Thoughtfully he laid down the card. The penalties were largely bluff. The econosphere, as the great rambling empire of man-inhabited space called itself, was in a state of semi-disintegration; spasmodically tyrannous, but just as often unable to impose any effective government whatsoever over innumerable worlds. The government would depend on the arriving cruiser to enforce the edict….
‘If you still don’t believe me,’ his informant said softly, ‘there’s a public announcement on every two-hour.’
‘In these circumstances,’ Boaz pointed out, ‘no one is going to land on Meirjain.’
‘Some people reckon they can. Econosphere law doesn’t count for a lot in this neck of the woods; that cruiser has a long way to come. Word has it that those who know in advance where the Wanderer is due will beat the law to the drop.’
Boaz’s mind turned to what might be behind the ban, which bore all the hallmarks of official panic. There was uncounted wealth on Meirjain; its dead civilization was a treasure house. But most valuable of all, of course, were what Boaz was after – time-jewels, gems able to refract light through time as well as space. It was the only known example of time modification by physical – and probably artificial – means.
Something about these gems frightened the econosphere government, Boaz reasoned. He had tried to track down some of the jewels that had been taken from the Wanderer on the first landing three centuries ago. To all intents and purposes they had vanished from existence, hidden away, secreted – perhaps even destroyed, he suspected – by government agencies.
His conclusion gave him hope. If the authorities feared the gems, then they had a use….
‘The alec’s name is Hansard,’ Boaz’s informant was saying. ‘Do you want me to talk to him?’
‘I don’t have money in the amount he would probably ask.’
‘You have a ship. A fine ship.’
Boaz grunted. ‘Without a ship, what good are coordinates?’
‘Leave it to me.’
While Boaz watched, the swathed man walked to Hansard and leaned over to talk to him. Hansard glanced at Boaz, a perfunctory, predatory glance. He nodded, as his eyes returned to the table.
The swathed man beckoned. The others left the table as Boaz stepped over and took the seat that was offered. Hansard’s gaze flicked up to him and back to his cubes again. He was smiling to himself.
‘A fine ship you have, I’m told. What’s its name?’
‘It’s my ship; it doesn’t need a name.’
‘Well, never mind….’
Hansard scattered the play blocks and reached in his pocket. He pulled out a memory cube and held it up. ‘I had four of these. I’ve got two left. I paid good money for them and I’d like to make a profit, but I’m not adamant about it. I place it in the lap of the gods.’
‘That’s normal commercial practice.’
‘Correct. I’m a gambler. Double or quits. One throw. If you win, you have the numbers and you still have your ship so you can use them. If I win, I take your ship. You won’t have any use for the numbers then, anyway.’
‘I guess not,’ Boaz said. The idea that he would gamble with his ship as a stake caused him a wry amusement. He had known this was all wrong from the outset, and now the beam that stretched out to him from the ship ground confirmed it.
He cheats; the blocks are loaded, his ship whispered to him. And then: Also, his merchandise is worthless.
As a thief, Hansard was stupid. He piled cons on top of one another, multiplying the risk to himself.
‘You’re overdoing it,’ Boaz said aloud. ‘A good swindle doesn’t need redundancy.’
He rose and strode away. Back in the avenue the public announcement was beginning. CITIZENS ARE ADVISED AND WARNED…. Passersby paused, glanced up to let the flashing letters strike their eyes the better, then walked on unconcerned.
Boaz had the picture now. Wildhart would be crawling with dealers offering fake coordinates. And the real coordinates? How many people had those? Half a dozen? Two or three? Or only one?
He felt little doubt that the story of the race with the government cruiser was true. Otherwise there would be little demand for co-ordinates at all.
It was beginning to look like a problem.
Romrey had forgotten how kinky the fringe planets were. In former empires depravity had festered first in the central urban areas. In the econosphere, it seemed instead to arise in the nearly lawless peripheral provinces, working its way inward to eat steadily away at the fabric of morality.
The girl had picked him up at an eatery on the night of his arrival. The eatery served spicecrab, a dish banned on many conservative worlds whose flesh contained compounds related to L-dopamine and alpha androstinol. Romrey had damned the expense. In his euphoria at arriving on Sarsuce he had wanted to try something new.
But what the girl, whose name was Mace, hungered for was too new as far as he was concerned. The alpha androstinol had done its stuff (that was why she had gone there: to find a man whose pheromones excited her). But later, when they rented a play room not even the L-dopa could carry him through the scene she wanted. She wanted him to kill her.
Romrey had never done that before. The idea repelled him. And he told her so. Perversely (maybe it was the spicecrab again) his refusal excited her even more.
Since then, she had been pursuing him. In eateries, in drinking houses, in the street, hanging around outside the door of his lodging, she would sidle up to him. ‘Kill me,’ she would whisper in his ear. It was a determined kind of seduction he found horrifying. As if he were the one who was to be defiled.
In one way, he supposed, he could see some sense in it. On the night of their first meeting Mace had told him she was a bonewoman. Bone people were usually colonnaders, and colonnaders believed that consciousness – mind-fire, as they called it – was not limited by space or time. She probably had no real conception of personal extinction; she thought her same consciousness would awaken in the clone body she had somewhere.
A colonnader had once explained it to him in terms of the death and rebirth of the universe, ‘We never die, really,’ he had said. ‘When we are resurrected in the next turn of the wheel, it’s our own same consciousness that lives again.’
Romrey was sceptical. He wondered, though, whether Mace’s clone also had silicon bones. That would mean she had a lot of money….
He had resolved to ignore her until she eventually wearied of the game, but he had not reckoned on a deadly trick she had up her sleeve. He awoke one night and became aware that someone was in his room, moving clumsily.
He waved his hand at the service panel, flooding the room with light. Mace was there, naked, her voluptuous breasts flopping (she did not follow the breastless nymphgirl fashion). As the light came on, her hand went to her hair and pulled out what appeared to be a strand. The strand stiffened and went silvery. It was a paraknife.
In almost the same instant she flung herself toward the bed. Romrey rolled aside. The knife stabbed down where he had been and sliced his shoulder. He hardly felt it at first. Then the stinging pain and the sight of his dripping blood brought his senses to a furious awakening.
‘You bitch!’
They stood facing one another over the bed. She still pointed the paraknife at him, her shoulders hunched. Her face was slack. Her lips drooped, in a way that made him imagine something lascivious was dripping from them.