02. The Shadow Dancers (38 page)

See, when Sam was a little boy he us'ta see all them old detective movies-only they wasn't all that old, then. Between the neighborhood B movies and the early days of TV, though, he musta seen every Thin Man, Philip Marlowe, Sam Spade, Sherlock Holmes, Charlie Chan-you name it. And he went to the library in Baltimore, which is a real big one, and got out and read everything there was by Chandler and Hammett and all the rest.

Now, don't get him wrong. He never did much thinkin' 'bout bein' no cop, let alone no private eye, except maybe in his fantasies. In fact, he hated police work, thought it was the dullest, least thrillin' job in the world. Hell, he didn't even like guns. After four years with the Air Force police and a few more on the Bristol vice squad, he was still scared of 'em, wouldn't have one around unless the safety of somebody innocent-not himself-demanded it. He wasn't even a particularly good shot.

No, what Sam was in love with in the work was pretty much what I got trapped by, too: not the way it was, but the way it
shoulda
been. The way Marlowe and Spade and the Continental Op and Nick and Nora Charles did it.

Now, there was several ways we coulda settled this case, at least, mostly just with a big set of moves and then explain everything in the paperwork and to the legal boys who'd have to prosecute and punish the bad guys. Hell,
I
coulda explained it and wrapped it myself. But the Company owed him, owed
us
for this, and they was willin' to indulge us.

So, there we was at headquarters, at Mayar Eldrith's palatial lodge, where it all began, and we was hostin' a party. Yeah, a real party, too-with all sorts of fancy delicacies and drinks and all the rest. Since Mayar had done the invitin', there wasn't no way to get out of it, neither.

All his life, since he was a kid, Sam had dreamed of havin' all the suspects together in one room while he, the brilliant detective, explained the whole thing to them and unmasked the guilty. Now, finally, he was gonna get his chance, and while I helped fill in a lot of gaps and details and explain a bunch of stuff, by general agreement it was gonna be Sam's show.

I was dressed in this incredibly beautiful soft and satiny violet and golden sari, with fancy open-toed heels. I had a complete makeover for it from experts here, matchin' everything just right, and they had trimmed and shaped my natural bush just right, like one of them gardeners shapes a bush into a piece of art, and they'd streaked it with brown and gold. I had the jewelry to match, and I never looked better or more glamorous in my whole life.

Sam said he'd be damned if he was gonna do his number in a toga; he had the tailors here-mostly computers once the designer got through-make him a good, old-fashioned forties-style white suit, with just the right shirt and tie, and a pair of shiny black patent leather shoes. We was a beautiful, glamorous couple, and we acted just right, but I could feel his sadness and sorrow every time we talked or our eyes met, Kinda,
this is it, baby, but we're going out in style.

The guests started arrivin' and things was about to get underway. All of'em, I think, sensed somethin' was up, and maybe a few guessed it was all up, but since they didn't know for sure and still were pretty arrogant and secure, they came anyways. The rest-well, they had to come along if asked.

So here they come, ready or not. Here was Dringa
Lakuka, division chief of research and development, followed by Mukasa Lamdukur, who ran the day-to-day operations of the Security Committee, then the cold and brusk ex-monk, Basuti Alimati, who was chief of Labyrinth communications, and, finally, among the Committee members, Hanrin Sabuuk, the security division's comptroller. Also invited and present was my other self, this time in crimson and silver and with her hair styled differently but still lookin' great; Dakani Grista, the real young acting chief of security operations, and his old boss, now forcibly retired, Aldrath Prang. Last, but not least, was the Security Committee's chief medical advisor, and the man who made me less than I us'ta be, Jamispur Samoka.

It was a chummy men's club; besides me and Brandy Two, the only other women around was Mayar's wife Eyai, who acted as hostess, and a bunch of female servants.

Eyebrows was raised at Sam, dressed the way he was, but the only indignation was at the presence of Aldrath Prang, who clearly was in the doghouse in spades. Seems what done him in was Dakani's toadyness, which also got him a bunch of gold stars. He got nervous and tipped off Lamdukur that Aldrath was tappin' the private lines of the Committee members themselves, and the outrage hadn't died down yet. It was kinda like discoverin' that the head of Scotland Yard was tappin' and tapin' the Queen and the whole damned royal family. Maybe he did; maybe he just didn't have no young, ambitious son of a bitch to rat on him.

