Hard-Luck Diggings: The Early Jack Vance, Volume One Page 12

  He stood stock-still, then hastily draped a towel around his middle. His face suddenly went mottled red and pink. “What are you doing in here?”

  Jean said sweetly, “I came to check on your linen, to see if you needed towels.”

  He made no answer, but stood watching her. He said harshly, “Where have you been this last hour?”

  Jean made a flippant gesture. “Here, there. Were you looking for me?”

  He took a stealthy step forward. “I’ve a good mind to—”

  “To what?” Behind her she fumbled for the door-slide.

  “To—”

  The door opened.

  “Wait,” said Earl. He pushed himself forward.

  Jean slipped out into the corridor, a foot ahead of Earl’s hands.

  “Come back in,” said Earl, making a clutch for her.

  From behind them Mrs. Blaiskell said in a horrified voice, “Well, I never! Mr. Earl!” She had appeared from Mrs. Clara’s room.

  Earl backed into his room hissing unvoiced curses. Jean looked in after him. “The next time you see me, you’ll wish you’d played chess with me.”

  “Jean!” barked Mrs. Blaiskell.

  Jean had no idea what she meant. Her mind raced. Better keep her ideas to herself. “I’ll tell you tomorrow morning.” She laughed mischievously. “About six or six-thirty.”

  “Miss Jean!” cried Mrs. Blaiskell angrily. “Come away from that door this instant!”

  Jean calmed herself in the servants’ refectory with a pot of tea.

  Webbard came in, fat, pompous, and fussy as a hedgehog. He spied Jean and his voice rose to a reedy oboe tone. “Miss, miss!”

  Jean had a trick she knew to be effective, thrusting out her firm young chin, squinting, charging her voice with metal. “Are you looking for me?”

  Webbard said, “Yes, I certainly am. Where on earth—”

  “Well, I’ve been looking for you. Do you want to hear what I’m going to tell you in private or not?”

  Webbard blinked. “Your tone of voice is impudent, miss. If you please—”

  “Okay,” said Jean. “Right here, then. First of all, I’m quitting. I’m going back to Earth. I’m going to see—”

  Webbard held up his hand in alarm, looked around the refectory. Conversation along the tables had come to a halt. A dozen curious eyes were watching.

  The door slid shut behind her. Webbard pressed his rotundity into a chair; magnetic strands in his trousers held him in place. “Now what is all this? I’ll have you know there’ve been serious complaints.”

  Jean said disgustedly, “Tie a can to it, Webbard. Talk sense.”

  Webbard was thunderstruck. “You’re an impudent minx!”

  “Look. Do you want me to tell Earl how I landed the job?”

  Webbard’s face quivered. His mouth fell open; he blinked four or five times rapidly. “You wouldn’t dare to—”

  Jean said patiently, “Forget the master-slave routine for five minutes, Webbard. This is man-to-man talk.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’ve a few questions I want to ask you.”

  “Well?”

  “Tell me about old Mr. Abercrombie, Mrs. Clara’s husband.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. Mr. Justus was a very distinguished gentleman.”

  “He and Mrs. Clara had how many children?”

  “Seven.”

  “And the oldest inherits the station?”

  “The oldest, always the oldest. Mr. Justus believed in firm organization. Of course the other children were guaranteed a home here at the station, those who wished to stay.”

  “And Hugo was the oldest. How long after Mr. Justus did he die?”

  Webbard found the conversation distasteful. “This is all footling nonsense,” he growled in a deep voice. “Two years.”

  “And what happened to him?”

  Webbard said briskly, “He had a stroke. Cardiac complaint. Now what’s all this I hear about your quitting?”

  “And then Earl inherited?”

  Webbard pursed his lips. “Mr. Lionel unfortunately was off the station, and Mr. Earl became legal master.”

  “Rather nice timing, from Earl’s viewpoint.”

  Webbard puffed out his cheeks. “Now then, young lady, we’ve had enough of that! If—”

  “Mr. Webbard, let’s have an understanding once and for all. Either you answer my questions and stop this blustering or I’ll ask someone else. And when I’m done, that someone else will be asking you questions too.”

