Charles Sheffield - The Spheres of Heaven

To Hank and Angie

Dawn was breaking on Earth, and it could seldom have been more beautiful. The eastern sky wore a gorgeous stippling of salmon-pink and light gray clouds, the perfume of opening blossoms scented an easterly breeze, and soft bird-song filled the air.

Dougal MacDougal stared around him and hated every bit of it.

“Come on, come on,” he said to the short, scruffy man standing at his side. “I thought you said you knew the way? Get me out of this stink.”

His nose, accustomed to the filtered air of the Ceres habitats, wrinkled in disgust. Every moment that they stood on the surface of Earth, spores and bacteria and unknown filth made their way into his delicate and unprotected lungs. His boots, which five minutes before as they stepped clear of the Link exit point had gleamed bone-white, already bore a thin layer of grime picked up from the ground — the ground, he reminded himself, composed entirely of dirt to an unknown depth.

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir .” Kubo Flammarion did not move. It was a flaming lie; he had never told Dougal MacDougal that he knew the way. All he had admitted, back on Ceres, was that he had been to Earth a few times himself. But that had been twenty and more years ago, and the place had seemed like Madworld even back then. Earth had scared the life out of him, long before the quarantine of Sol had led to the general going-to-hell of everything in the solar system.

On the other hand, they couldn’t stand here forever. Flammarion didn’t mind dirt; as a man who had spent lonely years out on the Perimeter where personal hygiene was a matter of choice he kind of liked it. But the natives close to the Link exit point were watching them and a few of the shadier specimens were starting to shuffle in their direction. Flammarion knew the sales pitch — he’d once fallen for it himself; but Dougal MacDougal, lordly Ambassador to the Stellar Group, was unlikely to appreciate it.

“This way, sir.” Kubo Flammarion hustled MacDougal toward a long covered ramp that led below ground. Behind them, the pitch had started. “Nippers, oughta see nippers. Hottest line on Earth” … “Need a Fropper, gentlemen? Get you one easy, real cheap” … “Trade crystals, highest rates and no questions asked” … “Wanna see an execution? Beheading, first-class Artefact, never know it from the real thing” … “Needler lab visit, squire? Top of the line products, won’t see ’em any place else.”

Flammarion tried to ignore them. With luck, Dougal MacDougal wouldn’t be able to understand that confusing babble of poorly pronounced standard solar.

“Right along this way, sir.” Flammarion was used to being the shortest person, man or woman, in staff meetings on Ceres. Here he was half a head taller than most people, while Dougal MacDougal, striding along with his nose in the air and a pained expression on his face, towered high above everyone.

The corridor widened steadily as they moved deeper underground. Flammarion scanned the people they passed, most of whom seemed to have nothing at all to do. They were dressed in bright purples, scarlets and pinks, in striking contrast to the pristine Ambassadorial white of Dougal MacDougal or the stark black of Flammarion’s Solar Security uniform. They were not what Flammarion wanted. He sought one particular style of dress. He was beginning to wonder how much longer he could pretend that he knew what he was doing when he caught sight of a roly-poly little man with a round, smiling face and a patchwork jacket and trousers of green and gold, lounging against a steel support beam.

Flammarion changed direction and pushed his way through. “You’re a busker, right?”

The chubby man grinned. “That I am, squire,” he said, in very acceptable solar with only a touch of Earth dialect. “Earl Dexter, at your service. You’ll be newcomers here, right?”

“Yes, we are. We need—”

But Dexter, automatically, had moved into his pitch. “So it’s a hearty welcome to the Big Marble, sirs. Whatever you want, I can get. Love juice, tipsy pudding, Paradox, worm-diving. You name it. Tiger-hots—”

He stopped abruptly. Dougal MacDougal had reached down and placed one enormous hand on Earl Dexter’s collarbone, his fingers curved toward the busker’s throat.

“Thank you, Ambassador. That ought to help.” Flammarion stepped close to the fat man.

“Slither, Velocil, starbane, jujy rolls,” Dexter said half-heartedly.

“None of them. We need a person.”

“Ah, a person. Well, I can do that. Only—” The busker hesitated. “Only, like, what are you wanting to do with the person? I got girls, see — and boys — who’ll go along with most things, but if it’s snakes or snuff you’re talking about—”

“We need to find a particular man. And the Ambassador here wants to talk to him. And that’s enough for you, you don’t need to know any more.”

“Sure, sure. Talk to him, right?” Earl Dexter craned his neck to one side and eased himself clear of Dougal MacDougal’s grip. “Do you know where this man is?”

“We know he’s on Earth. We know this is the closest Link exit point to where he lives. I know what he looks like, and we have an old address, down in the Gallimaufries — isn’t that what you call the basement warrens? And we know his name.”

“Then you’re home free. If he’s in the Gallimaufries and you give me the name, I can find him.”

“And bring him here?”

“Don’t know about that. But I can take you to him .” Dexter took another step away from Dougal MacDougal. “Of course, a service like this, it’s a little bit out of the ordinary. Won’t come cheap.” He paused, at a growl from Dougal MacDougal, and added weakly, “Extra expenses…”

“I’m sorry, sir. I know it’s illegal on Ceres, but it’s standard practice in these parts. Leave it to me, I’ll take care of it.” Flammarion had been addressing MacDougal. Now he turned away from the Ambassador and led Earl Dexter a few paces farther along the corridor. There was a muttered conversation and then the dull glow of a trade crystal changing hands, while Dougal MacDougal studiously looked the other way.

“Thank you, squire.” Dexter instantly recovered his chirpiness. “And the moniker of the party, if you please, that you want me to find, and his address.”

“His name is Chan Dalton,” Flammarion began. “His address—”

He paused. Earl Dexter was staring at him, pop-eyed.

“Chan Dalton? You don’t need to tell me his address. And you mean that you” — he turned toward MacDougal — “that you — your Lordship — your Worship — you want to talk to Chan Dalton ?”

“You know Dalton?” MacDougal was reaching out again toward Dexter. “What about Dalton, why shouldn’t I want to talk to him?”

“No reason.” Earl Dexter had skipped out of the way, and now he turned and wriggled around a group of noisy newcomers hurrying along the broad corridor.

“No reason at all,” he called over his shoulder. “Chan Dalton! Give me an hour to make sure he’s there, then I’ll be back to take you right to him.” He laughed, a high giggling chortle of mirth as he scurried away through the crowd. “You can talk to him as long as you like, and good luck to you.”

Kubo Flammarion didn’t know what was going on; all he knew, with absolute gloom and certainty, was that so far as the Ambassador was concerned, whatever happened next was going to be Flammarion’s fault.

There was no justice in the world. He had done exactly what he had been asked to do. He had guided Dougal MacDougal all the way from Ceres to the correct location on Earth; he had located a busker who knew how to find Chan Dalton; they were even now on their way to meet with the man.