unseen source into a variety of muted hues. The ceiling was some twenty feet high, and domed at the top, but the room was divided into some forty diamond-shaped alcoves, each with walls ten feet in height. There were artificial green diamonds everywhere—on the walls, sunken into the floor, on the waiters’ and waitresses’ elegant uniforms—and in the center of the room was a large, diamond-shaped fountain.
Charles led Chandler to an alcove, and suddenly the impression was one of intimacy rather than vastness. Chandler settled back on an expensively-upholstered booth, and a moment later a waiter approached him and rattled off the evening's menu.
Chandler ordered a salad composed of vegetables grown on Port Samarkand, and a mutated shellfish in a cream sauce.
"Very good, sir,” said the waiter. “Would you care to start with a fine Alphard brandy? We just received a new shipment this morning."
"Later."
"As you wish, sir."
"By the way, is Mr. Tripoli here?"
"No, sir."
"If he should come in, please tell him I'm here."
"Yes, sir."
"And if anyone else is looking for me, let me know."
The waiter nodded and scurried off, leaving Chandler to admire that portion of the room he could see from his alcove. A string quartet, which had been on their break, came out, stood beside the fountain, and began playing soothing if not brilliant music, and a blonde waitress stopped by his table carrying a hors d'ouevre tray. He looked at the various selections, chose one, and a moment later his salad arrived.
He stared idly at the plate for a moment, trying to identify the various alien vegetables—and then he saw it. Maybe it was the light, maybe it was the texture of the vegetables, maybe it was simply the angle, but suddenly he saw the artificial light reflecting off something bright.
He picked up a fork and dabbed at it gingerly, then lifted it very slowly and brought it closer to his eye.
It was a tiny fragment of glass.
He moved a greenish leaf with his fork, then found another piece, and yet another.
He sat perfectly still, staring at the plate while he tried to sort things out in his mind.
Somebody had known he would be in the Green Diamond on this precise evening. Even Gin hadn't known where they were going until he had come back from the police station. Of course, the driver had had time to tell someone while Chandler was showering and dressing, but he doubted it; if he survived, Gin had to know that he was going to have to answer some difficult questions, and he'd already seen Chandler in action.
That meant someone else knew—someone who didn't have to be told where he would be dining, who simply knew.
And that meant that the Oracle was indeed Penelope Bailey.
The next question was more difficult: why did his would-be murderer use ground glass, when a poison would never have been spotted? If the Oracle had foreseen that he would be here, then she must have foreseen that he would spot the fragments of glass. Was this just a warning—or was there some limit to her abilities? The Iceman had said that even as a little girl, with her powers not fully developed, she could foresee potential threats to herself; surely he was more of a threat alive than dead. So was he being manipulated, or had she simply proven to be fallible?
He didn't have enough information to answer the question, so he let it pass and moved on to the next one: somebody within the Green Diamond had tried to kill him. Who?
He stared at Charles, who was escorting an elderly couple to their table about forty feet away. It was a possibility. He looked for his waiter, but couldn't spot him. Another possibility. But somehow he didn't believe it: ground glass wouldn't kill him instantly, and his reputation had preceded him here. They would have to know he'd live long enough to take them both out before the glass ripped his insides enough to totally disable him.
Then who? He thought about it for another moment, then signaled to Charles.
"Yes, Mr.
Charles led Chandler to an alcove, and suddenly the impression was one of intimacy rather than vastness. Chandler settled back on an expensively-upholstered booth, and a moment later a waiter approached him and rattled off the evening's menu.
Chandler ordered a salad composed of vegetables grown on Port Samarkand, and a mutated shellfish in a cream sauce.
"Very good, sir,” said the waiter. “Would you care to start with a fine Alphard brandy? We just received a new shipment this morning."
"Later."
"As you wish, sir."
"By the way, is Mr. Tripoli here?"
"No, sir."
"If he should come in, please tell him I'm here."
"Yes, sir."
"And if anyone else is looking for me, let me know."
The waiter nodded and scurried off, leaving Chandler to admire that portion of the room he could see from his alcove. A string quartet, which had been on their break, came out, stood beside the fountain, and began playing soothing if not brilliant music, and a blonde waitress stopped by his table carrying a hors d'ouevre tray. He looked at the various selections, chose one, and a moment later his salad arrived.
He stared idly at the plate for a moment, trying to identify the various alien vegetables—and then he saw it. Maybe it was the light, maybe it was the texture of the vegetables, maybe it was simply the angle, but suddenly he saw the artificial light reflecting off something bright.
He picked up a fork and dabbed at it gingerly, then lifted it very slowly and brought it closer to his eye.
It was a tiny fragment of glass.
He moved a greenish leaf with his fork, then found another piece, and yet another.
He sat perfectly still, staring at the plate while he tried to sort things out in his mind.
Somebody had known he would be in the Green Diamond on this precise evening. Even Gin hadn't known where they were going until he had come back from the police station. Of course, the driver had had time to tell someone while Chandler was showering and dressing, but he doubted it; if he survived, Gin had to know that he was going to have to answer some difficult questions, and he'd already seen Chandler in action.
That meant someone else knew—someone who didn't have to be told where he would be dining, who simply knew.
And that meant that the Oracle was indeed Penelope Bailey.
The next question was more difficult: why did his would-be murderer use ground glass, when a poison would never have been spotted? If the Oracle had foreseen that he would be here, then she must have foreseen that he would spot the fragments of glass. Was this just a warning—or was there some limit to her abilities? The Iceman had said that even as a little girl, with her powers not fully developed, she could foresee potential threats to herself; surely he was more of a threat alive than dead. So was he being manipulated, or had she simply proven to be fallible?
He didn't have enough information to answer the question, so he let it pass and moved on to the next one: somebody within the Green Diamond had tried to kill him. Who?
He stared at Charles, who was escorting an elderly couple to their table about forty feet away. It was a possibility. He looked for his waiter, but couldn't spot him. Another possibility. But somehow he didn't believe it: ground glass wouldn't kill him instantly, and his reputation had preceded him here. They would have to know he'd live long enough to take them both out before the glass ripped his insides enough to totally disable him.
Then who? He thought about it for another moment, then signaled to Charles.
"Yes, Mr.
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