Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter) (32 page)

“We will,” promised Sylvia.

Nathaniel turned to the manager. “I fear I am famished. Is there somewhere in Lanceville where the food is recommended?”

“We’re not much for gourmets,” said Stapleson-Mares coolly. “Elizabeth’s has good food. Not fancy, but good.”

“Thank you.” Nathaniel smiled politely. “Thank you.”

“Take care,” added Sylvia softly.

“Thank you, professor.” Stapleson-Mares did not look at Nathaniel, even after the two Ecolitans had entered the groundcar.

“Lanceville,” said Nathaniel.

“Yes, sir.” Bagot’s voice was formal.

Nathaniel held back the wince. He’d probably overplayed it…unless he happened to be right.

T
HE METAL-POVERTY
of Artos became more pronounced as the groundcar neared Lanceville. Every structure was comprised either of stone, brick, or synthetic hydrocarb building sheets—or some combination of the three—and the majority of roofs were of the faded red clay tiles similar to those on the Guest House.

“Where might the road lead?”

“If we took it another kilo, we’d be at the R-K piers, professor.”

Nathaniel nodded—Lanceville was a port city, both for sea and space. He gestured toward a large blue building ahead to the left. “What might that be?”

“That’s the Blue Lion. Most visitors, except for Empees or folks like you, stay there,” offered Bagot. “We’ll pass it on the way.”

“Empees?” questioned Sylvia.

“Members of Parliament…from Camelot.” Bagot flushed.

Facing west, the Blue Lion’s facade sported four levels fronted with tinted glass that stretched perhaps one hundred meters. The hotel was half that in depth, and was separated from the street by fifty meters of browning grass. The blue-tinted glass panels of the facade were smeared with dust and rain-splotches. On the north side was a carpark with perhaps a half-dozen vehicles. Scarcely the outback station cited by Walkerson, not unless an outback horse station were a great deal more on Artos than the name implied.

“There are not many visitors at this time of year?” asked Nathaniel.

“Not many at any time anymore, except for the Agricultural Exposition. The Ag Expo’s the big thing in the fall. We get people from all over—Halstan, the Fuards—they look stiff in those gray outfits. You name the system…someone’s here.”

“Even from Accord?”

“I’ve seen people in greens like yours,” Bagot said. “Didn’t know where they came from, though.”

Nathaniel glanced at the first cross street past the Blue Lion, as wide as the highway from the Guest House and shuttle port. “Where might that go?”

“That’s the road out to Gerick.”

“What’s in Gerick?” prompted Sylvia.

“The big fusactor station’s there, and the facility where they make all the synthetic panels for building. Some other stuff, too.”

“Other stuff?” Sylvia’s tone was gentle, but persistent.

“I don’t know everything, professor, but there’s the permacrete place and a place that makes electrical stuff. That’s what the chief said. And a bunch of job shops—plumbing, pipes…” Bagot shrugged. As the groundcar squeaked to a stop outside a small free-standing building with small windows and a double door—synthplast treated to look like oak—he added, “Here’s Elizabeth’s.”

Nathaniel slipped out and held the door for Sylvia. He carried his datacase. So did she.

“If it’s all right with you, professors, I’ll be back in a standard hour.” Bagot looked expectantly from the open window.

“Fine that would be,” answered Nathaniel.

With a nod, Bagot was gone.

“Did you have to be such an ass?” whispered Sylvia as they stepped toward the maroon awning. “That man was killed.”

“I’d rather have you be the good person,” Nathaniel murmured.

“Why does anyone have to be the bad one?”

“We already are to someone. That means there’s no way they’ll see us both as nice or acceptable.”

“You really can play the ass. If I didn’t know better…those proverbs—where did you dig them up?”

“
The Dictionary of Proverbs
. I made some modifications.”

The hint of a frown crossed her face as Nathaniel opened the door, nodding his head. Yellow polyester cloth covered the eight tables in the brightly lit room. Five tables were filled. The air carried the odor of fresh bread and spices.

“Smells good,” murmured Sylvia.

He glanced across the small dining area. Three of the tables held couples—neither young nor old. One held three men in the shorts and formal shirts of Avalon, and one held an older man—who sported a brush mustache—in a grayish singlesuit. Only the three men looked up at their entry.

A heavyset, gray-haired woman stepped out of the doorway that led to the kitchen and walked forward. “Two for luncheon?”

“Yes, please.”

