Yeoman's Duty

The Maghentis party swept grandly through the art-glassed Main Entrance, through the utilitarian Vestibule, and into the vast Lobby. Their entrance was somewhat spoiled when they were swallowed by the milling throng of conventioneers. The Lobby was a favorite gathering place of guests, especially those who were unaccustomed to such luxury. There, they could watch for celebrities and the show-off wealthy.

Although photography of guests without their permission was discouraged by the management, some of the Lobby loiterers aimed their ill-concealed videors at whom they chose. Many image-capture devices were triggered that morning as the newest arrivals glided gracefully through the crowd to the Registration Desk. Guests who recognized the party's grandee let their companions know it.

"Maghentis has arrived. The Antiquarians can begin bargaining now."

"Look! He has a Catwoman."

"Why not? He's filthy rich."

"Is that a priest with them?"

"No. It's his Swivant."

"Ahhh... I've never seen one of those."

"When your ship comes in, you can buy a Catwoman and a Swivant."

"I'd be satisfied just to have a Catwoman."

"You don't have the constitution for one."

"Does Maghentis?"

"He bought the vigor he needs."

"Quite a crowd," remarked Sir Myron Maghentis to his party. This was as close as he usually came to voicing a complaint. It was beneath his station to make tasteless remarks to hirelings. He saved his critical comments for his close family members, and he made those rarely.

His remark was not ignored by his management-provided escort, Miss Michelle, who was well trained to handle guest complaints. "Yes, Sir Myron. There are several conventions booked for this period. The resort is nearly at capacity." Her vaguely-sympathetic response demonstrated one of the many skills she had learned at the resort's academy. "The first step in dealing with a dissatisfied guest," her instructor had proclaimed, "is to assent to the complaint in a sympathetic manner. This often has a soothing effect and makes further measures unnecessary."

The grandee appreciated his escort's tactful reply. He was quite familiar with such treatment. He received it everywhere he went.

As the party reached the Desk, Miss Michelle presented the noble guest to the Desk Officer. "I have the honor of escorting the Maghentis party." The clerk bowed slightly. "Welcome to Zanadu, Sir Myron. Everything is in order for your stay with us. If you'll sign the register, please..." The D.O. pushed a gold-engraved leather-bound book toward the guest and proffered an old-fashioned, agate-handled ink pen. Plebeian guests registered electronically with their retinas, but noble guests proclaimed their identity in the ancient way which emphasized the worth of their honorable names. Maghentis's signature made a scratching sound that could scarcely be heard in the echoing bustle of the Lobby. He concluded with his customary flourish; the registration form allowed abundant space for this expected gesture.

"Thank you, Sir Myron. Miss Michelle will escort you to your suite. Your luggage has been delivered there."

Sir Myron smiled and grunted. "Michelle, I want to greet the other Antiquarians now. Please take me to their lounge and have someone escort Mizcat Anaalia to our suite." He gestured to the exotic-looking masked female in her skintight fur garment who stood at a respectful distance from him. "I'll take Yeoman and my bodyguard with me."

"As you wish, Sir Myron. If you'll step this way, please..."

The Catwoman purred and, showing her feloid teeth, mock-pleaded, "Don't be too long with the Old Boys, Myron."

"I have to hobnob with them for awhile, Anaalia. You might begin packing some things for our side trip."

As the reduced party headed for the lounge, a nondescript guest leaning against a greenstone column stopped puffing on his turko and addressed an unseen communicant up his sleeve. "The goods have arrived, sir." The reply he received was confined to the bones of his inner ears.

Miss Michelle glanced through the fisheye lens set in the ebonoak door to the Palladian Room. The current dedication of that lounge to the Society of Old Earth Antiquarians was proclaimed by a lighted display panel. "Here we are, Sir Myron." As she moved to pin a commedalion to Maghentis's uniform-like tunic, his bodyguard tensed but held his position. "If you require anything, just give me a call."

"Thank you, Miss Michelle. Your excellent service is much appreciated."

She held open the door. As the three men entered the lounge, bodyguard first, she fantasized about spending the generous gratuity she knew she would receive from this ultra-wealthy guest.

