Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter) (29 page)

“I will keep your observations in mind.”

“All other things being equal?” asked Evanston.

“But of course,” answered Whaler with a smile. “I am not a one-handed economist.”

“Perhaps there should be some.”

Sylvia smothered a quizzical look with a bright smile.

Port Chief Walkerson sat on the seat behind the driver, looking stolidly at the white strip of permacrete ahead, glistening in the afternoon sun as the bus rumbled eastward toward Lanceville.

The Guest House boasted white plastered walls, a pale red-tiled roof, and a cooling system, Nathaniel noted with relief as they stepped inside the white-lacquered front doorway.

“This is the Guest House, such as it is,” announced Walkerson. “The lounge is to the right, the dining salon to the left. The stairs lead to the quarters. If you don’t mind the haste, I’ll get you to your rooms, and then leave you for a bit while I deal with the accident.”

“Of course.”

They followed the Avalonian official up the antique tiled steps to the second floor and to the far end of the polished tiled floor. Each of the ceramic tiles bore the imprint of a horned beast.

“These are rather unique tiles,” Nathaniel offered.

“Unicorn tiles, made here on Artos.” Walkerson halted between a pair of white-lacquered doors with bronze lever handles. He opened the door on the right and then the left. “Two adjoining rooms, with separate refresher facilities—that was what you requested.”

“Exactly,” said Nathaniel.

“Thank you,” added Sylvia.

“I imagine you two would like a chance to refresh and change. Then, I’ll join you for tea in the small lounge, and then, shall we say, a briefing on our situation here.” Walkerson flashed another perfunctory smile. “I need to report on the accident. Terrible thing. Terrible thing.” He turned to Whaler. “You said you smelled fuel?”

“I perceived some odor when we entered the vehicle,” Nathaniel said, pulling at his chin thoughtfully. “I considered that it might have been my imagination after all the space travel or that it might have been the vehicle engine. We employ electro-vehicles for ground transport, and I am not familiar with fuelburners. After we had proceeded a ways, however, my perceptions become noticeably more distinct. That most assuredly should not have occurred. That was when I suggested that we depart the vehicle. At that point in time, I thought I saw an electrical spark or the equivalent, but I was not absolutely certain. That was when the hood was enveloped in flame.” The Ecolitan shrugged.

“Did you see anything else, Ms. Ferro-Maine? Or should I call you Ecolitan Ferro-Maine?”

“Whatever’s comfortable, Mr. Walkerson, or is it captain or chief?”

“Most call me Walker or chief.”

“Walker, then,” Sylvia offered. “I can’t add much. There’s something in the air here, allergens maybe, and I’m not smelling things very well. I did see a glint of flame or sparks, and I ran up to try to help your man out, but…I told you. He was already dead. There was a huge gash in his neck, and…”

“I’ll have the maintenance team check it out.” Walkerson shook his head. “I still can’t believe it.”

Nathaniel had the sinking feeling that he could, at least to the degree that disaster seemed to be following him. How could he anticipate and act when he still hadn’t figured out who was involved?

“Until tea, then.”

“Until tea,” Sylvia confirmed.

Nathaniel stepped into the first room, which contained a large bed with an off-white comforter spread, a table that could double as a desk, two pressed-wood armchairs, and a large window framed in white curtains that matched the comforter. Sliding doors concealed a closet, and an open door showed an old-style fresher room.

He played the belt detector around the room. Surprisingly, the room registered clean, except for the equipment concealed in the sides of his own datacase and Sylvia’s.

“Adjoining rooms?” Sylvia raised her eyebrows.

“Someone told me that she thought she loved me, and I didn’t want to rush matters.”

“Who said I even wanted adjoining rooms?” A mischievous smile flickered across her lips.

Nathaniel threw up his hands. “A poor struggling professor am I,” he said in Panglais, “and arrangements I make the best I can.”

“You still might pull that off.” The smile vanished, and Sylvia shook her head. “I don’t like it.”

“No snoops?”

She nodded.

“This actually might be what they contracted for.”

Her eyebrows went up again.

“Foolish of me to think that, I suppose?”

“Not foolish, but improbable.”

In addition to the door from each room to the hallway, an inside door connected the two rooms. Nathaniel stepped toward the interior door.

