"Like most artificial languages, it's a linguistic, cultural, and political compromise. Esperanto or Interlingua are better, inadequate as they are. Lincos is vastly better equipped for communication with aliens. And whatever the philologists say, 'System is still biased toward Indo-European language users."
He grunted. "Interesting academic discussion we are having. However―" He opened the briefcase and pulled out a reader and a case of pipettes. He loaded the reader, stabbed at the keyboard until he got what he wanted.
He looked up sharply. "What do you know of the disappearance of Constable Mona Barrows?"
"What should I know?"
"Do not word-play. Do you know anything?"
"Yes."
"Did she overtake your vehicle on Groombridge Interchange?"
"Yes."
"Then an encounter with a Patrol vehicle occurred?"
"Yes."
"And the Patrol vehicle fired on Constable Barrows' vehicle?"
"Yes. You knew that."
"We did," he said flatly. "The armaments on your truck are not capable of such destruction. We found the remains of the interceptor, or rather the radioactive trace. The telltale readings told us it was a Patrol intervention."
"Then, why ask me?"
"Eyewitnesses, if any, must always be questioned in these matters," Petrovsky stated.
"Better to tell your traffic cops not to do what Barrows did."
"She followed orders. Laws must be enforced. We cannot continue to be dictated to by an outside force, no matter how technologically superior they appear."
"Then again, the Skyway does not belong to us, really," I said.
Petrovsky looked down. Tiny characters danced on the screen. Without glancing up he said, "What can you tell me of the events that took place on Demeter, three standard days ago, at the lodging house called Grey stoke Groves?"
"Forgive me if I ask to what events you refer."
"Specifically," he read from the screen, "to the death of a man named Joel Dermot."
"Never heard of him. How did he die?"
"He was the victim of a hit-and-run accident."
"Unfortunate. Must have happened after I left."
"You did not check out of the motel."
'True. I was in a hurry."
'To what were you hurrying?"
"Business."
"Where?"
"Here," I said.
"Goliath? Your destination was Uraniborg."
"Eventually. First here."
'To do what?"
'To discuss business with the people your storm troopers routed out of their beds last night."
"The religious group? Unavoidable. What business?"
"None of which is yours," I told him.
The icy eyes frosted over. "Uncooperativeness will not help you."
"Am I officially under arrest? Am I going to be charged?"
A hesitation. "Officially, technically, you are not under arrest. You are under protective―"
"What!" I was more surprised at the bolt of anger that shot through me. I jumped to my feet, tool-kit swaying in the breeze. "Then I demand my immediate release. What's more, you will without delay have these mollycuffs removed and my clothes returned to me."
Unruffled, he said, "Mr. McGraw, you are in no position―"
"I am in every position imaginable!" I spat at him. "I have not been shown a warrant, I have not been charged, I have not been booked on a charge. I have not been afforded the opportunity to contact a solicitor. I am in every position to bring civil and criminal charges against you and all participants."
Petrovsky sat back. He was willing to let me rave on.
"Furthermore," I raved on, "you have no evidence or probable cause to use as a basis for taking me into custody."
Petrovsky fingered the russet swirls that covered his lips. "Evidence can be obtained. Tissue specimens from your vehicle."
Which meant they had tried, and failed. Sam would have a tale or two to tell about that. Stinky must have gotten him back in one piece in time, or Petrovsky would have had his evidence. "Can be? You arrested me on speculation?" I wasn't going to bring it up, but there had been no mention at all of Wilkes nor of any witnesses. Nor of any charges Wilkes had filed.
"Please sit down, Mr. McGraw. The view from where I sit is not a pleasant one."
"I will also do all that is in my power to initiate an investigation into the death of my friend, Darla ― “
A screeching stop. Darla's last name? My, God, I didn't know. The wind spilled out of my sails, and I stood there, blinking.
Petrovsky was suddenly magnanimous. "I will tell you what, Mr. McGraw. You will be unbound and… uh, given some clothes, on one condition ― that our talk will continue." He turned a rough palm upward. "Perhaps on a more amicable basis. Agreed?"
I was silent. He thumbed the call switch on the corn panel.
"You have not been exactly candid with me, Mr. McGraw. But then, I must confess I have not been entirely open with you."
"Indeed?" was all I could say.
Frazer poked his head in the door. "Yes, sir?"
"Remove the mollycuffs," Petrovsky ordered. "And find a pair of trousers for him."
"And shoes," I said.
"And shoes," Petrovsky agreed.
"Yes, sir, Colonel-Inspector." Frazer came over and freed me.
Petrovsky pulled out a pack of cigarettes with a label that crawled with Cyrillic lettering, lit one with an antique wheel-and-flint lighter. He pushed it and the pack across the desk toward me. I needed one and took one. I lit it, and regretted that I had. I squeezed off a cough and sat down.
We looked at each other for a moment, then Petrovsky puffed and eased back, receding through an acrid blue haze. His eyes found something of interest on the ceiling.
A minute went by, then Frazer cracked the door and threw in a pair of gray fatigue pants. "Working on the shoes," he said.
Petrovsky got up and examined a map of Maxwellville. I slipped on the trousers. They were a fairly good fit, if a trifle short at the cuff. I sat down and waited, smoking.
Presently, Frazer returned, and handed me shoes. "These are my own spares," he told me. "When you get your stuff, I want 'em back."
"Thanks."
"Well, it's okay."
The door closed and Petrovsky sat back down. "Now, Mr. McGraw, I will dispense with any preliminary questions and proceed to a matter of some importance."
"Which is?"
"The Roadbuilder artifact."
Rumor, wild stories, tall tales, canards ― become adamantine reality with an official pronouncement. It threw me.
"The what?"
"The artifact. The map. The Roadmap."
I shook my head slowly. "I know of no such thing."
Petrovsky caressed the desktop, looking at me, gauging my sincerity. "Then why," he asked evenly, "does everyone think you have one in your possession?"
I saw no'ashtray, and dropped the half-smoked cigarette between my feet. "That, my law-enforcement friend, is the punking" ― I ground the butt out fiercely―"zillion-credit question. I wish someone would tell me." I sat back and crossed my legs. "By the way, who is everybody?"
"Representatives of various races, various concerns, and us. The Colonial Authority, I should say."
"Who else specifically, besides the Authority?"
"I cannot think of one alien race within the Expanded Confinement Maze who would not like to obtain such a map. Specifically, we know the Reticulans want it, and are aiming to get it. Also the Kwaa'jheen, and the Ryxx. They have agents in the field. This we know. Every indication is that there are more."
I took another cigarette. I had quit years ago, but some crises scream for nicotine. "Why? That's my question," I said, snapping the lighter closed. "Why is this phantom artifact so bloody important?" I could guess, but I wanted his reasons.
"Just think about it, Mr. McGraw. Think of what it could mean." His tone was more academic than enthusiastic. "Do you have any idea of how far such a find would go toward solving the baffling mysteries of the Skyway? Would it not be the discovery of the ages?" He levered himself to his feet, the extra gravity making his weight more of a burden. "What price would you put on it, Mr. McGraw?" He began to pace, mighty arms folded.