Timothy Zahn - Angelmass

But the feelings refused to go away.

At the desk Ronyon had the drawer open and was twiddling the combination lock. Do you want me to carry it again? he asked, signing one-handed.

Forsythe waited until the safe was open and Ronyon was looking at him before replying. I think that would be best, he signed. It's still the best way to assure that a thief who tried to steal it wouldn't get hold of the real thing.

Okay, Ronyon signed cheerfully, carefully scooping the angel pendant out of its box. For a moment he held it cupped in his hand, clearly delighted by the play of light off the crystal. Then, as carefully as he handled everything else of Forsythe's, he put it into his side coat pocket. Okay, he signed. Are we going to go now?

As eager to please as ever, Forsythe thought with a twinge. Totally unquestioning as to why his boss would want to continue this strange behavior.

Yes, Ronyon, Forsythe signed, getting to his feet. All of it, he reminded himself, was expendable.

Ronyon closed the lid of the safe and slid the drawer closed. All safe and sound, Mr. Forsythe, he signed cheerfully. What should I do now?

Forsythe glanced at his watch. Cheerful at seven o'clock at night, and that after sitting in on nearly five hours of meetings and discussions whose content he probably wouldn't have understood even if he'd been able to hear it. The man was unbelievable. You might as well go on home, he told the other. I just have a few things to do here, then I'll be leaving too.

Ronyon's face fell a bit. His eyes flicked around the room, as they often did when he was thinking hard. Can I call to the dining room for them to bring you some dinner?

Bone-weary, Forsythe still had to smile. So eager to please... Thanks, but no, he signed. A thought struck him—But I'd appreciate it if you'd get me some tea from the samovar before you go.

Ronyon's face lit up again. Sure, Mr. Forsythe, he signed, and all but dashed from the office.

Forsythe shook his head in wonderment and turned back to the computer access display. It was rather like having a bipedal trained dog, he thought as he keyed for his private angel-data file. A

trained dog who could bring coffee and make cookies—

The thought froze halfway. On the screen, with red stars all along its edge, was the abstract of a newly-filed paper...

An extensive theoretical and statistical analysis of the Angelmass emissions indicates that the rate of angel production has increased over the past five years. A significant portion of this increase cannot be explained by the general changes in Hawking radiation brought about by the gradual mass-evaporation of the black hole itself...

Forsythe skipped to the bottom of the abstract. Jereko Kosta, the tag identified the writer. Visiting researcher, Angelmass Studies Institute, Seraph.

Unobtrusively, a steaming cup of tea and a small pot appeared at his elbow. Thank you, he signed, looking up at Ronyon. Go on home now. I'll see you in the morning.

Ronyon ducked his head in an abbreviated bow. Okay, Mr. Forsythe. Good-bye.

He left. Taking a sip of tea, Forsythe turned back to the display and called up Kosta's article. He'd replenished the cup twice from the pot, and once from the outer office samovar, by the time he finished.

He leaned back in his chair, sipping at the cold dregs, and stared at the screen. "Damn," he said quietly.

It was about as bad as a mathematically top-heavy paper could possibly be. Because if angel emission wasn't explainable by current theory, there were only two possibilities. Either the current theory was lacking, or else the angels were not a totally natural emission of a black hole.

Forsythe hissed softly between his teeth. Few of the other High Senators, he knew, would even read the paper, let alone understand its implications.

But some would. He knew which ones... and he knew what their first thought would be. If angels weren't simply a natural product of a quantum black hole, there must be some other mechanism involved. A mechanism that might not require a nearby black hole to operate.

A mechanism that might possibly be laboratory reproducible.

Setting his cup down, Forsythe keyed for a bio on the paper's author. It was remarkably short, saying only that Kosta had joined the Institute six weeks earlier after graduating from Clarkston University in Cairngorm, Balmoral. With no mention of honors or other publications, it was probable that he was just some newly graduated kid who'd happened to luck onto something no one else had noticed yet.

But if he was, in fact, truly smart enough to isolate the angel-producing mechanism...

Forsythe keyed back to the last page of the paper. Kosta's current funding was coming from a foundation on Lorelei, one whose name Forsythe couldn't recall ever having heard before. Clearly a small foundation, though; attached to the paper was a cross-indexed request from Kosta for Empyreal government funds to continue his work.

For a long minute he thought about it. Then, hunching forward, he keyed for his orders file.

Fifteen minutes later, it was done. Kosta's paper had been shifted from the daily report listing to an obscure science file where chances were good that no one in the High Senate would ever notice it.

The request for Empyreal funding had been located, brought forward in the considerations file, and denied. And the next skeeter to Seraph would include an official order to the Angelmass Studies Institute that Kosta's current credit line be indefinitely suspended.

For just a moment he hesitated over the latter, finger poised over the "send" key. If his imagined worst-case scenario was wrong—if this Kosta really wasn't smart enough to be a genuine threat—then cutting him loose like this was going to be pretty hard on the kid.

But if he was...

Steeling himself, Forsythe jabbed the button. He couldn't risk it. If Kosta's work led to a way to create artificial angels, it would create a flood that the Empyrean would be buried under. And if it cost Kosta his career... well, Kosta was expendable, too.

Unless...

Forsythe grinned tightly to himself and called up a different file. With luck, he might be able to have it both ways.

MEMO TO PIRBAZARI: GET ME A BACKGROUND CHECK ON JEREKO

KOSTA, CURRENTLY AT THE ANGELMASS STUDIES INSTITUTE.

EMPHASIS ON SCHOLASTIC AND SCIENTIFIC ABILITY; STRONG

EMPHASIS ON PROBLEM-SOLVING CAPABILITIES. REPORT ASAP.

With a satisfied grunt he cleared the screen and stood up, wincing at the complaints from his muscles and joints, but with the latest twinge from his conscience gone. If Kosta was merely onetime lucky, he'd have his credit line back in a week or two, no worse for the experience and with a nice horror story of bureaucratic stupidity to pass around at late-night chat sessions.

And if he was indeed a genius, with no funding he'd have to go back to being a genius on Balmoral or somewhere else equally harmless. Under the circumstances, it was as fair a deal as Kosta was likely to get. Fairer than some would have given him.

Fairer, perhaps, than Forsythe himself would have given him six weeks ago.

He looked at his watch. It was late, and he was tired, but there was still one more thing he had to do before he could go home. It shouldn't take more than another hour to rig up a second track path above his ceiling.

And anyway, being tired was part of a High Senator's job. Another of the many things he'd learned from his father.

Kosta read the printout twice, a cold knot settling into his stomach. "I don't understand," he said.

"I don't understand either," Director Podolak confessed. "All I can suggest is that someone on Uhuru scrambled up somewhere. Confused you with someone else, perhaps."