“Where’s Steengo?”
“You tell me. I saw him last on the stage. I was sleeping myself, just woke up. Looked around, no Steengo. Found you here snoring away and I gave you a shake.”
“If he’s not here . . .”
A muted knock sounded at the door, and a moment later it opened and Veldi looked in.
“Gentlemen, a happy good morning to you both. I thought I heard your voices and hoped you would be awake. I bring you a message from your friend . . .”
“Steengo – you’ve seen him?”
“Indeed I did. We had a friendly chat before you awoke. Then, before he left, he made this recording. Told me to give it to you. Told me you would understand.”
He placed a small recorder on the table, stepped back. “The green button is to play, red to stop.” Then he was gone.
“A message?” Floyd asked, picking the thing up and staring at it.
Press the button instead of fiddling with the damn thing!”
He looked startled at my tone, put it back on the table and turned it on.
“Good morning there, Jim and Floyd. You guys are sure sound sleepers and I didn’t want to wake you before I went out. You know, I’m beginning to think that this city is not for me. I need some space to get my thoughts together. I’m going to take a walk back down the wall, get some air to breathe, some space to think in. You hang in there and I’ll be in touch.”
“That old Steengo,” Floyd said. “What a character. That’s him all right. His voice, sure enough, and his way of thinking. Some guy!”
I looked up, looked him in the eye. His face was as grim as mine. He shook his head in a silent no. I did the same.
Steengo had not left that message. It was his voice all right. Easy enough for the electronic technicians to fake that.
Steengo was gone.
What had happened?
i39
CHAPTER 18
I really slept,” I said. “Like a rock. Thirsty.”
“The same. I’ll get some juice and a couple of glasses.”
“Great idea.”
I had scribbled the note by the time he came back, slipped it to him when I took the glass. He opened it behind the pitcher, read it.
Place bugged. What do we do?
He nodded as he passed me my glass of juice.
“Thanks,” I said, watching him turn over the note and write on the back. I don’t know if there were optical bugs as well as the audio ones. Until we found out we had to act as though there were. I kept the note in my palm when I read it.
Steengo much concerned. Left these for you before we went to the show.
I finished the juice, put my glass down, lifted my eyebrows quizzically. He pointed quickly at his closed fist. When he stood and passed me he dropped something small into my lap. I waited a minute before I poured more juice, drank it, sat back with my hand in my lap. Two small, soft objects. Familiar. I rubbed my nose and glanced at them.
Filter nose plugs. For neutralizing gas. Steengo had known something-or guessed something. He also knew how affected I had been by the sessions in the Veritorium. He had suspected that something physical, not just the training session itself, had gotten to me.
Of course! Obvious by hindsight. I knew of a dozen hypnotic gases that lowered the ability to think clearly, that left the brain open to outside influences. So it hadn’t been emotion but plain old chemistry that had carried me away. Steengo had suspected this-but why hadn’t he told me? Depressingly, I realized that the state of mind I had been in, probably caused by drugs in the earlier session, rendered that impossible. He knew he couldn’t tell me. But had been suspicious enough to wear the plugs himself.
And when he saw me getting deeply involved in the ritual he had interrupted before it was too late, had brought the whole thing to a screeching halt. I felt my teeth grating together and forced myself to stop.