They were both looking his way. There were gestures, not hard to decode: the zigzags-and-oval was requesting something; the headwaiter was refusing. And now a gratuity was changing hands. Farkas suspected that the pleasures of his solitary lunch were soon to be intruded upon.
He remembered, after a moment, who the zigzags-and-oval was: a certain courier named Kluge, one of the kids who hung out at the shuttle hub and offered to provide services for newcomers to Valparaiso Nuevo. Juanito had pointed him out to Farkas, somewhere in the early days of his visit, as one of his competitors. Juanito had spoken of Kluge with some admiration, Farkas remembered.
The headwaiter—three gleaming white rods bound with thick red twine—came over. Struck a posture of deferential attention. Cleared his throat.
“Begging your pardon for disturbing you, Mr. Farkas—a person wishes to speak to you, and he says it’s extremely important—”
“I’m eating lunch,” Farkas said.
“Of course, Mr. Farkas. Terribly sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Farkas.”
Sure he was. He got to keep the tip, whether or not he could deliver Farkas to Kluge.
But maybe there was something useful here—an opening, a lead. Farkas said, as the three white rods began to retreat, “Wait. What’s his name?”
“Kluge, sir. He’s a courier. I told him that you didn’t need any couriers, but he said it wasn’t that, he wasn’t interested in selling you anything, but—”
“All right,” Farkas said. “Tell him I’ll talk to him.”
Kluge approached and hovered nearby. The central eye-like structure of him turned a deeper blue, almost black, and the glossiness gave way to a matte finish. Farkas interpreted that as profound uneasiness being held under tight control. He warned himself to be careful not to underestimate this Kluge. That was one of his few weaknesses, Farkas knew: the tendency to be condescending to people who were put off by his appearance. Everyone was put off by his appearance at first, and had to fight to control a reaction of repugnance. But some of them were dangerous even so.
“My name is Kluge, sir,” Kluge began. When Farkas offered no immediate response he added quickly, “I’m right over here, to your left.”
“Yes, I know that. Sit down, Kluge. Is Kluge your first name or your second?”
“Sort of both, sir.”
“Ah. Very unusual.” Farkas went on eating. “And what is it you want with me, exactly? I understand you’re a courier. I’m not in need of hiring one.”
“I realize that, sir. Juanito is your courier.”
“Was.”
A little beat of silence went by before Kluge said, “Yes, sir. That’s actually one of the things I would like to ask you about, if you don’t mind.” The big blue central eye was really black now, the look of space without stars. The scarlet zigzags and spirals were coiling and uncoiling like thrashing whips. There was real tension here, Farkas saw. Kluge said, “Juanito’s a good friend of mine. We do a lot of work together. But nobody’s seen him around for a while, now, and I wondered—”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Farkas gave him some time to do it, but he didn’t.
“Wondered what, Kluge?” he said finally. “If I know where he is? I’m afraid I don’t. As I indicated, Juanito doesn’t work for me any more.”
“And you don’t have any idea—”
“None,” Farkas said. “I employed your friend Juanito only for a few days. Once I had my bearings here, I had no further need of him, and so I discharged him. It became necessary for me to make a short business trip to a nearby satellite world, and when that was finished I came back here for a brief holiday, but there was no reason for me to hire a courier this time and I didn’t do so. I think I saw you at the terminal when I arrived the second time, and perhaps you noticed then that I chose to go through the entry procedures unaided.”
“Yes, actually, I did,” said Kluge.
“Well, then. I assume Juanito has taken himself off on a vacation somewhere. I paid him very well for his services. When you do see him again, please give him my thanks for the fine work he did on my behalf.”
Farkas smiled, the kind of smile that offers an amiable termination to a conversation. He looked toward his plate and with great precision he cut a neatly triangular slice of meat and conveyed it to his mouth. He poured a little wine from his carafe into his glass, and put the glass to his lips. He took a slice of bread from the breadbasket and covered it with a thin, meticulously applied coating of butter. Kluge watched the entire performance in silence. Farkas smiled at him again, a different sort of smile, this time as though to say, I see quite well for a blind man, don’t you think? and Kluge’s coloration registered perplexity and dismay.
Kluge said, “He isn’t much of a traveler, Juanito. He just likes to stay right here on Valparaiso Nuevo.”
“Then I’m sure that that’s where he is,” said Farkas. He cut another triangular slice of meat. Smiled another smile of dismissal. “I appreciate your concern for your friend and I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful than this. And now, unless there’s anything else you’d like to discuss—”
“Yes, actually, there is. The real reason why I came up here to Cajamarca today to see you. You had dinner in Valdivia last night, didn’t you, sir?”
Farkas nodded.
“This is a little unusual. The woman I’m working for right now happened to have dinner at the same restaurant last night. She’s from Earth, from California, traveling through the L-5 worlds. She saw you at the restaurant and asked me later if I could arrange it for her to meet you.”
“For what reason?”
“Your guess would be as good as mine, sir. But I think— you know—it might be something social.”
Interesting, Farkas thought. A woman.
He had indeed noticed a woman in the restaurant last night, a very impressive woman, substantial and conspicuous. She had walked past his table at one point, giving off a distinctive carnal emanation, a great ambient cloud of hot female force—bright waves of heat, violet shot through with deep azure streaks—that had immediately caught his attention, automatically drawing from him an instant though brief surge of hormonal flux. He had caught her attention, too—he had not failed to take in the little quiver of surprise in her aura, the tiny flinch of surprise, as the fact of his eyelessness had registered on her—and then she had moved along.
It would be a cheery coincidence if this one turned out to be the same one. Farkas had been feeling a little horny for several days, now. His sexual drive was a thing of distinct periodicity, long stretches of eunuchlike indifference punctuated by piercing episodes of wild lustfulness. One of those episodes might be coming upon him, he was beginning to suspect. If Juanito had still been around, the kid could probably have arranged something for him. Of course, Juanito wasn’t around. How providential for this Kluge to turn up, then.
“What’s her name?” Farkas asked.
“Bermudez. Jolanda Bermudez.”
The name meant nothing. And asking Kluge to describe her to him would serve no useful purpose.
“Well,” Farkas said. “I suppose I can spare a little time for her. Where can I find her?”
“She’s waiting in a cafe called the Santa Margarita, a short way up-spoke from here. I could tell her to come down here in half an hour, say, when you’re finished with your lunch.”
“I’m just about finished,” said Farkas. “Let me settle up and you can take me to her right now.”
“And about Juanito, sir—you know, we’re all pretty worried about him. So if you should happen to hear from him—”