Read Online The Mind-Riders by Brian Stableford - Free Book Online Page B

obscene.”
    â€œYou don’t believe in obscenity,” he said.
    â€œNo,” I conceded, gracefully, “I don’t suppose I do.”
    â€œI think you’ll adjust to us, Mr. Hart,” he said. I had no difficulty winkling the hidden meaning out of that one. That was the point he’d been trying to make. Was it worth it?
    I realized something that hadn’t been obvious in the gloom of early morning. Velasco Valerian was not a very clever man.
    â€œI’ll get along,” I assured him. “I’m pretty tolerant.”
    He didn’t say anything more. He’d declared himself and his aims. He was on to a loser. I wasn’t going to change. I wasn’t going to twist myself into something that would fit his script for a futile revenge. I was going to do it my way. There was to be no alliance, no compromise. He owed me eighteen years, and he was going to get nothing in return for what he was giving me now.
    I suspected, though, that the fight against Valerian might be as hard as the fight against Herrera.
    The door opened and a girl came in. She stopped dead in surprise—she obviously hadn’t expected to find Valerian here, and with company to boot. Her eyes went first to him, and then to me. She almost changed her mind and went away again, but not quite. After momentary hesitation she came in and took her place at table. Like the genie out of Aladdin’s lamp a waiter appeared. In a house like Valerian’s the walls don’t need ears. They’re telepathic.
    She ignored Curman as if he was part of the furniture. “Don’t get up,” she said. To me.
    I hadn’t. Her tone suggested she wasn’t serious.
    â€œMr. Hart,” said Valerian, “this is my granddaughter. Stella, this is Ryan Hart. He’s a boxer.”
    She looked at me, her eyes saying something to the effect that I didn’t look like a boxer. The name obviously meant nothing to her. I sensed a gulf between Valerian and his heir. I looked back at her. She had to be Franco’s daughter. I hadn’t known Franco had a daughter. My mind did some quick arithmetic. She looked sixteen but was presumably older—unless Franco hadn’t known he had a daughter either. She was slim and small, with straight hair and a face which hadn’t yet grown to the potential of its features.
    â€œDon’t stare,” she said, flatly.
    I looked away, at Valerian. He didn’t say anything but I thought he was mildly amused.
    The waiter put a plateful of joy in front of Miss Valerian. She didn’t look joyful. Another waiter whispered something in the old man’s ear. How wonderfully, comically discreet, I thought.
    â€œExcuse me,” said Valerian. He went out.
    I let my eyes stray back to the girl. She was staring at me. She obviously had no sense of justice. One-way protocol. I glanced at Curman, but he was in a world of his own, thinking peacefully. He didn’t get involved in family affairs.
    â€œYou didn’t waste much time,” she said, conversationally.
    â€œ I didn’t waste much time?”
    She shrugged. “Either way,” she said, “You’re here.” She didn’t sound as if she resented it, but she didn’t sound as if she approved. The continuing saga of grandfather’s boxers and their quest for the unholy grail probably left her cold. She must have lived all her life in the midst of it and she was at the time of life when you get disenchanted with whatever you’re in the middle of.
    I tried to think of a question which retained some vestige of diplomacy, but couldn’t. I began to hope that she’d help me out. She did, after her fashion.
    â€œYou’re too old,” she said.
    â€œJust old enough,” I told her.
    â€œYou’re supposed to be the angel of death,” she said. “You don’t look the part. No way.” Her tone was level, slightly mocking. I guessed she’d