"I assume your decision to marry up in the world is all part of your scheme for becoming respectable?" Zinnia hid the pain she was feeling behind a forced smile as she examined the selection of salads and cheeses.
She was trying to cope with the wrenching blow Hobart Batt had unwittingly delivered. How do you expect me to find you a respectable wife if you keep showing up on the front page of Synsation in these compromising photos with Miss Spring?
She was overreacting again, Zinnia told herself. She must not get emotional. She had known all along that Nick intended to marry. It should come as no surprise to learn that he had some very specific requirements in a wife. He was a matrix, after all. Whoever he selected as a mate would have to fit into his grand design for the future.
"I'd rather not talk about my marriage registration," Nick said in his most remote voice. "I'm still in the preliminary phases."
"Okay." It was not a subject she wanted to discuss, either. She forced another smile as she chose a small cracker and dipped it into the torn-olive spread. "Let's get down to business. Tell me about Polly and Omar."
"In a minute. Did you really mean what you said to Batt?"
"About what?"
He watched her with hooded eyes. "About not wanting to reactivate your old registration with Syner-gistic Connections?"
"I've got enough problems on my hands. Besides, it would cost a fortune. SC is the most expensive agency in New Seattle. And like I said, why would I want to go through the process a second time? You haven't dealt with real rejection until a professional matchmaking agency tells you that you're unmatchable."
"You seem to have borne up rather nobly under the crushing blow."
"One can adjust to almost anything," she assured him.
His jaw tightened as if that was not what he wanted to hear. "I have a hunch that Hobart is just looking for an excuse to tell me I'm unmatchable."
"He did seem a trifle disturbed about your prospects." Zinnia munched on the cracker. "Especially given your somewhat stringent requirements. What are you holding over poor Hobart's head to get him to work for you off-the-books like this?"
Nick's gaze gleamed with the essence of pure innocence. "What makes you think I'm holding anything over his head?"
"I know you, Chastain." Zinnia selected some cheese. "It's second nature for you to use intimidation to grease the wheels in all of your operations. What have you got on Mr. Batt?"
Nick shrugged as he forked up a bite of salad. "Batt owes me ten thousand dollars."
Zinnia nearly choked on the cheese. "Ten thousand? I don't believe it. Hobart doesn't look like a gambler. I can't envision him losing that kind of money in a casino. What did you do? Set him up?"
"No." He gave her an amused look. "You don't know much about the synergistic psychology of gambling, do you?"
"I suppose you're an expert."
"Yes," Nick said. "I'm an expert. It goes with the territory. Hobart made the mistake of succumbing to the fever one night. Casino policy with mid- and low-range players is to intervene before they get in too deep."
"Bad for business if word gets out that middle-income people can lose their life savings in Chastain's Palace, I suppose?"
"Very bad."
"But when poor Hobart got in over his head, you didn't intervene, did you?" she accused.
"Don't worry about Batt."
Exasperated, Zinnia put down her fork. "Look, Nick, if you want to become socially acceptable you're going to have to stop using tactics like those to achieve your ends."
"Has anyone ever told you that your girlish naivete is enchanting?"
"One more crack about my naivete and I'll push you into the pool. All right, it's obvious that you don't want my good advice. So let's get down to business. Tell me about Polly and Omar."
"Not much to tell." Nick tore off a slice of bread from the fresh-baked loaf. "They're registered under false names in a first-class hotel in New Vancouver. Living the good life on my fifty thousand, from what Feather could determine. I've got a private investigator keeping an eye on them."
"What are you going to do?"
"Nothing for the moment. I still don't think they're involved in the fraud. The man I want is the one who used them to sell me the fake journal. Whoever he is, he's rich enough and sufficiently well connected to be able to afford a master forger like Wilkes."
"So why pay an investigator to keep an eye on Polly and Omar?"
"A simple precaution. I like to keep track of all the factors in the matrix."
"I see." Zinnia pondered that. "Nick, I've been thinking about something you said."
"What was that?"
"You told me it looked as if whoever searched Wilkes's house was after financial records that could be used to trace the sale of the forgery."
"So?"
"I focused for a matrix accountant last night. I was driving home from that assignment, in fact, when my car died."
Nick speared a stalk of chilled aspera-choke. "It didn't die of natural causes. The mechanic told Feather that someone killed it. Loosened the jelly-ice injector."
She sighed. "Mr. Dexter does try one's patience. At any rate, as I was saying, my client made a comment about the way money leaves a trail."
"He's right. It does."
"This morning I thought about what both you and Mr. Quintana had said. It occurred to me that there must be a trail of financial paperwork connected to the Third Expedition."
"One of the first things I checked when I started looking into this three years ago. The financial records are gone, just like the personnel documents."
"All of them?"
"The expedition was financed by the University of New Portland," he explained patiently. "The financial records from that period were destroyed in a fire that occurred about thirty-five years ago."
She slowly lowered her fork a second time. "Another amazing coincidence, I take it?"
Nick's brows rose. "Being the world's leading expert on matrix-talents, I'm sure you're aware of the fact that for people like me there are no coincidences."
"You think someone deliberately destroyed the university's financial files?"
"Yes. Just as I think someone deliberately burned down my mother's house after he arranged her death on that jungle road."
Zinnia shuddered. "I hate to say it, but I think I'm beginning to see a pattern here."
"Welcome to the wonderful world of Synergistic Matrix Analysis. You're right. There is a pattern. But, then, there always is."
She could hardly believe her own conclusions. "Do you really think it's possible that someone deliberately set out to destroy all traces of the Third Expedition?"
"I think that is exactly what happened. Failing that, he tried to turn it into a legend."
She crumpled her napkin. "But why would anyone go to such great lengths?"
"The only reason that fits is that the expedition discovered something so important or so valuable that the killer was willing to go to a lot of trouble to conceal it."
Zinnia contemplated that briefly. "Whoever he is, I'll bet he's a matrix."
Nick paused with a bite halfway to his mouth. He put it down very carefully and met her eyes. "Is that a serious observation from a self-declared expert on matrix-talents or was it just an off-hand remark?"
"It was serious." She frowned. "I think. There's something about the thoroughness of what's happened that makes me believe a matrix is behind it."
"I agree that there is a systematic pattern." Nick stroked one long finger slowly down the length of the glass that held his iced coff-tea. "And the end result is that history has been rewritten."
He said nothing else but Zinnia felt the questing probe of psychic energy seeking a prism. She hesitated only an instant and then obliged . . .
And experienced the deep tug of satisfaction that came whenever she focused for Nick. It was as if they were meant to focus together, she thought wistfully.