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3: The Maguey Worm

Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.

—Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act 4, Scene 1

 

Ruth Cohen led the way downstairs into the cellar of Government House. Two Marines were seated at the far end of a long, blank-walled corridor. One stood to attention. The other remained at his console.

"Identity, Commander, please." He waited as Ruth stared into a retinal pattern reader and put her hand on the Identiplate.

"Ruth Cohen. Lieutenant Commander, Imperial Navy. Unrestricted access to security systems," the box said.

"Now you, sir."

"It won't know me," Renner said.

"Sir . . ."

"I know the drill, Sergeant." Renner looked into the box. A red light danced about in his eyes.

"Pattern recorded. Subject unknown," the box said.

The Marine touched buttons on his console. A door swung open to reveal a small antechamber that looked much like an airlock. As Renner and Cohen entered the antechamber, the Marine dictated, "Lieutenant Commander Cohen and subject identified as Kevin Renner, civilian, Imperial Autonetics, entered security rooms . . ."

The inner door opened when the outer door was closed and locked. Renner couldn't help thinking of the weapons the Marines could use on them while they were locked into the comfortably furnished suite. There was a conference table, good chairs, and a couch, all identical to security rooms Renner had seen on a dozen planets. "Seems like home," he said.

Ruth Cohen held herself stiffly. She set her recorder on the table and wiped her palms on her skirt. Renner read her nervousness. "You all right?"

"Maybe I don't interview captains all that often."

Renner grinned. "Don't look like one, do I? There's a price for this, you know."

"What?"

"You'll have dinner with me tonight."

"Captain . . ."

"What are they going to do, fire me?" Renner demanded. He made faces at the recorder, which wasn't on. "That for you. And no report until Commander Cohen agrees to go out with me."

"Suppose I refuse?"

Renner stared. "Then I make my report."

"Oh." She smiled enchantingly. "In that case, I'd be delighted to have dinner with you."

"Hot damn! How do you feel about—"

"I won't touch crottled greeps. Why is it everyone who's seen a crottled greep wants to watch someone else coping? Captain, does it strike you that you and I shouldn't be seen together very much?"

"You're right," Renner said. "Heckfire."

"So I guess that's that." She sat at the table. "Ready? Okay. Recorder's on." She dictated date and time. "Report of Kevin Renner, Captain, Imperial Navy Intelligence. Case officer, Lieutenant Commander Ruth Cohen . . ."

Renner waited until she had finished the introduction and header, then sat at the table. "Captain Sir Kevin Renner, KCMG, Navy Intelligence, Special Assignment. As stated in previous reports, we brought the Imperial Autonetics yacht Sinbad to Maxroy's Purchase because of the suspicions of His Excellency Horace Hussein al-Shamlan Bury, Magnate. Bury's financial analysis indicated there might be irregularities. Imperial Autonetics has a startup factory here, and owns three ships, so there was no problem about cover stories.

"Two days after we arrived there was an attempt to kidnap me—"

Ruth Cohen involuntarily drew in a deep breath.

Renner grinned. "Glad you care." He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for a moment, then began to talk. He told about the attack, then what had preceded it.

" '. . . healthy greep. Look how it shimmies.' Commander, if you keep laughing in the middle I'll never get done."

"That's not fair!"

"Sure it is." Renner continued with his night in the capital. At appropriate points he inserted recordings of what they had found out about the three attackers, Captain Reuben Fox, and the history of Nauvoo Vision.

"Mormons," Ruth Cohen said. "Three of them. It's hard to believe they're ordinary robbers."

"Yeah, I noticed that," Renner said. "One Mormon going bad is unfortunate. Three at once is a conspiracy. Not to mention that Bury is sure that Captain Fox is covering up."

"General conclusions?" Ruth prompted.

"Of my own, none, but His Excellency Horace Bury believes there may be Moties loose in the Purchase system. I do not. I think the Outies are back."

Ruth nodded grimly. "I don't think I believe in Moties either," she said. "But the regulations are clear enough. This interview gets off to Sector Headquarters soonest. Discussion?"

"Bury's paranoid," Renner said. "He always sees a Motie threat. But he could be right, and if he is, the Governor's in a conspiracy against the Empire."

"Captain, this report will go directly to Sector Headquarters. They may not know about you and His Excellency."