Terranic white sunlight spilled through the tall Palladian windows onto the thick beige polycarpet and the smartdraulic easy chairs which had been rearranged to accommodate the SOEA attendees in their customary fashion. Through the windows, the visitors could marvel at the formal gardens behind Old Main and the verdant golf courses stretching to the green hills. Sir Myron noted, "Every time I come to this world, I feel as if I'm back in West Virginia."

"Myron! It's about time!" A woman rose from her chair.

"When I was younger, I often arrived first, Cam." Camella Pardalis gave him a cheek-peck as she recalled those early days. "When we were young and beautiful, Myron. How could I forget?" Lady Camella was fashionably overdressed, and her pileated auburn hair was somewhat secured with gold-and-jeweled pins.

"Myron, have a seat and help us exaggerate our achievements." Zorab Tashjian was another dealer of Maghentis's status group. The ancient provincial official's mufti, wing collar, and red fez which he affected annoyed his relatives. But since he supported them in luxury, none had the temerity to complain that he resembled an Effendi of the sort they still contemplated with distaste, even after millennia.

"Gladly, Zorab. I have a some wry anecdotes."

"And some fine trade goods, I'll bet," offered Antonio Campasola, who preferred semiformal sports attire and who was quite athletic, for his age. Campasola put trade first and foremost. He rarely discussed nonprofessional matters. That could be bad for business.

"I save my best for these get-togethers, Tony." This wasn't entirely so, but it was a pleasant untruth.

"Have you brought along a celibate priest to intimidate us, Sir Myron?" growled Sander Goldthwaite. Dressed in a newly-wrinkled white tropical suit and spreading his corpulence into a one-and-a-half-size easy chair, the dealer spoke around his cigar as he contemplated Maghentis's assistant, Yeoman, who wore a clergyman's black suit and collar piece.

"Honestly, Sander, don't you ever read anything? He's a Swivant." Philomon Cascarelle was costumed as if he were a member of the Old Earth French court of Louis XVI. He stared at the Swivant with just a touch of disapproval, then tossed a glance at his willowy protégé, Ghenamet, whose real name was unknown even to his master. Ghenamet gave Cascarelle the obligatory knowing look, then resumed leering at Maghentis's muscular bodyguard, who had taken up station behind the chair his master had eased himself into.

"I know about Swivants, Phil. I've just never seen one up close. You know how rare they are," declared Goldthwaite.

"Hello, Phil, Sandy. Yes, they're indeed rare, and it's true that they've been psychically neutered. But I always refer to Yeoman as 'he.' I feel he deserves that."

"A yeoman, is he?"

"Yes, Zorab. I gave him that name because he serves me much as a yeoman serves the Captain of a star liner or a tour ship on the seas of Old Earth. Some of my ancestors were seafarers. My Yeoman has the information I need when I need it."

"How does he get it?" inquired Goldthwaite. "Is he a speed reader?"

"Of course. But can also memorize what he hears and never forget it."

"Never?"

"Not unless I tell him to. You see, he's much more than an autistic savant. He's been trained by the Swizurich Psychophysical Institute. Their secret guild therapy turns savants into Swivants who function better, intellectually and socially. Yeoman reacts quickly when I query him, and he can forget what I want him to forget."

"He seems to have forgotten us," observed Goldthwaite. "He's staring through the windows--or just at them."

"He dwells mostly in his own world. Sometimes he just silently counts things. It's a compulsion but also a useful talent. There are times when I need to have things counted."

"When you're at the gaming tables, perhaps?" Cascarelle smirked.

"My gambling days are over, Phil. If I have to lose money, I prefer that it be done entirely on my own recognizance."

"Well then, may I take Yeoman with me to the Casino tonight?"

"Sorry, Phil. They have a strict rule against it."

"Give us a Swivant demonstration, Myron," requested Lady Camella.

Maghentis stroked his neatly-trimmed beard. "Yeoman, list the exhibit items I've brought to the convention." Goldthwaite frowned, believing that Maghentis planned this demonstration to get his trade goods known to the other dealers in a dramatic manner.

