18
Rael smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle out of her tunic. Dress uniforms did that to one, she thought. With their high collars and stark, dramatic styling, they tended to render the victim wearing one acutely conscious of his potential for imperfection. Maybe that was even a subtle part of their purpose. A little uncertainty went far in keeping a person alert …
She glanced at her companion. Miceal Jellico, too, was encased in his formal uniform, but if he felt discomfort or a sense of confinement, he was far too practiced to give any sign of it.
Van Rycke, walking a few paces ahead, was, perhaps, the more striking figure with his greater height and bulk comprised of rippling muscle, but she found Jellico more impressive. Lean, wiry, with the feline grace a lifetime in space had bequeathed to him, bearing the aura of an authority that carried not merely the welfare but the very lives of others, he looked the part of the master of a starship plying the perilous lanes on the rim. The hard features, the blaster-burned cheek, the eyes like tempered titanone served only to emphasize that role.
Her eyes swept the constantly shifting lunchtime crowd.
Their host had instructed the Free Traders to come to the lobby of this, the tallest building in Canuche Town, promising to meet them here and escort them to the exclusive restaurant at its summit.
The men with her raised their hands suddenly in recognition and greeting, and she studied closely the individual who returned the gesture.
Adroo Macgregory was like Miceal, she judged at once.
He was older, with more white in his hair than dark. His eyes were a deep blue, his face rounder and fuller, but the two were of one breed. Space hound or planet hugger, she recognized that strength and independence of spirit. This one would not lightly bargain his soul or his season’s profits away.
The Canuchean made his way through the throng to join their party. He immediately put out his hand in the ancient Terran greeting universally recognized wherever the mother world’s seed had taken root. “Right on time. It’s good to see you again, Captain Jellico, Mr. Van Rycke.”
“We’re pleased to see you as well, Mr. Macgregory,” the former replied. He motioned the Medic to step forward. “This is Doctor Rael Cofort.”
The man inclined his head in an old-fashioned bow. His eyes sparkled even as they seemed to penetrate her to her very soul. “You’re lovely for a fact. Doctor Cofort, but mortal like the rest of us, I’m relieved to see. I’d be a bit uncomfortable trying to deal with a vision.”
Her smile broadened. “You’d manage all the same if it was good for business.”
Macgregory laughed. “I would indeed. Doctor.”
Their host ushered the off-worlders toward a roped-off lift platform. As he passed the uniformed gatekeeper he said, “We have a reservation for four,” unnecessarily, apparently, for the woman began to raise the barrier as soon as she saw him.
Other groups were boarding as well, chiefly pairs with a couple of threesomes thrown in. All fell silent as they stepped onto the platform, even as Adroo did. None were mere pleasure parties, and these close quarters lacked the privacy for the kind of top-level business discussions in which they intended to engage.
As soon as it was fully loaded, the lift started to rise. Rael leaned against the sturdy guardrail and peered over the edge to watch the teeming lobby recede as floor after floor flashed by. Soon, the crowd below appeared to be no more than a sea of animated miniature toys.
Because the lift was an express, free of any call to slow or pause in its ascent, it rose with a speed that almost crossed the threshold of comfort. Its motion was perfectly smooth, however, and it would take more than a peaceful rise like this to disturb the three spacers.
Only seconds after it had begun to move, the platform began to slow into a gentle stop that brought it flush with the floor of the Twenty-Two’s reception area. The offworlders stepped from it to find themselves on the stable hub of a broad, very slowly revolving disk on which were set a large number of tables, some near the core or in the center of the moving area, some right by the outer rim.
They were not surprised by the arrangement; it was a very old one that remained popular for the simple reason that it was so effective. People loved to dine in such a setting wherever there was height and a view of sufficient interest and beauty to warrant the construction of such a facility.
This establishment made particularly good use of the design, Miceal had to admit. In place of the usual flat roof and tall, broad window panels, the entire restaurant was enclosed in a huge glassteel dome, inches thick in fact but so transparent as to seem not to be there at all. It must be truly spectacular here on a clear night, he thought, with the stars and Canuche’s two tiny moons shining above, mirrored below by the lights of the populous town and the harbor. By day, much of that splendor was absent, for the high, steep slopes rising sharply on either side of the narrow bay restricted the view to the uninspiring community flowing up from the industrial belt at the water’s edge to pour over the crests into the invisible regions beyond. The harbor itself saved the situation as far as he was concerned.
The building was not so terribly high as to destroy the detail of the scene below, and the ever-busy port offered a wealth of activity to catch and hold an observer’s attention.
A formally suited individual approached their party.
“My usual table’s on the outside,” Adroo whispered, “but if that’ll bother you, we’ll change. You’re here to enjoy a damn good meal, not to have your palates blunted by the peculiarities of the place.”
Even as he spoke, his guests saw what he meant. The restaurant extended beyond the walls that confined the lower portions of the building, and the part of the floor that comprised the overhang was constructed of the same marvelously strong, clear material that fashioned the dome enclosing them. The tables placed there seemed to be standing on the air itself.
Jellico could bolt down food just about anywhere, but when a real feast was put before him he preferred to devote his attention to it and not be distracted by theatrics or dramatic surroundings, however attractive or interesting.
Rael’s delight, on the other hand, was open for once, and he offered no protest. “We’re not likely to be eating in the Twenty-Two anytime soon again,” he said. “Let’s go for the full experience.”
They were soon seated in comfortably upholstered chairs drawn up around a white-covered table. Water was immediately set before them, and they were given hot, moist towels for their hands.
The newcomers were conscious not so much of unease as of a sense of disorientation at first. The floor felt solid beneath their feet, but so clear was the glassteel that any downward glance seemed to make a lie of both touch and knowledge. For a time, all three off-worlders kept their eyes carefully fixed on their plates until the fascination of the scene revealed below outstripped the instinct to flight, and they began at last to enjoy the strange perspective and the array of activity it revealed.
It was just this experience that moved most people to make their first visit to the Twenty-Two, and they were left in peace to savor it. Their waiter discreetly watched until the four began at last to look about for him. At that point, he approached their table.
“Will there be any change from our meat entree? We also offer fowl, waterfood, or vegetables,” he added for the benefit of the spacers, who were quick to declare that they would be delighted to have the house meal.
“What has Max put together for us today, Charles?” Adroo inquired after giving his own assent.
The man smiled expansively. “Just about heaven, Mr. Macgregory. Broiled round of rambeef, black and white pasta balls with gravy, and young sweet sil pods in white sauce. The after-sweet is a fourteen-layer cream torte.” No pre-entree courses were served on Canuche and no beverages save water during the meal itself so that nothing might dull or alter the taste of the main course. Dessert was always followed by either jakek or coffee.
“It sounds good, Charles. Thanks.”
Once the waiter had gone, Macgregory drew an official-looking multicopy document from the portfolio he was carrying. “My lawyers drew this up for me last night. I’ve already signed and sealed it, so all that’s needed to activate it are your signatures.”
Van Rycke took it and read it over carefully. He nodded his agreement. “It covers everything we discussed,” he said as he affixed his signature. He passed it to Jellico, who signed as well. He took the Queen’s copy, which he folded and slipped into the document pouch on his belt; the other he returned to the industrialist. “Thank you, Mr. Macgregory.”