Murder in Space

2

The table assigned was set for seven, and Quicksilver discovered with mixed feelings that his companions for dinner were to be among those whom he had earlier glimpsed in the Starflite Lounge. These were the Matriarch, Great-Mother Parcella and one of her girls, the saucy-eyed little minx who had so boldly looked Hautley up and down: she was the Novice Alla. The other girls in the entourage dined in their suite; perhaps Great-Mother Parcella felt it needful to keep a close watch on this particular Novice, Hautley mused to himself with a private smile.

The entrepreneur was a brash, overdressed man named Jarles Rapsallion. He wore loud checked dinner clothes with large squares of black-and-silver, with a huge silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. Theoretically, this was an accessory limited by custom to the Nobility, but the sumptuary laws were not restrictive on the detail. Hautley found him boisterous, talkative, and boorish.

The fussy, self-important Magnate was called Turgo Barnavelt, an exporter of para-electronic components from Syrlon III. His shaped suit did all that a shaped suit could do to restrain or conceal his round little belly; he was red-faced and perspiring, and dictated memos into his hush-phone between bouts of conversation.

The gaunt Psychist deacon was also at their table: his name was Carrison Fane, en route to inspect the Deaconate on Arlion II. Both he and the Matriarch and her Novice declined the rather excellent wine in favor of tea; Rapsallion and Barnavelt, however, imbibed of cocktails rather freely, much to the detriment of the table conversation.

As for Taurean Hakefield, the red-headed girl was modishly attired in a discreet gown which fell in many alternately black-and-silver pleats to her knees, from a low yoke collar. Hautley found her quite entrancing. He lit a stimulette, offering one to her, which she politely declined. They sipped their cocktails.

Rapsallion seized control of the conversation early on. He was voyaging to the ocean world of Paragon, Quicksilver's own destination. There he hoped to raise sufficient capital to organize an aquatic extravaganza with divers, synchronized swimmers, trained eels, and such. He boasted loudly of his former theatrical triumphs and only the dour Psychlst, to whom he deferred, was able to interrupt his voluble monologue. The entrepreneur was, it turned out—and rather surprisingly—a devote convert to Psychist Science. He praised the abilities of Carrison Fane in this regard most fulsomely.

"We are a science, you know, Ser Hautley, not a group of woollybrained mystics! Meaning no offense, Great-Mother. Ours is an exact discipline, is it not, Deacon Fane? And capable of scientific validation."

"I know little of the subject," Quicksilver admitted, hoping to thus terminate the monologue. But, with the obstreperous fanaticism of a recent convert, the remark had the opposite effect. As their meals were served, Rapsallion urged Carrison Fane to give the scientific rationale behind Psychist Science. Deacon Fane looked slightly annoyed, but did so briefly, while munching on his salad.

"Psychist theory holds that, upon the death of an Individual, the vital energy or life force does not disperse, but conglomerates into what we call a 'prime node,' composed of twinned particles—vitons, which are the particles of life energy, and psychons, which are the particles of thought. The prime node, then, retains vitality as well as sentience, memory, self-awareness."

The Matriarch sniffed disparagingly, lips thinned in disapproval. Hautley murmured a polite phrase of interest.

"It is the purpose of our study groups—for we do not, of course, have churches per se, not being in any sense a religious cult—to become receptors, in communication with discarnate prime nodes. This is accomplished by a strict regimen of training, combining certain austerities, meditation, and, ah, the use of certain drugs which retard sensory immediacy—our awareness of our surroundings—and make a receptor such as myself the, um, channel of Psychist communion . . . the, ah—"

"Medium, perchance?" smiled Hautley. He reflected, over his entree, small roast fowl on sharp skewers, that under one name or another, this so-called "science" had been around for centuries—without, insofar as he was aware, yet attaining scientific credibility.

"How fascinating!" breathed Taurean Hakefield, sipping her wine. "Then you can actually communicate with the dead?"

Deacon Fane winced, as if the term were distasteful to him, even somewhat obscene.

"Our science teaches that there is no such thing as 'death,' Citizeness," he said reprovingly. "There is only the state of discarnation ...

At this point the Magnate Turgo Barnavelt interjected on a scoffing note. Coming from the Technarchate as he did, he could hardly be less than skeptical of this mystical philosophy dressed in the sober garb of a science. An exchange, while brief, became a trifle heated, with the Magnate demanding proof of such claims.

"Nothing would be simpler, Cn. Barnavelt," retorted Jarles Rapsallion. "Deacon Fane's cabin is not far; after dinner, perhaps all of you would care to join In what we call a Linkage, while the Deacon serves as receptor for Psychist communion. Visible, and even tangible, evidence will thus be displayed—unless, of course, you are inclined to doubt the evidence of your own senses! Surely, Deacon Fane, you will oblige these skeptics?"

The Psychist agreed with obvious reluctance.

Hautley elevated an inquiring brow, finishing his coffee and apertif. "And we are to be under the influence of the drugs you mention, Cn. Rapsallion? How can we know they do not contain hallucinogens or hypnotics?"

Carrison Fane took severe exception to this suggestion. "Naturally, Ser Hautley, we will eschew the use of the narcotics for the session which Rapsallion proposes," he snapped.

The Matriarch glared reprovingly about the table. "It would be highly unsuitable to one of my Order to attend such a superstitious debauch," she said harshly. "Neither would I care to subject my Novice to such a spiritual orgy!"

"Oh, but please, Great-Mother," urged the child Alia, with mischief in her sparkling eyes. "It would be so instructive!"

"And it sounds very entertaining," added Taurean Hakefield eagerly. "Please join us, Great-Mother! One of your sobriety and character will readily discern charlatanism, if any should be employed."

"I beg you, Great-Mother, to join us!" urged Jarles Rapsallion. "We are customarily seven at Linkage, just as we are seven at table here ... and if you decline to attend, we shall have to scare up two more, or cancel the demonstration."

"Very well, then," sniffed the Matriarch. "But I utterly disapprove of such meddlings in the Beyond!"

And so it was mutually agreed. Since all had by now finished their dessert, they repaired at once to the cabin occupied by Deacon Fane, which was only a few steps away.

Taurean Hakefield clung to Hautley's arm all the way, her amethyst eyes glistening with excitement and anticipation.