Voices - Vornholt John - Страница 18
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- 18/53
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“Arthur,” she began, rounding the corner. But it wasn’t Mr. Malten.
It was Mr. Bester. She glared at him, and he smiled at her.
“That is anatomically impossible,” he said. “But a popular sentiment.”
Talia sputtered, “You … you pretended to be …”
“Yes, I know,” Bester conceded. “It is very difficult to work around a corner, and the signal is weak—but I can do it, if I know the person. The advantage, as you saw, is that you can pretend to be someone else.”
“I don’t appreciate that,” said Talia.
Bester’s smile faded. “Now you sound like your boyfriend, always whining. This is the big leagues the two of you want to play in, so you had better come ready to play ball.” He smiled at her. “Do I make myself clear?”
Talia swallowed. “Okay, what do you want to approve my reassignment to the Mix? If that’s what I decide to do.”
Bester licked his lips. “We shouldn’t talk about this out here in the corridor. My room is right down there.”
Talia smiled. “I know exactly where your room is, and there’s a recreation room even closer. It’s perfect for talking. Or a quick game of Ping-Pong.”
“Of course,” said Bester with a disgruntled expression. “Lead on. I could use some recreation.”
The room was empty, and Talia had to wipe her gloved hand over the wall panel to activate the lights. As she had specified, the Ping-Pong table had four new paddles and a package of balls; there was a chess set on one of the card tables, and decks of cards on the other two. In the corner was a compact weight-lifting machine with a video screen for instruction.
“How are you at Ping-Pong?” she asked.
“I react very quickly,” answered Bester. “I used to be quite good. But that wasn’t the game I had in mind.”
Talia sat at one of the card tables and opened up a deck. “Isn’t it odd, but everywhere you look there are invitations to gamble. You would think members of Psi Corps would be above temptation, but it comes after us just as much as anyone.”
“It is the resistance that makes us strong,” answered Bester, making a fist to dramatize his point. He took a seat opposite her and smiled. “Again, that is not the game I had in mind.”
“How much will it cost me to work for the Mix?” asked Talia point-blank. “And leave Mr. Malten out of the equation.”
“That is wise to leave Mr. Malten out,” said Bester with approval. “He started the Mix, but now it has outgrown him. It could perform as well without him as with him.”
Talia stared evenly at the Psi Cop. “So it has to be something I can pay for, on my own. How much?”
Bester leaned forward and asked hoarsely, “How badly do you want to go?”
Talia smiled. “Not that badly.” She leaned back in her chair. “Is there an economy rate?”
Bester laughed. “You still haven’t found the game I want to play yet. I want to play show-and-tell.”
“How do you play that?” asked Talia suspiciously.
“It’s very simple,” said Bester, reaching into his jacket pocket. “I show you a picture of your Uncle Ted—that would be Theodore Hamilton—and you tell me where he is.”
Bester tossed a photo of a rakish man with long blond hair onto the table, and Talia was stunned by the juxtaposition of her Uncle Ted and Mr. Bester. One was a ne’er-do-well lady-killer, and the other was, well, Mr. Bester. She laughed with both relief and amazement.
“I can get into the Mix by telling you about my Uncle Ted?” she asked puzzledly.
“You don’t have to tell us anything about him, except where he is.”
Talia looked helplessly at the Psi Cop. “I think, when I last saw him, I was about fourteen years old. He was just headed for Mars.” She peered at Bester. “Oh, I see—this has something to do with Mars.”
“You really don’t know what he’s been doing for the last two years?” asked Bester incredulously.
She shook her head. “I haven’t had much contact with Mars.” Talia wanted to say that her uncle would never become a Martian revolutionary, but that wasn’t true. It probably was something the old romantic would do, especially if there were women involved.
“I would guess that he’s been blowing things up on Mars,” she said.
“Worse than that, Ms. Winters. Your Uncle Ted has been explaining the separatist position in a very clear way, and people are starting to listen to him. He’s popular, and the colonists are hiding him. We’ve been trying to find him for two years.”
Bester leaned urgently across the table. “We want him.”
