I said, bitterly.
“Hostilities have ceased,” he pointed out, “but there’s still a great deal of work for the Star Force to do. An interstellar war leaves an unimaginable amount of mess. Our colonies will need rebuilding—and we have to take care of the surviving Salamandrans too. Even in a penal battalion, you’d be doing vital and valuable work.”
I couldn’t derive much consolation from these helpful observations.
“Mr. Rousseau,” he said, kindly, “we are entirely happy for you to consider yourself a guest of Goodfellow, in spite of your awkward circumstances. We will make no charge for your food or for the use you might make of our information networks. But the law binds us as it binds you, and we must work within the constraints of the situation.”
He reminded me very strongly of my last jailer, 69-Aquila, who had also been scrupulously polite.
“I’m grateful,” I said, insincerely. “I would like to ask a couple of questions, if I may. I understand that the Star Force had been told that I was heading for the system, and a general instruction had apparently been issued to apprehend me. Is that right?”
“I believe so.”
“Do you know how they found out that I was coming? They couldn’t identify my ship until I relaxed the stresser, and I didn’t send any messages on ahead. Who told them to expect me?”
“I have no idea,” he replied, smoothly. “I infer that a message must have arrived from your point of departure while you were in transit.”
I’d inferred the same thing myself. A stress-pulse message would easily have beaten a ship in flight. But stress-pulse messages are very expensive, and are used very sparingly. Susarma Lear couldn’t have sent it, because her ship left Asgard long before mine. She must have reached the solar system months ago. She could certainly be responsible for labeling me a deserter, but there was no way she could have known that I was coming home. If the message telling the Star Force to expect me had come from Asgard, then it could only have come from the Tetrax. But how could the Tetrax have known that I was wanted? And why should they have cared?
It didn’t make sense.
“Dr. Khan,” I said, politely, “I’d be very grateful if you could use your influence to try to find out how the Star Force knew my ship was due. It could be vital to my defense.”
“I shall be pleased to do so,” he assured me. “Goodfellow is a civilized world, and I would not like you to think badly of us.”
I couldn’t really imagine that I’d be carrying any happy memories away, but I let the matter rest there. When Ayub Khan had gone, I sat down on the bed and tried to make myself feel better by counting a few blessings. At least, I told myself, I was still a rich man.
Then my other visitor arrived.
“Hello Rousseau,” he said, as he strolled in through the security-sealed door. “Small universe, isn’t it?”
I looked up at him in open astonishment. I hadn’t seen him for a long time, but I didn’t have the slightest difficulty in recognizing him.
“Jesus Christ!” I said. “John Finn!”
“Around here,” he told me, “I’m Jack Martin. I’d be obliged if you could remember that.”
John Finn was the black sheep of Mickey’s family. I’d known him slightly when we were all teenagers in the belt, but he and Mickey hadn’t been close. Whereas Mickey was big, shy, and awkward, John was small, sharp, and too clever by half. He’d come to Asgard once, having left the system for reasons he never fully explained. He’d had money—enough, at least, for a round-trip passenger ticket on a Tetron ship. But Mickey was dead by then. John didn’t seem too grief-stricken when he found out—just angry that Mickey had left the ship to me. Maybe if I’d thought Mickey would have wanted him to have it, I’d have given it to him, but I didn’t.
John had stayed on Asgard for six months or so. He had gone out into the levels a couple of times with a work-gang, but the work hadn’t been to his taste. He’d done a little work for the Tetrax on salvaged technics, but that hadn’t led to the kind of rewards he was looking for. He’d eventually headed back to the system. He hadn’t bothered to say goodbye. I hadn’t missed him.
“I’ll try to remember,” I promised, telling myself that at least he was a familiar face, and might even be friendly. “What are you doing here? And how did you get past the security lock on the door?”
“I came to visit,” he said, cockily. “And security locks are no problem. I’m the maintenance man around here.”
I shook my head in honest bewilderment. He sat down beside me on the bed, and crossed his legs. He seemed to be enjoying himself.
“Stayed in the outer system when I got back,” he said, nonchalantly. “Never did like the inner planets much. Belt boy, like you. Was on Titan for a while, and Ganymede. Signed on with Goodfellow to have a look at the local sats. Nice people. I do hired-help-type jobs: maintenance work, shuttle pilot, drive the ground-vehicles, that sort of thing. It’s not much, but it fills in until I can get some real work. I tell tall tales about Asgard. They say you went to the Center, met the makers.”
“Not quite,” I said. “I was a long way down. Had a brush with some people who could do very clever things with machines. Couldn’t say that we really got much of a conversation going. Still don’t know who built Asgard or why.” I matched his style of conversation effortlessly.
He sat down on the bed, and suggested a cup of coffee. I dialed up a couple of cups. It wasn’t as good as the stuff my Tetron organics produced, but that wasn’t surprising.
“You’re in trouble, Mike. They still call you Mike?”
“Yes, they do. And I am in trouble.”
“Star Force really want to nail you. They don’t send out that kind of alert signal for just anybody. Entire system’s been eagerly awaiting your return. Don’t know what you did, but you sure ruffled somebody’s feathers.”
“Star-captain named Susarma Lear,” I told him. “Funny, really—I could have sworn that we were getting along quite well toward the end. She didn’t like me, but she seemed willing enough to let me be. I guess I underestimated her.”
“I’ve heard of her,” said Finn. “Got quite a reputation. Ran some bold raids in Salamandran territory. Tits loaded down with medals. I can help you, you know.”
I studied him carefully. He had the same pinched face. He was wearing a little moustache now, which made him look like a Parisian pimp out of some old movie. I didn’t like his manner, which had always suggested to me that he’d overdosed on assertiveness training in the sixth grade.
“You can?” I countered, guardedly.
“Sure. Can get you out of here and away. Anywhere in the system you want to go—or out of it. If you stay in the system it’ll have to be Earth. Nowhere else big enough to hide. Still three billion people down in the hole. Lots of places where they don’t have full registration. Your people were Canadian, weren’t they? That’s not so good. Australia might be a different matter. Biotech desalination plants, desert reclamation...population climbing, lots of work, not many questions. On the other hand, maybe you’d be better off out
