It started practically before we'd even gotten our feet on the ground, with the spaceport director himself greeting us at the Bellwether's gatelock as we disembarked. He bubbled a message of greeting tinged with nervous awe, led us through an artificially brief customs ritual, and then escorted us across the terminal to the connecting hotel. The three best suites, we found, had already been reserved for us, as had the most secure meeting/privacy room on the lobby level. Randon left a message with the hotel registrar to be transmitted to the local HTI office, and we retired to our rooms.
Even then, the HTI people showed their expertise in such matters, giving us a half-hour to relax and readjust to groundfall before arriving at the hotel.
—
They were sitting at one end of the polished gemrock table as we entered the privacy room: two men, one dark and almost too young, with a slightly overformal black and burgundy capelet draped carefully over his tunic; the other older and graying, with a sense of long tiredness hanging on his shoulders as visibly as his physician's white capelet. On the table before the younger man sat an open computer, humming faintly. "Good day to you," Randon nodded as they rose to their feet at our approach. "I'm Randon Kelsey-Ramos of the Carillon Group; you must be our HTI hosts."
"Good day to you as well, sir," the younger man said with a nod that was as formal as his capelet. His dark eyes flicked to me, the sense of him shifting from stiff and grudging politeness to animosity as he did so. "I'm Sahm Aikman—HTI legal affairs department," he continued, eyes shifting back to Randon. "This is my colleague, Dr. Kurt DeMont—" he gestured, the muscles of his hand as taut as the rest of him—"who handles the various medical aspects of the Solitaire run."
DeMont's eyes came back to Randon from their uneasy study of me and he nodded his own greeting. "Mr. Kelsey-Ramos," he said gravely. His eyes shifted again to me, and I sensed a surge of boldness peek through, as if he were considering speaking to me directly. But caution and protocol prevailed, the boldness withered, and he remained silent.
All of which would have been abundant proof, if I'd needed any, that the message O'Rielly had sent here had included the fact that Randon might be bringing his father's Watcher along. But they weren't quite sure yet...
"Pleased to meet you," Randon said, nodding acknowledgment of the introductions. He, too, had picked up on their interest in me; equally clear was the fact that he intended to draw out their uncertainties as far as he could. "May I say, first of all, that I appreciate your getting all the accommodations trivia out of the way—it certainly made life easier for my aides." He waved vaguely in my direction; like magic, both sets of eyes shifted to me. The gesture shifted smoothly, Randon's hand ending up pointing at the computer sitting on the table. "You've brought me copies of your records?"
"Uh, yes, sir," Aikman said, shifting gears with visible effort, his attention lingering on me for a second after his eyes had gone back to Randon. Standard business etiquette said that entourages like me were to be ignored in direct address until and unless they were formally introduced, and Randon's deliberate failure to do so was beginning to irritate him. "I thought we could take a few minutes to go through them now, if you're willing."
"You have all HTI's records here?" Randon asked.
"Oh, no—just those involving shipment through Whitecliff," Aikman said. "The complete records are of course kept only in the Solitaire office."
"Ah," Randon nodded. "Well, then, I think I'll pass. Not much sense in spending time studying one corner of the painting when I'll get to see the whole thing in a couple of days, is there?"
A flicker of surprise touched both men, followed immediately by annoyance in different degrees. I gathered the local HTI office had gone to some effort to gather the records into easily digested form, and Aikman in particular was clearly put out at Randon's casual dismissal of all that work. "As you wish, Mr. Kelsey-Ramos," he said, managing to keep his voice civil. "In that case—"
"What I'd rather do," Randon interrupted him, "is see what kind of night life Whitecliff has. I presume it does have some?"
Another flicker of surprise. DeMont recovered first. "Oh, certainly," he said. "Nothing like what you're used to on Portslava, I don't suppose, but enjoyable in its own way. Here in Alabaster City, particularly, we have a wide mix of different entertainments."
"Yes, port cities tend to be that way," Randon nodded. "Though I certainly wouldn't like to think I'm too much of a snob to enjoy something new. You'll both be my guests, of course?"
Aikman and DeMont exchanged glances. Clearly, Randon wasn't fitting into their expectations, and they weren't entirely sure how to handle him. "We'd be honored to serve as your guides, Mr. Kelsey-Ramos," Aikman said diplomatically.
"Excellent," Randon said with a smile. "I'll have to bring a couple of my shields along, too, of course. Company policy, I'm afraid."
"Understandable," Aikman nodded. "Well, then, whenever you're ready—"
"Oh, and Mr. Benedar will be coming, too," Randon said blandly, gesturing a hand toward me. "I'm sorry; I've been remiss, haven't I? Mr. Aikman, Dr. DeMont—Gilead Raca Benedar."
It was a game on Randon's part, of course—nothing more or less than a way to suddenly spring my name and Watcher status on them and force a reaction. Certainly he had no interest in trying to carouse through Alabaster City's night life with someone he considered a religious fanatic hovering disdainfully in the background. My own interest in playing that role was equally microscopic.
But Aikman and DeMont didn't know that. "Mr. Benedar," Aikman said in acknowledgment, his formal stiffness turning abruptly rigid. "Mr. Kelsey-Ramos... with due respect for your position, I'd like to suggest that it would be best if your associate remains behind."
"Oh?" Randon asked, almost innocently. "Is there a problem, Mr. Aikman?"
Aikman locked eyes with him. "To put it bluntly, sir, Watchers aren't especially welcome in Alabaster City."
Randon met his gaze steadily. "I understood the Watchers have a settlement here on Whitecliff."
"I'm sure he'd be welcome there," Aikman countered. "But not anywhere else on the planet."
For a long moment the room was silent; silent with heavy discomfort from DeMont, with almost calm calculation from Randon, with black hatred from Aikman. I lie surrounded by lions, greedy for human prey...
An icy shiver ran up my back. I'd encountered hatred before—Watchers who left their settlements couldn't avoid running into it these days. We'd been barely tolerated before Aaron Balaam darMaupine and his followers had come on the scene; now, two decades later, feeling against us was still running high. There was hatred everywhere—unthinking hatred, frightened hatred, even inherited hatred. But Aikman's hatred was different. Cold, almost intellectual, it had far less actual emotion simmering beneath it than it ought to have had.
God had given mankind intellect, one of my teachers had once said, and the Fall had given him prejudice; and there was no human force more dangerous than a combination of the two.
Randon broke the brittle silence first. "I seem to remember, Mr. Aikman," he said, choosing his words deliberately, "that one of the chief cornerstones of the original Patri Articles was the banning of religious discrimination in the Patri and in all future colony worlds. I was unaware that policy had been repealed."
The words were indignant enough; the emotions beneath them far less so. Randon's father, I knew, would have felt automatic anger at such a brazen display of discrimination, but Randon's own world view wasn't set up that way. To him, I was less a human being than a tool with useful properties. But that didn't prevent him from using my humanity to score a few points in this psychological trapshoot he had needled Aikman into playing.