  Jean turned toward the door. Webbard grunted, thrashed himself forward. Jean gave her arm a shake; out of nowhere a blade of quivering glass appeared in her hand.

  Webbard floundered in alarm, trying to halt his motion through the air. Jean put up her foot, pushed him in the belly, back toward his chair.

  She said, “I want to see a picture of the entire family.”

  “I don’t have any such pictures.”

  Jean shrugged. “I can go to any public library and dial the Who’s-Who.” She looked him over coolly, as she coiled her knife. Webbard shrank back in his chair. Perhaps he thought her a homicidal maniac. Well, she wasn’t a maniac and she wasn’t homicidal either, unless she was driven to it. She asked easily, “Is it a fact that Earl is worth a billion dollars?”

  Webbard snorted. “A billion dollars? Ridiculous! The family owns nothing but the station and lives off the income. A hundred million dollars would build another twice as big and luxurious.”

  “Where did Fotheringay get that figure?” she asked wonderingly.

  “I couldn’t say,” Webbard replied shortly.

  “Where is Lionel now?”

  Webbard pulled his lips in and out desperately. “He’s—resting somewhere along the Riviera.”

  “Hm…You say you don’t have any photographs?”

  Webbard scratched his chin. “I believe that there’s a shot of Lionel…Let me see…Yes, just a moment.” He fumbled in his desk, pawed and peered, and at last came up with a snap-shot. “Mr. Lionel.”

  Jean examined the photograph with interest. “Well, well.” The face in the photograph and the face of the fat man in Earl’s zoological collection were the same. “Well, well.” She looked up sharply. “And what’s his address?”

  “Quit dragging your feet, Webbard.”

  “Oh well—the Villa Passe-temps, Juan-les-Pins.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see your address file. Where is it?”

  Webbard began breathing hard. “Now see here, young lady, there’s serious matters at stake!”

  “Such as what?”

  “Well—” Webbard lowered his voice, glanced conspiratorially at the walls of the room. “It’s common knowledge at the station that Mr. Earl and Mr. Lionel are—well, not friendly. And there’s a rumor—a rumor, mind you—that Mr. Earl has hired a well-known criminal to kill Mr. Lionel.”

  That would be Fotheringay, Jean surmised.

  Webbard continued. “So you see, it’s necessary that I exercise the utmost caution…”

  Jean laughed. “Let’s see that file.”

  The address was: Hotel Atlantide, Apartment 3001, French Colony, Metropolis, Earth.

  Jean memorized the address, then stood irresolutely, trying to think of further questions. Webbard smiled slowly. Jean ignored him, stood nibbling her fingertips. Times like this she felt the inadequacy of her youth. When it came to action—fighting, laughing, spying, playing games, making love—she felt complete assurance. But the sorting out of possibilities and deciding which were probable and which irrational was when she felt less than sure. Such as now…Old Webbard, the fat blob, had calmed himself and was gloating. Well, let him enjoy himself…She had to get to Earth. She had to see Lionel Abercrombie. Possibly Fotheringay had been hired to kill him, possibly not. Possibly Fotheringay knew where to find him, possibly not. Webbard knew Fotheringay; probably he had served as Earl’s intermediary. Or possibly Webbard was performing some intricate evolutions
of his own. It was plain that, now, her interests were joined with Lionel’s, rather than Fotheringay’s, because marrying Earl was clearly out of the question. Lionel must stay alive. If this meant double-crossing Fotheringay, too bad for Fotheringay. He could have told her more about Earl’s ‘zoological collection’ before he sent her up to marry Earl…Of course, she told herself, Fotheringay would have no means of knowing the peculiar use Earl made of his specimens.

  “Well?” asked Webbard with an unpleasant grin.

  “When does the next ship leave for Earth?”

  “The supply barge is heading back tonight.”

  “That’s fine. If I can fight off the pilot. You can pay me now.”

  “Pay you? You’ve only done a day’s work. You owe the station for transportation, your uniform, your meals—”

  “Oh, never mind.” Jean turned, pulled herself into the corridor, went to her room, packed her belongings.

  Mrs. Blaiskell pushed her head through the door. “Oh, there you are…” She sniffed. “Mr. Earl has been inquiring for you. He wants to see you at once.” It was plain that she disapproved.

