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“I’ve found no falsehoods.”
“Does that silence these doubts?”
“No.”
“Then what can you do with such doubts?”
That involved more careful thought and a longer pause before answering. “I put them aside until a moment arrives when they may be tested.”
“Does that change your relationship with Me?”
“Relationships change constantly.”
“Ahhh, I cherish the company of poets.”
Panille was shaken out of this memory by the realization that Ferry had spoken to him several times.
“I said, ‘Wha’s’s?”
Panille looked at the object in Ferry’s hand.
“It was my mother’s comb.”
“The stuff! The material?”
“Tortoise shell. It came from Earth.”
There was no mistaking the avaricious glint in Ferry’s eyes. “Well . . . I dunno about this.”
“It’s a keepsake from my mother, one of the few things I have left. If you take it I’ll lodge a formal complaint with Ship.”
Ferry betrayed definite anger, his eyes squinted, his hand trembled with the comb. But his gaze strayed to the silver net. He knew the stories about this poet; this one talked to the ship in the quiet of the night and the ship answered.
Once more, Ferry made a notation within the shielded secrecy of his com-console, then delivered himself of his longest speech: “You’re assigned groundside to Waela TaoLini and it serves you right. There’s a freighter waiting in Fifty-B. Take it. She’ll meet you groundside.”
Panille stuffed his belongings back into the bag while Ferry watched with growing amusement. Did he take something while I was daydreaming? Panille wondered. He preferred the man’s anger to his amusement but there was no way to take everything out of the bag once more to check it. No way. What had happened to the people around Oakes? Panille had never seen such slyness and greed in a Shipman. And the smell of that stuff on his breath! Dead flowers. Panille sealed the bag.
“Go on, they’re waiting,” Ferry said. “Don’t waste our time.”
Panille heard the hatch open once more behind him. He could feel Ferry’s gaze on him all the way out of the reception room.
Waela TaoLini? He had never heard the name before. Then: Serve me right?
Chapter 20
Beware, for I am fearless and therefore powerful. I will watch with the wiliness of a snake, that I may sting with its venom. You shall repent of the injuries you inflict
—Frankenstein’s Monster Speaks, Shiprecords
OAKES SAT in shadows watching the holographic replay. He was nervous and irritated. Where was Lewis?
Behind him and slightly to his left stood Legata Hamill. The dim glow of the projector underlighted their features. Both of them stared intently at the action in the holofocus.
The scene holding their attention revealed the main finger passage behind Shipbay Nineteen and leading out to one of the treedomes. Kerro Panille accompanied by Hali Ekel walked toward the pickup which had caught the scene. The treedome could be glimpsed in the background framed by the end of the passage. Ekel carried her pribox over one shoulder, its harness held loosely by her right hand. Panille wore a recorder at his hip and a small bag from which protruded notepad and stylus. He was dressed in a white one-piece which set off his long hair and beard. The hair was bound in a golden ring, plaited and with the tip draped down his chest on the left. Issue boots covered his feet.
Oakes studied each detail carefully.
“This is the young man of Ferry’s report?”
“The same.”
The rich contralto of Legata’s voice distracted Oakes and he was a few blinks replying. During that time, Panille and Ekel walked from the range of one sensor and into the range of another. The holographic point-of-view shifted.
“They seem a little nervous,” he said. “I wish I knew what they wrote on that pad.”
“Love notes.”
“But why write them if . . .”
“He’s a poet.”
“And she is not a poet. What’s more, he resists her sexual advances. I don’t understand that. She appears quite pneumatic, eminently couchable.”
“Do you want him picked up and the notepad examined?”
“No! We must move with discretion and subtlety. Damn! Where is Lewis?”
“Still incommunicado.”
“Damn him!”
“His assistants now say Lewis is occupied with a special problem.”
Oakes nodded. Special problem. That was their private code for something which could not be discussed in the clear. No telling who might eavesdrop. Were the neck pellets then no longer immune to spying?
Panille and Ekel had stopped near the hatch to Ferry’s office in Medical.
Oakes tried to remember all the times he had seen this young man shipside. Panille had not invited much interest until it had become clear that he really might be talking to the ship. Then that order from the ship for Panille to be sent groundside!
Why does the ship want him groundside?
A poet! What use could there be for a poet? Oakes decided that he really did not believe Panille talked to the ship.
But the ship, and possibly that Raja Thomas, wanted Panille groundside.
Why?
He turned the question over and foun
d no shadow.
“You’re sure the request for Panille came from the ship?” he asked.
“It’s been six diurns since the request . . . and it didn’t read like a request to me; it read like an order.”
“But from the ship, you’re certain?”
“As certain as you can be of anything.” The irritation in her voice bordered on insubordination. “I used your code and made the complete cross-check. Everything scans.”
Oakes sighed.
Why Panille?
Perhaps more attention should have been paid to the poet. He was one of the originals from Earthside. Have to dig deeper into his past. That was obvious.
The scene in the holofocus showed Panille and Ekel parting. Panille turned and they had a view of his back—a wide and muscular back, Legata noted. She called this to Oakes’ attention.
“Do you find him attractive, Legata?”
“I merely point out that he’s not some dainty flower-sniffer.”
“Mmmmmm.”
Oakes was intensely conscious of the musky odor coming from Legata. She had a magnificently proportioned body which she had kept from him so far. But Oakes knew himself to be a patient man. Patient and persistent.
Panille was entering the hatch to Ferry’s office. Oakes slapped the switch to stop the replay, leaving the carrier light still glowing. He did not care to have another run through that scene with Ferry. Stupid, bumbling old fool!
Oakes glanced at Legata with only the barest turning of his head. Magnificent. She often presented a vapid mask but Oakes saw the consistent brilliance in her work. Few people knew that she was shockingly strong, a mutation. She concealed an extraordinary musculature under that smooth warm skin. He found this idea exciting. She was known shipwide as a history fanatic who frequently begged Records for style displays to copy in her clothing. Currently, she wore a short toga which exposed most of her right breast. The light fabric hung precariously from her nipple. Oakes felt the pulse of her strength, even there.
Taunting me?
“Tell me why the ship wants a poet groundside,” he said.
