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“You’re right,” Smith said as he paced in front of the empty fireplace. “What you’ve told us does cause me to have some second thoughts about this whole damn mess.”

“It’s good for the system, old chum,” said Cruz, “to find out some of your assumptions were cockeyed.”

Saint was on a loveseat, an album of tri-op photos open upon his lap. “One doesn’t doubt your thoroughness, Cruz,” he said, “yet it’s deuced difficult to believe that-”

“I didn’t rely on what I overheard Bjorn and his henchman saying,” Cruz reiterated. “No, I snuck up on the lads, stunned them both and used a truthdisc on each in turn.” He tapped his metal wrist with the tool he was using. “Syndek did not kill Hal Larzon, and they don’t have the information he was carrying around. Someone else entirely laid the unfortunate fellow low. Winiarsky was to be their first captured Horizon Kid.”

Smith asked, “Does Bjorn have any notions as to who did get to Larzon?”

“He suspects a representative of the Whistler Agency, or mayhap one of the Triplan ops.”

“The Triplan chaps,” pointed out Saint as he absently turned a page in the album, “would have no reason to resort to murder.”

“And nobody at Syndek knows the trigger word,” asked Smith, “knows how to get the carriers to talk?”

“No, Bjorn was going to depend on electronic means to get at what Westerland hid away long ago.” Cruz gave his arm a slow scrutiny before reattaching it to his flesh elbow.

“How’d they know about the damn secret at all?”

“The information was sold to them, for the handsome fee of four hundred thousand trubux,” answered Cruz while flexing his metal fingers. “All this was set up by way of blanked pixphone screens, scrambled voices, neutral computer terminals. Bjorn doesn’t know, although they were slipped enough information to convince them there really is a valuable secret to be had, who his contact is.”

“Jove, it must be someone within Triplan then.”

“Or someone at Horizon House.” Smith sat on the edge of a fat purple armchair.

“Our rivals at Syndek are all at sea it would seem, but do either of you chaps have the foggiest notion who dispatched the Larzon bloke?” asked Saint.

Cruz said, “Jared, you know Deac Constiner better than we do. Could he-”

“Nope, not Constiner.” Smith shook his head. “He doesn’t work that way. If he’d found Hal Larzon he’d simply have taken him into a TLB station.”

“Then we have to assume,” said Saint, “that we’ve got competition we don’t even know about.”

“Maybe,” said Smith.

CHAPTER 24

A lizardman on a bicycle went rattling by Saint on the morning road, splashing dust on him. “Sorry, gov,” called the lizard, taking a hand off the handlebars to tip his strawhat.

“Think nothing of it, old chap.” Tugging out a plyochief, Saint brushed at his face and then the front of his three-piece cazsuit. He smiled, continuing to act the part of an amiable tourist.

The Horizon House grounds covered twenty acres and were fenced in by high hedges and stretches of woodland. The main entrance was usually guarded by a massive black wrought iron gate, but that had been thrown open wide this morning. Seated on either side of the gate, at folding plaz tables, were humanoid ladies in flowered dresses and widebrimmed hats. At least a dozen customers for the charity fete were lined up at each table to purchase tickets.

“My, ain’t it grand,” remarked the catwoman Saint took a place behind. “All them lovely towers and all.”

“Have you never seen Horizon House before, Madam?”

Shaking her furry head, she replied, “Not so much as a squint, sir. I live over in the next territory and I’ve not visited hereabouts before.”

The house was imposing, a complex of towers and wings, built of pale rose brix and topped with slanting neotile roofs. There was much wrought iron, considerable clinging ivy of a faded seablue shade. There were many striped tents and multicolored stands set up on the vast lawns, along with a merry-go-round, complete with calliope, and a makeshift track for field events. On a floating dais near the main entrance of the house a string quartet, consisting of two tuxsuited toadmen, a humanoid blonde woman in a sequinsuit and a catman draped in an opera cloak, was tuning up.

“Five trudollars is a bit dear,” observed the cat-woman as she bought her ticket. “But the day’ll be well worth it, I fancy.”

“And the money, dear lady, goes to a good cause.” Although Saint had forgotten exactly what charity was to benefit, he assumed it must be a worthwhile one.

“Yes, that’s certainly true.” She rubbed her paws together. “Well, me for the jumble sale. And you, sir?”

“I shall stroll about for a bit.” Giving her a slight bow, he moved off along a pathway paved with yellow gravel.

Three small catgirls, each in a crisp pink frock, came running at him across the grass. “Please, sir,” said one meekly, “where do you suppose the Children’s Mixed Chorus has gotten to?”

Saint leaned down closer to the trio. “Would you little ladies be strayed members of that organization?”

“Yes, and we’re supposed to start singing right now and it’s not in the tent where we rehearsed yesterday or the day before either.”

Straightening, Saint took a careful look around the front acres. “I fancy I see what looks to be the makings of a mixed chorus flocking into that orange-and-blue tent up yonder.”

“Where, where?” The fuzzy little singer stretched up on tiptoe.

Saint lifted her up to his shoulder. “Next to the lemonade stand, do you see?”

“Oh, yes, and that’s Mrs. Dubay, the Assistant Leader, standing out in front of the tent and looking like she doesn’t know where to set that plate of watercress sandwiches someone’s handed her.”

Lowering the little catgirl to the grass, Saint said, “You’re no longer lost, ladies.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He strolled on.

The calliope was slightly off key, but the merry-go-round was a handsome thing. There were gilded neowood horses, grouts, giant snergs, wolos, unicorns, bears.

“Jove, that must be the woman in the case,” Saint told himself, slowing.

Coming down the brix steps of Horizon House was a young woman who was, judging by photos he’d seen, Jennifer Westerland Arloff. She wore a simple suitdress and did not appear to be especially happy.

Saint paused at a display of homebaked pies and cakes, still watching Jennifer as she made her way onto the grounds. “Not a bad looking creature, although on the slender side,” he decided. “Yet hardly the type, one would think, to drive a man to ruin and despair. Yet she did just that to Smith…or rather Smith did that to Smith and blamed this young lady. Seriously doubt she’d have that effect on me, though, of course, I’m a bit more hardhearted than is Smith.”

“…hooglyberries,” the plumpish lizardwoman behind the bake table was saying to him.

“Beg pardon?”

“The pie you’re admiring is made from fresh hooglyberries.”

“Ah, indeed? One’s mouth commences watering,” he informed her. “Ere I depart, I’ll purchase it.”

“Best do it now, since hooglyberry pies sell exceptionally well.”

“Reluctantly I must take my chances, since I don’t wish to be burdened with it as yet.”

“I could put it aside, sir, with your name on-”

“What you could do for me, my dear,” confided Smith, “is answer a rather personal question.”

She blinked. “Well, I suppose if it’s-”

“Can you tell me where to find the restrooms?”

She pointed toward the big house. “They’ve been set up on the north side of the mansion.”