Keith Laumer - Of Death What Dreams

A yell went up. When it had faded sufficiently for a single voice to be heard, Dovo called: “Are you sure, Swithin? Tace? Can he do it?”

All eyes were on Bailey/Jannock. His purchased memories told him that Tace was a formidable opponent; precisely how formidable he did not know.

“Tace, eh?” he said musingly. “But it’s out of the question, of course. I fear I have no entrée into that exalted circle.”

“Plandot,” someone said. “He’s a member at Fornax!”

“Get Plandot!” the shout went up.

The crowd surged away laughing and babbling like excited schoolboys.

“Well done, sir,” Bailey bowed sardonically to the older man.

“Just what are you after, sir?” Swithin demanded.

“Oh, say ten thousand M’s, eh?” Bailey said in a bantering tone. “You’ll honor me by accepting ten percent,” he added.

“Tace is no amateur,” Swithin snapped.

“Neither am I,” Bailey said. The two eyed each other, Swithin with a trapped look, Bailey-Jannock relaxed and at ease.

A shout went up from across the room.

“Plandot will meet us at the Blue Tower in half an hour! Tace is there, and in a nasty mood!”

“What if you lose?” Swithin persisted. “Can you cover?”

“Don’t concern yourself,” Bailey soothed. “That’s my part of the game.”

From the distance of half a mile, the Blue Tower reared up almost to zenith, its slim length aglow with the soft azure radiance that served as a beacon across five hundred miles of empty air. At half that distance, it had become a shining wall, intricately fluted, a radiant backdrop spreading like a stage curtain across the avenue. Stepping from the car on the broad parking apron, Bailey felt its incredible mass hanging above him like a second moon. Even his jolly companions had lost some of their airy self-assurance. In near silence the party mounted the polished chrome-slab steps, passed through the impalpable resistance of the ion-screen into the vaulted entry foyer. The talk, as they rode the spiral escalator up past tiers of jewel-like murals, railed galleries, glassed-in terraces, was over-loud, forced, only gradually regaining its accustomed boisterousness as they stepped off in the pink and silver-frosted lounge to be met by a lean, sharp-featured man whom they greeted as Lord Plandot. The latter looked Bailey over as the introductions were made, his face twitching into a foxy smile.

“So you think you can spring a little surprise on Tace, eh? Be careful he doesn’t surprise you instead, sir. I fancied myself as a gamesman until he took my measure.”

While Bailey’s escort went into a huddle over strategy and tactics, he scanned the room, noting a number of featureless doors opening from a wide alcove, mirror-bright panels of polished metal.

“Where do those lead?” he asked Swithin.

“Why, to the upper levels. The Club Fornax occupies only this floor—”

“What’s up there?” Bailey cut in.

“Various offices, living quarters; certain governmental functions are housed on the highest levels. The Lord Magistrate occupies the penthouse.”

“How do you know which door leads where?”

“If you had business there, I assume you’d know. Otherwise, it hardly matters.”

“True enough,” Bailey said blandly as Dovo caught his eye. While the others went off toward the sound of restless music issuing from a red-lit archway, Plandot led the two along a deep-pile passage into a somber room dim-lit by luminous-patterned walls which threw the angular shadows of ugly but costly pseudo-Aztec furnishings across the dark-waxed parquet floor. As Plandot went on ahead, Dovo nudged Bailey, pointing out an imposing, white-maned figure seated alone before a shielded arc-fire.

“We’ll rely on Plandot to draw him out. Tace is an irascible old devil, but not one to let pass an opportunity to put an upstart in his place.” He gave Bailey a sly glance.

Bailey passed five minutes in admiring the inlay-work of the table tops, the mosaic wall decorations, and the silky tapestries before Plandot beckoned. He and Dovo crossed the room. A pair of eagle-sharp eyes stabbed into him from under shaggy brows growing like tufts of winter grass on a rocky cliff of forehead.

“Plandot tells me you fancy yourself a Reprisist,” Lord Tace growled.

“In a small way,” Bailey said in confident tones. He smiled an irritating smile. Tace rose to the bait. “Small way,” he rumbled. “As well speak of dying in a small way. Reprise is a lifetime undertaking, young man.”

“Oh, I don’t know that I’ve found it so very difficult, sir,” Bailey smirked.

Tace snorted. “Plandot, are you people making sport of me?” He glared at the tall man.

“By no means, m’lord,” Plandot said imperturbably. “My friends at the Apollo appear to have great faith in their protégé. Of course, I accepted the wager on your behalf. If you wish to decline, no matter, I shall settle the account, and quite rightly, in view of my presumption—”

“Apollo Club? What’s all this?” Tace heaved himself around in his chair to survey Dovo. “Oh, you’re in this too, are you, Dovo? Then I assume it’s not merely Plandot’s idea of baiting an old man.”

Dovo executed a graceful head bob. “I see now that we were over-enthusiastic, m’lord,” he said smoothly. “My apologies. Of course you’re much too fully engaged to indulge our fancy—”

“Just how enthusiastically did you intend to back your man?” Tace cut in sharply.

“I believe the sum mentioned was five hundred M’s,” Dovo murmured.

“Fifteen hundred,” Bailey corrected. “Sir Swithin seems to have some confidence in my small abilities,” he explained at Dovo’s startled look.

“That’s a considerable degree of enthusiasm,” Tace said. He studied Bailey’s face, looked at his clothes. “Just who are you?” he demanded abruptly.

“Jannock,” Bailey said. The name was an appropriate one, common enough to arouse no particular attention among a world-wide Cruster population of two hundred million, while suggesting adequate connections. Still Tace eyed him intently.

“I say, m’lord,” Dovo murmured. “Sir Jannock is here by my request, under the aegis of the Apollo Club—”

“How long have you known him?” Tace demanded.

“Only briefly—but he enjoys the sponsorship of Lord Encino—”

“Is Encino here?”

“No—but…”

“Did Encino introduce him to you personally?”

Dovo looked startled. “No,” he said. “His man, Wilf—”

Tace barked what may have been a laugh. “Sponsored by a body servant, eh?”

“Sirs,” Bailey said firmly as all eyes swung to him. “I see I have occasioned embarrassment. My apologies.” He hesitated, gauging the temper of his listeners. Their looks were stony. It was time to take a risk.

“Perhaps I should have mentioned the name of my Caste Adviser, Lord Monboddo. I’m sure that he can satisfy any curiosity you may have as to my bona fides .”

The silence told him that he had blundered.

“Lord Monboddo,” Sir Dovo said in a brittle tone, “died seven months ago.”

Not a flicker of expression reflected Bailey’s racing thoughts. Instead, he smiled a rueful smile, turned and inclined his head to Dovo. “Of course,” he said smoothly. “How hard the habits of thought die. I meant, naturally, milord’s successor as Lord Chancellor of the Heraldic Institute.”

“And what might—” Dovo started. At that moment there was a stir across the room. The voice of a steward became audible, a strained stage whisper: “… My lord, a moment, by your leave—”

“There he is! Stand aside, you fool!” a ragged, high-pitched voice snarled the words. Another steward hurried past, headed for the entry. A tall, gray-haired man stood there, his path blocked by a pair of husky servitors. His eyes were fixed on Bailey—feverish, wild eyes.