off shore, and one could follow the progress of the games while sunning on the beaches.
Because Plenish was too small for a rocketjet landing strip, the island could only be reached by rocketcopters and sea-rail, and occasional yachts of those still wealthy enough to afford them. It was truly an island paradise, not at all the sort of place where one would expect to find a revolutionary group of any sort. Stepping ashore from the sea-rail, Carl Crader’s first thought was that surely there’d been some mistake.
“Smell that salt air!” Minister Bails marveled, taking a deep breath. “Everything they said about this place is true!”
They dined together that evening, seated on the terrace of the hotel, overlooking the water. The food—broiled swordfish from the ocean—was good, and the conversation pleasant, but Crader was anxious to get on with the investigation. After dinner he excused himself and went down to the registration desk. There was no Euler Frost registered at the hotel, but the assistant manager informed him of a number of private homes and apartments that lined the island’s north shore. Perhaps the man he sought could be there.
Crader took a stroll through the warm evening air, keeping casually to the seawall while he headed toward the north end of the island. There were indeed a few houses here—big, elaborate mansions which seemed more in keeping with the twentieth century than the twenty-first. And there were apartment buildings, too. He consulted a listing of tenants at the entrance to one, but there was no Frost listed.
He strolled back to the island’s resort area, pausing to inspect the elaborate layout of the gambling casino. There were dice tables and card counters, and the electronic roulette which was so popular on the Riviera. But he saw no one who resembled the missing Frost. He even checked the vision-phone listings for the island, but of course there was no Frost.
Back at his hotel, he ordered a drink at the electric bar, then asked the barman, “Where would I find some of the HAND people?”
“What, sir?” the barman asked, looking puzzled.
“HAND,” Crader repeated. “It’s important I contact them.”
The barman shook his head and walked away. After a few moments he came back, drying the bar with a hand vacuum. “What is your room number, please, sir?” he asked quietly.
“546.”
“Go there. Someone will contact you.”
Crader nodded and finished his drink. He took his time about leaving, but finally drifted out. He crossed the plush lobby quickly and boarded the electronic elevator. In his fifth floor room he settled down to wait, studying the changing patterns of lights in the harbor below.
In ten minutes the door chime sounded, and he rose to answer it. Minister Bails was standing in the hallway, holding a blue plastic bag. “Oh, Crader! I just have to show you something I purchased today.”
“I was expecting someone else,” Crader mumbled, but he stepped aside to let the minister enter. “What have you got there?”
Bails closed the door behind him. “It was the most amazing bargain, really. …”
Crader had walked back to the center of the room, pacing nervously. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. If you could make it brief, I’m expecting another visitor.”
“That’s been taken care of,” Bails told him.
“What?”
He reached into the plastic bag and came out holding a stunner pistol. “Please, Mr. Crader—I hope you’ll forgive the slight deception. My name is not Bails, and I’m not a minister.”
“What in hell? …”
“My name is Graham Axman, and you are a prisoner of HAND.” He took a step backward and fired the stunner at Carl Crader’s chest.
8 EARL JAZINE
J AZINE HAD FEARED THAT his search for Hubert Ganger might take him all the way back to the Kansas Research Center where the man had first worked with Vander Defoe, but he was in luck. Ganger had an apartment outside Washington, not far from the National
Because Plenish was too small for a rocketjet landing strip, the island could only be reached by rocketcopters and sea-rail, and occasional yachts of those still wealthy enough to afford them. It was truly an island paradise, not at all the sort of place where one would expect to find a revolutionary group of any sort. Stepping ashore from the sea-rail, Carl Crader’s first thought was that surely there’d been some mistake.
“Smell that salt air!” Minister Bails marveled, taking a deep breath. “Everything they said about this place is true!”
They dined together that evening, seated on the terrace of the hotel, overlooking the water. The food—broiled swordfish from the ocean—was good, and the conversation pleasant, but Crader was anxious to get on with the investigation. After dinner he excused himself and went down to the registration desk. There was no Euler Frost registered at the hotel, but the assistant manager informed him of a number of private homes and apartments that lined the island’s north shore. Perhaps the man he sought could be there.
Crader took a stroll through the warm evening air, keeping casually to the seawall while he headed toward the north end of the island. There were indeed a few houses here—big, elaborate mansions which seemed more in keeping with the twentieth century than the twenty-first. And there were apartment buildings, too. He consulted a listing of tenants at the entrance to one, but there was no Frost listed.
He strolled back to the island’s resort area, pausing to inspect the elaborate layout of the gambling casino. There were dice tables and card counters, and the electronic roulette which was so popular on the Riviera. But he saw no one who resembled the missing Frost. He even checked the vision-phone listings for the island, but of course there was no Frost.
Back at his hotel, he ordered a drink at the electric bar, then asked the barman, “Where would I find some of the HAND people?”
“What, sir?” the barman asked, looking puzzled.
“HAND,” Crader repeated. “It’s important I contact them.”
The barman shook his head and walked away. After a few moments he came back, drying the bar with a hand vacuum. “What is your room number, please, sir?” he asked quietly.
“546.”
“Go there. Someone will contact you.”
Crader nodded and finished his drink. He took his time about leaving, but finally drifted out. He crossed the plush lobby quickly and boarded the electronic elevator. In his fifth floor room he settled down to wait, studying the changing patterns of lights in the harbor below.
In ten minutes the door chime sounded, and he rose to answer it. Minister Bails was standing in the hallway, holding a blue plastic bag. “Oh, Crader! I just have to show you something I purchased today.”
“I was expecting someone else,” Crader mumbled, but he stepped aside to let the minister enter. “What have you got there?”
Bails closed the door behind him. “It was the most amazing bargain, really. …”
Crader had walked back to the center of the room, pacing nervously. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. If you could make it brief, I’m expecting another visitor.”
“That’s been taken care of,” Bails told him.
“What?”
He reached into the plastic bag and came out holding a stunner pistol. “Please, Mr. Crader—I hope you’ll forgive the slight deception. My name is not Bails, and I’m not a minister.”
“What in hell? …”
“My name is Graham Axman, and you are a prisoner of HAND.” He took a step backward and fired the stunner at Carl Crader’s chest.
8 EARL JAZINE
J AZINE HAD FEARED THAT his search for Hubert Ganger might take him all the way back to the Kansas Research Center where the man had first worked with Vander Defoe, but he was in luck. Ganger had an apartment outside Washington, not far from the National
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