Yeoman spoke in a soft, toneless voice. His delivery was the vocal equivalent of a computer printer. Maghentis was gratified to see that his fellow dealers were genuinely impressed. When Yeoman reached the dealer's newly-acquired medieval sardonyx chalice, Campasola gave a little cry of discovery, causing Yeoman to cease his delivery.

"I want that chalice, Myron. I have a customer who never refuses a monastic bauble, especially one like that. He's descended from a monk, you see." This remark engendered the expected laughter.

"I'm sure we can deal, Tony."

Goldthwaite interjected, "Has Yeoman memorized your entire inventory?"

"Not quite everything. I keep a few items on the QT."

"He must have cost you plenty."

"He did, but something less than a million New Credits." This was a subtle boast. After the Revaluation, a million was quite a lot.

Goldthwaite hadn't finished needling his powerful competitor, though. "I hear that you have a Catwoman now."

"A Catwoman?! Good Lord, Myron, I didn't know you had it in you," joked Campasola, untypically.

Maghentis responded a la noblesse oblige. "I haven't your natural good fitness, Tony. I had to pay the Swizurich for treatments. They made me feel so energetic, though, I went right out and leased Mizcat Anaalia from her agency."

"Really, Myron... at your age," scoffed Cascarelle.

"At my age, Phil. And it was worth every credit." He winked. "We're hiking up to Ridgetop Lodge after the exhibition. We'll rest on the Long Porch and watch the setting sun. We'll have a grand supper, and then... nothing like an exotic setting to stimulate the appetites, eh?"

In the silence that followed, their labored breathing showed the envy of the Old Boys.

The occupants of the Palladian Room formed tête-à-têtes for preliminary trading. Tomorrow, their wares would be displayed in one of Zanadu's high-security exhibition halls, but some dealers were unable to wait for the formal viewing.

Philomon Cascarelle had his chair moved next to Maghentis'. His protégé hovered behind him to silently participate. "Myron, I need something that only you can provide... your NorthAm monopoly, you know." His reference to Maghentis's enviable status with the North American Regional Authority had an edge to it that he was unable to suppress.

"Anything I have is yours, Phil."

"For a price, of course."

"That's the game."

"Well, what I need is a very rare techno-item from Sanfrisco before Great Quake II."

"Oh?"

"You have some items from that time, haven't you?"

"A few."

After most of the NorthAms, Euros, and Nihons had left for the outer worlds, the Underdevs scrambled for the vacated temperate lands, causing what was known to Earth historians as the Postmigratory Global Conflict, and to laypersons as the After War. Because of despoliation during the scramble, many fine- and techno-art objects of value were damaged or destroyed, although some were preserved by the new overlords.

The Maghentis family had, early on, allied themselves and their guardsmen with a winning coalition, and as a result, their landholdings, wealth, and influence had increased. Sir Myron and his brother, Sir Michael, became megabarons in the new NorthAm aristocracy. While his older sibling concerned himself with management of the family lands and enterprises, Sir Myron turned to the preservation and trade of antiques. He was now the wealthiest and most influential of the Old Earth Antiquarians, and his favor was sought by dealers everywhere.

"As you may know, Myron, many of my ancestors lived in Old Sanfrisco. They've left poignant records of their life in that hillish city. I grew up with those family memories. I'm building an Ancestral Memorial Hall now. In it, I've constructed a pre-Quake II Victorian home furnished with period artifacts. Outside it, I'm reproducing an authentic Sanfrisco street scene.... What do you think?" He paused to give his fellow dealer a chance to praise him.

"A magnificent gesture, Phil." Maghentis knew about Cascarelle's memorial, and he fully expected to be called upon to help furnish it. So far, though, the dealer had obtained what he needed from other sources.

"Well, what I want for my street scene is a passing trolleybus, just as my ancestor knew them. The No. 33 line, I think. Those buses drew sparks from the wires as they passed the house. It sounds terribly sentimental, I suppose, but..."

"A noble sentiment, Phil. What can I help you with?"

"Well, you probably know that when the electric power failed after Quake II, the streetcars and trolleybuses that survived the falling buildings were turned into emergency shelters. One of my distinguished ancestors was born in a bus."

