In front of them the cavern that was Way Down broadened to its main chamber, five hundred meters across. Smaller side chambers led off from each side, connected to the main area by a series of natural arches and tunnels. The floor was all of smooth basalt, leading in a gentle curve to the low point of Way Down, just beyond the middle of the vast dome. Rob and Corrie stood at the head of the escalator leading to the central dispersal point, from which patrons and guests could make their choices of the casinos, sensory chambers, private booths, and pleasure rooms, or any one of the six renowned restaurants that made Way Down famous throughout the System.
Corrie was standing motionless, her eyes fixed on a small group of people standing by a reception center twenty meters ahead of them. Rob followed her gaze as they moved on down the escalator. There were four people in the party in front of them, two men and two women.
As Rob and Corrie paused at the bottom of the escalator, one man in the group turned and glanced at them casually. Then he looked back again, quickly, and spoke softly to the others. They all turned to face the escalator.
There was a long and awkward pause, during which Rob had time to appraise the members of the other group. The two men were tall and slim, impeccably dressed in colorful and formal dinner wear. Rob formed the instant, negative impression that he was seeing a couple of social escorts, at the same time as he belatedly realized that his own clothes were suited to an environment less socially pretentious than Way Down. He looked at Corrie, recognizing for the first time the fine cut and elegant design of her leisure suit—she had understood the setting far better than he.
One woman in the other party was a tall blonde, with a thin, red-cheeked face and graceful bare arms. Although both the women facing Rob wore iridescent, full-length dresses, the impressions they created were very different. The tall woman's gown was like a sheath for a fragile and delicate ornament, the other's like the container for a moving flame.
It was that second woman who drew Rob's full attention. She was short, no taller than Corrie herself. Instead of the latter's slim figure, however, she possessed a full and sensuous build, shown off to advantage by the clinging formal gown. Her hair was dark and glossy, framing her small head and taken smoothly back from her brown forehead. Rob saw the delicacy of her cheekbones under a tanned flawless skin, the wide mouth, and the dark irises of her eyes with their clear blue-white surrounding.
It was she who broke the tension between the two groups, as she laughed and said, "Cornelia, my dear. This is certainly not the place that I ever expected to find you. What is it that brings you to sample the pleasures of Way Down?"
Her voice was a surprise, deeper and fuller than Rob expected. She was still smiling, revealing small, even teeth of glittering white. Rob looked instinctively at her temples and the side of her neck. The scars were there, but the job had been superbly done. The marks were scarcely visible, so that with make-up it was hard to tell that a rejuvenation had ever taken place. Rob kept on staring, unable to control his curiosity. The woman seemed to vibrate and pulsate with an unnatural energy and vitality, while her skin appeared to glow beneath the surface. Then he looked at her eyes again, and caught the first hint of something else. The pupil of one seemed to be fractionally bigger than the other. Suspicious, he glanced down at her hands. It was there, the slight characteristic trembling—and there was a fine line of perspiration above the upper lip. Rob felt a sudden twist of pity.
"I'm sorry, Senta." Corrie's tone was stiff and uncomfortable as she took the dark-haired woman by the hand. "I knew that you came here regularly, but I thought the chance that we would meet was small. I came here myself by invitation." She turned to Rob. "I would like to introduce you to a friend"— her voice was husky on the last word—"of mine. Senta, this is Rob."
"I'm delighted to meet you." Senta took Rob's hand in both of hers and inspected him closely, while he stood silent. Her grip was burning hot against his skin. "Very good," she said at last. "Now let me introduce my friends. This is Howard Anson."
The taller of the two men nodded politely at Rob, whose hand was still imprisoned in Senta's. Then, surprisingly, he gave Rob a broad wink and a friendly grin.
"And this is Eiro and Lucetta Perion," Senta continued.
The other couple stared at Rob in confusion. It was obvious that they knew something that he didn't, and they were less good than Howard Anson at hiding it or accepting it.
Senta seemed quite unaware of any of their reactions. "He's not at all your usual space-hero type," she said to Corrie, finally releasing Rob's hand. "He's very nice." She looked up at him through long, dark lashes. "What did you say that your name was?"
