My task, then, was to find a causal lever to move objects around to my liking in a deterministic system. Estimated chances of accomplishing objective: those of fart in monsoon.
But volition is a delusion we sorely need, a habit we can break. I had to act. It was necessary for me to lose Darla now in order to gain her "later," lest two Darlas appear where one had gone before. Or something like that. Deadly possibilities loomed. A knock at the door.
My squib was out more quickly this time, even though Wilkes would not bother to knock.
It was a small Oriental man who wore a crisp straw planter's hat and a loosely fitting vanilla tropical suit. He didn't look friendly, but acted it.
"Excuse me, sir. Have you seen…? Ai, there you are! What are you doing here. Cheetah? Guests! Guests! Excuse me, sir. She is lazy, always going off somewhere."
Cheetah got off the bed and scampered toward us, slowed and slunk past her master, then broke across the small balcony to the rope bridge.
"Pardon me, sir. She is harmless, but she will take advantage."
"No problem. Mister…?"
"Perez."
"Perez. She just got back from an errand for my LC."
"Ah. Enjoy your stay. Sir, Madam."
A tip of the hat, and he was gone. I went to the window and watched him cross the bridge. He yelled for Cheetah cursed her in Spanish. She did not look back, disappearing in the foliage.
Darla was behind me, watching over my shoulder. "What did you two talk about?" I asked.
"Quite a lot. Your question about why she worked here intrigued me. So I asked her."
"And?"
"She stays here because she doesn't have a home. Read 'space,' 'territory,' or what you will. From what I could get out of her, her home was destroyed. There's a jungle-clearing project near here, it seems, and what was once her home is now bare earth."
"She couldn't move? Find a new spot? There are millions of square kilometers of jungle left. Most of the planet is virgin still."
"No, she couldn't move, nor could her clan, tribe, or whatever. Once such a group, an extended family sort of thing, loses its stamping grounds, it has no life. Extreme territoriality, attachment to one traditional area, probably passed down for generations. Most of the displaced cheetahs work in the city. Not for long, though. They die off very quickly."
"You got all this from her?"
"No, she was very reticent. I've heard about the problem. The Colonials are very touchy about it." She walked back toward the bed, sat down. "Funny thing. She's very sensitive ― receptive. She asked me if the people who were chasing us were near."
"What?" The notion that the animal could have known gave me an odd feeling. I sat down on the Empire chair. "How?"
"She said she could smell the fear on us."
Odder still was to realize that Cheetah had been right. At the root of all actions taken for the sake of survival lies fear unvarnished, the basic component of the mechanism. "Did she think they were near?"
"She said no, not now."
"Reassuring."
"I'm tired. I think I'll go freshen up." She got up, took her pack and walked toward the bathroom.
Before she got to the door, I said, "By the way, I didn't get a chance to thank you… for a well-timed, beautifully placed shot. Where the hell were you hiding that cannon?"
"I'll never tell," she said craftily, over her shoulder. "I did it for old times' sake." She went in and closed the door.
I buzzed Sam.
"Yeah?"
"Something Wilkes said. He said a lot of strange things. But there was something about stories. Stories about me, and I guess about you, circulating around."
"Stories?" "Rumors. I don't know. How does it strike you?"
"Leaves me cold." "We need information."
"That we do. But how? Dare we risk the skyband?" "I'm going to take a stroll down to the lounge, see if anyone's there."
"Be careful. By the way, any way of getting down here from that birdhouse?"
"Yes. There's a rope ladder rolled up on the porch. Fire escape, I guess. Wouldn't have taken the place if there had been no way down."
I knocked on the bathroom door and told Darla where I was going.
"I still have Brown Bess," she said.
And she could use it. It was a risk to separate, but I thought I had spotted a familiar rig in the parking lot.
Outside, a patch of sky peeking through the jungle canopy was turning silver, spraying beams of sunlight downward. The air was thick, moist, gravid with a million scents. Something chittered in the branches above me as I crossed the first bridge, scolding, warning me.
Before I got to the lounge it occurred to me that I should ask about the clearing project ― where, how near ― thinking of it as a possible means of escape. There were usually logging roads around such an endeavor.
No one was at the desk. I waited for a few minutes, then went around behind to a door. I opened it.
Perez had his back to me, holding a long, thin wooden rod raised toward Cheetah, who cowered pitifully in a comer of the office. Perez's head snapped around. He turned quickly and held the rod behind his back.
"Yes?"
"Excuse me. My lifecompanion wishes another errand run. Could you send someone up?"
"Yes. Yes, right away."
"She's taken a particular liking to Cheetah here. Loves animals, you know. Could Cheetah go?"
Perez was reluctant. "Yes, of course." He motioned to her without taking his eyes from me.
When she had left, I said, "Unless you desire a totally new look and a fresh approach to life, you'll not abuse that creature while I am a guest here."
Perez bristled. "Mr. Snerd, is it? This is none of your affair. I must ask you to―" I closed the door.
The lounge was very big, with shaman fright-masks looming from the walls, shrunken heads dangling from the open-beam ' ceiling, potted fronds growing everywhere, a striped native animal hide nailed above the bar. It was a crazy concatenation of Micronesian, African, and native motifs. Memories of Terra grow more blurred with the years. There were few customers, but Jeny Spacks was in a comer booth with an attractive young woman. I ordered an elaborate, improbable drink that was all fruit and little paper umbrellas, and walked over to them sipping noisily.
"Jake? Jesus."
"Hi, Jerry."
"Uh… Andromeda, this is Jake McGraw. Friend of mine."
"Hello."
"Hello. Jerry, could I speak with you for a moment?"
Jerry hesitated, looked away. "Yeah, sure."
The girl made a good excuse and left. I sat down.
"Goddamn, Jake, you show up at the most―"
"Sorry. This won't take but a minute. By the way, are you still a Guild member? Haven't seen the lists recently."
"You know damn well my dues are a year behind. But that's moot ― I own three rigs now. Pretty soon I won't have to drive at all."
"Moving up to employer status, eh? Good for you." I let
him puff and preen for a while, then said, "Jerry, this question may sound strange… but what have you heard about me recently?"
Jerry laughed. "Who hasn't heard about the shoot-out at Sonny's? It's all over the skyband. What're you still doing here?"
"That's not what I meant. What have you heard in the way of strange stories about me?"
Apparently he knew what I meant. He settled back, lit a cigarette, looked at me, and said frankly, "Jake, I don't believe ninety percent of the road yams I hear. Who does? Someone claims to've sighted a Roadbuilder vehicle, you hear someone's stumbled onto a backtime route and winds up being his own grandfather, that sort of thing. I've also heard some things about you, just as wild."