"Hmmm..." Maghentis turned to his Swivant. "Yeoman, search our inventory for 'trolleybus.'"

"Recalling..." The Swivant closed his eyes as he searched his eidetic memory.

"I can hear the gears turning," remarked Ghenamet, who received a shushing rebuke from his master. Only the muted conversations of the other dealers broke the acoustically engineered quiet of the lounge. Shafts of sunlight from the windows now illuminated smaller areas at the periphery of the floor where the polycarpet gave way to tiled parquetry.

"Found: one entry."

"Specs, please, Yeoman." Maghentis's good manners extended even to his indentured servants.

"Item: Sanfrisco MUNI trolleybus hardware. Two trolley poles with trolley shoes, spring suspension gear, and rooftop electrical housing included. Also overhead wires, copper, two each, one span, with attachment insulators at each end."

"Is that all?" Cascarelle was unable to control his disappointment.

"You'll have to mock-up the rest, Phil. Any surviving bus bodies are in museums now. But what I have is genuine MUNI equipment."

"So what's the damage, Myron?" Cascarelle anxiously awaited the shock of revelation.

"I think you know what I want in trade, Phil."

Cascarelle thought for a moment. "Not the Speckled Dragon?"

"Yes, your exquisite chloromelanite figurine from Yunnan. The one with burmaruby eyes."

"For two old trolley poles and some wire?"

"For a suite of very rare electrical propulsion artifacts, Phil--nostalgic mementos of Old Sanfrisco. Of course, someone might have trolleybus items from Seattle or other places... Vancouver, maybe. You could substitute." His last remark was a traditional ploy.

"Well..." Cascarelle paused for due consideration, even though the outcome was certain.

"It's only nine centimeters tall, Phil."

"...What?..."

"The Speckled Dragon. It's not as if it were a life-sized statue from the Grand Avenue of the Ancient Spirits."

"Oh, alright. You win, as usual. Fortuitously, I brought the Dragon with me."

"I'm gratified to hear that, Phil. I, also..."

"Oh! I just knew it!" Cascarelle rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. His protégé smirked and Maghentis's bodyguard chuckled.

"And, Phil, I'll throw in a coachwork blueprint and a contemporary MUNI map so you can verify your bus's route number."

Cascarelle brightened a little. "Which you just happened to have with you, also. Thanks, Myron. I see you've done your homework. Where would we outer world dealers be without you?"

"Far from the home world, Phil."

Yeoman, whose services were instrumental to the deal, ignored the conversation as he seemingly counted and recounted window mullions.

The SOEA exhibition was over.

As Zanadu's Chief of Security, Rollo Tethka, worked at his deskcomp, the door annunciator chimed and the monitor windowed his visitor in a corner of the screen. A moment later, neurogenic circuitry made the ID.

Tethka moved rapidly to the door. "Welcome, Sir Myron. Please have a seat." The guest entered and was followed by his bodyguard and a young man dressed as a priest. The grandee sat in the visitor's chair and gestured to the priest-figure. "This is my Swivant, Yeoman."

"How do you do?" Tethka wasn't surprised when the Swivant ignored his greeting. The fellow seemed preoccupied with the objects on his cluttered desk.

Maghentis continued. "I'm off tomorrow to Ridgetop Lodge and I prefer to leave Yeoman behind."

"I see," said Tethka, interlacing his fingers.

"He's very valuable. I'd like to have him in a secure-but-hospitable facility while I'm gone."

"Of course, Sir Myron. I suggest we place him in the Daycare Center. The security's very good, there. It's where the children of our noble guests are often accommodated. Yeoman will be well looked after by Dr. Margarit, our KinderChief."

"That sounds satisfactory."

"If you please, Sir Myron, I'll take you there now." Tethka stood and rounded his desk.

"He seems at home here."

Maghentis and Tethka paused at the hallway door and looked back. Yeoman was playing a game of Pick Up Sticks with three children. Initially, these had been wary of the adult-child, but they came to accept him after Dr. Margarit told them about his abilities. They were impressed when he mumbled the correct number of the scattered sticks: 39. One of the girls checked the box to verify this. It originally held 40 sticks, but one of them was now missing.