Renner grinned. "Okay. Horace was born rich. His father made a massive fortune in interstellar trade after the Empire annexed Levant. Bury extended it. He's a hundred and sixteen years old, and he understands the flow patterns of money. A powerful force in the Empire is Horace Bury.

"He . . . um. He committed acts which put him afoul of Empire law, details classified, twenty-six years ago. We had both visited Mote Prime as part of the official expedition. I was just getting out of the Navy, having served as Sailing Master of the INSS battle cruiser MacArthur of ill fame."

"The only ship ever destroyed by aliens," she remembered.

"Other than blockade battles," Renner said. "But essentially yes. MacArthur was destroyed by Motie Watchmakers. It's a class of Motie animal. Not intelligent, and they have four arms, not three. All kinds of people have speculated about that, including the Mo-ties at Blaine Institute. Anyway, I was getting out, and Bury was facing a hangman's noose. He made a deal. For twenty-five years he's been holding down rebellion and Outie action all across the Empire, largely at his own expense, and I'm the guy the Navy assigned to watch him. He's dedicated, too. I've never caught him doing anything that would get in the way of his mission." Except once, he remembered.

"Why Outies? Vengeance? Outies gored his ox?"

Renner sighed. "Horace doesn't give a damn about Outies. Outies take up time and resources. Anything that distracts the Empire from dealing with Moties is a threat to the human race and the children of Allah. Moties frightened Horace once. Nobody does that twice. Horace wants them extinct."

Ruth Cohen looked puzzled. She glanced at the recorders. "Captain, if the Moties did break out, would they be that big a threat?"

"I don't know," Renner said. "It's not impossible. It isn't that their technology is so much better than ours, as that their instinct for technology is beyond anything we know. Humans are better at science, but once the principles have been discovered, the Moties—the Browns, anyway, the Engineers—are better at turning them to practical use than any humans who ever lived.

"Example. They'd never heard of the Langston Field when we arrived at Mote Prime, and before we left their system they'd made improvements we never thought of! Another example: the magic coffeepot we got off MacArthur. By now that technology is all over the Empire, even here. I'm sure some variant of the coffeepot is used to get the alcohol out of the sake I was drinking night before last."

"Thank you. Have you other observations?"

"Yeah. My own plans. Bury's paranoia can be useful sometimes, but I don't like seeing him so nervous. He might do something . . . hasty. Anyway, I trust he'll be busting his arse to find what he thinks are Moties. That leaves me free to track Outies, if that's what we're facing. I want to show Bury that the Moties are still safely bottled up.

"We can't trust anyone but Bury's people, so we don't have any troops. Can't use the local cops. But there are some . . . mmm, avenues. Where has Captain Fox been sending his cargo pods? Is there an Outie base in the asteroids? Why the peculiar flow of money? Imperial Autonetics is constantly being picked at by embezzlers. Robbing a corporation, it's like robbing a machine, for some people. Here, it doesn't look like anyone's being robbed."

She was smiling again. "Is that bad?"

"Well . . . it's odd. Something is hidden but nobody's being robbed."

"What will you do?"

"I'll do Renner." He grinned at her. "I'll spend money. I'll make passes at pretty girls, and ask shopkeepers about whatever they're selling, and buy people drinks and generally get them talking. Maybe . . . yeah, maybe I'll look into where opal meerschaum comes from."

She was looking at him, frowning. "Alone?"

"More or less. I'll keep Bury's household posted as best I can. This is what I do."

"Anything else to report?"

Renner shook his head, and Ruth turned off the recorders. "I always did wonder about the regulations about Moties," she said. "What do we do now?"

"First, you get this recording off to Sector. You do understand that no one on this planet sees it first?"

"Give me a little credit—"

"Oh, I've always known that beauty and brains go together. There are implications, you know."

"Lots of them," Ruth said. "Kevin, have you thought this through? The True Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints has power. And a lot of members. If you're threatening it . . ."

"They'll have plenty of gunmen. Sure. Now think about what we could be doing to threaten that Church."

"I did. So far I got nothing."

"Me either," Renner said. "So I'll keep poking around."

 

Shopping centers had never come into vogue on the Purchase. Big and little shops were scattered through the city, a sudden surprise among the houses.

