a portly,
middle-aged man with a sightly uneven hair transplant appeared on the small
screen just above the speaker.
“I know I’m going to regret asking
this,” he said when he had recognized her, “but what can I do for you?”
“I’m up against a blank wall,
Leander,” she said.
“Who are you trying to kid,
Virtue?” replied Smythe. “You’ve only been on the damned planet for four
hours.”
“That’s all the time it takes to
know I’m not going to get what I want through normal channels.” She paused. “I
hate calling in favors,” she added insincerely, “but I need your help.”
“You already collected your favor
this morning,” he reminded her.
She smiled. “You owe me a bigger
one than that, Leander. Or would you like me to refresh your memory?”
“No!” he said quickly. “This isn’t
a secure channel.”
“Then invite me to lunch and we’ll
talk face to face.”
“I’m busy.”
“Fine.” She shrugged. “Then I’ll
just have to hunt up someone else from your network who’ll do me a favor in
exchange for a very interesting story about a local journalist.”
She reached out to sever the
connection.
“Wait!” he said urgently.
She withdrew her hand and grinned
triumphantly.
“There’s a restaurant on the top
of my building,” he said. “I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”
“Your treat,” she said. “I’m just
a poor working girl.”
She broke the connection,
ascertained that 493 credits for computer usage would be added to her hotel
tab, entered a request (without much hope) for a ten percent professional
discount, took the elevator down to the fourth floor of the hotel, walked out
on a platform, and caught the Hanging Tube—the inhabitants’ term for the
elevated monorail—to Smythe’s office building. She noticed in passing that a
thunderstorm was in full force outside the dome and that the noonday sky was
almost black, and wondered idly what the little herbivores for which the planet
had been named did to shield themselves from the weather, since she had seen
precious few natural shelters on her way from the spaceport to the city.
When she arrived at Smythe’s
building, she presented her credentials to a security guard at the door. The
man gave them a perfunctory glance, nodded, and passed her through to the upper
lobby, where she took an elevator to the roof.
The restaurant would have
impressed anyone who had been born on the Frontier, but Virtue found it just a
bit overdone: the tables were too small, the furniture too ornate, and there
were too many very self-assured waiters hovering around. She ascertained that
Smythe wasn’t there yet, found that he had reserved a table for two, allowed
the maitre d’ to escort her to a seat, and ordered a mixed drink from the bar.
Smythe arrived about five minutes
later, walked directly to the bar, ordered a drink for himself, and then joined
her at the table.
“It’s good to see you again after
all these years, Virtue,” he said, greeting her with an artificial smile.
“How nice of you to say so,” she
replied dryly. “And how well you lie.”
“Let’s at least maintain the
illusion of civility,” he said, unperturbed. “Until we’re through with lunch,
anyway.”
“Suits me.”
He picked up his menu, pretended
to study it for a moment, recommended a dish to Virtue, signaled for a waiter,
and ordered for both of them.
“It’s been a long time,” he said
when the waiter had gone off to the kitchen. “What is it now—five years?”
“Six.”
“I’ve seen your byline from time
to time, when some of your features have come up for syndication. That was a
very nice piece you did on the war with the Borgaves.”
“Ugly beasts, aren’t they?” she
commented.
“How did you manage to land with
the first invasion wave?” he asked. “That’s usually reserved for senior
correspondents.”
“I bribed a nice young major.”
“That figures,” he said with a
tinge of bitterness.
middle-aged man with a sightly uneven hair transplant appeared on the small
screen just above the speaker.
“I know I’m going to regret asking
this,” he said when he had recognized her, “but what can I do for you?”
“I’m up against a blank wall,
Leander,” she said.
“Who are you trying to kid,
Virtue?” replied Smythe. “You’ve only been on the damned planet for four
hours.”
“That’s all the time it takes to
know I’m not going to get what I want through normal channels.” She paused. “I
hate calling in favors,” she added insincerely, “but I need your help.”
“You already collected your favor
this morning,” he reminded her.
She smiled. “You owe me a bigger
one than that, Leander. Or would you like me to refresh your memory?”
“No!” he said quickly. “This isn’t
a secure channel.”
“Then invite me to lunch and we’ll
talk face to face.”
“I’m busy.”
“Fine.” She shrugged. “Then I’ll
just have to hunt up someone else from your network who’ll do me a favor in
exchange for a very interesting story about a local journalist.”
She reached out to sever the
connection.
“Wait!” he said urgently.
She withdrew her hand and grinned
triumphantly.
“There’s a restaurant on the top
of my building,” he said. “I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”
“Your treat,” she said. “I’m just
a poor working girl.”
She broke the connection,
ascertained that 493 credits for computer usage would be added to her hotel
tab, entered a request (without much hope) for a ten percent professional
discount, took the elevator down to the fourth floor of the hotel, walked out
on a platform, and caught the Hanging Tube—the inhabitants’ term for the
elevated monorail—to Smythe’s office building. She noticed in passing that a
thunderstorm was in full force outside the dome and that the noonday sky was
almost black, and wondered idly what the little herbivores for which the planet
had been named did to shield themselves from the weather, since she had seen
precious few natural shelters on her way from the spaceport to the city.
When she arrived at Smythe’s
building, she presented her credentials to a security guard at the door. The
man gave them a perfunctory glance, nodded, and passed her through to the upper
lobby, where she took an elevator to the roof.
The restaurant would have
impressed anyone who had been born on the Frontier, but Virtue found it just a
bit overdone: the tables were too small, the furniture too ornate, and there
were too many very self-assured waiters hovering around. She ascertained that
Smythe wasn’t there yet, found that he had reserved a table for two, allowed
the maitre d’ to escort her to a seat, and ordered a mixed drink from the bar.
Smythe arrived about five minutes
later, walked directly to the bar, ordered a drink for himself, and then joined
her at the table.
“It’s good to see you again after
all these years, Virtue,” he said, greeting her with an artificial smile.
“How nice of you to say so,” she
replied dryly. “And how well you lie.”
“Let’s at least maintain the
illusion of civility,” he said, unperturbed. “Until we’re through with lunch,
anyway.”
“Suits me.”
He picked up his menu, pretended
to study it for a moment, recommended a dish to Virtue, signaled for a waiter,
and ordered for both of them.
“It’s been a long time,” he said
when the waiter had gone off to the kitchen. “What is it now—five years?”
“Six.”
“I’ve seen your byline from time
to time, when some of your features have come up for syndication. That was a
very nice piece you did on the war with the Borgaves.”
“Ugly beasts, aren’t they?” she
commented.
“How did you manage to land with
the first invasion wave?” he asked. “That’s usually reserved for senior
correspondents.”
“I bribed a nice young major.”
“That figures,” he said with a
tinge of bitterness.
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