Dr. Margarit guessed why the children had accepted the Swivant: he was an adult toward whom they could show disrespect without the usual consequences. What a wonderful toy for them, thought the cynical psychologist.

As they watched the scene, Tethka decided to learn more about Swivants by expressing his professional opinion about Yeoman's security. "Sir Myron, I'm concerned that someone could possibly infiltrate a kiddie operative into the Daycare Center in an effort to learn something proprietary from your Swivant."

"Thanks for your concern, Chief. Not to worry, though. Yeoman's keyed to retrieve only from an inquiry in my voice--and believe me, he has a very good ear. He's been tested against the best mimicvox programs. He can even request a password if in doubt."

"Yeoman can't be probed, conversationally, then?"

"He doesn't converse, just an occasional mumble. Of course, he comprehends others well enough to function in a group. But he doesn't babble like we do; he just stores and retrieves. Swivants are very internalized."

"The Swizurich has done a remarkable job of training them to function as infobots," admired Tethka.

"Swivants are much better than 'bots, Chief. Specialists can take a 'bot apart and hack out its secrets. But Yeoman would die without revealing anything to a stranger. My competitors could never learn my trade secrets from him."

"Might this reality fail to discourage someone from trying, Sir Myron."

"Possibly, Chief," said Maghentis, philosophically, as they stepped onto the polished decostone floor of the long basement hallway.

After supper, Dr. Margarit allowed Yeoman to stay up late to watch trivideos in the dayroom after the children had retired. A couple of the over privileged brats had demanded the same indulgence, but she had responded in her usual firm-but-fair manner.

Later, she tucked Yeoman into the bed closest to the doorway of the dormitory, where he could easily be watched by the Night Custodian. She'd been assured by Maghentis that his Swivant had been psychically desexed. But Dr. Margarit preferred to exercise the caution that her years of working with children had taught her. She wasn't concerned about Yeoman's psychosexuality. It was the urges of her seductive younger charges that troubled her. In her years as a kinderist, she had learned things about children that their parents never even suspected.

She also knew that, if Yeoman's unique abilities were diminished during a stay in her custody, there would be hell to pay. She intended to hand over Sir Myron's valuable Swivant in the same condition in which he'd been entrusted to her care.

Two days after the exhibition of the Society of Old Earth Antiquarians had concluded, Tethka's deskcomm beeped. "Registration here, Chief. I've just heard something from Ridgetop Lodge I think you should know about."

"Tell me."

"Sir Myron Maghentis passed away, yesterday." The word "died" was too crass for a grandee like Maghentis. Zanadu's staff was well trained in the nuance of reference to noble guests.

"What? How?" And why wasn't I immediately notified?

"Heart attack, diagnosed by Dr. Kitagawa. Maghentis hiked all the way up to the Lodge with his Catwoman. Doc says he passed on during the evening--in bed, if you take my meaning."

"I do. Thanks, Carl."

"It just goes to show you..."

"What?"

"You can't buy youth, no matter how much you spend trying."

"Yeah. How many of the SOEA Old Boys are still here?"

"Most of 'em. They're hanging around to gamble, play golf, take the waters."

"Thanks." Tethka disconnected and called Dr. Margarit in the Daycare Center.

"This is Rollo Tethka. I'm coming to see you about Yeoman."

"He's not here, Mr. Tethka. He was taken away early this morning by Maghentis's bodyguard. He said that Sir Myron needed him, right away." Tethka kept his anger under control. During his career as policeman and security specialist, he had seen many darkside shenanigans and he'd learned to save his outrage for those few times when it was called for.

"Thanks, Doctor." Trusted employees, the great weakness of every security system. He had in mind Maghentis's bodyguard, not Dr. Margarit, who always followed established procedures. He keyed Registration again.

"Carl, where are Maghentis's bodyguard and Catwoman."

"Uh... the Catwoman is in Maghentis's suite... and the bodyguard checked out this morning."

Tethka then verified from Transport Control that the bodyguard had telestaged off world shortly after leaving Zanadu--no luxury starliner for him this time. He was not accompanied by Yeoman.

