“That is why I wished to see you in your own apartment, Prosser Thane. To emphasize the voluntariness. Not that I believe you were arrested, were you? The officers merely assumed you would cooperate, as a law-abiding— citizen.” Desai had barely checked himself from saying “subject of His Majesty.”
“Well, I won’t assault you, Commissioner. Have you truly come here unescorted as you claimed you would?”
“Oh, yes. Who’d pay attention to a chubby chocolate-colored man in a particularly thick mantle? Apropos which, where may I leave it?”
Tatiana indicated a peg in the entry. This layout was incredibly archaic. No doubt the original colonists hadn’t had the economic surplus to automate residences, and there’d been sufficient pinch ever afterward to keep alive a scorn of “effete gadgetry.” The place was chilly, too, though the young woman was rather lightly if plainly clad.
Desai’s glance recorded her appearance for later study. She was tall and slim. The oval face bore a curved nose, arched brows above brown eyes, broad full mouth, ivory complexion, between shoulder-length wings of straight dark hair. Old University family, he recalled, steeped in its lore, early destined for a scholarly career. Somewhat shy and bookish, but no indoor plant; she takes long walks or longer animalback rides, spends time in the desert, not to mention the jungles of Dido. Brilliant linguist, already responsible for advances in understanding certain languages on that planet. Her enthusiasm for the Terran classics doubtless kindled Ivar Frederiksen’s interest in them and in history . .. though in his case, perhaps one might better say the vision of former freedom fighters inflamed him. She appears to have more sense than that: a serious girl, short on humor, but on the whole, as good a fiancee as any man could hope for.
That was the approximate extent of the report on her. There were too many more conspicuous Aeneans to investigate. The Frederiksen boy hadn’t seemed like anyone to worry about either, until he ran amok.
Tatiana led Desai into the main room of her small suite. Its stone was relieved by faded tapestries and scuffed rug, where bookshelves, a fine eidophonic player, and assorted apparatus for logico-semantic analysis did not occupy the walls. Furniture was equally shabby-comfortable, leather and battered wood. Upon a desk stood pictures he supposed were of her kin, and Ivar’s defiant in the middle of them. Above hung two excellent views, one of a Didonian, one of Aeneas seen from space, tawny-red, green- and blue-mottled, north polar cap as white as the streamers of ice-cloud. Her work, her home.
A trill sounded. She walked to a perch whereon, tiny and fluffy, a native tadmouse sat. “Oh,” she said. “I forgot it’s his lunchtime.” She gave the animal seeds and a caress. A sweet song responded.
“What is his name, if I may ask?” Desai inquired.
She was obviously surprised. “Why … Frumious Bandersnatch.”
Desai sketched another bow. “Pardon me, my lady. I was given a wrong impression of you.”
“What?”
“No matter. When I was a boy on Ramanujan, I had a local pet I called Mock Turtle … Tell me, please, would a tadmouse be suitable for a household which includes young children?”
“Well, that depends on them. They mustn’t get rough.”
“They wouldn’t. Our cat’s tail went unpulled until, lately, the poor beast died. It couldn’t adjust to this planet.”
She stiffened. “Aeneas doesn’t make every newcomer welcome, Commissioner. Sit down and describe what you want of me.”
The chair he found was too high for his comfort. She lowered herself opposite him, easily because she topped him by centimeters. He wished he could smoke, but to ask if he might would be foolish.
“As for Ivar Frederiksen,” Tatiana said, “I tell you what I told your Corpsmen: I was not involved in his alleged action and I’ve no idea where he may be.”
“I have seen the record of that interview, Prosser Thane.” Desai chose his words with care. “I believe you.
The agents did too. None recommended a narcoquiz, let alone a hypnoprobing.”
“No Aenean constable has right to so much as propose that.”
“But Aeneas rebelled and is under occupation,” Desai said in his mildest voice. “Let it re-establish its loyalty, and it will get back what autonomy it had before.” Seeing how resentment congealed her eyes, he added low: “The loyalty I speak of does not involve more than a few outward tokens of respect for the throne, as mere essential symbols. It is loyalty to the Empire—above all, to its Pax, in an age when spacefleets can incinerate whole worlds and when the mutiny in fact took thousands of lives—it is that I mean, my lady. It is that I am here about, not Ivar Frederiksen.”