“It was a ‘model city’ before the war.” She saw that the government man was the one who had caught her arms; he released her noncommittally. “It used to be a gamin' center. Now we play more practical games; most of those towers belong to merchant groups.” The man unlatched his helmet, lifting it off and looking at her expectantly. “The air's okay here.”
She reached up only to switch on her outside speaker; her skin prickled, wanting the touch of his eyes. “Thank you” —she tried to sound unsure—“but I'll wait.” Shadow Jack, speakerless, stood looking out into the city, sullenly content to play deaf and dumb. “Can you tell us which of those belongs to someone who can sell us hydrogen?”
“Hydrogen?” His wandering glance leaped back to her shielded face. “I thought you'd want air. Or water.”
“We do. We need water—we have oxygen. So we need hydrogen, obviously.” Rusty yowled; she closed her ears.
“Oh.” His face relaxed into acceptance. “Obviously.… You know, it's not often that I meet a woman who's chosen to go into space. Is it common on Lansing?”
“Going into space isn't common on Lansing, anymore.” Betha remembered suddenly that the stranger's golden-brown eyes belonged to the enemy. “If you could just point out the distillery offices for me?”
“Down there”—he pointed—“that cluster of long greens on the floor; lot of offices for the distilleries in that bunch. Tiriki, Flynn, Siamang …”
“Distilleries? There's more than one?” Should I have known? She swore under her breath.
“Sure are.” But he smiled, tolerantly. “This is the Demarchy, the people rule; we don't like monopolistic practices. It infringes on the people, they won't stand for it.… I know—let me take you around.”
“No, really—”
“It's the least I can do, when you've come this far.” He put two fingers into his mouth and whistled shrilly, three times. She flinched; he turned back to her, surprising her with a quick, apologetic bow. “That's how you call a taxi here, now. Mecca's manners are going to hell.… Heaven is going to hell.” He laughed oddly, as if he hadn't expected to say it out loud. “I'm from Toledo, myself.”
“What—ah—did you say you do for the government?” She looked away uneasily across the ledge. The woman from the train had disappeared. Why is he staying with us like this?
“I'm a negotiator. I try to keep things from getting any more uncivilized than they already are.” Again the quick, pained laugh. “I settle disputes, work out trade agreements … look into unexpected visits.”
She almost turned, froze as she saw the cameramen from moorage emerge from the tunnel. “Shadow Jack!” She caught his arm. “Stay with me, don't get separated.”
The voices closed in on them, “… in that run-down ship?”
“Who are you making your deal with?”
“How much—”
“What do you have—”
Mediamen and staring locals crowded them, ringed them in, jostling and interrupting. She saw the government man elbowed aside as the air taxi drifted up to the ledge, grating to a stop. She pushed toward it, gesturing to Shadow Jack. It was canopied and propeller-driven, steered by hand by a bored-looking, well-dressed boy. “Where to?”
“To—to Tiriki's. And hurry.” She ducked her head at the edge of the striped canopy, felt the footing bob beneath her in a sea of air, seeing crystals reflecting above and below. Shadow Jack followed. The taxi sank outward and down, away from the grasping mob on the precipice.
“… Torgussen!” She heard the government man shouting after her.
She looked back; her hands rose to her helmet, fumbling, pulled it off. She saw his face change with surprise … recognition … loss.… Stop it! There was no resemblance, there could be no recognition … Eric is dead! She clung to a canopy pole, feeling the air currents stir her pale, snarled hair, soothe her burning face. Oh, God, how often will this happen? Shadow Jack hung over the edge, looking down, up, sideways, as they passed the artificial sun caged in glass suspended in the cavern's center. Slowly she sank onto a seat, forcing her own senses to absorb her surroundings, jamming the echoes of the past.
The cavern was filled with sound, merging and indistinct: laughter, shouting, the beehive hum of unseen mechanisms. She looked ahead, aware now of subtle differences of richness and elaboration among the massed towers; of balconies set at insane angles; of dark hollows in the bedrock walls, tunnels to exclusive homes. And gradually she became aware of the mingling of spices that perfumed the cool filtered air; she breathed deeply, tasting it, savoring it, easing her stuffy head. Unimpressed, the driver stared through her at the emerald pinnacle of their destination.
They pushed through the soft elastic mouth of the roof entrance, into a long empty corridor stretching twenty-five meters down to the building's base on rock. Betha began to sink toward it, almost imperceptibly, and with no sensation of falling; they began to pass doorways. Shadow Jack unlatched his helmet, pulled it off and shook his head. She heard him take a deep breath. “Where are we?” His hair was plastered like streamers over his wet face; he wiped it back with a gloved hand.
“Tiriki Distillates. The man from the train suggested it.” She hesitated, not wanting to tell him what she suspected.
“Bastards.” His mouth pulled back. “I'd like to see this place blow up. They wouldn't be so—” Anger choked him.
Betha watched him, feeling sorrow edged with annoyance. She reached out; her glove pressed the soft, resistant covering on his shoulder. “I know how you feel … I know. But so did the people in that train car. Take the chip off your shoulder, right now, or I'll knock it off myself: I can't afford it. I want something from these people, and so do you, and it's a hell of a lot more important than what either one of us feels. So put a sweet smile on your face while we make this deal, and keep it there if it gags you.” Somewhere the memory broke loose: “‘Smile and smile … and be a villain.’” She smiled, breathing the cool scented air, and willed his eyes to meet hers. Slowly he raised his head; as he looked at her, for the first time, she saw him smile.
Someone pushed through a doorway almost at her side. He caught the flap, looking at her with frank disbelief.
She rubbed her unwashed face, embarrassed. “We'd like to negotiate for a load of hydrogen. Can you tell us who to see?”
A mask of propriety formed. “Of course. Sure. At the far end of the hall, the Purchasing Department. And thanks for doing business with Tiriki.” He ducked his head formally and moved past them, pushing off from wall to wall, rising like a swimmer through the brightening sea-green light. They went on down, into the depths.
“Look at this rag.” They heard the voice before they reached the doorway. “What do they know about it? They don't know a damn thing.”
“No, Esrom.”
Betha brushed aside the flaps and they went in, wearing smiles rigid with tension.
“I could do better myself. That's what we ought to do, do it ourselves. We ought to hire some mediamen and put out our own paper—”
“Yes, Esrom.”
“—tell them our side. Look here, Sia, ‘monopolistic’ …”