The killing-tools were simple, two light-pencils of the sort engineers carried for sketching on screens. Which was actually what they were, and any examination would prove it, according to the ARMs. The only difference was that if you twisted the cap, so, pressed down on the clip that held the pen in a pocket and pointed it at an organism with a spinal cord, the pen emitted a sharp yawping sound whereupon said being went into grand mal seizure. Range of up to two hundred meters, cause of death, “he died.” Jonah frowned. On second thought, maybe the ARMs were tight about this one.
“Tanj,” Ingrid said.
“Problem?”
“No, just that you have to input your ID and pay a whopping great fee to access the commercial pet… even allowing for the way this fake krona they've got has depreciated.”
“We've got money.”
“Sure, but we don't want to call too much attention to ourselves.” She continued to tap the keys. “There, I'm past the standard blocks… confirming… yah, it'd be a bad idea to ask about the security arrangements at you-know-who's place, it's probably flagged.”
“Commercial services,” Jonah said. “Want me to drive?”
“Not just yet. Right, I'll just look at the record of commercial subcontracts. Hmm. About what you'd expect.” Ingrid frowned. “Standard goods delivered to a depot and picked up by kzin military transports, no joy there. Most of the services are provided by household servants, born on the estate… no joy there, either. Ahh, outside contractors, now that's interesting.”
“What is?” Jonah said, stripping packets of what looked like hard candy out of the lining of a suitcase. Sonic grenades, but you had to spit them at the target.
“Our great and good Rin-Tin-Kzin has been buying infosystems and 'ware from human makers. And he's the only one who is; the ratcat armed forces order subcomponents to their own specs and assemble them in plants under their direct supervision. But not him.” She paused in thought. “It fits… limited number of system types, like an ascending series, with each step up a set increment of increased capacity over the one below. Nothing like our wild and woolly jungle of manufacturers. They're not used to non-standardized goods, it makes them uneasy.”
“How does that 'fit'?”
“With what the xenologists were saying. The ratcats have an old, old civilization… very stable. Like what the UN would have become in Sol system, with the psychists 'adjusting' everybody into peacefulness and the ARMs suppressing dangerous technology… which is to say, all technology. A few hundred years down the road we'd be on if the kzin hadn't come along and upset the trajectory.”
“Maybe they do some good after all.” Jonah finished checking the wire garrotes that lay coiled in the seams of their clothing, the tiny repeating blowgun with the poisoned darts, and the harmless-looking fulgurite plastic frames of their backpacks that you twisted so and they went soft as putty, with the buckle acting as detonator-timer.
“It fits with what we know about you-know-who, as well.” The room had been very carefully swept, but it didn't hurt to take some precautions. Not mentioning names, for one; a robobugger could be set to tag conversations with key words in them. “Unconventional. Wonder why he has human infosystems installed, though? Ours aren't that much better. Can't be.” Infosystems were a mature technology, long since pushed to the physical limits of quantum indeterminacy.
“Well, they're more versatile, even the obsolete stuff here on Wunderland. I think—” she tugged at an ear “—I think it may be the 'ware he's after, though. Ratcat 'ware is almost as stereotyped as their hardwiring.”
Jonah nodded; software was a favorite cottage industry in human space, and there must be millions of hobbyists who spent their leisure time fiddling with one problem or another.
“So we just set up in business and enter a bid?” he said, flopping back on the bed. He was muscular for a Belter, but even the .61 Wunderland gravity was tiring when there was no place to get away from it.
“Doubt it.” Ingrid murmured to the system. “Finagle, no joy. It's handled through something called the Datamonger's Guild: 'A mutual benefit association of those involved in infosystem development and maintenance.' Gottknows what that is.” A pause. “Whatever it is, there's no public info on how to join it. The contracts listed say you-know-who takes a random selection from their duty roster to do his maintenance work.”
“Perhaps our Japanese friend.”
“Perhaps.” Ingrid sank back on one elbow. “But what we really need are some local contacts,” she said slowly. “Jonah… we both know why Intelligence picked me as your partner. I was the only one remotely qualified who might know anyone here… and I do.”
“Which one?” he asked.
She laughed bitterly. “I'd have thought Claude, but he's— Jonah, I wouldn't have believed it!”
Jonah shrugged. “There’s an underground surrender movement on Earth. Lots of flatlander quislings; and the pussies aren't even there yet. Why be surprised there are more here?”
“But Claude! Oh, well.”
“So who else you got?”
She continued to tap at the console. “Not many. None. No one from the old days, none I'd trust, anyway. Except Harold.”
“Can you trust him?”
“Look, we have two choices. Go to Harold, or try the underworld contacts. The known-unreliable underworld contacts.”
“One of whom is your friend Harold.”
She sighed. “Yes, but— well, that's a good sign, isn't it? That he's worked with the— with them, and against—”
“Maybe.”
“And a bar is a good place to meet people.”
And mostly you just can't wait to see him. A man who'll be twice your age while you're still young. Do you love him or hate him? I still say it's damned iffy, but I guess it's the best chance we have. At least we'll be able to get a drink.
“This is supposed to be a Terran bar?” Jonah asked dubiously. He lifted one of the greenish shrimpoids from the platter and clumsily shelled it, getting a thin cut under his thumbnail in the process. He sucked on it, cursing. There was a holo of a stick-thin girl with body paint dancing in a cage over the bar, and dancing couples and groups beneath it. Most of the tables were cheek-to-jowl, and they had had to pay heavily for one with a shield, here overlooking the lower level of the club.
Ingrid ignored him, focusing on the knot in her stomach and the clammy feel of nervous sweat across her shoulders under the formal low-necked black jumpsuit. Harold's Terran Bar was crowded tonight, and the entrance-fee had been stiff. The Verguuz was excellent, however, and she sipped cautiously, welcoming the familiar mint-sweet-wham taste. The imitations in the Sol system never quite measured up. Shuddering, she noticed that two Swarm-Belter types at the next table were knocking back shot-glasses of it, and then following the liqueur with beer chasers, in a mixture of extravagance and reckless disregard for their digestions. The square-built Krio at the musicomp was tinkling out something old-sounding, piano with muted saxophone undertones.
Gottdamn, but that takes me back.
Claude had had an enormous collection of classical music, expensively enhanced stuff originally recorded on Earth, some of it on hardcopy or analog disks. His grandfather had acquired it; one of the eccentricities that had ruined the Montferrat-Palme fortunes. A silver-chased ebony box as big as a man's head, with a marvelous projection system. All the ancient greats, Brahms and Mozart and Jagger and Armstrong… they had all spent hours up in his miserable little attic, knocking back cheap Maivin and playing Eine Kleine Nachtmusik or Sympathy for the Devil loud enough to bring hammering broomstick protests from the people below…