“You look familiar—or your uniforms do, but I can’t place them,” said the local, looking toward Sylvia.

“The Ecolitan Institute—Accord,” said Sylvia, after a quick look at Nathaniel.

“That’s a far jump from Artos. Might I ask what brings you here?”

“We’re doing an economic study.”

“Economists?” The server laughed as she gestured toward the corner table. “You’re almost too graceful to be an economist. You…never mind me. I chatter too much.” As they seated themselves, she added, “The special today is basking-mod souffle, and it’s a good seafood souffle. That’s five and a half.” With a smile, she inclined her head. “I’ll get you some water. Would you like me to get you anything else to drink while you are looking over the menu?”

“Have you liftea? While it is not so good as your own, I fear…” Nathaniel shrugged.

“We can do liftea—and you’re not alone in that, sir. And you?” She looked at Sylvia.

“Real tea, if it’s not steeped quite forever.”

“We can do that, too.”

After the server left, Nathaniel studied the menu.

“What are you having?” asked Sylvia.

“It appears I have a choice between algae protein and reformulated synde bean protein, disguised in some form or another.”

“So it does. I’d bet the algae pasta tastes like pasta, though.”

“I will throw myself on the mercy of the kitchen.” He took out the overlarge kerchief and blotted his forehead.

“They may not have much mercy, especially if—” Sylvia’s gray eyes glinted, but she broke off her sentence as the server neared.

The gray-haired woman set the tumblers—real glass—on the table and then the two mugs. “Have you decided?”

“What might be good?” he asked.

“It depends on what you like,” answered the waitress. “Most outies like the spice dishes. Liz is good at disguising algae and bean protein. I’ve even used some of her tricks at home. That’s those that don’t take forever. The souffle
is
good, but it is fish, and some don’t like that.”

“The special pasta,” said Sylvia.

“The souffle, with an extra side of the special sauce, if that is possible?”

“It’s possible, and you won’t regret it. Liz does good sauces.” With a smile, the server was gone, only to return in moments with a small basket. “I forgot your breads.”

Nathaniel offered Sylvia the basket.

“They smell good.”

He hoped they tasted equally good.

The souffle was fishy, but the extra tomato herb sauce helped disguise it, although he didn’t finish everything, unlike Sylvia, who left none of the pasta.

“It was all very good.” Nathaniel offered the twenty pound New Avalonian note to the server.

“It usually is,” said the gray-haired woman as she made change with the oblong, off-red Avalonian notes and several coins. “We do hope you’ll come again.”

“Thank you,” said Sylvia softly.

“Good food is nourishment for the soul,” he added.

A nod, and the server slipped back toward the kitchen.

“You remember what Stapleson-Mares said about Elizabeth’s?” he asked, leaving the gratuity. All Avalonian planets retained the antique tradition, except it was more than a tradition, since it really represented the server’s pay.

“Oh…that the food was plain.”

“Did this strike you as plain?” He rose.

She shook her head with a smile as she slipped gracefully out of the chair.

“Does that mean he didn’t want us here?”

“I don’t know. I think it meant he was angry at you. Mostly, anyway.” Sylvia tilted her head slightly in a pensive gesture.

Nathaniel could accept the anger, but he still wondered, even as his eyes lingered on Sylvia’s profile, then toward the street outside.

Thwonkkkk!
Nathaniel turned toward the sound of the horn.

Bagot waved from where he was parked in the shade across the empty street. “Here, sirs!”

Nathaniel looked both ways out of habit, but the street was empty of traffic. A hundred meters south of Elizabeth’s he saw a uniformed figure, or a guard of some sort, in a bright blue uniform, walking briskly around the corner.

“What are you thinking?” asked Sylvia.

“Oh, I couldn’t say. More of a feeling, but I can’t place it. There’s something…” He shook his head and followed her to the car.

“Might we see the piers?” asked the Ecolitan as he closed the rear door and settled himself in the back next to Sylvia.

“Anywhere you say.”

A circular drive fronted the harbor, a drive constructed of heavy-duty permacrete and wide enough for three of the heavy ag-lorries side by side. But the sole vehicle in sight was theirs.

Bagot pulled up the groundcar in an empty carpark lot overlooking the water at the foot of the center pier. The R-K piers were just that—three stone piers jutting out into the gray waters of the harbor. Each pier was less than a hundred meters long and not more than twenty wide.

