Forbidden Planets (4 page)
With that he reached over the lectern, felt around for the heavy cloth, and whisked it away. He heard the sibilant, simultaneous intakes of breath by those seated before him. After a few heartbeats, Ganche and Ip were able to tear their gazes away from the object, Imbry noted. Alwinder Mudgeram sat as if entranced, his eyes wide and softened as their pupils expanded until not even the thinnest rim of iris showed.
After a short while, Imbry reached forward with the cloth and covered the glitter again. “Bids, please,” he said.
A collective moan of disappointment met Imbry’s ears, then a cacophony of voices, strained and acquisitive. The collectors were on their feet, joined by Mudgeram, their faces distorted and their gestures emphatic as they bid and outbid. The reserve price was soon a fading memory as the contenders piled fortune upon fortune. As he continued to field the bids, Imbry looked to the side and saw Ganche’s thick lips open in an astonishment that the fat man could appreciate: The vendor would leave here tonight wealthy enough to enter the magnate class. Imbry’s own thirty percent would make him one of the wealthiest criminals of Olkney.
The bidding had reached a feverish phase. Two of the collectors, the bids having surpassed their capacity, had subsided into their seats. One of them, a sturdy man with a square face and close-cropped hair, sat slumped and quietly weeping. Imbry noticed that Mudgeram, too, had ceased to bid. He was sending Ip a meaningful look that the bodyguard was silently answering with raised eyebrows and a slight squint in one eye that said:
Are you sure?
Are you sure?
Now Mudgeram’s face signaled back certainty, and Imbry saw Ip’s hand slip into a fold in his upper garment and begin to reemerge with something dark in its grip. The fat man reached across the lectern and yanked the cloth free of the object. Once more a silence fell over the room as all eyes but Imbry’s were drawn to the item. He heard a sob from the square-faced man.
The forger waited for Dain Ganche to pull his eyes away and when the man’s gaze lifted to Imbry the fat man gestured with chin and eyes toward Mudgeram’s bodyguard. Ip had also managed to look away from the glittering prize, but he stood blinking, his mind not yet fully returned to the business at hand—specifically that his employer expected him to use the weapon he held forgotten in his hand. Ganche’s face hardened. He rose to his feet with a surprising swiftness for a man of his size and drew his shocker.
“Warning!” said the house integrator. “An inbound vehicle approaches at high . . .” The rest of its announcement was submerged by the sounds from outside: the blare of a klaxon, the thrum of a heavy motor, and the almost infrasonic vibration of an automatic ison cannon firing from the roof. At the same time the house’s rear garden lit up in a blaze of illumination from high intensity lumens.
Imbry looked toward the glare just in time to see a heavy cargo carrier descend at speed, graze the top of the outer wall and hurtle toward the barred windows. Successive hits from the ison cannon caused sparks to coruscate from its frontwork and turned the operator’s compartment into dripping, incandescent slag but did nothing to deter the vehicle’s momentum.
Imbry reflexively ducked behind the table as the carrier smashed into the window’s grillwork amid an immensity of sound. He heard but did not see the bars shatter and tear loose from their footings and the unbreakable panes whizzing through the room like shrapnel. The only exit was in the wall opposite the windows, and he stayed low and crawled that way along the length of the table before rising up to search out a clear path to safety.
There was none. He saw Alwinder Mudgeram, blood smearing his face from a gash in his forehead, squatting to provide the smallest possible target while exiting through the door. Ip, unscathed and now fully alert, covered his employer’s retreat, energy pistol in hand. Imbry looked toward the windows and saw that the space they had once occupied was now filled by the cargo vehicle, most of which had battered its way into the room. The front end, hissing and radiating a fierce heat, had landed on Dain Ganche and Ilarios Warrigrove, raising a nauseating smoke and permanently canceling any and all plans they might have had. The square-faced man had also shed his last tear, and those of the other bidders who were not severely injured were deep in shock.
Imbry found himself torn between an urge to flee and the inclination to secure the priceless subject of the auction. Miraculously, it sat undisturbed on the table, which itself had been unaffected by the carrier’s sudden entry. Since no further danger presented itself, the fat man decided to delay departure long enough to recover the shining object. But as he replaced the dark cloth over its brilliance and prepared to lift it, he heard a discreet cough.
