The Tar-aiym Krang Page 7

  “Ah yes.” They paused by the shadowlike Wolf, who held the door open for them. The man grinned in what was obviously supposed to be a friendly gesture. It did not come off that way. “Yes, a very, ah, interesting and amusing personage.”

  “Ndiyo,” said Malaika amiably. “She does have quite a pair, doesn’t she?”

  As the others bid the spectral doorman goodeve, a hand came down on Flinx’s shoulder. The merchant whispered. “Not you, kijana. I’ve a question for you yet. Stay a moment.”

  He shook hands with Tse-Mallory and touched olfactory organs with Truzenzuzex, waving them toward the elevator.

  “Good rest to you, sirs, and tomorrow at first fog!”

  Wolf closed the door, cutting off Flinx’s view of the scientists, and Malaika immediately bent to face him intently.

  “Now, lad, that our ethical friends have left, a point of, um, business. The two hired corpses you left rotting so properly in that alley. Did they have any special insignia or marks on them or their clothing? Think, youth!”

  Flinx tried to recall. “It was awfully dark . . . I’m not sure . . .

  “And when did that ever bother you? Don’t hedge with me, kijana. This is too important Think . . . or whatever it is you do.”

  “All right. Yes. When I was trying to pry that map away from the dead man, I did notice the feet of the man Pip had killed. He’d fallen close by. The metal of his boots had a definite design etched on them. It looked to be some kind of bird . . . an abstract representation, I think.”

  “With teeth?” prompted Malaika.

  “Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know for sure. The questions you ask, merchant! It could have been. And for some reason, during the fight I got this picture of a woman, an old-young woman.”

  Malaika straightened and patted the boy on the back. His expression was jovial but his thoughts were grim—grim. Ordinarily Flinx would have resented the patronizing gesture, but this time, coming from the merchant, it seemed only complimentary.

  “Thank the Mti of Miti for your powers of observation, lad. And for a good memory.” Flinx saw another word: uchawi, witchcraft, but did not press the point. The big man changed the subject abruptly. “I’ll see you kesho, on ship, then?”

  “I would not miss it. Sir, may I ask the why of your question?”

  “You may not. The ship tomorrow, then. Good rest.” He ushered a puzzled Flinx to the elevator.

  The merchant stood pondering silently awhile, curses bubbling like froth from the cauldron of his mouth. They constituted the only sounds in the now deserted room. He turned and walked over to an apparently blank section of wall. Striking a hidden switch he sent the deep-grained paneling sliding up into the ceiling to reveal a complex desk. The slim bulk of an interstellar transceiver dominated the other apparatus. Buttons were pushed, dials turned, meters adjusted. The screen lit up suddenly in a glorious fireball of chromatic static. Satisfied, he grunted and hefted a small mike.

  “Channel six, please. Priority. I wish to speak straight-line direct person, to Madame Rashalleila Nuaman, on Nineveh, in the Sirius system.”

  A small voice floated out of a tiny speaker set to one side of the rainbow flux rippling on the screen. “Call is being placed, sir. One moment, please.”

  Despite the incredible distances involved, the slight delay was occasioned by the need to boost the call through half a hundred relay stations. Time of transit, due to the less-than-space concepts in use, was almost instantaneous.

  The screen began to clear, and in a short while he was facing one of the ten wealthiest humanoid females in the universe.

  She was lounging on some sort of conch. To one side he could easily make out the muscled, naked leg of whoever was holding the portable transceiver hookup for her. In the background he could see lush greenery, growing to fantastic size and shapes without the restraints of heavy gravity. Beyond that, he knew, was the dome which shut out the airless void that was the normal atmosphere of Nineveh.

  Nature battled surgery as the woman pulled her face into a toothsome, slinky smile. This time, surgery won. It was intended to be sexy, but to one who knew, it only came out vicious.

  “Why Maxy, darling! What a delightful surprise! It’s always so delicious to hear from you. That lovely body of yours is well, I trust, and business equally?”

  “I’m only well when business is good. At the moment it is passable. Rasha, just passable. However I have hopes it will take a sudden jump for the better very shortly. You see, I’ve just had a most interesting chat with two gentlemen . . . three, if you count the redhead.”

