Part 10 (1/2)

Cabal was confident that, no, he didn't.

Harlmann continued, ”You're thinking, That's a lot of beer to drink with no solid sustenance to complement it. What I could really do with is a lovely bar snack. But what? Beer nuts? Beer nuts are a bit tired, aren't they? Pretzels? You can choke on pretzels. Meat sticks? Bits always end up floating around your beer. No, no, no, no. You don't want any of that old rubbish.”

Cabal said nothing, but watched him levelly, not even slightly agog to hear what new rubbish Harlmann was peddling.

”You want ...” Harlmann nodded at the bag with an encouraging smile, and shook it temptingly.

”I'm not letting one of those anonymous ... objects pa.s.s my lips without a full description and, ideally, an a.n.a.lytical chemist's report,” said Cabal.

”Save yourself the trouble, sport,” said Harlmann, a man difficult to put off his stride. In contrast, Cabal had never been called ”sport” in his life, and was inwardly reeling at such effrontery. ”I can tell you exactly what you're getting here. Zero carbohydrates, sixty per cent protein, thirty-two per cent fat, all of which is unsaturated, mostly oleic acid, which is good for you, and most of the rest is stearic acid, which is harmless. Bit of salt for flavour, but a little goes a long way. Go on! Try one!”

He still had misgivings, but the breakdown of the snack's chemical composition sounded rea.s.suring enough. In fact, it sounded vaguely familiar. He took one of the puffy brown shavings and chewed slowly on it. Actually, it wasn't bad, and he said so.

”Y'see? Y'see?” Harlmann regarded the greaseproof paper bag as if it contained the philosopher's stone. ”The bar snack of the future, these little babies.”

”What, exactly, are they?” asked Cabal, taking another. He'd heard Harlmann use that phrase at the embarkation dinner-”the bar snack of the future”-but Cabal hadn't been paying much attention on that occasion. What had Harlmann called them? Cabal suddenly remembered, and stopped chewing.

”Pork scratchings,” said Harlmann proudly.

”Pork scratchings,” echoed Cabal, his voice empty of expression. The name suggested that where there were pork scratchings there were pork itchings, and mental images of pigs with terrible skin diseases filled his mind. Had he just been chewing on hog scabs?

”It's the skin, you see. Basically, cold crackling for the casual peckish market.”

”Pig skin,” said Cabal, starting to chew again. That didn't sound so bad; after all, pork crackling and rinds were all part and parcel of eating pork. ”What process do you use to get rid of the hairs?”

”Just burn them off. What do you think?”

”You may have to do something about the name, but that's not bad at all, Herr Harlmann.”

”Thank you, Herr Meissner. I respect your opinion. Please, have the bag with my compliments.” He waited until Cabal had taken it from him, before saying in a casual tone, ”You're something in the government, aren't you?”

So that was it. ”A very minor cog in the great Mirkarvian machine, Herr Harlmann. Specifically, a docket clerk, first cla.s.s in the Department of Administrative Coordination.”

If Harlmann was disappointed with the rank, he didn't show it. The department, however, seemed grounds for optimism. ”Administrative Coordination, eh? Why, that means you have contact with all other departments, including Military Logistics, doesn't it?”

Cabal had no idea, but it seemed likely. ”We have dealings with most other departments, that's true. Why do you ask?”

”Those little wonders,” he answered, gesturing at the bag in Cabal's hand. ”High-energy food, gives you pep right when you need it! Perfect for troops on the march, eh?”

”It's an interesting idea, certainly,” said Cabal, for whom war was already such a ludicrous idea that the addition of thousands of soldiers marching off to butcher one another while chewing on slightly salted deep-fried chunks of pig skin added not a jot of absurdity. ”I could mention it to my superiors on my return.”

Harlmann smiled patiently and shook his head. ”No, no, no, no, my boy. You're getting this all wrong.” He sat on the next stool and then, to Cabal's profound discomfort, put his arm around his shoulder. ”Your bosses will just take all the credit. That's not the way to do it at all. You have to present it as a fait accompli, with your name all over it. Look, you can get at the SCF, can't you?”

Could he? Cabal tried to look noncommittal while working hard to guess what the ”SCF” could possibly be. To buy himself some time, he attempted to turn the conversation around. ”You seem to know a great deal about it, sir.”

”Well, of course I do. It's my business. I'll not lie to you, Herr Meissner. A government contract for my scratchings would be a great boon for my business, and ... it could do you a lot of good, too.”

If this was the way Mirkarvia usually operated, thought Cabal, no wonder it was a shambles. As for the SCF, civil services always seemed to be full of committees, and Harlmann was after funding. Therefore, Cabal would guess that it was something along the lines of the Special or even the Secret Committee for Funding. When Harlmann said he wanted Cabal-or, more accurately, Meissner-to ”get at” the committee, it seemed evident that he meant for some palms to be greased.

”Well, I can't get at anyone while I'm aboard the Princess Hortense, sir. We shall have to talk about this in greater detail when we're both back in Krenz.”

Harlmann frowned. ”Why wait? You can wire when we reach Senza.”

Bribery by telegram was a new one for Cabal, especially from a telegraph office in an unfriendly country. ”It's not quite that simple. I'm involved in agricultural remittances. I can't just telegraph them out of the blue like that.”

”Them?” Harlmann looked at him very closely, and Cabal realised that he may have made a serious error.

He was saved by Miss Ambersleigh, who appeared at his elbow like an English djinni, which is to say suddenly but without a lot of flash and smoke and bother. ”Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said. ”Herr Meissner? Lady Ninuka wonders if we might have the pleasure of your company.”