Nathaniel stepped out into the damp heat and swallowed—hard—at the humidity and the acrid odors that swirled around him. He immediately turned and studied the streets behind him.

Three of the wide permacrete highways fanned out away from the harbor drive. As far as he could see, all were empty. Yet the pavement around the harbor bore the signs of hard usage.

Was Artos on a downhill economic slide—or were they missing something? And why had the study been commissioned? He turned back and let his eyes turn toward Sylvia. At the northern-most pier were two long barges. The eastern one, closest to the open sea, appeared half-loaded with plastic crates and containers. For a time Nathaniel studied the synthplast-hulled barges.

Then, Sylvia nodded abruptly and began to walk out on the empty center pier before her, datacase in hand. Nathaniel followed.

She paused at the end of the pier and glanced back north again. “That’s heavy equipment of some sort.”

“It could be.”

“Look at how high the second one rides compared to the first. Yet the cubage of the cargo isn’t that great.”

“It could be processing equipment.”

“It could be.”

“You don’t think so.”

“No…but it’s only a feeling.”

“Let’s walk over there.”

They got halfway down the north pier before two men bearing antique slug-throwers appeared.

“Hold it, you two!” ordered the shorter man. He wore a maroon singlesuit with a plastic badge on the chest bearing the emblem of a long-horned bull and the initials R-K.

“What is the difficulty?” asked Nathaniel.

“This pier’s closed.” The stocky man gestured with the rifle.

“We were only observing. We are conducting an economic study—”

“The pier’s closed—study or no study.”

“This isn’t a public pier?”

“Friend…you and your lady better go someplace else. This belongs to R-K. You want to look around—I need an authorization from Sebastion or George. No authorization, no look-see. That’s it.”

“As you wish.” Nathaniel inclined his head and turned to Sylvia. “Shall we depart for more hospitable climes?”

“And none of your fancy words, outie.”

The Ecolitan glanced at the slug-thrower. While he doubted the stocky man could have stopped either Sylvia or him, there wasn’t much point to pressing the issue. So he nodded again.

He could feel the eyes on their backs all the way down the pier.

“Score one or more for your feelings,” he murmured.

“You were itching to teach him some manners.”

“I thought about it—but only for a moment. No percentage in it.”

Bagot stood by the groundcar as they returned. “That Gershon—he’s a nasty one.”

“Gershon? Was he the short one?”

“That’s him. Jem took him apart in school. Gershon tried to club him down from behind. Jem didn’t take to that.” Bagot smiled. “Gershon limped for years.”

“Well…I can understand your brother’s feelings,” said Nathaniel, opening the rear door for Sylvia. “We might as well get moving, onto another aspect of infrastructures.”

From the piers, they headed out past the Blue Lion toward the industrial facility the driver had mentioned. Both used their datacases for detailed notes.

The area was exactly as described, Nathaniel reflected on the way back to the Guest House—a fusactor power plant, lots of electrical distribution towers, and a dozen fabrication facilities of various shapes and sizes, all housed in structures built of grayed hydrocarb-based plastics.

The highway back to the Guest House was lined with synde bean fields as well, younger plants than those they had seen earlier, and seemingly of the more purple variety. The Ecolitan frowned, but said nothing, just watching until Bagot brought the car to a halt outside the Guest House.

“We’ll see you in the morning,” noted Nathaniel.

“Yes, sirs.” Bagot nodded.

“You were quiet,” Sylvia noted as they walked through the late afternoon heat toward the Guest House door.

Nathaniel blotted his forehead again with the overlarge kerchief. “I was thinking. I’d really like to study those figures we didn’t get—the energy usage ones.”

“They’d only be for transportation.”

“But they’d tell a great deal.” He paused and looked around the foyer of the Guest House—empty as usual.

Back in his room, after washing away the grime from his face and hands and sweeping the room with the detector, Nathaniel set the datacase on the table.

He slipped the tiny vidimager into the slot in the side of the datacase and called up the images, comparing one set of green-leaved beans to another. Different—subtly different, but different. Was that significant, or just good agricultural practice in having different variants available?

The bean plants with the narrower leaves and darker shade seemed smaller. Did that mean they were an older variant? He wanted to shake his head. Instead, he flicked through the other images while appearing to riffle through the flimsies in the case in search of something.

There was a rap on the door.

“Yes?” Nathaniel closed the datacase, stood, and walked to the door.

“Professor? There’s a linkcall from Chief Walkerson for you.”