The Gripping Hand Read online

  She was smiling again. "Is that bad?"

  "Well . . . it's odd. Something is hidden but nobody's being robbed."

  "What will you do?"

  "I'll do Renner." He grinned at her. "I'll spend money. I'll make passes at pretty girls, and ask shopkeepers about whatever they're selling, and buy people drinks and generally get them talking. Maybe . . . yeah, maybe I'll look into where opal meerschaum comes from."

  She was looking at him, frowning. "Alone?"

  "More or less. I'll keep Bury's household posted as best I can. This is what I do."

  "Anything else to report?"

  Renner shook his head, and Ruth turned off the recorders. "I always did wonder about the regulations about Moties," she said. "What do we do now?"

  "First, you get this recording off to Sector. You do understand that no one on this planet sees it first?"

  "Give me a little credit—"

  "Oh, I've always known that beauty and brains go together. There are implications, you know."

  "Lots of them," Ruth said. "Kevin, have you thought this through? The True Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints has power. And a lot of members. If you're threatening it . . ."

  "They'll have plenty of gunmen. Sure. Now think about what we could be doing to threaten that Church."

  "I did. So far I got nothing."

  "Me either," Renner said. "So I'll keep poking around."

  Shopping centers had never come into vogue on the Purchase. Big and little shops were scattered through the city, a sudden surprise among the houses.

  Here: four huge rock slabs leaned against each other at the tops, with window glass in narrow triangles where the rock didn't meet. The boutique was a block from the Pitchfork River, in a neighborhood that had once been fashionable and was now getting to be again. Kevin Renner glanced in and saw a squarish chunk of white rock glittering with opal colors.

  He walked in. Chimes sounded above his head.

  He paid little attention to the cookware, lamps, rifles. Here was a row of glittering white pipes with amber bits, and one, isolated, that was fiery opal in a black matrix. Some were carved in intricate fashion: faces, animals, and one flattened tube shaped like an Imperial skip-glide fighter.

  A short, muscular, balding man emerged from somewhere aft. His eyes scanned Renner in genial fashion. He said, "The pipes."

  "Too right. What kind of prices do these things carry? The black one, for instance."

  "Oh, no, sir. That's a used pipe. Mine. After I close up, then it comes out of the case. It's there for display."

  "Um. How long . . ."

  The old man had it out on the counter. It had been carved into a face, a lovely woman's face. Long, wavy hair ran down the bit. "I've been smoking Giselle here for twenty-six years. But it doesn't take that long. A year, year and a half, the matrix will blacken up nicely. Longer for the larger pipes."

  "Longer if I like switching pipes, too. How—"

  "You'll find you smoke just the one pipe at home, sir. Opal meerschaum doesn't go stale after a few thousand puffs. Briar is what you'll take on trips."

  Interesting. You took the cheaper pipes on trips, of course, and the little ones. Big pipes were more awkward but smoked better. But most of the pipes in view were pocket-size.

  "Do you keep the bigger ones somewhere else?"

  "No, sir, this is all we have."

  "Mmm. That big one?"

  "Nine hundred crowns." The proprietor moved it to the counter. It was an animal's head, vaguely elephantine.

  "That's high. I've seen better carving," Renner said.

  "On opal meerschaum?"

  "Well, no. Is it difficult to carve?"

  The old man smiled. "Not really. Local talent. It may be you'd want to buy a blank, like this." It was bigger yet, with a bowl bigger than Renner's fist and a long shank and short bit. "Take it to another world. Give it to a better carver."

  "How much?"

  "Thirteen fifty."

  It wasn't Kevin's money. Very little of what passed through his fingers was Kevin's money. There would be a Navy pension, and he might be in Bury's will . . . but this would be charged to expenses. Nonetheless Kevin shook his head and said, "Wow."

  "Higher on other worlds. Much higher. And the value goes up as you smoke it." The man hesitated, then said, "Twelve hundred."

  "Would you go a thousand?"

  "No. Look into some other stores. Come back if you change your mind."

  "Rape it. Sell me that. Do you have tobacco, too?" Kevin handed over his pocket computer and waited while the proprietor verified the transfer, wrapped the pipe, handed it across. And added a tin of local tobacco, gratis.

