Engineman - Eric Brown [9]
Thinking about her work reminded her that she had a painting out at the moment, a triptych canvas she'd sent to her agent a couple of months ago.
She finished her coffee, went to the kitchen for a refill, then approached the vid-screen in the lounge. The room, like the rest of the apartment, was run-down and in need of a good interior decorator, not that Ella gave a damn about things like habitat pride. However, one corner of the room, which faced the screen, was done out with flock wallpaper and a square of carpet she'd found dumped in the street. A mock Schreiber recliner, which she'd made herself on the cheap - faced the screen. The effect was a minor work of art in itself, a mini film-set in the grimy chaos of her living room. Vasquez was a snob, impressed by things like appearance.
Ella sat cross-legged in the chair, tapped in Vasquez's code. She decided not to come straight out with, "What do you think of my latest piece, Carmen?"
Five year ago, Vasquez had sold one of Ella's paintings to an off-world art-collector for a good sum. The oil, entitled Conversion - a visual attempt to convey the wonder she'd experienced upon her conversion to the Disciples - was one of her favourites. For years she had not bothered about the identity of the purchaser, but a couple of months ago - wondering on which far planet her work might be hanging - she'd written to Vasquez asking her if she could reveal the identity of the buyer.
Now, Ella would remind her agent about the enquiry, and then ask what Vasquez thought about her latest piece.
The calling tone purred. The screen remained blank, then scrolled up the fact that Carmen Vasquez was in a meeting, but if the caller would like to leave a message after the tone...
Ella composed herself, drew her wrap closed at the throat. The tone played out. "Ah, Carmen - Ella Fernandez here-" Damn! That was obvious! Vasquez would be watching the recording of Ella, wouldn't she? "I was just wondering - it isn't really important - but I wondered if you could tell me who bought Conversion? Ah... that's all - if you could call back when you have the time, there are one or two things I'd like to ask you. Okay, see you later. Bye." She grinned at the screen, waved her fingers, then felt self-conscious and cut the connection.
She was still laughing at herself when the roar sounded outside. The apartment shuddered as if in an earthquake. When the vibrations came to an end and the flakes of paint stopped snowing from the ceiling, she got up and crossed to the door. She belted her wrap and leaned against the jamb, waiting for Eddie to appear from the escalator across the hall.
His flier had been in the garage of some third-rate mechanic down the road for a month now, until such time as Eddie came up with the credits to pay for the repairs. Now she realised why he'd stolen the gold dust.
After three minutes Eddie had still not shown himself, and Ella began to feel a little silly in this nonchalant-cum-confrontational pose. She pushed herself from the jamb and rode the elevator to the roof.
It was a warm night. The stars were out in a clear sky. Vines and creepers were growing around the girder stanchions of the landing pad, despite Eddie's daily efforts at clearing them. He was sitting on the hood of his battered old Peugeot, his thick-set middle-aged frame and the flier's art deco bulk somehow complementary. They were silhouetted against the glow of the interface like a cinema advertisement for Libyan hash.
Ella padded across to him, holding her shoulders. She leaned against the flank of the flier next to Eddie's silversuited legs and feigned an interest in what he was watching. Over at the spaceport, the interface had activated. Through the screen could be seen