Commander Abrams disengaged himself from an assistant secretary (Brechdan sympathized; that fellow was the dreariest of Oliveira’s entire retinue) and saluted the Councillor. “May I serve the Hand?”
“Never mind ceremony, Max,” Hauksberg said in Eriau. “We’re not talking business tonight. Merely sounding each other out away from protocol and recorders. Please explain your intentions here.”
“Give what facts I have and my opinions for whatever they are worth, if anyone asks,” Abrams drawled. “I don’t expect I’ll be called on very often.”
“Then why did you come, Commander?” Brechdan gave him his title, which he had not bothered to do for Hauksberg.
“Well, Hand, I did hope to ask a good many questions.”
“Sit down,” Hauksberg invited.
Abrams said, “With the Hand’s leave?”
Brechdan touched a finger to his brow, feeling sure the other would understand. He felt a higher and higher regard for this man, which meant Abrams must be watched closer than anyone else.
The officer plumped his broad bottom into a chair. “I thank the Hand.” He lifted a glass of whisky-and-soda to them, sipped, and said: “We really know so little on Terra about you. I couldn’t tell you how many Merseiological volumes are in the archives, but no matter; they can’t possibly contain more than a fraction of the truth. Could well be we misinterpret you on any number of important points.”
“You have your Embassy,” Brechdan reminded him. “The staff includes xenologists.”
“Not enough, Hand. Not by a cometary orbit. And in any event, most of what they do learn is irrelevant at my level. With your permission, I’d like to talk freely with a lot of different Merseians. Please keep those talks surveyed, to avoid any appearance of evil.” Brechdan and Abrams exchanged a grin. “Also, I’d like access to your libraries, journals, whatever is public information as far as you’re concerned but may not have reached Terra.”
“Have you any specific problems in mind? I will help if I can.”
“The Hand is most gracious. I’ll mention just one typical point. It puzzles me, I’ve ransacked our files and turned researchers loose on it myself, and still haven’t found an answer. How did Merseia come upon Starkad in the first place?”
Brechdan stiffened. “Exploring the region,” he said curtly. “Unclaimed space is free to all ships.”
“But suddenly, Hand, there you were, active on the confounded planet. Precisely how did you happen to get interested?”
Brechdan took a moment to organize his reply. “Your people went through that region rather superficially in the old days,” he said. “We are less eager for commercial profit than the Polesotechnic League was, and more eager for knowledge, so we mounted a systematic survey. The entry for Saxo, in your pilot’s manual, made Starkad seem worth thorough study. After all, we too are attracted by planets with free oxygen and liquid water, be they ever so inhospitable otherwise. We found a situation which needed correction, and proceeded to send a mission. Inevitably, ships in the Betelgeuse trade noted frequent wakes near Saxo. Terran units investigated, and the present unhappy state of affairs developed.”
“Hm.” Abrams looked into his glass. “I thank the Hand. But it’d be nice to have more details. Maybe, buried somewhere among them, is a clue to something our side has misunderstood—semantic and cultural barrier, not so?”
“I doubt that,” Brechdan said. “You are welcome to conduct inquiries, but on this subject you will waste your energy. There may not even be a record of the first several Merseian expeditions to the Saxo vicinity. We are not as concerned to put everything on tape as you.”
Sensing his coldness, Hauksberg hastened to change the subject. Conversation petered out in banalities. Brechdan made his excuses and departed before midnight.
A good opponent, Abrams, he thought. Too good for my peace of mind. He is definitely the one on whom to concentrate attention.
Or is he? Would a genuinely competent spy look formidable? He could be a—yes, they call it a stalking horse—for someone or something else. Then again, that may be what he wants me to think.
Brechdan chuckled. This regression could go on forever. And it was not his business to play watchbeast. The supply of security officers was ample. Every move that every Terran made, outside the Embassy which they kept bugproof with annoying ingenuity, was observed as a matter of course.
Still, he was about to see in person an individual Intelligence agent, one who was important enough to have been sent especially to Starkad and especially returned when wily old Runei decided he could be more valuable at home. Dwyr the Hook might carry information worthy of the Council president’s direct hearing. After which Brechdan could give him fresh orders …
In the icy fluorescence of an otherwise empty office, the thing waited. Once it had been Merseian and young. The lower face remained, as a mask rebuilt by surgery; part of the torso; left arm and right stump. The rest was machine.
Its biped frame executed a surprisingly smooth salute. At such close quarters Brechdan, who had keen ears, could barely discern the hum from within. Power coursed out of capacitors which need not be recharged for several days, even under strenuous use: out through microminiaturized assemblies that together formed a body. “Service to my overlord.” A faint metal tone rang in the voice.
Brechdan responded in honor. He did not know if he would have had the courage to stay alive so amputated. “Well met, Arlech Dwyr. At ease.”
“The Hand of the Vach Ynvory desired my presence?”
“Yes, yes.” Brechdan waved impatiently. “Let us have no more etiquette. I’m fed to the occiput with it. Apology that I kept you waiting, but before I could talk meaningfully about those Terrans I must needs encounter them for myself. Now then, you worked on the staff of Fodaich Runei’s Intelligence corps as well as in the field, did you not? So you are conversant both with collated data and with the problems of gathering information in the first place. Good. Tell me in your own words why you were ordered back.”
“Hand,” said the voice, “as an operative, I was useful but not indispensable. The one mission which I and no other might have carried out, failed: to burgle the office of the Terran chief of Intelligence.”
“You expected success?” Brechdan hadn’t known Dwyr was that good.
“Yes, Hand. I can be equipped with electromagnetic sensors and transducers, to feel out a hidden circuit. In addition, I have developed an empathy with machines. I can be aware, on a level below consciousness, of what they are about to do, and adjust my behavior accordingly. It is analogous to my former perception, the normal one, of nuances in expression, tone, stance on the part of fellow Merseians whom I knew intimately. Thus I could have opened the door without triggering an alarm. Unfortunately, and unexpectedly, living guards were posted. In physical strength, speed, and agility, this body is inferior to what I formerly had. I could not have killed them unbeknownst to their mates.”
“Do you think Abrams knows about you?” Brechdan asked sharply.
“No, Hand. Evidence indicates he is ultra-cautious by habit. Those Terrans who damaged me later in the jungle got no good look at me. I did glimpse Abrams in companionship with the other, Hauksberg. This led us to suspect early that he would accompany the delegation to Merseia, no doubt in the hope of conducting espionage. Because of my special capabilities, and my acquaintance with Abrams’ working methods, Fodaich Runei felt I should go ahead of the Terrans and await their arrival.”