Ip now stood in the doorway, his weapon aimed at Imbry. The bodyguard cocked his head in a clear signal that the forger was to bring the object in no other direction than that in which Mudgeram had gone. Imbry arranged his face and hands in a combination that indicated nothing else was on his mind. He reached again for the object but froze at the sound of a loud
crack!
A side panel broke partly free of the carrier, impelled from within. A second kick sent the thin material flying, and out of the hole stepped Chiz Ramoulian, obsession in his eyes and a long, dark disorganizer in his hands.
crack!
A side panel broke partly free of the carrier, impelled from within. A second kick sent the thin material flying, and out of the hole stepped Chiz Ramoulian, obsession in his eyes and a long, dark disorganizer in his hands.
For the second time in moments Imbry experienced the chill of finding a weapon pointed his way. He backed away, offering placating gestures, but Ramoulian had clearly not come in search of mollification. Imbry saw the man’s thumb slide over to the disorganizer’s activation stud.
The
zivv
of Ip’s energy pistol was loud in the room. Ramoulian’s head lost definition and became first a glowing orb, then a lump of smoldering black stuff that held its shape for only a moment longer before crumbling and following his collapsing body to the littered floor.
zivv
of Ip’s energy pistol was loud in the room. Ramoulian’s head lost definition and became first a glowing orb, then a lump of smoldering black stuff that held its shape for only a moment longer before crumbling and following his collapsing body to the littered floor.
Ip again brought his weapon to bear on Imbry, the fingers of his other hand beckoning. The fat man took up the object, snugged the cloth around it and went where he was bid. They passed along corridors and through a number of imposing doors until they came to a fortified room in which Alwinder Mudgeram had sequestered himself.
When Ip reported the events concerning Ramoulian and declared the situation secure, Mudgeram emerged from his redoubt. The room’s facilities had sealed the wound in his forehead, but the blood still stained his face. Without a word, he took the object from Imbry’s hands.
“If you are feeling well enough,” Imbry said, “we should discuss my compensation.”
“I am feeling adequate,” Mudgeram said, “but I am not aware that you are due anything.”
“I recall the bidding,” Imbry said and named the gargantuan sum that had been the last bid offered. “Then Ramoulian interrupted. I was to receive a thirty percent commission.”
Mudgeram tucked the object securely under his arm. “I remember a different series of events. As the bidding intensified, the auctioneer uncovered the object and distracted the bidders. Then Ramoulian entered. Were these two events coincidental?”
“Entirely,” Imbry said.
“Hmm,” said Mudgeram. “In any case, matters have now marched off in a new direction. The vendor who promised to pay your commission has instead passed permanently beyond buying and selling. Indeed, he has expired without known heirs, carelessly leaving his former possession unattended on another’s property. Where it is now seized under the rule of evident domain.”
“Should that not be
eminent
domain?” Imbry asked, but Mudgeram had Ip show the fat man his “evidence.”
eminent
domain?” Imbry asked, but Mudgeram had Ip show the fat man his “evidence.”
After Ip had flourished his weapon under Imbry’s nose, the forger said, “What about the others?”
Mudgeram gave the matter some brief thought, then explained that the bidders had, albeit unwillingly, become participants in a matter that could not be allowed to come to the attention of the Bureau of Scrutiny. He would summon discreet helpers who would remove all traces of the incident. “Regrettably,” he continued, “my guests have to be included among those ‘traces.’ If questioned, they might give answers that must inevitably lead to further intrusions into my affairs by the scroots. It is better for all concerned if we simply seal off those avenues of inquiry before they are opened.”
There was a silence, then Imbry asked, “What of me?”
Mudgeram gave the forger a look in which Imbry felt himself weighed and subjected to some internal calculation. “You and I might do business again some day. Thus, once matters are tidied up, you may leave.”
“And the object? There could be other bidders.”
