Wild Card: 2/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
III
They arrived in Dublin in the wee hours of the morning and parked their aircar in the lot to the rear of Finnian's Imports. The sign in the window, of course, announced that the little establishment was now closed for business, but Mark and Alan went confidently around to a side door. Alan rang the bell twice, paused and then rang twice more. They waited patiently in the entranceway. After a moment, footsteps approached and Alan was aware of the sensation of being watched.
The door opened with a soft click. "Come in, guys," a voice said, softly.
They entered a small hallway and stood blinking in the sudden illumination. Phil Connors closed the door behind them.
"Come into the kitchen," he whispered. "I've got a pot of coffee going."
They followed Connors into the kitchen. Phil was attired in a dark robe and a pair of furry, blue slippers, his red hair standing up straight on his head. He glanced at the wall chronometer.
"Man! Four A.M.! You guys want to catch a couple more hours of sleep, instead? I'll just reset the timer. You know where the guest room is."
"Sounds even better," Linley said. He pivoted on the last word and made for the guestroom. Alan followed.
"Y'know," he remarked, yanking on a pair of pajamas, "in lotsa ways, this life is a lot better than the one I had in the Patrol. The Jils don't care if you don't get enough sleep -- unless it starts affectin' your performance."
"Ah!" Alan exclaimed. "Now I know why you rescued me. It was so you could catch up on your sleep."
Mark half-fell into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. "I'll argue about that one in the mornin', brat," he said, and was instantly asleep.
It wasn't as easy for Alan. For twenty minutes he tossed and turned restlessly. He knew, of course, that the reason they had been summoned was because Phil was unable to get a more experienced Team. Desperately, he wanted to do well on this job -- to prove that he and Mark, unusual as their psychic pairing was, could be just as efficient as the other psychic Teams.
Mark lay still, snoring lustily. Alan glanced enviously at him across the short distance separating their beds. Quite obviously, Linley wasn't worried about the possibility of failure; but then, Mark never worried about failing. As far as Alan knew, Linley had never failed at anything during his whole ten years in the Viceregal Patrol. Mark had been a brilliant and very successful officer, the youngest man ever to reach the coveted rank of Strike Commander of a Jilectan battlecruiser. He was smart and resourceful ...
The thought was reassuring. Mark would be with him, after all, and for an instant, Alan wished that Mark might have been the psychic and he, Alan, the power pack ...
He turned on his stomach and closed his eyes. He *must* sleep. Tomorrow he would need all his psychic abilities in top condition, and that meant rest ...
He flopped over on his back again, trying desperately to turn his thoughts to other things. "'Twas brillig and the slithy toves did gire and gimble in the wabe ..."*
Mark's snores ceased abruptly and the former patrolman pushed himself to one elbow, his face a vague blur in the dimness.
"Somethin' eatin' at you, kid?"
"Huh? Sorry, Mark. Did I wake you up?"
"I been half awake for quite a while, listenin' to you doin' acrobatics." Mark sat up, running a hand through his blond hair. "What's buggin' you?"
Alan turned on his side. "Well ... nothing, really ... I guess."
Mark switched on the lamp. "Spit it out."
Alan sighed. "I'm just hoping that I do okay on this assignment. You know as well as I do that they wouldn't have called in a Team like us -- still in training and all -- unless they were desperate."
"Alan," Mark said, "quit worryin'."
"But Mark, what if I ..."
"Listen," Mark said. "Sure, you're inexperienced, but you're plenty smart, an' you got more guts than any two other guys I know. 'Sides, you ain't alone, remember?"
"Sure, Mark, but I'm the psychic, and they're depending on me."
"They're dependin' on both of us," Mark said, firmly. "We're partners. If you get bogged down, it's up to me to bail you out, an' I expect the same outta you if I get in over my head. We're a Team, an' don't you forget it."
"Okay, Mark." Alan was feeling much better.
"Now, for the luvvamike, go to sleep."
"Okay." Alan closed his eyes, feeling his body relax. He was asleep within moments.
**********
Alan awoke at 7 A.M. to the sound of someone knocking on the door. He sat up, knuckling his eyes. Mark was still sound asleep, his head buried under the pillow, snoring loudly.
Alan gave him a telekinetic nudge on the shoulder. "Wake up, Mark. Rise and shine."
The snores ceased, but Linley didn't move. Alan poked him telekinetically again. "Mark?"
Linley grunted. "Tell 'em I quit," he said. "This is worse than the Patrol. The hours are lousy."
Alan chuckled. "Last night you were saying how much better it was than the Patrol. Make up your mind, pal."
Mark removed the pillow and glowered at him. "I never said that!"
