Murder in Space

1

At Ardarcar Station, Hautley Quicksilver boarded the IVS luxury liner, Arthur C. Clarke. While standing in line, he thought grimly to himself that this trip had better be everything he wished it to be. It was his friend and sometime colleague, Barsine Torsche, who had recommended the Clarke to him; he had made his reservations for the vacation with some trepidation: previous vacation trips on the IVS liners Olaf Stapledon and Robert A. Heinlein had proved less than salubrious experiences, to one of his fastidious taste.

The reception clerk at the desk was, he noted with mild surprise, a human being, rather than a robotic servitor. This was only to be the first of the many surprises—some pleasant and some less than pleasant—which awaited him on the voyage to come.

Quicksilver proffered his Citizen's Card, a thin wafer of indestructible, and also uncounterfeitable, plastex, which the clerk inserted into the console slot. Instants later the viewpanel informed the clerk that Ser Hautley Quicksilver's credit rating was thus-and-such, his visa status thus-and-so, and that his identity was confirmed.

Hautley rode the gravity well up to Starflite Deck, where the most luxurious accommodations were reserved for those whose social rank, or at least wealth, were commensurate. He entered his suite, an airy, sunny sequence of rooms, to find a servitor acting as valet, unpacking his luggage and storing his things neatly away in wall-cubicles. The servitor turned upon him a bland, pleasant face of flesh-tinted synthetic and inquired in a mellow voder if there was anything he desired. Hautley shook his head and left the suite, and sought the bar in the lounge.

Another surprise: the bartender was also human, no servitor: a silver-haired man of exquisite manners and indeterminate age, who assembled the cocktail which Hautley ordered with the care and precision of a sculptor preparing a masterpiece. Hautley sipped the beverage and relaxed.

From where he sat at the head of the bar, transparent panels gave a broad view of the lounge itself; thus, Hautley gained his first look at those who would be his companions on the Journey. Would he make new friends, arrange new erotic liaisons, find enemies? There was no predicting these eventualities, but their very unpredictability was one of the elements which caused Hautley to savor life to the fullest.

There went past in stately robes a Chonga Taivena Matriarch with her usual entourage of pubescent girls. These were attired in severe gowns which covered their bodies from throat to wrist and heel, while their hair was decently kerchiefed in sober colors. For the most part they paced along behind the Matriarch with modestly downcast eyes, all but one bright-eyed little minx who glanced up, caught Hautley's eye, looked him up and down with brazen appraisal, smiled a slow smile with parted, moist, watermelon-pink lips, and passed on.

Hautley elevated one brow, and shook his head, musing: the Matriarch will have her hands full watching over that one.

A plump Magnate from one of the Technarch worlds came waddling by, importantly dictating in a hush-phone strapped to his fat throat, followed by three innocuous clerks. He was followed next by an imperial courier whose brassard-of-office gave him precedence over anyone of lower rank than a reigning monarch. This particular individual was lean as a whippet, face like space-tanned leather, with ivory hair.

Then came a brash personage, red-faced and hearty, whose expensive but rather gaudy costume fairly advertised him to be some sort of a theatrical entrepreneur. He was conversing loudly with two other men, possibly employees, or clients.

Hautley sipped his cocktail meditatively, watching the passing show. Several Cornpanions were now circulating in the lounge of the starship, some male, some female. The men were either pale, slender and epicene, or brawny and bronzed; the girls were all very young and of extraordinary beauty. For the most part these last wore frocks of fashionable transplex, that fabric which has the disconcerting property of becoming completely trаnspаrent, here and there, at spaced intervals. One of the girls had her back to Quicksilver and was conversing with two men at a table, although she was standing: as he idly watched, a portion of her gown became transparent, revealing an enticingly globular brown buttock.

Turning away, the girl caught Hautley's eyes, smiled, and came towards where he sat. She had an intriguingly lopsided smile, and amethyst eyes, probably ion-dyed. Her hair, worn long and sleek, was of an unusual shade of very dark red. As she strolled towards him, between the tables, another panel of her gown went transparent, revealing her left breast, which was perfectly shaped, with a pouting pink nipple: it was obvious the young woman wore no underclothing at all.

She entered the bar and came up to him; Hautley gestured to the next seat.

"I am not really looking for a Companion, citizeness, but let me buy you a drink. Bartender?"

She ordered a Cinnabar Moonrise, and they toasted each other. Her amethyst eyes were flirtatious, but also demure: an interesting combination, thought Hautley.

"Are you on business or vacation?" the girl inquired in a warm, husky voice.

"Vacation, I'm glad to say. I'm bound for Paragon; I have a yearning for white beaches, emerald palms, warm lagoons, dusky maidens," he said half-humorously. She laughed, and, without being at all as brazen about it as had the precocious Novice in the entourage of the Chonga Taivena Matriarch, appraised him. Tall, lean, mahogany-tanned, his pewtergray locks meticulously arranged across his brow in a frieze that suggested a bust from imperial Rome. His shaped suit was of expensive cut, but decorous; his personal jewelry discreet but valuable.

They chatted lightly: there would be a dance that night after dinner in the Grand Hall; tomorrow night, there would be a masquerade, with prizes. A costume shop on the Mall would be open early, so that entrants might procure their garments and masks. Finishing her cocktail, and declining in a friendly manner his proffer of a second, she shook hands with him—a surprisingly masculine gesture which he found titillating.

"I must go; but here is my Code. If you wish a Companion, please ring for me. You have an interesting face. My name is Taurean Hakefield." She smiled again, that whimsical, lopsided smile, and sauntered away. Hautley gazed after her, speculatively.

On his way out of the bar after her, Hautley almost collided with a tall, gaunt man with a long jaw and sad eyes. He wore the gray tunic and white-winged collar of a Psychist deacon. They exchanged polite apologies.

Now why would a member of that harsh, dour cult be riding on an expensive luxury liner? Hautley asked of himself, striding on.

The answer was not at all apparent .

At some interval while Hautley had talked to the girl, Taurean Hakefield, in the bar, the Arthur C. Clarke had slipped her moorings and had entered flight mode. The transition from parking orbit to free flight had been accomplished so adroitly that even Quicksilver, with his keen, alert senses, had not discerned it.

He changed for dinner: formal dinnerwear this year was black-and-silver, and Hautley donned a shaped suit zebra-striped in those hues. Upon sudden impulse, he dialled the Code which Taurean Hakefield had given him and invited her to join him for dinner. She replied that she would be delighted to do so.

He descended to the dining room in pleasant anticipation of an excellent meal and interesting companionship. It did not occur to Hautley that he was embarking upon an adventure.