"Are you now planning to renege, Mr. Sollenar?" the secretary inquired
politely.
Certainly, Sollenar thought. He could as easily renege on the Ball as
a king could on his coronation.
"Burr, you scum, what have you done to me?" he asked the air, and the
telephone said: "Beg pardon?"
"Tell my valet," Sollenar said. "I'm going." He dismissed the phone.
His hands cupped in front of his chest. A firm grip on emptiness might
be stronger than any prize in a broken hand.
Carrying in his chest something he refused to admit was terror,
Sollenar made ready for the Ball.
But only a few moments after the first dance set had ended, Malcolm
Levier of the local TTV station executive staff looked over Sollenar's
shoulder and remarked:
"Oh, there's Cort Burr, dressed like a gallows bird."
Sollenar, glittering in the costume of the Medici, did not turn his
head. "Is he? What would he want here?"
Levier's eyebrows arched. "He holds a little stock. He has entree. But
he's late." Levier's lips quirked. "It must have taken him some time to
get that makeup on."
"Not in good taste, is it?"
"Look for yourself."
"Oh, I'll do better than that," Sollenar said. "I'll go and talk to him
a while. Excuse me, Levier." And only then did he turn around, already
started on his first pace toward the man.
* * * * *
But Cortwright Burr was only a pasteboard imitation of himself as
Sollenar had come to know him. He stood to one side of the doorway,
dressed in black and crimson robes, with black leather gauntlets on
his hands, carrying a staff of weathered, natural wood. His face was
shadowed by a sackcloth hood, the eyes well hidden. His face was
powdered gray, and some blend of livid colors hollowed his cheeks. He
stood motionless as Sollenar came up to him.
As he had crossed the floor, each step regular, the eyes of bystanders
had followed Sollenar, until, anticipating his course, they found Burr
waiting. The noise level of the Ball shrank perceptibly, for the lesser
revelers who chanced to be present were sustaining it all alone. The
people who really mattered here were silent and watchful.
The thought was that Burr, defeated in business, had come here in some
insane reproach to his adversary, in this lugubrious, distasteful
clothing. Why, he looked like a corpse. Or worse.
The question was, what would Sollenar say to him? The wish was that
Burr would take himself away, back to his estates or to some other
city. New York was no longer for Cortwright Burr. But what would
Sollenar say to him now, to drive him back to where he hadn't the
grace to go willingly?
"Cortwright," Sollenar said in a voice confined to the two of them. "So
your Martian immortality works."
Burr said nothing.
"You got that in addition, didn't you? You knew how I'd react. You
knew you'd need protection. Paid the Martians to make you physically
invulnerable? It's a good system. Very impressive. Who would have
thought the Martians knew so much? But who here is going to pay
attention to you now? Get out of town, Cortwright. You're past your
chance. You're dead as far as these people are concerned--all you have
left is your skin."
Burr reached up and surreptitiously lifted a corner of his fleshed
mask. And there he was, under it. The hood retreated an inch, and the
light reached his eyes; and Sollenar had been wrong, Burr had less left
than he thought.
"Oh, no, no, Cortwright," Sollenar said softly. "No, you're right--I
can't stand up to that."
He turned and bowed to the assembled company. "Good night!" he cried,
and walked out of the ballroom.
Someone followed him down the corridor to the elevators. Sollenar did
not look behind him.
"I have another appointment with you now," Ermine said at his elbow.
* * * * *
They reached the pedestrian level. Sollenar said: "There's a cafe. We
can talk there."
"Too public, Mr. Sollenar. Let's simply stroll and converse." Ermine
lightly took his arm and guided him along the walkway. Sollenar noticed
then that Ermine was costumed so cunningly that no one could have
guessed the appearance of the man.
"Very well," Sollenar said.
"Of course."
They walked together, casually. Ermine said: "Burr's driving you to
your death. Is it because you tried to kill him earlier? Did you get
his Martian secret?"
Sollenar shook his head.
"You didn't get it." Ermine sighed. "That's unfortunate. I'll have to
take steps."
"Under the By-Laws," Sollenar said, "I cry _laissez faire_."
Ermine looked up, his eyes twinkling. "_Laissez faire?_ Mr. Sollenar,
do you have any idea how many of our members are involved in your
fortunes? _They_ will cry _laissez faire_, Mr. Sollenar, but clearly
you persist in dragging them down with you. No, sir, Mr. Sollenar,
my office now forwards an immediate recommendation to the Technical
Advisory Committee of the IAB that Mr. Burr probably has a system
superior to yours, and that stock in Sollenar, Incorporated, had best
be disposed of."
"There's a bench," Sollenar said. "Let's sit down."
"As you wish." Ermine moved beside Sollenar to the bench, but remained
standing.
"What is it, Mr. Sollenar?"
"I want your help. You advised me on what Burr had. It's still in his
office building, somewhere. You have resources. We can get it."
"_Laissez faire_, Mr. Sollenar. I visited you in an advisory capacity.
I can do no more."
"For a partnership in my affairs could you do more?"
"Money?" Ermine tittered. "For me? Do you know the conditions of my
employment?"
* * * * *
If he had thought, Sollenar would have remembered. He reached out
tentatively. Ermine anticipated him.
Ermine bared his left arm and sank his teeth into it. He displayed
the arm. There was no quiver of pain in voice or stance. "It's not a
legend, Mr. Sollenar. It's quite true. We of our office must spend a
year, after the nerve surgery, learning to walk without the feel of our
feet, to handle objects without crushing them or letting them slip, or
damaging ourselves. Our mundane pleasures are auditory, olfactory, and
visual. Easily gratified at little expense. Our dreams are totally
interior, Mr. Sollenar. The operation is irreversible. What would you
buy for me with your money?"
"What would I buy for myself?" Sollenar's head sank down between his
shoulders.
Ermine bent over him. "Your despair is your own, Mr. Sollenar. I have
official business with you."
He lifted Sollenar's chin with a forefinger. "I judge physical
interference to be unwarranted at this time. But matters must remain
so that the IAB members involved with you can recover the value of
their investments in EV. Is that perfectly clear, Mr. Sollenar? You are
hereby enjoined under the By-Laws, as enforced by the Special Public
Relations Office." He glanced at his watch. "Notice was served at 1:27
AM, City time."
"1:27," Sollenar said. "City time." He sprang to his feet and raced
down a companionway to the taxi level.
Mr. Ermine watched him quizzically.
He opened his costume, took out his omnipresent medical kit, and
sprayed coagulant over the wound in his forearm. Replacing the kit, he
adjusted his clothing and strolled down the same companionway Sollenar
had run. He raised an arm, and a taxi flittered down beside him. He
showed the driver a card, and the cab lifted off with him, its lights
glaring in a Priority pattern, far faster than Sollenar's ordinary
legal limit allowed.