“I see,” said Sylvia, looking pointedly at the interior door that had been left ajar.

“I didn’t say a word. It’s the polite New Avalonian way of covering all alternatives.” Nathaniel momentarily raised his hands in protest as he stepped into the second room with his belt detector. “Clean here, too,” he added after a moment.

“I like this less and less.”

“Maybe it’s not the Avalonians,” Nathaniel murmured.

“The native Artosans here? Or the long arm of the Empire? Or some outsystem?”

The taller Ecolitan shrugged. “As a poor struggling professor must I consider the alternatives.”

“A small amount of that dialogue travels a long way.”

“Yet journeys of light-years, they begin with but one pace.”

Sylvia mock-glared.

Nathaniel grinned.

“I’m cleaning up, dear Envoy. You may do as you please, but I do not intend to continue to look like a frump.” She gestured toward the connecting door.

“The message I have received.” He backed away, then stepped through the door, which closed with a distinct
thump
. The Ecolitan shook his head. The way everything was going, resolving the trade wars between the Coordinate and the Empire and getting Sylvia out of the Empire had been simple. Now, they not only had to worry about conducting a study and resolving the problems behind it, but he had to worry about Sylvia’s mindset that morality required millions of dead bodies before drastic action could be taken.

He’d been at the Institute too long. That was the way most people thought, and being reminded of it by someone you cared for was a shock.

He pursed his lips.

Or was it that the current unsolved problems always seemed more insurmountable than the past difficulties that had already been resolved? He took a long, slow, deep breath before heading for his own fresher.

Later, with a clean set of greens on, a smooth face, and all the grime removed by a fresher spray not much more sophisticated than a ancient shower, Nathaniel rapped on the connecting door. “Time to head down to the lounge.”

“In a moment.”

“Let me know.” He’d barely seated himself in one of the chairs when Sylvia stepped through the door, carrying her datacase.

“I’m ready for high tea. I’m hungry.”

“Also am I,” he offered in mock seriousness.

She rolled her eyes.

Whaler picked up his own case, then opened the door, noting that the room had no external locks.

“Trusting types, or they want us to be trusting,” said Sylvia.

“Colony planets are often that way. They just execute thieves. It has a rather convincing effect on honesty, even if a few innocents pay as well.”

“Someone always pays.”

Their boots echoed on the polished unicorn tiles as they walked toward the steps and down them to the main floor.

“The lounge is to the left,” he offered.

“I recall.”

Why was he always putting his field boots in his mouth? Sylvia knew where the lounge was. He’d just been making conversation, and he was coming off as incredibly patronizing.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, reaching out and squeezing his hand. “You didn’t mean it that way.”

“Thank you.” He smiled. “I was trying to fill the awkwardness, and…I’m not very good at small talk that’s not intellectual, and there…” He shook his head.

“Unless you’re playing a role,” she added. “You’re good at that, but I get the feeling you don’t enjoy it with people you like.”

“Right.”

Sylvia knew more about him from a relatively short period of casual observation—or was it casual?—than he’d ever expected.

They stepped through the green-curtained archway into a room that could have been transported from centuries past, with dark wooden tables and matching chairs upholstered in a green velvetlike material. A silver tea service sat upon the wooden cart beside the white-linened circular table, where Robert Walkerson sat facing the doorway. The other tables were vacant.

The port officer rose as they entered the room. “I can see that you two are looking more chipper.”

The two Ecolitans took seats on either side of Walkerson, who sat down and gestured toward the tea cart. “Tea or liftea?”

“Liftea,” answered Nathaniel.

“The same,” murmured Sylvia.

“It’s not the same as real Avalonian tea.”

“Nothing, I have heard, quite resembles the tea of New Avalon, nor the effect it has on those who are unused to it.” Nathaniel inclined his head.

“Try some of the cakes.” Walkerson nodded toward the circular platter in the middle of the table.

“Did you find out how it happened?” Nathaniel glanced at the handful of cakes in the middle of the green-rimmed, off-white china platter. Two were round and white, several were dark and square, and one had white icing with green stripes.

