“Why did you bring this for us to hear?” Welsh asked softly, touching Fettle’s arm solicitously. “Are you truly that roughed?”
Miriel must have prodded some warning button, for now Mr. Pacifico himself came down the rear stairs, saw Yermak and Welsh. Frowned. Looked further and saw Fettle.
“What’s he doing here?” Mr. Pacifico inquired, pointing to Yermak. “I told you he wasn’t welcome here anymore.”
Miriel squirmed. “He came in while Mr. Fettle was reading. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“You’re bad for business, Yermak,” Mr. Pacifico said. “Did you bring him with you, Richard?”
Fettle did not reply, stunned.
“He still with you, Welsh?”
“He goes where he wills,” Welsh said.
“Balls. All three of you, out.”
“Mr. Fettle—” Miriel began.
“He’s a born victim. Look at him. God damn it, he attracted Yermak in here like a wasp to bad flesh. Out out out.”
Fettle picked up the papers and slate, inclined around the circle with as much dignity as he could manage and walked to the door to return to the street. Miriel said good bye; the others watched with silent pity. Welsh and Yermak followed and parted ways with him at the door saying not another word, smiling grim satisfaction.
+ They are right. Too right.
He discarded the papers and the slate into a gutter on the corner and waited for a bus at a whim stop, the cool wind blowing his gray hair into his eyes. “Gina,” he said. “Dear Gina.”
Someone touched his elbow. He turned with a nervous leap and saw Nadine dressed in long green coat and turban wrapped wool scarf. “I thought you might come here,” she said. “Richard, I thought I was the crazy one. What are you doing? Did you show them?”
“Yes,” he said. +To kill the self. That’s why Emanuel did it. To be rid of someone he did not like; himself. If I have not the courage to kill my body, I could kill others and condemn the self just as surely.
Nadine took his arm. “Let’s go home. Your home,” she said. “Honestly, Richard, you’re making me look positively therapied.”
38
“The Countrie-men called the Hand of Hispaniola, Ayti and Quisqueya, which signifyeth Roughnesse, and a great Countrie…”
Hispaniola required two international airports and had three, the third reflecting an early overestimation of tourism by Colonel Sir John Yardley—or the requirements of his mercenary army. There was an oceanport in Golfe de la Gonave, five kilometers of floating liftways; a smaller oceanport ten kilometers offshore from Puerto Plata on the northeast, and a massive land terminal HIS in the southeast at Santo Domingo. HIS took most scramjet traffic.
Mary Choy came awake at dusk and saw a lovely sunset making rich golden orange the rugged hills of the Cordillera Orientale. The scramjet descended smoothly to a few hundred meters above the dark purple Antilles Sea, gave up its whisper quiet to a roar of vertical lift, pushed in over white sand beaches and cliffs and then bare hectares of concrete, dropped gently, landed with no discernible impact. The seatback screen showed the scramjet’s intimate parts beneath the fuselage—thick white pillars ending in arrays of gray-black wheels, spectral gray paving luminous in the shade. Doors in the concrete opened and elevator shafts rose from the underground serviceways.
In the lower righthand corner of the screen, outside temperature was shown to be 25 degrees Celsius, local time 17:21. “Welcome to Hispaniola,” the cabin speakers announced. “You have arrived at Estimé International Airport on lift circle 4A. You will travel by underground train to the Santo Domingo traffic hub. All your luggage is now being removed from the airliner and will accompany you automatically to the hub or to your pre-chosen final destination. There are no customs regulations for inbound travelers, nothing to delay your pleasure. Enjoy your stay in bountiful Hispaniola.”
She stood, gathered up her personals and followed three tired looking longsuited men. About two hundred passengers filed slowly to the rear elevator.
Within a few minutes she disembarked from the flower patterned interior of the airport train into the Santo Domingo central city hub. All was bedecked in tropical flowers. Huge black vases filled with unlikely jungles of rainbow variety lined the hub travelways. Waterfalls emptied into ponds filled with beautiful fish from Antilles sea gardens—most natural, some products of the recombiner’s art. Shifting curtains of prochine sculpture hung from the dome of the atrium at hub center, spilling light and perfume down onto Hispaniola’s new guests. Hispaniola had little nano industry—these were early art pieces imported from the USA, quite useless for other than their intended purpose.
Projected guides in splendid uniforms addressed curious travelers in a dozen open theaters around the peristyle. Deadsound guided the flow of noise precisely, leaving a pleasant low hum gently surmounted by native music.
Picked out of the crowd of arriving passengers by a sharp eyed coffee brown woman liveried in green and white, Mary was directed to a VIP reception lounge. Walled off from the rest of the atrium by walls of glass, the lounge was empty but for a tall man dressed in antique diplomatic coat and tails and two brasstone arbeiters of uncertain utility.
The tall man extended his hand, bowing slightly, and Mary shook it. “May I welcome you to the Republic of Hispaniola, Inspector Mary Choy?” His dazzling smile sported two front incisors the color of red coral. “I have been appointed your avocat and general guide. My name is Henri Soulavier.”
Mary inclined and smiled pleasantly. “Merci.”
“Do you speak French, Spanish, or perhaps Creole, Mademoiselle Choy?”
“I’m sorry, only California Spanish.”
Soulavier spread his hands. “That is not a problem. Everybody speaks English on Hispaniola. It is our Colonel Sir’s native tongue. And it is all the world’s second language, if not the first, no? But I will also act as translator. I have been told your time is limited and that you wish to consult with our police immediately.”
“I could have something to eat first,” she said, smiling again. Someone had chosen Soulavier well; his manner was direct and charming. She had read that often about Hispaniola; forgetting the sad history and the present dubious economic arrangements, here were the friendliest people on Earth.
“Of course. There will be dinner in your quarters. We will be there within the hour. At any rate, those with whom you would speak are now getting off work, and the offices are closing. Tomorrow will be very good for meeting them. Besides, we are told your colleagues will be arriving in…” He checked his watch. “Two more hours. I will greet them here; no need for you to trouble yourself. With your permission, I will accompany you to your rooms in the quartiers diplomatiques in Port-au-Prince. Then the evening is your own. You may work or relax as you wish.”
“Dinner in my quarters will be fine,” she said.
“As you doubtless know, all official travelers in Hispaniola are isoles, to avoid the distractions of our tourist industry, which might not suit their necessities, no?”
The lefthand arbeiter moved forward on three wheels and extended an arm to take her personals. She declined with a smile, deciding it would be best to keep her slate away from possible debriefing.
Soulavier seemed amused by her caution. “This way, please. We will use behind the scenes corridors. Much easier.”
The train to Port-au-Prince was empty but for them. Black velvet seat cushions bore the arms of Colonel Sir: rhinoceros and oak beneath star speckled heavens.