“Laird’s changed his name, maybe his appearance, but I think he’s still influential in the government.”
“I’ll worry about it later.”
“If he could have controlled you, he could have made himself anything he wanted.” He paused. “Maybe even a president.”
“He failed to control me. He also failed to make me perfect.”
“I think he’d like to bury the evidence of his failure.”
“I know that well enough. But that’s my problem.”
“I’ve made it mine,” he said.
“Sorry. You can’t play this game.” Her voice had regained its confidence. “Let’s get on with the game we’re already playing. Catching a thief.”
“Inspector Ellen Troy, Board of Space Control.”
The expression on Vincent Darlington’s round face wavered between disgust and disbelief—”Whatever could have . . . ?”—and finally settled on deference to authority.
He reluctantly opened the doors of the Hesperian Museum.
Sparta pocketed her badge. She was still wearing her dock rat disguise, and at the moment she felt more like the dock rat than the cop. “I believe you know Mr. Blake Redfield of London.”
“Goodness, Mr. Redfield,” Darlington fluttered. “Oh, come in, inside, both of you. Do please excuse the frightful disarray. There was to have been a celebration. . . .”
The place looked like a mortuary. White cloths covered lumpy mounds on long tables standing against the walls.
Lush and reverent scenes in thick oils hung in ornate frames. Colored light from the glass dome lay over everything.
“Well!” Darlington hesitantly extended a plump hand to Blake. “It is . . . good to meet you personally at last.”
Blake shook hands firmly, while Darlington’s scandalized gaze fell to the charred sleeve of his jacket. Blake followed his glance. “Sorry, I’ve just been involved in the pressure-loss incident,” he said, “and I haven’t had time to clean up.”
“My goodness, that was terrifying. Whatever happened?
It’s the sort of thing that makes one long to be back on solid ground.”
“It’s under investigation,” Sparta said. “Meanwhile it has been decided to release your property from Star Queen.
I think it will be just as safe here with you.”
In the crook of his left arm Blake held a blocky package wrapped in white plastic. “Here’s the book, sir,” Blake said, holding out the package. He let the plastic fall away to reveal the pristine marbled paper of the slipcase.
Darlington’s eyes widened behind his thick round glasses and his mouth pursed with delight. He quietly took the book from Blake, gazed at it a moment, then carried it with ceremony to the display case at the head of the hall.
Darlington laid the book on top of the glass and slid the leather-covered volume from its slipcase. The gilt edges of the pages glittered in the strange, dramatic light.
Darlington stroked the tan cover as gently as if it had been living skin, turning the precious object in his hands to inspect its flawless binding. Then he reverently set it down again and opened it—to the title page.
He left it there. Blake looked at Sparta. She smiled.
“Did you ship it like this?” Darlington said abruptly.
“This beautiful book might have been . . . badly soiled.”
“We’re keeping the carrying case in evidence,” Sparta replied. “I asked Mr. Redfield to inspect the book and vouch for its authenticity.”
“I wanted to see it safely into your hands, Mr. Darlington.”
“Yes, indeed. Well!” Darlington smiled cheerily, then glanced around the room with sudden inspiration. “The reception! What do you know, it’s not too late after all!
I’m going to call everyone at once.”
Darlington started off toward his office, got two steps, and remembered that he’d left The Seven Pillars of Wisdom sitting in the open. Sheepishly, he returned.
He fiddled with the complex locks of the display case and carefully arranged the book on velvet pillows inside.
He slid the case closed.
When Darlington had reset the magnetic locks he looked up, simpering at Sparta, and she nodded approvingly.
“We’ll be going, then. Please keep the book available in the event it may be required in evidence.”
“Right here, Inspector! It will be right here!” Darlington patted the display case, then dashed to one of the tables and pulled off the shroud with a flourish, unveiling a mound of cracked prawns. He was so excited he almost clapped.
Blake and Sparta walked to the doors.
“Oh, by the way, you must come to the party,” Darlington called after them as the entrance slid open. “Both of you! . . . After you’ve had a chance to freshen up.”