"Oh, yes you did." Alan swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. The floor was like ice beneath his bare feet and he yipped, grabbing for his slippers. Mark sat up, his blond hair wildly tousled.
"What'sa matter, Shorty? Ain'tcha used to Dublin weather, yet?"
Alan grabbed the robe draped over a chair next to his bed. "I'm going to take a hot shower. Brr!"
"Save some hot water for me." Mark lay down again, pulling the pillow back over his face. "I'll be there as soon as I can work up the nerve."
When they entered the kitchen, Phil was seated at the breakfast table, a cup of coffee in his hand. A little boy was perched in a high chair beside him, scattering cereal liberally around the table. As they approached, he upset the bowl completely and milk cascaded over the sides of the tray. Phil leaped up. "EMMA!"
"*Uh* oh!" the little boy announced. He grinned at Mark, revealing two budding teeth in his lower gums. He began to smear the tray enthusiastically with both chubby hands. "Ick!" he commented.
"EMMA!" Phil bellowed.
Phil's wife came running in. "What's wrong ... oh." Her expression became disgusted. "Really, dear, I think you could have taken care of it." She began to mop up the cereal very matter-of-factly. "I guess you're done, aren't you, Jeffy." She detached the tray and lifted the child down. "Good morning, Alan, Mark. Ready for breakfast?"
"And how!" Linley said.
"Be ready in a minute. Have some coffee while you're waiting." She turned to the stove, punching directions into the service computer.
Mark seated himself at the table, seizing the coffeepot in a manner reminiscent of a hawk pouncing on its prey. He poured coffee and took a long swallow.
"Ah! Now I'm beginnin' t'feel more human." He glanced down at Jeffy, who was pulling himself to a stand, utilizing Linley's pantleg for a brace. "Hope your mom cleaned your hands up good, kid. This is my last clean pair."
Emma turned from the computer and picked up her son. Mark surveyed his smeared pantleg with resignation. "I hope you ain't sendin' us anywhere too classy, Phil," he remarked.
Connors sighed. "I'm not sure where I'm sending you yet, Mark," he replied, "but we've got a kind of touchy problem dropped in our laps." He scowled into his coffee.
Alan poured himself a cup of the brew, loading it with cream and sugar. "Can you tell us what the problem is, Pop?" he inquired, cautiously.
"Pop" was the name Alan had coined for Connors. No one else in the Underground, with the exception of Linley, called him that. Phil -- Captain Connors of the Terran Underground -- was the coordinator of Underground activities here on Terra.
Connors set down his coffee cup. "We have what appears to be an emergency," he said. "I kind of hate to stick you two with it, since you're technically still in training, but I really don't have time to get anybody else. If I could have started you off last night, I would have, but ..." He paused, then continued. "Let me lay out the situation just as it was given to me, and you tell me if you think you can handle it." He scowled into his coffee again, then turned to Alan.
"Two days ago, a young man by the name of Woodrow Peeks -- Woodie, for short -- went on vacation. This wouldn't be of much interest to anybody, except for the fact that he's some kind of clerk in the Office of Long Range Strategic Planning, so he had to let his boss know where he was going."
"Makes sense," Linley commented. "So what?"
"Yesterday," Phil said, grimly, "something came up -- some routine matter or other -- and they tried to contact him. But he wasn't where he was supposed to be; in fact, they hadn't even seem him. He'd never arrived at his destination, nor were his mother and father aware that he was planning to visit them."
Linley whistled softly, refilling his coffee cup as Emma set a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. "Thanks, Emma." He took a bite. "They got any idea what happened to him?"
Phil shrugged. "Nope. He isn't in a position where he's learning top secrets, or anything. He's just a clerk, so if kidnappers have grabbed him, hoping to learn something, they're going to be disappointed."
"Then you think," Alan suggested tentatively, "that he's a spy?"
"It's possible." Connors' lips tightened. "The office handles long range plans for the eventuality of an attempted Jil takeover -- every situation they can hypothesize. It could be a big setback for us if they've gotten those plans."
Linley frowned thoughtfully. "Anythin' unusual happenin' where Woodie works in the next few days, Pop?" he inquired.
Connors looked at him in surprise. "Funny you should ask that, Mark. Something *is* happening -- day after tomorrow, in fact. They're auditing their entire computer system. Not all that unusual, but ..."
"Yeah." Linley rubbed a thumb across his freshly shaven jaw. "Interestin' coincidence."
"Whatever it is," Phil said, "the regular office will handle that angle. They're trying to trace the fellow's movements, too, but the boss is worried. If Peeks *was* an agent, he may have managed to get hold of information that could affect Terra's defenses against the Jils. We've got to find him fast. The boss thinks a psychic Team will have a better chance than his regular men, and I agree." Phil looked searchingly at Alan. "Think you can do it?"
