Soothsayer Page 16

  The Mouse stared at him without speaking. Suddenly she felt Penelope's hand squeezing her own.

  “It's all right,” said the little girl.

  The Mouse looked down at her. “You knew he was going to do this, didn't you?”

  “We needed him,” said Penelope, ignoring the question.

  “But we're virtually prisoners on his ship.”

  “It's all right,” repeated Penelope. “At least the Iceman didn't catch us.”

  “The Iceman?” interrupted the Yankee Clipper. “Who's the Iceman.”

  “A very bad man,” said Penelope. “He wants to hurt me.”

  “Then you've made a very wise choice, my dear,” said the pirate. “I wouldn't dream of hurting you, or indeed of letting any harm come to you from any source whatsoever.”

  “I know.”

  “I am, after all, not without compassion for a child in your situation,” continued the Yankee Clipper. He paused thoughtfully. “Also, I suspect your value would decrease if you were harmed.”

  The Mouse glared at him. “So we're just going to fly around the Quinellus Cluster with you until you decide that she's worth enough to part with?” she demanded.

  “Essentially,” answered the Yankee Clipper. “I've already sent discreet messages to various interested parties.”

  “They'll blow your ship apart,” said the Mouse.

  The pirate smiled. “Not while she's aboard it, they won't.” He paused. “But before I deny myself the pleasure of your company, it seems only reasonable that we establish a fair market value for the little girl. I could hardly do that without informing everyone that she's ... ah ... available for the right price.”

  “Unless we come up with five million credits first,” said the Mouse.

  “Certainly,” agreed the Yankee Clipper. “I'm not an unreasonable man, and a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. This lovely child could contract a fatal disease, or attempt to kill herself, or simply lose her remarkable ability.” He paused and smiled. “Of course, I don't see how you can possibly produce such a sum, given your present situation, but I'm always willing to admit I'm wrong.”

  “If you'd play cards or roulette, I could help you win five million credits,” said Penelope.

  “I hardly think so, my dear,” answered the Yankee Clipper easily. “Everyone knows who and what you are.” He sighed. “And that does make it difficult to find volunteers for a game of chance while you're aboard the ship.”

  Penelope frowned. “You're no better than King Tout was.”

  “On the contrary, I'm much better,” he corrected her. “For one thing, I'm providing you with every comfort at my disposal. For another, I've already given you my word that no physical harm will come to you. But mostly, I'm better than King Tout because I learn from other people's mistakes.”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded the Mouse.

  “I should think that would be obvious. The reason you're here instead of back at the Starboat is because lovely little Penelope here somehow manipulated events so that I would rescue you.” He stared at the little girl, and though his voice remained cordial and conversational, there was a sudden hardness about his eyes. “I must warn you, my dear child, that if I notice any irregularity aboard my ship, any irregularity at all—if I should trip and break a leg, or flinch while shaving, or if this mysterious Iceman should approach too closely—then I will take you to the Deepsleep Chamber and freeze you cryogenically until such time as I have completed my transaction with whoever wants you the most desperately. Deepsleep is absolutely painless—we use it for extended voyages in deep space—but I rather suspect that when your brain is sound asleep and your metabolism is slowed to a crawl, you will be in no position to influence events as you did with King Tout.”

  Suddenly the Yankee Clipper got to his feet. “But enough about business. You are my honored guests, and I look forward to your company at dinner this evening. In the meantime"—he shot them a final smile as he walked to the door, which slid into a bulkhead—"please do make yourselves comfortable. I expect you'll be staying with me for quite some time.”

  Then he was gone, and Penelope and the Mouse were left alone in the huge, empty lounge.

  “Did you see this coming, back at the Starboat?” asked the Mouse.

  “Not exactly,” answered Penelope. “I knew he would rescue us, and I knew that he wouldn't hurt us.”

  “But you didn't know that he'd sell you to the highest bidder?” she continued.

  “It doesn't matter,” said the little girl. “He's taking us in the right direction. That's all that matters.”

  “The right direction?” repeated the Mouse.

  Penelope nodded.

  “The right direction for what?”

  “I don't know yet,” replied Penelope. “But I know it's the right direction.” She tightened her grip on the Mouse's hand. “Don't worry. I won't let anyone hurt you.”

  The Mouse suddenly realized that she believed her—and that realization made her more uneasy than the thought of being at the Yankee Clipper's mercy.

  19.

  The Mouse led Penelope through the small commissary, past the meager supply of clothing and toiletries and the even smaller stock of books and tapes, until she came to the area that, had it borne a label, would have been marked “Miscellaneous".

  “But what are we looking for?” asked the little girl.

  “You'll see,” said the Mouse with a smile.

  She began rummaging through what were obviously the unwanted spoils of conquest, and finally she found what she had been looking for.

  “Oh, they're beautiful!” exclaimed Penelope as the Mouse stepped aside and revealed four exquisite dolls, each dressed in colorful robes and bright jewelry.

  “I think they're from New Kenya,” said the Mouse, “but I could be wrong. I'm sure someone can tell us.”

  “They're very large,” said Penelope. “Much bigger than Jennifer was.”