“I have developed an attachment to it,” Mudgeram said. “It will remain with me.” He paused, and again Imbry sensed the workings of some inner arithmetic. “But, in recompense for your efforts, I will freely cancel the debt you owe me from the Bazieri affair.”
Mudgeram inclined his head and smiled in a manner that assured Imbry that he need not thank his benefactor.
The moment Imbry returned to his operations center, his integrator sought his attention. It referred him to the research and communications matrix. “More information has accrued in regard to criminality at the spaceport,” it said.
Imbry sat in the matrix’s chair. “The matter is now moot, but tell me.”
“A private space yacht owned by a wealthy offworlder named Catterpaul stayed in a berth beyond the time its owner had contracted for. When port officials investigated, they found the man dead in the main saloon. His possessions appeared to have been rifled.”
“Ramoulian,” said Imbry.
“Likely so. Here is the interesting part: Catterpaul was a dilettante who poked about the far edges of The Spray, collecting oddments and curios. Some of his poking occurred in and around the Lesser Dark.”
“Ah,” said Imbry.
The integrator continued, “Someone had winnowed the cargo. Some small but valuable pieces had been placed on the floor, as if sorted for removal. But the only item taken is described in Catterpaul’s notes as: ‘seedpod, immature, northern continent, unnamed world.’ ”
The coordinates were the same as those of the planet visited thousands of years ago by Fallo Wickiram. Imbry called up the rest of the information and perused it thoughtfully. “Well, there it is,” he said. “The object is some kind of ultraterrene vegetative life form, unclassified, nature unknown. Catterpaul left it in the cargo area to ripen, with the intent of planting it in his garden when he returned to his house on Bodeen’s World.”
“It would seem that it can telepathically manipulate persons who come within range,” said the integrator.
“In order to spread itself,” Imbry concurred. “Its ‘grailness’ is thus no more mystical than a burr’s hooks. It stimulates the passerby’s senses, creating an illusion of supernal beauty. The hapless dupe carries it away. By the time the effect wears off, the seed is far from home. The mark, finding that he has been used by a mindless vegetable, throws the thing away, and it takes root.”
He had the integrator display the scan it had taken of the object. The image that appeared on the screen showed no illusion of brilliant glory, only a dark green globe with a pale, rootlike tendril emerging. Imbry thought of Mudgeram’s inevitable surprise and chuckled.
Some days later, Imbry sat once more in a room at Bolly’s Snug. He was expecting a visitor who wished to consult with him about acquiring a gilded icon declared by its provenance to date from the Eighteenth Aeon but that Imbry had on unshakable authority, dated from no earlier than the previous two weeks.
But when the door opened, it was Ip who entered and gestured meaningfully for Imbry to accompany him. They left by an unmarked exit to find an aircar waiting in the alley behind the tavern. They flew without conversation to Alwinder Mudgeram’s house. Imbry was shown to a parlor just off the main foyer. Ip indicated that he might take refreshment from the dispenser then departed. Imbry poured himself a glass of Phalum, sat, and sipped. He rehearsed what he would say to defuse Mudgeram’s disappointment.
The door opened and he looked up expectantly, but again it was Ip who filled the doorway. In his arms was the kind of disposable carton in which goods were shipped. He placed it on a low table before Imbry and said, “What will these bring?”
The fat man set down his wine and inspected the box’s contents. Some of the items were bric-a-brac. Some were of great value. Two were priceless. He sorted them into categories and gave estimates.
Ip pulled at his lower lip. Imbry was astounded to see anxiety on the bodyguard’s face but managed to keep his surprise from showing. Could Mudgeram’s affairs have taken a precipitous downturn?
The bodyguard spoke again. “What would your commission be?”
“For these, thirty percent, for the others, twenty.”
Ip nodded. “Done,” he said.
Imbry looked around. “Does Mudgeram watch us from a distance?”
For a moment, the fat man thought to see a trace of an ironic smile touch the impassive features. “Possibly,” Ip said, “though that would be quite some distance.”
“Something has happened to him?” Imbry asked.
Ip began replacing the objects in the carton. “Oh, yes.”
The tip of Imbry’s tongue touched his upper lip. “There are items of considerable value throughout the house,” he said.
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