“Kilcoole, Matthew,” Marmion said helpfully, as if aiding someone with a faulty memory. There was not a thing wrong with Luzon’s memory, it had proved far too accurate too often. Perhaps not honest, or properly evaluating the memories, but the details were always indisputably proffered. Details were Matthew’s chief weaponsthe details that others might forget or misremember. Then he’d pounce with that deadly and devious accuracy of his.
Kilcoole, as seen through the shuttle windows, was a hodgepodge of widely spaced roofs, some merely darker patches under well-branched trees, with narrow brown tracks, bordered by muddied boardwalks. Not many people were about, though she saw some industrious souls making repairs, and a few others digging up garden-size squares behind their houses. She approved of such occupations. She enjoyed taking care of the extraterrestrial flowers and plants she nurtured in a cleverly connected succession of domes, set at the required temperatures, gravities, and air mixtures that the exotics required. She had fond memories of once being able to get hands and nails dirty, mucking in the small garden of the first house she and Ulgar Algemeine had bought. How young they had been!
She mentally shook those fond memories away and listened to what Matthew was saying.
“Crude in the extreme. How long has thisthis place,” he asked, managing to pour a great deal of contempt into the one word, “been establishedif you can possibly call that huddle of huts ‘established’?” His assistants did not answer and Marmion had no intention of interrupting him. “And this … place harbors the dissidents? Kilcoole, indeed. Kill cool is what we shall do to such pretensions.”
“Are you sure of that?” Marmion asked in a languid tone. ”I feel we are perhaps a tad over civilized at times. Matt, dear. We’ve lost the common touch”
“Thank God,” Matthew said explosively.
“that would permit us to evaluate the struggle against climate and conditions. I do find it appealing that amid all the snow and mud, they’re already starting gardens!”
Matthew snorted. “Gardens? More than square-meter plots are required to adequately feed even this indolent population. They can’t expect Intergal to continue to support them with expensive importation’s of subsistence rations.”
Marmion raised one hand in a gesture of indolent appeal. “I don’t believe rations are imported to Petaybee, Matthew. Do check, one of you,” she said, flicking her fingers at his assistants, “because I have the oddest recollection that they are actually self-sufficient.”
“Not with the quantities of fuel and”
‘Fuel is for vehicles, not humans, Matthew. Haven’t you got those figures for me yet?” Her attitude remained indifferent, but the slight edge to her tone made the skinny one of Matthew’s sycophants tap with greater rapidity at his notepad.
“No, sir, ma’am, no rations are imported for the indigenous population.” Then he gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbling up and down.
Marmion had to look away. The poor dear Matthew would probably taunt him about that when he was in one of his moods. And the other young menMatthew only had young men as assistants, which rather gave away something, at least to Marmion, that Matthew would probably rather not have knownwere all reasonably attractive and looked fit and able for anything physically taxing. Trust Matthew to make the most of comparisons.
“Thank you, dear,” Marmion said to the skinny lad. “And do tell me your name again … my memory, you know.”
In point of fact, Matthew had not bothered to introduce any of the assistants, although she had pointedly introduced Sally Point-Jefferson, her personal secretary; Millard Ephiasos, her research assistant; and Faber Nike, whose position on her staff she had not designated. Too many people presumed that Faber’s large muscular frame and quiet deference marked a deficient intelligence and lack of personality. Too many people were wrong. Especially those who thought Faber was a bed mate. Marmion made a habit of hiring versatile, multi-talented people. It saved money and engendered loyalty and discretion.
“My name is Braddock Makem, madam,” was the reply, couched in the lowest possible audible tone.
“Thank you, Mr. Makem.” She smiled. It never hurt, and for all she knew it might gain her a discreet ally on Matthew’s staff.
“Stop trying to charm my staff,” Matthew said testily, giving Makem a piercing glare. Makem’s apple did an unhappy series of perpendicular maneuvers.