F Paul Wilson - LaNague 02 (18 page)

           
The
intercom chimed and waited to be recognized. “I thought I told you not to
disturb me for the next few minutes,” deBloise said.

           
“I’m sorry,
sir,” the receptionist said, “but Mr. Proska is here and wishes to see you
immediately.”

           
The casual
observer would have noticed nothing. But Larry Easly’s training enabled him to
pick up certain cues immediately. His attention became riveted on deBloise.

           
The man was
terrified. At the mention of the name “Proska,” his body had become rigid;
there was the slightest blanching of the skin, the slightest tightening of the
mouth. To a trained observer, Elson deBloise was transmitting acute fear. His
voice, however, was remarkably calm when he spoke.

           
“Tell him
I’ll see him in a moment,” he said to the air, then turned back to Easly. “I’m
very sorry, but some urgent business has just come up and I’m afraid we’ll have
to cut this interview short. I’m leaving for Fed Central in a few days but will
probably return within a standard month. Please check with my secretary and
make another appointment.”

           
“But your
files–” Easly began

           
“We can
attend to that next month.” DeBloise rose. “But right now, you must excuse me.”

           
Easly
muttered a thank-you and made his exit. He was bitterly disappointed – those
files were crucial to his investigation. As he reentered the waiting room, he
saw only one occupant besides the receptionist. A small, sallow, balding man
sat with his hands on his knees, and rose as Easly left the inner office. Easly
was about to classify him as a timid nonentity until he caught a glimpse of the
man’s eyes as he passed. There was not a hint of timidity – nor love nor fear
nor hatred nor mercy, for that matter – to be found there.

           
This was
undoubtedly the Mr. Proska who struck such fear into the heart of the powerful,
secure, influential Sector Representative Elson deBloise. It was suddenly very
obvious to Easly that Mr. Proska had some sort of hold over deBloise; finding
out just what that was might prove useful.

           
“Excuse
me,” he said to the receptionist after the door to the inner office had closed
behind Proska. “Wasn’t that Harold Proska?”

           
The
receptionist smiled. “No, that was Cando Proska. Perhaps you know his brother.”

           
“Does he
have a brother?”

           
“I couldn’t
say.” She shrugged. “I believe he’s an old friend of Mr. deBloise’s. He stops
in now and then. But I really don’t know a thing about him.”

           
“I must be
thinking of someone else,” he said, and sauntered out of the waiting room.

           
An old
friend, eh? he thought as he walked across the hail and stepped into the down
chute. He fell at the rate of one kilometer per hour until he passed the
“Ground Floor” sign, then grabbed the handles and pulled himself out of the
chute and into the lobby. No old friend of mine ever scared me like that!

           
Pondering
his next move as he stepped out into the late morning sunlight, Easly suddenly
remembered that he was on a Restructurist world. And all worlds within the
Restructurist fold had a policy of maintaining what they called a
Data
Center
, a centralized bank where
vital, identifiable statistics of all natives and permanent residents were kept
on file. The information stored usually included date of birth, place of birth,
parents’ names, education, employment record, present location, and so on.

           
Easly
flagged a flittercab and headed for Copia’s municipal complex. He idly wished
that all planets had Data Centers – it would certainly make things easier for
someone in his line of work – but then banished the thought when he realized his
own vital statistics would be listed.

           
The Data
Centers were a natural outgrowth of Restructurist philosophy, which viewed
humanity as a mass and approached it as such. As a result, the government on a
Restructurist world was highly centralized and geared its actions toward what
it decided were the common denominators of the collective. To determine those
common denominators – to “better serve the public interest,” as it was wont to
put it – the government had to know all about the public in question.

           
Thus the
Data Centers. And since all men were brothers, all should have access to the
data. This was the Restructurist version of a truly “open society.”

           
Individuals
like Larry Easly and Josephine Finch and Old Pete posed a thorny problem for
Restructurist theory, however: sometimes consciously, most often unconsciously,
they refused to accept the common denominator for themselves and persisted in
sticking their heads above the level of the crowd. They thought brotherhood was
a nice idea but they didn’t think it could be institutionalized. And they never
ceased to be amazed at the amount of garbage other people would swallow if the
sugar coating were laid on thick enough.

           
The
flittercab dropped him off before a complex of Neo-Gothic abstract buildings
that housed the municipal offices of Copia. From there it was no problem
finding the
Data
Center
.
Slipping into an empty booth, he punched in the name Cando Proska. If the
little man had been born on Jebinose, his name would definitely be listed. If
he were an immigrant, there was still a good chance to locate him here.

           
A single
identity number flashed on the screen. Easly punched it in and hoped for the
best.

           
PROSKA,
Cando Lot 149, Hastingsville

           
Male

           
Age: 44
Jebinose years

           
Height:
1.58 M Weight: 68.2 Kg

           
Parents:
Carter & Dori Proska (Both deceased)

           
Developmental
environment: SW sector. Copia

           
Religion:
none

           
Political
affiliation: none

           
Marital
status: unattached

           
Offspring:
none

           
Education
history: Copia Psi-school, age 5-10

           
Copia
Secondary, age 11-16

           
Employment
history: Clerk, Jebinose Bureau of

           
Standards,
age 19-27 (voluntary termination)

           
Current
employment status: none

           
Little
question that this was the man: height, age, weight, it all seemed to fit. He
noted with interest the fact that Proska had dropped out of psi-school at age
ten. That was certainly unusual because there’s no such thing as losing a
psi-talent – you’re born with it and it stays with you the rest of your life.
The purpose of a psi-school is to hone and develop a native talent; therefore
you have to be able to demonstrate psionic ability before being accepted into
such a school.

