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Chapter 4

The den was a windowless but cozy room, paneled with Vegan teakwood. Two of the walls bore elongated holoscreens, both blank, but with a dim blue glow that gave one a vague sense of infinite depth. The rest of the room was taken up by glassed-in bookcases, a desk, and overstuffed chairs. A man rose from one of the chairs and came toward him: tall, lanky, sandy-haired, with furrowed brow and intense blue eyes.

Dark figure coming toward him, looming . . .

"Ruskin! Excellent to see you!" The man reached out as he regarded Ruskin with an expression of—what? Surprise? Curiosity? "What happened out there?" the man exclaimed. "You had us worried!"

Ruskin shook hands cautiously. The grip was cool but firm. Did he remember this man? Gorminski? Broder? Those were the names that Jeaves had mentioned. If he knew them, how did he know them? "Thank you," he murmured. "It's good to be back."

Stanley Broder. The name clicked into place, but no memory to accompany it.

Broder had a thin mustache and wore a powder-blue ascot with a cream-colored jacket. His movements were precise and exaggerated, an actor's movements—thrust of hand, puckering of mouth, creasing of brow. "Ilex was ready to head out on a one-man search," he said. "Isn't that right, Ilex?"

Ruskin started, as another man stepped out of the corner behind him. He was shorter, stockier, with thinning black hair, and a limp. His voice was gravelly. "We didn't quite know what to do. We sent out a couple of remotes to skim the trails, but it's a big forest, Willard. If you'd been any longer, we would have had to call in a whole search operation." He shook Ruskin's hand. "Anyway, it's good to see you intact. What happened?" Ilex grinned, with a smile that seemed uneasy. "Or is it a secret?"

"Sit," Ruskin heard, before he could answer. Broder was gesturing to a chair. "Jeaves said you looked pretty banged up when you came in last night." Broder touched his arm, voice full of concern.

Ruskin laughed shakily, as the memory flashed: the dark figure, an explosion of light; coming out of the darkness and finding his wounds; and on the ground, bits of—

He shuddered, gripping the arms of the chair. He felt cold, very cold.

And yet. Here he sat, neat and clean. Intact.

Except for his memory.

For a frozen instant, he gazed at the two men: a tableau of three, each wondering at the others' thoughts. Gorminski had called him Willard. Did he dare trust them? Broder could have been the tall figure; but somehow he thought not. And yet . . .

"You don't have to tell us." Broder chuckled. "You look to be in pretty good shape now, anyway." He narrowed his gaze at Ruskin. "Did you feel better by the time you got back?"

Ruskin opened his mouth and closed it. That was exactly what Jeaves had asked him. He stared at Broder in confusion. "I can't . . . exactly say that I did. I guess." He forced a smile. "I was feeling pretty exhausted. It's hard to say."

Broder and Gorminski exchanged glances. "You really shouldn't have gone so far from the lodge by yourself," Gorminski admonished him. "At least not without a monitor. Just for safety's sake."

"Were you injured?" Broder asked. "We could give you a medical scan—we're fully equipped, you know." His voice was almost buoyant with concern.

Too much concern? Ruskin wondered. And why did Broder keep fingering that medallion on the front of his shirt? Trying to hide his uncertainty, Ruskin rubbed the back of his neck. "I did take a nasty fall, I think. But I'm okay now."

Broder gazed at him with a frightening intensity. "You think you took a fall? You don't know?"

"Well—" Ruskin forced a laugh. The lie had come forth easily, without his quite knowing why. "I was kind of dazed when I got back."

"You didn't—" Broder frowned and tapped his head—"give yourself a knock, did you?" He glanced at Gorminski with an expression that Ruskin couldn't read.

Ruskin let his breath out and nodded. "I did have a bit of a headache. To be honest, I—" He hesitated. To be honest . . . did he want to be honest with these men? Something held him back from telling what he knew. Did they know he'd been attacked?

"You what, Willard?" Broder leaned forward, his hand still clutching that medallion. His eyes held Ruskin's again, in a sharp stare.

Why is he probing so . . . ?

