“Don’t you think it was a bit risky just to let him go like that?” the Olympian leader asked Mavra. “We have no idea that he wasn’t put off by your appearance so he would suspect a trap.”
“I seriously doubt he suspects a trap, but he’ll check anyway. There really is a trading convention in Hsuir, which is about all he can check, since it’s on the other side of the world. The next thing I’d expect him to do is punch in the company name and see if he gets a number—he will. Finally, he might sneak over here late this evening or in the morning to establish that there really is a company warehouse. He’ll find us here, old sign in place.”
“And if you’ve made a mistake somewhere?” the Olympian pressed.
Mavra chuckled, reached into her coat, and pulled out a small transceiver. She switched it on and a tiny red light glowed. “Halka? How’s our man doing?” she asked into it.
“He cleared port about an hour ago, Mavra,” came a tinny response. “Went immediately to the Pioneer with one large bag. Went straight to his room, four-oh-four A, and hasn’t been out since, nor has anyone else gone in.”
She composed a knowing smile to the Olympian, a smile caressed with confidence and frost. “Satisfied? We’ll be on him every step of the way now. Borsa will even have his hotel line tapped in short order. We’ve got him.”
The Olympian remained skeptical. “If he is in fact Nathan Brazil, I wonder?…”
“Well, I’m satisfied,” Marquoz announced, yawning. “I would suggest that we all get some sleep. It looks to be quite a busy day tomorrow, and none of us knows how or when it’ll turn out.”
Room 404-A, the Hotel Pioneer
As soon as he entered his room and locked the door, the man who called himself Captain David Korf checked the room for bugs. Satisfied, he sat on the comfortable bed in the hotel room, one designed to resemble first-class accommodations in the human part of the Com, and tried to think.
Somebody was on to him, he knew that much. Somebody who knew a lot about him, somebody who had baited their trap so that it would be irresistible to him. They had only really slipped once, in the shadows, which was very, very good—but it’s tough to trail a sophisticated alien through a city when you’re four-footed and huge, particularly late in the evening when few others are about. Hooves clatter no matter how muffled, and five hundred or so kilos of bulk is not easily faded into the shadows.
Korf glanced at the phone beside the bed. There were several people he could call, even the cops. No, the cops would only arrest a few of the tails and wouldn’t tell him who or how or why. People so well prepared wouldn’t employ stooges who broke easily.
He had no local friends, although he had cultivated several on his regular stops. But this planet was new to him. There were a few humans about from other ships or on layovers who he knew, even one or two he might count on in a fight. They should be looked up, he decided, if his choice was to find out who these people were instead of running.
Running appealed to him despite his curiosity, but that would not be easy. A human could not help but be conspicuous on a world inhabited almost solely by centaurs. The lone spaceport would be covered, of course. Not impossible to get through, no, but it would mean sneaking in using cargo containers or, perhaps, stealing a ship—weight tolerances would betray a stowaway. He rejected the cargo route because it was likely the containers wouldn’t be pressurized. He could steal a pilot boat or somesuch, of course, perhaps a tug—but then what? The cops would have the Jerusalem covered, and there wasn’t anyplace in range at the slow speeds the tugs could manage. Drifting in space for eons appealed to him not at all.
He sighed. No, running held too many risks and too many ifs. He would have to face them. He rather preferred the idea of a confrontation; his curiosity was piqued.
He would walk into no trap unprepared, though. Again he glanced at the phone, thinking of the few humans he could call, and he’d almost made up his mind to call when he thought better of it. No, anyone so well organized would have bribed the hotel operator by now—he would have, in their place—and it wouldn’t do to tip his hand just yet. He needed out—a public call box. One selected at random would be best. He also needed to watch the watchers a bit, to see what he was up against. The Pioneer was a transient spacer hotel, though small. Just a glance into the human lounge off to his left on the way in had revealed about two dozen men and women even at this late hour.
He started thinking about what the watchers would expect him to do, then turned, grabbed the phone, and punched for the Durkh Shipping Corporation. A number immediately appeared in the little readout screen, which surprised him not at all. Durkh might even be a real company. He didn’t bother to check on the import-export convention; if they were thorough enough to establish a corporate cover there would be, even if they’d had to throw it themselves to get people out of the way.
But—who were they! Not the cult, certainly. Maybe mercenaries hired by the cult—but what mercenaries if that was the case! Frankly, he just didn’t see the Fellowship of the Well as having enough smarts to pull something like that. But if not them, then who? Moreover, who would have the contacts not only to trace him but actually to trace him all the way to Meouit, to this little bit of nowhere, and be ready with Rhone agents—and the girl!
She disturbed him most. Plastic surgery? Neoform? No matter what, there was no way they could have done that to anybody in the time between when he had taken the contract and the time it’d taken him to make planetfall.
Worse, who could know what she had looked like? Only people on the Well World, so very long ago, would know that and they were all dead, all except, perhaps, that scoundrel Ortega—but even he would have no way of extending his influence beyond the Well. It didn’t make sense. Only a very few people had ever returned from the Well World, and they were all accounted for—certainly all who might have known what she had looked like back then.
He kept thinking about it. There was something new here, something potentially quite dangerous. The rip in space—time those assholes had caused—might it have strange side effects? He had not been on the Well World in generations; had someone capitalized on the rip to come back or come through to this space? Was it possible that anything could live in there?
Nothing makes sense, he told himself. There was only one solution. He got up from the bed and heaved his suitcase onto it, opening it carefully. He took off his heavy coat and the false padding that filled him out, kicked off the uncomfortable lift boots, carefully removed the massive beard by applying a chemical from a tiny kit he carried with him. Slowly he removed Rabbi David Korf completely, the bushy white eyebrows, the lines around the eyes, everything. Next he went to the window and looked out. Not far up, certainly not impossible. A sheer drop, though; it would be tricky to get down. The descent could be managed, though. Worse would be getting the window open wide enough—and it was damned cold out there, snowing fairly steadily now.
But—once down, then what? The snow would help, of course, but any group that knew Wuju’s form would be familiar with every cell in his body. It would have to be a good disguise, one of his best, one that would foul up even the most expert shadow. He had one for that. He didn’t like to use it, but it was effective; he’d even used it once or twice in staging deaths.
He returned to his suitcase. He always carried the disguises with him, both as insurance and because he occasionally wanted to get out on worlds without attracting undue attention. The last-gasp disguise, he’d named it; but it was effective.