Starfire (24 page)

"Might be easier to off him and have done with it."

"No. Suppose we need him again? Reason we're worried is the same reason he's useful. He's smart, does things nobody else can."

Rolfe nodded grudgingly. "All right, all right. Would have been easier to off him in the first place. Except everybody was telling me how useful he'd be on the Aten asteroid work. Okay. Do it." He picked up the wire cage and peered in at the contents.

"More experiments?" Nick asked. If the fight was over, he was more than ready to change the subject.

"Continuation of one in progress. I pulled these from one section of the habitat a few weeks ago. Now the newborn dino count is way up. So I'm putting mice and guineas back in, along with more food for all of 'em. Want to bet that the dino count doesn't start down within two weeks, food or no food? And the mammals thrive?"

"I'm not a betting man, Gordy. But I want to be sure we're agreed. Hyslop can be reassigned to his old job on Sky City?"

"I guess. Go ahead and do it." Rolfe seemed to have lost interest in the subject. He was crouched down on his haunches. His attention was on the guinea pigs and mice, nosing about their wire cage as he placed it into the hollow middle section of the transparent door leading through to the habitat.

Suddenly he stood up and walked forward to the camera, so that his image stared out of the display at close range. Nick could see each individual dark whisker on Rolfe's upper lip, and the pore-filled skin around the gray eyes.

"Just one thing I don't want you to forget, Lopez." Rolfe was smiling. "I'm going along with you on reassigning Hyslop to the shield because it doesn't make much difference to me. I plan ahead in ways you don't even dream. But I want you to know that so far as I'm concerned, it's your ass on the line, not Hyslop's. Fuck this up some way, so word gets out that the Argos Group has been playing games with the shield deliverables and also skimming a little off the top, and I will become very upset. I don't think you want me very upset."

"Of course I don't."
You ignorant birdbrained weeny-dick byblow of a syphilitic whore.
Once you dropped back into the old way of thinking, it was remarkably easy to stay there. The danger was that you'd talk that way.

Nick blamed himself more than Gordy Rolfe. What had ever led him to become dependent on such a savage? He knew the answer to that. No one else had the Argos Group's capability to manage and if necessary mismanage so large a project. No one else had Gordy Rolfe's genius for electronics. And no one else was as willing to damage the Earth in order to control it.

Of course, Nick had also cultivated Gordy Rolfe to be assured of his own survival. But was that guaranteed? How long would Gordy feel that he needed Nick Lopez?

"Don't worry, Gordy." Nick's smile was broad and easy. "I'll stay on this twenty-four hours a day. How about Maddy Wheatstone, though? Can you make her available to keep close to Hyslop?"

"Lopez, you don't give me enough credit." Rolfe cut the video link to slow fade and went back to fussing over the wire cage. He sounded pleased for the first time in the conversation. "I've had Maddy riding Hyslop's ass for days, and she'll keep right on doing it. Talk to her anytime you feel like it, but just remember one thing. She can tell you how Hyslop is spending his time—but overall she reports only to me."

"What about your man looking into the Sky City murders? Is he making progress?"

Nick's question came too late. Gordy did not hear him, and the image on the display was slowly losing color. The final, graying scene showed a crouching Gordy Rolfe. Beyond him a group of small shadowy forms scuttled nervously away into the dark interior of the habitat.

Nick Lopez watched until the picture vanished completely. He felt sympathy for all but one of the mammals pictured in the display.

15

From the private diary of Oliver Guest.

Seth Parsigian is amoral and self-serving, but he is not in any sense unintelligent. That he would fail to anticipate a major problem with his presence on Sky City is surprising. That I would make the same mistake is unforgivable; yet make it I did.

Let me place certain important events in proper chronological order.

With the successful test of the remote-viewing jacket and helmet, Seth had announced that he would proceed at once to Sky City. Given my psychological problem with heights and open spaces, not to mention my other responsibilities, I of course had never considered the possibility of such a trip. And humans being what we are, I had previously taken little interest in a place that seemed forever inaccessible to me.

