Demon Princes 01-05 The Star Ki, page 101
“I’ll be right there.”
The envelope was inscribed:
To be given into the hand of Henry Lucas only.
The letter read:
Dear Henry Lucas:
I discover that I am not really interested in journalism. Therefore I have resigned my position with Extant. I am staying at Gladen’s Hotel, Port Wheary, which is south along the coast.
Alice Wroke.
Gersen telephoned Gladen’s Hotel at Port Wheary. Miss Wroke was not in but was expected back in an hour or so.
At a rental station Gersen hired an air-car. He flew south along the coastline, following the wavering white line created by wallows of gray water crashing up and over the rocks, across St Kilda’s Bay, over Cape May and Point Kittery. He passed Hannah’s Head just as Vega shone through a rent in the clouds to illuminate the white houses of Port Wheary across Polwheel Bay.
Gersen landed at the public plat, walked along the waterfront to Gladen’s Hotel. In the lounge by the fireplace he found Alice Wroke. She turned her head, saw him, and started to rise.
Gersen crossed the room. He took her hands, pulled her to her feet, kissed her face, then put his arms around her.
“Henry, stop,” cried Alice Wroke. She gave an excited laugh. “You’re smothering me.”
Gersen relaxed his grip “You needn’t call me Henry anymore. Henry is just a mailing address. This is me.”
Alice drew back and looked him up and down. “Does this version have a name?”
“It’s called Kirth Gersen and it’s less of a gentleman than Henry Lucas.”
Alice inspected him again. “I enjoyed Henry Lucas, even though he was arrogant and hateful. What of you-know-who?”
“He’s still alive There’s a lot to tell. Will it keep until I’ve had a bath and changed my clothes?”
“I’ll call Mrs. Gladen and she’ll give you a room. She’s very respectable, so don’t do anything to shock her.”
Gersen and Alice dined by the light of candles in the corner of the veranda. “Now,” said Alice, “tell me your adventures.”
“I went to Howard’s school reunion at Gladbetook on Moudervelt. Howard played jokes and danced the hornpipe. He criticized the performance of a musician in the orchestra. The musician shot him in the backside and the party ended.”
“And where were you?”
“I was the musician.”
“Ah. It’s all clear now. What else happened?”
“I found Howard’s Book of Dreams, which he lost twenty-five years ago I’m sure that he wants it back.” Gersen pushed the old red notebook across the table. “There it is.”
Alice bent her head over the book. The candlelight burnished her hair and cast shadows along her slanted cheeks. Gersen sat watching her Here sit I, he thought, across the table from miraculous Alice Wroke..
Alice turned pages. She came to the end and closed the book After a few moments she said “Almost always he is Immir. But I’ve met Jeha Rais and Mew ness and Spangleway, and I’ve had a glimpse or two of Rhune Fader, who paid me no heed. I’m happy that Lons Hohenger was otherwise occupied.”
Gersen put the book back in his pocket. Alice mused. “Zada Memar—I wonder what happened to her.”
“She came to Gladbetook from off-planet. While on a school picnic she drowned in Persimmon Lake.”
“Poor Zada Memar. I wonder. “
Gersen shook his head “Not I.”
Alice looked at him, her eyes dark in the candlelight “What do you mean?”
“I don’t wonder at all.”
In Cosmopolis appeared an article accompanied by several illustrations. The heading read:
HOWARD ALAN TREESONG ATTENDS 25TH ANNIVERSARY SCHOOL REUNION
A Party No One Will forget.
Even Criminals Show Sentiment.
The Greater the Criminal, the Greater the Sentiment
—by our local correspondent, Gladbetook, Maunish, Moudervelt, Van Kaathe’s Star
(Editorial note: Maunish is one of 1,462 independent principalities comprising the political estates of Moudevelt. Its landscape includes prairies, riverlands, farms, and forests, supporting nearly a million persons. Howard Alan Treesong was born on a farm near the village Gladbetook.)