"I'm going to call Jeaves," Broder said suddenly, rocking back in his chair. "If you got a concussion, we should have him close by. That okay with you?"

Ruskin shrugged. "Why not?" He wondered what had made him lie—what had made him distrust these men. But he knew. I didn't fall . . . someone tried to kill me.

Broder closed his eyes for a moment, caressing the medallion. When he opened them, it was to gaze back at Ruskin. "Since you had a bit of a head bump, maybe I ought to ask you this: Do you recall the state you were in when you left here?"

"Huh?" Bewildered, Ruskin turned to Gorminski, who was sober-faced and silent. He tried to reach back in memory: but all he found was mist and confusion. "I was . . . in a bit of a hurry, wasn't I? That's why I forgot to put on a monitor."

Broder's smile cracked into a grin. "In a hurry? I would have put it a little more strongly. You were in quite a state, Willard!"

Gazing at the floor, Ruskin tried to think, to probe the cottony darkness of his memory. There was something there, stirring in the dark. A memory of anger surfaced, then disappeared. Anger? Yes, terrible anger. Rage. Betrayal. And bewilderment. "We had an argument. Didn't we?" Yes, he knew they had. But an argument terrible enough to warrant attempted murder?

Gorminski barked a laugh, then looked embarrassed. "You really don't remember, do you?" Broder asked.

"Ah—" Ruskin cleared his throat. "No. To be honest." The door opened and Jeaves floated in, bearing a tray with a teapot, cups, and a plate of crackers. "I must have—" He frowned and allowed the sentence to die, as he watched the robot set the tray down on the desk.

Broder crossed the room to the bookcase. Opening the center glass door, he ran his finger along the row of spines. He pulled out a volume, held it up. "Do you recall our talking about Holdeson's theories of political equilibrium?"

Ruskin turned his palms up wordlessly. Theories of political equilibrium? What was so inflammatory about that?

"Do you recall our discussion of the Triunal mechanism for absorbing the Emir worlds? Or our discussion of the preSpace examples: socialism and capitalism on Old Earth? Do you recall any of that?"

Ruskin struggled to reach backward in time. There was something: he remembered the anger, but not the focus. Unless . . .

The Tandesko Triune.

"Ilex was trying to convince you that Holdeson—" Broder tapped the volume in his hand "—was right when he said that the Triune system was inherently fairer—"

Yes. Tandesko Triune. Anger.

He remembered rage at an assertion, at the very notion that anything about the Tandesko Triune, a group of some seventeen tightly bound worlds with a social structure that he couldn't and didn't want to comprehend, was fair for anyone except the Triune itself. The Tandesko system was mad—a despotic regime of several sentient races interlocked and merged into one. It was not at all like the Auricle Alliance of worlds, where individualism was encouraged to flower and grow.

The discussion itself was lost in the mists, but he remembered the anger. If these people were Tandesko sympathizers . . .

Gorminski was grinning nervously as Broder continued, "And you became rather upset, as I recall."

"Did I?" Ruskin whispered.

"I never knew I was such an effective debater," Gorminski chuckled. "I didn't even believe half the stuff I was saying. But it sure lit you off. You stamped off into the woods, said you were going to go find some place to think where you weren't surrounded by a bunch of idiots—"

"Did I?" he repeated dizzily.

"Would you care for tea, Mr. Ruskin?" Jeaves interrupted.

"What? Yes." He fumbled with the cup and saucer.

"You didn't care for the Tandesko viewpoint," Broder said, snapping the book shut. He replaced it on the shelf.

"No," Ruskin said huskily. "No, I didn't. Don't."

"Are you still angry with me?" Gorminski asked apologetically.

"What? No, of course not." Ruskin started to sip, but his hand was trembling. The cup rattled on its saucer as he set it down again. Something in him wanted to hurl the tea instead of drinking it.

"Willard, you're not all right. You're shaking," Broder said, moving quickly to assist him. "Jeaves, would you take that cup, please?" The robot lifted the cup and saucer away. "Willard, I think we'd better get you checked out. Will you go with Jeaves for a med-scan?"

Ruskin flushed. "That's hardly necessary."