  Kevin knew what he wanted to ask next . . . and suddenly knew that he didn't have to. He just grinned and let silence stretch until the old man grinned back and said, "Nobody knows."

  "Well, how does it come in?"

  "Private fliers. Men go out and come back with the stone. Are you thinking that they could be made to talk?"

  "Well . . . ?"

  "There are criminal elements in Pitchfork River. They don't control the opal meerschaum and never have. My suppliers say they don't know where it comes from; they always bought it from somewhere else. I've heard it so often I'm beginning to believe it. I helped finance some geologists once, when I was younger. They never found anything. Money into a rat hive."

  "Too bad."

  "You won't find a shop that sells only the opal meerschaum. It's sporadic. There hasn't been a new source in twenty years, that's why it's so high. Some of us think it comes from the north. The north is more geologically active, and the fliers mostly go out in that direction."

  "But he was willing to bargain," Renner told his pocket computer, set to RECORD. "Two other dealers offered me deals, too. That's three out of four. I think they're expecting a new source anytime now. That would drop the price. It would fit the cycles you noticed, slow rise in price, peak, steep drop, every twenty years or so."

  He put the computer away. The taxi settled and let him out. He was in a narrow wedge of manicured forest, in Tanner Park, and a bridge was in view of the north.

  Across the bridge: the spill. It wasn't quite a slum; but the houses crowded too close, and potholes and broken lightstrips weren't repaired at once, and the crime rate was high. Renner hadn't wanted to get out of a taxi here. He strolled through the streets, looking for what there was to see.

  That sign: THE MAGUEY WORM, on a tall concrete building painted in garish murals. Surely that was where he had fried his brains, night before last? Not that it mattered much. Renner went in.

  Midafternoon. Not much of a crowd: four at the bar, two at a big table, all men. Working men, by their look: comfortable, durable clothes. Renner ordered waterwing liqueur and settled back to soak up atmosphere.

  There are those who prey on tourists . . .

  But nobody made a move. He might have been invisible.

  Renner unwrapped his package. Carefully he filled the bowl of the pipe with tobacco, then lit up.

  Staring is a universal insult, and nobody was; but others had become aware of his existence. Renner said aloud, "The old guy was right. That's a terrific smoke." It was true.

  "I wouldn't know," the bartender said, and a brawny guy two chairs down said, "Amen." He was wearing several layers of clothing, like the hunters of two nights ago. Geared for cold, wearing it all because it was the easiest way to carry it.

  Renner looked disconcerted. "Oops. I should have asked—"

  "Smoking's allowed in the Maguey Worm." The bartender jerked his thumb upward, at the high ceiling and slowly turning fans. "Go ahead, it'll give the place a bit of class. I'm told you should be drinking skellish with that, for the taste. Or B and B."

  "Pour me a skellish, then, bubble on the side. A round for the house. You, too."

  "The house thanks you," the bartender said. "Amen," said six customers, and the house became busy.

  One of the hunters raised his glass to
Renner. "You were in here—what, two nights ago?"

  "Wednesday," the bartender said. "We don't get a lot of off-planet trade here." His voice was friendly, but it held a question.

  Renner shrugged.

  The hunter came over to Renner's table. "Mind? . . . Thanks." He sat and looked pointedly at Renner's pipe. "He sure ain't broke."

  Renner grinned. "I got lucky once." The trick is to imply that anyone can get lucky. "I'm a rich man's pilot. I can play tourist when I'm on a planet, while Bury busts his ass making more money."

  "You want local color, you came to the right place. I'm Ajax Boynton."

  "Kevin Renner."

  "Sir Kevin," Boynton said. "Saw you on tri-vee. Hey, fellows, we got a celebrity."

  Renner grinned. "Pull up a chair. Tell me tall tales." He waved to the bartender, who had politely moved out of earshot. "Another round."

  Four more joined him. Two ordered straight orange juice. It cost as much as liquor. They introduced themselves as the Scott brothers, James and Darwin.

  "I take it things are slow?" Kevin asked.

