The jitney deposited her at the entrance to the Club in record time. The cast-glass panels, patterned with a stylized representation of Loop and Precincts and the uncharted stars beyond, opened at her touch, the Censor verifying her membership. Inside, she deposited her carryall on the conveyor that led to the checkroom, and headed for the main room. The corridor lights grew dimmer as she made her way past the print and film libraries, then brightened again, blued now by the reflected light of the pole crystals, as she turned the final corner.
Light blazed beyond the tinted glass wall, a pair of floats rising and falling through the central volume. The same light, softened only a little by its passage through the greenish glass, spilled across the dozens of tables, across faces and sober, rich suits. Heikki blinked, half blinded, and a voice at her elbow said, “Dam’ Heikki?”
Heikki glanced down at the grey-haired man in Club livery, nodded automatically. In the same moment, a familiar voice called, “Heikki!”
Grinning foolishly, Heikki said, “I see my party, thanks, maitre.” Still grinning, she made her way through the maze of tables toward the voice.
Marshallin Santerese rose from her seat, her smile belying the formal gesture. “Welcome home, Heikki.”
There was someone else at the table with her, but Heikki ignored that for the moment, reaching instead to take the smaller woman in her arms. They embraced, holding each other longer and more closely than was considered modest—but that was the
Precincts’ prejudice, not the Loop, Heikki thought, and rested her cheek against Santerese’s braids.
“Lord, doll, it’s good to see you.” That was Santerese’s private voice, too soft to carry beyond Heikki’s shoulder. More loudly, she said, “I got the information you wanted, the bid specs and all, and I brought Malachy down to draft us a contract.”
Reluctantly, Heikki released her, and nodded to the man still standing politely by the table, a rather amused half-smile curving his lips. The lawyer was wearing a severely cut evening suit, the short jacket molded to his still-slender form. The trousers, despite the dictates of this year’s fashion, were not full enough to disguise slim hips and elegant legs. The cord of a data lens stretched across his flat middle, and a plain gold fob marked the presence of a palmcorder in the jacket’s left-hand pocket: certainly he’d come for business.
“You’re looking good, Malachy,” Heikki said aloud, and lowered herself into the remaining chair. “So, what did you find out, Marshallin?”
Santerese looked up from the orderpad, then fumbled in a pocket of her own day suit. “Here are the specs,” she answered. “I don’t know if it tells you anything new.”
“Excuse me, Malachy?” Without waiting for his answer, Heikki reached for the viewboard that lay discarded on the table, and fitted the datasquare into the port. A moment later, the screen lit, but no letters appeared on the glowing surface.
“It’s protected,” Santerese said, unnecessarily.
Heikki nodded, already adjusting her data lens to their private setting. Within its circle, text sprang into existence. She scanned the formal paragraphs quickly, but it contained little more than what the Twins had already told her. The LTA had gone down in bad weather, all right, just as she’d suspected—it had been one of the worst storms of the winter season, in fact, bringing down several other craft. It had been flying from the main research station at Retego Bay to Lowlands, on a course that took it near the edges of the central massif. She stared down at the board, not really looking at the glowing letters in the circle of the lens, seeing instead a wall of clouds lurching up over the wall of greenery that marked the slope of the massif, moving faster than she had ever thought clouds could move outside of a viewtape. The Firsters with her had sworn, and scrambled, one turning the scanning radar groundward, looking for a clearing, the pilot swinging south, to lay the latac parallel to the prevailing winds, the engineer hurrying to bleed gases from the envelope, ready to collapse it as soon as they could land. They had found a place at the last possible minute, and the adolescents of the crew had scrambled outside, stakes and mallets in hand. They’d tied the latac down with double chains, the rising stormwind whipping dirt and bits of leaves about their bare legs, the envelope hissing as it folded down on top of the basket. They’d made it back inside just as the first rain fell, and huddled shivering together while the rising winds lashed the grounded ship, making it shudder and tremble against its moorings. At the height of the storm, thunder sounding almost instantaneously with the lightning, the latac had lifted a little from the ground, and she’d heard the pilot whispering, hold, damn you, hold…. over and over again. When the storm ended, and the engineer began to refill the envelope, they’d gone back outside to find that three of the starforged chains had snapped.
She looked up, shaking aside the memory, and Santerese said, “Where’d you hear about this one, anyway?”
“The Twins,” Heikki answered, and nodded when Santerese laughed.
“Are we bidding out of spite, doll, or is it a decent job?”
Heikki glanced sideways, and saw Malachy’s imperfectly concealed frown. She suppressed her own laughter—the lawyer was ‘pointer enough to be appalled by the thought of filing a bid for any but the most businesslike of reasons—and said, more seriously, “No, I know Iadara. The only thing I’m worried about is the chance of sabotage.”
“Does sound bad, doesn’t it?” Santerese leaned back with an abstracted smile as a waiter appeared with a platter of tapas. “I think we should build a risk factor into the contract.”
Heikki nodded, reaching for one of the little pastries.
Malachy said, a touch of disapproval in his voice, “That sort of clause is always tricky, to write and to enforce.”
“That’s what we pay you for, darling,” Santerese said.
Heikki suppressed a chuckle, said indistinctly, “I think it’s warranted.” She swallowed, and added, “And I’m sure you can draft something that will stand up in court—if it has to.”
“God forbid,” Santerese murmured, and grimaced as the table’s monitor flashed. The fine for invoking a recognizable deity was only five poa; she acknowledged it with a sigh, pressing the button beside the orderpad, and went on, “There’s only one problem with the job, though, doll. I’m promised to Pleasaunce at the end of the week.”
“Pleasaunce?” Heikki frowned.
“PAMCo, Pleasaunce Automatic Mining Company— the seamine that went aground,” Santerese said,
“I didn’t know that had come through.”
“Oh, yes.” Santerese smiled. “The owners did some looking at what it was going to cost them, doing it themselves. Even with the shipping, I can get it off for less, and save the cargo. Pleasaunce is pretty low-tech,”
“When do you leave?” Heikki asked.
“The end of the week.” Santerese shrugged. “It should take a week to a ten-day, so I could join you on Iadara, if necessary.”
Malachy cleared his throat reprovingly. “This contract,” he began, and Santerese broke in hastily.
“It’s just the standard form, darling, with the hazard clause added. Nothing more.”
“Surely that’s quite enough,” Malachy answered. He pushed himself to his feet, and the women rose with him. “I’ll have the form sent to you in the morning.”
“Thank you,” Heikki said, but the lawyer was already on his way. She reseated herself, shrugging, and reached for another pastry.