           
And you
didn’t quit. People with psi-talents were always in demand; even those with the
most mediocre abilities were assured a good income for the rest of their lives.
Proska had been a student there for five years, which meant he had some psionic
talent. Why did he drop out?

           
And why
hadn’t he put the talent to use? He had spent eight years at the bottom rung in
a government office that even in the best of times was notable only for its
nuisance value. Then he quit again. No employment for the last seventeen years.
Also strange.

           
Not much
information, but Easly was satisfied with it as a starting point. And as a
little extra bonus, something had clicked in the back of his mind as he was
reviewing the information; he couldn’t place it right now – his brain often
made correlations without immediately informing him – but he knew from
experience not to push it. Sooner or later it would come to the surface.

           
He decided
that a quick look at Proska’s living quarters was in order and wrote down the
address. It was a calm, sunny day so he rented an open flitter and took it up
to a high hover level where he could put the vehicle in a holding pattern and consult
the directory. The autopilot code number for the aerial co-ordinates of
Lot
149, Hastingsville, was F278924B. Easly punched it in, set the speed at slow
cruise, and leaned back to enjoy the ride.

           
It took
longer than he anticipated. Instead of heading him toward inner Copia, the
autopilot took him northeast and outward. He had originally expected to find
himself over one of the poorer areas of the city, but now he was entering a
suburb.

           
The flitter
stopped and hovered over a sprawling mansion located in the center of an
obviously well-to-do neighborhood. He allowed the flitter to lose altitude so
he could get a better look. The house consisted of four octagonal buildings
connected in an irregular line and built at varying levels. The landscaping had
been extensive: the rest of the lot was covered with an intricate pattern of
color-co-ordinated shrubbery. A “149” on the landing platform confirmed the
address.

           
Not bad for
a man who hasn’t worked in seventeen years, Easly thought. Not bad at all.

           
As he
dropped lower, a number of bright red lights began to flash from the roof and
landing pad, a warning that clearance was required from below before he would
be allowed to land. Easly veered off and followed the fenced perimeter of the
property all the way around. His trained eye picked up traces that indicated
the presence of a very effective and very expensive automated security system.

           
He was
about to make another pass over the house when his peripheral vision caught
sight of a moving object to his left: another flitter was approaching. He gave
the guide stick a nudge and moved off in the opposite direction at an unhurried
pace. The other craft seemed to hesitate in the air, then landed at Proska’s
residence. There were two men inside – he was almost positive they were
deBloise and Proska – and they did not leave the vehicle right away.

           
Cursing
himself for his carelessness in renting an open flitter, he picked up speed and
altitude and set a course in the general direction of Copia. Of course, he did
have an excuse or two: he had made the erroneous assumption that Proska would
be living at a low socioeconomic level, and that his home would be somewhere in
the capital city where an extra flitter in the air would go completely
unnoticed.

           
But
Hastingsville was not in Copia; it was in an exurban area where his hovering
craft was like a vagrant leaf in a well-kept swimming pool. If deBloise had
recognized him, then Easly’s cover was most certainly in jeopardy. His policy
in any situation such as this was to assume the worst. That being the case, the
wisest thing he could do at this point was to get off-planet immediately.

           
But there
was one more thing he had to check before leaving. He looked up the aerial
co-ordinate code number for the psi-school in Copia, punched it in, and sat
back to review what he knew so far as the autopilot took over.

           
Proska was
blackmailing deBloise. That much was obvious. Easly had no idea what the lever
was, but it had to be a big one. Proska had no doubt squeezed the mansion and a
generous annuity out of deBloise’s personal fortune in return for his silence.
But there was more going on besides simple blackmail. DeBloise was in actual
physical terror of the little man.

           
The reason
for that could, perhaps, be found at the psi-school.

           
The flitter
stopped over an imposing, windowless, cuboid structure. Easly landed and walked
inside. He waited until someone who looked like a student strolled by.

           
“Excuse
me,” he asked a boy who looked to be about ten standard years of age. “Who’s
the dean?”

           
“Why, Dr.
Isaacs, of course.”

           
“How long’s
he been dean?”

           
The boy
shrugged. “How should I know? Check the plaque over there. You should be able
to figure it out from that.”

           
Easly
approached the indicated wall where a silvery metal plaque listed all the deans
and their period of tenure since the school’s founding. A man named Jacob
Howell had been dean thirty-four years ago. That was the man he wanted.

           
The
vidphone directory gave him the address and phone code of a Howell, Jacob, who
lived in Copia. Easly went to a booth, punched in the code, and waited. The
face of a thin, elderly man lit up the screen after the third chime.

           
“I’m sorry
to bother you, sir,” Easly said, “but are you the Dr. Jacob Howell who used to
be dean of the psi-school?”

           
“One and
the same,” the old man said with a smile. “What can I do for you?”