In spite of his knowledge of what she was, Rob could feel a tug of sexual attraction emanating from the woman in front of him. How old was she? Fifty at least, assuming one rejuvenation treatment. Her face and body were those of a twenty-year-old, overlain with the subtle odor of desirability of a mature and knowing woman. It was nature, heightened by another factor. The appearance of those dark eyes and the trembling of the hands were unmistakable. Senta—beautiful, sensual, and obviously wealthy—was a taliza addict.
The drug had been widely tested and used for five years after its discovery. It seemed an ideal tool, the answer to the psychologists' dreams. A patient could re-live, in complete detail, the previous experiences of life.
Rob had seen taliza at work before. Apply the correct input stimulus, and the return would be instantaneous and total. The patient did not remember the original scene—he re-lived it, as it had happened. Conversations were re-heard, scenes re-visited in memory, old messages played back through the stimulated brain. The patient repeated his exact words, as audio and visual input streams were short-circuited and replaced by recollection.
The perfect tool for psychological research? Not quite. Taliza had been far too expensive for routine use. Then CGG Pharmaceuticals found the alternate production technique. The new, cheaper taliza should have been identical to the old. It was not. It produced addiction, total and irreversible and remorseless, after a single full dose.
Following addiction, regular use was essential. If it were withheld for more than a couple of weeks, withdrawal symptoms ended in a long-drawn and disgusting death as key synapses of the brain discharged random electrical signals through the highly organized and delicate cerebral cortex. Mind and reason went first. Soon after came the loss of all physical control of body functions and finally the collapse of the autonomous nervous system.
When the side effects were discovered, CGG's form of taliza was quickly banned from the System. Too late. Given a sizeable investment in equipment, the drug could be produced simply and cheaply. Illegal production, sale and use increased at once to the point where all other addictive drugs became irrelevant, and the pusher's dream came true. For taliza offered one other thing that much of the world seemed to need: an entranced high, in which the user felt a glorious sense of self-satisfaction and inner contentment, stronger than hunger and pain, able to relieve any sorrow.
Howard Anson had observed Rob's close inspection of Senta. He caught his speculative expression and gave an almost imperceptible nod. There was sorrow and compassion in his face. Rob began to suspect that Howard Anson might be more than the butterfly escort that had provided his first impression. He nodded slightly in return and turned back to Senta, as she frowned at him and said again: "Come on, I'm not trying to steal you away from Cornelia. Why don't you tell me your name?"
"I will," Rob said softly. He looked into her dark eyes. "I'm Rob. Rob Merlin."
As he spoke his full name he was aware that Corrie stiffened beside him, and Howard Anson frowned at him in a sudden surmise. He concentrated on the skin of Senta's forehead, which seemed to burn with a dusky bloom beneath its deep tan. She must have had a shot within the past couple of hours and be almost ready for the booster.
"Your name suits you." Senta reached again for Rob's hand and took it in her warm grasp. "But how on earth did you meet Cornelia? She rarely lets pleasure interfere with her work."
Rob looked questioningly at Corrie, but she would not meet his gaze. "I'm part of work, I guess," he said at last. "We'll be talking about it here tonight."
"You mean that you work for Darius Regulo?" The tremor in her hands was becoming more noticeable, passing from her hands to his. She would need the taliza booster in a few minutes, or lose the high completely. Rob noticed that Howard Anson was watching her hands also and fidgeting uncomfortably in his perfectly cut evening suit.
"Well, Cornelia," went on Senta, turning again to Corrie. "I must admit that surprises me. You must be getting more interesting work-mates out on Atlantis. How is Darius?"
Her tone was light, but there was an undercurrent that suggested some other emotion—one strong enough to cut through the feeling of well-being and self-confidence that came with a taliza high.
"As ever." Corrie's tone was unhappy. "Still the King of Heaven, still busy remaking the Solar System."
"And still `winning small'?" Senta opened her eyes wide at Rob. "Darius has always been willing to settle for two percent—provided that it is two percent of the whole Universe."