"Call it a precaution." Broder touched his arm. "Or a waste of time, if you want. But you can never be too sure, when you've had a knock on the head. We'd feel better if Jeaves checked you out."

"Well—"

"What do you think, Jeaves?"

The robot hummed. "I would recommend it, certainly, if there's any reason for doubt. It will be quite painless, Mr. Ruskin."

All three were staring at him expectantly. Ruskin finally sighed. "If you insist. But I want to know what you find." I do want to know. I wish I could believe that you'll tell me.

"Sure. It's the smart thing," Broder assured him.

"I'll awaken the medic-unit," Jeaves said.

Ruskin nodded and followed Jeaves toward the door. And maybe it'll be one more chance to kill me.

 

* * *

 

Broder squinted at the readouts arrayed three-dimensionally in the holoscreen. "You're the programmer, Ilex. Quit wringing your hands and just tell me what we're seeing."

Gorminski peered back and forth between the readouts in one wall of the den and the computer-enhanced image of Ruskin in the other, floating in the zero-grav field of the medical scanner. At the edge of the latter image, Jeaves could be seen moving about, tending the scanner controls and evaluating the data that were being relayed to the den screens. Gorminski limped down the length of the data-readout screen and studied a list of codings. He scratched his head. "As nearly as I can tell, he's in good shape. And it looks as though Ganz's report was accurate, too. There are subtle changes in the bone structure of the skull, and in the ribs. As though bone was removed, you know—and replaced. There are also remnants of scar tissue in his heart, lungs, interstitial tissues, and in the skin."

"What about the NAGs?" Broder asked.

Gorminski shrugged. "They're there."

"And that's all you can tell me?"

"Well, I'd say it looks like he's stabilized just the way Jeaves told us he was." Gorminski limped back and forth, studying the data-structures. He pressed a switch. "Jeaves, can you talk privately?"

The robot replied from the examination room. "Indeed. My assessment is that my earlier speculation was correct. He healed from his injuries with remarkable speed, and the earlier violent episode appears to have been a transitional phase. He seems to have repressed all memory of it, as well as of Ganz's attempt to terminate him. The amnesia is not entirely unexpected, and is consistent with his confused state when he came in last night. I would attribute it to the injury, or to the transitional episode, or both. It may disappear. But I predict that the NAG control will stabilize. I have no reason at this time to expect that he will not ultimately prove reliable. I recommend going ahead as originally planned."

Broder frowned. He fingered his neck medallion, then dropped it. "I wonder. Has he really repressed the memory? Or is he just hiding it well? We'll have to watch him carefully."

Gorminski peered at him a moment, then pressed another switch to mute the connection to the robot. "What's the matter? Don't you trust Jeaves, either?"

"I do, just not completely. I don't trust anyone completely. Not even you." Broder paced, ignoring Gorminski's startled expression. "Besides, that robot is right too often."

"What's bad about that?"

"One of these days, it's going to be wrong. And we won't be expecting it."

"That's not a very politic sentiment, Stanley." Gorminski returned to his scrutiny of the data. "I'd have thought you'd be happy that we don't have to blow the whole thing up.

"I would be, Ilex. I would be very happy—if I knew. If I only knew."

 

* * *

 

He was still blinking off the effects of the suspensor drugs when Broder came in and asked cheerfully, "How are you feeling?" He shrugged, straightening his shirt. "Well, you'll be happy to know that you checked out fine," Broder said. "Jeaves says that you had a mild concussion—so it looks as though you were right. You must have taken a fall and knocked yourself on the bean."

"Ah." Ruskin exhaled fully, his thoughts slowly coming back into focus. He nodded, in what he hoped was a sufficiently casual manner.

"Jeaves gave you an anticoncussive, which ought to fix you up pretty well, but you should still take it easy for a while. Anyway, we'll be flying back to the city today."

Ruskin drew another deep breath. "So . . . I check out okay, then?"

"Absolutely." Broder looked at him closely. "If you want to see your readouts—"

Ruskin waved off the suggestion. "Maybe later." One question was answered already. It was obvious that they wouldn't show him the actual readouts—not if they wanted him to believe that he'd suffered a simple concussion. There was not much point in pursuing that avenue.

