Alan Foster - Cyber Way

They climbed out of the shallow creek bed and saw the house. Though the entrance faced eastward, no attempt had been made to make it look like a traditional home. It was rectangular in shape, with a sharply raked roof lined with high-efficiency solar panels. A separate garage was attached to the back. An impressive array of non-domestic antennae protruded from the north side of the structure, clustered around a huge satellite dish whose bowl was aimed southward, just clearing the crest of the roof. The pines standing in its way had been professionally topped.

No one emerged to confront them, despite the fact that their approach had to have been both visible and audible to anyone inside. They parked and stood together in front of the truck. The metallic lump under Moody’s arm felt larger than usual.

“What do you think? I’ve spent so much time behind a desk I’ve gotten rusty at making collars.”

“No guns. As we discussed, there is no reason for him to be expecting us.”

“I’d go along with that okay, except for the fact that if this is our boy, he’s killed two people already.” His gaze swept the empty, cool woods, so different from the forests back home. The animals hereabouts were skittish, hard to see. Probably as cold as I am, he thought.

They’d passed the last house a couple of miles back down the paved road, though the sound of gunshots would travel farther than that in this high mountain air. Not that anyone was likely to call the police if they heard anything. Not in this kind of country.

Then he recalled that Kettrick and his housekeeper hadn’t been slain with traditional weapons.

Well, there was nothing traditional about this whole business, and if anyone inside harboring hostile intent wanted to cut them down without warning, they could do so just as easily from a window as in the parlor.

The front entrance was made of wood-grain metal, solid and secure. Ooljee thumbed the intercom switch. After a short delay, a voice issued from the tiny door speaker. “Yes?”

“Am I speaking to Mr. Yistin Gaggii?”

“Yes,” again, without hesitation or any attempt at guile. “I am Sergeant Paul Ooljee, with the NDPS office in Ganado? If you don’t mind, Mr. Gaggii, my friend and I would like to talk to you for a minute.”

“Talk to me?” Just the slightest pause this time, Moody thought. “About what?”

Ooljee glanced briefly at his partner before again directing his voice to the door.

“We’re having a little communications problem with our field spinner. We heard that you knew communications and we thought maybe you could give us a hand.”

“Really? Who told you that?”

“Does it matter? Is it true or isn’t it?”

A long pause ensued. The two officers waited tensely, did not relax when an internal lock popped to grant them entrance.

“It is too cold to discuss this outside, my friends,” the voice declared. “Summer is still a month away. Please come in.”

Ooljee took a deep breath, exchanged a look with Moody, then entered.

They found themselves in a den, or living area, that was startlingly clean. There was nothing to suggest that Gaggii was married, but even allowing for the presence and use ol modern housekeeping devices, the place was cleaner than was natural.

The sterility was muted somewhat by the pretense of traditional artwork and the by-now-familiar earthtone furniture, all pinks, reds, and yellows. The center of the room was occupied by one of the most astonishing holomages Moody had ever seen. It was a medicine yei: seven feet tall, bristling with feathers, elaborate attire, war club and axe and medicine pouch. Unlike the angular abstracts of the sandpaintings, this was a full-figured human form, a life-sculpture of unsurpassed craftsmanship.

The detective admired it as it twisted and danced for them while Ooljee searched for their host. The room was all straight lines and angles, nothing round or curved. There was no softness in it, a feeling that the profusion of sandpaintings on the walls only enhanced. They were impossible to miss, impossible to ignore despite the dominating presence of the holomaged yei. Tiny works a few inches square clustered together as if to ward off the power of larger pieces whose borders could be measured in feet.

“It’s not here,” Ooljee announced after scanning the walls carefully. Moody did not have to ask what his partner was referring to: the Kettrick painting or a copy thereof was not among the dozens that occupied the walls of the room.

Yet despite the presence of the paintings and the powerful holomage and the comfortable furniture, there was nothing in the room to suggest that a distinctive personality lived there. Everything had been laid out and arranged with near-mathematical precision, as precise as a holomask used for cutting molecular chips. It might not look like a hospital room, but it felt like one.

This wasn’t a real room in a real house, Moody abruptly decided. It was a sham, a set for a vid, designed to fool eye and mind.

They had no more time to contemplate the emotional overtones of the decor, because Gaggii emerged from a back room. Ooljee shook hands as he introduced himself, politely and with programmed professional enthusiasm.

Moody thought he detected an air of chronic impatience in their suspect. Though Gaggii looked straight at them as he spoke, the detective had the feeling that the man’s thoughts were always several steps ahead of the subject at hand, as though he were devoting only a part of his mind to the conversation. Though he tried to fake it, it was clear that he wasn’t really interested in what was being said. It was just something that had to be dealt with and disposed of, like a leaky faucet or the buying of groceries. The rest of his brain was always otherwise occupied.

It made Moody feel inadequate. He didn’t like that. But then, he didn’t much like Gaggii either. The man smiled frequently, but it was about as honest as the wood-grain in the front door. It was not a genuine smile but rather a conscious manipulation of skin and facial muscles to achieve a desired effect, much as the room had been designed and decorated to appear warm, homey, and accommodating. Like its owner, it was none of those things.

As he listened to his partner engage the suspect in casual conversation it was clear to Moody that Gaggii wanted only for them to leave. Moody did not feel slighted. That would be Gaggii’s reaction, he decided, to any visitor. And yet he sensed no hatred in the man, no outright dislike for other human beings. It was just indifference, he decided finally, as if visitors took up space and time which might otherwise be put to better use.

Moody helped himself to an unvolunteered seat, enjoying the brief look of distaste which slipped past Gaggii’s carefully crafted veneer of hospitality. His gun lay against his chest, unsecured and ready. Still Gaggii displayed neither panic nor concern. That did not induce Moody to relax. The soft-spoken, self-assured ones were the most dangerous because they offered no clue as to what they might do next.

“Actually, Mr. Gaggii, as you may have guessed by now. we are not here because we are having a problem with our communications.”

“Ah,” said Gaggii softly, regarding the sergeant as casually as he might a perambulating bee.

Moody rested his right hand casually on his sternum, close to the butt of his gun, while his partner related some of the events which had brought them to this particular house. Ooljee concluded by declaring that while the evidence they had gathered was not conclusive, it was sufficient to arouse more than a little suspicion, and if he, Gaggii, had nothing to hide, he should be more than willing to accompany them down into Ganado to clear himself by answering a few simple, detailed questions. It would not take much time and it would be of great assistance to the department.