"You know Regulo better than I do," broke in Corrie. "But I don't think this is the place for us to talk about him. We have a reservation in the restaurant, and I'm sure that you need to get to a private booth."
Rob heard the significant stress on the word "private." Corrie knew what was happening to Senta.
"She's quite right, Senta." Howard Anson's voice was a pleasant tenor as he entered the conversation for the first time. "We ought to get to the private booths, and you know how the restaurant reservations are run here. They operate everything to the split-second. If these people don't get to their table in time, the food won't be any better than it would be anywhere else in the System. They'll miss a unique experience. We ought to separate now and go our own ways."
Senta was nodding. She had released Rob's hands and seemed to be deep in thought. "One moment, then we'll be on our way. I just want to say goodbye to Cornelia, and her friend Rob Merlin . . . . Merlin . . . Merlin . . ."
Her dark face suddenly changed and become the setting for a dozen different expressions. Delight, fear, the flush of sexual fulfillment, the smile of seduction and the frozen blank of grief followed each other across her countenance. The taliza was exercising its unique alchemy. Inside Senta's brain, beyond any shred of conscious control, the synapses had become hyper-active, changing and re-connecting the channels of thought in response to a sudden input stimulus.
Senta was coming off the first great high and needing her booster, but she was still in a condition where any stimulus might throw her back to the past. After the first random emotions, her face was settling into a pattern of deep worry and concern, with an unhappy frown wrinkling her perfect forehead.
"Merlin . . . Merlin has them," she said. She seemed to be talking to someone tall, looking up attentively into an invisible face. "That's right, Gregor Merlin. I just heard it from Joseph, over the video. He has no idea how they got there, but he's convinced they are located in the labs."
She paused, listening to inner voices. The others watched her without speaking. Senta's companions all clearly knew what was happening to her. Rob noticed with a sudden chill that Senta's face had even changed in its overall impression. Much of the maturity had gone from it, leaving a younger and more vulnerable result. Corrie reached out her hand to Senta, then pulled it back without touching as Anson made a quick gesture to restrain her.
After a few seconds of silence, Senta nodded to her unseen companion. "That's right, there are two of them. No, they weren't alive—there was no air in the supply capsule. I don't know if Merlin knows where they came from, but he must have a good idea. He told McGill he had found two Goblins—that's his name for them—in a returned medical supply box. He sent one of them to another man, Morrison, and now he's going to try and . . ."
She stopped speaking and coughed harshly. Her full chest began to heave in deep, labored breathing and the spasms came back to her face, a tableau of shifting expressions. She was reeling back through the years, returning from her brief visit to the past. Howard Anson put an arm around her, supporting and comforting, as the big dark eyes slowly focused again on the present.
"Come along, Senta," Anson said gently. While she was still unresisting he began to lead her away along the blue-walled corridor that led to the private booths of Way Down. After a brief, uncertain look at Rob and Corrie, the other couple followed Anson without attempting a conventional leavetaking. As they moved down the corridor, Howard Anson turned and flashed an apologetic look back at Rob and Corrie.
"She'll be all right in a minute or two," he said. He looked tenderly at Senta, who rested trembling against his shoulder. "You two go ahead and have your meal and don't worry about all this. Now you've seen it, I hope you'll never let anybody talk you into trying taliza—not even a partial dose. What you just saw isn't the worst part. It's nothing like the worst part."
Rob shook his head as the others disappeared from view. "I've seen it before in the construction crews. He's quite right, what we saw isn't the worst part. You ought to see somebody who's suffering withdrawal symptoms and can't get a dose. Do you have any idea what all the rest of that was about? I had the feeling that one of those men—Howard Anson—knew exactly what was happening to Senta."
Corrie shrugged. Her pale eyes were frightened, but she seemed to have herself under firm control. "I'd never seen it before, only heard about it. But you know how taliza works, she was off somewhere in the past. She must have known somebody with your name, a long time ago. When she said it, that was the trigger to set her off." She looked along the corridor, as though to follow the other party, then checked herself. "I suppose we'd better get along to the restaurant. We're late already."
