F Paul Wilson - LaNague 02 (17 page)

           
Used
properly, that would be the issue to launch him into interstellar politics. But
until the foundation had been properly laid, he must cast around for local
issues to keep himself prominently displayed before the public.

           
And that
was when some minor public official suggested that there was too much
discrimination against the Vanek in the rural areas where they lived. DeBloise
and the other Restructurists in the Jebinose Senate jumped on the idea, and the
Vanek Equality Act was soon making its way through the legislature. Elson
deBloise, more than anyone else, had staked his political future on that bill.
He toured the entire planetary surface speaking on it. If it passed, he would
instantly become the fair-haired boy of Jebinose politics and would immediately
introduce his manufactured trade issue in a bid for the Jebinose seat at the
Federation Assembly. If it hit a snag, it would set his timetable back five,
perhaps ten years.

           
It hit a
snag.

           
And that’s
when Cando Proska introduced himself.

           
Since then
he had never had a good night’s sleep on Jebinose.

           
“That
reporter is here, sir,” said his receptionist’s voice.

           
DeBloise
shook himself back to the present and assumed a more upright posture.

           
“Send him
in.”

           
A
nondescript man of average build with dark blond hair and eyes that seemed to
be bothered by the bright, natural light of the office strolled through the
door and extended his hand.

           
“Good day
to you, sir. I’m Lawrence Easly from the Risden Interstellar News Service and
it’s an honor to meet you.”

           
EASLY’S
CREDENTIALS as a news service reporter were the best money could buy. It was a
useful identity, allowing him to roam and ask embarrassing questions. It
secured him an interview with deBloise himself within the span of one local day
– it was difficult for any politico to turn down free exposure in the
interstellar news media.

           
He had done
all the research he could on the way out from Ragna, and now he had the rest of
the day on his hands. Danzer wasn’t too far away, so he rented a small flitter
for a quick run to the little town. Jo had told him about her father’s murder
there and he wanted to have a look… for her sake.

           
And for his
own. Easly had approached the Junior Finch aspect of the Jebinose trip as he
would a typical missing person case. His routine in such was to learn all he
could about the individual in question before starting the leg work; he liked
to feel as if he knew the quarry before initiating the search. In Junior’s case
he had found that unsettlingly easy.

           
Old holovid
recordings in the Finch family library were the starting point. There weren’t
many. None of the Finches was crazy about sitting still for cameras, it seemed.
He did manage to find one, a long one, recorded at what must have been a family
outing shortly before the death of Jo’s grandparents in the flitter crash. The
viewing globe filled with woods, grassy knolls, a pond, and for a short while,
Junior Finch sitting under a tree with a five- or six-year-old Josephine
perched on his lap. They were posing and the family resemblance was striking,
especially since Jo’s hair had been lighter then.

           
But Easly’s
eyes had drawn away from the child who had grown to be his lover and come to
rest on Junior. He felt as if he were looking at a slightly distorted
reflection of the adult Josephine, recognizing parallels that went beyond
build, facial features, complexion. There was a whole constellation of
intangible similarities pouring out of the globe: the relentless energy forever
pushing to find new channels, the undefined urgency that so typified Jo’s
character as he knew her today percolated below Junior’s surface even in the
midst of pastoral tranquillity.

           
But not
until the camera had panned to the right, placing Junior on the periphery of
the visual field, did the uncanny similarity between Jo and her father strike
him full force. Junior stood leaning against a tree, staring at nothing, his
arms folded, his mind obviously light-years away from the family picnic. It
startled Easly because he’d caught Jo hundreds – thousands! – of times staring
off into space that same way, steeped in the same private world.

           
There were
other recordings, and on the trip to Jebinose Easly had studied them, watching
Junior’s every move. He found something immensely appealing in the man’s quiet
intensity and became increasingly involved in him… fascinated, infatuated,
haunted by the shade of a man he had never met, yet felt he had known most of
his life. It bothered him.

