There were several Halkas in evidence, some of them playing cards, others conversing or snugged down for sleep. I zigzagged my way slowly through the car, looking at each of them in turn. Halkan faces were difficult for human eyes to distinguish between, but I’d had some training in the technique, and I was eighty percent sure that none of these were the ones I was looking for. Certainly there wasn’t anyone dressed the way my visitors had been.
I’d made it halfway through the car, and was starting to pick up my pace toward the rear door, when a human voice cut through the general murmur. “And Yandro makes five.”
I froze in my tracks, my eyes darting that direction. An older man in a casual suit was sitting a couple of seats to my right, his face half in shadow from his reading light, his lips curled in a sort of half smile as he gazed up at me. “Come, now,” he said reprovingly. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your own catchphrase.”
For another second I stared at him, my mental wheels spinning on their tracks. Then my mind edited in the missing mustache and beard, and it abruptly clicked: Colonel Terrance Applegate, Western Alliance Intelligence. Once upon a time, one of my superiors. “It wasn’t my catchphrase,” I said stiffly, and started to move on.
“My apologies,” he said, holding up a hand. “A poor attempt at humor. Please, sit down.”
I hesitated. As far as I was concerned, tracking my two Halkas was way higher on my priority list than reminiscing about the bad old days. Especially with one of the people who had made the last of those days so bad in the first place.
But on the other hand, we were on a Quadrail, and aside from the restrooms and first-class compartments there weren’t a lot of places aboard where anyone could hide. And I had to admit a certain curiosity as to what a midlevel West-ali officer’s rear end was doing in a first-class Quadrail seat. “An extremely poor attempt. Colonel,” I told him, stepping through the maze of chairs to an empty one at his side. Swiveling it around to face him, I sat down. “So how are things at Westali?”
“About the same, or so I hear,” he said. “And it’s Mr. Applegate now. I resigned my commission eight months ago.”
I looked significantly around the car. “Looks like you traded up.”
He shrugged, retrieving a half-full glass from his seat’s cup holder. “Debatable. I’m working for the UN.”
“How nice for you,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. I’d never been able to prove it, but I’d long suspected there had been UN pressure behind Westali’s decision to sack me. “And you’re already up to whatever rarefied level gets you expense chits for first-class Quadrail travel?”
“Hardly,” he said dryly. “I’m just here to hold the hands of those who are.”
“Don’t tell me you’re back on bodyguard duty.”
“Don’t laugh,” he warned, his lips smiling but his voice only half joking. “I could still take on five of you young whelps and beat you to a pulp.”
“I’m sure you could,” I said, deciding for once in my life to be diplomatic.
“But, no, I’m actually more of a consultant,” he went on. “Deputy Director Losutu is on his way to talk with the Cimmaheem about buying some starfighters, and he wanted a military expert along to check them out,”
So Biret Losutu was here, too. This just got better and better. “Isn’t that a little risky, politically speaking?” I suggested. “I thought the UN’s official stance was that Terran-built starfighters are as good as anything else on the market.”
Applegate snorted. “And you and I both know what a piece of Pulitzer-Prize-winning fiction that is. But then, the UN hardly invented the art of hypocrisy.”
I thought of all the crocodile tears shed on my behalf as I was summarily kicked out of my job, some of those tears coming from Applegate himself. “I don’t suppose they invented the art of political spindrift, either.”
“Fortunately, that won’t be necessary in this case,” he said with a wry smile. “The Cimman fighters are slated for duty at Yandro and New Tigris. We both know how many people will see them there.”
“There’s still the hole that much money will leave in the UN’s budget,” I pointed out. “Somebody’s bound to notice.”
“Maybe,” he conceded. “But you know what they say: A billion here, a billion there, and pretty soon you’re talking about real money. Anyway, we’re only talking about half a trillion for the eight fighters we’re looking at, unless we decide to go with something bigger. That’s what I’m here to help decide.” He took a sip of his drink, eyeing me over the rim of his glass. “But enough about me. What are you doing here?”
“Nothing much,” I said. “A little sightseeing.”
“Really.” His eyes flicked to the door I’d come through a minute earlier. “Who died and left you the fortune?”
“It’s business sightseeing,” I said. Fortunately, I’d already worked out a cover story, though I hadn’t expected to need it this early in the trip. “I’ve been hired by a big travel consortium to scope out new vacation packages to pitch to jaded tourists.”
“Ah,” he said with a knowing look. “And, of course, a proper scoping requires proper accommodations?”
“Just part of the job,” I agreed. “Unfortunately, we also cater to the less than obscenely wealthy, so I’ll be switching to second- and third-class seats not too far down the line.”
Applegate grunted. “A pity,” he said. “I gather you’re skipping New Tigris and Yandro and starting your survey with the Jurian Collective?”
“What makes you think I haven’t already checked them out?” I countered.
“Two things.” He lifted up a finger. “One, because we both know there’s nothing at either place that would entertain a tourist for fifteen minutes.” He smiled wryly as he raised a second finger. “And two, because I saw you get on at Terra Station.”
I blinked. “You were there?”
He nodded. “Came in along the diplomatic route via Rome and Elfive,” he said. “Damned torchliner ran late, too—we nearly didn’t make it. Why, shouldn’t I have been there?”
“No, of course you should,” I said, feeling some professional annoyance with myself for not having noticed him. Global awareness was something field agents were supposed to cultivate. “I didn’t mean it that way. Was Losutu there with you?”
“No, he and the Cimman sales reps came on at New Tigris,” Applegate said. “They’d been out there looking over the system.”
“And where were you exactly?” I persisted, still not believing I could have missed spotting him.
“I was already at the platform when your shuttle came in,” he said with a knowing smile. “Relax—even Westali field training fades away over time. Besides, you were busy glaring at the Spider who walked off with your luggage. Did you get it back, by the way?”
“Yes,” I assured him, glancing around the car. This was not a line of conversation I wanted to pursue just now. “And I really should get going.”
“Why?” Applegate asked, waving me back down as I started to get up. “Oh, sit—sit. You’re not worried about Losutu, are you?”
“What, worry about a man who once said he wished I would just go away or die or something?” I reminded him darkly.
Applegate snorted. “Oh, please. Losutu talks a blustery day, but he has way too big a turnover in enemies to worry about some minor two-year-old political embarrassment. In fact, once he finds out you’re aboard, chances are he’ll invite you for a drink.”