"But she said Gregor Merlin." Rob walked alongside Corrie, but he was like a man in a trance. "That was my father's name. And she said that she'd heard from Joseph. I know that isn't a particularly uncommon name, but when we met Joseph Morel, up at the station, he said that he'd known my father. I'm getting worried about the number of coincidences."
They were greeted at the entrance of the Indian restaurant—Corrie's preference—by a white-robed figure who led them silently to their table. Like any facility at Way Down, privacy was available at the flick of a switch. Sound and sight inhibitors would come into operation, shielding Rob and Corrie's words and actions from neighboring diners. About half the patrons used the inhibitors. The rest were there because they wanted to be seen. Celebrity-spotting was a big piece of Way Down.
Corrie turned on the inhibitors, leaving them in a silent, white-walled room. The discreet human servitors seemed to step in through solid walls as they offered their quiet suggestions and recommendations to the two diners. The whole restaurant held about four hundred patrons, and at least twice that number of attendants providing food, wine and stimulants to the diners.
As they settled into their seats Corrie bent her head to the long, hand-scrolled menu. As with everything at Way Down, manual service was the rule—robochefs were not used, even in the kitchens. Rob could not see Corrie's eyes, but her tone sounded artificially casual as she spoke.
"It's not coincidence, Rob. Senta suggested that she knows Regulo well, and that's a fact. Knows him very well. For a long time, many years ago, they were lovers until it became obvious that he couldn't live on Earth much longer. I don't know why she didn't follow him, but he says that she couldn't stand the idea of leaving everybody here on Earth. She needs all her friends, to bolster her confidence. But she knew Joseph Morel, back in the days when she lived with Regulo—and if he knew your father, then it isn't surprising that Senta knew him, too."
"You don't like her, do you?" Rob said it deliberately. He wanted to startle Corrie out of her remote and wooden mood. He was surprisingly successful. She lifted her head and looked at him for a long time with those intense, troubled eyes, as unexpected as ever in the dark complexion.
"You have it backwards, Rob." Her voice was husky. "I would have gone with her just now, but I knew she wouldn't want me to. I don't go where she is for her sake. I used to think that she didn't want me around because it would reveal to her fancy friends how old she is. Now I think perhaps she doesn't want me to see what taliza is doing to her, and doesn't want me saddened. I never introduced her by her full name, you know. It is Senta Plessey. She is my mother."
Corrie looked down again at the menu in front of her. "We haven't seen much of each other in the last ten years," she went on in a low voice. "That's my fault more than hers, I suppose—I chose to live off-Earth. I don't really know why I haven't tried to see her more, even though our life-styles are completely different." She looked up again, pleadingly. "If you don't mind, Rob, I want to change the subject. And I don't want to talk about work, either. Unless you have to talk about Darius Regulo tonight, I'd rather let it wait for another day. No beanstalks, no Atlantis, and no taliza—I want some relaxation."
Back in his room, at the hotel on the surface that served those of Way Down's guests who preferred to spend the night above ground, Rob found it hard to sleep. As soon as Corrie had said it, he could at once see the strong resemblance between the two women. There was an obvious similarity of features, and Corrie's figure was a slimmer and younger version of Senta's. It was clear where Corrie had inherited that flawless complexion and the easy grace of movement. It was the eyes that had led him astray. Where had Corrie found those, that startling blue instead of Senta's dark brown?
His thoughts were interrupted by the soft buzz of the door-call. He looked at his watch. It was past three A.M., local time, but that meant nothing. Guests for Way Down flew in from all over the System. It was probably Corrie. They had been together until almost one-thirty, with dinner itself lasting nearly four hours. It had taken her a while to recover from the disturbing meeting with Senta Plessey, but a relaxing atmosphere and incredible cuisine had helped. Rob had worked hard to avoid turning the conversation to Darius Regulo's background and empire, and he had mostly succeeded.
His main problem had been Way Down itself. Something about it made him uneasy. He fancied that he could hear tiny creaks and groans from the roof and walls of the great cavern, as though the depths of Earth resented the unnatural cavity within it. He had insisted on returning to the surface after they finished their meal.
