Charles Sheffield - Proteus in the Underworld

Bey left the room without another word and headed deeper into the house, closing the door behind him.

Sondra stared after him in bewilderment. She was exhausted. After a horrible experience with the Fugate Colony form in low Earth orbit, she had been through another one almost as bad in fighting her way to Wolf Island. With smart planes and boats and self-correcting equipment, few people died any more during transportation. But that was only another way of saying that occasionally people did die. Sondra was hugely relieved when her solo transport landed on the wind-lashed beach. She stuck the data recordings made during her trip to orbit into the pocket of her dress and jumped ashore. She didn’t take a second look at the other craft, farther along the shore, and she paid little attention to the two dogs whose frenzied howls greeted her arrival. She was no longer afraid of them. In fact she was glad to have their barks point as she staggered toward the house through the driven sleet so thick that she could hardly see.

All the way across the ocean she had wondered what Bey was likely to say to her. Here she was again, arriving at Wolf Island without invitation or adequate warning.

It was mystifying to find him greeting her at the door like a dear and intimate friend. And even more baffling when, after the briefest of introductions to Trudy Melford, he left her alone with the super-billionaire who controlled BEC.

To hide her confusion Sondra did as Bey had suggested She’d been offered a drink, she wanted a drink, she needed a drink. Something strong with warmth and plenty of stimulants, to calm her chattering teeth and churning belly. She mixed, gulped, and gulped again until the glass was empty. Only after she had mixed a refill did she finally turn to face Trudy Melford.

The other woman was watching her with concentration and poorly-disguised irritation. Sondra knew why. She had broken up a tкte-а-tкte between Trudy and Bey. From the look of it, a very private one. A casual guest did not sit at ease and barefoot, in a lounge robe carefully designed to show off her lush figure.

Sondra returned the detailed scrutiny. Trudy Melford wore the current look, but at an age older than was fashionable. Sondra guessed it at thirty, but assessed Trudy’s actual age as a good deal older. Mid-forties, for abet.

Why wear neither one age nor the other, neither true age nor the early twenties that was the general preference? Sondra looked again, and saw other anomalies. She had studied the current fashion in great detail. Like Bey, she could catalog the minor differences.

And unlike Bey, she was able to make another deduction. Before ever visiting Wolf Island she had studied every reference she could find to Behrooz Wolf. Not just his technical work, but the personal details. She knew the name, age, background, and physical appearance of every woman with whom Bey had enjoyed a significant relationship.

So, apparently, did someone else. Because Trudy Melford’s deviations from the standard form were far from random. They had all been chosen with infinite care—even, Sondra now realized, the age—to make Trudy Melford’s appearance a subtle composite of Bey’s former female companions.

It was ironic. Sondra had considered doing the same thing herself, until she made a rough estimate of how much it would cost. Nothing that she would need was off-the-shelf. The necessary form modifications called for complete custom-fitting, using specially-written and delicately designed programs. Expensive programs. She had been forced to drop the idea.

Sondra was suddenly aware of her own drenched hair and soggy appearance. And so, from the snooty look on her face, was Trudy Melford.

Sondra felt the rising tension between them. “I’ve never seen a form quite like the one you’re wearing.” She tried to sound casual, and failed. “How much does it cost?”

“A negligible amount.” Trudy raised her dark eyebrows and again surveyed Sondra’s clothes. “But rather more, I’m afraid, than you would be able to afford.”

The tone was friendly enough. But the claws were out of their sheaths.

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of using it myself.” Sondra glanced toward the door through which Bey had vanished. “I gather that I’m perfect for some people, just the way I am.”

“I’m sure that you are, my dear.” Trudy smiled, showing even white teeth. “Perfect. For some people.”

Sondra smiled back, seething.

Trudy nodded. The two women turned away from each other. Nothing more needed to be said. There had just been a declaration of war; a statement as clear as if it had been written, signed, sealed, and delivered through official ambassadorial channels.

Bey had watched the whole interaction with a good deal of satisfaction.

He had left the room, but he had not gone far. During his fifty-plus years with the Office of Form Control he had lived at the center of a web of data collection whose gossamer threads extended right through the solar system. It was unthinkable that he would give up that addiction simply because he had retired; and it was natural that his house communications center would track what was happening anywhere on Wolf Island.

The exchange between the two women did not make him feel sorry for either of them. They had invaded his privacy and interrupted his work. Sondra had done it twice. Trudy had done it once only, but she had also inflicted on Bey the unspeakable Jarvis Dommer. They both deserved a little suffering.

He was surprised and pleased with Sondra. It required real nerve to take on the most powerful woman in the solar system, and she had done it rather successfully. True, her mouth was quivering and her hands were shaking, but that could be more the chill of her arrival than a loss of nerve.

More importantly, the meeting had done what Bey hoped it might do. The Empress, clawing and snarling at Sondra, was less imperial. Trudy had lost at least a little of her absolute control.

When the two turned away from each other and apparently decided to speak no more, Bey at once headed back into the room.

“I’m sorry.” He shrugged at Sondra. “I don’t have anything in the house mat would fit you.” A perfectly true statement, as it happened. There were no women’s clothes in his house at all.

Sondra glanced at Trudy Melford before she answered “You know me, Bey. One of your old shirts will do just fine. But I have to dry myself before I freeze.”

“Of course. Help yourself to anything you find in the guest suite.” He gestured along the hallway. Sondra squelched away, turning only once to look back.

“An interesting young lady.” Trudy arched her slanting eyebrows. “Your assistant?”

She was fishing. Bey ignored the bait. “You said earlier that you couldn’t explain what you wanted me to do until I saw something for myself. You obviously don’t have that something with you. Is it on Mars?”

“Of course.”

“A new form?”

“That, and much more.” Trudy Melford leaned forward. “Will you help me? This is more important than I can say. It’s not a question of money, but if you do help you will find me … more than generous.”

The Melford reputation was of a woman remote and quite untouchable. It was hard to accept that idea as warm hands enveloped Bey’s and aquamarine eyes, deep and knowing as the sea, transfixed him. “Will you help me, Bey Wolf?”

“How long will it take?”

“On Mars? Just one day. If that is not enough to interest and persuade you, a longer stay cannot help. Will you do it?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll let you know.”

“When?”

“Within one week.”

“But you have nothing to—” She stopped and took a deep breath. Bey could see the angry response being bottled up. An Empress must be accustomed to instant gratification.