I got the idea that these guys didn't see much of each other normally; they spent a lot of time talkin' among themselves and swappin' stories and information, mostly gossip from the look of it. Couldn't go by us-we wasn't the elite; we couldn't speak their singsong language.

They all spoke English, though, thanks to their machines, so Sam could wander in and out and make nice comments while sippin' a bourbon and soda. Finally, though, we had them all seated on this big central couch that was sunk into the livin' room and formed a kinda U, and provided a perfect audience for anybody standin' in front of the old-fashioned fireplace, which was just where Sam was.

"I know you're all curious as to why we've come together
like this," he began, "so maybe we should get this over with. It's been a very long, tough road, even though most of the perpetrators were obvious from the start. I admit there are still one or two details I'm hazy about, but I think perhaps we can fill those in over time."

"We are here only because we respect Mayar Eldrith, sir," Basuti responded in his usually cold manner, kinda remindin' me of Addison at her normal self. "If we have come here to listen to the blatherings of some other-worldly egomaniac who has delusions that he has a greater mind than we have, then I, for one, feel insulted."

"Then you will have to be insulted," Sam shot back, cool and casual. "The kind of attitude you just displayed is at least partly at the root of this whole thing. However, I will put you to the test. I have assured Vice President Mayar that here, tonight, I can show him the traitor-or traitors- in his own ranks, explain the entire plot against the Company, and put an end to that threat. I can do this for several reasons. For one thing, I
am
this ignorant, primitive baboon, but I'm very good at what I do. Because I am totally unrestricted by your culture, class, or racial attitudes, I can cut through them. And, because my wife was willing to put herself into the living hell of a nasty and addictive alien substance, I have the additional details I needed. The plot is not stopped. In fact, it is right now underway. You can dismiss me now, go home, and it will come to pass and it will succeed. In fact, they'd have gotten away with it anyway if they hadn't made it so complex that at least one major mistake was inevitable. Anybody want to leave and let the plot go on?"

They sat and stared at him.

"I thought not. So let's proceed, shall we? This is such a complex plot, although at its root it's as simple a set of motives as all crimes, that it will take some time to put all the pieces together for you, and with your help and cooperation. I beg your indulgence."

"This is intolerable!" muttered Hanrin Sabuuk. "Eldrith, must we put up with this? Why, the man is not even an
employee!"

"Let the man begin," the vice president said impatiently. "There is money riding on this. He claims he can solve that
which has troubled us most these past three years and indisputably. I told him I did not believe he could do what we failed to do. The amount is substantial; would any of you stake your own fortunes with mine?"

"Bah! What do we have to gain if he cannot?" asked Mukasa.

"You wager money, which you value dearly but won't really miss," Sam told them. "My stake is my life, which is forfeit if we fail tonight. It is, I admit, of no value to you but it makes it a very sporting proposition, does it not?"

I gasped. "Sam! No!" But he paid no attention, and the others looked at each other and nodded.

"Very well, continue with this foolishness," said Dringa wearily. "At least it will be amusing."

"Interesting, yes, Director, but amusing-I'm afraid not. Not unless you have a very odd sense of humor. Let's begin right at the beginning. I'm afraid some of what I have to say isn't all that flattering to you all, but bear with me.

"First of all," Sam continued, "let's picture a corporate structure whose positions are basically inherited. This has some advantages if you're one of the lucky families, but it also has disadvantages considering that the only way to gain a position, let alone move up in it, is by somebody above you dying. With near perfect health and a two-hundred-and-fifty-year lifespan, this can be a problem. I hadn't considered this relevant until I was informed about you, Director Basuti. A monk, a dedicated holy man committed to his faith, you literally
were forced
into corporate politics by some unexpected premature deaths in your family line.

