04. The Return of Nathan Brazil (21 page)

That concept seemed to disturb the Olympians slightly. It was a valid point within their faith—and one that simply had never occurred to them. Nathan Brazil was
not
his true name; it was a traditional first name coupled with the name of an Old-Earth country he'd once been associated with.

"You—you're just trying to confuse us," the Olympian accused. "It is the logic of the Evil One!" She made a sign and the others did the same, even Yua.

"Think of it logically," Obie argued. "If you are right, then nothing is lost by using our methods. You will get your chance to ask. If
we
are right, then you will have lost that chance, probably for good, by refusing to do it our way. You don't have a choice, really."

One of the Athenes, the obvious leader, looked at her sisters and then back at the others. Though a fanatic, she was not stupid. They were about to plunge into some sort of abyss to reach this distant planet more quickly; it would be easy for this computer simply to exclude Olympians, leaving them in empty space.

"Very well," she said at last. "Your way. But we will have full access to Him as soon as He is contacted?"

"As soon as we know he can't get away, yes," Obie assured them. "My word on that."
For all the good it'll do you,
he added silently, although he could tell from Mavra's expression that she was thinking the same thing.

"He'll have a spaceworthy ship," Marquoz pointed out. "An easy getaway. He'll have to be approached cautiously, taken by surprise but by subterfuge, as well, not by force. We want him as a friend. It worries me that, although you say he should have been immediately called back to the Well of Souls to repair the damage, he has not responded to those calls."

"Agreed," Obie responded. "Either his memory has deteriorated again or he has deliberately ignored the signals. If the former, we may be able to return him to his senses; if the latter, it may be something beyond our control. We
must
be careful. Any suggestions?"

Mavra  nodded.   "One,  I  think.  You  remember, Obie, when you replayed for me the memories of my grandparents'   odyssey   with   Brazil   on   the   Well World?"

"Yes?"

"I think he really loved Wu Julee. Certainly she loved him. The Well World had turned her into a Dil-lian—a centaur—and you said he had a liking for centaurs. I wonder . . . . Suppose you transformed me into an exact duplicate of her as a centaur? It would mean nothing to anyone but Nathan Brazil. Even if his memory's gone bad it should shake something loose. As far as everybody else on Meouit is concerned I'd be just another attractive Rhone. I've looked over the shipping records—he has no return cargo, so he's going to be deadheading someplace unless he picks something up here. He'll come down looking for cargo. Suppose I meet him as the representative of a cargo company? By his reactions to my appearance we'll get a good idea of whether Korf is Brazil. I think he'd find an appointment with me emotionally and financially irresistible."

"And we'd be waiting inside at the appointed spots," Marquoz put in. "I like it."

"Well,
I
don't," the Athene leader snapped. "By not asking the Holy Question immediately you risk him smelling a trap and not keeping the appointment."

"Oh, we'll have people on him the moment we spot him," Mavra assured her. "If he makes to bolt we'll move immediately. Remember, we can take him by force if he decides to go back to the
Jerusalem;
if he bolts in any other direction he's going to be awfully conspicuous on a Rhone world."

"And we're going to have to sneak you down as it is," Obie added. "The Rhone aren't too fond of the Fellowship or the Olympians. Come on, you said you'd go along with us."

The Olympian stood and seemed about to say something, then sat back down. "All right. You win."

Marquoz turned to Gypsy. "You should be down there with us. You've seen him before."

Gypsy shook bis head. "Nope. Sorry. I don't want to be anything but what I am. But it sounds like a good scam; it should work. I'll follow it from here."

"Suit yourself," the Chugach replied with a shrug. He turned and faced the empty air. "I, for one, do not wish to be a Rhone, though."

"No need," the computer told him. "The Olympians won't, either. You can all wait together. We'll send some crew down to rent a warehouse and establish a dummy company—this can be done in a day or so. They'll also scout around. We'll use one of the spare ships to get you in; disguise you as cargo or something and get you to the warehouse. Then we all wait."

Marquoz sighed. "Yes, then we wait."

