Galway frowned back. "Umm. Maybe you mean General Lepkowski? He was in command of this sector when it fell."
"Could be. I remember thinking the name was Vladimirian sounding."
"Seems to me Lepkowski was from Vladimir, come to think of it. But I'm afraid you're out of luck again—he died during the war."
Caine's stomach knotted. "You sure?" he asked as casually as possible.
"Yes. He was caught in his command center when the Groundfire attack demolished it, or so the story goes." Galway paused, as if thinking. "I don't know anyone else off hand who might have the kind of information you're looking for. A lot of people here lived through the war—I did, myself—but none of them knew much about the big picture."
"Well, maybe I'll look some of them up anyway." For the first time Caine noticed a slight tightness in his chest and a faint rasping in his voice. "I should be able to get something out of it—the little guy's point of view, maybe."
"What's wrong with your voice?" Galway asked abruptly. His hand, which had been reaching for the elevator call button, moved instead to a supportive grip on Caine's arm, and he frowned into the other's face.
"I don't know." The rasp was getting louder, and the first stabs of pain were beginning to intrude on Caine's breathing.
"I do." Still holding Caine's arm, the prefect half led, half dragged him to a refreshment station at the end of the corridor. With one hand he dialed for a cup of water; with the other he deftly reached into Caine's jacket pocket and pulled out the vial of pills. Handing Caine the water, he glanced at the vial's label and tapped two of the capsules into his hand. "Take these," he ordered.
Caine did so. He very much wanted to sit down, but there were no chairs or benches in the hallway and Galway didn't seem inclined to help him into one of the nearby offices. Fortunately, though, the medicine worked fast, and within a few minutes he was able to let go of Galway's arm. "I'm okay now," he nodded, taking an experimental breath. The pain was gone, the rasping nearly so. "Thanks."
"My pleasure." He handed Caine the vial. "I'd assumed you'd taken your medicine before landing, or I would've had you do it when you went through customs. I presume you'll be less forgetful in the future."
"You bet," Caine assured him. "What the hell was that, anyway?"
"Tormatyse asthma. Affects about three percent of the offworlders that come here. It's caused by something in the air—I'm not sure what—but it's pretty harmless as long as you take a daily dose of histrophyne. You feel ready to travel yet?"
"Sure."
Galway led the way back to the elevators, and minutes later Caine was standing by the building's main entrance, a thick packet in his hand. "Your luggage should already be in your hotel room," Galway told him. "We only have one guest hotel in the Hub—the Coronet—so I took the liberty of sending your things there."
"Fine." They'd no doubt searched his things en route, but there wasn't anything incriminating for them to find. As far as Caine was concerned, the sooner Security came to the conclusion that Alain Rienzi was an honest—if not overly bright—member of the government, the better. "Thanks for all your help, Prefect. I expect I'll be seeing you again."
Galway smiled. "Very likely. Enjoy your stay, Mr. Rienzi."
The Coronet, while probably run-of-the-mill as government hotels went, was the most luxurious Caine had ever seen. His room boasted a full-sized bed with sleepset and fantistim attachments, a private bathroom, room service conveyor, and an entertainment center that even included a computer terminal.
He unpacked carefully, storing his clothing in the walk-in closet and the drawers built into the bed frame. As he worked he kept an eye out for hidden cameras or bugs, but didn't spot any. Not that it mattered—he knew the bugs were there somewhere, but he wouldn't be doing any important work in the room, anyway.
His unpacking finished, he looked over the menu list by the phone and called down an order. Then, kicking off his half-boots, he sprawled face-down across the bed, a wave of fatigue rolling over him. Outside, Plinry's sun was only halfway from zenith to horizon; mid-afternoon of a thirty-hour day. But Caine's biological clock was still set on ship's time, and for him it was already approaching midnight. He could run another hour or two on nervous energy, if necessary, but there seemed no point to that. Morning would be early enough to get to work.
Rolling over, he propped up his head with the pillow and reviewed his situation. His identity as Alain Rienzi, at least, should be rock-solid now, especially after that asthma attack. The pills had been clearly issued on Rienzi's medical profile, something Prefect Galway was bound to have noticed. How Marinos back on Earth had managed to switch those records—or how he'd had the foresight to do so in the first place—Caine couldn't imagine. But it had worked out well, and it should have allayed any suspicions Galway might have had.
Galway. Caine shifted uncomfortably as he tried to form a coherent picture of the man. The slightly pompous, slightly fawning, slightly bumbling image that had been Caine's first impression was sharply inconsistent with the prefect's actions during the asthma attack. He'd made a fast, correct diagnosis and had followed up on it without a single wasted motion—even to remembering exactly where Caine had put his pills. A competent, confident man... who had tried very hard to give the wrong impression of himself. Why? Did he normally play this game with visitors, or was Caine a special case? At this point there was no telling, but it made Caine uneasy. Perhaps, he thought, it was supposed to.
A soft chime made him start, and it took a second for him to realize the sound was just the herald of his dinner tray. Getting up, he retrieved it from the conveyor and took it across the room to where a table and chair were automatically folding down from the wall, presumably keyed by the chime.
The food was foreign to him but good nonetheless, and as he ate his spirits revived somewhat. The mission had hardly started, true; but then, he'd already come farther than he'd expected to. He'd reached Plinry, had safely penetrated enemy territory, and had established an excuse to go wandering around asking questions of Capstone's citizens. From his fourth-floor window, he could just see the top of the gray wall that separated the Hub from the rest of the city, and raising his glass to his lips he silently gave a toast to those on the far side. Even if General Lepkowski were truly dead, the common people had surely organized an underground against the Ryqril and the Hub.
Tomorrow he would go out and find it.
CHAPTER 3
The director of the Archives Division was a young-looking woman whose eyes nonetheless showed the evidence of great age. She was severe, unsmiling, and as protective of her records as a mother bear. "There are no exceptions, Mr. Rienzi," she told Caine firmly. "I really can't make it any clearer. I'm sorry."
She didn't look sorry, and Caine wasn't especially surprised he'd lost his bid. But he'd had to make the effort. "Okay. I understand, I guess. Thanks anyway."
He headed out again into the early morning sunlight. Already the Hub was bustling with activity; Plinrians seemed to take their work seriously. Finding a bench near the Records Building, Caine sat down and consulted the map of Capstone that Galway had given him. He was itching to go outside the wall and start looking for the underground, but first he had to spend a few hours researching his "book" with various government officials in the Hub. A waste of time, of course, but it would look strange if he didn't start his research at the top before moving down to the bottom of society. If someone was actually watching him, that is—and someone probably was.