The force of Cabal's desire for any escape from Harlmann might in a different man have manifested itself in bear-hugging and kissing Miss Ambersleigh before conducting her in an impromptu polka around the salon. In Cabal, this impulse was ruthlessly subjugated while he inclined his head in a curt nod. ”I should be delighted, Fraulein.” He rose and bowed to Harlmann. ”If you would excuse me, mein Herr?”

Harlmann nodded and, somewhat to Cabal's surprise, smiled in a warm and fraternal manner. ”No problem, old man. My best wishes to her ladys.h.i.+p.” He stood, bowed, and turned to go, but, as he turned, he caught Cabal's eye and very deliberately winked. Then he was gone, taking his pork scratchings with him.

Inwardly perturbed by Harlmann's behaviour, Cabal took his drink and walked over to go through the pleasantries with Lady Ninuka. As they sat, he noticed Miss Ambersleigh regarding the stein with icy disapproval. Cabal could almost have thanked her for it, because it gave him an excuse to have it taken away and replaced by tea and cakes. Cabal had little time for the English way of life, usually-or, indeed, anybody else's way of life-but at some point he had developed a weakness for afternoon tea, and the pleasure he expressed when the tray arrived was entirely genuine.

”I'll be mother,” said Miss Ambersleigh, taking up the teapot. Lady Ninuka caught Cabal's eye, and smiled slightly at the comment. Cabal took her meaning; this seemed likely to be the only way the censorious Miss Ambersleigh would ever be a mother, unless she unexpectedly entered a convent.

Cabal took his tea with lemon and no sugar, and confined himself to a yellow French Fancy. They chatted politely enough about the weather, the s.h.i.+p, the view, and Cabal was just beginning to think that he was on safe ground when Lady Ninuka said, ”I hear you're involved in the investigation into poor M. DeGarre's disappearance. Is that so, Herr Meissner?”

Miss Ambersleigh tutted. ”Really, Orfilia! I'm sure we don't want to hear about such a horrid event.” She turned to Cabal. ”I'm sure I shan't sleep a wink tonight! And, as for poor Orfilia, she has trouble sleeping at the best of times. You must not excite her with such talk!”

”You have trouble sleeping?” Cabal asked Lady Ninuka. ”You should ask the s.h.i.+p's doctor for a sleeping draught.”

”She did,” cut in Miss Ambersleigh as Lady Ninuka was drawing breath to reply, ”but it's not good for you to take them too much, my dear. You cannot depend on chemicals.” She turned earnestly to Cabal. ”You're an educated man, Herr Meissner. You tell her. It simply isn't wise to depend on chemicals.”

Cabal, whose work involved a large quant.i.ty of chemicals, resisted the desire to highlight Miss Ambersleigh's appalling ignorance of scientific matters by telling her that she was entirely constructed from chemicals, and that she ate chemicals, drank chemicals, breathed chemicals, and this was all completely natural. Instead, he said, ”Insomnia can be a terrible burden on your well-being, my lady, both physiologically and psychically. Medication is all very well in the short term, but you should try to discover the root of it and deal with it.” That said, he thought she looked remarkably well. It was probably the glamour that women create with paints and powders, but she didn't look like somebody who went without regular rest. In vulgar terms, she was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He briefly entertained the idea that she might be depending on some much less innocent chemical than a mild sedative, but it didn't sit well with her behaviour or appearance; she didn't seem to be exhibiting any of the telltales a.s.sociated with common stimulants.

”Thank you, Herr Meissner. I truly appreciate your concern. May you talk of your investigation, though? It seems very interesting.”

Speaking quickly, to head off the interruption that Miss Ambersleigh had ready in the slips, Cabal said, ”I really cannot speak of the investigation, Lady Ninuka. You understand, of course. It could prove damaging to any findings if they were to be publicised prematurely.”

”Oh, I wouldn't tell a soul,” she replied, the very picture of innocent propriety, although the way she laid her hand upon her decolletage as she spoke could just as easily have been due to coquettishness as to expressiveness. ”I am the very epitome of discretion.”

”Herr Meissner has made it quite clear that he cannot discuss such things, my dear,” persisted Miss Ambersleigh. In her mind, subjects suitable for civilised discussion frolicked happily in a great green pasture of loveliness surrounded by a ha-ha filled with spikes and acid, beyond which lay the Frightful. Violent death and suicide were very much a part of this congregation of the unspeakable, and for every word spoken on such subjects an angel shed a tear, or a fairy died, or a bunny was blinded. Miss Ambersleigh, who was fond of angels, fairies, and bunnies (despite having met only the latter), was therefore very keen to confine her conversation to the lovely pasture.

Lady Ninuka was not. ”Well, there must be some aspect you can explain to me,” she said to Cabal. ”Your methods, your strategy for getting to the bottom of all this?”

He was flattered that she thought there was any strategy involved in the investigation at all, given that the only solid piece of evidence was an injury sustained during a murder attempt. If real police officers relied on such methods, precious few would ever draw their pensions.

”My lady, you make too much of my humble abilities. I am no detective; I am merely an instrument of the state attempting, in my poor way, to help the captain find the truth.”

”Can't you see that he doesn't want to talk about it, Orfilia? Come, now! Let us speak of happier things.”

Cabal was beginning to find that Miss Ambersleigh's shrill interjections grated on his nerves. If he had been himself, he would have said as much, but Gerhard Meissner-or at least his rendition of Gerhard Meissner-was a more patient man. His true mind flickered on his face for a second, but he brought it under control with a steely flex of his will.

It seemed that Ninuka shared his opinion, though, as the very next moment she said, ”Oh, for pity's sake, Miss Ambersleigh! Can't you see that every time the poor man tries to say something you tell him that we don't wish to hear it? Of course he's keeping quiet. He's being polite!”