“Ryster-Jeeves found what looked to be a leak in the fuel line. With all the damage and the heat, it’s hard to tell, but he thinks it was metal fatigue. Our groundcars here aren’t new, and you know what it costs to ship them. We don’t have that kind of manufacturing up yet.”

“There’s not much in the way of mining,” said Sylvia. “How much of a problem is that?”

“Artos doesn’t have satellites and no real hydrocarbons in its geologic past. Metals mining has to go deep.” The Avalonian lifted his cup and inhaled the steam. “We do get some good tea, but it’s chancy yet, and it’s from under plastic.”

“That looks to be good china. Might it be local?” asked Nathaniel.

“It is. Off the highlands of the back continent. Gheric-Shrews found it, but it’s more of a hobby for her than honest commerce.”

Nathaniel tried a small brown cake, the one with green-and-white striped icing, forcing himself to eat it slowly, while not gagging on a texture that seemed heavily saturated with a rather raw substitute for rum.

“Potent, those are.”

“I agree.” The Ecolitan took a long sip of liftea.

Sylvia tried a white cake, and from her polite and small mouthfuls, Nathaniel suspected her choice had been little better than his.

“Did they determine what occurred to your man?”

“The explosion drove glass fragments through him. Ugly. Very ugly.” The Port Chief shook his head. “I can’t believe Helverson’s dead. He seemed such a nice young fellow, and he was fresh from New Brista.”

“Most tragic.” Nathaniel shook his head. “All too often, inadequate capital investment is paid for in the currency of human life.”

“That would be an odd way of putting it.” Walkerson’s tone was even, almost flat.

“Governments are fond of that,” Nathaniel answered. “It is often easier to explain away loss of life with greater facility than investment of credits and resources. When they do not wish to provide sufficient capital assets—whether groundcars, flitters, or fusactors—those under pressure to complete the task at hand are put at greater risk. Some die who would not do so otherwise.” The Ecolitan shrugged. “All those involved shake their heads sadly, decry the tragedy, and continue to undercapitalize the venture.”

“You’ve seen it before, I see.”

“In many places,” Nathaniel agreed. “Gold makes honest men thieves.”

“Do you share your colleague’s cynicism, Ecolitan Ferro-Maine?” Walkerson turned to Sylvia.

“I’d have to say that Professor Whaler is being extraordinarily polite in his phrasing. Governments prefer to spend lives rather than credits.” Sylvia took a sip of her liftea.

“About this survey,” ventured Walkerson after the silence had filled the lounge. “Where will you begin?”

“With a quick survey of the transportation infrastructure, the broad infrastructure, and that of energy supplies and distribution.”

“Dare you say you won’t find anything out of the ordinary for a place just out of planoforming. I’d guess it shouldn’t take you that long.” Walkerson offered a chuckle. “You’re high-priced, and I’d wager that means you’ll hurry.”

“It can be difficult to estimate a timetable even before the field work begins.” Whaler smiled. “With the high cost of interstellar transport, we certainly can take the time necessary for a thorough effort. To do less would not be cost-effective, and as an economist…” He offered a shrug, trying to ignore the smothered smile from Sylvia.

“Of course, of course. We wouldn’t expect anything less from the Institute and the Coordinate.”

A woman in a green-and-maroon tunic appeared in the curtained doorway. “Any time you are ready, dinner is available.”

“Old Reeves-Kenn sent over a side for dinner.” Walkerson offered a strained grin. “I trust you two won’t mind if I join you.”

“Not at all.” Sylvia returned his grin with a smile. “Not at all.”

The Port Chief rose and touched the back of Sylvia’s chair. She let him slide it away from the table before rising in her dancer’s gracefulness.

The dining room was almost the same in layout as the lounge, and as empty—except that the tables were set with antique silver, and more china.

A small wilted green salad smothered in oil lay beside each diner’s plate, and on each plate was a green napkin. Nathaniel slipped his napkin onto his lap, feeling the slickness of crude polyester fabric.

The serving woman slipped large china platters before the three, beginning with Sylvia. On each plate were heaped slabs of rare meat and an old white lump that looked like a fallen souffle.

“Local beef,” said Walkerson. “Say it’s better than the best even on Olympia. One of the few organics that people will pay to transship, and not much of that.”