Conscience of the Beagle by Patricia Anthony Read Free Book Online Page B

by now. I simply don’t see the point.”
    “The point is,” I say quietly, “that you’re just a robot.”

THE SIDEWALK of the hotel is empty but for an automated luggage carrier. From the pine forest landscape lighting gleams. The gazebo seems to be sitting in a pool of moonlight.
    When the limo drives off, Beagle doesn’t move.
    “Don’t take the robot remark personally,” I tell him.
    Across the early morning air comes his hoarse bass. “Do you work at being a shit? Or has shittiness simply been thrust upon you?”
    My laugh is inappropriate. Certainly impolitic.
    “You need me, Major. Don’t push me. Don’t question my work like that.”
    “Look, I know you’re M-8. I know your reputation. And I know there’s nothing in the Hendrix files you missed. But you saw what happened between Vanderslice and Marvin. You may be smarter than I am, but I’m the better people-watcher. I’m trained that way. And when we’re with off-worlders don’t question my orders, you understand? They’ll see a weakness in the team.”
    Beagle looks speculatively toward the hotel. “Sorry.” A pause. “You’re right.”
    The apology is a surprise. An unexpected peace offering. Since he’s given in, I push him more. “What did you do to HF that makes you think they’ll demote you?”
    The famous Beagle as troublemaker? A construct as iconoclast? I doubt it.
    He stiffens.
    “I’m not the spy,” I tell him. His face is held in such tight check that he looks more statue than man. I realize he doesn’t believe me.
    There’s no point in arguing. I walk to a bench and sit. Beagle must not see the point, either. He sits at my side. “So what happened with Talia Hendrix?” I ask.
    “She was banished out of bosom. She’s living someplace on the south side now.”
    I stretch out my legs. Consider the tips of my boots. “South side. You know where?”
    “Fifteen-forty Divine Mercy. Why?”
    “Divine Mercy. Christ on a crutch. Where do they get these names? Did Vanderslice ever try to help her?”
    Beagle shrugs. “Not that I can tell.”
    “If Hendrix was his best friend, why wouldn’t he have helped his wife?”
    “Maybe Talia Hendrix had become a political liability.”
    “Maybe. Is Vanderslice married?”
    Beagle chuckles. “All the ministers have a wifey at home. It’s expected with the job. Wifey’s name is Jenny. Jenny and John. Has a precious sort of ring, don’t you think? They have a one-year-old kid.”
    Did Lila ever want children? I don’t know. We never discussed it. But she was realistic. The gardens on M-6 would have been enough. The flowers. The lighted walkways. And a small white dog.
    From the pines an owl hoots. We both turn to look. Given Beagle’s nightvision, it’s probable he actually sees it.
    The hoot sounds so lonely. “I wonder if they have mice. It would be pitiful to have owls and not have any mice.”
    Beagle, bored with the owl, swivels back. “Our boy Vanderslice may not have gotten along with Talia. That’s possible.” He gets to his feet. “Shouldn’t we go in? It’s probably getting cold for you out here.”
    Only then do I notice the chill. “Something in this Paulie Hendrix story doesn’t fit, and Talia Hendrix has the missing puzzle piece. Maybe Vanderslice wanted her to disappear. Or maybe the south side’s not as bad as the briefing reports say. I’d better take a cab to Divine Mercy.”
    “Isn’t it a little late in the evening for that?”
    I look toward the cabcall. Between the front of the hotel and the corner the sidewalk is dark. Why did I tell Beagle I would go? How could I trap myself like this? Now I’ll have to walk through the shadows. I’ll have to get in the cab alone.
    I rise. Take a few self-assured steps before fear lames me.
    “Hey!”
    My terror is a room-sized weight I carry on my back. There are times it crushes me. Mornings I’m too tired to pick it up. At Beagle’s call I turn.
    “Sure you don’t want me with you?”
    If he goes