his eyes on her, straightening his back, and just before his feet went out from under him, felt a slight swagger return to his walk.
He crashed down on the last step, and sat for a moment, then smiled thinly and got up just before the four young people drew level with him. (One of the young men was guffawing, making a show of covering his mufflered mouth with a gloved hand.)
He brushed some snow from the tails of the raincoat, and flicked some of it at the young man. They went by and on up the steps, laughing. He walked halfway across the bridge – grimacing at the pain seeping up from his backside – and heard a voice call; he turned around and took a snowball full in the face.
He caught a glimpse of them laughing as they sprinted away from the top of the steps, but he was too busy clearing the snow from his nostrils and stinging eyes to see properly. His nose throbbed fiercely, but hadn’t re-broken. He walked on, passing an older couple walking arm in arm, who shook their heads and tutted and said something about damned students. He just nodded to them and wiped his face with a handkerchief.
He smiled as he left the bridge, up more steps to an esplanade cut under old office buildings. Once, he knew, he would have been embarrassed at what had happened, embarrassed at slipping, at being seen to slip, at being hit by the snowball after so gullibly turning round on cue, and at the elderly couple witnessing his embarrassment. Once he might have chased after the youngsters, to give them a fright at least, but not now.
He stopped at a small hot drinks stall set up on the esplanade and ordered a mug of soup. He leant against the stall and pulled off one glove with his teeth; he held the steaming mug in his hand, feeling the warmth. He went to the railings, sat down on a bench and drank the soup slowly, in careful sips. The man in the soup stall wiped the counter and listened to the radio, smoking a ceramic cigarette on a chain round his neck.
His backside still ached dully from the slip. He smiled at the city through the steam rising from the mug. Served him right, he told himself.
When he got back to the hotel they’d left a message. Mr Beychae would like to meet him. They would send a car after lunch, unless he objected.
‘This is wonderful news, Cheradenine.’
‘Well, I suppose.’
‘You’re not still being pessimistic, are you?’
‘All I’m saying is, don’t get your hopes up.’ He lay back on the bed looking at the ceiling paintings, talking to Sma via the earring transceiver. ‘I might just get to meet him, but I doubt I’ll have any chance to get him out. Probably find he’s gone senile and says, “Hey, Zakalwe; still working for the Culture against these gas-heads?” In which case I want my ass hauled out, all right?’
‘We’ll get you out, don’t worry about that.’
‘If and when I do get the guy, you still want me to head for the Impren Habitats?’
‘Yes. You’ll have to use the module; we can’t risk bringing the Xenophobe in. If you do spring Beychae they’ll be on maximum alert; we’d never get in and out without being noticed, and that could swing the whole Cluster against us for interfering.’
‘So how far’s Impren by module?’
‘Two days.’
He sighed. ‘I suppose we can handle that.’
‘You all ready, in case you can do anything today?’
‘Yeah. Capsule’s buried in the desert and primed; module’s hiding in the nearest gas-giant, waiting for the same signal. If they take the transceiver from me, how do I get in touch?’
‘Well,’ Sma said. ‘Much as I’d like to say “I told you so”, and displace you a scout or knife missile, we can’t; their surveillance might just be good enough to spot it. Best we can do is put a microsat in orbit and just passive-scan; watch, in other words. If it sees you in trouble, we’ll signal the capsule and the module for you. The alternative is to use the phone, would you believe. There’s the unlisted Vanguard numbers you already have… Zakalwe?’ ‘Hmm?’
‘You do have those numbers?’
‘Oh, yeah.’
‘Or, we’ve a downlink tap on Solotol’s emergency services; just dial three ones and scream “Zakalwe!” at the operator; we’ll hear.’
‘I am filled with confidence,’ he breathed, shaking his head. ‘Don’t worry, Cheradenine.’
‘Me, worry?’
The car came; he saw it from his window. He went down to meet Mollen. He’d liked to have worn the suit again, but doubted they’d let him into their high security areas wearing it. He took the old raincoat, and the dark glasses.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello there, Mollen.’
‘A pleasant day.’
‘Yes.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you’re driving.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you must know where we’re going.’
‘Please repeat that?’
‘I said you must know where you’re going if you’re driving.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He stood by the side of the car while Mollen held the door open.
‘Well, at least tell me whether it’s very far, I may want to tell people I won’t be back for a while.’
The large man frowned, the scarred face creasing in strange directions, unusual patterns. He hesitated over which button on the box to press. Mollen’s tongue licked his lips as he concentrated. So they had not literally taken his tongue out, after all.
He assumed whatever was wrong with Mollen was to do with his vocal chords. Why the man’s superiors hadn’t just fitted him with an artificial or re-grown set he couldn’t deduce, unless they preferred their underlings to have a limited set of replies. Certainly they’d have a hard time speaking ill of you.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes it’s far away?’
‘No.’
‘Make up your mind.’ He stood with his hand on the open car door, indifferent to his unkindness to the grey-haired man; he rather wanted to test his inbuilt vocabulary.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Is it quite close then, within the city?’
The scarred face frowned again. Mollen tutted with his lips and pressed another set of buttons with an apologetic look. ‘Yes.’
‘Within the city?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Yes.’
He got in. It was a different car to that he’d been in the night before. Mollen got into the separate driver’s compartment and belted himself in carefully; he pedalled a gear and drew smoothly away. A couple of other cars followed immediately behind them, then stopped at the entrance to the first street they took outside the hotel, blocking the cars of the pursuing media people.
He was watching the small, high specks of wheeling birds when the view started to disappear. At first he thought that black screens were rising outside the windows behind and to either side of him. Then he saw the bubbles; it was some black liquid which was filling the space between the double-layers of glass in the back of the car. He pressed the button to talk to Mollen. ‘Hey!’ he shouted.
The black liquid was halfway up the screens, gradually rising between him and Mollen as well as on the other three sides.
‘Yes?’ Mollen said.
He grabbed a door handle. The door opened; a draft of cold air whistled in. The black liquid continued to fill the space between the panes of glass. ‘What is this?’
He saw Mollen carefully pressing a button on his voice synthesiser, before the liquid blocked the view forward.
‘Do not be alarmed, Mr Staberinde. This is just a precaution, to ensure that Mr Beychae’s privacy is respected,’ said an obviously prepared message.
‘Hmm. Okay.’ He shrugged; he shut the door and was left in the dark until a small light came on. He sat back and did nothing. The unexpectedness of the blacking out was perhaps meant to frighten him, perhaps designed to see what he would do.
They drove on; the yellow light of the small bulb gave a stale, warm feel to the interior of the car, which although large
was made to seem small by the absence of an exterior view; he turned up the ventilation, sat back again. He kept the dark glasses on.
They turned corners, zoomed and dived, boomed through tunnels and over bridges. He guessed he noticed the vehicle’s motions more because of the lack of any outside reference.
They echoed through a tunnel for a long time, going downwards in what felt like a straight line but could have been a wide spiral, then the car stopped. There was a moment of silence, then some indistinct noises from outside, perhaps including voices, before they moved forward again a short way. The transceiver jabbed delicately at his ear-lobe. He pushed the bead further into his ear. ‘X-ray radiation,’ the earring whispered.
He allowed himself a small smile. He waited for them to open the door and demand the transceiver… but the car only moved forward a little again.