Now that had changed. I would experience Sky City, albeit vicariously, as Seth wandered where I directed and examined whatever seemed of interest to me.

He had warned me that the flight up from Earth would not permit him to wear the RV jacket. I would see and hear nothing until he actually reached Sky City. He had informed me, however, exactly when he expected to leave Earth, and given me the expected time of arrival at the Sky City docking facility.

It may sound strange, but ten minutes before the ship was projected to reach Sky City I was already sitting in my study, the RV helmet in position. I had no idea what I might see, but I looked forward to my "arrival" at the great flying island of Sky City with the same mixture of expectation and inbred Swiftian skepticism with which Gulliver came to the flying island of Laputa. Not knowing what the first view of Sky City might offer, I was careful to retain a generous contribution of my local scene in the helmet image.

Five minutes after projected arrival time, the picture in my helmet visor flickered with an added signal. A twisting, nauseating sequence of partial walls and corridors flashed in and out, too fast to study. Fortunately the audio link was less complex, since its encryption, transmission, receipt, and decryption depended not at all on the optical system of the RV jacket. Seth's voice sounded clear in my ear.

"We've arrived. Don't take notice of the picture yet. 'Til I have the jacket all the way on and fastened, the processors can't keep up and the image tends to go haywire."

It was a little late to warn me, but I had already taken remedial action. After one whirligig moment of partial pictures I had changed the balance of remote and local viewing. "Let me know when you are ready," I said, more to test my audio transmission circuit than from any real need to speak. Seth's inputs formed a changing gray pattern on the static and comforting background of my own study.

"That should do it," Seth said after another fifteen seconds. "You can start takin' more signal from this end. Tell me how it looks."

He had guessed that I would retreat to my local environment until the RV images were right. As I said, whatever else Seth might be, he is no fool.

I took the cue and adjusted the picture balance. I was looking at an array of circular black apertures, several dozen of them in a broad, square wall covered with a smooth iridescent layer. Scale for the whole scene was provided by a couple of human figures who came floating out from two of the holes. They wore no suits, which indicated that they and Seth were in a room with breathable air.

I briefly described what I was seeing. It was the first time, to my certain knowledge, that I had taken any interest in how a person moved in free fall. Since we were interested only in system performance I saw no reason to mention the odd balletic grace.

"Color check?" Seth's replies seemed to take longer than in the simulated tests.

I summarized the colors that I saw for each object. At first I waited each time for Seth's grunt of agreement, but the signal delays became a nuisance. Finally I ran rapidly through everything in sight, relying on Seth to demur if and where he chose.

"Spot on," he said when I was done. "You're seein' as good as me, maybe better. We're all through check-in, so let's take a little tour. What do you wanna look at?"

He was testing me; not for my physical tolerance of heights and open spaces, which so far as he was concerned had been dealt with on our first test of the RV system, but to see if I had done my homework.

I had. Days ago Seth had made available to me the architectural drawings and full operating system schematics of Sky City. I am blessed with a powerful short-term memory, and years of studying the conformational properties of protein molecules had taught me to hold within my mind complex three-dimensional structures.

"Where are we now?" I asked.

"Level one, sector eighty-two. The black circles are port entry points from vacuum docking stations."

For the first time, the signal delay was an advantage. I could take an extra fraction of a second to think before I replied, "That means we are not too far from the place on level five where Tanya Bishop's body was found. As I recall, the route from here to there has no locks and constant air pressure all the way."

This time it was Seth's turn to take appreciably longer than the signal delay. At last he said, "True. But don't expect to see anythin' new or useful. Her body's long gone, an' I doubt the tank's been used since." He did not indicate that he was impressed by my knowledge of the local geography. He would not give me the satisfaction. But at least any fears that I might be an ignorant dead weight to be towed around Sky City would be allayed.

