That left them with nothing to do but to wait for the cargo ship to land. Lo-Moth, through FitzGilbert, encouraged them to remain at the corporate hostel. Heikki hesitated, but could think of no reason to shift their quarters: the hostel was the most up-to-date transient housing on-planet, and there was no point in subjecting anyone else to her own prejudices. That decision made, she was more than a little annoyed when Nkosi announced blithely that he had made arrangements to fly out to the South-Shallow Islands with Alexieva.
“May one ask just what you expect to do there?” she asked, and blushed at the big man’s grin. “Oh, never mind.”
“As you wish, Heikki.” Nkosi’s expression sobered. “Besides, Alex has promised me the chance to brush up on my wavetop flying. It has been a while since I have had the opportunity, and I want to keep in practice.”
I bet, Heikki thought, but bit back any further direct comment. “Have fun,” she said instead, and thought Nkosi looked at least momentarily abashed.
Djuro, too, had found business elsewhere, renewing contact with an old acquaintance now an engineer on the transport Carnegie. Left more or less to herself, Heikki passed the time by running the raw data from the wreck through her own analysis programs. As she had expected, the results were inconclusive: the machines she had brought with her, the ones that would leave no record in Lo-Moth’s systems, were simply not powerful enough to give her any kind of definite answer, and she was still prohibited from tying in to Lo-Moth’s mainframes. When she had finished the last frustrating datarun, she sat for a long moment, staring at the empty workscreen. There were ways to get into the system—there were always ways—and maybe even to get the answers she wanted without risking being accused of a breach of contract, at the very least ways of getting what she wanted and getting off-planet before the intrusion was discovered…. It was a stupid idea, stupid and dangerous, she told herself firmly. Whatever was going on was part of Lo-Moth’s internal politics, and not worth risking Heikki/Santerese’s license over. Once she was back in the Loop, and once Malachy had analyzed the legal situation, then she could finish the job. She leaned over the workboard, typing in sequences that brought the mall menus onto the main screen, and spent an hour browsing through Lowlands’ only bookstore. She took a certain perverse pleasure in sending the hostel’s messenger service to pick up the freshly printed copies.
The suite’s tiny kitchen had been restocked every day since their arrival, but, after a moment’s hesitation, she turned away from the bright packages and used the main room console to order fresh-cooked food from the concierge. She felt vaguely guilty, less for the expense than for the indolence, but put that sternly aside. There was wine as well, in the wall bar; she decanted a smallish jug, and took it over to the suite’s main window, dragging the most comfortable chair with her. The books and the food arrived together on an autotable, which positioned itself beside the chair and then shut down, only a single red light on its tiny control box still lit to show its dormant state. Heikki unwrapped the package of quick-print texts, smiling a little at the sharp pleasant scent of the new ink, and settled herself into the long chair. Santerese would laugh at her, she knew with a sharp pang of homesickness, tease her both for the adolescent indulgence, food and wine and books, and for the books themselves. She preferred—Santerese said needed—the carefully structured disorder of the classic mystery, the ultimately passionless passions, especially the stories set in the Loop and its maze of obligation and subtly conflicting rules. And analysis destroyed her pleasure, though she would never be free of the awareness: she put those thoughts aside, and settled down to read.
When she looked up again, the novel finished and the rules restored, the afternoon’s storm was rising beyond the window, the thick blue-purple clouds making the yellow grass seem even brighter. As she watched, lightning slashed across the bank of clouds, a distinct and delicate tracery, but she was either too distant or the hostel was too well insulated for her to hear the thunder. She had seen storms before, and bigger ones; even so, she stared in fascination as the clouds swept up toward the zenith and the light changed, imagining in that shift of colors the sudden cooling of the air that was the breath of the storm. The lightning was closer now, and thunder was audible, low rumblings not quite absorbed by the hostel’s thickened walls. The first gusts of rain rattled against the window. Heikki blinked, but kept watching, until the sheets of water obscured everything except the hostel’s lawn.
The storm ended as quickly as it had risen. Djuro arrived with the returned sunlight, drenched and out of temper, and vanished into his bedroom. Heikki hid her grin, and disappeared into her own room with the rest of her books.
The concierge’s beeping dragged her awake far too early the next morning. She swore, and groped for her remote, fumbling with its buttons until she had triggered first the room lights and then the little speaker next to her bed.
“Yes, what is it?” She didn’t bother reminding the machine that she had requested it to hold her calls: only something important—or someone with the right codes—could override that particular program.
“A call for you, Dam’ Heikki, from Dam’ FitzGilbert.” The machine-voice held only its programmed politeness. “She apologizes for disturbing you, but she says it’s urgent.”
Heikki shook herself, trying to banish the lingering sleep. “Please tell Dam’ FitzGilbert I’ll take her call in five minutes—on the workroom main line.” She didn’t know if the last instructions were necessary, but it couldn’t hurt.
“Very good, Dam’ Heikki,” the concierge answered. “I’ll convey your message.”
“Thanks,” Heikki said, sourly, and swung herself out of bed. There was no time for a shower; she pulled on loose trousers and shift, and made a beeline instead for the miniature kitchen. The coffee was premixed; she touched buttons, and a few moments later took a filled mug from the rack beneath the spigot.
“Heikki?” Djuro’s querulous voice came from the door of his room. “What’s going on?”
Heikki turned carefully, balancing the too-full mug. “A call from FitzGilbert. I don’t know what about yet.”
“God damn—” Djuro broke off as though they were still on the Loop. “Is Jock in yet?”
Heikki frowned at him. “No,” she answered slowly, and then hesitation sharpened into suspicion. “Why, what didn’t he tell me?”
“Nothing, that I know of,” Djuro answered. “I thought—hell, I don’t quite know what, accident, maybe, or something like that.”
“I don’t think so,” Heikki said, with only slightly more confidence than she actually felt. “FitzGilbert wouldn’t be calling; that’s the planetary police’s job.”
Djuro nodded, rubbing his eyes, then ran a hand over his bald head. “You’re right, of course. I’m just not awake.”
“Get yourself some coffee,” Heikki said, “then perhaps you should listen in on this.”
The buzzer sounded from the workroom before Djuro could answer. Heikki gave him a last abstracted smile, and turned away, her hand already busy on the remote, setting the acceptance sequence she would trigger as soon as she was in range. The wall lit, a window opening to present an image perhaps a little larger than life-size. It was like looking directly into FitzGilbert’s office, and Heikki rubbed her chin thoughtfully, wondering just what sort of an image she herself presented.