           
The tragic
course of Junior’s life saddened him, and annoyed him as well. What made a
grown man drop a top position with a respected firm like IBA, a firm presented
with interesting, challenging problems on a daily basis, and travel to a place
like Jebinose?

           
He smiled
as a thought came to him: probably the same thing that made a nineteen-year-old
girl forsake a life of ease and luxury to singlehandedly challenge the IBA
board of directors and outworld conventions as well. He then realized why he
felt so close to Junior Finch: Josephine, for all the adulation and admiration
she lavished on the memory of her grandfather, had grown into the image of his
son.

           
And now he
was gilding toward the death-place of that son, her father. She had given him
three names: Bill Jeffers, Marvin Heber, and a Vanek named Rmrl, or something
like that. The first would be easy to find if he still ran the store.

           
He missed
Danzer on the first pass, but circled around and followed a dirt road back into
the center of the tiny town. Jeffers’ name was still on the sign above the
general store, so he made that his first stop.

           
Jeffers
wasn’t there at the moment, but a clean-shaven, heavy-set young man who
professed to be his son asked if he could help.

           
“I’m
looking for Marvin Heber,” Easly said. “Know where I can find him?”

           
“He’s dead.
Died sometime last spring.”

           
“Oh, I’m
sorry to hear that.”

           
“You a
friend of his?”

           
“Not
really. A friend of a relative of an old friend of his – you know what I mean.”
Young Jeffers nodded. “I was supposed to stop in and say hello and see how he
was. Oh, well.”

           
He strolled
out onto the boardwalk. It was hot and dry outside and a gust of wind blew some
dust into his face. He sneezed twice. Hard to believe people still lived like
this.

           
He still
had some time left to check out this Rmrl. Jo had told him that the Vanek tribe
had set up a vigil of sorts on the spot in the alley next to Jeffers’ store
where Junior had died; it was the one place where he could always be sure of
finding a Vanek, no matter what the time of day.

           
Today was
no exception. Easly rounded the corner of the store and there, cross-legged in
the center of a crude circle of stones, humming and jiggling the coins in his
cracked earthen bowl, sat a lone Vanek beggar.

           
“Wheels
within wheels, bendreth,” he intoned as Easly approached the circle.

           
“Sure,”
Easly replied, stopping with his shoes a few centimeters from the stones. “Can
I speak with you a minute?”

           
“Speak,
bendreth.”

           
He squatted
and looked at the beggar. Pupils dilated from a long watch in the shade of the
alley gazed out at him from beneath hooded eyelids but appeared to be focused
on something other than Easly, something neither of them could see. The
blue-tinted skin of the face was wrinkled and dusty. This was one of the older
Vanek.

           
“I want to
know about Junior Finch,” Easly said in a low voice, after glancing around to
be sure that he and the beggar were alone in the alley.

           
The Vanek’s
mouth curled into a poor imitation of a human smile. “He was our friend.”

           
“But he was
killed.”

           
The smile
remained. “Wheels within wheels, bendreth.”

           
“But who
killed him?”

           
“We did.”

           
“But why?”

           
“He was our
friend.”

           
Easly was
getting annoyed. “But why would you kill a man you say was your friend?”

           
“He was
different.”

           
“How was he
different?”

           
“Wheels
within wheels, bendreth.”

           
“That
doesn’t tell me a damn thing!” Easly said, his voice rising. “You’ve said you
killed him. Just tell me why.”

           
“He was our
friend.”

           
“But no one
kills somebody because he’s a friend!”

           
“Wheels
within wheels, bendreth.”

           
Easly made
a guttural sound and rose quickly to his feet. If he thought the beggar was
deliberately trying to be evasive, he would have understood that and accepted
it. But this was apparently the way the Vanek mind worked.

           
Or was it?

           
“Do you
know Rmrl?” he asked abruptly.

           
The Vanek’s
pupils contracted noticeably, and for an instant he actually looked at Easly
rather than through him.

           
“We all
know Rmrl,” he replied.

           
“Where is
he at the moment?”