  Nuaman tried to project an aura of disinterest, but surgery couldn’t hide the way the tendons tautened in her neck. “How interesting, I’m sure. I do hope it proves profitable for you. But your tone seems to imply that you believe I am somehow involved.”

  “It did? I don’t recall saying anything that might lead you to that conclusion . . . darling. Oh, it isn’t the redhead you’re thinking of. Your bully-boys did get to that one. . . as per instructions, no doubt.”

  “Why Maxy, whatever are you thinking of? Why should any of my assistants be on Moth? My dealings on the planet are small, as you well know. You’re the one who keeps blocking all my attempts to expand my interests there. Anyhow, I don’t know many redheads altogether . . . certainly can’t recall any I’d want killed. Messed up a little, perhaps, but not killed. No, darling, you’re mistaken. What an odd conversation! There’s nothing on that pitifully damp ball of dirt of yours, redheaded or otherwise, that I’d risk a murder for.”

  “Ummm. Not even this, hasa?” He held up the map. Folded, so that the interior would not show.

  It didn’t matter. She recognized it, all right! She sat bolt upright and leaned forward so that her face, witchlike, seemed to fill the whole screen.

  “Where did you get that? That belongs to me!”

  “Oh now Rasha, bibi, I do doubt that. And do sit back a little. Closeups are not your forte, you know.” He made a pretense of examining it. “No name, I’m afraid. And besides, I got it from a live redhead. A boy, really. He happened along just as your ‘assistants’ happened to be performing acts of doubtful legality against the original owner. Either the youth is an extraordinary chap . . . which I am inclined to believe . . . or else the two assistants you assigned to this job were very low-grade morons . . . which, come to think of it, I am also inclined to believe. They were yours, I see. It had your typically brazen touch about it. I merely wanted to make certain. I’ve done that. Thank you, Rasha dear. Sikuzuri, now.”

  He cut her off in midcurse and went off to find Sissiph.

  All in all, it had been rather a good day.

  Chapter Three

  On Nineveh, Rashalleila Nuaman, matriarch and head of one of the largest private concerns in the Commonwealth and one of the ten richest humanoid females in the known firmament, was howling mad. She booted the nearly nude male servant who held the portable transceiver in an indelicate place. The unfortunate machine fell into a pool of mutated goldfish. Startled, they scrambled for cover amidst pastel lily pads. A number of very rare and expensive opaline glasses were shattered on the stone pathway.

  Her anger momentarily assuaged, she sat back down on the lounge and spent five minutes rearranging her hair. It was olive this week. At that point she felt sufficiently in control of herself to get up and walk to the main house.

  How had that utter bastard Malaika found out about the map? And how had it found its way into his hands? Or possibly . . . possibly it had been the other way around? The two gentlemen he had so snidely referred to were undoubtedly that Tse-Mallory person and his pet bug. But who was this new “redhead”? Who had so rapidly and shockingly managed to wreck what had until a few minutes ago been a comparatively smooth, routine operation? And all this now, with Nikosos only two days out of Moth! It was insufferable! She took a clawed swipe in passing at a stand of priceless Yyrbittium trumpet-blooms, shredding the carmine leaves. The delicate tube-shaped petals si
fted brokenly to the floor. Someone was definitely, yes definitely, going to be flayed!

  She stomped into the lounge-room that doubled as her office and collapsed disconsolately in the white fur mouldchair. Her head dropped onto her right hand while the left made nervous clicking sounds on the pure corrundum table. The brilliant quicksilver flickering was the only movement in the wave-proofed room.

  It was insufferable! He would not get away with it. It would be on his head, yes, on his, if a single killing operation devolved into a multiple one. It might even extend itself to his own exquisite carcass, and wouldn’t that be sad. He would make a lovely corpse.

  Don’t just sit there, you slobbering bitch. Get cracking! She leaned over the desk and jabbed a button. A thin, weary face formed on the screen in front of her.

