I had two choices, as I saw it. I could go back home and plug myself in and study up on planetology and try to figure out what the hell Nakada and the Ipsy were really up to, then maybe go back and argue about it. Or I could go to the Ipsy and ask someone.
Judging by the reception my earlier call got, I'd have to go in person if I wanted answers out of the Ipsy. They didn't want to talk to me.
Well, on the com, you don't have to talk to anyone you don't want to, but it's harder to ignore someone who's actually physically there, right in front of you. It's harder to lie, too-holos and sims take advance preparation if they're going to be convincing seen directly, but they're pretty easy to improvise over a com line.
And it's hardest of all to ignore someone when she's standing there with a gun in your face. I hoped I wouldn't have to resort to that. It had worked so far, but sooner or later somebody might call my bluff-or call the cops.
And it was a bluff, all right; I wasn't ready to shoot an unarmed human. I'd have second thoughts even about software, usually-that would depend how advanced it was, how sentient, how strong its survival urge, and so forth. I'd shot the eye, but spy-eyes aren't really sentient, aren't really alive.
At least, most of them aren't, and I sure hoped the one I shot hadn't been. It had handled my threats calmly enough.
Maybe I could shoot a machine, but shooting a human -that was a bluff.
But the people at the Ipsy wouldn't need to know I was bluffing, and a gun's a lot more intimidating in person than over a com line.
The Ipsy was located near the Gate, of course, where they could send their people and machines out of the crater easily, and where incoming miners could drop off samples or news or anything else they thought the Ipsy might be interested enough in to pay a finder's fee on. I hadn't been there in years, and I'd seen plenty of my office lately; dropping by the Institute would make for a pleasant change of scene.
Besides, it's always quicker to ask someone who knows the answer than to figure something out for yourself.
That is, it's quicker if he's willing to tell you. I just had to make the people at the Ipsy willing.
That was where bluffing with the Sony-Remington came in.
I called a cab, and when it arrived I told it to take me to the Ipsy.
Chapter Thirteen
A PINK-STRIPED MATATU JAMMED WITH DRUNKEN miners was heading out toward the Gate, back toward the mines, with people and machines hanging precariously onto the sides. Somebody clinging one-handed to the back rail waved at me with her free hand as I stepped out of the cab, and I waved back, but I didn't recognize her. I don't know a lot of miners. Maybe I'd met her at Lui's, or in the Trap back in happier times, but I didn't recall her face and I didn't worry about it.
I glanced up, looking for the spy-eye above the scattered pedestrians, and then remembered that I'd blasted it. I still felt bad about that, but I could live with it. I figured two, maybe three more unconscious glances and I'd be over it.
The cab gave my card back after only a brief pause hinting that it thought it deserved a tip. I figured it hadn't checked my balance, or it would know why I wasn't tipping. I was into negative numbers, running on credit that I had no way to pay for; I had about three days, I figured, before my bank caught on and cut me off-less, if I bought anything expensive enough to attract attention. I pocketed the card and looked at the Ipsy.
The place had seen better days. It might have seen worse, but it didn't look like it. Not that I'd ever seen it looking any different. It hadn't changed at all since my first trip there as a kid, when my parents had hopes that I'd get interested in science and maybe earn some money for them.
That thing must have been about the oldest building in the city; it was probably there before there was a city. It was all built of dark laser-cut native stone, the sort of work done by nonsentient robots working from a standard plan without intelligent direction. The windows were afterthoughts, determined by the interior plan; from the outside they looked random in size and placement.
There was no attempt whatsoever at symmetry or grace; it was big and ugly and squat, and the entire place was layered with dirt.
The main entrance was under a blackened overhang more or less in the middle of the side facing me-the building didn't really have a front or back. No one was going in or out. I walked up to it.
The Institute's logo hung, glowing dimly, above the door. Scanners glittered from shadowy corners. As I approached, that synthetic voice that I'd heard on the com said, "We're sorry, but the Institute for Planetological Studies is closed to the public until further notice."
"Why?" I demanded.
"Due to the present financial condition of our supporting foundation, it has been necessary to cut back on administrative, maintenance, and public relations staff and equipment. We hope that these conditions will improve shortly."
"I'm not a damn tourist," I said. "Paulie Orchid sent me; I've got a message from Sayuri Nakada I'm supposed to deliver."
The voice changed tone, from mechanically polite to downright snotty. "May I ask who you wished to see?"
"I didn't get the name," I said, feigning exasperation. "Paulie just told me to bring it to the Institute, and here I am."
"Just a minute, please," it said. "I will consult with my superiors."
I knew that I was talking to some really simple gate-keeping software, probably hardwired into a cultured fungus grown somewhere in those shadowy comers, or maybe just resident in the building's internal com net. A goddamn rat was probably its superior, as far as intelligence or decision-making capability went. I waited.
A new voice spoke, one that could pass for human. "What's this message?"
"It's on a bug, and Paulie told me to bring it here and see that somebody got it. This stupid software you've got out here isn't my idea of somebody."
"Just a minute," the new voice said.
I unsealed my jacket and waited.
"All right," he said. "I'll send someone down for it. Come on in, and she'll meet you in the central lounge. It's straight ahead."
"Right," I said. I knew where it was.
The door opened, lights and music came on, and I marched in, my right hand a centimeter or two from the grip of my gun.
I walked down a corridor with bare stone walls and with plastic conduits webbing the ceiling, past a few doors, across another corridor, and into the lounge, which had full-depth holos of smoky green seascapes for walls, and a soft blue carpet underneath. Music kept time with the holographic surf. A golden haze hid the ceiling; blue bubbles of variable furniture drifted lazily by.
I snared a small one and leaned on it, waiting; it formed into a comfortable grip and hovered right where I wanted it, without a single dip or bob. The Ipsy wasn't too badly off, I decided, if they kept the furniture so nicely tuned. The music and the holos weren't the latest styles, but they weren't bad, either.
A woman who was either older than hell or didn't believe in cosmetic restoration stepped out of one of the holos; her hair was white, her skin wrinkled, her hands withered and clawlike.
"What's this message?" she asked. "Why didn't Orchid come himself, if it's important?"
"I lied about that," I said, taking my elbow off the floater and standing up straight. "I don't have a message. I just need to talk to some of you people about this work you're doing for Sayuri Nakada."
She stopped and stared at me through narrowed eyes. Then she said, in a tone suitable for talking to a particularly dumb machine, "The IPSE is a private, nonprofit organization, and we aren't affiliated with Nakada Enterprises. If you want to know anything about work done for Sayuri Nakada, ask Mis' Nakada. We can't tell you anything."
So they still weren't talking.