Infinity Beach - Jack McDevitt [44]
Ali Bakai and Narimoto the Good had met secretly on the Star Queen to make the Peace of Ahriman, which neither of their constituencies wanted. The fabled Yakima Tai performed his last concert in the ballroom before ending his life and that of his wife. The Mid-Deck Bar had a plaque marking the fictional spot in which Veronica King met her longtime associate, bodyguard, and biographer, Archimedes Smith. Another plaque commemorated the stateroom in which Del Dellasandro wrote Hypochondriacs Get Sick Too. And in the main lobby an oil painting commemorated the Star Queen’s proudest moment: the attack on her by Pandik II’s warships at Pacifica, while she was carrying supplies, technicians, and spare parts to the rebels.
Kim checked the monitor for her room number. A bouquet of orchids was waiting when she arrived, compliments of Cole Mendelson, coordinator of the evening’s activities. The room was small, as one would expect on an interstellar. It was also luxurious, in a busy sort of way. The decor, drapes, bedcovers, furniture, everything seemed just short of garish.
Ordinarily she’d have headed immediately for the shower, but this time she plunked down on the bed and kicked off her shoes. She linked into the terminal and entered Gaerhard’s name with a search command for TECHNICIAN, JUMP ENGINES.
The hit came right back. There was a Walt Gaerhard who fit the parameters working for Interstellar at Sky Harbor.
She called their operations and got a Melissa clone. “I’m trying to locate Walter Gaerhard,” she said.
The Melissa clone glanced at her monitor, acquiring Kim’s ID. “I’m sorry, Dr. Brandywine,” she said. “He’s not on duty at the moment.”
“Could you possibly connect me with his quarters?”
“It’s not our policy to do that. Is this an emergency?”
“No. No, it isn’t. Can you tell me when I might be able to see him?”
“One moment please.” She touched her keyboard, looked at the screen again, and pursed her lips. “He has the day shift tomorrow. Would you like me to leave a message?”
“No, that’s fine. Thank you.” Better to just show up. If anything out of the ordinary had occurred, it was best not to alert anyone.
The event was being conducted in the main dining room. A raised table stood at the front for speakers and special guests. Bunting and flags were strewn around the walls. Flowers and ribbons were everywhere.
Kim wore a burgundy evening gown with an orchid from Cole’s bouquet. The neckline was modest but the gown was clingy, a characteristic that, she saw immediately, would be underscored by the shaded lighting at the lectern. Experience had taught her that the movers and shakers at these events tended to think of the Institute as tiresome, living in the past, hidebound. Consequently she was careful, save with specialized audiences, to demolish that notion. She’d found that female charm could not hurt the cause, and could generally be relied on to ignite the generosity of the donors.
Cole looked up from a conversation, saw her, waved, and came in her direction. He was redheaded, of indefinable age, with long fragile hands and the congenial but mildly vacuous expression that seems to be part of the uniform worn by public relations consultants. Kim returned the smile, knowing that Cole was thinking the same thing about her.
“Good to see you again, Kimberly,” he said. They embraced, and she kissed his cheek and thanked him for the flowers.
They’d met on the luncheon circuit, which Cole had been traveling for the last year, making connections, pushing the advantages of using the Star Queen’s facilities for corporate conferences, reassuring all for whom off-world travel, even in an elevator, was unsettling. He was a good salesman, which was