Timothy Zahn - Angelmass

And maybe Forsythe would get lucky. Maybe Kosta would try to jump him when he came in. It would certainly make the whole thing easier.

Wearily, he got to his feet and trudged aft to try to catch a few hours of sleep. By 9:05, he told himself, it would be all over. Kosta would be silenced, and he would be able to face the incoming Komitadji with a clear mind. The greatest good, for the greatest number.

On his way to his stateroom he drained the rest of his drink. It still had no taste.

"Just relax, girl," Hanan advised, huffing a bit as he cleared the last of the fifteen steps and headed toward the main Government Building entrance, tapping the tip of his furled umbrella rhythmically against the marble as he walked. "You know the drill, and you've got all that native talent ready to call on. It's going to work just fine."

"I hope so," Chandris muttered, throwing a quick look at him as she got a couple of paces ahead and reached for the door handle. It wasn't Hanan's scheme she was worried about, in point of fact, but Hanan himself. Despite his loud and insistent claims that he was quite adequate to this little jaunt, she could tell that every step was sending a jolt of pain through him.

But you would never tell it from listening to him talk. "It'll be fine," he repeated soothingly.

"Provided you got the names straight when you looked at the directory, it should go smooth as slippies. Ten minutes, tops, and it'll all be over."

Chandris hunched her shoulders beneath the unaccustomed weight of the short but heavy overcoat she was wearing. "Okay," she said. "If you say so."

"I say so," he said. "Just relax."

They stepped through the door and crossed to the receptionist's desk. "May I help you?" the middleaged woman seated there asked.

"I certainly hope so," Hanan said gravely, handing her the elaborate business card Chandris and Ornina had designed and printed aboard the Gazelle two hours ago. "I'm Dr. Gridley Fowler, psychiatrist; this is my assistant Jacyntha Thinne. We need to see Office Manager Cimtrask immediately in Supervisor Dahmad's office."

"Ah... certainly," the receptionist said, looking taken aback as she focused on the card. "Let me call Mr. Cimtrask and—"

"Immediately, my good woman, immediately," Hanan insisted, stepping past her desk and striding toward the door leading into the main office area of the building.

He got three steps before the receptionist seemed to realize what he was doing. "Wait a minute," she said, swiveling around in her chair. "I have to call you in—"

"Supervisor Dahmad's office," Hanan called over his shoulder, pointing imperiously back toward her with his umbrella. "Immediately."

"But—"

Her protest was lost as Hanan pushed open the door and strode through. Chandris was right behind him.

"That worked," Hanan muttered as they headed down the corridor. "Which way?"

"Elevator's over there," Chandris said, nodding ahead. "We want the fifth floor."

"Dahmad?"

"Second floor," she told him. "We ought to miss Cimtrask just fine."

"Let's make sure," Hanan said, slowing his pace. "We don't want to bump into him coming down while we're going up."

They made a slightly more leisurely approach to the elevator and pushed the call button. The doors opened, revealing an unoccupied car, and they stepped in. Chandris touched the fifth floor button, and they were on their way.

In the silence of the car, she could hear the faint sounds of scratching and one or two tiny and very indignant squeaks. It's a normal chop and hop, she told herself firmly. It's not going to go boff on us and fall apart. It's not. Taking a deep breath, she set herself into her role.

Not surprisingly, Forsythe's office complex was considerably more lively than it had been the previous night. Ronyon was nowhere in sight, but the two guards were still on duty across the room.

Two different guards, that is; there must have been a shift change sometime in the past few hours.

That was good—the last thing they wanted right now was for someone to recognize her. Pulling open the door, Chandris held it as Hanan marched through, once again every bit the serious, overbearing, and rather obnoxious Dr. Gridley Fowler.

There was a receptionist seated at the desk just inside the door, working her way through a neat stack of mail. Hanan stepped to the desk and planted himself squarely in front of it. "I'm Dr. Fowler," he announced himself, tapping his umbrella tip on the floor for emphasis. As the receptionist looked up, he glanced down at the floor beside her and bent over. With her view blocked by the desk, he let a thick envelope slide out of his sleeve onto the floor and immediately picked it up. "Here—you dropped this," he added, straightening and tossing the envelope casually beside the stack of mail. "I have an urgent and immediate appointment with Mr. Cimtrask. Kindly direct me to his desk."

The receptionist blinked. "Mr. Cimtrask isn't here," she said, sounding perplexed. "He understood that he was to meet you in Supervisor Dahmad's office."

"In Supervisor—?" Hanan sputtered under his breath. "That ninny of a receptionist got it wrong. Mr.

Cimtrask and Supervisor Dahmad were both supposed to meet me here. Get them back."

The receptionist's face set into hard lines. "Sir—"

Chandris didn't wait to hear the rest of the argument, which she was pretty sure Hanan would win anyway. Slipping around behind him, she crossed to a temporarily vacant desk and surreptitiously slid an envelope of her own from her sleeve onto it. She glanced at the nameplate—the man's name was Bulunga—and passed it by, heading for an older man scowling at his computer a few desks away. His nameplate, she saw, identified him as a Mr. Samak, Agricultural Affairs. "Excuse me?" she said hesitantly.

He looked up from his work with clear annoyance. "Yes?" he demanded brusquely.

"I've got a letter for you, Mr. Samak," she said, producing another envelope from the side pocket of her overcoat and handing it to him.

He shifted his scowl to the envelope. "There's no return address," he said. "No official markings.

Where did it come from?"

Chandris spread her hands. "Don't look at me," she protested. "I'm just a page temp—I don't know anything. I didn't even know where to deliver it until he told me."

"He gave you my name?"

"How else would I have known?" Chandris countered patiently. "There's no address on it, either. He just pointed me to the door, gave me your name, and told me to deliver it."

"So it was someone already in the building?" Samak asked, peering suspiciously at the envelope. A

man without much humor, Chandris decided, who had likely been on the receiving end of other practical jokes through the years. Her instincts had played her right; she'd picked the perfect target.

"What did he look like?"

"Oh, gee, I don't know," Chandris said, shifting around far enough to glance behind her. Mr.

Bulunga was back at his desk now, a slight frown on his face as he opened the envelope she'd left for him. "He had short dark hair, dark eyes, and a sort of round face," she continued, describing Bulunga as accurately as she could without being too obvious about it. "He had on a dark-blue cutback jacket with a gray scarf. Some kind of red pattern on the scarf, I think, but I don't remember what it was."

"Hmm," Samak rumbled, slitting open the envelope with a paper knife. "Very well. You may go."

"Yes, sir," Chandris said humbly, backing away. Picking up a stack of papers from another unoccupied desk as she passed it, she continued to move away, pretending to study the papers as she waited for the fireworks to begin.

It didn't take long. Samak's scowl grew deeper as he read through the letter Hanan had crafted, and his face was starting to turn an ominous shade of red. Four desks away, Bulunga was undergoing a similar transformation, only in his case it was from harried distraction to open-mouthed astonishment as his contracting grip made crumpled finger marks on the edges of his letter.