Read Online The Diamond Moon by Paul Preuss - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Paul Preuss
Ads: Link
hands wide, indi-cating the interior of the Straits Cafe. At the midmorning hour it was empty, except for a girl sullenly mopping the floor.
“Since my husband died almost ten years ago, I am sole proprietor.” She crushed out a half-smoked, lipstick-smeared cigarette that had been perched on a thick glass ashtray on the counter. Smoking was a rare habit in controlled environments, banned in some, but Mrs. Wong owned the air inside these four walls.
“Come, sit down.” Her manner betrayed an edge of im-patience. “I will have tea brought. We can talk.”
“Delighted.”
“What kind do you like?”
“Darjeeling,” Mays said. “Or whatever you might rec-ommend.”
Mrs. Wong said something in Chinese to a girl at the charge machine. She took Mays to a round table in front of the aquarium wall. He and the ugliest fish he had ever seen stared at each other; Mays blinked first, and sat down.
Mays’s unannounced arrival at the Ganymede Interplan-etary Hotel had thrown the local gossip mongers into a fury of speculation, but they quickly realized he must have traveled on Helios under an assumed name, presumably in dis-guise. Having registered at the Interplanetary under his own name, wearing his own face, it had taken only hours for the news to circulate throughout the community.
The hotel’s bolder guests approached him for autographs whenever he appeared in public; he obliged them and an-swered their questions by explaining that it was his pur-pose—no, his sworn duty —to investigate Professor J. Q. R. Forster and every aspect of the expedition to Amalthea. Word of Mays’s intentions traveled as fast as the news of his arrival.
For show, Mays did make one or two attempts to contact the Forster expedition, who had set up official headquarters in the town’s Indian quarter, but no one answered their pho-nelink except the office robot, who always claimed everyone was out. As Mays quickly learned from his acquaintances among the interplanetary press corps, Forster and his people hadn’t been seen since their arrival; most of the reporters had come to the conclusion that Forster wasn’t on Gany-mede at all. Perhaps he was on some other moon, Europa for example. Perhaps he was in orbit. Perhaps he’d already left for Amalthea.
Mays was unsurprised and unperturbed. His fame was a magnet, and sure enough, people with information to offer soon began calling him . . . .
Mrs. Wong lit another cigarette and held it between fin-gers that boasted inch-long, red-lacquered nails. “They were sitting right at this table,” she told him, leaning back and blowing smoke at the cod. “Mr. Redfield, I know he works for the professor, he was talking with that Lim person. They were talking in Chinese. Mr. Redfield speaks very good Can-tonese.”
Although Mrs. Wong considered this an unusual feat, Mays showed no surprise. “Who is that Lim person?” he asked.
“Luke, son of Kam, Lim and Son Construction. Long hair, dresses like cowboy. No good.”
Mays lifted an impressive eyebrow, inviting more, but Mrs. Wong was either reluctant to give examples of Luke Lim’s bad behavior or had none specific to give. “What were they talking about?” he asked.
“From what they said, I think Lim sold Mr. Redfield their old ice mole.”
“Ice mole?”
“Tunnelling machine designed special for here—where ice is very cold, gravity very low. And they talked about something else the professor is buying someplace. I didn’t hear what. Then two others came in.” Mrs. Wong picked at a tobacco crumb on the tip of her tongue.
“Please go on.”
“A Mr. Hawkins, I think he works for the professor too, and a young girl named Marianne. Just visiting.”
“Ah, Marianne,” Mays said.
“You know her?”
“Not well,” he said. He leaned back in his chair to avoid a new emission of asphyxiating cigarette smoke. “What did the four of them have to say to each other?”
“Mr. Redfield was
“Since my husband died almost ten years ago, I am sole proprietor.” She crushed out a half-smoked, lipstick-smeared cigarette that had been perched on a thick glass ashtray on the counter. Smoking was a rare habit in controlled environments, banned in some, but Mrs. Wong owned the air inside these four walls.
“Come, sit down.” Her manner betrayed an edge of im-patience. “I will have tea brought. We can talk.”
“Delighted.”
“What kind do you like?”
“Darjeeling,” Mays said. “Or whatever you might rec-ommend.”
Mrs. Wong said something in Chinese to a girl at the charge machine. She took Mays to a round table in front of the aquarium wall. He and the ugliest fish he had ever seen stared at each other; Mays blinked first, and sat down.
Mays’s unannounced arrival at the Ganymede Interplan-etary Hotel had thrown the local gossip mongers into a fury of speculation, but they quickly realized he must have traveled on Helios under an assumed name, presumably in dis-guise. Having registered at the Interplanetary under his own name, wearing his own face, it had taken only hours for the news to circulate throughout the community.
The hotel’s bolder guests approached him for autographs whenever he appeared in public; he obliged them and an-swered their questions by explaining that it was his pur-pose—no, his sworn duty —to investigate Professor J. Q. R. Forster and every aspect of the expedition to Amalthea. Word of Mays’s intentions traveled as fast as the news of his arrival.
For show, Mays did make one or two attempts to contact the Forster expedition, who had set up official headquarters in the town’s Indian quarter, but no one answered their pho-nelink except the office robot, who always claimed everyone was out. As Mays quickly learned from his acquaintances among the interplanetary press corps, Forster and his people hadn’t been seen since their arrival; most of the reporters had come to the conclusion that Forster wasn’t on Gany-mede at all. Perhaps he was on some other moon, Europa for example. Perhaps he was in orbit. Perhaps he’d already left for Amalthea.
Mays was unsurprised and unperturbed. His fame was a magnet, and sure enough, people with information to offer soon began calling him . . . .
Mrs. Wong lit another cigarette and held it between fin-gers that boasted inch-long, red-lacquered nails. “They were sitting right at this table,” she told him, leaning back and blowing smoke at the cod. “Mr. Redfield, I know he works for the professor, he was talking with that Lim person. They were talking in Chinese. Mr. Redfield speaks very good Can-tonese.”
Although Mrs. Wong considered this an unusual feat, Mays showed no surprise. “Who is that Lim person?” he asked.
“Luke, son of Kam, Lim and Son Construction. Long hair, dresses like cowboy. No good.”
Mays lifted an impressive eyebrow, inviting more, but Mrs. Wong was either reluctant to give examples of Luke Lim’s bad behavior or had none specific to give. “What were they talking about?” he asked.
“From what they said, I think Lim sold Mr. Redfield their old ice mole.”
“Ice mole?”
“Tunnelling machine designed special for here—where ice is very cold, gravity very low. And they talked about something else the professor is buying someplace. I didn’t hear what. Then two others came in.” Mrs. Wong picked at a tobacco crumb on the tip of her tongue.
“Please go on.”
“A Mr. Hawkins, I think he works for the professor too, and a young girl named Marianne. Just visiting.”
“Ah, Marianne,” Mays said.
“You know her?”
“Not well,” he said. He leaned back in his chair to avoid a new emission of asphyxiating cigarette smoke. “What did the four of them have to say to each other?”
“Mr. Redfield was
Similar Books