"Drop's coming!" Obie warned. Before anyone could react the world went out around them and they were engulfed in a blackness without end, dropping uncomfortably, dropping to a point far, far away.

Meouit

THE ADVANCE CREW OF THE
NAUTILUS
HAD DONE AN
effective job. The warehouse was dingy and located in a poor neighborhood, but it was close to the spaceport and easily accessible even to someone who had never been there before. The small signboard said, in both the Com trading language and in Zhosa, the local tongue,
Durkh Shipping Corporation.
It seemed old and worn, not brand new as it actually was.

It was chilly and near dusk in Taiai, largest city on Meouit, and flakes of snow floated in the air here and there. A young Rhone woman clad in an expensive fur jacket studied the scene accompanied by several larger Rhone males.

She looked barely in her teens, not beautiful but pleasant, even a bit sexy, with long, brown hair. Her skin was a light brown, her pointed ears jutted up slightly on either side of her head and seemed to swivel independently of each other. At the waist, the near but not-quite-human torso faded into short-cropped light-brown fur that covered a perfect equine body. She needed only the jacket for warmth; below the torso she was well insulated by fur and subcutaneous fat.

"Not bad," she said admiringly, "not bad at all."

The male Rhone who stood closest to her, much taller and more obviously muscular than she, was pleased.

"Shall we go inside and greet the others?" she suggested, and he moved to slide one of the doors open for her. The lights inside created an illuminated wedge in the semi-darkness as the door slid back, admitted them, and then was closed by the last centaur.

The young female Rhone sniffed slightly, then looked toward a corner. "How have you been making out, Marquoz?" Mavra Chang called.

The small dragon stalked out of the shadows puffing on a fat cigar. "Pretty crappy, if you must know," he snorted. "How'd you like to be locked up in a barn on an alien world with only religious fanatics for company for two days?"

She looked sympathetic. "Sorry, but we had to sneak you all in when we could. You could have let Obie make you a Rhone," she reminded him, "and have spent the last couple of days out in the open and comfortable."

"Thank you, I like to remain me," he grumbled. "I can see Gypsy was the smart one, though. He's back on the
Nautilus
sleeping on feather beds and eating like a horse, I'll bet."

"Well, we'll be getting down to the spaceport shortly," Mavra told him. "The ordeal's almost over. Our man is in orbit now and due down to sign the customs forms and releases in about two hours."

An Olympian stepped from the shadows. "Remember your word!" she warned. "He is to be brought to us!"

"We'll keep our end of the bargain," Mavra promised. She turned to face two of the
Nautilus
crew. "Well, come on, bodyguards. I'd like to get down there as soon as possible. I don't want to miss him."

She bade the others farewell and turned. One of the crewmen slid the door open and then shut it behind them again. A blast of cold air was all that was left now besides the waiting.

The Olympians stepped back into the shadows, and the leader turned to the other three. "Two hours," she whispered. "Are you ready?"

One of the others turned and removed her cape, taking from the lining four small, very sophisticated pistols. She handed one to each of the others, keeping the fourth for herself.

This was yet another reason why the Olympians had not wanted to reach Meouit through Obie.

Marquoz   was  busy  passing  the  time  with  the Rhone-shaped crewmen; one had some dice. They paid no attention to the Olympians whatsoever; all of them had been trying to tune out the strange women for two full days as it was. Which was just the way the Olympians wanted it.

"Check your charges," the leader whispered. The small activating whine went unheard.

Mavra Chang lounged around the shipping office trying to look bored, but deep inside her she felt almost like a little girl expecting the arrival of a favorite uncle but afraid at the same time that the uncle might have forgotten her.