Twenty-five years ago a shy brown-haired boy known as Howard Hardoah attended the district lyceum at Gladbetook. That boy is now the preeminent criminal of the Oikumene and Beyond, and is reckoned as one of the notorious “Demon Princes”. His name, Howard Alan Treesong, strikes terror into a multitude of hearts, and his exploits have attracted the attention of everyone. But Howard Alan Treesong still remembers old times, and with no lack of nostalgia. At the recent reunion of his class he made a dramatic appearance, evoking from his old school chums what best can be described as mixed emotions. The event will never be forgotten, and, if only in this regard, must be considered a great success. Early in the evening Howard Hardoah (as he was known at school) became convivial and roamed from table to table telling anecdotes and recalling old incidents, sometimes to the discomfort of his audience.
As the evening progressed, Mr. Hardoah’s spirits soared to ever higher levels of fun and audacity. He played merry tunes on the fiddle; he danced several gavottes, a hornpipe, and a twitchery. Mr. Hardoah’s revelries knew no limits and totally captivated the group. He ordained ingenious pranks and charades to celebrate old episodes; these were dutifully performed by his now-nervous classmates, to whom his ultimate intentions were never quite clear. He sat Mr. Maddo Strubbins on a block of ice; he tattooed Air. Bloy Sadalfloury; and he arranged to escort Mrs. Suby ver Ahe with her two charming daughters, Mirl and Maud, on a long cruise through the outer worlds.
The festivities were interrupted by a gang of marauders who shot Mr. Hardoah in the buttocks and caused such consternation that the party came to an end. Mr. Hardoah departed in pain. The wound will surely curtail his dancing for some time to come. Mr. Hardoah expressed outrage that in a presumably well-ordered community such crass acts of violence could take place. He hopes to return to the next reunion, providing that it could be terminated less abruptly, inasmuch as he had staged only a few of his ingenious frivolities.
In the next issue of Cosmopolis:
HOWARD ALAN TREESONG
His Memorabilia and Boyhood
(Editor’s note: A recent article relating to the notorious Howard Alan Treesong evoked much comment. The following communication, so we hope, may also be of interest to our readers.)
To the Editors of Cosmopolis:
I read your recent article about the school reunion at Gladbetook with great interest, inasmuch as my son Nymphotis was a school chum of young Howard Hardoah. It is strange how life works out. The two boys were inseparable, and Nimpy, as we called him, often spoke of Howard’s talents and skills, and his dearest possession was a little book of fancies, The Book of Dreams, which Howard gave to him.
Our little lad died in a swimming accident shortly before we left Maunish and we still have The Book of Dreams to remind us of the old days on the prairie. We find it hard to imagine Howard Hardoah, so shy and careful, becoming the person you describe, but in our lifetime we have known many surprising events; more so, I believe, than most people, since we have traveled from place to place, and even now hardly know where we will die. We think often of our poor little Nimpy. If he had lived, perhaps now he might also be a person of consequence.
Please do not include my name and address, as I cannot cope with correspondence at this time.
Respectfully, Tuty C.
(Full name and address withheld by request.)
Into the Cosmopolis office came a spare and saturnine man of indeterminate age, wearing a neat black suit cut in the local style: pinched at the shoulders and flaring at the hips. He moved with the quiet deftness of a cat. His eyes were black, his face was hollowcheeked and narrow. Dense black hair grew to a widow’s peak, then coved back over his temples and down past his ears. He went to the reception desk, looking alertly to both sides as he did so, as if from long habit. The clerk asked: “Sir, how may we oblige you?”
“I’d like a few words with the gentleman who wrote about Mr. Howard Treesong a few weeks ago.”
“Oh, that would he Henry Lucas. I believe he’s in his office. May I ask your name, sir?”
“Schahar.”
“And the nature of your business, Mr. Schahar?”
“Well, miss, it’s somewhat complicated. I’d prefer to explain it once only to Mr. Lucas.”
“Just as you like, sir. I’ll ask if Mr. Lucas can see you now.” The girl spoke into a mesh and received a response. She looked back to Schahar. “Will you have a seat, sir? He’ll see you in five minutes.”
Schahar sat quietly, his black eyes nicking here and there around the room.
A musical tone sounded. The receptionist said: “Mr. Schahar, if you please.”
