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pad on my medicuff armlet and gave it a prod. The subcutaneous vaporizer shot
stimulant into me, but unfortunately
the perk-up wasn't immediate. I looked around. A straight chair heaped with
slates and prints stood beside the desk. I dumped the stuff on the floor and
sat down, motioning Ivor to unhand the prisoner.
"I'm still not sure whether you're part of the conspiracy against Rampart or
not," I said to
Clive. I was careful not to mention Galapharma. "If you are, I hope you
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realize that your life isn't worth a bootful of warm piss as the cowpokes
would say in my old hometown of Phoenix, Arizona."
"I don't know what you're talking about," the legal analyst growled.
"Did Bronson Elgar tell you and your three friends that I was killed on the
comet?"
"Comet? What comet?"
I wagged my head sadly at his obstinacy. "You poor bastard. When Bron finds
out that I'm still alive and that you caved in and gave me a dime with his
image he's going to go ballistic.
He knows I'll use that picture to run him down.
You've managed to endanger the whole conspiracy against Rampart, Clive. I
wouldn't want to be in your pretty blue shoes."
"You're insane! I don't know anything about Elgar. I never even met the man
until the day of the dive. And I've got nothing to do with any conspiracy. I'm
completely loyal to Rampart." He had retreated to a corner of the room, as far
away from Ivor and me as he could get. He adjusted the twisted chef's apron to
hide his damp crotch.
"How about your diving buddies?" I said. "Are they loyal, too?"
"You're damned right they are! All of us are Rampart stakeholders. We'd be
crazy to do anything to harm the Starcorp."
I looked at him thoughtfully. "Maybe you're innocent after all. On the other
hand, perhaps you four were forced to go along on the trip in order to prove
yourselves to Elgar's backers. To make your first bones."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"A reference to ancient history. Over two hundred years ago, members of
Sicilian organized crime gangs had to demonstrate their commitment to the
group by killing one of its enemies a gesture of good faith that was also
self-incriminating."
"What utter rot! Who's supposed to be behind this alleged conspiracy of
yours?"
I ignored his question. "Did Elgar give you a cover story to justify my
murder? Did he even bother to tell you how a down-and-out charter-boat skipper
could threaten the big scheme?"
"You're out of your mind! You've no proof of any of these wild allegations."
"How about my word," I suggested, "against yours?"
"That's rich! Who'd ever believe a Throwaway with no civil rights?"
"The Chairman and CEO of Rampart might. Simon Frost."
Clive Leighton burst into near hysterical laughter. "Now I know you're a
flaming nutcase!"
"Tell him who I am, Ivor," I said.
The huge man smiled benignly. "This is Asahel Frost. He's old Simon's youngest
son."
"That's ... preposterous." The haughty accent faltered into a whine.
"No," I corrected him. "It's something else altogether. It's why you aren't
going to lodge any complaints with Rampart Security, and why you're going to
tell me everything I want to know."
Inside dive's lawyerly mind, jigsaw puzzle pieces were clicking ominously into
place. A
hunted expression passed fleetingly over his features, and at that moment I
was certain of two things. He was an active participant in whatever chicanery
was going down
And he was going to crack.
"Let me verify my identity," I said in friendly Good Cop style.
Throwaways have no credentials. But there was an impressive computer on a
stand by the desk, so I called up the
New York Times for 12 October 2229. I printed the front page, walked over to
the cowering analyst, thrust the page under his nose, and took off my
sunglasses.
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My portrait was in living color. I had more hair then, a brave smile, and
hollow, hopeless eyes.
The adjacent headline said:
REVIEW BOARD RECOMMENDS ULTIMATE CENSURE FOR
ACCUSED
ICS OFFICIAL.
Clive Leighton took the print and read the article, horrified gaze flicking
back and forth between it and my face. "It It says here that Simon Frost
repudiated you."
"We kissed and made up."
"Oh?" He managed to be archly skeptical.
"My father is here on Seriphos," I said. "Tomorrow there'll be a meeting of
Rampart's Board of Directors. He and I will both be there. The agenda deals
with the conspiracy."
"You can't prove I'm disloyal!"
"Maybe not," I said. "But an interstellar corporation is hardly a court of
law, is it? If the chairman is convinced of your guilt, you're buggered,
Clive. And I'll convince him. You can count on it."
We stared at each other for a silent beat. Then I added, in a kindly fashion,
"Or course, if you were to go with me voluntarily to the board meeting and
tell all, I could persuade my father to be lenient. Instead of nuking your
double-crossing posterior, he might let you emigrate to a wildcat world in the
Sagittarius Whorl where Bronson Elgar and his masters will never find you. We
could give you a new ID, set you up in a small business "
Ivor said brightly, "Maybe you could open an espresso stand. Never too many of
those."
Clive Leighton winced. He was just about hooked. "Tell the Board of
Directors... what?"
"Everything including the names of other conspirators known to you and the
organization behind the plot. We'd use psychoprobe machines for verification
afterward, of course."
The door chime rang and a female voice cooed over the intercom: "Cliveykins,
it's me!"
"Oh, my God," he moaned. "Lois is here! What am I going to do?"
"Never mind her. Tell me who recruited you and your three friends for the big
scam. Was it
Bronson Elgar? Someone in Rampart itself?"
Ding-dong.
"Clive, dear? Are you there?"
"Speak up!" I suddenly took hold of his silk shirt with both hands and yanked
him toward me.
I was a lot bigger than he was, and he had no idea that I was almost ready to
keel over from accumulated stress and decrepitude. The stench of his urine
mingled with the acrid adrenaline odor of renewed terror. "What was your role
supposed to be infiltration of Rampart for general espionage and data-theft,
or something more active? Like sabotage?"
Ding-dong!
"Darling, is something wrong?"
"I was ... we were . .." He shook his head and mouthed a despairing obscenity.
"The organization behind the conspiracy!" I barked. "Is it one of the Hundred
Concerns?
Answer me!" I shook him like a doll.
"Stop it! For God's sake! I can't think straight. We were never specifically
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