Poul Anderson: A Circus of Hells

Djana was hard to shock. But when the apartment door had closed behind her and she saw what waited, her “No!” broke free as a near scream.

“Do not be alarmed,” said the squatting shape. A vocalizer converted the buzzes and whistles from its lower beak into recognizable Anglic syllables. “You have nothing to fear and much to gain.”

“You—a man called me—”

“A dummy. It is not desirable that Ammon know you have met me in private, and surely he has put a monitor onto you.”

Djana felt surreptitiously behind her. As expected, the door did not respond; it had been set to lock itself. She clutched her large ornamental purse. A stun pistol lay inside. Her past had seen contingencies.

Bracing herself and wetting her lips, she said, “I don’t. Not with xenos—” and in haste, fearing offense might be taken, “I mean nonhuman sophonts. It isn’t right.”

“I suspect a large enough sum would change your mind,” the other said. “You have a reputation for avarice. However, I plan a different kind of proposition.” It moved slowly closer, a lumpy gray body on four thin legs which brought the head at its middle about level with her waist. One tentacle sent the single loose garment swirling about in a sinuous gesture. Another clutched the vocalizer in boneless fingers. The instrument was being used with considerable skill; it actually achieved an ingratiating note. “You must know about me in your turn. I am only Rax, harmless old Rax, the solitary representative of my species on this world. I assure you my reproductive pattern is sufficiently unlike yours that I find your assumption comical.”

Djana eased a bit. She had in fact noticed the creature during the three years she herself had been on Irumclaw. A casual inquiry and answer crossed her recollection, yes, Rax was a dealer in drugs, legal or illegal, from…where was it? Nobody knew or cared. The planet had some or other unpronounceable name and orbited in distant parts. Probably Rax had had to make a hurried departure for reasons of health, and had drifted about until it stranded at last on this tolerant shore. Such cases were tiresomely common.

And who could remember all the races in the Terran Empire? Nobody: not when its bounds, unclear though they were, defined a rough globe 400 light-years across. That volume contained an estimated four million suns, most with attendants. Maybe half had been visited once or more, by ships which might have picked up incidental native recruits. And the hundred thousand or so worlds which enjoyed a degree of repeated contact with men—often sporadic—and owed a degree of allegiance to the Imperium—often purely nominal—were too many for a brain to keep track of.

Djana’s eyes flickered. The apartment was furnished for a human, in abominable taste. He must be the one who had called her. Now he was gone. Though an inner door stood closed, she never doubted she was alone with Rax. Silence pressed on her, no more relieved by dull traffic sounds from outside than the gloom in the windows was by a few street lights. She grew conscious of her own perfume. Too damn sweet, she thought.

“Do be seated.” Rax edged closer yet, with an awkwardness that suggested weight on its original planet was significantly lower than Irumclaw’s 0.96 g. Did it keep a field generator at home…if it had any concept akin to “home”?

She drew a long breath, tossed her head so the tresses flew back over her shoulders, and donned a cocky grin. “I’ve a living to make,” she said.

“Yes, yes.” Rax’s lower left tentacle groped ropily in a pouch and stretched forth holding a bill. “Here. Twice your regular hourly recompense, I am told. You need but listen, and what you hear should point the way to earning very much more.”

“We-e-ell…” She slipped the money into her purse, found a chair, drew forth a cigarette and inhaled it into lighting. Her visceral sensations she identified as part fear—this must be a scheme against Ammon, who played rough—and part excitement—a chance to make some real credit? Maybe enough to quit this wretched hustle for good?

Rax placed itself before her. She had no way of reading expressions on that face.

“I will tell you what information is possessed by those whom I represent,” the vocalizer said. The spoken language, constructed with pronunciation, vocabulary, and grammar in a one-one relationship to Anglic, rose and fell eerily behind the little transponder. “A junior lieutenant, Dominic Flandry, was observed speaking several times in private with Leon Ammon.”

Now why should that interest them especially? she wondered, then lost her thought in her concentration on the words.

“Investigation revealed Ammon’s people had come upon something in the course of excavating in this vicinity. Its nature is known just to him and a few trusted confidants. We suspect that others who saw were paid to undergo memory erasure anent the matter, except for one presumably stubborn person whose corpse was found in Mother Chickenfoot’s Lane. Subsequently you too have been closeted with Ammon and, later, with Flandry.”

“Well,” Djana said, “he—”

“Pure coincidence is implausible,” Rax declared, “especially when he could ill afford you on a junior lieutenant’s pay. It is also known that Ammon has quietly purchased certain spacecraft supplies and engaged a disreputable interplanetary ferrier to take them to the outermost member of this system and leave them there at a specific place, in a cave marked by a small radio beacon that will self-activate when a vessel passes near.”

Suddenly Djana realized why Skipper Orsini had sought her out and been lavish shortly after his return. Rax’s outfit had bribed him.

“I can’t imagine what you’re getting at,” she said. A draft of smoke swirled and bit in her lungs.

“You can,” Rax retorted. “Dominic Flandry is a scout-boat pilot. He will soon depart on his next scheduled mission. Ammon must have engaged him to do something extra in the course of it. Since the cargo delivered to Planet Eight included impellers and similar gear, the job evidently involves study of a world somewhere in the wilderness. Ammon’s discovery was therefore, in all probability, an old record of its existence and possible high value. You are to be his observer. Knowing Flandry’s predilections, one is not surprised that he should insist on a companion like you. It follows that you two have been getting acquainted, to make certain you can endure being cooped together for weeks in a small boat.

“Orsini will flit you to Eight. Flandry will surreptitiously land there, pick up you and the supplies, and proceed into interstellar space. Returning, you two will reverse the whole process, and meet in Ammon’s office to report.”

Djana sat still.

“You give away nothing by affirming this,” Rax stated. “My organization knows. Where is the lost planet? What is its nature?”

“Who are you working for?” Djana asked mutedly.

“That does not concern you.” Rax’s tone was mild and Djana took no umbrage. The gang lords of Irumclaw were a murderous lot. “You owe Ammon no allegiance,” Rax urged. “Rather, you owe him a disfavor. Since you prefer to operate independently, and thus compete with the houses, you must pay him for his ‘protection.’ ”

Djana sighed. “If it weren’t him, it’d be somebody else.”

Rax drew forth a sheaf of bills and riffled them with a fine crisp sound. She estimated—holy saints!—ten thousand credits. “This for answering my questions,” it said. “Most likely a mere beginning for you.”

She thought, while she inhaled raggedly, If the business looks too dangerous, I can go tell Leon right away and explain I was playing along—of course, this bunch might learn I’d talked and I’d have to skip—A flick of white fury: I shouldn’t have to skip! Not ever again!