Cristopher Stasheff - Escape Velocity

“And it traces back to lack of knowledge,” Dar said softly.

“Not all of it.” Stroganoff frowned; then he nodded. “But a lot of it. Yah. A lot.”

“Ever hear of Charles T. Barman?” Dar said slowly.

“The rogue educator?” Stroganoff grinned. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him. Read his main book, even. Yes, I’ve followed his career with great interest. Great interest. Yes.” He turned to Dar, his eye gleaming. “They never caught him, you know.”

“No,” Dar said judiciously, “they never did.”

Dar took a sip and frowned up at Lona over the rim of his glass. “What’s he doing in there?”

“Creating,” Lona answered.

“For so long?”

“Long?” Lona smiled without mirth. “It’s only been six hours so far.”

“It takes that long to do up one of those—what’d Stroganoff call it …?”

“Series format,” Sam reminded him.

“Yeah, one of those.”

“He finished that three hours ago.” Lona took a sip. “Stroganoff needs the script for the first program, too.”

“But he’s just talking into a voice-writer! How can a one-hour script take more than an hour?”

“It’s thinking-time, not talking-time. And don’t forget, it’s got to be verse. That’s the only reason Stroganoff might be able to persuade OPI to do it—because it’s a 3DT series of Tod Tambourin’s poetry.”

“And poems take a great deal of work,” Father Marco said softly. “Actually, I don’t see how he can possibly have a full hour’s worth of verse by 10:00 hours tomorrow.”

“Oh, verse he can manage.” Lona glanced at the closed bedroom door that hid Whitey. “Poetry would take forever—but he isn’t worrying about quality. Verse he can grind out by the yard.”

“What if inspiration should strike?” Father Marco asked quietly.

“Then,” Lona said grimly, “we may be in here for a week.”

“Oh, well.” Dar got up and went over to the bar-o-mat for a refill. “At least he gave us a nice waiting room.” He looked around at the luxurious hotel-suite living room. “Come to think of it, I hope inspiration does strike…”

Dar had a vague memory of Father Marco shepherding them all to their bedrooms, muttering something about an early day tomorrow, but it was rather fuzzy; a tide of some nefarious mist reeking of Terran brew seemed to have rolled in as the light faded. He awoke with a foul taste in his mouth, a throbbing ache in his temples, and an acute sensitivity to noises. He dropped back against the pillow, but sleep refused to return. Finally he resigned himself to having to pocket the wages of sin—though the pocket in question was feeling rather queasy at the moment—and slowly, very carefully, swung his feet over the side of the bed. He clutched his head and waited for the room to stop rolling, gulping air furiously to quiet his stomach. Eventually, it sort of worked, and he staggered to his feet. Then he had to lean against the wall, gasping like a beached fish, to wait until things stabilized again. It was a longer wait, but it worked, and finally he was able to stagger out into the sitting room.

The light had been turned down to a dim glow from the ceiling, thank heaven—but there was a babble of voices. Strangely, they didn’t make his head hurt any worse—and, even more strangely, there was only one person in the room.

That person was Whitey, sprawled in a recliner with a strange glow in his eyes. He noticed Dar, cocked his head to the side, and held out a tumbler full of a thick, brownish liquid. Dar groped for it, seized it, and drank it off in one long gulp. Then his eyes bulged as his stomach gave a single, tumultuous heave. He swallowed it down and exhaled in a blast. “My lord! What is that stuff?”

“Uncle Whitey’s Homemade Hangover Helper,” Whitey answered. “Don’t ask what’s in it.”

“I won’t,” Dar said fervently. He groped his way to a recliner and collapsed into it. “How’d you know I was going to need it?”

“I looked in on you halfway through the ‘night.’ ” Whitey grinned. “You were a gas.”

Dar frowned. “A gas?”

“Thoroughly tanked,” Whitey explained.

A hazy memory of Whitney’s bleached face, peering down intently, floated through Dar’s mind. “Oh, yeah. I remember something about it.” He frowned, then forced a feeble chuckle. “Yeah, you … no, it must’ve been a dream.”

“It wasn’t. Why’d you think it was?”

“Because you asked … and I told …” Dar swallowed heavily. “No. Had to be a dream.”

“Asked what? Told me what?”

“Well—my mission. What I’m supposed to do on Terra.”

“No dream,” Whitey assured him. “And I timed it just right. In vino veritas .”

“ ‘In wine there is truth’?” Dar stared, aghast.

Whitey’s eyelids drooped. “You do know a little Latin! Amazing, in this day and age. Who managed to drum it through your head?”

“My old boss, a bartender named Cholly. But …”

“Hm. Must be an interesting man.” Whitey’s eyes were glowing again. “Like to meet him sometime.”

“You will, at the rate we’re going. You won’t have any choice in the matter.” Dar swallowed. “What’d I tell you?”

“What do you remember?”

“That I had a message from General Shacklar to the I.D.E. top brass—about a plan for a coup…”

Whitey nodded. “Perfect recall.”

Dar groaned and crumpled, covering his eyes.

Whitey leaned forward and patted his shoulder. “Don’t take it so hard, laddie—we all make mistakes the first time out. At least, if you had to spill the beans, you did it to a friend.”

“ ‘Friend’?” Dar glared up. “How can I be sure, now?”

“Because I’ve spent a lot of money, and put myself in quite a bit of danger, just to help you—and when I heard your story, I was glad I had. Not that I think we can succeed, mind you—but I can’t let democracy go down without a fight.”

Somehow, Dar believed him. He frowned up at Whitey, against his headache. “You must’ve had a hunch I was doing something you believed in, then—to put yourself and Lona at risk.”

“Well, yes.” Whitey settled back, picking up a glass. “I did have a notion the gamble was worth it. Lona’s another matter, though. I didn’t make her come. She could’ve stayed behind, with plenty of money, and she knew it.”

Dar’s brows pulled together. “She doesn’t strike me as the self-sacrificing sort.”

“She isn’t. That line she feeds out, about wanting to wallow in luxury with plenty of leisure time to slaughter, is true down to the word—but she knows there are more important things. Such as having one person nearby who really cares about her—me—and freedom, without which she wouldn’t have a chance at luxury.”

Dar looked around. “Where is she?”

Whitey jerked his head toward the closed door. “Proofing the script.”

“It’s done?” Dar’s gaze steadied on Whitey’s face. “Any good?”

Whitey shrugged irritably. “Does it matter? It’ll get you where you need to go; that’s the important thing.”

Suddenly, something seemed wrong. Dar lifted his head. “What happened …? Oh. The voices stopped.”

“Voices? The 3DT, you mean?”

“Is that where they were coming from?” Dar turned to the wall screen, and saw the word “EMERGENCY!” floating in a blue sea. A voice said, “Indulgence, citizens. We have to interrupt to bring you news of a conspiracy against the whole of the Interstellar Dominion Electorates.” The word dissolved into the head and shoulders of an earnest-looking, handsome older man. “Sehn Loffer here, with news directed from I.D.E. Internal Security. We are threatened, fellow citizens—threatened by an insidious evil, creeping up on us everywhere, to choke the life out of our democracy and suck the blood of its freedom.”