"The substance of a message between two of Earth's leading Humans of wealth," the Chahwyn said. "Read."
I took the paper and unfolded it; and as I read I felt my eyebrows crawling higher up my forehead with each line. "What is it?" Bayta asked.
"Apparently our good friend Larry Hardin is still sore about that trillion dollars we squeezed out of him a few months ago," I said, leaning over and handing her the paper. "He's sent out a lovely little chain letter warning all his trillionaire buddies to steer clear of me."
"I trust you see the problem," the Chahwyn said. "Mr. Hardin's friends will tell their friends, and their friends will tell their friends, and so on."
"And what, the next thing you know people will be pointing to me in crowds and asking for my autograph?" I asked.
"There's more," the Chahwyn said. "I understand another Human has died violently in your presence aboard one of our Quadrails."
"That wasn't my fault," I said stiffly. Having people turn up dead around me was definitely getting to be a bad habit.
"Regardless, the result is that it raises your visibility," the Chahwyn said. "Your usefulness in this war is dependent upon your ability to remain anonymous."
"Anonymous to whom?" I countered. "The Modhri's known about me for the better part of a year now. We've managed to muddle through."
"Anonymous to those who might notice or detain you for purposes of their own," the Chahwyn said. "The purposes of Mr. Morse, for example."
"I can handle Morse," I insisted. "And if it's anonymity you're worried about, just fix me up with a few false IDs. Names might stick for a while, but faces fade."
"I'm sorry, but the decision is made," the Chahwyn said. "We will regret losing your services."
I looked at Bayta. Her face was set in a tight mask. "What exactly are you saying?" I asked.
"In the idiom of your people"—the Chahwyn's eyes flicked to Bayta, as if probing her mind for the correct phraseology—"you have been fired."
ELEVEN :
For a long moment I just stared at him, unpleasant memories swirling into view. Two years ago Western Alliance Intelligence had fired me for rocking the boat on the Yandro affair. Six months ago, Larry Hardin had done likewise, though for very different reasons.
This one made three firings in a row. Another bad habit I needed to work on. "Bad idea," I said, putting on my diplomat's face. "This war is a long way from being over."
"We know that better even than you do," the Chahwyn said, a little stiffly. "As I say, we'll regret losing your services."
"You may do more than just regret it," I warned. "Not to be insulting, but I don't think you and the Spiders can handle the Modhri without me."
"There are others with your capabilities," the Chahwyn said. "A suitable new partner for Bayta will be found."
I looked at Bayta, my throat tightening. Somehow, my brain hadn't yet made it to the obvious conclusion that if I was finished with the Spiders and Chahwyn, I was finished with Bayta, too.
She'd obviously gotten there ahead of me. Her eyes were locked solidly on a patch of floor midway between her and the Chahwyn, carefully avoiding mine. "You bring in someone cold and you could end up regretting it," I warned.
"You were brought in cold," the Chahwyn reminded me.
"And you damn near ended up regretting it," I said bluntly. "You can't count on being lucky twice in a row."
"Bayta will know whether or not he can be trusted," he said. "You will be returned to—"
He broke off, his head turning sharply toward Bayta. Her eyes, I noted, had now risen to his.
And as they stared at each other in rigid silence, I had the eerie feeling that a battle was taking place.
I gave it about half a minute before I decided I'd been left at the kiddy table long enough. "Excuse me," I spoke up. "I hate to break in on a private conversation, but I think I can demonstrate that you need me, and not just some random leftover Intelligence hack."
With an effort, the Chahwyn pulled his gaze away from Bayta. "There is nothing more you can say," he said, an edge of annoyance audible beneath the music of his voice. Probably as close to actual violence as a Chahwyn could get. "We'll regret losing—"
"Yes, you said that already," I growled. "A word of advice: take a good look at the nine-pack of Lynx, Hawk, and Viper sculptures that were dug up on the Nemuti planet Veerstu a couple hundred years ago."
"The Spiders have already concluded such a study," the Chahwyn said. "It has been delivered to you."
"Yes, I read it," I said. "Now I'm telling you to do one."
The eye-ridge tufts twitched. "What exactly do you expect us to find?"
"I don't know," I said patiently. "That's why I want you to do the study."
"You must at least have a theory."
I'd already spun Unpleasant Theory Number One for Bayta, the idea that the Modhri might be planning to barter the Nemuti collection for a new homeland. Time to trot out Unpleasant Theory Number Two. "I'm simply wondering if there might be something in the sculptures—some rare mineral or enzyme or something—that would allow Modhran coral to grow in something besides arctic-temperature water."
I heard Bayta's breath catch. I couldn't blame her. If the Modhri could create a homeland without that restriction, the oceans of the galaxy would literally be open to him. He could go to ground, and we wouldn't find him again in a thousand years of trying.
"We will search the records," the Chahwyn said. His voice was still melodic, but I had the feeling that some of the air had gone out of his tires, too.
"I suggest you do it fast," I said. "So …?"
I held my breath. But no soap. "You will be returned to your Quadrail and your service will come to an end," he said. "As already stated."
I grimaced. Apparently he wasn't authorized to reverse Elder decisions just because I'd just done them a major service. Again.
The Chahwyn looked at Bayta, and I wondered if we were about to get a rematch of their earlier staring contest. But he then shifted his eyes back to me. "You have one week to return to Terra Station," he continued. "There you will surrender your travel document to the stationmaster."
My handy little diamond-dust-edged first-class unlimited-use Quadrail pass. I'd been hoping he would forget about that. "One week's not much time," I said, stalling.
"It's more than enough," he countered. "One week." With that he stood and walked back to the rear of the room. A door opened, and he disappeared.
"I'm sorry," Bayta murmured.
"Don't be," I assured her grimly. "It's not over yet."
We headed back to the baggage car in silence. One week, the time limit whispered through my mind. One week left of freedom among the Quadrail's interstellar travelers and the lurking and conspiring Modhri mind segments. One short week.
It might just be enough.
Five minutes later we were on the move. "What did you mean that we need you and not someone else?" Bayta asked.
"Does it matter?" I countered. "They've made up their minds."
Bayta's eyes were steady on me. "I don't want another partner, Frank," she said quietly.
Unbidden, unwanted, a lump rose into my throat. Bayta had made it clear that she considered me her friend, though I still wasn't ready to make such a commitment myself. "You've got at least one more week to be stuck with me," I assured her. "What do you think of this latest dollop of irony?"
"Which irony is that?"
"Hardin's little hate-mail campaign," I said. "Or had you forgotten Künstler's dying words?"
Bayta's eyes widened. "Is that what he meant by 'he hates you'?"
"What else?" I said. "Given the circles a man like Künstler traveled in, I should have thought of Hardin right from the start."
"They must not have gotten along very well," Bayta murmured.
"Hardin's an ambitious multi-trillionaire, Künstler's a rabid collector, and neither type likes losing," I said. "Your basic cookbook recipe for making enemies. Maybe I wasn't so far off with that crack about getting stopped on the street for autographs."