The Agent Gambit by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Page A
Authors: Steve Miller, Sharon Lee
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, adventure, Science Fiction - General, Fiction - Science Fiction, Space Opera, Science Fiction, Space Opera, Modern & contemporary fiction (post c 1945), Science Fiction - Adventure, General & Literary Fiction
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surface, snagging on the roughness of engraving. As she'd done a hundred times since she'd gotten the thing, she ran her finger over the engraving, trying to puzzle out the alien characters.
In the room outside her door, the comm unit buzzed once . . . twice.
Miri dumped the disk among her other treasures, sealed the hiding place, and was on her way to the door, threading the belt around her waist as she went.
VAL CON WAS ON HISFEET and moving as the comm buzzed a second time. He touched BLANK SCREEN and GO.
His eyebrows shot up as he saw one of his four captors of the night before standing in the lobby below, a squad of six ranged at his back, and he shook his head to banish the feeling of creeping déjà vu.
"Mr. Phillips?" demanded the man he recognized.
"Yes," Val Con said, taking the remote from its nesting place atop the comm.
"Mr. Connor Phillips," the leader insisted. "Former crew member on the Salene?"
Val Con strolled across the room to the bar. "It would be useless to deny it," he told the remote. "I was Cargo Master on Salene. To whom am I speaking? And why? I left instructions that I was not to be disturbed." He set the remote on the shiny bartop and activated the refreshment screen.
"My name is Peter Smith. I'm working with the police in the investigation of the explosion that took place at Terran Party Headquarters last night."
Val Con dialed a double brandy from the selection list "I am unenlightened, Mr. Smith. Unless I understand you to say that I am suspected of causing an explosion in-where was it? Terra Place?"
"Terran Party Headquarters." There was a real snarl in that correction, then a pause, as if for breath. "We're looking for a man named Terrence O'Grady, who caused the explosion and disappeared. We're asking everybody who's come on-world during the last fifteen days to answer a few questions about the-incident. Refusing to assist in a police investigation, Mr. Phillips," Pete said, with a very creditable amount of piety, "is a criminal offense."
Val Con dialed another brandy. "I am chastised."
Across the room, the door to Miri's bedroom opened and she came out, buckling her belt as she walked. She paused briefly in front of the comm screen before continuing on to the second bedroom.
"Mr. Smith," Val Con said, dialing yet another brandy. "It is really of no interest to me whether or not you catch this-individual-who blew up these headquarters. However, since you have already disturbed me, and since I have no wish to be treated as a criminal, you may as well ask your questions."
"That's fine," Pete said. "Now, if you'll tell the receptionist to let us up, we'll just take a few minutes of your time-"
"Mr. Smith, please. I said you may as well ask your questions. I did not say that I would welcome you into my home. The presence of a police representative would place me in a very awkward negotiating position at this moment."
Miri laid his gun silently on the bar and was gone, vanishing into the kitchen. Val Con dialed a brandy, clipped gun to belt, and waited.
After a pause, Pete's voice came again. "Okay, Mr. Phillips, if that's how you want it. Where were you last night between 10:45 p.m. and midnight?"
Miri reappeared, raised her brows at the row of brandy snifters on the bar, and passed silently on to survey the comm screen.
"Last night," Val Con said easily, "I was engaged with friends. There was a party, with fireworks and conversation." He dialed another brandy.
"I see. You can, of course, supply the name and address of your friends," Pete said. In the lobby, he jerked his head and two of his squad moved toward the elevators. Miri walked back to the bar.
"I can," Val Con was saying. "I won't. But I can."
"I see," Pete said again. "Mr. Phillips, do you know a man named Terrence O'Grady?"
"No." Val Con handed two brandies to Miri and waved toward her bedroom. She stood still, frowning; he reached into the depths of the bar, produced a flamestick, and tucked it in her belt.
In the room outside her door, the comm unit buzzed once . . . twice.
Miri dumped the disk among her other treasures, sealed the hiding place, and was on her way to the door, threading the belt around her waist as she went.
VAL CON WAS ON HISFEET and moving as the comm buzzed a second time. He touched BLANK SCREEN and GO.
His eyebrows shot up as he saw one of his four captors of the night before standing in the lobby below, a squad of six ranged at his back, and he shook his head to banish the feeling of creeping déjà vu.
"Mr. Phillips?" demanded the man he recognized.
"Yes," Val Con said, taking the remote from its nesting place atop the comm.
"Mr. Connor Phillips," the leader insisted. "Former crew member on the Salene?"
Val Con strolled across the room to the bar. "It would be useless to deny it," he told the remote. "I was Cargo Master on Salene. To whom am I speaking? And why? I left instructions that I was not to be disturbed." He set the remote on the shiny bartop and activated the refreshment screen.
"My name is Peter Smith. I'm working with the police in the investigation of the explosion that took place at Terran Party Headquarters last night."
Val Con dialed a double brandy from the selection list "I am unenlightened, Mr. Smith. Unless I understand you to say that I am suspected of causing an explosion in-where was it? Terra Place?"
"Terran Party Headquarters." There was a real snarl in that correction, then a pause, as if for breath. "We're looking for a man named Terrence O'Grady, who caused the explosion and disappeared. We're asking everybody who's come on-world during the last fifteen days to answer a few questions about the-incident. Refusing to assist in a police investigation, Mr. Phillips," Pete said, with a very creditable amount of piety, "is a criminal offense."
Val Con dialed another brandy. "I am chastised."
Across the room, the door to Miri's bedroom opened and she came out, buckling her belt as she walked. She paused briefly in front of the comm screen before continuing on to the second bedroom.
"Mr. Smith," Val Con said, dialing yet another brandy. "It is really of no interest to me whether or not you catch this-individual-who blew up these headquarters. However, since you have already disturbed me, and since I have no wish to be treated as a criminal, you may as well ask your questions."
"That's fine," Pete said. "Now, if you'll tell the receptionist to let us up, we'll just take a few minutes of your time-"
"Mr. Smith, please. I said you may as well ask your questions. I did not say that I would welcome you into my home. The presence of a police representative would place me in a very awkward negotiating position at this moment."
Miri laid his gun silently on the bar and was gone, vanishing into the kitchen. Val Con dialed a brandy, clipped gun to belt, and waited.
After a pause, Pete's voice came again. "Okay, Mr. Phillips, if that's how you want it. Where were you last night between 10:45 p.m. and midnight?"
Miri reappeared, raised her brows at the row of brandy snifters on the bar, and passed silently on to survey the comm screen.
"Last night," Val Con said easily, "I was engaged with friends. There was a party, with fireworks and conversation." He dialed another brandy.
"I see. You can, of course, supply the name and address of your friends," Pete said. In the lobby, he jerked his head and two of his squad moved toward the elevators. Miri walked back to the bar.
"I can," Val Con was saying. "I won't. But I can."
"I see," Pete said again. "Mr. Phillips, do you know a man named Terrence O'Grady?"
"No." Val Con handed two brandies to Miri and waved toward her bedroom. She stood still, frowning; he reached into the depths of the bar, produced a flamestick, and tucked it in her belt.
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