“Do you think he’s mixed up in any of this other business that’s been going on?” Hunt asked bluntly. “It all seems too much of a coincidence with his appearing on the scene. I don’t like coincidences.”
“We don’t know,” Garuth replied. “But I can see your point. If he were, it would say as much as anything needs to about these altruistic trimmings.”
“Exactly,” Hunt said, nodding. He leaned back and contemplated the ceiling. “It seems that for some reason our mystical friend is attaching a lot of importance to Uttan, doesn’t it? What would he want with an airless, waterless, inhospitable ball of rock like that, light-years from anywhere? It makes you think there must be something about that planet that we’re not aware of—and from the blithe way they’re reacting, something that the Thuriens aren’t aware of, either.”
Garuth stared across at Hunt and thought about it. “I don’t know” was all he could reply. “I’ll get ZORAC to assemble all the information that we’ve got on it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Jevlenese sitting in Baumer’s city office, his feet propped impudently on the edge of Baumer’s desk, was called Lesho. He was squat and swarthy, with thick black hair and a short, untidy beard. His glittery blue coat and red shirt were expensive but flashy, and he was heavily adorned with jewelry and rings. His equally unsavory-looking companion, orange-haired and heavily built, wearing a baggy brown suit, was leaning against the wall by the door, chewing absently and wearing a scowl of bored indifference. Baumer sat tight-lipped, forcing himself to control his sense of outrage and impotence.
“How do I know why they’re interested?” Lesho said. “I just deliver the messages. It isn’t your business to worry about reasons, either. I’m just telling you that the word is, the people upstairs want to know what kind of drift is coming in from Thurien to the Ganymeans in PAC. They’re especially interested in anything that comes in from JPC.”
Baumer spread his hands in exasperation. “Look, you don’t seem to understand. That kind of information isn’t left lying around for anyone who walks by to pick up. It’s stored in the data system, and with the controls that Cullen is setting up, anyone can’t get at it.”
“You got the stuff from the egg-hat who fell off the bridge,” Lesho said, unimpressed.
“That was different. It was hand-delivered as a hardcopy. Things like that don’t happen every day.”
“Well, that’s your problem.”
“Look, would you mind not putting your feet there? You’re crumpling up those pages.”
Lesho raised a hand and leveled a warning finger. “That’s not a good attitude to have. Let me remind you of something. You’re not
the only Terran inside PAC. It also happens that time in couplers is getting harder to get these days, and one day you might find you’ve run out of friends who can supply. So just let’s remember who’s doing who the favors, huh?”
Baumer drew a long breath and nodded curtly. “Very well. I’ll do whatever I can. But you must try and make them understand that I can’t promise.”
A tone sounded from a panel by Baumer’s desk. “What is it?” he inquired, turning his head.
The house-system’s synthetic voice replied. “The writer who wanted to talk to you is outside: Gina Marin.”
“Oh, she .is? Just one moment.” Baumer looked back at the Jevlenese. “As you can see, I do have other things to attend to. Was there anything else?”
Lesho swung his legs down from the desk and stood up. “Just don’t forget that other Terrans in PAC might like their trips, too. And there’s more of them arriving.”
The Jevlenese in the brown suit straightened up and opened the door just as Gina appeared on the other side of it. Lesho stopped to peer down at Baumer’s desk. “Is that the one I messed up?” he inquired, pointing at a sheet of paper with a heelmark on it. It was on the top of a thin wad of printout.
“Yes. I’d just run it off,” Baumer said testily as he rose to his feet.
Lesho screwed it up and tossed it into the bin. “Well, looks like you needed to do another copy anyhow.” He turned away, nodded toward the door, and sauntered out behind his companion.