Simply getting the gist of what was available meant slow, hard work. His brain wasn’t built for theoretical physics. He studied at certain hours of the day, after which it was a relief to deal with knowledge less cosmic. Nor was he built for sitting unbrokenly in one place and filling his head. He sallied forth, sought recreations, struck up casual friendships, and, when opportunity offered, sounded people out. There was no Neocatholic church anywhere on the planet, but once in awhile he attended Josephan services.
He had been thus occupied for about three months, and local fall was turning into winter, when his phone chimed, lighted the screen with a visage he didn’t recognize. Wall transparencies showed dusk setting in and the city coming aglow. The hills where he’d spent the day tramping trails, wind rustling fallen leaves while wildlife fleeted and flew around him, were lost to sight. His lungs missed that freshness, but his muscles were comfortably tired.
The face was pale of complexion, black of eyes and curly of hair, chiseled as sharply as it gazed at him. “Good evening, Captain Hebo,” said the voice. “Do you remember me? Romon Kaspersson Seafell. I was with the Dagmar expedition to Jonna.”
“Uh, sure,” Hebo lied. Although he’d kept more of his newer than his older memories, he’d had the program remove what seemed like mere clutter. Not that he’d identified each recollection individually, of course—a practical impossibility. The program had learned him and his wishes, then exercised its own judgment. “You’ll remember yourself, however, my partner and I only paid one courtesy call on your camp.”
Romon nodded. “Otherwise your contacts were by communicator, with our leaders, and through them with the authorities here, negotiating a payment for your discoveries. Oh, yes.”
Didn’t he approve? Hebo wasn’t yet familiar enough with [170] Asborgan culture to always know what somebody meant by something. “How did you learn?” he asked curtly.
Romon’s mouth bent in a rather stiff smile. “No offense. I quite understand your position, and was happy to see that you did get a reasonable reward. I’ve wondered how things went for you since then.”
“How did you learn I’m in town?”
“You’ve made no secret of your presence.”
“Nor blared it out.”
“Still, you’re not nobody, Captain Hebo. You’re the man who made that remarkable find. Your arrival was a news item in these parts.”
“Pretty small.” What little brief fame might have been his was eclipsed by the black hole sensation, perhaps especially so on Asborg. He’d foreseen that, and counted on it. This felt like an intrusion on the obscurity he preferred for the nonce. “Why didn’t you get in touch before, if you wanted to?”
“To tell the truth, the item escaped me. As you say, not exactly first-projection news, and not followed up. I retrieved it a couple of days ago, when I’d been told you were here.”
“And?”
Romon appeared to suppress exasperation. “Captain Hebo, I simply want to be friendly, and trade anecdotes. And we might possibly discover we can do business. May I invite you to dinner? Tomorrow evening, perhaps?”
Hebo had been intending to meet a lady then. Well, he didn’t think she’d be too annoyed if he called and apologized for suddenly having to reshuffle his plans. “All right, why not?”
He smelled something on the wind, whatever it was.
XXXIII
THE Baltica enjoyed a setting as elegant as itself, a clear dome atop one of the tallest towers in Inga. City lights shone, flashed, fountained to the edge of sight, under a moon ringed with a frost halo. Designer flowers bedded among the tables deployed multitudinous colors, animated the air, and trilled a melody that evoked springtime in the blood. Stepping in and seeing the customers, Hebo felt distinctly underdressed. Nonetheless, when he spoke Romon’s name he was conducted with deference to a table in a reserved alcove. He’d come a trifle early, so he wouldn’t be in strange surroundings, and ordered a beer to keep him company while he looked around. Quite a few of the women on hand were worth looking at.
Romon entered on the dot, immaculate in blue tunic, red half-cloak, and white trousers tucked into silver-buckled boots. On his left shoulder, a ring of tiny diamonds glinted around the emblem of his House. Contrast made the man with him doubly slovenly. Besides, the fellow was short, squat, ugly—a kind of arrogance, not getting that dark, hooknosed face remodeled. He stood unsmiling as Romon introduced him: “Captain Torben Hebo, I’d like you to meet Dr. Esker Harolsson Seafell.”