  “Sure,” said Jean. “Right away.”

  Mrs. Blaiskell departed.

  Jean pushed herself along the corridor to the loading deck. The barge pilot was assisting in the loading of some empty metal drums. He saw Jean and his face changed. “You again?”

  “I’m going back to Earth with you. You were right. I don’t like it here.”

  The pilot nodded sourly. “This time you ride in the storage. That way neither of us gets hurt…I couldn’t promise a thing if you’re up forward.”

  “Suits me,” said Jean. “I’m going aboard.”

  When Jean reached the Hotel Atlantide in Metropolis she wore a black dress and black pumps which she felt made her look older and more sophisticated. Crossing the lobby she kept wary look-out for the house detective. Sometimes they nursed unkind suspicions toward unaccompanied young girls. It was best to avoid the police, keep them at a distance. When they found that she had no father, no mother, no guardian, their minds were apt to turn to some dreary government institution. On several occasions rather extreme measures to ensure her independence had been necessary.

  But the Hotel Atlantide detective took no heed of the black-haired girl quietly crossing the lobby, if he saw her at all. The lift attendant observed that she seemed restless, as with either a great deal of pent enthusiasm or nervousness. A porter on the thirtieth floor noticed her searching for an apartment number and mentally labelled her a person unfamiliar with the hotel. A chambermaid watched her press the bell at Apartment 3001, saw the door open, saw the girl jerk back in surprise, then slowly enter the apartment. Strange, thought the chambermaid, and speculated mildly for a few moments. Then she went to recharge the foam dispensers in the public bathrooms, and the incident passed from her mind.

  The apartment was spacious, elegant, expensive. Windows overlooked Central Gardens and the Morison Hall of Equity behind. The furnishings were the work of a professional decorator, harmonious and sterile; a few incidental objects around the room, however, hinted of a woman’s presence. But Jean saw no woman. There was only herself and Fotheringay.

  After an instant of surprise he stood back. “Come in.”

  Jean darted glances around the room, half-expecting a fat crumpled body. But possibly Lionel had not been at home, and Fotheringay was waiting.

  “Well,” he asked, “what brings you here?” He was watching her covertly. “Take a seat.”

  Jean sank into a chair, chewed at her lip. Fotheringay watched her cat-like. Walk carefully. She prodded her mind. What legitimate excuse did she have for visiting Lionel? Perhaps Fotheringay had expected her to double-cross him…Where was Hammond? Her neck tingled. Eyes were on her neck. She looked around quickly.

  Someone in the hall tried to dodge out of sight. Not quickly enough. Inside Jean’s brain a film of ignorance broke to release a warm soothing flood of knowledge.

  She smiled, her sharp white little teeth showing between her lips. It had been a fat woman whom she had seen in the hall, a very fat woman, rosy, flushed, quivering.

  “What are you smiling at?” inquired Fotheringay.

  She used his own technique. “Are you wondering who gave me your address?”

  “Obviously Webbard.”

  Jean nodded. “Is the lady your wife?”

  Fotheringay’s chin raised a hair’s-breadth. “Get to the point.”

  “Very well.” She hitched herself forward. There was still a possibility that she was making a terrible mistake, but the risk must be taken. Questions would reveal her uncertainty, diminish her bargaining position. “How much money can you raise—right now? Cash.”

  “Ten or twenty thousand.”

  Her face must have showed disappointment.

  “Not enough?”

  “No. You sent me on a bum steer.”

  Fotheringay sat silently.

  “Earl would no more make a pass at me than bite off his tongue. His taste in women is—like yours.”

  Fotheringay displayed no irritation. “But two years ago—”

  “There’s a reason for that.” She raised her eyebrows ruefully. “Not a nice reason.”

  “Well, get on with it.”

  “He liked Earth girls because they were freaks. In his opinion, naturally. Earl likes freaks.”

  Fotheringay rubbed his chin, watching her with blank wide eyes. “I never thought of that.”

  “Your scheme might have worked out if Earl were half-way right-side up. But I just don’t have what it takes.”

  Fotheringay smiled frostily. “You didn’t come here to tell me that.”

