heavy and a century too old.
The voice, too, was unpleasant; very high-pitched and nasal, quite unlike the low tenor Mavra remembered of Nathan Brazil. Her heart sank; this, certainly was not the man they were after. She glanced surreptitiously over her forms and tried to find any of the qualities of that funny little man she’d known as a child—some of the warmth, the gentleness, anything.
That’s it, she decided, crestfallen. We’ve blown it. All that work and we’ve blown it. She looked over at her crewmen and saw the same emotions mirrored in their expressions. One gestured slightly with his head toward the door and she nodded almost imperceptibly. They walked toward the door, hooves clattering on the hard, smooth plastine surface, walking right past the two Rhone and Rabbi Korf as they wrangled over the bill of lading.
“The maize, then, is in two-hundred-ton containers ready for gripping?” the loadmaster’s deep bass was asking.
Korf nodded and pointed. “Yes. Shouldn’t take but two, three hours to get that section. It’s the building supplies that—”
At that moment, her mind now far from this place, Mavra had not made allowances for bureaucracies that wax floors and she stumbled slightly. Korf and the two Rhone looked up.
The rabbi, seeing she was all right, turned back to the papers then did a double-take, head shooting back up to stare at her. Embarrassed, Mavra barely noticed the movement but something in the corner of her eye told her that she had attracted more than usual attention. She stopped, carefully, just short of the door and half-turned her human torso to look at the human; for an instant their eyes met, and something in those eyes and that expression caused a chill to go through her.
Her crewmen, oblivious to what was happening, were already outside before they noticed her absence.
Mavra’s rational mind told her that the strange man was more likely Father Frost than Nathan Brazil, but something in his reaction and her gut feelings said otherwise. No human would look at a Rhone woman that way, no human except one who might not be.
“I’m sorry if I interrupted you with my clumsiness,” she said smoothly, trying to control herself. “My associates and I had been waiting to see the captain of the ship that just came in, but you must be he and I see that you’ll be tied up for some time.” She looked shyly nervous. “I—I’m afraid I’m not used to business yet.”
The captain recovered quickly, although he still kept staring at her with that odd look in his eye. “I am the captain, Madam Citizen. What did you wish of me?”
“My father is in the import-export business. He and his associates are attending a conference at Hsuir where they just completed a big transaction. They asked me to find out what ships were coming in and might be—is deadheading the correct term?—well, leaving empty. I’m not really involved in the business, you understand, but with everybody at the convention I’m the only one they could call.” She sounded so sincere that she almost believed the lie herself. “But I see I’ve come too early.”
The captain nodded. “I’m afraid so. This stuff will take hours, and I wish to have a real bath and sleep soft and long tonight to put myself on your time. I
She smiled sweetly and nodded. “Of course. Where are you staying? I will call you there. I know your name and ship from the listings.”
“At the Pioneer. The only place here with rooms that also have individual kitchens—I have special dietary requirements.”
She nodded. “I’ll call—not too early,” she promised.
“What did you say your company’s name was?” he came back. “And yours, in case things clear up earlier?”
“Tourifreet, in your pronunciation,” she answered glibly. “It is the Durkh Shipping Corporation—the number is listed.” Again the smile. “We’ll talk tomorrow, then,” she added and walked out, leaving him staring at the door closing behind her.
“You’re sure it’s him?” Marquoz grumbled. “The boys don’t seem to think so.”
Mavra nodded. “I’m as sure as I can be. Our little mimic trick worked. He knows who I look like, all right— there’s nothing wrong with his memory. It was like he’d been hit with a stun bomb. You could see it in his eyes, the war between his mind, which told him that this just had to be an amazing coincidence, and that emotional backwash that was winning control.”
One of the crewmen who had been there said, “I still think you’re nuts. He’s too tall, too broad—nothing at all like the descriptions of Brazil.”
She smiled slightly. “He wore well-made thick boots, I noticed, very much like those I normally wear when I have feet instead of hooves. With that long coat he has on to further disguise things he could have been on stilts for all we know, certainly lifts high enough to give him a dozen centimeters of lift. He had the old man’s walk, which would further discourage things—and he’s had a long time to practice, too. The coat is padded, who knows with what, to make him broader. Even the dark gloves poking out of those oversize sleeves obviously came from arms too thin and too short for that body. The beard’s good, but I’ve seen good false beards before. And the hat helps. No, it’s him, all right. I’d bet my life on it.”
“Don’t you think it was a bit risky just to let him go like that?” the Olympian leader asked Mavra. “We have no idea that he wasn’t put off by your appearance so he would suspect a trap.”
“I seriously doubt he suspects a trap, but he’ll check anyway. There really
“And if you’ve made a mistake somewhere?” the Olympian pressed.
Mavra chuckled, reached into her coat, and pulled out a small transceiver. She switched it on and a tiny red light glowed. “Halka? How’s our man doing?” she asked into it.
“He cleared port about an hour ago, Mavra,” came a tinny response. “Went immediately to the Pioneer with one large bag. Went straight to his room, four-oh-four A, and hasn’t been out since, nor has anyone else gone in.”
She composed a knowing smile to the Olympian, a smile caressed with confidence and frost. “Satisfied? We’ll be on him every step of the way now. Borsa will even have his hotel line tapped in short order. We’ve got him.”
The Olympian remained skeptical. “If he is in fact Nathan Brazil, I wonder?…”
“Well,
Room 404-A, the Hotel Pioneer
As soon as he entered his room and locked the door, the man who called himself Captain David Korf checked the room for bugs. Satisfied, he sat on the comfortable bed in the hotel room, one designed to resemble first-class accommodations in the human part of the Com, and tried to think.
Somebody was on to him, he knew that much. Somebody who knew a lot about him, somebody who had baited their trap so that it would be irresistible to him. They had only really slipped once, in the shadows, which
