"I might have met him, I'm not sure," Beychae said slowly. He thought that perhaps he had met the man before; there was something worryingly familiar about that face, even behind the shades.
"He wants to meet you," the woman said. "I took the liberty of telling him it was mutual. He thinks you might have known his father."
"His father?" Beychae said. That might account for it; perhaps the fellow bore a resemblance to somebody he'd known, and that accounted for the odd, slightly disturbing feeling he was experiencing. "Well," he said, "Let's see what he has to say for himself, shall we?"
"Why not?" the woman said. They walked out into the centre of the library. Beychae drew himself up; he'd noticed that he was stooping more these days, but he was still vain enough to want to greet people straight-backed. The man turned round towards them. "Tsoldrin Beychae," the woman said; "Mr Staberinde."
"An honour, sir," he said, looking at Beychae with a strange, intense expression, his face tight-looking, wary. He took the older man's hand in his.
The woman looked puzzled. The expression on Beychae's old, lined face was unreadable. He stood looking at the man, his hand limp in the other's grip.
"Mr… Staberinde," Beychae said, flatly.
Beychae turned to the woman in the long black gown. "Thank you."
"My pleasure," she murmured, and backed away.
He could see Beychae knew. He turned and walked towards an aisle between the book-stacks, and watched Beychae follow him, eyes full of wonderment. He stood between the shelved books, and — as though it might have been an unconscious movement — tapped his ear as he spoke to Beychae. "I think you may have known my… ancestor. He went by a different name." He took off the dark glasses.
Beychae looked at him. His expression did not change. "I think I did," Beychae said, glancing round the space behind him. He indicated a table and chairs. "Please; let's sit down."
He replaced the glasses.
"So what brings you here, Mr Staberinde?"
He sat down across the table from the older man. "Curiosity, as far as you're concerned. What brought me to Solotol was… just an urge to see it. I'm, ah… connected with the Vanguard Foundation; there have been some changes at the top there. I don't know if you've heard."
The old man shook his head. "No; I don't keep up with the news, down here."
"Yes." He made a show of looking around. "I guess…" he looked back into Beychae's eyes"… I guess it isn't the best place for communication, hmm?"
Beychae opened his mouth, then looked annoyed. He glanced behind him. "Perhaps not," he agreed. He stood up again. "Excuse me."
He watched the older man go. He forced himself to sit where he was.
He looked round the library. So many old books; they smelled. So many words set down, so many lives spent scribbling, so many eyes dimmed by reading. He wondered that people bothered as much as they did.
"Now?" he heard the woman say.
"Why not?"
He turned in the seat to watch Beychae and the woman emerge from the stacks. "Well, Mr Beychae," the woman said. "It might be awkward…"
"Why? Have the elevators stopped working?"
"No, but…"
"Then what's to stop us? Let's go; I haven't seen the surface for too long."
"Ah. Well, all right… I'll make the arrangements." She smiled uncertainly, then walked away.
"Well, Z… Staberinde," Beychae sat down again, smiling apologetically for an instant. "We'll take a little trip to the surface, shall we?"
"Yeah; why not?" he said, carefully not looking too enthusiastic. "You keeping well, Mr Beychae? I heard you retired."
They talked generally for a few minutes, then a young blonde woman walked out of the stacks, arms loaded with books. She blinked hard when she saw him, then came over behind Beychae, who looked up and smiled at her. "Ah; my dear; this is Mr… Staberinde." Beychae smiled diffidently at him. "My assistant, Ms Ubrel Shiol."
"Delighted," he nodded.
Shit, he thought.
Ms Shiol put the books down on the table and put her hand on Beychae's shoulder. The old man put his own thin fingers on top of hers.
"I hear we might be taking a trip up to the city," the woman said. She looked down at the old man, smoothed her plain smock dress with her other hand. "This is very sudden."
"Yes," Beychae agreed. He smiled up at her. "You'll find that old men still retain the ability to surprise, on occasion."
"It'll be cold," the woman said, drawing away. "I'll fetch your warm clothes."
Beychae watched her go. "Wonderful girl," he said. "Don't know what I'd do without her."
"Indeed," he replied. You may have to learn, he thought.
The journey back up to the surface took an hour to arrange. Beychae seemed excited. Ubrel Shiol made him put on warm clothes, changed out of her smock into a one-piece, and put her hair up. They took the same car; Mollen drove. He, Beychae and Ms Shiol sat on the broad rear bench; the woman in the black robe sat across from them.
They left the tunnel for the bright light of day; snow covered a broad yard with tall wire gates before them. Security men watched the car go past as the gates opened. The car set off down a side road for the nearest turnpike, then stopped at the junction.
"Is there a fair on anywhere?" Beychae asked. "I always enjoyed the noise and bustle of fairs."
He recalled there was some sort of travelling circus camped in a meadow down near the river Lotol. He suggested they went there. Mollen turned the car onto the broad, almost empty boulevard.
"Flowers," he said, suddenly.
They all looked at him.
He'd put his arm back on the seat, behind Beychae and Urbrel Shiol, and brushed Shiol's hair, dislodging a clasp Shiol had secured her hair with. He laughed, and retrieved the clasp from the shelf under the car's rear window. The manoeuvre had given him the chance to look back.
There was a large half-track vehicle following them. "Flowers, Mr Staberinde?" the woman in the black robe said. "I'd like to buy some flowers," he said, smiling first at her, then at Shiol. He clapped his hands. "Why not? To the Flower Market, Mollen!" He sat back, smiling beatifically. Then he sat forward, all apologetic. "If that's all right," he said to the woman.
She smiled. "Of course. Mollen; you heard." The car turned down another road.
In the Flower Market, amongst the packed and flurried stalls, he bought flowers and presented them to the woman and to Ubrel Shiol. "There's the fair!" he said, pointing over the river, where the tents and holograms of the fair sparkled and rotated.
As he'd hoped, they took the Flower Market Ferry. It was a tiny, one-vehicle platform. He looked back at the half-track waiting on the other side.
The far bank. They drove towards the fair; Beychae chattered, remembering fairs from his youth for Ubrel Shiol.
"Thank you for my flowers, Mr Staberinde," the woman sitting across from him said, putting them to her face and breathing in their scent.
"My pleasure," he said, then leant across Shiol to tap Beychae on the arm, to attract his attention to a piece of fairground equipment wheeling into the sky over some nearby roofs. The car drew to a stop at a light-controlled junction.
He reached across Shiol again, pulled down a zip before she realised what was happening, and extracted the gun he'd already felt there. He looked at it and started to laugh, as though the whole thing was a silly mistake, then turned it and fired at the glass screen behind Mollen's head.
The glass shattered. He was already kicking through it, launching himself from the seat and lancing forward with one leg. His foot crashed through the disintegrating glass and connected with Mollen's head.