  “No. I know how Lionel Abercrombie can get the station for himself…Of course your name is Fotheringay.”

  “If my name is Fotheringay, why did you come here looking for me?”

  Jean laughed, a gay ringing laugh. “Why do you think I’m looking for you? I’m looking for Lionel Abercrombie. Fotheringay is no use to me unless I can marry Earl. I can’t. I haven’t got enough of that stuff. Now I’m looking for Lionel Abercrombie.”

  VIII

  Fotheringay tapped a well-manicured finger on a well-flanneled knee, and said quietly, “I’m Lionel Abercrombie.”

  “How do I know you are?”

  He tossed her a passport. She glanced at it, tossed it back.

  “Okay. Now—you have twenty thousand. That’s not enough. I want two million…If you haven’t got it, you haven’t got it. I’m not unreasonable. But I want to make sure I get it when you do have it…So—you’ll write me a deed, a bill of sale, something legal that gives me your interest in Abercrombie Station. I’ll agree to sell it back to you for two million dollars.”

  Fotheringay shook his head. “That kind of agreement is binding on me but not on you. You’re a minor.”

  Jean said, “The sooner I get clear of Abercrombie the better. I’m not greedy. You can have your billion dollars. I merely want two million…Incidentally, how do you figure a billion? Webbard says the whole set-up is only worth a hundred million.”

  Lionel’s mouth twisted in a wintry smile. “Webbard didn’t include the holdings of the Abercrombie guests. Some very rich people are fat. The fatter they get, the less they like life on Earth.”

  “They could always move to another resort station.”

  Lionel shook his head. “It’s not the same atmosphere. Abercrombie is Fatman’s World. The one small spot in all the universe where a fat man is proud of his weight.” There was a wistful overtone in his voice.

  Jean said softly, “And you’re lonesome for Abercrombie yourself.”

  Lionel smiled grimly. “Is that so strange?”

  Jean shifted in her chair. “Now we’ll go to a lawyer. I know a good one. Richard Mycroft. I want this deed drawn up without loopholes. Maybe I’ll have to find myself a guardian, a trustee.”

  “You don’t need a guardian.”

  Jean smiled complacently. �
��For a fact, I don’t.”

  “You still haven’t told me what this project consists of.”

  “I’ll tell you when I have the deed. You don’t lose a thing giving away property you don’t own. And after you give it away, it’s to my interest to help you get it.”

  Lionel rose to his feet. “It had better be good.”

  “It will be.”

  The fat woman came into the room. She was obviously an Earth girl, bewildered and delighted by Lionel’s attentions. Looking at Jean her face became clouded with jealousy.

  Out in the corridor Jean said wisely, “You get her up to Abercrombie, she’ll be throwing you over for one of those fat rascals.”

  “Shut up!” said Lionel, in a voice like the whetting of a scythe.

  The pilot of the supply barge said sullenly, “I don’t know about this.”

  The pilot muttered churlishly, but made no further protest. Lionel buckled himself into the seat beside him. Jean, the horse-faced man named Hammond, two elderly men of professional aspect and uneasy manner settled themselves in the cargo hold.

  The barge landed on the cargo deck, the handlers tugged it into its socket, the port sighed open.

  “Come on,” said Lionel. “Make it fast. Let’s get it over with.” He tapped Jean’s shoulder. “You’re first.”

  She led the way up the main core. Fat guests floated down past them, light and round as soap-bubbles, their faces masks of surprise at the sight of so many bone-people.

  Up the core, along the vinculum into the Abercrombie private sphere. They passed the Pleasaunce, where Jean caught a glimpse of Mrs. Clara, fat as a blutwurst, with the obsequious Webbard.

  They passed Mrs. Blaiskell. “Why, Mr. Lionel!” she gasped. “Well, I never, I never!”

  Lionel brushed past. Jean, looking over her shoulder into his face, felt a qualm. Something dark smouldered in his eyes. Triumph, malice, vindication, cruelty. Something not quite human. If nothing else, Jean was extremely human, and was wont to feel uneasy in the presence of out-world life…She felt uneasy now.

  “Hurry,” came Lionel’s voice. “Hurry.”