were sharp and missed no details as their gaze continually darted about the room. There
was a feral intelligence lurking behind those eyes, Yvette decided. The man was dressed
in a white tunic-jacket and slacks, with a fist-sized emerald hanging from a gold chain
about his neck. In other contexts Yvette would have thought him overweight, but standing
beside the Marchioness he looked positively emaciated.
No wonder she’s got an empty calendar, Yvette thought. No one wants anything to do
with her.
Keeping a firm mask over her true feelings, Yvette curtsied and approached to within two
meters. As the daughter of a duke and sister of a marquis, she had been schooled in all
the courtly graces and could outpoint anyone on etiquette. But Carmen Velasquez was
supposed to be a commoner and, despite having a lot of money, was inexperienced at
dealing with nobility. Deliberately she made her curtsy awkward and projected a
nervousness at being in the Marchioness’s presence that’ she certainly did not feel. “Your
Highness she began fumblingly.
The man standing beside the Marchioness corrected her. “Your Excellency,” he
prompted.
“Yes, oh, sorry, Your Excellency. I’m sorry, I’ve never met anyone of your exalted rank
before. My name is Carmen Velasquez and I asked to see you because I was wanting to
invest a great deal of my money on Vesa and I wanted to discuss various plans.
“Do you like Vesa?” the Marchioness asked. Her voice was quite raspy and seemed to
escape from rather than be uttered by, that large mouth and multiple chins.
“Oh, very much, Your Excellency. I’ve been here a couple of weeks now and I find it
fascinating. My husband died recently, leaving me with a considerable fortune, and your
moon looks like a good breeding ground for cash. A smart person could make a killing
here.
She scrutinized the faces of both people opposite her, but neither reacted to the word
“killing.” She hadn’t expected them to, but anything was worth a try.
“Many fortunes have indeed been made here, gospozha,” said the man, “and small ones
have been enlarged. There is always room for capital investment. How much were you
thinking of investing?.
“Please pardon me, gospodin, but I don’t recall having been told your name,” Yvette
excused. “I don’t mean to be rude, but my husband always told me to find out
beforehand who you’re dealing with.
“Of course, dear lady; the apologies are all mine for not having spoken up sooner. My
name is Garst, and I am Her Excellency’s First Advisor.
Though her face remained placid, her mind was spinning as she tried to place that name.
Garst. I know I’ve heard it somewhere before. But where? “Thank you, Gospodin Garst.
I was considering a modest sum to start out with-say, seven or eight million rubles?.
The way Garst’s eyes lit up, she could tell he considered that sum to be slightly better
than modest. He began eyeing her in much greater detail now, trying to peek behind the
figurative mask she was wearing to discover more about this mysterious rich widow. She
could almost hear the gears clicking in his brain. Then suddenly, as his eyes were
traveling over her body, he froze for the slightest of instants. A scowl flew quickly across
his face and disappeared. “That’s a very attractive offer from a very attractive
DesPlainian,” he said. Did she detect an ever-so-slight emphasis on that last word.
“I’m not a DesPlainian, though you’re close,” she hastened to point out. “I’m originally
from Purity, though I saw the error of those ways early enough to leave before becoming
thoroughly conditioned. The gravities of the two planets are remarkably similar, though,
and lead to similar body structures, so I can understand the confusion.
“My mistake, gospozha. Please forgive the error.” His voice was now carefully neutral,
giving not the slightest clue to his feelings.
Suddenly Yvette remembered where she’d heard Garst’s name before. Dak had
mentioned it. He’d said he was going to a private party at the home of someone named
Garst, a local VIP. It was the last thing on his agenda the day he . . . disappeared.
Myerson had confirmed that Dak had set out to Garst’s party, and that was the last
anyone had ever seen of him. Suddenly this fellow Garst took on a strange new
fascination for Yvette.
He doesn’t leave the Marchioness’s side, she noticed. It was as though Vesa’s ruler
depended on him for more than just advice. “I’m glad you find my offer attractive,” she
said casually. “I know you have plenty of hotels and casinos here already, but you also
have so many tourists that I thought one more could always help. To be a little different, I
was thinking of subsidizing the construction of a transparent dome up on the actual
surface of the moon-with, naturally, transportation tunnels linking it to the rest of Vesa
underground. It would be something unique here, and I think the tourists would go for it in
a big way.
“The thought of a surface dome has been brought up before,” Garst said. “There are, of
course, numerous problems to overcome, such as the threat of meteor damage. So far
there hasn’t been anyone with sufficient capita! and incentive to follow through on the
idea. Perhaps you will be the first.
They continued to talk for another fifteen minutes, but the conversation quickly became a
verbal sparring match between Yvette and the First Advisor. While the Marchioness sat
idly by and listened only to what was said, the other two antagonists were carefully
measuring each other’s words, tones and inflections for hidden meanings and possible
weaknesses. It was a serious verbal game of cat-and-mouse, with neither side willing to
concede a point to the other. Yvette detailed her “plans” for the dome and Garst
promised the Marchioness’s support of the project; but below that level, nothing was
accomplished other than a suspicious circling.
By the time she had to leave, Yvette had firmed up several of her suspicions.
Marchioness Gindri was not the brains behind this conspiracy of murder, that much was
certain; Yvette saw her as a silly-and very sadwoman. She might well know what was
going on, would almost have to, in fact, to give the police their “hands off” orders; they
wouldn’t take such orders from anyone less, even the First Advisor, lest they be
discovered. But Gindri had neither the cunning to set up such an organization nor the
drive to keep it going. That would take someone with a lot more guile and a lot fewer
weaknesses.
Garst fit that description perfectly. There was an innate craftiness about him that would
allow him to conceive of such a scheme; a coldness that would brush aside all moral
inhibitions; and a high position that would allow him to act virtually unchecked.
She was definitely going to have to learn more about this Gospodin Garst-and as quickly
as possible.
As soon as the Velasquez woman had left the palace, Garst excused himself from the
Marchioness’s presence and went to ca!! his lieutenant, Lessin. “Is there any word yet on
duChamps?” he asked.
“None,” Lessin reported, “but it shouldn’t be much longer. I’ve had an artist do up a
composite sketch on his face, and every man we’ve got here has seen it. I’ve even sent a
copy down to the school, on the off chance he’ll show up there.
“Good. There’s someone else we may have to check out, a woman named Carmen
Velasquez. She also looks to be a DesPlainian, which is what made me suspicious. She
came in here with too good an offer, and I think she’s fishing for something. She claims
to be an ex-Puritan, but I’ve known a few of them and they’re not at all like her. Whoever
she Is, she’s awfully shrewd-too shrewd to be just what she appears.
“Do you want her eliminated?.
Garst shook his head. “No, not yet. There’s still the chance that she might be legitimate,
and her business deal would be a very good one if we could swing it. But I do want to
keep a check on her. She said she’s staying at the Hotel Regulus. I want her watched all
the time. I want to know where she goes, what she does and who she talks to.” And
particularly, he thought, whether she contacts a DesPlainian calling himself Georges
duChamps. She could be the key to cracking that mystery.
CHAPTER 11
School for Stranglers
As Passar had told him, everything turned out all right better than all right, in fact. Jules
had not dared hope to be so successful so quickly.
Passar took Jules upstairs and introduced him to Tuhlman, a short, oily man built like a
barrel and smelling like a locker room. Tuhlman was full of pointed questions about their
escape, which he viewed as nothing short of miraculous. Jules let Passar do most of the
talking. Tuhlman would believe the story more if it came from someone he knew-and