           
“Among us.”
The eyes resumed their indeterminate gaze.

           
“How can I
find him?”

           
“Wheels
within wheels, bendreth,” the beggar said, and jiggled his alms bowl.

           
Easly
growled and strode away without leaving any coins. How could he hope to glean
any coherent information from a member of a half-breed alien race that killed
the man who tried to help it, then made a shrine of sorts out of the place
where they murdered him? The whole trip had been a waste of time. He hadn’t
even enjoyed the scenery.

           
He spent
the early part of the next morning gearing himself up for his meeting with
deBloise. This was the prelude to his investigative work: getting a feel for
the man. And for that he needed personal contact. His object was to find out
anything at all that might be useful against him – anything. Jo seemed to be
playing for keeps on this one.

           
He arrived
at Sector Representative deBloise’s plush homeworld offices a little early and
watched the receptionist until she motioned him into the next room.

           
DeBloise
stood and waited for him behind his desk. He had a bigger build than Larry had
expected – probably muscular once, now tending slightly toward puffiness – but
the dark hair and the graying temples were familiar, as was the cordial smile
fixed on the face. Easly reflexively disregarded the comfortable, friendly
exterior; his research had shown beyond a doubt that there was a core of
diamond-hard ambition hiding beneath.

           
“Well, Mr.
Easly,” deBloise said after they shook hands, “what do you think of our fine
planet so far?”

           
“Very
nice,” Easly lied as he took the indicated seat.

           
“Good. How
can I help you?”

           
“The Risden
Service is doing a series of reports on human-alien relations, and the most
intimate such relationship, of course, exists here on Jebinose with the Vanek.”

           
DeBloise
nodded. “It must be remembered that the Vanek are not totally alien; they are a
mix of human and alien. But I can see why they would be of prime interest in
such a series. Where do I fit in, however?”

           
“You were
one of the principal sponsors of the Vanek Equality Act, were you not?”

           
DeBloise
inclined his head.

           
“Well then,
that makes you a principal figure in modern Terran-Vanek relations, and your
files would be of invaluable assistance to me. Might I have access to them?”

           
DeBloise
considered this; there was extraordinary potential here for a massive amount of
good press. “I could give you selective access. I’m sure you understand that I
couldn’t possibly open all my files to you.”

           
“Of course.
Whatever you think best. Now, there’s also another important figure in
Terran-Vanek relations: Joseph Finch, Jr., I believe.’

           
There was a
barely perceptible cooling of deBloise’s attitude at the mention of Junior’s
name. “I’m afraid I didn’t know him at all. Never met him.”

           
“But that
was quite an impassioned speech you made about him on behalf of the Equality
Act after his death. I heard a recording – very moving, even after seventeen
years.”

           
“Thank
you,” deBloise replied with a bland smile. “But one didn’t have to know him
personally to be moved by his death. I knew what he was trying to do: he was
trying to bring equality to those less fortunate than he; he was trying to
bestow a little dignity on the Vanek; he was going out on a limb for a fellow
rational being. I understood him perfectly, and I’m willing to wager that if he
were alive today he’d be very active in the Restructurist movement.”

           
Easly
nearly choked, but managed to keep a straight, attentive expression. “What
about the Equality Act, sir? Would it have passed without Mr. Finch’s death?”

           
“Definitely.
Not with such resounding unanimity, perhaps, but it would have passed. It was
an idea whose time had come. That bill, by the way, was pending before Finch
came to Jebinose.”

           
“And on the
reputation you earned with the passage of the Equality Act, you went on to
successfully run for a planetary representative seat at Fed Central, is that
correct?”

           
DeBloise
paused and scrutinized his interviewer. “Are we talking about human-alien
relations or my political career?”

           
“The two
are somewhat intertwined, don’t you think?”

           
“Somewhat.”

           
This
writer, Easly, had a manner about him that deBloise did not care for… made him
feel as if he were under a microscope. He’d have to run a check on the man
before he let him anywhere near his files.