Poul Anderson: A Circus of Hells

“What’s this?” Julius puffed. “What are you two doing?”

“Sir, I’m afraid we’ve hit a rock or two,” Flandry said.

“Really? How long will this take? I have a dinner engagement.”

“Maybe we can settle the difficulty before then, sir. May I be seated? I thank the admiral, I’ll do my best, sir. Got my personal affairs to handle too.”

“No doubt.” Julius regarded the young man calculatingly. “I am told you’ve applied for furlough and reassignment.”

“Yes, sir. I figure those months on Talwin more than completed my tour of duty here. No reflection on this fine command, but I am supposed to specialize along other lines. And I believe I may have an inheritance coming. Rich uncle on a colonial planet wasn’t doing too well, last I heard. I’d like to go collect my share before they decide a ‘missing in action’ report on me authorizes them to divvy up the cash elsewhere.”

“Yes. I see. I’ll approve your application, Lieutenant, and recommend you for promotion.” (“If you bail me fast out of this mess” was understood.) “Let’s get busy. What is the problem you mentioned?”

The room above Door 666 was unchanged, a less tasteful place to be than the commandant’s and a considerably more dangerous one. The Gorzunian guard stirred no muscle; but light gleamed off a scimitar thrust under his gun belt. Behind the desk, Leon Ammon sweated and squeaked and never took his needle gaze off Flandry. Djana gave him head-high defiance in return; her fists, though, kept clenching and unclenching on her lap, and she had moved her chair into direct contact with the officer’s.

He himself talked merrily, ramblingly, and on the whole, discounting a few reticences, truthfully. At the end he said, “I’ll accept my fee—in small bills, remember—with unparalleled grace.”

“You sure kept me waiting,” Ammon hedged. “Cost me extra, trying to find out what’d happened and recruit somebody else. I ought to charge the cost to your payment. Right?”

“The delay wasn’t my fault. You should have given your agent better protection, or remuneration such that she had no incentive to visit persons to whom she’d not been introduced.” Flandry buffed fingernails on tunic and regarded them critically. “You have what you contracted for, a report on Wayland, favorable at that.”

“But you said the secret’s been spilled. The Merseians—”

“My friend Ydwyr the Seeker assures me he’ll keep silence. The rest of whatever personnel on Talwin have heard about the Mimirian System will shortly be dispersed. In any event, why should they mention a thing that can help Terra? Oh, rumors may float around, but you only need five or ten years’ concealment and communication is poor enough to guarantee you that.” Flandry reached for a cigarette. Having shed the addiction in these past months, he was enjoying its return. “Admittedly,” he said, “if I release Ydwyr from his promise, he may well chance to pass this interesting item—complete with coordinates—on to the captain of whatever Imperial ship arrives to look his camp over.”

Ammon barked a laugh. “I expected a response from you, Dominic. You’re a sharp-edge boy.” He stroked his chins. “You thought about maybe resigning your commission? I could use a sharp-edge boy. You know I pay good. Right?”

“I’ll know that when I’ve counted the bundle,” Flandry said. He inhaled the tobacco into lighting and rolled smoke around his palate.

The gross bulk wallowed forward in its chair. The bald countenance hardened. “What about the agent who got to Djana?” Ammon demanded. “And what about her?”

“Ah, yes,” Flandry answered. “You owe her a tidy bit, you realize.”

“What? After she—”

“After she, having been trapped because of your misguided sense of economy, obtained for you the information that you’ve been infiltrated, yes, dear heart, you are in her debt.” Flandry smiled like a tiger. “Naturally, I didn’t mention the incident in my official report. I can always put my corps on the trail of those Merseian agents without compromising myself, as for example by sending an anonymous tip. However, I felt you might prefer to deal with them yourself. Among other inducements, they’ve probably also corrupted members of your esteemed competitor associations. You might well obtain facts useful in your business relationships. I’m confident your interrogators are persuasive.”

“They are,” Ammon said. “ Who is the spy?”

Djana started to speak. Flandry forestalled her with a reminding gesture. “The information is the property of this young lady. She’s willing to negotiate terms for its transfer. I am her agent.”

Sweat studded Ammon’s visage. “Pay her—when she tried to sell me out?”

“My client Djana will be leaving Irumclaw by the first available ship. Incidentally, I’m booking passage on the same one. She needs funds for her ticket, plus a reasonable stake at her destination, whatever it may be.”

Ammon spat a vileness. The Gorzunian sensed rage and bunched his shaggy body for attack.

Flandry streamed smoke out his nose. “As her agent,” he went mildly on, “I’ve taken the normal precautions to assure that any actions to her detriment will prove unprofitable. You may as well relax and enjoy this, Leon. It’ll be expensive at best, and the rate goes up if you use too much of our valuable time. I repeat, you can take an adequate return out of the hide of that master spy, when you’ve purchased the name.”

Ammon waved his goon back. Hatred thickening his voice, he settled down to dicker.

No liners plied this far out. The Cha-Rina was a tramp freighter with a few extra accommodations modifiable for various races. She offered little in the way of luxuries. Flandry and Djana brought along what pleasant items they were able to find in Old Town’s stores. No other humans were aboard, and apart from the skipper, who spent her free hours in the composition of a caterwauling sonata, the Cynthian crew spoke scant Anglic. So they had privacy.

Their first few days of travel were pure hedonism. To sleep out the nightwatch, lie abed till the clock said noon, loaf about and eat, drink, read, watch a projected show, play handball, listen to music, make love in comfort—before everything else, to have no dangers and no duties—seemed ample splendor. But the ship approached Ysabeau, itself richly endowed with cities and a transfer point for everywhere else in the bustling impersonal vastness of the Empire; and they had said nothing yet about the future.

“Captain’s dinner,” Flandry decreed. While he stood over the cook, and ended preparing most of the delicacies himself, Djana ornamented their cabin with what cloths and furs she could find. Thereafter she spent a long while ornamenting herself. For dress she chose the thinnest, fluffiest blue gown she owned. Flandry returned, slipped into red-and-gold mufti, and popped the cork on the first champagne bottle.

They dined, and drank, and chatted, and laughed through a couple of hours. He pretended not to see that she was forcing her mirth. The moment when he must notice came soon enough.

He poured brandy, lounged back, sniffed and sipped. “Aahh! Almost as tasty as you, my love.”

She regarded him across the tiny, white-clothed table. Behind her a viewscreen gave on crystal dark and a magnificence of stars. The ship shivered and hummed ever so faintly, the air was fragrant with odors from the cleared-away dishes, and with the perfume she had chosen. Her great eyes fell to rest and he could not dip his own from them.

“You use that word a lot,” she said, quiet-voiced. “Love.”

“Appropriate, isn’t it?” Uneasiness tugged at him.

“Is it? What do you intend to do, Nicky?”