As the door-call repeated its summons he got up, wrapped a loose robe around himself, and went to answer it. He was hoping, if not really expecting, that it would be Corrie. She had refused his offer of company when they had arrived back at the surface, but she had refused with a smile and an interested look.
It was Senta's companion, Howard Anson. Rob looked at him in surprise. Anson was still dressed in his formal attire of the earlier evening. Rob noted again how naturally the clothes fitted Anson's lean form, a perfection of tailoring that quietly told of great expense.
"I know it's late." Anson's manner was brisk and business-like. "Normally, I would have waited until morning. But I didn't know where you would be, and tomorrow I have to head to Warsaw for a business meeting."
"Come in. I wasn't asleep anyway." Rob closed the door and motioned the other man to a chair. "I'm a little surprised to hear that you're in business." He smiled. "You certainly pass yourself off well as a convincing social parasite."
Anson laughed. Like his speaking voice, it was a pleasant tenor. "That's part of the reason for my success, being a worker and imitating a drone. But I'm like you, a busy bee. I run an Information Service. Half my clientele and most of my business is drawn from the wealthiest one-half percent of the System."
"You run Anson's Information Service?"
The other man nodded.
"Then I'm impressed," went on Rob. "You're the best there is. I've used you myself, many times. How did you ever decide to do that for a living? I would have no idea what a person ought to study before they can sell information."
"I fell into it." Anson shrugged. "When I was twenty years old I found myself in a strange situation. I wasn't particularly interested in any one subject, but I had a trick memory that would let me recall almost anything I wanted to. A hundred years ago I'd probably have been in the entertainment business, as a `memory man' reeling off five hundred digits after I'd heard them once—I can do that, but don't ask me how it works—or telling the audience who ran third in the five thousand meters at the 1928 Olympic Games. It took me a couple of years to realize that I was a dinosaur. People were impressed by what I knew, but they could check it all in two seconds through a terminal to the central data banks. I was born too late. So then I decided that there was still one place where I could do something unique. All the information is in the files, but the indexing is still in chaos—it lags twenty or thirty years behind the information. So I learned the index system. I can add new indices to my mental list, instantly, so I know how you get to information that's there, even when it's poorly indexed."
"That's just why I went to your service," said Rob. "I was convinced that the knowledge I wanted was in a file somewhere, but I couldn't drag it out through the key-words that the terminals would accept."
"You're the exception—most people don't even try." Anson leaned back in the chair. "If you were rich enough and lazy enough, you wouldn't bother with the terminal. You'd tell me what you want, and leave it at that. It's not cheap, though. I charge a lot—even by your standards."
Rob raised his eyebrows. "And what are my standards?"
"You're pretty well loaded with money, from your contracts in bridge construction." Anson smiled disarmingly. "Don't be annoyed. I would be a fool if I had an Information Service and didn't use it for my own benefit. After I left Senta and the Perions, I ran a quick check on you. It was easy, because you were already listed as one of our clients."
"Well, you're a long way ahead of me." Rob felt mild irritation. "I don't have an Information Service, so I don't know who you are, and I don't know why you're here. Don't you think that you owe me an explanation for banging on my door at three in the morning?"
"Sorry." Anson waved a conciliatory arm at Rob, inviting him to sit in the chair opposite. "You're quite right. I should have told you why I came here at once, instead of giving you my own life history. I don't know why it is, but we all have an irresistible urge to talk about ourselves. Beware of the man who doesn't—he's always trying to hide something."
Howard Anson smiled, revealing strong, even teeth. "I came here because I'm worried, and I think you may be able to help. When you've heard what I have to say, you may tell me that it's none of your business, and I'll have to live with that. But I think it may be your business, yours and Senta Plessey's."
Rob was sitting quietly, watching Anson's expression. The other man was much more concerned and serious than his casual manner suggested. "Go on. That meeting with Senta has been on my mind too."
"I thought it might be. You may have already noticed that I'm very fond of Senta." Anson shrugged again. "Fond is a poor word for it. I'm more than fond. She's afraid of becoming poor, and she's afraid of getting old, and she's torn apart by that damned drug. But I can't blame her for any of that. You've only seen her when the taliza has hold of her. When she's free of it, she doesn't have that self-confidence. She's very vulnerable and very afraid."