The concourse outside the museum was crowded with pedestrians. They were opposite the Vancouver garden; they walked swiftly across metal paving and down a path among fern-covered granite rocks, seeking the shelter of arching pine branches and totem poles. When they were alone Blake said, “If you won’t let me come with you, I’m going to take Darlington up on his offer. I’m starved.”
She nodded. “I notice, Blake, that you’re as accomplished a dissimulator as I am. ‘Involved in the incident . . .’ “
“It’s a distinction without a difference, isn’t it? Knowingly conveying a false impression is lying, period.”
“It’s the nature of my job,” she said shortly. “What’s your rationale?”
As she turned he seized her gently by the elbow.
“Guard your back. I don’t know what they fixed you up with, but they left out the killer instinct.”
She recovered the package she’d hidden in the transformer room, then pressed the commlink in her ear, whose insistent chiming she’d switched off half an hour ago.
“Where have you been?” Proboda’s half-concern, halfpanic, was almost touching.
“I underestimated our quarry, Viktor. I went to Star Queen hoping to . . .”
“You were aboard?” he shouted, so loudly she yanked the commlink from her ear.
“Dammit, Viktor . . . I was hoping to catch the culprit in the act,” she resumed, gingerly bringing the link to her ear. “Unfortunately, I ran into a large robot.”
“My God, Ellen, did you hear what went on inside that ship?”
“I just told you I was there,” she said, exasperated. “I want you to meet me at the offices of the Ishtar Mining Corporation. By yourself. Right now.”
“Commander Antreen is terribly angry, Ellen. She wants you to report back here immediately.”
“I have no time. Tell her I’ll make a full report as soon as I can.”
“I can’t—I mean, on my own initia—”
“Viktor, if you don’t meet me at Ishtar I’ll have to handle Sondra Sylvester on my own. And I’m much too tired to be polite.” She disconnected. This time she wasn’t lying; to her dismay, she found herself trembling with fatigue.
She hoped she wasn’t too tired for the task remaining.
The two major mining companies on Port Hesperus provided the economic base for the entire colony; Ishtar and Azure Dragon were cordial but serious rivals, their headquarters located opposite each other in projecting arms on the planetward end of the station. Outside, these facilities bristled with antennas that transmitted and received coded telemetry. Only spies saw the interiors of their competition’s armored ore shuttles, and the smelting and finishing facilities were located on satellite stations several kilometers away.
After displaying her badge to a videoplate monitor, Sparta was allowed to enter Ishtar through its bronzestudded front doors, the so-called Ishtar Gate, which opened on a long spiraling corridor, paneled in dark leather, leading outward from the weightless core toward Earth-normal gravity. No guards were in evidence, but she was aware that her progress was monitored throughout the approach.
At the end of the corridor she found herself in a room lavishly paneled in carved mahogany, carpeted in Chinese and Persian rugs. There was no other apparent exit from the room, although Sparta knew better. In the center of the shadowy room a small spotlight illuminated a gold statuette of the ancient Babylonian goddess Ishtar, a modern interpretation by the popular Mainbelt artist Fricca.
Sparta paused, taken by it, her macrozoom eye drawn to a microscopic inspection. It was a stunning work, tiny yet swelling with power, supple yet knotted, like one of Rodin’s studies in wax. Around the base were carved, in letters meant to suggest cuneiform, verses from a primeval hymn: Ishtar, the goddess of evening, am I. Ishtar, the goddess of morning, am I. The heavens I destroy, the earth I devastate, in my supremacy. The mountain I sweep away altogether, in my supremacy.
“How may I assist you?” The question, phrased not helpfully but with disdain, came from a young woman who had stepped silently from the shadows.
“Inspector Troy. Board of Space Control,” Sparta said, turning to her. The tall receptionist was wearing a long purple gown of something with the texture of crushed velvet; Sparta was acutely conscious of her own singed hair and smudged cheeks, her torn, stained trousers. “Please inform Mrs. Sylvester”—she cleared her throat—”that I’m here to talk to her.”