Once again, there was Talia Winters’s face. It was a good face for the screen—angular and confident, with lovely eyes—he could see why they liked to show it so much. This time they did a computer animation on Talia’s face to turn her sleek blond hair into long, brown, curly locks. He couldn’t hear the audio, so he ducked inside to see what the report was about.
“Based on the officers’ description,” said the newscaster, “Talia Winters was traveling with a man and wearing a dark hairstyle, probably a wig. She was last seen in Arizona, although she could be many kilometers from there by now. She and her companion are believed to have a shuttlecraft.”
Traveling with a man, thought Garibaldi. She had found a protector. That should be me, he thought. Well, he was doing the best he could, building a case against the real bad guys. But he felt guilty about not doing more to find her. All he could think of doing was to stake out Emily Crane’s office, believing she would find her way there, eventually. But what if she was just running and not trying to find Emily Crane?
At any rate, it was definite that she was on Earth, as he had figured. She would be lucky to escape from the planet before the Psi Cops got her. He wasn’t going to count on her being able to testify on her own behalf, so the pressure was on him to find the real culprits. He wasn’t telepathic, but he tried to send her a message:
Keep running, Talia.
“I have a diamond,” said the tall woman with the curly brown hair.
She batted her eyelashes at the pawnbroker, hoping he didn’t notice how filthy she was. Then she nearly swallowed her tongue as she caught sight of herself on the viewer behind him. It was her public relations photograph, taken last year for the brochures—only in this photo she was wearing the wig she was actually wearing! She gripped her beret tighter and looked down, waiting for the pawnbroker to yell for the cops.
“Yes?” he asked. “A diamond?”
He had been talking to another customer when she entered, Talia recalled, so he probably hadn’t seen the newscast. She sighed and took the cut diamond out of her jacket pocket. With a hopeful smile, she handed it to him, and he placed it on the velvet pad.
“One carat,” she said. “Gem quality.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” answered the pawnbroker, reaching for his scanner. He passed the diamond under the light beam for a few seconds, glanced at the readouts, and nodded. “Yes, it’s top quality. Nothing like that left on Earth. Where did it come from?”
“Do you want it, or not?”
“Eight hundred credits.”
She tried to stay calm. “I want to sell it, not a loan.”
“Same price either way.”
“I think it’s worth more than that,” Talia said slowly.
“Then go somewhere else.”
She took the jewel off the velvet, but he called out to her before she could put it in her pocket. “Eight-fifty, no more.”
She looked at him and thought how weary and dirty she was. At least with some money she could get a bath. This was robbery, anyway, but at least she would die or be captured with some money in her pocket.
“Yeah,” she said, “eight-fifty.”
“All right,” said the man, “if you’ll hand me your creditchit, I’ll add it to your account.”
She shook her head and looked down. “I don’t have any credits. That’s why I need to sell the diamond.”
“All right,” said the man, eager to conclude the deal any way he could, “give me your identicard, and I’ll make you a creditchit. That’s one of our services. It adds only one per cent.”
Another rip-off, she thought, but beggars can’t be choosers. At least she had an identicard. She handed it to the man, and he disappeared with both the card and the diamond.
She looked around the pawnshop, and she couldn’t remember whether she had ever been inside a pawnshop before in her life. She imagined they hadn’t changed in hundreds of years, with an odd assortment of jewelry, collectibles, small electronics, musical instruments, anything that was easy to carry and might be worth a few credits. There were also four teller windows for the various financial services that the shop offered.
“Here you go, Ms. Nelson,” he said, returning her identicard and a new creditchit. “Thank you for coming in.” She finally let out a breath and glanced at the two cards. It seemed for a moment almost that she was a real person again, even if she did have someone else’s identity.
“Thank you,” she said. “If I wanted a bullet train or shuttle to the east coast, where would I find it?”
“There’s a U-rail at the corner that will take you to the bullet station. The trains leave frequently, so that would be the quickest way.”
“Thank you,” she said, feeling a bit woozy but straggling out the door. If it had been possible, she would’ve stretched out on the sidewalk and gone to sleep. No, she told herself, you’re a shark. Gotta keep moving. Keep moving.
This was more like it, thought Garibaldi, surveying the nondescript skyscraper. It was the kind of silver monstrosity that housed a thousand families at once, and it already felt more comfortable to him than all that open space. The gate had a security lock, but so many people went in and out that anyone could time his approach to slip in with other tenants. Garibaldi did exactly that and slipped in with a family of Sikhs wearing turbans and white robes.
“Home on leave?” asked the patriarch of the group.
“Yes,” said Garibaldi, “going to see my dad, Ronald Trishman. Do you know him?”
The family shook their heads in unison and headed for the escalator. Garibaldi checked his address keeper as if he were looking for the apartment number, but he hit the index screen as soon as they were out of sight. He found Ronald’s apartment number on the forty-sixth floor, west wing, and he took a combination of escalators and high-speed elevators to get there.
It was getting late, he reminded himself. This was a planet, and they didn’t live on a twenty-four-hour clock like he was used to, with no particular day or night. He had better not sound threatening when he asked for Ronald, or he might end up talking to regular cops after all.
He stopped in front of the correct door, found Trishman’s name under the doorbell, and buzzed. A small viewer built into the door beeped on, and he could hear sounds of the apartment’s built-in security coming alive. He buzzed again, figuring armed guards would be summoned if Ronald Trishman didn’t answer the door soon.
Finally a puzzled face squinted at him from the viewscreen. “Who the hell is it?”
He lowered his head apologetically. “I’m extremely sorry to bother you. I’m Michael Garibaldi, security chief of Babylon 5. We spoke today.”
“Well, good God, what do you want at this hour?”
“We’re extremely worried that Emily Crane may be in physical danger.”
“What?” muttered the older man. “Why would you come here? Oh, what the hell, I’ll let you in. I’ll wake up all the neighbors if I don’t.”
He heard clicking sounds, and the door slid open. Garibaldi smiled to himself as he ducked inside. Trishman was wearing an expensive bathrobe and slippers; all he lacked was a pipe.
“Listen,” said the receptionist, bustling around nervously, “if we’re going to talk, I’m going to make some tea. Do you want some?”
“No, thanks,” said Garibaldi, “you go ahead. I never liked tea much.”
He heard Ronald knocking about in the kitchen, making a terrific amount of noise. The old man must’ve been nervous, thought Garibaldi, and he wondered if he knew something about the Mix’s big ambitions. He took a seat on the sofa, marveling at the size of the living room, which was decorated tastefully all in white.
After living on Babylon 5 for a year, rooms in even the dinkiest apartments looked huge. This room even had a tinted picture window that gazed upon a small window of ocean between two similar apartment towers. It wasn’t a thrilling view, thought Garibaldi, but it was better than a bulkhead.
After a few minutes, Ronald Trishman came back with a tray, a teapot, and two cups, as if he was still hopeful Garibaldi would try some tea.
“I made enough for four people,” he said, “so you’re welcome if you want some.” Trishman leaned forward and asked in a gossipy way, “Now, what is this about Ms. Crane?”
“We just want to make sure she’s safe, but we can’t find her.”