  “Well, they were made to be displayed, not played with,” replied the Mouse. “That's why they're so stiff. My guess is that they were part of a collection. Perhaps the others were destroyed, or maybe they had real jewelry and they're in some crewman's quarters.”

  “I love their necklaces,” said Penelope, gingerly fingering a beaded necklace on one of the dolls.

  “I would imagine each of them represents some nation or religion,” said the Mouse.

  “And their robes are so pretty!” continued the little girl. Then her gaze fell on something else that lay half-buried beneath a neatly-folded length of silk.

  “Well,” said the Mouse, “take your choice. You can have any of them you want—or all four, if your like.”

  “I want this one,” said Penelope, reaching beneath the silk and withdrawing a small rag doll that had a tiny scrap of red cloth wrapped around it.

  “I didn't even see that one,” said the Mouse.

  “I did.”

  “It's not as pretty as the others.”

  “I know.”

  “Why don't you take them all?” suggested the Mouse.

  “This is the one I want,” said Penelope firmly. “The others are for grown-ups. This one is for little girls.”

  “And it reminds you of Jennifer?” asked the Mouse with a smile.

  Penelope nodded.

  “All right, it's yours.” She looked around. “I wonder where we pay for it?”

  “We don't,” said Penelope. “Remember what the Yankee Clipper said? We can have anything we want for free.”

  “I know. But I'd still like to find a shopkeeper or a cashier or something and explain it to him, so we don't get shot for robbing the store.”

  “We won't,” said Penelope.

  The Mouse shrugged. “Oh, well—you haven't been wrong yet.” She paused. “What are you going to call her? Jennifer?”

  Penelope shook her head. “Jennifer's gone. I need a new name for this one.” She frowned, concentrating on the doll, then looked up at the Mou
se. “What's your name?”

  “Mouse.”

  “I mean your real name.”

  “Oh, it's not a very special name at all,” replied the Mouse. “I got rid of it the day I arrived on the Inner Frontier.”

  “I'd still like to know.”

  The Mouse shrugged. “Maryanne,” she said distastefully.

  “Maryanne,” repeated Penelope thoughtfully. “Maryanne.” She nodded her head approvingly. “That's what I'll call her.”

  “You're sure?”

  “Yes. That way even when you're not with me, Maryanne will remind me of you.”

  “What's this talk of not being with you?” said the Mouse. “We're a team, remember?”

  “But you told me about how sometimes you have to leave someone you love behind, the way I had to leave Jennifer.” The little girl paused. “You left Merlin. Someday maybe you'll leave me behind, too.”

  “Not a chance,” said the Mouse reassuringly. She put her arms around Penelope. “I didn't love Merlin. And besides, we'll be rejoining him soon.”

  “I don't think so,” said Penelope. “He's not in any of the futures I can see.”

  “But you can only see a little way ahead,” noted the Mouse.

  “Sometimes I can see longer.”

  “Oh?”

  “Not always, but sometimes.”

  “More often than you used to be able to?” asked the Mouse.

  “Yes.” Penelope paused. “I wonder why?”

  “It's just a sign that you're growing up, I suppose,” said the Mouse. “You can run faster and eat more food and say bigger words that you used to, so why shouldn't you be able to see farther ahead, too?”

  Penelope shrugged. “I don't know.”

  “That was a rhetorical question,” said the Mouse with a smile.

  “I don't know what that means.”

  “It means you don't have to answer it.” She looked at the other four dolls again. “You're sure you don't want anything else?”

  “All I want is Maryanne,” answered Penelope, cradling the doll in her arms.

  The Mouse winced. “God, I hate that name!”

  “It's a pretty name, and since you don't want it, it should go to a pretty doll.”

  “You're the boss,” said the Mouse with a sigh of defeat.

  “Am I really?” asked Penelope.

  “Well, you're the boss about which doll you get to keep and what you want to name it,” said the Mouse. She paused. “And if Carlos were here, he'd probably try to convince me that you could become the boss of the whole galaxy if you wanted to.”

  “That's silly,” said Penelope.

  “I agree.” The Mouse looked around the commissary one last time. “All right, let's go back to our cabin.”

  “You go ahead,” said Penelope. “I want to show Maryanne around the ship.”

  “I'll come with you,” volunteered the Mouse.

  “It's not necessary,” said Penelope. “I won't get lost, and the Yankee Clipper has told everyone that we're his guests.”

  “I don't mind coming with you,” said the Mouse. “It's no trouble.”

  “It's really not necessary,” repeated Penelope firmly.

  “You're sure you'll be all right?” asked the Mouse in concerned tones.

  “I'll be all right.”

  The Mouse stared at the little girl for a moment, and then shrugged.

  “Well, I suppose everyone deserves a little time to themselves,” she said at last. “Maybe I'll go back to our room and take a little nap.”

  The Mouse hugged Penelope and headed off in the direction of their cabin, while the little girl, still holding the doll as if it were made of crystal and might be expected to shatter at any moment, began going the opposite direction. She passed the infirmary, then rode an airlift to the top deck and turned to her left. There was much more activity here, for this was the Operations Level, and crewmen were continuously moving purposefully from one area to another, paying no attention to her at all.