Nathan Brazil . . . . The name had been so small a part of her long existence that it shouldn't mean much at all, yet it had haunted her since childhood. As a freighter captain herself back in the old days, she had known of him, heard the legends of the hard-fighting, hard-drinking captain who never seemed to grow old. From her grandparents she'd heard fairy tales of the magical Well World and Brazil's name had been there, too, always in the hero's role. And Brazil had plucked her as a small child from the forces of totalitarian repression that had engulfed her relatives and her world, he had passed her into the hands of the colorful Makki Chang, who raised her on a great freighter. Later, on the Well World, Brazil's name was mentioned everywhere, sometimes with reverence, sometimes with fear. Then too, there was Obie's playback only a few months ago of her grandparents' memories of a hideous, throbbing six-limbed mass that proclaimed itself master of reality, of all space-time, as the creator of the Universe. All Brazil.

The tugs had already established the craft's orbit, now the pilot boat would descend with the in-system pilot and the captain to process the cargo through customs, then the wait while cargo ferries transferred that cargo from the massive bulk of the freighter, which never made planetf all.

Mavra watched and her heart seemed to skip a beat as the information board inside the port authority office flashed the name JERUSALEM, her registry numbers, and the words IN PORT.

Outside, lights locked on the small pilot boat as it drifted down and gently settled into the first of the eight cradles around the port authority building. Mavra turned expectantly, watching the far door, where the captain and the pilot would enter in a few moments. She held her breath. Time dragged, and after a while she grew afraid that the captain hadn't made planetfall, that he was deadheading somewhere.

One of her two crewmen, playing at filling out some forms, leaned over and whispered, "Why don't you relax? Right now you look like you expect your long-lost husband to come home any moment now."

Suddenly conscious of how obvious she must have seemed, Mavra turned and pretended to be looking through some cargo manifests stacked in the anteroom. That, she could do more natually. But if Brazil didn't come out shortly somebody in the port authority was going to wonder why it was taking her so long to choose the correct form.

Suddenly the door slid open with a pneumatic hiss. The pilot, his face lined and elderly, which seemed perfect for his spotted gray coloring, led the way, clipboard in hand, and, behind, she saw the massive load-master. Both were apparently talking, and it was a few seconds before she realized that they were talking not to one another but to a third party almost hidden between them.

Mavra's first thought was that Korf was too tall; almost 170 centimeters, wearing a curious porkpie hat from under which massive folds of gray-white hair drooped and mixed with a full beard of similar color. Only the eyes and the nose were visible, and the rabbi's general build was obscured by a heavy black coat that reached his knees. If appearances were worth anything, he was twenty kilos too heavy and a century too old.

The voice, too, was unpleasant; very high-pitched and nasal, quite unlike the low tenor Mavra remembered of Nathan Brazil. Her heart sank; this, certainly was not the man they were after. She glanced surreptitiously over her forms and tried to find any of the qualities of that funny little man she'd known as a child—some of the warmth, the gentleness, anything.

That's it, she decided, crestfallen. We've blown it. All that work and we've blown it. She looked over at her crewmen and saw the same emotions mirrored in their expressions. One gestured slightly with his head toward the door and she nodded almost imperceptibly. They walked toward the door, hooves clattering on the hard, smooth plastine surface, walking right past the two Rhone and Rabbi Korf as they wrangled over the bill of lading.

"The maize, then, is in two-hundred-ton containers ready for gripping?" the loadmaster's deep bass was asking.

Korf nodded and pointed. "Yes. Shouldn't take but two, three hours to get that section. It's the building supplies that—"

At that moment, her mind now far from this place, Mavra had not made allowances for bureaucracies that wax floors and she stumbled slightly. Korf and the two Rhone looked up.

The rabbi, seeing she was all right, turned back to the papers then did a double-take, head shooting back up to stare at her. Embarrassed, Mavra barely noticed the movement but something in the corner of her eye told her that she had attracted more than usual attention. She stopped, carefully, just short of the door and half-turned her human torso to look at the human; for an instant their eyes met, and something in those eyes and that expression caused a chill to go through her.

Her crewmen, oblivious to what was happening, were already outside before they noticed her absence.

Mavra's rational mind told her that the strange man was more likely Father Frost than Nathan Brazil, but something in his reaction and her gut feelings said otherwise. No human would look at a Rhone woman that way, no human except one who might not be.