Dartagnan began a grin, heard footsteps in the hall, and felt his face lose all expression again. He drew his aching leg off of the cot, positioned it gingerly on the floor. He stood up, and was suddenly afraid to move.
Olefin leaned past him, pulled a long t-barred pole from under the cot, and held it out. Chaim saw that the ends were wrapped in rags. “Here,” Olefin said, “use my crutch. I fell down the goddamned steps in the dark when I first got here.”
Chaim finished the grin this time, as Siamang arrived in the doorway, his helmet under his arm. Dartagnan's eyes moved from Olefin's face to Siamang's. He realized suddenly that he had made his decision. He bowed.
Siamang bowed to them in return, his gaze shielded by propriety. “I trust I haven't inconvenienced you, Demarch Sekka-Olefin. I'm sure you want to make your repairs and get off of this miserable planet as soon as possible.” He chafed his arms through his suit. “My pilot tells me we'll have to lift off before sunset, ourselves; our storage batteries are getting low from trying to maintain temperatures in the ship. But I've got good news—permission to do whatever' s necessary to reach an agreement with you about that software.” A gleam like a splinter of ice escaped his eyes. Dartagnan tried to see whether his pupils were dilated, couldn't.
“Good, then.” Olefin nodded. “Maybe we can discuss business matters further, after all.”
“My hope as well. But first—if you don't mind—I would like to take a look at what we're going to be bargaining for.”
Olefin looked vaguely surprised; Dartagnan wondered what Siamang thought he could tell simply by looking at program spools. Olefin shrugged. “If you don't mind going back out into the ‘weather’, Demarch Siamang. I've got them aboard the Esso Bee.”
Siamang grimaced. “That's what I was afraid of. But yes, I'd still like to see them.”
They made their way across the shifting, slatey dust to the base of Olefin's landing craft. Dartagnan stopped, staring at the ladder that climbed the mass of the solid-fuel module between jutting pod-feet. His muscles twitched with fatigue, his ankle screamed abuse along the corridors of his nerves.
Siamang looked at his upturned faceplate. “You'll never make it up there, Red.” Siamang's voice inside his helmet was oddly unperturbed, and slurred, very slightly. “Don't worry about it, you've got plenty of film footage. Just record the audio… and worry about how you'll get back on board our own ship.” Siamang's glove closed lightly on his shoulder, good-humoredly, unexpectedly. Startled, he watched them climb the ladder and disappear through the lock.
Dartagnan settled on a rung of the ladder, grateful that for now at least the atmosphere was at rest, and kept its own invisible hands off of him. The sun was dropping down from its zenith in the ultramarine shell of the sky; he noticed tiny flecks of gauzy white sticking to the flawless, sapphire purity of blue, very high up. He realized he was seeing clouds from below. He began to shiver, wondering when the others would finish their business, and whether it would be before he froze to death. Their cautious haggling droned on, filling his ears; he began to feel sleepy under the anesthetic of cold.…
He shook his head abruptly, stood up, waking himself with pain. He realized then that the ghost-conversation inside his helmet was no longer either droning or polite; heard Siamang threatening: “This's my last offer. Olefin. I advise you to take it, or I'll have to—”
“Put it away, Siamang. Threats don't work with me. I've been around too long—”
Dartagnan heard vague, disassociated noises, a cry, a thud. And finally, Siamang's voice: “Olefin. Olefin?” Numbed with another kind of coldness, Chaim focused his camera on the hatchway, and waited.
Siamang appeared, dragging Olefin's limp, suited form. He gave it a push; Dartagnan stumbled back as it dropped like a projectile to the dust in front of him, to lie twisted, unmoving. Dumbfounded, he went on filming: the corpse, Siamang's descent of the ladder; the Death of a Dream.
Siamang came toward him across the fire-fused dust, took the camera out of his nerveless hands. He pried the thumb-sized film cassette loose and threw it away. Dartagnan saw it arc downward, disappear somewhere out in the endless blue-gray silt of the plain: His own future, mankind's future, Sekka-Olefin's last will and testament, lost to his heirs—lost to mankind, forever. “That wouldn't have made very good copy, now, would it?” Siamang dropped the camera, stepped on the fragile lens aperture with his booted foot. He picked it up again, handed it back. “Too bad your camera broke when you took that fall. But we don't hold bad luck against a man, as long as he cooperates. I'm sure I can depend on you to cooperate, in return for the proper incentive?”
Dartagnan struggled to reach his voice. “He—he's really dead?” “No corporation would stoop to murder,” Olefin had said.…
Siamang nodded; his hand moved slightly. Dartagnan saw the dark sheen of metal. Siamang was armed. A dart-gun; untraceable poison. “I can depend on you, can't I, Red? I'd like to keep this simple.”
“I'm your man, boss … body and soul,” Dartagnan whispered. Thinking, I'll see you in hell for this; if it's the last thing I ever do.
“That's what I figured.… It was an accident, he fell; he was too damned fragile, he'd been in space too long. I never intended to kill him. But that doesn't make much difference, under the circumstances. So I think we'll just say he was alive when we left him. His body'll freeze out here, nobody can prove he didn't fall after we left—if anybody ever even bothers to investigate. Anybody could see he drank too much.”
“Yeah … anybody.” The wind was rising, butting against Dartagnan's body; the dust shifted under his feet, eroding his stability.
“I'm sure you can construct a moving account of our mission, even without film—a portrait in words of the grateful old man, the successful conclusion of our business transaction.…” Siamang brushed the metal container fixed at the waist of his suit. “Do a good, convincing job, and I'll make it more than worth your while,” Dartagnan felt more than saw the aggressor's eyes assess him, behind Siamang's helmet-glass. “What's your fondest wish, Red? Head of our media staff? Company pilot? Maybe a ship of your own? … Name it, it's yours.”
“A ship,” he mumbled, startled. “I want a ship,” thinking wildly. The smart businessman knows his client.
“Done,” Siamang bowed formally, offered a gloved hand. Chaim took the hand, shook it.
Siamang's heavy boot kicked the bottom of his crutch, it flew free. Dartagnan landed flat on his back in the dirt.
“Just remember your place, Red; and don't get any foolish ideas.” Siamang turned away, starting back toward their ship across the lifeless plain.
Dartagnan belly-flopped into the airlock, lay gasping for long seconds before he pulled himself to his feet and started it cycling. He removed his helmet, picked up his crutch, started after Siamang into the control room. The vision of Mythili Fukinuki formed like a fragile blossom in the empty desolation of his mind; he forced his face into obedient blankness, hoped it would hold, as the image in his mind became reality.
She stood at the panel, arms folded, listening noncommittally to Siamang's easy lies. Chaim entered the cramped cabin, she glanced at him as Siamang said, “Isn't that about all, Red?”
“I guess so, boss.” He nodded, not sure what he had agreed to. He stopped, balancing precariously, as her eyes struck him like a slap.
“I'm afraid that's not all, Demarch Siamang.” Mythili pushed away from the panel, set her gaze of loathing hatred against Siamang's own impenetrable stare. A small knife glittered suddenly in her hand. “There's the matter of a murder.” She gained the satisfaction of seeing Siamang's self-confidence suddenly crack. “I didn't like what I heard when you talked to your father, and so I monitored your suit radio. I heard everything.” She looked again at Dartagnan, and away. “And I intend to tell everything, when we get back to the Demarchy. You won't get away with it.”