  Penelope, moving with equal purpose, walked down the corridor that led to the Observation Deck, a relatively large room filled with some fifteen viewscreens, each displaying a section of space that an external holocamera transmitted, all of them together showing the ship's surroundings for more than a parsec in every direction.

  Standing alone in the middle of the room was the slender man that she had approached aboard the Starboat.

  “Good afternoon,” he said when he noticed that she had joined him.

  “Good afternoon,” she replied formally.

  “That looks like a new doll.”

  “Her name's Maryanne,” said Penelope, holding up the doll for the man to see.

  “You know, I've never asked you what your name was.”

  “Penelope.”

  “Welcome to the ship, Penelope,” said the man. “My name's Potemkin—Mischa Potemkin.”

  “That sounds like a real name,” she said, surprised.

  “It is.”

  “I thought hardly anyone out here used their real name—except for me and Maryanne, anyway.”

  “That's precisely why I choose to,” said Potemkin with a smile. “I think it makes me very distinctive.”

  “It does,” agreed Penelope.

  “Well, Penelope, what are you doing here all by yourself?”

  “I'm not by myself,” answered the girl. “Maryanne's with me.”

  “I apologize,” said Potemkin. “Where are you and Maryanne doing here?”

  “I'm talking to you, and Maryanne is looking at all the viewscreens.”

  Potemkin chuckled. “That isn't what I meant.”

  Penelope stared at him politely, waiting for him to explain himself.

  “I mean,” he said at last, “why are you on the Observation Deck at all?”

  “I saw you here, and everyone else seems so busy, so I thought I'd talk to you.”

  “What do you want to talk about?” asked Potemkin.

  “Oh, I don't know,” said Penelope, looking around the room. Her gaze fell on a viewscreen. “How does this work?” she asked, pointing to the screen. “I mean, it can't be a window, because we're in the middle of the ship.”

  “It's just like a holograph projection screen in your home,” explained Potemkin. “We have cameras outside the ship, and they transmit what they see to the various screens.”

  “But you can't change the channels.”

  He smiled. “That's why we have so many screens.”

  “How do you fix a camera when it breaks?”

  “We don't,” said Potemkin. “We just cast it off and attach a new one.”

  “Do you attach it?”

  Potemkin looked amused. “That's not my job.”

  “What is your job?” asked Penelope. “Everyone else seems to be working very hard, and you're just standing around looking at the screens. Are you the man who warns the captain when we're approaching a meteor swarm?”

  “No, the ship does that automatically.”

  “Then what do you do?”

  “Nothing, for the moment.”

  “Are you a passenger, then?” she persisted.

  “No,” said Potemkin. “I'm the War Chief.”

  “War Chief?”

  He smiled. “Back in the Democracy, I suppose they'd call me a military advisor. I don't work until we're attacking someone, or under attack ourselves—but when that happens, I work very hard indeed.”

  “So if you tell the Yankee Clipper to attack someone, he does it—and if you say not to, he doesn't?”

  “Usually.”

  “That makes you very important,” she said admiringly.

  “From time to time.”

  She paused, staring at him. “What happens if you give him the wrong advice?”

  “Then we lose.”

  “Lose?” she repeated.

  “Die.”

  “And do you make lots of money?”

  “I hardly see that that's any of your business, young lady,”
said Potemkin.

  “Not yet,” agreed Penelope.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” demanded Potemkin.

  Penelope looked down solicitously at her doll. “I think she's hungry,” she announced.

  “She can wait,” said Potemkin. “What did you mean—'not yet'?”

  “You know what I meant,” said Penelope, still looking at her doll.

  “Suppose you tell me anyway.”

  “Sometimes you could give him the wrong advice.”

  “It's possible,” admitted Potemkin. “Nobody's right all the time.”

  “I am,” said Penelope, with no trace of smugness.

  “Bunk.”

  “I feel very sorry for you, Mr. Potemkin,” she said sincerely.

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Because one day soon—maybe tomorrow, maybe even tonight—the Yankee Clipper will remember what I did in the casino, and he'll realize that I would be a better War Chief than you.”

  Potemkin laughed harshly. “You don't know the first thing about military tactics.”

  “But I know all about the future,” she pointed out. “If he can win a battle, I'll know how. And if he can't, I'll know that, too.”

  Potemkin stared at her through narrowed eyes for a long moment.

  “You didn't just find me here by accident, did you?” he said at last.

  “No, I didn't,” admitted the little girl. “I knew you'd be here.”

  “And you knew we'd have this conversation?”

  “Sort of,” answered Penelope. “I didn't know what the words would be, but I knew we'd talk if I wanted us to.”

  “Do you know that I've killed people who have threatened my position?”

  “No,” she replied. “But I believe it. You have good manners, but you're not a very nice man.”

  “If I decide you're right,” continued Potemkin, “what makes you think that I won't kill you, too?”

  “You're not nice,” repeated Penelope, “but you're smart. If you kill me, you know that the Yankee Clipper will figure out why you did it and then he'll kill you, because you'll have killed someone who could have made sure he never lost a battle.”