“I haven’t a clue where he is,” she answered, shaking her head. “And why would you want him, Mr. Bester? He’s not a telepath, rogue or otherwise.”
Bester smiled and answered, “That is on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t need to know. But now you know the cost to get into the Mix—on your own terms, without Malten’s help. Once you’re in there, you can use him or not, as you wish. I believe this is a price you can meet, Ms. Winters, and it won’t compromise your high ideals.”
“Mr. Bester,” she protested, “I haven’t seen my Uncle Ted in something like fifteen years. How can I help you?”
“Come now, you’re family. You can go to Mars or Earth, ask around, show some concern. Say you only want to say hello to your beloved Uncle Ted before the bad guys get him. Give him a hug for old times’ sake.”
Bester winked. “Surely, you learned a long time ago to read your mother’s mind, without her knowing it. This is her brother we’re talking about. Find out where he is.”
Talia tried not to throw up, but she did start to gag on the idea of scanning family members without them knowing it. She stood weakly from the table and swallowed down the bile. “I’m not feeling very well, Mr. Bester. I really don’t think I can be any help finding Ted Hamilton. Good night.”
“The offer won’t be on the table forever,” warned Bester. “Good night.”
Talia Winters slammed the door behind her and leaned against the wall for support. How could it be that talking to Mr. Bester always made her feel dirty? She couldn’t avoid him—she would see him at the budget meeting in just ten hours—but she should refuse to discuss anything of a personal nature with him.
Then again, she had asked for it. With ambition and desire came the price. Even in the workaday world of the mundanes, it was no different. Talia had let herself be lured into this insane game, and she shouldn’t panic just because the stakes got high. She could always drop out.
And she would. Tomorrow, right after the budget meeting. She’d go back to being the only resident telepath of Babylon 5 so far, and be thrilled with it.
Talia headed for the main checkpoint, and she felt relieved to see Garibaldi and two of his officers, hanging out, looking edgy but better than they had earlier.
“Good evening,” she said.
“Hello, Ms. Winters,” the younger one said.
Garibaldi smiled at her. “We took a vote—we all like your outfit. I wouldn’t want you to think it was just me.”
“Thank you,” she said wearily. “I haven’t got any witty repartee left. Good night.”
“I could walk you home,” offered Garibaldi.
“Nope,” she said, heading away from Blue-16. Then she stopped. “How did you get away from those aliens last night?”
“Oh, that,” answered Garibaldi with a shrug. “I shot one in the foot, and I slugged another one. Then I ran like hell.”
“There were three of them,” said Talia.
Garibaldi rubbed his nose in thought. “Well, the third one came after you, but I guess you moved pretty fast.”
“Yeah,” the telepath agreed. “I’m moving fast these days. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Garibaldi lay in his bed, still thinking about his disturbing dream from earlier that day. His sense of duty kept prodding him to go Down Below and turn over every mattress and garbage can until he found Deuce. But he would have to get really lucky, or Deuce would have to want to be found, for that to work. With four hundred telepaths on the station, Garibaldi didn’t feel really lucky, and he didn’t think Deuce wanted to be found.
For one thing, Deuce was keeping very quiet. There had been no reports of beatings or murders, no jump in robberies or threats. Nobody had been caught transporting unusual contraband or stolen goods. And Deuce had not been spotted in any of his usual haunts, by any of several informers that Garibaldi had hired. Whatever Deuce’s business on B5 was, he was keeping it low-key, just like they were frying to keep the conference low-key. Unfortunately, Deuce was doing a better job of it. He rolled over in his bed and tried to get comfortable. It was no good. There were too many things around here that should not mix—Deuce, Bester, Martian terrorists, aliens who didn’t give a hoot about Psi Corps, telepaths who didn’t give a hoot about aliens. Even Captain Sheridan and Talia Winters had looked bagged by the stress, and if it could get to them, it could get to anyone. Come to think of it, neither Bester nor Gray looked too good either, Garibaldi decided. A feeling of paranoia was eating at all of them.
Worst of all, the conference proper didn’t really start until tomorrow! He pulled the pillow over his head and tried to go to sleep.
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