Here: four huge rock slabs leaned against each other at the tops, with window glass in narrow triangles where the rock didn't meet. The boutique was a block from the Pitchfork River, in a neighborhood that had once been fashionable and was now getting to be again. Kevin Renner glanced in and saw a squarish chunk of white rock glittering with opal colors.

He walked in. Chimes sounded above his head.

He paid little attention to the cookware, lamps, rifles. Here was a row of glittering white pipes with amber bits, and one, isolated, that was fiery opal in a black matrix. Some were carved in intricate fashion: faces, animals, and one flattened tube shaped like an Imperial skip-glide fighter.

A short, muscular, balding man emerged from somewhere aft. His eyes scanned Renner in genial fashion. He said, "The pipes."

"Too right. What kind of prices do these things carry? The black one, for instance."

"Oh, no, sir. That's a used pipe. Mine. After I close up, then it comes out of the case. It's there for display."

"Um. How long . . ."

The old man had it out on the counter. It had been carved into a face, a lovely woman's face. Long, wavy hair ran down the bit. "I've been smoking Giselle here for twenty-six years. But it doesn't take that long. A year, year and a half, the matrix will blacken up nicely. Longer for the larger pipes."

"Longer if I like switching pipes, too. How—"

"You'll find you smoke just the one pipe at home, sir. Opal meerschaum doesn't go stale after a few thousand puffs. Briar is what you'll take on trips."

Interesting. You took the cheaper pipes on trips, of course, and the little ones. Big pipes were more awkward but smoked better. But most of the pipes in view were pocket-size.

"Do you keep the bigger ones somewhere else?"

"No, sir, this is all we have."

"Mmm. That big one?"

"Nine hundred crowns." The proprietor moved it to the counter. It was an animal's head, vaguely elephantine.

"That's high. I've seen better carving," Renner said.

"On opal meerschaum?"

"Well, no. Is it difficult to carve?"

The old man smiled. "Not really. Local talent. It may be you'd want to buy a blank, like this." It was bigger yet, with a bowl bigger than Renner's fist and a long shank and short bit. "Take it to another world. Give it to a better carver."

"How much?"

"Thirteen fifty."

It wasn't Kevin's money. Very little of what passed through his fingers was Kevin's money. There would be a Navy pension, and he might be in Bury's will . . . but this would be charged to expenses. Nonetheless Kevin shook his head and said, "Wow."

"Higher on other worlds. Much higher. And the value goes up as you smoke it." The man hesitated, then said, "Twelve hundred."

"Would you go a thousand?"

"No. Look into some other stores. Come back if you change your mind."

"Rape it. Sell me that. Do you have tobacco, too?" Kevin handed over his pocket computer and waited while the proprietor verified the transfer, wrapped the pipe, handed it across. And added a tin of local tobacco, gratis.

Kevin knew what he wanted to ask next . . . and suddenly knew that he didn't have to. He just grinned and let silence stretch until the old man grinned back and said, "Nobody knows."

"Well, how does it come in?"

"Private fliers. Men go out and come back with the stone. Are you thinking that they could be made to talk?"

"Well . . . ?"

"There are criminal elements in Pitchfork River. They don't control the opal meerschaum and never have. My suppliers say they don't know where it comes from; they always bought it from somewhere else. I've heard it so often I'm beginning to believe it. I helped finance some geologists once, when I was younger. They never found anything. Money into a rat hive."

"Too bad."

"You won't find a shop that sells only the opal meerschaum. It's sporadic. There hasn't been a new source in twenty years, that's why it's so high. Some of us think it comes from the north. The north is more geologically active, and the fliers mostly go out in that direction."

 

"But he was willing to bargain," Renner told his pocket computer, set to RECORD. "Two other dealers offered me deals, too. That's three out of four. I think they're expecting a new source anytime now. That would drop the price. It would fit the cycles you noticed, slow rise in price, peak, steep drop, every twenty years or so."

He put the computer away. The taxi settled and let him out. He was in a narrow wedge of manicured forest, in Tanner Park, and a bridge was in view of the north.

Across the bridge: the spill. It wasn't quite a slum; but the houses crowded too close, and potholes and broken lightstrips weren't repaired at once, and the crime rate was high. Renner hadn't wanted to get out of a taxi here. He strolled through the streets, looking for what there was to see.