"Now, if you're eighty, or a hundred, when this falls on you, and you really like the job, that's probably all right and the way it was intended to be when it was set up. But when it was set up, the average lifespan was only a hundred and twenty and families were much larger. You sow your wild oats among the worlds, work at various jobs within the Company, or do what your heart dictates, as Director Basuti did. Now, suddenly, we have a number of high-ranking men in positions while still relatively young for your people and society. You are all fifty to seventy-five. It might well be another twenty or thirty years before you move up. In the meantime, you have great responsibilities but not great powers. You carry out policy, but you not only do not initiate it you don't even get to argue about it. It must be very frustrating to have to do a job and be expected to do it well, since you can be skipped over for making mistakes when the openings finally come, yet not be able to change or reform policy at all to meet real needs."

They didn't say nothin', but I could see a couple of 'em nodding. He had their attention.

"About four years ago, our subjective time, a small exploiter team was sent far up into Type One territory in the minus direction. It was one of a number sent out all the time by the Office of Exploration and Evaluation, which, I believe, comes under you, Director Dringa. 'Research and development'-such a nice, all-encompassing term."

"It is mine now, but not four years ago," Dringa responded.

"I know, we'll get to that. At any rate, one of these teams, in search of a rare and needed natural substance, blundered into a world with a very nasty trap in the form of a symbiotic viral creature. It didn't show up in the preliminary medical checks or even the quarantine and volunteer example because it is strictly a sexually transmitted organism. You can't even get it by an injection of an infected person's blood. It trades superb health and immunity from virtually any nongenetic disease in exchange for feeding off the host-a harmless amount, too. This, quite naturally, also produces over a period of millennia a totally homogeneous and incredibly long-lived race and creates a situation where a very low birth rate is mandated."

Quickly, Sam filled them in on the background of the world where it was found, and how the expedition caught it and was trapped by it.

"Now, then, they followed all the established procedures. They went to their force point and they sent a report as soon as they could of all that they knew. They also requested quarantine and medical study in a safe world and started out, only to suffer the nightmarish and eventually fatal withdrawal. They got back in time on the hope that there was something in that world that would reverse it. They made it, just in time, but not without a couple suffering some fairly dramatic and permanent brain damage. One of the women is partially paralyzed; one of the men has the active intelligence of perhaps a five-year-old child. They sent this report, too, and it was followed up with research instruments and requests for samples."

"Wait a moment," Hanrin Sabuuk broke in. "
I
was head of R & D at that time, and no such report ever reached me."

"No, it didn't," Sam agreed. "Instead, the reports that reached you and were subsequently fed into your computers listed this world as hostile to human habitation and fatal, and the exploiter team were all declared dead. The supplies and other equipment sent up there, and the samples sent back, were all credited to different teams working in the same region. It was spread out well enough that nothing would have been obvious or flagged. What had happened was this. Someone had to receive the initial signals in the routing, and then see in there something that caught his eye. At first, it was probably no more than petty corruption-the idea of controlling a disease or substance that was highly addictive, perhaps. This person needed to know more, so he enlisted the aid of another, highly ambitious man, a medical scientist in the managerial classes who felt frustrated and confined by the narrow limits imposed on him by the Company. He, in turn, had done some work in a couple of worlds and there had met and recruited to the Company's employ some young scientists in one of those worlds, the most brilliant and impressive of whom was a young man of whom we know very little except that he uses the name Dr. Carlos."

"We do not recruit scientists," Dringa commented. "We have an oversupply as it is."

"Perhaps
you
don't, but the Company has thousands of locals in the worlds on which they have stations, as well as bankers, crime lords, and even private investigators. We don't know what chord was struck between them, but Carlos learned well. He is at least as proficient as his mentor on the medical machines and many other machines of the Company. With these three men, we have the beginnings of a conspiracy. It was Carlos who was set up in a safe world with all the medical and analytical equipment he required. I'm sure we'll be able to discover how they hid the requisition of these machines and their distribution when we trace
the serial numbers through the computer network. Carlos, however, was still limited. He didn't have access to the best machines and brightest minds in the Company, and he was woefully short of manpower. I can't prove it, but I believe that it was he who came up with the idea of locating a Nazi-style world, a world in which experimentation on humans existed and a party elite answerable to no one if they held on to power reigned. There was such a world with a Company station. The stationmaster was impersonating a powerful party leader named Rupert Conrad Vogel."