“But … why?” Dar exploded. “Announcements like that are going to panic the public! Why get everybody into a state of terror about it?”
“I have a notion,” Whitey muttered, “but I hope I’m wrong.”
“It’s got to be because they want to make absolutely sure they catch me. But why? Am I that much of a threat to them? And how’d they get the idea I’m a telepath?”
“Maybe they didn’t. ‘Telepath’ is a nice scare word, conjuring up somebody poking into your most private affairs, somebody having a huge, unnatural advantage that makes everybody else feel inferior—and, therefore, all the more willing to go out and help hunt him down. Useful, if they want to make sure they catch you. And as to your being a threat, well—the answer is, you don’t have to be much of a threat. Conspirators tend to not want to take chances, no matter how small. The LORDS party in the I.D.E. Assembly want to restrict individual rights, and they’ve never been so strong. Their opposition has fractured into a dozen splinter groups. If there’s an opposition leader, it’s Tarn Urkavne, the chairman of the CPR—the Coalition for the Protection of Rights. At least he’s officially the Opposition speaker. But his ‘Coalition’ is pretty weak—its members spend their time arguing over policy, instead of trying to do something.”
“But the LORDS aren’t trying to overthrow the whole I.D.E. government, are they?”
Whitey shrugged. “If they are, they’re not saying—of course. That’s high treason, boy. No, you may be sure whoever’s behind the coup are keeping their lips well sealed, and want to make sure everybody else does, too.”
The bedroom door opened.
“Well, enough of politics.” Whitey craned around in his seat, looking back over his shoulder. “Hi, honey.”
Lona swayed out into the sitting room, and the sight of her made Dar decide to stay among the living. He decided Whitey’s hangover cure was working. But she had a kind of glassy look in her eyes, a sort of fevered brilliance. Was she ill?
“I told you, you shouldn’t have stayed up waiting for me to finish,” Whitey said, frowning. “You get to bed, honey; you can still catch about three hours sleep before we have to leave.”
“How can I, with this running through my head?” Lona shoved a sheaf of papers at him.
Whitey squared the sheets on his lap, smiling up at her, almost shyly. “Liked it, huh?”
Lona nodded, with a tight smile; she looked as though she were about to explode.
Whitey grinned and turned to Dar, holding out the sheaf. “First hard copy. See what you think.”
Dar took the script and began to scan it. His eyes locked in after the third line, tracking the print at speech-speed, words thundering in his head. “Whitey, this is …”
“… wonderful!” Father Marco breathed, looking up from the last page. Sam looked up from her copy with a numbed gaze and an awed nod.
“Rough,” Whitey grumbled, flushed with pleasure. “Needs polish. Lots of it.”
“It’s a masterpiece,” Sam whispered.
Whitey sat still a moment, then gave a brusque nod. “Good. Yes. Rough, but—it’s good. Thank you.”
Lona laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “9:30 hours, Grandpa.”
“Yeah.” Whitey heaved himself to his feet with a sigh. “Time to go meet Stroganoff, children—the Knight of the Shining Laser, who will do battle with the Dragon of Commerce for us. Ready?”
Dar paced the lounge furiously, hands locked behind his back. “What’s he doing in there—reading them the whole script?”
“Calm down, Da … uh. Perry.” Whitey leaned back in his chair like a cat by a fire, a tall drink in his hand. “It means it’s going well. If the execs didn’t like his presentation, he’d’ve been out half an hour ago.”
The door opened, and Stroganoff shuffled in, holding the script in front of him as though it were a tray, eyes glazed.
Dar pounced on him. “Well? What’s the word? They like it? They gonna buy it? What?”
Stroganoff’s head swiveled toward him, but his gaze went right through Dar. Father Marco pried Dar away with a soothing murmur, and Whitey echoed him: “Calm down, Perry. They won’t finish deciding for a while yet … How’d it go, David?”
Stroganoff’s head turned toward Whitey, but his eyes still didn’t quite focus. “Tod … why didn’t you warn me?”
“Warn?” Whitey frowned. “About what?”
“About this!” Stroganoff held the script out reverently. “I gave ‘em the overview, and the audience potential, the cost-minimalization, and the company-image enhancement, and they sat there looking bored, so I started reading them the first few lines, just to give ‘em the idea—and I couldn’t stop! I just kept going, right through the whole thing—and they didn’t cut me off! Not a word! They actually listened!”
Whitey grinned and sat back. “Well. Nice to be appreciated.”
“Appreciated! My lord, Tod, that’s topping the Prize!” Dar heaved a silent sigh. He might make it to Earth, after all.
They were laughing and chattering as they came back into their hotel, riding high on a triumph—until a grave-faced major domo stepped up to Whitey and intoned, “Mr. Tambourin, sir?”
The laughter cut off as though it had been sliced with a razor blade. Whitey turned to the man in livery, frowning. “Yes?”
“There’s a call waiting, from Mr. Horatio Bocello, sir. He’s been quite insistent in his demands that he speak with you.”
Whitey’s face cracked into a cream-whiskered grin. “Old Horatio!”
Sam was staring, shocked. Father Marco blinked. Even Lona looked impressed. Dar looked around. Then they all jumped to catch up with Whitey.
But the major domo was ahead of them. “Ah, Mr. Tambourin?”
Whitey looked back. “Yes?”
“He really has been quite insistent, sir. The staff would very much appreciate it if you would take the call as soon as you arrive in your suite.”
“Yeah. I know what Horatio’s like when he gets ‘insistent.’ ” Whitey’s grin was downright evil. “Don’t worry, my good man—I’ll hit the phone as soon as I’m upstairs. You can tell Terra the call’s going through.” His hand brushed the major domo’s as he turned away; the man glanced at his palm, and his eyebrows shot up. “Thank you, sir.”
“My pleasure. Come on, troops!” Whitey was striding away toward the lift tube.
His “crew” lurched into motion behind him. “Who’s Horatio Bocello?” Dar hissed.
“Only the richest man on Terra, gnappie!” Sam hissed back.
“Which means, in the whole system. Devout Catholic, too…” Father Marco said thoughtfully.
“Patron of the arts—especially Grandpa’s,” Lona added.
Dar swallowed heavily, and walked faster.
When Whitey careened through the door, the com screen was already alive with white noise, its beeper beeping. Whitey pressed the “answer” button and thumbed the toggle that uncapped his camera. The screen cleared, showing a thin, long-jawed, bony face with a receding iron-gray hairline, a blade of a nose, and burning eyes. The eyes focussed on Whitey, and the face grinned. “Tambourin, you old scalawag! Where’ve you been?”
“In a hundred bars on fifteen planets, Cello.” Whitey grinned back at him. “You want exact figures, you’ll have to tell me how long it’s been.”
“What—five years, this time? Why don’t you write, reprobate?”
“Buy it from your book-channel, windy. How’s your empire?”
Bocello shrugged, with a trace of annoyance. “You win some, you lose some, and it keeps growing, all by itself.”
Whitey nodded. “No change.”
“It was a lot more fun back in the Northeast Kingdom.”
“I know.” Whitey smiled fondly, gazing back down the years. “Running around in homemade armor, chopping at each other with rattan swords.”
“And for the parties, dressing up like a fourteenth-century duke. Except you, of course. You never could decide whether you wanted to be a knight or a troubadour.”
Dar nudged Lona, having a legitimate reason, and whispered, “What’re they talking about?”