That sign: THE MAGUEY WORM, on a tall concrete building painted in garish murals. Surely that was where he had fried his brains, night before last? Not that it mattered much. Renner went in.

Midafternoon. Not much of a crowd: four at the bar, two at a big table, all men. Working men, by their look: comfortable, durable clothes. Renner ordered waterwing liqueur and settled back to soak up atmosphere.

There are those who prey on tourists. . . .

But nobody made a move. He might have been invisible.

Renner unwrapped his package. Carefully he filled the bowl of the pipe with tobacco, then lit up.

Staring is a universal insult, and nobody was; but others had become aware of his existence. Renner said aloud, "The old guy was right. That's a terrific smoke." It was true.

"I wouldn't know," the bartender said, and a brawny guy two chairs down said, "Amen." He was wearing several layers of clothing, like the hunters of two nights ago. Geared for cold, wearing it all because it was the easiest way to carry it.

Renner looked disconcerted. "Oops. I should have asked—"

"Smoking's allowed in the Maguey Worm." The bartender jerked his thumb upward, at the high ceiling and slowly turning fans. "Go ahead, it'll give the place a bit of class. I'm told you should be drinking skellish with that, for the taste. Or B and B."

"Pour me a skellish, then, bubble on the side. A round for the house. You, too."

"The house thanks you," the bartender said. "Amen," said six customers, and the house became busy.

One of the hunters raised his glass to Renner. "You were in here—what, two nights ago?"

"Wednesday," the bartender said. "We don't get a lot of off-planet trade here." His voice was friendly, but it held a question.

Renner shrugged.

The hunter came over to Renner's table. "Mind? . . . Thanks." He sat and looked pointedly at Renner's pipe. "He sure ain't broke."

Renner grinned. "I got lucky once." The trick is to imply that anyone can get lucky. "I'm a rich man's pilot. I can play tourist when I'm on a planet, while Bury busts his ass making more money."

"You want local color, you came to the right place. I'm Ajax Boynton."

"Kevin Renner."

"Sir Kevin," Boynton said. "Saw you on tri-vee. Hey, fellows, we got a celebrity."

Renner grinned. "Pull up a chair. Tell me tall tales." He waved to the bartender, who had politely moved out of earshot. "Another round."

Four more joined him. Two ordered straight orange juice. It cost as much as liquor. They introduced themselves as the Scott brothers, James and Darwin.

"I take it things are slow?" Kevin asked.

"A little," Darwin Scott said. He shrugged massive shoulders. "Snow ghost hunting's a chancy thing. Get a good one and you make money, but you don't always."

"Then what?"

"Then you wait for somebody to stake you," Ajax Boynton said. "You looking to invest some money?"

Renner looked thoughtful. "Truth is, I'd like to own a snow ghost fur and I'd like to shoot it myself. What would it cost me?"

"Five thousand buys a quarter share," Boynton said. "Ten thousand buys forty percent."

"Why—"

"With ten thousand worth of gear we have a better chance of getting a ghost."

"Oh. Plausible."

"Still interested?"

"Sure, if I get to come along."

Boynton looked annoyed. "Hunting ghosts isn't dude work. We lose people."

"You keep saying that. With IR gear, and—"

"And sonar, and the best damn acoustic gear we can come up with," James Scott said. "And we lose people, because it's a long way north. The aurora mucks up electronics. And—"

"And ghosts move fast," his brother said. "They dig in near tree roots, where you can't get a good sonar map. They stay down in the snow so the IR doesn't spot them. And they can swim under snow faster than you can walk. Forget it, Mister."

"Let's see, now. I back you for ten thousand worth of gear, which I leave behind when the ship lifts. A good ghost fur costs . . . what? Straight from you, no retailer."

Darwin Scott said, "I'd get around twenty thousand."

Renner's sources were accurate. "So call it another twenty thousand when I get back, and call that incentive to bring the greenhorn back alive. Total, thirty thousand." They were trying to maintain poker faces, but he surely had their interest. "Just that, and you keep your sixty percent, but I expect you to indulge yet another whim."

Three men sighed. Renner said, "See, I can't think of any reason not to hunt snow ghosts where I might stumble across some opal meerschaum, too."

Three men were hiding smiles. Ajax Boynton said, "Me neither. If you've got a place in mind, I'll tell you if there are snow ghosts there."

"Let's find a map."

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