Robert Silverberg: Stepsons of Terra

“Note?” Her broad face showed seemingly genuine confusion. “No, I didn’t send you any note. Why?”

“Someone did,” Ewing said. “I just wondered who it might have been.”

He sipped his drink thoughtfully. A few moments later a robot arrived with their dinners. The meat smelled pungent and good. Obviously it was no synthetic; that explained its high cost.

They ate in silence for a while. When Ewing had made substantial inroads on his plate, he paused, looking up, and said, “What do you do on Earth, Miss Clork?”

She smiled. “I’m with the Sirian Consulate. I look out for the interests of any of my people who happen to visit Earth. It’s a very dull job.”

“There seem to be quite a few Sirians on Earth,” Ewing remarked casually. “It must be very popular among your people as a tourist attraction.”

She seemed momentarily disconcerted by Ewing’s remark. Her voice hesitated slightly as she said, “Y-yes, it’s very popular. Many Sirians like to vacation on Earth.”

“How many Sirians would you say there were on Earth right now?”

This time she stiffened visibly; Ewing realized he had accidentally asked a question which touched on very delicate grounds. “Just why are you interested, Colonist Ewing?” He smiled disarmingly. “A matter of curiosity, that’s all. No ulterior motives.”

She pretended the question had never been asked. Music welled up about them, blending with the vague general hum of conversation. She finished her dinner quietly, and while starting on the dessert said, “I suppose you didn’t think much of Firnik.”

“Of who?”

“You met him this morning,” she said. “The Sirian. He tends to be rather clumsy at times. He’s my boss, actually. Sirian Vice-Consul in Valloin.”

“Did he tell you to wangle dinner with me?” Ewing asked suddenly.

A blaze flamed in the Sirian girl’s eyes, but it died down quickly enough, though with reluctance. “You put things crudely.”

“But accurately?”

“Yes.”

Ewing smiled and reached into his doublet pocket; he drew forth the anonymous note he had received earlier, unfolded it, and shoved it across the table toward her. She read it without displaying any apparent reaction, and nudged it back toward him.

“Is this the note you suspected me of having sent you?” she asked.

Ewing nodded. “I had a visit from Scholar Myreck this afternoon. Several hours later I found this note outside my door. Perhaps Vice-Consul Firnik sent it, eh?”

She stared at him as if trying to read his mind. Ewing sensed that a chess game of sorts was going on, that he was rapidly becoming the center of a web of complications. While they stared silently at each other a robot glided up to them and said, “Mr. Ewing?”

“That’s right.”

“I bear a message from the manager of the hotel.”

“Let’s have it,” Ewing said.

“The message is: a spyvent outlet has been discovered in your room at the intersection of the wall and the ceiling. The outlet has been removed and a protective device planted in the room to prevent any future re-insertion of spying equipment. The manager extends his deep regrets and requests you to accept a week’s rent as partial compensation for any inconvenience this may have caused you.”

Ewing grinned. “Tell him I accept the offer, and that he’d better be more careful about his rooms the next time.”

When the robot was gone, Ewing stared sharply at Byra Clork and said, “Somebody was listening and watching today when I had my visitor. Was it Firnik?”

“Do you think so?”

“I do.”

“Then so be it,” the girl said lightly. She rose from the table and said, “Do you mind putting my meal on your account? I’m a little short of cash just now.”

She started to leave. Ewing caught a robot’s eye and quickly instructed, “Bill me for both dinners. Ewing, room 4113.”

He slid past the metal creature and caught up with the Sirian girl as she approached the exit to the dining room. The sphincter-door widened; she stepped through, and he followed her. They emerged in a luxurious salon hung with abstract paintings of startling texture and hue. Fierce atonal music came pulsing out of speakers concealed near the paintings.

She was ignoring him, pointedly. She moved at a rapid pace down the main corridor of the salon, and stopped just before an inlaid blue-and-gold door. As she started to enter, Ewing grasped her by the arm. Her biceps were remarkably sturdy.

She wriggled loose and said, “Surely you don’t intend to follow me in here, Mr. Ewing!”

He glanced at the inscription on the door. “I’m a rude, untutored, primitive colonial,” he said grimly. “If it serves my purpose to go in there after you, I’ll go in there after you. You might just as well stay here and answer my questions as try to run away.”

“Is there any reason why I should?”

“Yes,” he said. “Because I ask you to. Did you or Firnik spy on me this afternoon?”

“How should I know what Firnik does in his free time?” Ewing applied pressure to her arm, and at the same time silently recited verses designed to keep his own inward metabolism on a level keel during a time of stress. His pulse was pounding; methodically, he forced it to return to its normal rate.

“You’re hurting me,” she said in a harsh whisper.

“I want to know who planted that spy ray in my room, and why I should be warned against dealing with Myreck.”

She twisted suddenly and broke loose from his grasp. Her face was flushed, and her breathing was rapid and irregular. In a low voice she said, “Let me give you some free advice, Mr. Corwinite Ewing. Pack up and go back to Corwin. There’s only trouble for you on Earth.”

“What sort of trouble?” he demanded relentlessly.

“I’m not saying anything else. Listen to me, and get as far from Earth as you can. Tomorrow. Today, if you can.” She looked wildly around, then turned and ran lithely down the corridor. Ewing debated following her, but decided against it. She had seemed genuinely frightened, as if trouble loomed for her.

He stood for a moment before a mounted light-sculpture, pretending to be staring at the intertwining spirals of black and pearl-gray, but actually merely using the statuary as pretext for a moment’s thought. His mind was racing; rigidly, he forced his adrenalin count down. When he was calm again, he tried to evaluate the situation.

Someone had gimmicked his room. He had been visited by an Earther, and a Sirian girl had maneuvered him into eating dinner with her. The incidents were beginning to mount up, and they grew more puzzling as he attempted to fit them into some coherent pattern. He had been on Earth less than fifteen hours. Events moved rapidly here.

He had been trained in theories of synthesis; he was a gifted extrapolator. Sweat beaded his forehead as he labored to extract connectivity from the isolated and confusing incidents of the day.

Minutes passed. Earthers in dazzling costumes drifted past him in twos and sometimes threes, commenting in subdued tones on the displays in the salon. Painstakingly, Ewing manipulated the facts. Finally a picture took shape; a picture formed on guesswork, but nonetheless a useful guide to future action.

The Sirians were up to no good on Earth. Quite possibly they intended to make the mother world a Sirian dominion. Assuming that, then the unexpected arrival of a colonist from deep space might represent a potential threat to their plans.

New shadows darkened the horizon, Ewing saw. Perhaps Firnik suspected him of intending to conspire with the Scholars against the Sirians. Doubtless that had been Myreck’s intention in proffering the invitation.

In that case—