Inferno

Telmhock looked at him oddly, and seemed to choose his words carefully. “ And so he was-up until a few days ago. ”

Suddenly Kresh was all attention. A change in the Designation? That could turn the case upside-down. “You’re quite right, Professor Telmhock. Information regarding the succession would be most useful, and of the greatest interest to me. “ Both the new Designate and the old would have motives for killing Grieg. The new Designate might have killed to seize power-while the old one, Shelabas, might have struck in desperation, in hopes of succeeding before the new Designation could be made official.

Yes, of course. Why hadn’t he looked harder in that direction, toward Shelabas? Gain was always a likely motive for murder, and who could gain more than the Governor’s successor? If the assassination was a power grab, who was it who ended up gaining power?

In plain terms, the new Governor would have to be a suspect in the case. Gain-and power-were first-rate motives. “But how do you come to have any knowledge of-ah-this subject?”

“I am the executor of the late Governor’s last will and testament,” Telmhock said, a bit taken aback. “But you were not aware of that? Hmmm. Hah. Yes. ” The little man seemed to consider that piece of information carefully. “In light of the fact that you did not know who I was, or that I am executor to his will, I wonder-were you-are you-at least aware of the Governor’s new choice as Designate?”

“No,” Kresh said. “Of course not. Why would he tell me?” Confound the man! Couldn’t he get to the point?

“Why indeed?” Telmhock asked, looking toward his robot.

“He did not know. I see. I see. ” He thought that bit of information over as well. “That does make things rather more interesting, doesn’t it, Stanmore?” he asked, addressing his robot, before returning to his former air of distraction.

“Yes, sir, it does,” the robot replied, and then said no more. The robot Stanmore seemed to share its master’s reluctance to offer up any actual information.

The four of them-Kresh, Donald, Telmhock, and Stanmore-remained in silence for perhaps half a minute before Kresh spoke again, struggling to keep his temper under control. “Professor Telmhock. I am currently ru

“Oh, dear!” Telmhock all but squeaked. “Yes! My apologies,” the little man said, clearly very startled.

“Good,” said Kresh. “Now then-who is the Designate?”

“You. You are,” Telmhock said, still rather flustered.

There was a moment’s dead silence as Kresh tried to absorb what he had just heard. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“You are,” Telmhock said. “You are the Governor-Designate.”

“I don’t understand,” Kresh said, his knees suddenly a bit weak. Me? The Designate? Why the devil would Grieg pick me?

“It’s quite simple,” Telmhock said. “The Governor changed his will just ten days ago. You are the Designate.”

“Excuse me, Professor, but you have misstated the case,” said Telmhock’s robot. “Alvar Kresh is not the Designate. ”

“Hmmm? Oh, yes, my. You’re quite right, Stanmore. I hadn’t considered the case fully enough. Quite right.”

Kresh looked to the robot with a feeling of indescribable relief. Telmhock, addled old bureaucrat that he was, had gotten it wrong. “What is it he’s gotten wrong?” Kresh asked. “If I’m not the Designate, who is?”

“No one is,” said Stanmore. “You ceased being the Designate at the moment of Grieg’s death.”

“Excuse me?” Kresh said.

“You were the Governor-Designate. But according to Infernal law, at the moment of Chanto Grieg’s death, you automatically succeeded to his office.”

“The letter, Stanmore,” said Telmhock.

The robot extracted an envelope from his briefcase and handed it to Kresh, who accepted it quite mechanically. “I deliver this letter to you from Chanto Grieg on the occasion of his death, as per the instructions of the deceased. ”

“But I don’t know how to… ” Kresh’s voice trailed off. He was too numb with shock to say more.

Olver Telmhock stood and offered a nervous smile as he stuck out his hand. “Congratulations-Governor Kresh. ”

Tierlaw Verick sat in the comfortable chair of his comfortable room and raged silently against his imprisonment.

No matter that the bed was soft, that the carpet was freshly vacuumed, that the closet was full of handsome clothes that could fit him-or nearly anyone else-in a pinch, that the refresher had every sort of soap and powder and potion. No matter that this room was as comfortable as the one he had slept in the night before, here at the Residence-that this room was virtually identical to it. He was a prisoner. He could not leave. He could stand up from his chair and try the door, even open it-but there would be a robotic sentry on the other side of it. He could look out the window onto the spacious grounds of the Residence-but he would see another vigilant robot there, as well.

Robots! Literally surrounded by robots. Perhaps that was no more than a fitting punishment for his getting involved in the financial side of rustbacking. He should never have gotten involved with that miserable trade. It was no business for a Settler to be involved in. But the profits had been so huge, and he had been able to keep far away from the dirty side of the business.

Much good his profits would do him now. Here he was, locked away, cut off, and no one would tell him anything. He had been given no reason at all for his being held.

The door came open, and Verick was delighted to see the guard-the human guard, Pyman, his name was-coming in with Verick’s meal tray.

Pathetic that he was so starved for company that the mere sight of a human being thrilled him so much. But Verick had always needed attention, an audience, someone to talk to, and he had been cultivating Pyman most assiduously. Pyman was, after all, Verick’s only link to the outside world, his only source of information.

No doubt they were sending a human with his tray instead of a robot in the hope that Verick would be more likely to talk to a human, let something slip. Well, two could play that game. Pyman was far more likely than the average robot to say more than he should.

Verick had always been good at performance. He had received training in the art of giving people exactly what they wanted so that they would give in return. There could be nothing more important to him right now than charming this shy, kindly, awkward boy.

“Ranger Pyman!” he said as he stood up. “It’s good to see you again.”

“I-I brought you something to eat,” Pyman said quite u

“I’m sure I will,” Verick said, crossing to the table.

Pyman turned back toward the door, but Verick did not want him to leave, not just yet. “Wait!” Verick said. “I’m in here alone all day. Do you have to leave right away?”

“I guess not,” Pyman said. “I-I can stay a minute or two.”

“Wonderful,” Verick said, offering up his warmest smile. “Sit, sit, take a moment,” he said. “With everything that’s been going on, you Rangers must be run right off your feet. ”

Pyman sat down on the edge of the chair nearest the door, and Verick sat down opposite him, trying to be encouraging without scaring the poor boy off. “I guess that’s true,” Pyman said. “Things have been pretty busy. Seems like the whole world’s gone crazy.”