  “Dryden, contact Nikosos and tell him that he is not to land at Drallar. He is instead to monitor all starships that are in parking orbit around the planet and stand off. Any which depart in the direction of the Blight he is to follow as closely as possible while at all times staying out of immediate detector range. If he complains, tell him I realize it’s a difficult proposition and he’s simply to do his best.” I can always fire him later, she thought grimly. “If he presses you for an explanation, tell him plans have been changed due to unforeseen and unpreventable circumstances. He is to follow that ship! I guarantee there will be one, and probably shortly. It will be headed for the planet he was originally to have proceeded to by map. For now he’ll have to do without his own set of coordinates. Is that all clear?”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  She had cut him off before he reached the second “m”. Well, she’d done what she could, but it seemed so goddamn little! Her feeling of comparative impotence magnified her rage and the corresponding desire to take out her frustration on someone else. Let’s see. Who was handy? And deserving? Um. The idiot who had bungled with those two assassins? A fine choice! Her niece? That bubble-head. And to think, to think that one day she might have to take over the firm. When she couldn’t even oversee a simple extraction. She pressed another button.

  “Have Teleen auz Rudenuaman report to my office at, oh, five hours tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes Madam;” the grid replied.

  Now if there were only someone else. A budding career to squelch, perhaps. But in good faith there was no one else she could rake over the coals. Not that that should prove a consideration if she felt especially bitchy, but a loyal staff could be assured only through an equal mixture of fear and reward. No point in overdoing the former. No, face to it, what she really needed was relaxing. Hopefully that fop van Cleef would be in decent shape tonight. A smile suddenly sickled across her face. The unlucky button got jabbed again.

  “Cancel that last. Have my niece report at five hours tomorrow . . . but to my sleeping quarters, not the office.”

  “Noted,” said the grid compactly.

  Rashalleila leaned back and stretched luxuriously. Definitely she felt better. She knew her niece was hopelessly in love with her current gigolo. Why, she couldn’t for the life of her see, but it was a fact. It would be interesting to see if the girl could keep a straight face tomorrow as she was bawled out in front of him. While he stirred groggily in her aunt’s bed. It would fortify her character, it would. She giggled at the thought and even in the empty room it was not a pleasant sound.

  Chapter Four

  Bran Tse-Mallory and Truzenzuzex were making their way casually back to their rooms via the routes of the marketplace. It was twice as noisy and confusing at night as it was during the day. The flashing lights of motorized handcarts and fluorescent vendors added much to the atmosphere of controlled anarchy. Still, they did not need the Flinx. No matter how tortuous or confused the route, a thranx could always retrace it once traveled.

  “Well, brother,” said Truzenzuzex, dodging a mobile seller of novelties, “what do you think of our friend the merchant?”

  “I would feel much better if our friend the unusual youth were twenty years older and in his place. A partial telepath, for sure. I could sense it. But such wishes are useless. Chaos. Up the universe!” he muttered.

  “Up the universe!” replied Truzenzuzex. Both smiled at the private joke, which had a deeper meaning than the surface humor implied. “The man seems as trustworthy a member of his type as we are likely to find, and he has the ship we need. I cannot be positive yet, of course, but under the circumstances I think we have done quite well. And the boy’s presence on the vessel should serve as a moderating factor. He seems to trust the trader, too.”

  “Agreed. The lad’s presence will inject an uncertainty element, if nothing else.”

  “A certain uncertainty factor. How apropos of this venture so far!” The insect shook its head in deliberate aping of the human gesture. “This has caused three deaths so far. I would hope there will be no more.”

  “So would I, brother, so would I. The two of us have seen too much death already.” Truzenzuzex did not reply, as he was concentrating on a difficult forking of their path.

  Tse-Mallory followed mechanically. The noise and lights had a tendency to hypnotize, he allowed his mind to drift. . . .

  Chapter Five

  The picture they were seeing in the viewscreen of the stingship was identical to the one being flashed to every member of the task force. It showed a tall, thin Ornithorphe with primarily black and yellow plumage. The being was possessed of a large amount of natural dignity, which it was at present being hard-pressed to retain. It is not easy to be dignified when one is begging.