Tethka headed for Maghentis's suite.

Mizcat Anaalia reclined on a white leatheroid couch. She purred softly and made gestures with her tail, that part of her traditional costume that most intrigued onlookers who wanted to know how she was able to move the appendage so artfully. Some even believed that her coccyx had been elongated to accomplish this. But the news media denied that, maintaining that it was merely a feat of neuromechanical engineering.

The fur of Anaalia's garment was black-and-gray striped in the Angora style. Did Sir Myron request a Mizcat in the style of his childhood tabby? The upper half of her face was covered with a mask decorated with tiger vibrissae. The overall effect was so striking it was understandable that some believed Catwomen to be the result of genetic manipulation. In fact, Mizcats were created by the psychophysical training of talented females and their fitting with superb costuming.

"He died during coitus usitatus, Tethka. He was too tired for variations. We'd hiked all day in the hot sun. Afterwards, Sir Myron ate a big supper. I advised against it--but who am I? A mere hireling. I administered all the first aid I was taught, but his heart just gave out. He refused an artificial one, you know. He had too much faith in Swizurich nostrums."

"I'm sorry I had to ask, Mizcat Anaalia, but his family will want to know exactly how he died. Now, about his bodyguard: when did he leave Ridgetop?"

"Shortly after I summoned him. He said he was going for the resort's Associate Physician, who's stationed at Ridgetop. After that, I never saw him again. In fact, I don't even know Max's surname."

"Have you seen Yeoman since you returned from Ridgetop?"

"No. I thought he was in your custody."

"Thanks for your cooperation, Mizcat Anaalia. Have you made your travel arrangements?"

"I'll leave tomorrow for the nearest branch of my agency. We have standard procedures for dealing with situations like this."

"Oh?" said Tethka before he could stop himself.

"Of course. Sir Myron wasn't the only old man to die on me."

In the walnut-paneled elegance of the General Manager's office, Tethka stood before the Louis Quinze tabledesk of Arthur Clive Oliver Chance-Pemberton. The GenMan was a sophisticated, diplomatic administrator. He'd been chosen for his noble manners and his skill for getting things done without creating discord. He had a staff to twist arms and pinch pennies. He patiently listened to his Chief of Security, a man in whom he had the greatest confidence.

"I don't believe that Maghentis's bodyguard got the Swivant away from Zanadu, General. My guess is that he stashed him somewhere on the grounds. Someone else will pick him up after the fuss dies down and smuggle him off world."

"Hmmm... that's a lot of territory to search. Do you believe the bodyguard was acting for one of Maghentis's competitors?" Chance-Pemberton preserved his magisterial air while cutting to the heart of the matter.

"He may have been spying for one of them. But when Maghentis died suddenly, I believe he took the opportunity to make some big money by stealing the Swivant. Yeoman has most of Maghentis's inventory, plus trade secrets, in his memory. Even a fraction of what that's worth would be a bonanza for...uh..." He referred to his notebook. "Maksim Krasnov. He's known to have previously defected from an employer. My NovySlav contact wondered why Maghentis hired someone with his spotty record. Of course, as a bodyguard, he's the best, Spetznaz-trained and tested. Anyway, I'm watching the SOEA dealers to make sure one of them doesn't depart with Maghentis's Swivant. But I doubt that a dealer would just waltz out of here with him."

"Better have your chambermaid operatives check the suites of the remaining dealers."

"I have them working on that now, sir, and I'll personally search Old Main's subbasements. It's possible that Kraznov bribed one of our maintenance people. There's a lot of space down there for hiding things."

"Good, Chief. Keep me posted."

In the sallow light of Subbasement-A, Tethka and Elmo Greif, Zanadu's Guard Captain, worked their way down the wide hall, checking each storeroom with a LyfeTektor. The musty air smelled of old concrete and ozone from electrical machinery.

"I've got lifesigns from this one, Chief." But Greif couldn't open the doorlock. "The lock doesn't respond to the master code."

"Have you authorized a special closure?"