"Sure. Fine." Broder seemed to accept his response. "Oh, you should probably talk to Jeaves about getting your things packed for you. We'll be leaving after lunch."

"Right."

Broder clapped him on the shoulder and left him alone. Ruskin nodded to himself and stared thoughtfully at his hands. He rubbed his thumb against the tip of his right index finger, wondering at a tiny bump that he'd just noticed there. Wondering why Broder had lied to him.

 

* * *

 

"Tell me something, Jeaves."

"Of course, sir. If I can." The robot drifted alongside him, humming.

Ruskin pointed out the window to the edge of the forest. Behind him, the fountain and pool were murmuring, whispering in the courtyard. "What's out there, Jeaves? Really."

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand your question, Mr. Ruskin. The forest preserve is out there. The sky. The mountains. You've seen them. You've walked among them. Did you want to know something more specific?"

Ruskin scratched his right sideburn. "Well, there's a lot that I haven't seen. Pretend I'm just a tourist here for the first time."

The robot rotated in midair to regard him. "But you are."

Ruskin opened his mouth, closed it.

Jeaves's eyes gleamed. "But you are having difficulty remembering. Is that correct?"

He hesitated. "Let's say there are gaps. Probably from my . . . fall." He glanced over his shoulder. They were apparently alone. "What would you tell me about this place? What forest is it? What are its charms? And its dangers?" Aside from attempted killings, of course.

"The forest," Jeaves said, "is the upper arm of the Kandanaro Protectorate. It is the largest wildlife preserve on Kantano's World, and one of the three largest in all of the Northeast Orion worlds. Do you recall overflying the Slyphus River valley and the Mukato Canyons on your way in a few days ago?"

Ruskin closed his eyes. Pictures flickered in his mind in response to those names; but were they from literal memory, or had he merely seen holos of the places?

The robot pointed out the window. "The trails, one of which you followed, go on for hundreds and thousands of kilometers through the wilds. Should you have gotten lost without a monitor, it could have been very difficult to find you. You might have traveled for days before encountering a trail maintainer or a shelter."

Ruskin cocked his head curiously. "Are there other lodges like this one?"

"Why, yes. Various governments and organizations own lodges throughout the Protectorate."

"But—" Ruskin paused, as Jeaves's eyes dimmed momentarily.

"Excuse me." The robot's voice suddenly became sharp. "Mr. Broder has requested that we complete preparations for departure. If you have not yet finished gathering your personal effects—"

"Of course. Could you assist?"

 

* * *

 

The deltacraft shuddered as it rose into the air. The lodge fell away from them, then was lost in tree cover. Jeaves was piloting, plugged into a socket where he sat facing Ruskin and the others, chatting as they climbed to a fast cruising altitude.

Ruskin only half listened; he quietly peered out at the shrinking landscape, trying to recall, if it was in his mind anywhere, the memory of flying in. The brown and gray outline of the mountain range caused a brief, dizzying flurry of memories, or hints of memories, none of which he could capture for more than an instant. When the flurry drained away, it seemed to take his energy with it. He blinked, trying to focus on his companions; but if anyone had spoken to him, he would not have heard. His thoughts were turned inward, spinning futilely.

Among his effects he had found a slim wallet containing both personal and work identification chits. He'd slipped the wallet into his breast pocket, intending to examine its contents later. Now he chafed at the presence of the others, preventing him from poring over his own possessions. But at least now he had names and addresses for his places of residence and work.

A changing landscape reeled by, far below. The deltacraft was chasing the sun, leaving behind rivers and lakes and mountains—and more rivers, gleaming ribbons over the land. Their destination was apparently far across the continent. They were chasing the sun, but the sun was winning the race. It was growing enormous and red as it set toward the horizon ahead of them. The last thing he remembered was glancing into Jeaves's inscrutable gaze, then looking back with a shiver of fear at the crimson orb of the sun swelling behind bands of dusty clouds, swelling as though threatening to swallow them whole into its fiery, smoky furnace.

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Framed