She conducted Schahar along a hall and ushered him into a room with pale green walls and a lavender rug. Behind a kidney-shaped table lounged a stylishly pallid man with a languid face framed by glossy dark ringlets. His clothes were a confection of superb elegance; his manner, like his expression, was languid and just short of supercilious. He spoke in a toneless voice. “Sir, I am Henry Lucas. Please seat yourself. I don’t think I know you. Mr. Schahar, I believe.”
“That is correct, sir.” Schahar spoke easily in a neutral voice. “You are a busy man and I will not take too much of your time. I am a writer, like yourself, though certainly neither as competent nor as successful.”
Gersen, noting Schahar’s strong shoulders, long sinewy arms, heavy hands with long strong fingers, controlled a smile of grim amusement. Schahar exuded a psychic aura of lethal expertise, of stabbings and strangulation, of terror and pain. Schahar had been present at the school reunion, standing at the entrance with the short thick man. Gersen recalled an event of months before when Lamar Medrano of Wild Isle had met Emmaus Schahar at Starport, New Concept. She had departed the Diomedes Hotel with him and had never been seen again.
“Tush,” said Gersen. “I am not a writer; I am a journalist.
What is your particular field?”
“General affairs. Facts and personalities. I have recently become interested in Howard Alan Treesong and his amazing career. Unfortunately, facts are hard to come by.”
“I have found it so,” said Gersen.
“The article on the school reunion—you wrote that, I believe?”
“Our local correspondent submitted ten pages of very excited prose, which I cobbled together as best I could. For information about Treesong, Maunish would seem the place to go.”
“I may well take your advice. What of this woman and her Book of Dreams?”
Gersen gave an uninterested shrug. “I haven’t looked into it. The letter is around here somewhere. I seem to have been designated the Treesong expert.” Gersen opened a drawer, withdrew a sheet of paper, glanced at it. Schahar leaned forward.
“An old exercise book or something similar,” said Gersen. “Probably nothing remarkable.”
Schahar held out his hand. “May I see?”
Gersen looked up as if in surprise and seemed to hesitate. He frowned down at the letter. “Sorry, I think I’d better not. The woman doesn’t want to be identified. I can’t say that I blame her, with so many cranks and crackpots running loose.” Gersen replaced the letter in the drawer.
Schahar drew back, smiling a faint smile. “I’d like to collect any and all information available on this particular subject. My main interest is Howard Treesong’s early life—his formative period, so to speak. I am anxious especially to examine such trifles as The Book of Dreams. Schahar paused, but Gersen responded only with a noncommittal nod.
Schahar went on, speaking with a persuasive urgency: “Suppose I undertook to approach this woman in the capacity of a writer submitting to Cosmopolis, would you then allow me her address?”
“Your efforts would far exceed your profit, that’s my opinion. Why not visit Gladbetook on Moudervelt and make inquiries of his old acquaintances? That would seem more fertile scope for research.”
“Again, that is excellent advice, sir.” Schahar rose to his feet, paused a moment, and seemed to sway slightly forward.
Languidly Gersen also arose. “I have an appointment elsewhere, otherwise I’d be happy to discuss the matter with you at greater length. I wish you success.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lucas.” Schahar left the room.
Gersen waited. An instrument to the side of his desk sounded a tone. Gersen smiled. He arranged a telltale to the drawer of his table, then turned a key in the antique lock. Clapping a triple-tier Aloysian hat on his head, he departed the room, strolled down the corridor past a pair of unoccupied offices. Behind one of the doors stood Schahar, so the signal-tone had informed Gersen.
Gersen walked at a leisurely rate around the block, then returned. He went directly to his office. Standing to the side, he slid open the door.
No explosion, no hiss of projectile.
Gersen entered the room. The telltale at the drawer had been disarranged. The lock showed no evidence of tampering; Schahar was a skillful operator. Gersen opened the drawer. The letter remained as he had left it; Schahar had been satisfied with the name and address.
Gersen went to the telephone and called Alice. “It’s happened.”
“Who came?”
“A man called Schahar. I’m going directly to the spaceport.”
Alice’s voice was neutral. “Take care of yourself.”
“Of course.”
