From the End of the Twentieth Century by Ford John M

Author:Ford, John M. [Ford, John M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780915368730
Amazon: 0915368730
Goodreads: 597647
Publisher: Nesfa Pr
Published: 1997-02-01T08:00:00+00:00

It was late afternoon when de Vere and Hawks entered the office building, stepped into the lift. Through green-gold glass, the courtyard, then the Port, unrolled below them.

“You’ve done well for yourself, Leah. But then, I knew…” He shook his head, turned away from the window.

The car came to a stop, and abruptly de Vere knew they should have taken the private lift. She had wanted to show him the view. But too late now to change; the doors opened like curtains on the lobby mural.

Hawks stared at the heroic vision of himself, then laughed. “Oh, Leah, it’s … oh, Leah my dear.”

A shadow fell across the painting. De Vere stepped quickly from the lift, almost speaking Penfield’s name; but it was no one she knew.

It was a large, wide-shouldered man in an extremely plain gray suit. His flat face showed old scars, one splitting his left eyebrow, and his nose was impossibly perfect, a complete rebuild. One big, scar-seamed hand held a briefcase of the same gray as the suit.

“Trader de Vere?” he said, in a coarse but calm voice. “And Light-Captain Hawks, I think?” The painted Hawks, twice life size, was pointing over the man’s shoulder. “My name’s Larrabee. I’m an adjuster, on contract from Whiteweld’s Risk.” He gestured with a shoulder toward the closed office door. “My calls were goin’ to the disks, and you don’t seem to have a secretary, so I’ve just been waiting out here.”

“I’m an arbitrager, Mr. Larrabee. We do business mostly on screen. When no one’s on screen, no business gets done.”

“Of course, Trader.” Larabee smiled. His lips were slightly out of true. “But I’m here now, so can we go inside, and talk a bit?”

“What do you want to talk about, then?” Hawks said, loudly, a little dangerously.

Larrabee turned to him, smiled again. “Nine million’s the indemnity sum, paid seven years ago on a presumed loss. The ship’s name was Myrddin, Captain Hawks, a Penfield hull. I believe you were s’posed to have been aboard at the time.” He turned back to de Vere. “You did understand someone would be around, didn’t you, Trader?”

“Yes,” de Vere said, not quite a lie—she had known, and then other things had pushed it out of her mind. “The situation’s … rather unusual, Mr. Larrabee. But there was no fraud‍—”

Larrabee held up a hand. De Vere saw Hawks twitch. The insurance man said, “There’s been no accusation of fraud, Trader. In fact, the company is offering to pass it through the Business Credit Division, consider it a loan at a favorable rate for unsecured credit.”

Numbers began clicking into de Vere’s mind. “Below ten percent?”

“Nine point five. The total owing would be just short of seventeen million.”

The mental numbers rolled on: Vistar’s total book worth was about twice that. Book worth was only theoretical, of course: if she actually liquidated, she could just about hope to make the payment.

Liquidated. The nice word for sold everything she owned. Also a nice word for murdered. De Vere smelled a rotten coincidence.

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