  "A little," Darwin Scott said. He shrugged massive shoulders. "Snow ghost hunting's a chancy thing. Get a good one and you make money, but you don't always."

  "Then what?"

  "Then you wait for somebody to stake you," Ajax Boynton said. "You looking to invest some money?"

  Renner looked thoughtful. "Truth is, I'd like to own a snow ghost fur and I'd like to shoot it myself. What would it cost me?"

  "Five thousand buys a quarter share," Boynton said. "Ten thousand buys forty percent."

  "Why—"

  "With ten thousand worth of gear we have a better chance of getting a ghost."

  "Oh. Plausible."

  "Still interested?"

  "Sure, if I get to come along."

  Boynton looked annoyed. "Hunting ghosts isn't dude work. We lose people."

  "You keep saying that. With IR gear, and—"

  "And sonar, and the best damn acoustic gear we can come up with," James Scott said. "And we lose people, because it's a long way north. The aurora mucks up electronics. And—"

  "And ghosts move fast," his brother said. "They dig in near tree roots, where you can't get a good sonar map. They stay down in the snow so the IR doesn't spot them. And they can swim under snow faster than you can walk. Forget it, mister."

  "Let's see, now. I back you for ten thousand worth of gear, which I leave behind when the ship lifts. A good ghost fur costs . . . what? Straight from you, no retailer."

  Darwin Scott said, "I'd get around twenty thousand."

  Renner's sources were accurate. "So call it another twenty thousand when I get back, and call that incentive to bring the greenhorn back alive. Total, thirty thousand." They were trying to maintain poker faces, but he surely had their interest. "Just that, and you keep your sixty percent, but I expect you to indulge yet another whim."

  Three men sighed. Renner said, "See, I can't think of any reason not to hunt snow ghosts where I might stumble across some opal meerschaum, too."

  Three men were hiding smiles. Ajax Boynton said, "Me neither. If you've got a place in mind, I'll tell you if there are snow ghosts there."

  "Let's find a map."

  4

  Snow Ghost

  Have you not seen how your Lord lengthens out the shadow?

  He could have kept it motionless if he liked.

  Yet We make the sun its pilot to show the way.

  —al-Qur'an

  "Is this wise?" Bury sipped at coffee and examined the map projected on the wall. "It will certainly not be comfortable."

  Renner shrugged. "I like comfort. But hey, if I can get a snow ghost fur, it'll sure keep me warm enough."

  "So will synthetics, and they are much cheaper. Why the area between the glaciers?"

  "Oh, hell, Bury. How do you know Reuben Fox is hiding something but he isn't stealing and can't be bribed? Brains and instinct and technique. It took me all afternoon. We talked. The Scott brothers switched from orange juice to tea . . . the Maguey Worm has a magic coffeepot variation. Gilbey makes a liter of tea and then lets the caffeine filter out through the wall. Takes five minutes."

  "More Motie influence."

  "Right off of your ships, Horace! Anyway. I pointed at various parts of the map, all of it in the region where the northern lights play, but that's fairly large. Snow ghosts? Yes. No. Maybe. They'd never live here, they've been hunted out there, my brother got one here a year ago."

  "I wish you had a fast-forward switch, Kevin."

  "By and by, Boynton said he'd heard opal meerschaum

  came from under the Hand Glacier. The Scott brothers said it didn't, it had been searched by an uncle or something, and besides, the place had been hunted out of snow ghosts twenty years ago. So I went on pointing, and every place I pointed, the Scott brothers thought I might find a snow ghost there."

  "Ah."

  "There's something in the Hand. The Mormons know about it and Boynton doesn't. For that matter, it might be opal meerschaum. Under the glacier. You wait till the glacier moves; that's why the market's so sporadic."

  "Given the geology I would not be surprised, but what is that to you?"

  Renner spread his hands. "One hand, it's cold and miserable. Other hand, the source of opal meerschaum is a big secret, and we're looking for secrets. Gripping hand—" Bury suppressed a shudder. "Gripping hand, they're interested. What is Horace Bury after? Opal meerschaum? Something else?"

