Ebert stared at Fest a moment longer, then looked about him, smiling. "Excuse my friend, ch'un tzu. I think he's had enough." He looked back at Fest. "I think you'd best go home, Fest. Auden here will take you if you want."
Fest swallowed, then shook his head. "No. I'll be all right. It's not far.1' He sought Ebert's eyes again. "Really, Hans, I didn't mean anything by it."
Ebert smiled tightly. "It's all right. I understand. You drank too much, that's all." "Yes." Fest put his glass down and got unsteadily to his feet. He moved out from his seat almost exaggeratedly, then turned, bowing to each of them in turn. "Friends . . ."
When he was gone, Ebert looked about him, lowering his voice slightly. "Forgive me for being so sharp with him, but sometimes he forgets his place. It's a question of breeding, I suppose. His father climbed the levels, and sometimes his manners—" he spread his arms, "Well, you know how it is."
"We understand," Panshin said, touching his arm again. "But duty calls me, too, I'm afraid, much as I'd like to sit here all afternoon. Perhaps you'd care to call on me some time, Hans? For dinner?"
Ebert smiled broadly. "I'd like that, Anton. Arrange something with my equerry. I'm busy this week, but next?"
Slowly it broke up, the other officers going their own ways, until only Auden was there with him at the table.
"Well?" Auden asked, after a moment, noticing how deep in thought Ebert was. Ebert looked up, chewing on a fingernail.
"You're annoyed, aren't you?"
"Too fucking right I am. The bastard doesn't know when to hold his tongue. It was bad enough the Minister committing his wife to the asylum, but I don't want to be made a total laughingstock."
Auden hesitated, then nodded. "So what do you want me to do?"
Ebert sat back, staring away across the sea of empty tables toward the bar, then looked back at him, shuddering with anger.
"I want him taught a lesson, that's what I want. I want something that'll remind him to keep his fucking mouth shut and drink a little less."
"A warning, you mean?"
Ebert nodded. "Yes. But nothing too drastic. A little roughing up, perhaps."
"Okay. I'll go there now, if you like." He hesitated, then added, "And the pictures?"
Ebert stared back at him a moment. Auden was referring to the package he had left with him the day he had been attacked by the madwoman. He took a breath, then laughed. "They were interesting, Will. Very interesting. Where did you get them?"
Auden smiled. "From a friend, let's say. One of my contacts in the Net."
Ebert nodded. It had been quite a coincidence. There he'd been, only half an hour before, talking to Marshal Tolonen about the missing sculptures, and there was Auden, handing him the package containing holograms of the self-same items he had been instructed to find.
"So what do you want to do?" Auden prompted.
"Nothing," Ebert answered, smiling enigmatically. "Unless your friend has something else for me."
Auden met his eyes a moment, then looked away. So he understood at last. But would he bite? "I've a letter for you," he said, taking the envelope from his tunic pocket. "From your Uncle Lutz."
Ebert took it from him and laughed. "You know what's in this?"
Auden shook his head. "I'm only the messenger, Hans. It wouldn't do for me to know what's going on."
Ebert studied his friend a while, then nodded slowly. "No, it wouldn't, would it?" He looked down at the envelope and smiled. "And this? Is this your friend's work, too?"
Auden frowned. "I don't know what you mean, Hans. As I said—"
Ebert raised a hand. "It doesn't matter." He leaned forward, taking Auden's hand, his face suddenly earnest. "I trust you, Will. Alone of all this crowd of shits and hangers-on, you're the only one I can count on absolutely. You know that, don't you?"
Auden nodded. "I know. That's why I'd never let you down."
"No," Ebert smiled back at him fiercely, then sat back, releasing his hand. "Then get going, Will. Before that loud-mouthed bastard falls asleep. Meanwhile, I'll find out what my uncle wants."
Auden rose, then bowed. "Take care, Hans."
"And you, Will. And you."
FEST LEANED against the wall pad, locking the door behind him, then threw his tunic down onto the floor. Ebert had been right. He had had too much to drink. But what the hell? Ebert was no saint when it came to drinking. Many was the night he'd fallen from his chair incapable. And that business about the girl, the chink whore, Golden Heart. Fest laughed.
"I touched a sore spot there, didn't I, Hans old pal? Too fucking sore for your liking, neh?"
He shivered, then laughed again. Ebert would be mad for a day or two, but that was all. If he kept his distance for a bit it would all blow over. Hans would forget, and then . . .
He belched, then put his arm out to steady himself against the wall. "Time to piss."
He stood over the sink, unbuttoning himself. It was illegal to urinate in the wash basins, but what the shit? Everyone did it. It was too much to expect a man to walk down the corridor to the urinals every time he wanted a piss.
He was partway through, thinking of the young singsong girl Golden Heart and what he'd like to do to her, when the door chime sounded. He half-turned, pissing on his boots and trouser leg, then looked down, cursing.
"Who the hell. . . ?"
He tucked himself in and not bothering to button up, staggered back out into the room.
"Who is it?" he called out, then realized he didn't have his hand on the intercom.
What the fuck? he thought, it's probably Scott, come to tell me what happened after I'd gone. He went across and banged his hand against the lock to open it, then turned away, bending down to pick his tunic up off the floor.
He was straightening up when a boot against his buttocks sent him sprawling headfirst. Then his arms were being pulled up sharply behind his back and his wrists fastened together with a restraining brace.
"What in hell's name?" he gasped, trying to turn his head and see who it was, but a blow against the side of the head stunned him and he lay there a moment, tasting blood, the weight of the man on his back preventing him from getting up.
He groaned, then felt a movement in his throat. "Oh, fuck. I'm going to be sick . . ."
The weight lifted from him, letting him bring his knees up slightly and hunch over, his forehead pressed against the floor as he heaved and heaved. When he was finished he rested there for a moment, his eyes closed, sweat beading his forehead, the stench of sickness filling the room.
"Gods, but you disgust me, Fest."
He looked sideways, finding it hard to focus, then swallowed awkwardly. "And who the fuck are you?"
The man laughed coldly. "Don't you recognize me, Fest? Was it so long ago that your feeble little mind has discarded the memory?"
Fest swallowed again. "Haavikko. You're Haavikko, aren't you?"
The man nodded. "And this is my friend, Kao Chen."
A second face, that of a Han, appeared beside Haavikko's, then moved away. It was a strangely familiar face, though Fest couldn't recall why. And that name . . .
Fest closed his eyes, the throbbing in his head momentarily painful, then slowly opened them again. The bastard had hit him hard. Very hard. He'd get him for that.
"What do you want?" he asked, his cut lip stinging now.
Haavikko crouched next to him, pulling his head back by the hair. "Justice, I'd have said, once upon a time, but that's no longer enough—not after what I've been through. No. I want to hurt you and humiliate you, Fest, as much as I've been hurt and humiliated."
Fest shook his head slowly, restrained by the other's grip on him. "I don't understand. I've done nothing to you, Haavikko. Nothing."
"Nothing?" Haavikko's laugh of disbelief was sour. He tugged Fest's head back sharply, making him cry out. "You call backing Ebert up and having me dishonored before the General nothing?" He snorted, then let go, pushing Fest's head away roughly. He stood. "You shit. You call that nothing?"