"That's a more favorable version of what I heard from Corrie. I find it hard to think highly of a woman who doesn't want to see her own daughter."
Anson shook his head. "It's not that simple. There are problems on both sides. After all, it was Corrie who went off to work in Atlantis, when she was still almost a child. That wasn't Senta's doing—she opposed it completely. I don't think it will get us anywhere to try and understand their relationship tonight. I've struggled for years and it still baffles me."
"I'll go along with that. But you still haven't told me why you're here. If you don't want to talk about Corrie, what is it that you want to discuss?"
"You know taliza. So you know what it means when I tell you that Senta has been an addict for at least twelve years. I've known her for eleven of those, and we've lived together for nearly ten. I must have helped her through a couple of thousand flashbacks like the one we saw tonight. You never know what the trigger might be. It can be something that she sees, or says, or hears. Did you notice that she didn't trigger tonight when you said your name, only when she repeated it for herself?"
"I've seen taliza addicts before. You're not telling me anything new." Rob's face was expressionless, but his total attention was on Anson.
"Then perhaps this will be new to you." Howard Anson had dropped the facade of graceful charm. He was coldly serious and purposeful. "You heard and saw Senta trigger on your name tonight when she went into taliza trance. What you don't know is that it isn't the first time she has done it. I've seen the same thing, six times. What I want to know is, have you two ever met before? If so, when was it and where?"
"Never." Rob saw Anson's skeptical expression. "I'm quite positive of that. We haven't met—I'd have remembered her, so would any man. In any case, she didn't trigger on my name at all. She triggered on my father's name, Gregor Merlin. That's why I've been so puzzled, and why I'm willing to sit here and talk about it so late at night. He died long ago—before I was born."
"Your father." Anson drew in a deep breath. "And you are twenty-seven now, according to the file on you."
"Twenty-seven and a half." Rob was solemn.
"Then you think that Senta is cycling back into something that happened almost thirty years ago?" Anson tugged suddenly at his collar to loosen it, spoiling the perfect line of his crimson suit. "Do you understand the implications of that? Taliza addicts usually access the most recent memories first. It must have been an intense experience, to pull her so often that far into the past. Look, Merlin, do you know if your father was ever involved with both Joseph Morel and Darius Regulo?"
"Until tonight, I'd have said that he was not. Now, I'm not so sure. My mother died before I was born, as your files probably told you, so I have no one that I can really check it with. I met Regulo recently, and he didn't admit to any knowledge of my mother or my father."
"That doesn't mean he has no such knowledge."
"I know." Rob sat silent for a while, his smooth face unreadable, his eyes far away. "Joseph Morel is another matter," he said at last. "My parents worked at the Antigeria Labs in Christchurch, developing treatments for rejuvenation. Joseph Morel told me that he knew my father, but only when they were students together in Germany. Morel works for Regulo, but I'm not sure what he does for him. There's the possibility of closer relationships that we don't know about. I still don't understand your interest, though, or what difference all these old facts can make."
"All I want to do is to help Senta." Anson's manner had in it no trace now of the social charmer. "The treatments they have for curing taliza addiction don't work. Maybe they'll come across something in the next few years, maybe they won't. At the moment, the only way that you can treat an addict is to weaken the triggers to the past. Either you treat them directly, with Lethe or some similar drug, or you avoid mention of them altogether. But it's hard to avoid triggers if you don't know why they are triggers. Reasonable?"
"Fair enough." Rob nodded in agreement. "You think that Morel, Senta and I—or my father, more likely—are all tied together inside Senta's brain. What we saw tonight would support that."
"You, Morel, Senta, and something else. Something that I don't understand at all. I've heard Senta use several different names for it—Goblins, the way we heard tonight, or the Minnies, or something that just sounds like letters, the XPs, or Expies. It is never clear what they are."