  "And you trust your companions, whom you met in a bar—"

  "I had Ruth Cohen check on them. Boynton and the Scott brothers are well known, no trouble with the police except that Boynton gets drunk when he has a good hunt. The Maguey Worm is one of half a dozen places where ghost hunters hang out looking for a stake."

  "Still—?"

  "You have a better lead?"

  "I have leads. And a different manner of searching." Bury gestured to indicate his travel chair. "Certainly you are better suited to follow this than I am. Kevin, communications will not be reliable in that area. The crew on Sinbad can attempt to keep track of you, but it is not likely they will succeed."

  "No guts, no glory." Renner grinned. "Besides, I'll have Boynton and the Scott brothers looking out for me. They each get an extra five thousand if I get back alive. Ten each if I have a snow ghost. What can go wrong?"

  The glacier ended in sharp edges bordered in bare rocky ground. The bare spots ranged from a few meters to several kilometers before vanishing into the snow. They flew past a cluster of buildings nestled against the glacier edge. Two buildings stood out, one wide and low, the other taller and more massive. Mist and steam rose from all the clear-ground areas to the thick cloud cover above them, so that it was hard to see the town.

  "Zion," Ajax Boynton said.

  "Looks interesting," Renner said. Maybe four thousand population, maybe less.

  "For us," Darwin Scott said. "That's one of the True Temples. But there won't be any ghosts near there. No opal meerschaum, either."

  "Not there," Boynton agreed. "But that stuffs got to be near here somewhere."

  "Why?"

  "We know the jade comes from here."

  "We know people say so," James Scott said. "But I never met anyone who'd found any."

  "You have, too," Ajax Boynton said. "Ralph. Ralph . . . hell, I forget. Came to the Maguey and bought for the house."

  "Yeah, and the next day bought a ticket for Tabletop," James Scott said. "I'd forgotten him. Okay, so you can get lucky."

  "Never did understand that," Boynton said. "Ralph— Plemmons, that was his name. I didn't know him all that well, but I sure never figured him to leave the Purchase." He looked down at the map display on the flier's navigation screen. "Fifteen more klicks south, then twenty east. I know a good place."

  Renner studied the rugged ground below. It rolled with hills, mostly covered with thin forest. Those bumbershoot trees needed a lot of room. The area near the glacier was obscured
with mist, but away from it the air was clearer. Brush and treetops thrust up through the snow in the clearings. "Just where do you land?" he asked.

  "You land on a lake," Darwin Scott said. He touched the light pen to the area Boynton had indicated. The bush plane banked slightly and changed course. "A shallow lake."

  "Why shallow?" Renner asked.

  "Snow ghosts aren't the only things that eat people,"

  James Scott said. "Boynton here lost a partner to a freshwater cecil. You sure this isn't the same lake?"

  "Hell, no. I told Brad that lake was too deep," Boynton said.

  Fifteen minutes later James Scott took manual control of the plane. He brought it in low and circled a patch that was clear of trees.

  All three hunters used binoculars to study the lake. The snow cover was undisturbed. "No blow holes," Boynton said. "Looks okay."

  Scott brought the plane in low and let it settle onto the frozen lake. He circled the perimeter several times before he taxied out to the lake's center. "You want to flatten the snow," he said. "All around your camp. Pack it tight."

  "Whose partner got eaten in his sack?" Renner asked.

  They just looked at him. "Nobody's that stupid," Boynton said.

  The Scott brothers unfolded the tent and inflated it. It was larger than the flier. Darwin Scott said, "Ajax, are you trying to break the man?"

  "Actually, I bought it," Renner said. "It looked comfortable."

  Darwin Scott looked at the tent and laughed. His breath made a thick plume in the cold air. "Comfortable. Renner, you're not supposed to be comfortable when you hunt snow ghosts."

  Renner's pocket calculator beeped softly to indicate that Sinbad would be overhead. He held the calculator to his ear, but there was only static. Renner shrugged and spoke into it. "I don't expect anyone to hear me. Nothing to report. We're on snow buggies about thirty klicks from camp, and we haven't seen a thing. There are a lot of caves under the glacier edge. Too many. It would take a year to explore them.