Cristopher Stasheff - Escape Velocity

That didn’t quite do it, but the foyer nearly did. Oh, the carpet was thick and the decoration superb; that wasn’t the problem. It was the three uniformed guards, two androids, and five cameras, every one of which seemed to be looking directly at him. He stopped in his tracks, swallowing something that he hoped wasn’t his heart.

But Whitey strolled ahead, confident and nonchalant, looking totally like your ordinary, everyday plutocrat.

“Service, citizen?” the lead guard asked with perfect, impersonal politeness.

“Gratitude, citizen. Mr. Tambourin, to see Mr. Stroganoff.”

“Do you have an appoi …” the guard began, out of habit. But he closed his mouth, and gazed up at Whitey for a moment. Then he said, “Of course, Mr. Tambourin.” He turned to murmur into a shielded com unit, waited, then murmured again. A delighted yelp sounded faintly from the unit. The guard listened, nodded, and turned back to Whitey. “He will be up in a few minutes, Mr. Tambourin. I regret the delay, but …”

“Of course.” Whitey smiled indulgently. “He didn’t know I was coming—but then, neither did I. Old friends, you understand.”

“Perfectly.” The guard was a good liar, anyway. “If you’ll step into the lobby, Mr. Tambourin …?”

Whitey smiled with a gracious, affable nod, and turned back to the “team.”

“Come along, children.” He turned and ambled away toward the big interior doors.

Dar could fairly hear Sam bristling as they followed.

The androids swung the doors open, inclining in a slight bow as Whitey passed through. As Dar filed by, he definitely did not receive the expected impression of being scanned. What with one thing and another, it boosted his opinion of Whitey’s status till it almost soared.

They entered a world of sybaritic luxury—parqueted walls with huge, inscrutable paintings that fairly screamed, “ART!” surrounding chairs that seemed to mold themselves around the sitter’s body, a carpet so thick that it must have had a heartbeat, and a tastefully almost-dressed hostess who bent low to murmur, “Refreshment, citizen?”

A month ago, Dar would have grabbed her and enacted the wildest scene of animal lust ever recorded (which it no doubt would have been). But, with Lona in the same room, the woman just didn’t seem interesting. “Yes, something to drink, thanks. Nothing too stimulating.”

When she handed him the drink, he took a tiny sip—and euphoria/ecstasy/exaltation/Nirvana rose up behind his eyeballs and exploded in streamers that enveloped his brain. He sat rigid for a moment, then coughed delicately into his fist, and set the drink down. He’d had occasional experiences with the pipeweed of Wolmar, during prairie grass fires, and knew a depressant when one hit him. The lady had taken him at his word, and then some; he wondered if he’d unwittingly spoken a code phrase.

Then a medium-sized man with a giant of a personality swept into the lounge. “Tambourin! You infernal old scoundrel! Welcome back!”

Whitey stood up just in time to be almost knocked down by the dynamo’s enthusiasm. All that kept him up was the bear hug as Stroganoff’s rolling laughter boomed in their ears.

Then Stroganoff held Whitey back at arm’s length, grinning from ear to ear. “Let me look at you, ancient my wastrel! … Not a day! Ten years, and he hasn’t aged a wrinkle!”

“Well, I was old enough the last time I saw you.” Whitey slapped Stroganoff on the shoulder. “Solid meat still, eh? You’re not doing so badly yourself, David!”

“Not since they gave me that new stomach, no. But let me put on my manners a second. Glad to meet you, folks, I’m David Stroganoff. Who’re your friends, Whitey?”

“Oh, this is Fulva Vulpes.” Whitey stretched a hand out to Lona, whose eyes registered only the faintest of surprises. “She’s my assistant director and director of editing.”

Stroganoff’s eyebrows went up. “Unusual combination.” He pressed Lona’s hand. “You must be very good with computers.”

Now Lona did show surprise. She glanced at Whitey. Stroganoff chuckled. “And who’s this enchantress?”

Sam answered the compliment with a glare, which brought even more charm feeding back from Stroganoff. “Watching to make sure the compliment’s not more than its subject is worth, eh? Believe me, it’s sound as an erg. What is she, Tod—your unit manager?”

“If it comes in a bureaucratic package and is wrapped with red tape, I can cut it,” Sam said warily.

“Unit manager, it is! And you, citizen?”

“Cobum Helith, research and script development. Co’s the one who came up with the idea for tying my verses into a story, Dave.”

“Wh … Tod’n’ I’ve been talking for some time now.” Father Marco shook Stroganoff’s hand without batting an eyelid. “I work from fundamental mythic structures—which means I have trouble thinking commercially, of course.”

“Well, don’t let it worry you—the myth hasn’t been born that can’t be debased,” Stroganoff said with a perfectly straight face. He turned to Dar. “And the young one, Tod?”

“Perry Tetic—‘Pa’ to us juveniles. He’s the debaser you just mentioned.” Whitey was obviously making it up as he went along. “The commercializer. He’s very good at putting the most abstract ideas into words even the average dunce can understand.”

“Oh, really.” Stroganoff shook Dar’s hand with guarded interest. “Let’s hope we have time for a chat, Perry. I’m kind of interested in that kind of thing, myself.”

“Let’s make time.” Dar was sure of being able to hold up his end of that conversation; anyone who’d been through Cholly’s curriculum could. At least Whitey had given him a role he knew something about—and, looking back on it, he realized Whitey’d done the same for each of the others, too.

“… a little behind the state of the art,” he realized Lona was saying. “Could I have a look at your editing facilities?”

“Of course, of course! Tour of the whole place, in fact. Sound Stage Number Ten’s the first stop—I just ducked out of there, and I’ve got to quack back to make sure everything’s running smoothly. Come on, this way!”

He set off, Whitey beside him; the rest followed in their wake. They turned into a corridor that opened off the lounge, Whitey and Stroganoff talking double-speed.

“So you put together your own production unit, eh, Tod? Glad to see you were listening when I kept saying you ought to package up a tank-play—but I didn’t expect you to raft your own team!”

“Only way I’ll touch it, Dave.” Whitey shook his head, jaw set. “With me in control over the whole thing. You may notice we’re lacking a producer, though.”

“Yeah, I did kind of notice that.” Stroganoff grinned like a shark. “Is that an offer, Tod?”

“What do you want—thumbscrews?”

“Always the consummate diplomat. You know I can’t resist a chance on something this good—but you need backing, too. You can’t be crazy enough to try to finance something like this on your own.”

“Well, I don’t exactly have a reputation for thrift.” Whitey grinned. “But I’m not that far gone.”

“No thrift, my Aunt Asteroid,” Lona muttered. “He’s got enough in the Bank of Terra to buy a small planet—developed!”

It was a good chance to get close to her Dar sidled up and whispered, “They’re buddies. How come Stroganoff keeps calling him ‘Tod’?”

“ ‘Cause he doesn’t know about ‘Whitey,’ ” Lona muttered back. “Nobody does, outside the taverns.”

Well. That also explained the security problem that had been giving Dar heartburn. He’d thought Whitey was bringing sure disaster down on them by using his real name—but anyone on Falstaff who’d told Canis Destinus that Whitey the Wino was helping Dar Mandra wouldn’t have known him as Tod Tambourin. So his best alias was his real name.