"Nope. You know, we should have had centralized control on these storeroom doors, but the architects said we didn't need it. They just wanted to save money so they could spend it on decorations." Greif had been with Zanadu since its opening. He reached mandatory retirement age several years ago, but his record was so good the management had granted him an exemption. Cynics whispered that he got one because he knew where Zanadu's skeletons were hidden, and that the idea was to keep him working until he died on the job.

"The last time I found a wangled door, our guys were running a card room behind it. I ignored it 'til some guests found their way down here and lost their shirts."

"Let's hope it's only something like that now, Cap'n. The last thing I want to find down here is a damaged Swivant. Sir Michael Maghentis will make waves about this screwup."

"Listen! The 'tube!" Despite his age, Greif had heard the whisper of air from the liftube which meant that someone was approaching this floor. Tethka had never acquired that skill.

The Captain moved quickly to unlock the storeroom across the hall. "Let's get in here."

The liftube chime sounded. It was a warning that someone was about to step from it into the hallway. Greif closed the storeroom door and opened its louvers so they could peep at the locked room across the hall. The louvers' little-used mechanism made a sharp crack. They couldn't tell whether this had alerted the approacher... whose footfalls didn't hesitate.

As the two officers watched, a maintenance man they both knew unlocked the door of the opposite storeroom and entered, carrying a meal tray from the staff kitchen. He left the door ajar. They couldn't see him after he moved out of their sightline, but they heard a table being pushed across the floor and the tray being dropped onto it.

"Here's your chow, kid. Eat up."

enter>Conversation

The Chief and the Captain glared at Yeoman's jailer, who was crestfallen and fearful. He knew what Zanadu's policy was toward errant employees. No one who stole from a guest was ever given a second chance.

"Krasnov said he'd hurt my family unless I hid Maghentis's psycho for him."

Tethka guessed that the man was lying. More likely, he'd been promised a large amount of money for his criminal assistance.

"Did anybody else talk to you about doing this?"

"No, just Krasnov. But he said a big guy was involved. He said someone would pick up the kid, soon."

"Get back to work, George. The GenMan'll deal with you, later."

"Look, Chief, I..."

"Get him out of here, Cap'n."

"Let's go, Georgie." The Captain pushed the maintenance man into the hallway.

Tethka turned to Yeoman, who was sitting on a cot eating his meal as if he were the only one in the room. Tethka sat not-too-closely beside him and wondered how to begin. He guessed he wouldn't have much luck conversing with the reclusive Swivant. He avoided eye contact with the young man, preferring to establish an unthreatening presence.

Yeoman appeared to be in his twenties. To Tethka, whose knowledge of Old Earth was from stills and trivids, the Swivant's facial features seemed to be those of a typical Old Earth mixed-race person. He was short, slightly built, had dark hair, dark eyes, and an olive complexion. He chewed his food thoroughly, and never glanced at Tethka.

Is this nature or nurture? "Yeoman, I'm Zanadu's Chief of Security. I've been looking for you since Krasnov took you from the Daycare Center. Sir Myron Maghentis has died. We're going to keep you here until Sir Michael Maghentis sends someone to take you back to Earth."

None of this information had any effect. "Do you understand what's happened to you?"

No reaction.

"Do you remember the man who brought you here?"

Silence.

Tethka, deciding it was hopeless to continue, arose and was about to key his wristcomm when...

"Krasnov," the Swivant mumbled.

"Krasnov--yes." A pulse of excitement jolted Tethka. The guy was conversing. He resumed his interrogation.

"Did any other man besides Krasnov or George come here?"

"A gentleman came."

Tethka felt he was either making history or merely discovering an open secret about Swivants. "Did you recognize the gentleman?"

"No."

Tethka knew that, if Yeoman had ever seen the man before, he would certainly remember him. He decided to wait until the Swivant finished his meal before continuing.

Yeoman's sat up on his cot, embracing his knees and staring at the dimly-lighted space on the other side of the room, where boxes of old computer printouts were piled on steel shelves, labeled and forgotten. He seemed to be trying to read the yellowing labels.

"What did George and the gentleman talk about?"

