Read Online All My Sins Remembered by Joe Haldeman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joe Haldeman
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conservative in your old age. Your opening game used to be quite unpredictable.”
“And you used to be four wins ahead.”
The game went on for about an hour, with neither man saying much. Isaac was ahead in both position and strength when Dr. Norman looked up and said, “Who are you?”
“What did you say, Willy?”
The doctor took a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, and tossed it into the middle of the board. “If you were Isaac Crowell, you’d be dying or dead, on Gravitol. And don’t tell me you aren’t on it—Pandroxin gives a yellowish cast to the skin. You don’t have it. Besides, your chess style is wrong: good, but all wrong. Isaac never knew how to play position.”
Crowell finished off his drink, mostly melted ice, and leaned back in the chair. He stuck his right hand in his pocket and aimed the pistol under the table at the doctor’s abdomen. “My name is Otto McGavin. I’m an agent for the Confederación. But please continue to call me Isaac—I’m more Crowell than McGavin in this persona.”
The doctor nodded. “And you’ve done a very good job. Much more convincing than those other two—that is why you came here, isn’t it, to investigate their disappearance?”
“Investigate their deaths. Every agent has a monitor implanted in his heart; they stopped broadcasting.”
“Well, needless to say, your secret’s safe with me.”
“You shouldn’t be burdened with it too much longer. I expect to have things out in the open within a day or two. Down to business, now—” Crowell moved a knight and said, “Mate in three.”
“Yes, I saw that coming.” Willy smiled. “I was hoping to distract you.”
“Doctor, I think you missed your calling.” Otto relaxed a little. “I was wondering how to ask you this without arousing suspicion… have you treated any gunshot wounds lately?”
“What! Why?”
“Somebody tried to ambush me last night. I shot him.”
“My God… in the arm, was it?”
Crowell took out his pistol, opened the magazine, and let one of the small pellets roll onto the chessboard. “A wound in the right arm, this size projectile.”
Dr. Norman rolled the pellet between his thumb and forefinger. “Yes, it was this small. The very devil to get out, too. And the wound was in the right arm.” He took a deep breath. “Early this morning, Ambassador Fitz-Jones and Superintendent Kindle woke me up to take a pellet out of Kindle’s arm. They said they had been up drinking and decided to try some target practice in the ambassador’s back yard. Fitz-Jones had accidentally shot Kindle; he was most apologetic. They both reeked of wine, but acted quite sober. Kindle was in some pain; it looked as if they had tried to get the pellet out themselves. But it was too deep.”
“Kindle—I’ve never met him.”
“It seems you did meet him, last night. It’s hard to believe. He seems such a meek fellow.”
“You might as well know the whole story. If anything happens to me, try to get word to Confederacion authorities.
“Some group of persons, including but not necessarily limited to the ambassador and the superintendent, is systematically poisoning the Bruuchians who work in the mines. The only motivation I can see is that it makes them work harder; increases profits.
“Say, Kindle owns a large part of the Company, doesn’t he? I wonder whether Fitz-Jones also has an interest.”
“I don’t know,” Dr. Norman said. “He claims to be independently wealthy. I can see that he might well be investing in the Company, though. Profits have quadrupled in the past few years. Why, I’ve been thinking of investing, myself, as a retirement income.”
“Maybe you better not. Profits will be going down pretty soon.”
“I suppose. Well, it is a horrible thing, even though I don’t much care for the little boogers myself. What can I do to help?”
“I’ve got to use subspace radio. The only two on the planet are the superintendent’s and the
“And you used to be four wins ahead.”
The game went on for about an hour, with neither man saying much. Isaac was ahead in both position and strength when Dr. Norman looked up and said, “Who are you?”
“What did you say, Willy?”
The doctor took a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, and tossed it into the middle of the board. “If you were Isaac Crowell, you’d be dying or dead, on Gravitol. And don’t tell me you aren’t on it—Pandroxin gives a yellowish cast to the skin. You don’t have it. Besides, your chess style is wrong: good, but all wrong. Isaac never knew how to play position.”
Crowell finished off his drink, mostly melted ice, and leaned back in the chair. He stuck his right hand in his pocket and aimed the pistol under the table at the doctor’s abdomen. “My name is Otto McGavin. I’m an agent for the Confederación. But please continue to call me Isaac—I’m more Crowell than McGavin in this persona.”
The doctor nodded. “And you’ve done a very good job. Much more convincing than those other two—that is why you came here, isn’t it, to investigate their disappearance?”
“Investigate their deaths. Every agent has a monitor implanted in his heart; they stopped broadcasting.”
“Well, needless to say, your secret’s safe with me.”
“You shouldn’t be burdened with it too much longer. I expect to have things out in the open within a day or two. Down to business, now—” Crowell moved a knight and said, “Mate in three.”
“Yes, I saw that coming.” Willy smiled. “I was hoping to distract you.”
“Doctor, I think you missed your calling.” Otto relaxed a little. “I was wondering how to ask you this without arousing suspicion… have you treated any gunshot wounds lately?”
“What! Why?”
“Somebody tried to ambush me last night. I shot him.”
“My God… in the arm, was it?”
Crowell took out his pistol, opened the magazine, and let one of the small pellets roll onto the chessboard. “A wound in the right arm, this size projectile.”
Dr. Norman rolled the pellet between his thumb and forefinger. “Yes, it was this small. The very devil to get out, too. And the wound was in the right arm.” He took a deep breath. “Early this morning, Ambassador Fitz-Jones and Superintendent Kindle woke me up to take a pellet out of Kindle’s arm. They said they had been up drinking and decided to try some target practice in the ambassador’s back yard. Fitz-Jones had accidentally shot Kindle; he was most apologetic. They both reeked of wine, but acted quite sober. Kindle was in some pain; it looked as if they had tried to get the pellet out themselves. But it was too deep.”
“Kindle—I’ve never met him.”
“It seems you did meet him, last night. It’s hard to believe. He seems such a meek fellow.”
“You might as well know the whole story. If anything happens to me, try to get word to Confederacion authorities.
“Some group of persons, including but not necessarily limited to the ambassador and the superintendent, is systematically poisoning the Bruuchians who work in the mines. The only motivation I can see is that it makes them work harder; increases profits.
“Say, Kindle owns a large part of the Company, doesn’t he? I wonder whether Fitz-Jones also has an interest.”
“I don’t know,” Dr. Norman said. “He claims to be independently wealthy. I can see that he might well be investing in the Company, though. Profits have quadrupled in the past few years. Why, I’ve been thinking of investing, myself, as a retirement income.”
“Maybe you better not. Profits will be going down pretty soon.”
“I suppose. Well, it is a horrible thing, even though I don’t much care for the little boogers myself. What can I do to help?”
“I’ve got to use subspace radio. The only two on the planet are the superintendent’s and the
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