Alan felt again that pang of uncertainty, but he tried to speak with confidence. "We'll certainly try our best, Phil, but how are we going to get near any of the places he's been? They'll have his house closed up to anybody unauthorized, and ..."
Mark nudged him, and Alan realized suddenly that Phil was smiling. He stopped, heat flooding his face. "Sorry."
"That's all right, Alan." Connor regained his serious expression, although Alan could see the corners of his mouth twitch. "You're not responsible for that angle. We've got all the necessary I.D. for you. Emma ..."
Phil's wife appeared beside them and set two small, plastic cards on the table. Alan's eyes were brown in the photo, and Linley's hair was dark, but otherwise, they looked the same. Mark grimaced. "I see a visit to the beautician in m'future," he remarked.
Emma patted him on the head. "I bought some of that temporary, non-toxic shampoo-in stuff that washes right out, Mark. Don't forget to do your eyebrows."
**********
IV
Three hours later, Alan and Mark arrived in Paris. Woodie Peeks was a small, unassuming man in his late twenties, according to the information and picture that Phil had given to them. He lived alone in an apartment house in a middle class section of town. They located the modest building and parked their aircar three blocks down. Mark dropped fractional credit coins into the parking meter, swearing under his breath at the clumsiness of his fingers in the gloves he wore. A tenth credit dropped from his hand, rolled into the gutter and disappeared down a storm drain. Linley cursed.
"I'll get it." Alan leaned over the drain for a moment, then turned to his partner. "Here you are."
"Thanks." Linley took the coin, feeling a little touch of envy for his youthful partner. "Wish I could do that."
"Me, too," Alan said. "Let's go, shall we? I'm cold."
Linley was, too. "Man," he remarked, as they strode along, "before I joined the Patrol, I didn't know there *was* such a thing as cold weather. Shallock's always hot, y'know. I never even saw snow until I was sixteen." He grinned a little at the memory. "I was just outta basic trainin', an' they assigned me to the 'Javelin'. Toyoma wasn't the Strike Commander then -- it was a guy by the name o' Mitchell Edwards. He's a Squadron Commander now, I think. Big, blond guy -- bigger'n me, even. Scared me half to death when I came aboard. Anyhow, our first stop was Riskell to pick up our resident Jil -- good ol' Salthvor, would you believe? An' it was in the middle o' winter when we arrived; snow all over the place. Man, I thought it was some weird, alien weather. There was this second classer there -- five, six years older'n me -- got a good laugh outta the whole thing. Filled m'dress boots fulla snow an' stuck 'em in the freezer. Musta brought 'em back just before we was supposed to get fixed up for His Lordship to come aboard, 'cause when I picked 'em up they was froze solid, fulla snow that'd turned into a chunk o' ice."
Alan looked horrified. "What did you *do*?"
"Thawed 'em out real quick an' wore soggy boots to welcome His Lordship aboard. Hadta stand out in the cold for a good hour, too. Toes was frostbit when we got done." Linley made a face. "Good ol' Jackson. He gave me a helluva time for about four months. Then he got himself busted for somethin' or other, an' I got m'promotion to second class. Didn't have no trouble after that. He never caught up to me again." Linley grinned, without modesty.
Alan laughed. "He must have been an awful troublemaker."
"Yeah, he was." Kept getting' busted for this an' that. I remember once he got good an' pickled, an' tried to slug our corporal. Ended up in the brig for a month."
"Gosh!"
"Yeah, a real jerk."
"Whatever happened to him?"
Mark shrugged. "Last I saw of him was when I got my field commission, three-and-a-half years later, an' they transferred me to the 'Juggernaut'. Jackson was still a second classer."
Alan snorted.
They rounded a corner, glancing at a street sign.
"This is it," Mark said. "How's your French?"
"Passable." Alan had been taking classes at the Lavirra Base's Academy. In spite of his commission, the Underground was still in the process of completing his cadet training. Alan was at the top of his class, Linley knew, even with such tough competition as Eric Vogleman, the best clairvoyant and psychic tracer in the Underground until Alan Westover had arrived. Mark often wondered if Eric wasn't secretly a little jealous of Alan. It must be a bit galling to be nudged out of first place so suddenly.
Mark, for reasons of his own, was also taking classes, but French wasn't among them.
The apartment building was located halfway down the block. They went up the steps side by side and entered.
A short hallway stretched before them and to their right, a sign on a green-tinted door announced the manager's office. Mark rapped sharply.
The door opened a moment later, revealing a short, plump man in his middle years.
