notification that Acting Commissioner Orendal had logged a ‘request and require’ order instructing any and all College personnel to assist Field Op Garron in his search for the computer. Attached to it was a symbed note that it might be worth starting in the storeroom where the effects of the late Commissioner Daiho were kept.
Su told Rico to include a sincere-sounding ‘thank you’ with his apology.
‘Guess what?’ said Rico, straightening up from his last pile and wincing as something clicked in his back.
‘What?’ said Su, still going through a pile of her own.
‘It’s not here.’
‘You’re right.’ Su straightened up with him. ‘That item really is not located in the Home Time.’ They stood side by side and gazed at the junk.
‘This computer’s more trouble than it’s worth,’ said Rico. The storeroom was full of the remaining unclaimed worldly goods of the late Commissioner Li Daiho. There wasn’t much, he thought without enthusiasm, and he had better things to do than rummage through the remains of a man’s life. Daiho had been in his seventies and a patrician: he had lived long and well, and this was all that was left. Bits and pieces, odds and ends. But Marje Orendal had been right — if the field computer, College property, was still in Daiho’s possession at the time of death, this was where it would be.
‘So what’s the big deal about it, anyway?’ Su said.
Before he could answer she added: ‘I think we’ve taken long enough.’
‘No, wouldn’t want the Supervisor to complain about us wasting College time.’ Rico grinned at the thought of Supervisor Marlici’s plump, pompous visage quivering yet again with indignation. All that quivering and the man still couldn’t lose weight.
Su groaned suddenly. ‘I can’t believe we’re so stupid.’ She shut her eyes.
‘What are you doing?’ Rico said.
‘Symbing… got it. Have a look.’
Puzzled, Rico symbed in to see what she had found. ‘You can’t look at his personal records!’ he exclaimed.
‘Why not? They count as his property and we’ve got Marje’s permission to go through his property. Let’s see…’ Another pause. ‘None of them mention it,’ she said.
‘They wouldn’t, would they?’ Rico said.
‘I suppose not.’ The whole point of a field computer was that it worked in isolation from the networks of the present; it had to work upstream as well as in the Home Time. ‘None of them were prepared on it, either.’
‘Still,’ Rico said with a grin, ‘it’s compulsive reading.’ He set up a symb search of his own.
‘What are you doing?’ Now it was Su’s turn to be shocked.
‘Reading them anyway. Seeing what they do mention.’
‘Now, that is going too far…’
‘One’s dated after he died.’
‘Junk mail…’ Su was plucking at his sleeve to pull him away.
‘No.’ Rico could see the official seal on it.
Naturally it resisted his attempts to read it and for the sheer thrill he flung Orendal’s authorization at it. It opened. ‘It’s… a statement of account. He’d made a number of personal transferences… and payment has been debited from his account in accordance with instructions previously set up.’
‘Fascinating.’ Su grabbed his arm and led him to the door. ‘The computer’s not here, let’s just accept you’re not going to get it, and stop poking through private correspondence.’
‘You started it.’ Rico couldn’t help making the point with a broad smile. ‘But you’re right. We’ve both got to get ready for the ball.’
Su groaned. ‘Oh, no! I hate balls. And so do you.’
‘I go to observe.’ They were at the door, stepping out of the storeroom. ‘Anyway, you want me to keep out of trouble, and what can go wrong at a ball?’
The door shut behind them.
EIGHT
Union Day! The day the world finally became as one under the World Executive, a composite consensus mind drawn from the governing minds of the ecopoloi. Thousands of years of disunity, war, nationalism, religious differences, all officially done away with, and even if there were still people who would as soon kill each other as look at each other, they could be kept safely apart. So in that regard, planet Earth was united, and it was an achievement worth celebrating.
The College always excelled itself in its choice of venue and this year’s was no different: a plateau on what would one day be the Costa del Sol with a stunning view of the Gibraltar waterfall. Another twenty years and the place would be submerged forever by the rising Mediterranean, but for the time being it was the perfect place for a party. The air was soft and warm and delicately laced with spicy scents drifting in from the Spanish mainland. Soft grass underfoot; carefully planned clusters of trees and bushes around which groups of guests could congregate; a stream, fed by sparkling clear water straight from the Sierra Morena and warmed by the College, in which the more adventurous party-goers could take a dip.
Marje Orendal had chosen a period costume at random from the catalogue. Apparently she was a 1920s New York flapper, though what she was meant to flap she wasn’t sure and the catalogue hadn’t said. As she stepped out of the transference area, she was just glad the venue was warm.
Guests arrived and departed from a terrace that overlooked the proceedings. A page — dressed in powdered white wig, heavy jacket and tight breeches; surely one of history’s less comfortable fashions — took her name at the top of the wide marble steps that led down to the party ground. ‘Acting Commissioner Marje Orendal,’ he declared, and Marje descended into the crowd and headed for the nearest bar.
‘Marje! Good to see you!’ Commissioner Thomas Enrepil, the chubby head of Social Studies, was beaming at her over a glass of something. He was surrounded by a small circle of people who Marje didn’t know. ‘Marje, have you met…’
No, she hadn’t, and she forgot their names with immediate ease, but still she nodded and said ‘hello’ as each one was introduced to her.
‘I was just telling them…’ said Enrepil, and carried on with his anecdote. The words blurred into the background noise and Marje remained with a half smile on her face, which she extended to full strength whenever the others laughed.
‘Commissioner?’
Glad of the excuse to look away, Marje turned. Hossein Asaldra, apparently dressed as a penguin, was standing behind her. She blinked: no, not a penguin, it was… what was the expression… a morning suit, nineteenth or twentieth century. His arm was crooked through the arm of a smiling woman dressed as an armoured trooper, Five Bomb War era. The helmet and the armour made actually seeing what she looked like difficult, but strands of red hair crept from under the rim.
‘Commissioner,’ Asaldra said, ‘this is my wife…’
‘Ekat Hoon,’ the woman said, holding out a hand. ‘How very pleasant to meet you at last, Commissioner. Oh, of course, my condolences on the loss of Commissioner Daiho.’
‘Why, thank you. Did you know him well?’ Hoon’s condolences had sounded more routine than heartfelt, so Marje put the question casually.
‘I knew him, of course. Did Hossein mention I’m on the Oversight Committee? I often met him through work, just as I’m sure we two will from now on. I thought we should meet socially.’
Hoon gestured at someone behind Marje. ‘Drink, Commissioner?’
Marje looked round and was taken aback to see a Neanderthal standing there. The shape and form were unmistakable. The stocky body radiated a strength that could have snapped Marje in half. The face was strong and stern, framed by ridges of solid bone under the dark tan skin. Incongruously, he wore a one-piece suit tailored to his powerful form and was carrying a silver tray and a range of full glasses.
‘Drink, madam?’ he said politely.