  Ensign Bran Tse-Mallory, aged twenty-six years, Fourth Battle Group, Sixth Corps of the Enforcement Arm of the United Church, watched the military governor of the blue planet below them crumble mentally as he pleaded with their own commander for aid. Anger and embarrassment mingled in his own throat, which was unaccountably dry, as he followed the conversation.

  “Major Gonzalez,” the Ornithorphe intoned, “I will ask you for a final time, and then I must go and do what I can to aid my people, even if it is only to die with them. Will you use the forces at your command to intercede and prevent a massacre?”

  The voice of Task Force Commander Major Julio Gonzalez filtered though the small grid used for interfleet frequencies. It was cool and controlled. Bran wanted to smash the grid and the sickly smug face that sat behind it.

  “And I am forced to remind you once again, Governor Bolo, that much as I sympathize with your plight there is nothing I can do. It is, after all, only by pure coincidence that my force is here at all. We are on a peaceful patrol and stopped by your planet only to pay the customary courtesy call. Had we been a week earlier or later we would not even be witness to this unfortunate situation.”

  “But you are here and you are witness, Jaor,” began the governor for the seventeenth time,” and. . . .”

  “Please, sir, I’ve listened quite too long as it is. The Church and the Commonwealth have been at peace with the AAnn Empire for years now. . . .”

  “Some peace!” muttered an indiscreet voice elsewhere on the network. If Gonzalez heard it, he gave no sign.

  “. . . and I refuse to jeopardize that peace by interceding in an affair that is none of my business. To intervene on either side would be tantamount to an act of war. Also, I should be acting directly contrary to my orders and to the purpose of this patrol. I must refuse to do so, sir. I hope you can understand my position.”

  “Your position!” the governor gasped. His voice was breaking noticeably under the strain of the last few days and he had to fight to keep his thoughts framed in symbospeech. “What of those AAnn-ghijipps out there? An open attack on a helpless colony. ‘Act of war’ you say! Isn’t that a direct violation of your precious Convention? The one that ‘your’ patrol is supposed to be upholding?”

  “If your claim is just, I am sure the Convention arbiters will decide in your favor.”

  “Whose favor!” roared the Governor. “Surely you know what the AAnn do to subject pla
nets! Especially those who have the impertinence to resist. If there are none of us left alive to accept the favorable decision of the arbiting board, what use your damned Convention! Will our memories receive pensions?”

  “I am sorry, governor. I wish I could help you, but. . . .”

  “Send just one of your ships, a token showing,” he cried. “They might hesitate. . . .”

  “I said I was sorry, governor. I am distraught. Goodbye, sir.” Gonzalez had broken the connection.

  From above and behind him, Bran heard the voice of his young ship-brother. The insect’s deep blue-green chiton was rendered even more resplendent by the silver battle harness that enclosed its cylindrical body.

  “That,” said Truzenzuzex in cool, even tones, “was just possibly the most nauseating bit of rhetorical doggerel it has ever been my misfortune to overhear.”

  Bran agreed. He was finding it more and more difficult to restrain himself. Even without the heightened-instinct-perception drugs, the killing urge was beginning to steal warmly over him. It had the powerful push of righteous indignation behind it.

  “Isn’t it possible that maybe the locals . . .?”

  “. . . haven’t got a chance,” finished Truzenzuzex.

  “They’re outnumbered and outgunned, and not a regular armed force among them in the first place. As the AAnn doubtlessly surmised well in advance. I doubt if their ships even have doublekay drives. Theirs is only a colony and they wouldn’t have need of many.”

  “Typical AAnn maneuver. Damn those anthropomorphic bastards! Always sniping and chipping at edges. I wish they’d come right out and say they’re going to contest us for this part of the galaxy. Let ’em stand up and fight like men!”

  “No can do, brother, because they obviously aren’t. And I refer not to their physiologies alone. According to the AAnn standards set down by their philosophy of ‘perpetual warfare as the natural state of things,’ any advantage you can get over your opponent is by definition of success ethical. They’re not immoral, just amoral. Sneak attacks are like sugar—pardon, like bread—to them.”