Alan spoke glibly in French and the manager replied, looking dubiously at the card that Alan extended to him. He sighed and closed the door behind him. Alan nodded to Linley, and they started up the corridor.
They reached a lift, which opened as they approached, and this conveyance bore them upward to the third level. The manager disembarked, shuffling down the short passage to stop before a door. He fitted a key in the lock and the door slid smoothly aside.
Again, the man spoke to Alan, his voice plaintive. Alan looked a little unhappy, murmuring what Linley was certain was an apology, then entered the room. Linley followed, and the manager turned away. Alan closed the door almost on his heels.
"Good work." Mark raised an eyebrow at his partner. "You speak like a native. I'd never have guessed you've only been taking French just a few months. What was he sayin' back there, anyway?"
Alan shrugged. "He thought I was a little young to be with Terran Counterintelligence. I explained that I was new and wouldn't be here at all, except that you can't speak French. He also complained that we were disturbing the other tenants. It seems there were some investigators here all afternoon, yesterday."
"I ain't surprised." Linley glanced around the apartment. "Don't look too big, does it? S'pose there's anythin' here that the real cops missed?"
Alan looked dubious. "I sure hope so."
"Well, we better get crackin'," Mark said. "Better lock that door. We don't want nobody droppin' in, unannounced."
Alan did so, looking a little worried. "Gosh, I hope Phil isn't expecting miracles."
"We'll do what we can," Linley said. "Phil knows he's dropped a helluvan assignment on us. Let's move. Maybe we can find somethin' personal we can trace this character with."
They began their search. Mr. Peeks was evidently a very tidy individual, for the apartment was spotlessly clean. Linley surveyed the different rooms as Alan moved from place to place, one hand on his wrist to draw power for his psychic use. Slowly, the boy slid his fingers over the smooth surface of the dresser, then opened the top drawer.
"It's empty! Not even a pair of socks!"
"Or a tissue. Nothin' ..." Linley frowned, thoughtfully. "Looks t'me like he wasn't plannin' on comin' back."
"You might be right." Alan touched the neatly made bed, then turned to the closet, sliding it open. "Gosh! He took everything!"
Linley stared at the empty closet with a sense of consternation. Alan turned away and headed for the bathroom. Mark followed.
The bathroom shone. The mirror was crystal clear and even the soap dish held no film of soap. Towels hung neatly from their racks and a fuzzy, dark blue bath mat was placed precisely before the shower.
Mark swore softly. "Looks like he never used it."
"Well, it's a little reassuring that he left his towels behind."
"No it ain't. If I was plannin' t'make a break for it, I might take all my clothes, but I sure as hell wouldn't bother about the bath accessories."
"I suppose not," Alan said, reluctantly. "Let's try the kitchen."
The kitchen was spotless, dishes washed and precisely in their places. The drain board was empty of any sign of food preparation, the stove shiny and clean. Even the floor shone. Alan opened the cupboard, revealing two small cans of condensed soup and another of beans.
"Guy sure wasn't a very classy eater, was he?" Linley remarked.
"Either that, or he was hard up for money." Alan surveyed the scanty supplies, thoughtfully, then opened the refrigerator. A liter container of skim milk stood alone on the first shelf, and below it was a cube of margarine. Aside from these articles, the refrigerator was empty. Alan chewed his lip. "How much do they pay guys in his position, Mark?"
"I dunno, but he can't be that poor. Look at these dishes. You can bet your boots he didn't buy 'em in any second hand store."
Alan nodded, inspecting the delicately decorated plates. "That's true. They're pretty good quality." He glanced around the shining kitchen, then walked over to the table and picked up a small, blue ashtray sitting precisely in its center. Mark cursed softly.
"I ain't never seen a place this clean. I think you might be wrong, kid. The guy probably wasn't poor, but I'll bet he didn't use the place much. He probably had dozens o' classy girlfriends who cleaned the place for him an' took him out to dinner all the time."
Alan was silent, staring at the ashtray. Mark came over beside him, also examining the object. It was made of clear, blue glass and stamped on its bottom in gold letters were the words: "The Blue Owl Casino, Luna City".
"What is it?" Linley asked.
"I'm not sure." Alan's voice was distant. "Something about this ..." He paused. "Steve Gilbert might be a smart-mouthed kid, but he's a real good precog, and he said we'd be going to Luna City." He stopped again. "I've got a hunch, Mark. Let's call Phil."
"Whatcha thinkin'?"
"I was just wondering," Alan said, thoughtfully, "if Woodrow Peeks has spent any unusual amount of time in the gambling spots of Terra. Maybe Phil can find out for us."
**********
(tbc)
*With apologies to Lewis Carroll
