people like me—like us—to get to the bottom of this. If we can.”
“But there’s no reason to suspect our guests. They’re not suspects. They’re customers .”
“I’m not treating them as suspects. I’m just looking to have, well, a little chat with each of them. Odds are none of them are involved, I know that. But I’d feel untrue to myself if I didn’t try to do what I could in the situation. This isn’t about trying to catch Havmurthy’s killer. It’s about—look, someone left me trussed up, naked, unco, in the ladies’, and that makes it personal, far as I’m concerned.”
“I still don’t like it. You can’t go all private dick on them—sorry, poor choice of words—just because they’re stuck with you for the next thirty-five thousand kilometres.”
“I’m not going all—like I said, just a chat. Just seeing how each of them is enjoying the descent. Perfectly innocent, completely above board. There’s no reason why an entertainments officer wouldn’t do that.”
“But Gord, we don’t have an entertainments officer.”
“We do now.”
* * *
Skyward Suites 270 had a dozen rooms and suites, but it was rare for them to all be occupied: space-elevator traffic was surprisingly seasonal, and also influenced by the schedules of the major interplanetary and interstellar cruise flights which departed from the Skytop Plaza. For this descent, 270 had just four guests. Gordon wasn’t at all sure how he was going to engineer a spontaneous, private, and ostensibly innocent encounter with each of them, but they’d be aboard for the next three days, so presumably the opportunity would arise.
He got his chance to meet-and-greet soon enough. In the foyer, Belle was showing a floor-plan map to one of the guests, a gaunt-looking man of indeterminate age, long hair, wire-rimmed spectacles and immoderately flamboyant clothing (headbands? sandals? and hadn’t paisley been declared extinct a decade and a half ago?), but it was the woman standing behind Mr Fashion Crime who quite arrested Gordon’s eye.
To be fair, Gordon suspected, she would have attracted the attention of almost anyone in possession of a pulse. There was something remarkably compelling about her appearance. Brunette hair which, although affecting disarray, managed to look not a strand out of place, framing as it did a face not so much chiselled as perfectly defined: exquisitely blue eyes, aquiline nose, full but not overly generous lips. And as for her outfit … Gordon fancied himself a snappy dresser, but in matters of sartoriality, this woman was an artist , and one with an exceptional palette to work with. She wore the kind of dress which is dangerous to stare too closely at, and an understated constellation of jewellery which perfectly complemented her shoes. In Skyward 270, she looked nothing so much as fabulously, gloriously, spectacularly out-of-place.
Somewhat appropriately, she also looked lost.
Gordon seized the moment, flashing his name badge as he approached her. “Welcome aboard Skyward 270. Gordon Mamon, at your service. Is there anything we—I—can help you with?”
“270? Now why does that sound familiar?” she asked. Gordon was abruptly made aware that, in addition to her stunning appearance, this woman was also possessed of a voice at once thoroughly unmelodic and several decibels the wrong side of shrill. Her pause was just long enough to ensure that every face within the lift-module’s foyer—Belle’s, Sue’s, and two of the other guests’—turned to hear whatever it was she would say next … which, as these things went, did not disappoint. “Oh, 270! So this is where all those people died! And you’re the famous Gordon Mastodon!”
“ Mamon ,” said Gordon, feeling the colour rise in his cheeks. “And if I may correct you, there were only ever two people who died on my watch, one of whom murdered the other.” So much for staying incognito , Gordon told himself. But he
“But there’s no reason to suspect our guests. They’re not suspects. They’re customers .”
“I’m not treating them as suspects. I’m just looking to have, well, a little chat with each of them. Odds are none of them are involved, I know that. But I’d feel untrue to myself if I didn’t try to do what I could in the situation. This isn’t about trying to catch Havmurthy’s killer. It’s about—look, someone left me trussed up, naked, unco, in the ladies’, and that makes it personal, far as I’m concerned.”
“I still don’t like it. You can’t go all private dick on them—sorry, poor choice of words—just because they’re stuck with you for the next thirty-five thousand kilometres.”
“I’m not going all—like I said, just a chat. Just seeing how each of them is enjoying the descent. Perfectly innocent, completely above board. There’s no reason why an entertainments officer wouldn’t do that.”
“But Gord, we don’t have an entertainments officer.”
“We do now.”
* * *
Skyward Suites 270 had a dozen rooms and suites, but it was rare for them to all be occupied: space-elevator traffic was surprisingly seasonal, and also influenced by the schedules of the major interplanetary and interstellar cruise flights which departed from the Skytop Plaza. For this descent, 270 had just four guests. Gordon wasn’t at all sure how he was going to engineer a spontaneous, private, and ostensibly innocent encounter with each of them, but they’d be aboard for the next three days, so presumably the opportunity would arise.
He got his chance to meet-and-greet soon enough. In the foyer, Belle was showing a floor-plan map to one of the guests, a gaunt-looking man of indeterminate age, long hair, wire-rimmed spectacles and immoderately flamboyant clothing (headbands? sandals? and hadn’t paisley been declared extinct a decade and a half ago?), but it was the woman standing behind Mr Fashion Crime who quite arrested Gordon’s eye.
To be fair, Gordon suspected, she would have attracted the attention of almost anyone in possession of a pulse. There was something remarkably compelling about her appearance. Brunette hair which, although affecting disarray, managed to look not a strand out of place, framing as it did a face not so much chiselled as perfectly defined: exquisitely blue eyes, aquiline nose, full but not overly generous lips. And as for her outfit … Gordon fancied himself a snappy dresser, but in matters of sartoriality, this woman was an artist , and one with an exceptional palette to work with. She wore the kind of dress which is dangerous to stare too closely at, and an understated constellation of jewellery which perfectly complemented her shoes. In Skyward 270, she looked nothing so much as fabulously, gloriously, spectacularly out-of-place.
Somewhat appropriately, she also looked lost.
Gordon seized the moment, flashing his name badge as he approached her. “Welcome aboard Skyward 270. Gordon Mamon, at your service. Is there anything we—I—can help you with?”
“270? Now why does that sound familiar?” she asked. Gordon was abruptly made aware that, in addition to her stunning appearance, this woman was also possessed of a voice at once thoroughly unmelodic and several decibels the wrong side of shrill. Her pause was just long enough to ensure that every face within the lift-module’s foyer—Belle’s, Sue’s, and two of the other guests’—turned to hear whatever it was she would say next … which, as these things went, did not disappoint. “Oh, 270! So this is where all those people died! And you’re the famous Gordon Mastodon!”
“ Mamon ,” said Gordon, feeling the colour rise in his cheeks. “And if I may correct you, there were only ever two people who died on my watch, one of whom murdered the other.” So much for staying incognito , Gordon told himself. But he
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