Gersen threw the hat toward a chair, changed from his tight-shouldered suit into spaceman’s ordinary, and left the Cosmopolis office—perhaps for the last time.
A cab took him to the spaceport and out the access avenue to the Fantamic Flitterwing. It had been cleaned, washed, polished, overhauled, inspected, and provisioned. The ports had been scraped clean of space dust. The linen had been renewed, the tanks were full of water, the bins loaded with food. The support systems had been recharged; the energy cells were replete.
The Fantamic Flitterwing was ready for space.
Gersen climbed aboard, closed the port, stepped into the saloon. His nose detected the faintest of perfumes. He looked to right and left.
Nothing extraordinary.
He took three strides to the stateroom: empty. He threw open the door to the head. “Out with you.”
Wearing mouse gray shorts and a black tunic, Alice marched forth. “So there you are,” said Gersen.
“So it would appear,” said Alice.
“I half expected this.” Gersen pointed to the port. “Off the ship with you.”
“Absolutely not. I’ve decided never to let you out of my sight again. You might not come back.” She stepped close to him and looked up into his face, “Don’t you want me aboard?”
“Oh, I’m sure I’d find you useful. Still, it’s dangerous.”
“I know.”
“Well, I can’t waste time arguing. Now that you’re here ...” Alice gave a triumphant laugh. “I knew you’d see it my way.”
17
Bethune Preserve hung in space full in the light of Corvus 892 Gersen eased the Flitterwing close up beside one of the orbiting stations No pilot was immediately available, he was ordered to stand by.
Alice grumbled about the formalities “I don’t intend to molest their animals. I told them so but I don’t think they believe me.”
“Howard will be even more vexed. He can’t simply show up in his battle cruiser and throw his weight around.”
“Perhaps he’ll arrive as a tourist Perhaps he won’t dare to come at all.”
“I can’t see him sending Schahar down for his precious Book of Dreams. In any event you’ll have to stay in Tanaquil, out of the way, if he catches one glimpse of you, we’re in trouble.”
Alice put on a submissive face “Whatever you say Still, you yourself said I don’t look like Alice when I’m dressed as a boy, with my hair covered.”
“We’d better cut off your hair and dye the stubble black.”
“That’s not necessary I’d be a funny-looking sight You’d laugh at me, I’d be angry and there would go our romance.”
Gersen put his arms around her “That’s a chance we can’t take.”
“Of course not. What are you doing? Stop! You’ve chased me around the ship twice today already!”
“There’s nothing else to do. You bring it on yourself, really.”
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll wear out? No? Oh well.”
The pilot presently arrived and took the vessel down to Tanaquil, despite Gersen’s request to put down at the Blue Forest Camp airport.
“Sorry,” said the pilot “That’s not regulation.”
It occurred to Gersen that every third word the pilot spoke was “regulation”.
The pilot went on “We can’t make it convenient, you know. Everyone would be tracking about, picking flowers, teasing the monkeys. Tourists must go about their visits with decorum and respect. Personally I’d keep the blighters out altogether.”
“Then there’d be no one to inflict your regulations on and you’d be out of a job.”
The pilot turned Gersen a blue-eyed stare. He decided Gersen had intended a joke and laughed. “I’d make out one way or another I’m not just a flight attendant, you know. In fact, I’m a fourth-level type and reckoned an expert on the pathology of the segmented melantid-worm.”
Alice asked, “In that case why are you here piloting and not out taking care of sick worms?”
“There aren’t that many worms. They hide deep in the mud where they are hard to catch. Then, like as not, they are quite well. I may quality for a second specialty. In the meantime, I do the regulation stint with the company. Here we arc at the terminal. Leave all weapons and contraband aboard your vessel. Now, it you’ll alight I’ll seal the doors.”
Gersen and Alice, each carrying a small travel bag, alighted, underwent further examination and search, and were finally issued clearances.
At a wicket marked TANAQUIL LIMITED OMNIBUS SERVICE, Gersen attempted to book passage to Blue Forest Camp aboard the Station Service Flier. The clerk refused to listen to him and pushed back his money “You’ll have to apply to the designated authorities, we’re very keen here on orderly methods.”