Anson leaned forward, his face grim. "I can only tell you one more thing, and it's something that I've never heard directly. I've deduced it by piecing things together from what Senta has said at different times when the taliza has taken hold. Whatever the connection is between those names, Senta doesn't have it anywhere in her conscious mind. And it's some terrible connection. It's hidden deep down, and it only comes out at all when she is in taliza-trance."
Rob was looking skeptical, in spite of Anson's sincerity of manner and desperate conviction. "I don't need to tell you how wild all that sounds," he said. "Even if it's true, what could I possibly do about it?"
"You can come with me and see Senta, in private. Not now," Anson added quickly, seeing Rob's expression. "Next time that it's convenient for you. I think you may have other word triggers that would produce different memories in Senta. I don't know what they might be, and I've run out of my own ideas without producing any results at all. We can't help Senta until we know more about her troubles, but there must be some key words that will bring things out into the open. I think you may have the knowledge that will do it, though you are not aware yourself of its significance."
Anson's voice was soft and persuasive, but there was no mistaking the pleading tone. Senta Plessey had found at least one supporter who would stick with her through good times and bad.
After a few moments, Rob nodded agreement.
"I don't know if it will work, but I'll give it a try. Not for your sake, though, and not for Senta's. For my own." He was frowning, with a look that added years to his face. "Ever since I was old enough to understand, I've wondered and puzzled about the way my parents died. I was raised by my mother's sister, and she said that their deaths were from natural causes. But it seemed to me they were too close together, and too strange. My father was killed in a fire in the labs, from unknown causes. A few hours later, thousands of miles away, my mother died in an aircraft crash. The crash was sabotage, a bomb on board, but they never caught the people who did it. It always seemed to me that the same group might have started the fire in the labs and set the bomb in the plane. When I was old enough I tried for years to find evidence, and came up with nothing. No officials were interested in a twenty-year-old case that led nowhere and had no suspects. Finally I just stopped looking and did my best to put it behind me. But you can see where Senta's words tonight are taking me."
Anson stood up. "I can. I may be able to help. I can run a full check on everything to do with your parents' deaths."
"For something that happened twenty-seven years ago?"
"Certainly." Anson smiled. "You'd be surprised at what we can find out. All part of the service—that's why it costs so much. Not in this case, of course. Naturally, there'll be no charge."
Rob stared at Anson curiously as the other man went over to the door. "Tell me, how much of this is for Senta and how much is your own curiosity? I suspect it takes a special sort of mind to run an Information Service—and I don't mean a trick memory."
Anson became pensive. He rubbed at the bridge of his thin nose, then spread his hands wide. "I wish I could answer that one myself. Even if I tell you that it's all for Senta, I know from experience that a mystery like this eats away at me, somewhere deep inside my head, until I find answers. Maybe you'll be able to help all of us, me and you, too. When will it be convenient for you to meet again with Senta?"
"I've been thinking about that while we were talking. We could do it at once, but I don't think that's the best idea. In a couple more weeks I'll be going up to see Regulo at his home base. That should give me more of an idea what he's like, and how his operation there functions. I may pick up things that can help trigger Senta's memories. Unless you object, I think we ought to wait until I get back."
Anson didn't hide his disappointment. "That could mean a month's delay."
"Possibly. But whatever it is, it has waited for at least twenty-seven years. I don't think another month will change anything."
Anson paused with the door open behind him. "You're right, I guess. It can wait a few more weeks. The trouble is, I don't know if I can wait—I was itching to come over and talk to you all evening, ever since we met at the entrance to Way Down. I don't know why it gets to me. Sometimes, I think I'd be a lot happier as a straightforward gigolo. I have no trouble being accepted as that by most of Senta's friends."
I doubt if you would, thought Rob, as he closed the door. Gigolos don't chew away at problems until four o'clock in the morning. Gigolos don't run their own, highly profitable, businesses. Gigolos don't stay and care for lovers who need endless care and attention. Howard Anson was something else, a wasp in a drone's disguise. There were few like that in the world, and the ones you found had to be savored and cultivated. Senta Plessey was a fortunate woman.
Rob tried to picture her as she must have been thirty years earlier, but the image would not come into focus. When he at last fell asleep, it was Corrie whose face smiled upon his inner eye.