“How about his privacy?”
“Desmond…”
Link’s voice was pleading, her green eyes wide and appealing. Desmond Drum was not so old that he had forgotten the power of puppy love. Concealing a smile, he pulled out a hard copy notepad and a pen.
“Tell me everything you recall about him, Link. Did he mention any friends? family? How about where he was staying in New York?”
Slowly, Link reconstructed everything she recalled. Now that Desmond had agreed to help, her nervousness vanished and she became again the professional observer. Although Drum had been woozy during most of the encounter, he added a few details to the list.
“There,” he said when they were done. “Now I have something to start with.”
“What are your rates?”
“Kid, you’re a pal.”
“As you noted, I’m also going to be a multimillionaire. If you charge more than I have now, you can hit me for the rest, with interest, in a couple of years.”
Drum glanced around his shabby office. Rents were lower now that so much work was done in virt, but conversely it was harder to get a good place now that the demand was reduced. He shoved a standard contract across the desk.
“There.”
“That’s it?”
“For this kind of job.”
Link pulled an eft stick from her wallet. “Take the money for expenses and this first hour’s consultation.”
While Drum was doing this, Link studied him.
“Why do you do this, Desmond? It can’t be for the money.”
“Just nosey, I guess. I like being paid to stick my nose into other people’s business.”
“Like me.” Link laughed.
“Guess so, kid.” Drum winked at her. “Let me buy my newest client lunch. I want to talk over the Elshie situation. This riot could change things quite a bit.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, too. Have you heard from…”
“Our employer? No. He’s probably worried, though. Let’s have something for him when he does make contact. Do you mind if we walk to lunch? I’m having the Spinner’s upholstery replaced.”
“Actually, a walk sounds good. I noticed a Chinese place at the end of the block that smelled wonderful when I walked by.”
“Great. I’ve wanted an excuse to try it.”
She was as lovely as Fraga with skin of shining grey, deep wrinkles like the currents cut by the wind on a deep pond, and polished calluses on her knees. Tranto noted her swaggering toward a watering hole some distance from where the herd grazed and scented her invitation on the teasing breeze.
“Muggle,” he said, “keep the others back from the watering hole for me while I check out that intruder.”
“Sure you wouldn’t like me to do it, sir?” Muggle asked, his trunk extending as he, too, caught the enticing scent. “Scarce always had me check out the newcomers, as you may recall.”
“Scarco is no longer herd bull,” Tranto said, “and I am.”
Muggle nodded, shuffled back a few steps, and practiced flapping his ears importantly. Somewhere deep in his heart he wished that he was Tranto (or at least had Tranto’s authority), but he had grown practiced at hiding his resentment even from himself.
Tranto sauntered over to the new female. Up close, she was even better looking than from a distance, but something about her reminded him obscurely of Lady May and her bowers of flowers. More guardedly than he had intended, he greeted her.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hello,” she answered. “Is that your herd grazing out there?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s a big herd.”
“Biggest I know of hereabouts.”
“Been herd bull long?”
“Long enough.”
“I think I’ve heard of you. You’re Tranto, aren’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“Taciturn, too.”
“Mm.”
“I remember where I heard about you. It was from a bull named Scarce. He said he abdicated in your favor—said you weren’t just bigger, you were the ancestral herd bull.”
“Scarco. How is he?”
“Well enough, for a lone bull. I think he misses having company.”
“Wonder why he doesn’t start a new herd. He was pretty impressive.”
“Maybe he’s afraid that someone else will come and usurp all his hard work.”
Tranto dug a tusk into the turf, polishing the tip. He no longer found the stranger female attractive; she struck him as distinctly dangerous. She must have sensed the change in his attitude because instantly she became conciliatory.
“I was sent to find you, Tranto.”
“Is that so?”
“By some powerful folks. They’re looking for strong phants to join them in an action they’re planning.”
“Action?”
“Virtu has been under the rule of Verite for too long. Their people come in here with their new programs, with their Chaos Factor prods, and push us around.”
“Is that so?”
“Don’t be rude, Tranto. You, yourself, bear the wounds of the brutal CF prods, are doomed to suffer insanity due to their mishandling. Only the rare aion has not had its domain challenged by these interlopers. The time has come to rewrite the base program. I have been sent to ask you whether you and your herd wish to join our side.”
“What’s in it for us?”
“A better society, free from the domination of Verite.”
“Verite doesn’t come to these jungles and plains, not effectively.”
“Do you like being constrained to a few wild or semiwild sites when all of Virtu is your heritage?”
“Maybe so. We’re happy here.”
“You are. Don’t you owe your young bulls room to expand?”
“Let them fight for the right. I have.”
“Long ago, Tranto.” The stranger female switched the brush at the tip of her tail. “I think I was misled about you, Tranto. I thought that given everything you have suffered you would believe in justice for all, not just the rights of the strongest.”
“Lady, I am the strongest.”
“Here. In any case, I do not believe you will serve. I shall report my failure. It is a pity. We could have been… friends.”
“As you say, lady. I guess I’ve grown too old.”
Tranto watched as she walked away, watched until she vanished into the brush at the edge of the jungle, watched until night fell and his herd joined him near the water. That night, he glided away from his customary place near Fraga and their two young and pounded along the perimeter of the herd, alert for a danger he could not name.
Alert though he was, Tranto did not see Muggle slip away from the herd and vanish into the dark curtain of the jungle, nor did he see him return some hours later.
The meeting of the Church of Elish Elders had dealt with the routine matters: presented thanks to Aoud Araf (whose crisis team had handled the riots as well as could be hoped); presented veiled reprimands to those who had panicked; dealt with budgets, supplies, and slogans. The tone of the gathering had been depressed, defeated. All present were aware that the events in Central Park had jeopardized their growing religion as nothing else—even the revelations of Arthur Eden—had ever done.
Then the miracle had begun.
All stared at the head of the table where a chair that always remained empty—a reminder of the Hierophant who was never seen either in Verite (where many suspected he could not manifest) nor in Virtu (where legend said he had his origin)—where the Empty Chair shimmered and a figure took shape on its cushioned seat.
It was human and male in form. The almost ugly face was Roman-nosed, with thinning white hair, and deep laugh lines around a mouth that at this moment was neither laughing nor smiling. The figure wore a loose, faded tee-shirt on which the slogan “Ginger Rogers Did Everything Fred Astaire Did, But She Did It Backwards And In High Heels” was printed in black.