"I don't expect to see anything new," I said. "Quite the opposite. I merely wish to compare the factual data and reconstructions that you brought to me with what I see now. And, of course, I am eager to obtain a feel for the general ambience of Sky City. I do not know how or even if that will be important, but it could be."

Seth's reply was a noncommittal snort. We began to move off along a dreary dark-walled corridor. It took us, I knew, along the fastest path to our destination at level five, sector fifty-six. The scenery as we progressed was uninspiring. If anything, it reminded me of the basement levels of a neglected hospital in a run-down area of a large city. There were the same endless corridors, leading to elevators unadorned by any touch of personality. There were rooms and cubicles and overhead pipes and ducts, all color-coded in a way that stamped out all chance of individuality. In saying that I was eager to experience the overall ambience of Sky City, I had lied. Already I had had enough of Sky City. The fact that the RV helmet could not provide olfactory experiences was probably a blessing. I am exceptionally sensitive to smells, and I felt sure that those around Seth were all unpleasant.

Neither of us chose to speak, and as we went on in total silence I considered Seth's own probable thought processes. He had come to me from desperation, when his hopes of solving the murders were at lowest ebb. He needed my help; and judging from my recent researches into the Argos Group, he was, like anyone in their senior echelons, willing to do anything to obtain an objective. He would love for me to catch the killer, but he would surely like it better were he able to discover the key clue and solve the case himself.

At the moment, neither of those eventualities appeared probable. Tanya Bishop had been killed on January 10. It was now the middle of July. We were following a trail that was more than six months old, in an environment where every scent, either literal or metaphorical, was routinely obliterated by the ever-active cleaning machines of Sky City.

I had a random and improbable thought, shocking enough to make me blurt, "The Sky City cleaning machines are fairly intelligent, aren't they? Could one be programmed to commit a murder? If it could, that would explain why the victims don't seem to have been suspicious of the murderer before they were killed."

The moving scene before me froze; Seth had stopped in his tracks. "I don't know," he said at last. "But the cleaning machines are just simple forms of rolfes. Since Gordy Rolfe's the mastermind behind all of them, an' he's a warped little bastard, I assume that the answer is yes. It would need special programs to bypass inhibitor circuits, but you could probably make a cleaning machine—or any other rolfe—kill somebody. So what?"

"So we find out who's in charge of them. That person would be in the absolute best position to arrange for the killings and still have a perfect alibi."

Even before Seth's reply reached me, I saw the fatal flaw in my idea. "Suppose a machine could kill 'em," he said. "How would it know who to kill, and where to do the killin'? If a rolfe hung around one place and splattered anybody who came by, they wouldn't all be young girls. An' if the murderer decided who he wanted to kill in advance, a machine would be noticed if it followed her around. And what about the sexual mutilation?"

I could imagine a killer, sufficiently deranged, deriving gratification from the simple knowledge that such an act was being performed; but Seth's other arguments were unanswerable. The problem was, my question still had validity. Why hadn't the victims been suspicious of their murderer, particularly after the first few deaths?

It has long been observed that any fool can ask more questions than the wisest man can answer. Seth decided, rightly, that this was one of those cases, though we might disagree as to who was the fool. The image in my visor began to change again. The subject had for the moment been dropped, and soon we were emerging to a totally different and disconcerting environment.

The chamber was gigantic, at least a hundred meters across. I cannot use the terms
high
or
wide,
since the space was so close to free fall that it lacked any indicators of preferred direction. I was saved from the possibility of acute discomfort at the sight of the great open arena ahead only by the extraordinary number of curvilinear structures that crisscrossed it in all directions. Most had obvious uses: pleated ducts, anything from a few centimeters to a full meter across, suitable for the transport of bulk materials; silver beams, from their placement employed as structural supports; thin and convoluted branching pipes, holding either optic bundles or serving as pneumatic delivery systems; and delicate-looking silver wires and cables, along which swarmed a variety of multiarmed machines.