Cold Fusion - Lance Parkin [36]
‘Do we have their room numbers?’ Medford asked. At a touch of a control, a framework map of the hotel appeared, the suspects rooms marked out in yellow.
‘There are no records of them arriving at the spaceport.
They must be false names, or here illegally.’
‘Thank you, Falconstock, that will do for now,’ the Provost-General said quietly. He keyed in a final sequence, then left the room. The door slid shut, and Falconstock was alone once more. For a moment, he couldn’t bring himself to move. Something primal inside him was protesting. He’d just helped a man to kill children.
Disgusted with himself, Falconstock reached forward and deactivated the viewer. For a moment, before the lighting level automatically readjusted itself, he was alone in the dark. After a moment, he turned the viewer on and forced himself to look at their faces again.
6
The Patient
The large man sauntered up to the reception desk and propped himself up on an elbow. ‘G’day cobber.’
The nearest robot concierge rattled around to face him.
‘Good evening, Mister Jovanka.’
‘Call me “Bruce”, mate, everyone else does.’
The robot’s head tilted to one side, and it seemed to consider the request for a moment. ‘Thank you, sir, but no.’
‘Suit yerself. About half an hour ago I was down here in the lobby.’
‘You entered the lobby at 19.43 and left at 20.47.’
Jovanka waved a hand. ‘I’ll take your word for it, sport.
Now, two sheilas came in –’
The robot leant back, in simulated distaste. ‘I assure you, sir that the Imperial Hotel operates a strict “No Shlimans” policy. We frown on all of the man-eating races.’
‘Nah, you drongo, I’m not yabbering about sharkies.
Hell, you won’t find an Aussie in God’s green galaxy who’s worried by something as run-of-the-mill as a man-eating mutant shark. I’m talking about something much more dangerous: Sheilas – wimmen.’
The robot relaxed. ‘Ah, yes, sir. In the period while you were in the lobby, some fifteen females entered the hotel.’
‘Two of them came in together. Both about my age, one in a fur coat, the other in a tailored jacket. They cracked a couple of tinnies in that chair over there.’
The robot turned its head. ‘You are referring to Miss Nyssa and your wife, Mrs Tegan Jovanka?’
‘My better half?’ Jovanka spluttered.
The robot produced an identiphot of the two from its chestprinter. The young man studied it for a moment.
‘She’s a fine woman, isn’t she?’
‘She is indeed, sir, but if I might offer a suggestion I would not let your wife hear you say that.’
Jovanka studied the pictures again. ‘That one’s Tegan?
She’s quite a looker, I reckon, but haven’t you got a photo of her smiling?’
The robot whirred and clicked. ‘No, sir,’ it concluded.
‘Rabbits. Where are they now?’
‘I am afraid the privacy protocol of the Imperial Hotel prevents me from informing you of Miss Nyssa’s whereabouts.’
‘Fair enough, I suppose.’
‘Mrs Jovanka has ordered dinner in the restaurant and will be joined by her companion there shortly.’
‘Ripper! Book me in there, mate, would you?’
‘As you wish, sir. A table for one?’
‘A table for two, mate.’ He winked at the robot. ‘I’m feeling lucky.’
Chief Scientist Whitfield stood perfectly still in the lift car as it shot upwards. There was only the barest sensation of movement – and even that had been put there by the engineers. The human brain found it psychologically difficult to cope with a lift which could travel as fast as an aircraft without apparently moving.
The lift had reached the apex of the pyramid. The door chimed and opened. Between the two actions, Whitfield knew that she had been scanned and identified by an array of sensors,