Eight
Thirty seconds later, Kit was past me and through the front door without answering.
Eden Outfitters’ office manager met us at the bottom of the stairs. His belt supported a gunpowder revolver on one side and a Handtalk that looked older than he did on the other. He was gray, stooped, and limped on an old-fashioned prosthetic that replaced his right leg somewhere above the knee.
On Dead End, amputation appeared to be the new black.
He led us down a passage, at the end of which hung an Animap. It showed the sections of the Line, the border that ringed the safe zone centered on Eden; the Triple-A ’bot emplacements, and a field of winking lights intriguingly labeled ‘‘Pest Control.’’ Eden Outfitters’ primary business was monster management, not one-off vacation safaris for Trueborns with more money than sense.
The office manager frowned at Kit. ‘‘Who’s minding your section?’’
‘‘The adjacent sections are covering. You know that’s standard.’’
He stopped and leaned against the wall, breathing hard. ‘‘Of course I know. My sister called. She saw you drive into town, and she wet her pants. I promised I’d ask, to shut her up.’’
Kit rolled her eyes. ‘‘Ben the florist stopped out on Main Street and gave us the look, too, while I was parking.’’
The old man waved a hand. ‘‘What do you expect? Grezz give people the yips.’’
On this planet, even the florists gave me the yips.
Kit hung her hands on her hips and cocked her head. ‘‘Oliver, has a grezz from my section ever killed anyone?’’
He paused. ‘‘Bauer.’’
She raised a finger and shook her head. ‘‘That doesn’t count. He was dead before I replaced him.’’
My jaw dropped. This meeting wasn’t a renegotiation. It was a renege. Bauer, Cutler’s prepaid, hand-picked-by-resume guide was dead.
The manager sat us down in a conference room, in heavy wood chairs around a rough table. One rocky wall was hung with black-framed flat images, below a plaque that read: IN MEMORIAM. FORMER VALUED EMPLOYEES. It was a big wall, and it was full.
The old man spread his palms toward Kit. ‘‘No. Sorry. You’ve been a valued employee. We were fortunate you applied when you did.’’
Despite the generous Wall of Fame employee benefit, Eden Outfitters had an evident problem with personnel turnover.
I stared at Kit. I had assumed she was born here. Nobody sane immigrated to Dead End. Especially to take a job with limited opportunity for survival, much less advancement.
I asked the office manager, ‘‘How long ago did Mr. Bauer die?’’
‘‘Six months.’’
‘‘But you’ve kept Mr. Cutler’s prepayment?’’
‘‘Cutler’s people wanted a cheaper price. I said okay, if it was nonrefundable, and that’s the way they wrote it. We sent Cutler a Cutlergram about Bauer. Figured the man himself would prefer that.’’
Cutlergrams were the cheapest way for the Human Union’s general population to send legal notices, and were worth what they cost. The message would have been months in transit. That would have assured that Eden Outfitters had time to spend Cutler’s prepayment before Cutler’s accountants found out that the prepaid goods were, uh, damaged.
I ran my fingers through my hair. ‘‘Now what?’’
The old man studied his fingers. ‘‘You won’t last a week without a guide. Probably not with one, either, but that’s not my rice bowl to break. Pack up. Go home. Trueborns are smart. Your boss will understand. Won’t he?’’