"Recalling: 'Here he is, sir.... Well, well. Maghentis's secrets in a neat package, and all mine now.... Are you just gonna walk out of here with him, sir?.... Of course not. Soon, my men will pick him up. They'll disguise him and smuggle him back to my world. After a decent interval, I'll claim that I bought him from Maghentis before he died. I'll have the proper documentation and Krasnov as my witness. Sir Michael can pound sand.... How about me, sir?.... You'll quit your job and follow the Swivant to Tarshish, moving up several classes in the process.... Sounds good, sir.... I've got to get back upstairs now. Just make sure Yeoman stays safe 'til my guys get here.... Yes, sir. You can count on me.'"

Tethka's jaw dropped at the Swivant's amazing recall. Yeoman, having seemingly delivered himself of just another retrieval, fell silent.

Tarshish? He'd have to check, but Tethka guessed that only one of the SOEA Old Boys hailed from that world. The dealer was foolish to have sounded off like that in front of Yeoman and be indicted by his own words.

Tethka also knew that Zanadu would hush up the whole incident. George, the maintenance man, would be fired and escorted off the grounds, with a black mark against his name which would follow him like his shadow. Yeoman would be handed over to Sir Michael's men after their identification had been established beyond a doubt. And Tethka would receive another letter of commendation.

The Society of Old Earth Antiquarians would continue to hold their prestigious conventions at conveniently-located Zanadu.

Tethka was encouraged to continue his interrogation of the fascinating Swivant. "Yeoman, do you remember your life before you were taken to the Swizurich?"

The young man smirked at Tethka. His eyes brightened and his demeanor abruptly changed. "Guess."

Tethka gaped at the transformation.

"Let's drop the Swivant act, Tethka. I'm not the zombie you think I am. I've never even visited Switzerland. I'm a Adept, First Class, of the Obscure Order of Mentals. I trained for fifteen years in a school on... an obscure world. I earned Triple Honors in memorizing, processing, and hypothesizing." He arched his eyebrows. "Surprised?"

"Yes indeed. I've never even heard of the 'Order of Mentals.'"

Yeoman's frowned. "That's why it's called 'Obscure.' Sir Myron Maghentis learned of the Order, and he became its biggest donor. I was free-leased to him as a gift for his financial support. He needed someone of extraordinary talent to advise him in his business affairs--someone who was sufficiently self-disciplined to play the role of a dopey Swivant. My research and my advice raised my master to the top of the antiquarian heap. Of course, I couldn't receive any credit for my secret accomplishments. Maghentis didn't want anyone to know that an Underdev kid was virtually running his firm.... And my Order doesn't want too many to know about its successes in mental enhancement. They deal only with a super-wealthy, super-discrete clientele."

"So... what'll happen to you now?"

"The Order will lease me to somebody else--not Sir Michael Maghentis--he's never approved of my place in the family business. If I end up employed by another antiquarian, I'll persuade him to buy Sir Myron's goods, and I'll make him the next SOEA Big Dog."

"That's quite a story. You've probably wanted a long time to tell it to somebody. But you really shouldn't have told me."

"I shouldn't have. But if you promise to keep it all to yourself, I'll give you a valuable jade statuette that Maghentis traded-for here. A slight twitch in my memory, and it'll be legally yours. You can set it above your fireplace for visitors to admire, or you can sell it to make your retirement a lot easier."

"Great. That'll be my first bribe," replied the jaded SecChief, sarcastically.

"I'm sure it will be."

Tethka paused for a moment of reflection. "I'm wondering... what would I have to do to join the Obscure Order of Mentals?

Yeoman harrumphed. "You'd have to regress to your childhood. Only an orphan peewee can become a Mental. And only those who show great promise and whose test scores are in the stratosphere. Dummies not wanted.... No offense meant, Chief."

"None taken. Let's go get the Speckled Dragon."

Yeoman squinted at the Chief of Security. "How do you know about the Dragon? It's a HyValu unlisted item."

"I'm no dummy. I have secrets too, you know."

THE END

Bio: Frederick Rustam is a retired federal civil servant. He formerly indexed and retrieved technical reports and processed indexing terminology for the Dept. of Defense. In his twilight years, he studies information retrieval technology/sociology and writes science fiction short stories for webzines

E-mail: Frederick Rustam

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