From dmb@any.isis.rl.ac.uk Wed Dec 25 00:51:43 1996 Date: Thu, 28 Nov 1996 14:00:17 GMT From: Devious Brownies To: b5-creative@lists.best.com Subject: "Concessions." - Part 1. "Concessions." -------------- This story is set between the events of "TKO" and those of "Grail". This story was written by David Brownless ("Devious Brownies") and comments and criticism should be sent to D.M.Brownless@rl.ac.uk. The characters and situations of the television show "Babylon 5" are the intellectual property of Warner Brothers and are used without permission. Additional material by David Brownless may be used by anyone provided that acknowledgement of its origin is included. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Concessions." -------------- Chapter 1. "Mr. Guthrie?" Donald looked up from the glossy, if trite, brochure he was leafing through without reading. The slim secretary smiled down at him, and Guthrie noted the model looks, and poise, the perfect, `feather- cut', blonde hair. The too red lipstick. His eyes lingered too long on her mouth as he tried to reconcile the incongruity of her make-up with the impeccable taste of her attire, and her smile faded. Inwardly, Guthrie chided himself, aware of the cold cast his eyes took on when he looked too keenly at something, or someone. It was an icy, intimidating look, but then, it was meant to be. He changed his manner back to its long familiar disguise, and shook his head as though he were emerging from a dream. "Sorry," he apologised, emptily, "I was miles away." The secretary's smile returned, more from relief than any renewal of warmth. "Mr. Millard will see you now, Mr. Guthrie." she explained. She pirouetted with the grace of a professional dancer - which she may well have once been - and walked towards the far door of the waiting room. Guthrie pushed himself slowly to his feet. Carefully holding back in his efforts so as not to propel his considerable frame clear of the floor, Donald caught up with her with an apparent minimum of exertion. The secretary raised her eyebrows, obviously impressed. "If I hadn't booked your tickets myself, I would suspect you'd lived here all your life, Mr. Guthrie." the woman remarked, making conversation as she shut the first door behind them and started across her office to a second, inner, one. "Are you a regular lunar visitor?" she asked. "I've been on many moons, Miss..." Guthrie started, pausing only to read the label on her breast pocket, "Boyle, but strangely this is the first time I've set foot on my home world's nearest neighbour." He shrugged at her, adding a small gesture of his arms to insinuate that this was something of a miracle. Miss Boyle's expression gave away her interest at his remark, and her smile became warmer. "Perhaps if Mr. Millard takes you on you'll tell me more?" she prompted, leadingly. Guthrie let his face show sadness at this `missed' opportunity. "Unfortunately my work means that I'm rarely employed at the same site as my employer." he explained, then deliberately slipped a hint of hope into his expression, "Though if I don't have to leave right away, I would be favoured to do so, say, over drinks?" The secretary gave him what she thought was a discrete appraising glance. "And what exactly DO you do, Mr. Guthrie?" she queried. "I'm a `procedural consultant'." Donald explained, obliquely, "I'm usually brought in to iron out some unforeseen problem that a company isn't able to solve directly. What is romantically referred to as a trouble- shooter." He smiled at the irony in his last statement, expertly covering it with an engaging flash of his eyes. "Believe me, it's a lot less interesting than it sounds." Guthrie added, pitching his modesty to ring ever so slightly false. Miss Boyle paused at the inner door, and her smile widened slightly into a suppressed grin. "Until this evening then, maybe." she acceded, and opened the door. "Mr. Guthrie for you, Mr. Millard." she announced. Millard stood at the window, apparently lost in contemplation of the dead world outside. "Thank you, Lisa." he acknowledged, without turning, "That's all for now." Guthrie noticed the thinly veiled antipathy in Lisa's glare as she left, and realised the reason for the too bright lipstick. She wear's it for him, he thought, probably because he tells her to. As Millard turned to face him, Guthrie carefully observed the executive's movements and mannerisms, and quickly deduced all he needed, or wanted, to know about his employer. Millard's insecurity was all too obvious beneath the veneer of his arrogance, and he wore his authority, and his influence, with barely concealed malice. Without much difficulty, Donald inferred the numerous petty sadisms that Miss Boyle would suffer on a regular basis. Those little indignities that would make her working life semi-hell, while never amounting to enough to make it worth the risk of protesting. Millard was one of those all too common types who assure their progress up the corporate ladder by stamping on the fingers of any lower down who might threaten to overtake them. Guthrie didn't even bother to show his distaste with the executive, correctly reasoning that in his line of work it was unlikely he would ever find an employer he WOULD like. He gave a mental shrug. It doesn't take morals to hire me, Donald thought to himself, just money. "Mr. Guthrie, I'm glad to see you." Millard remarked, waving Donald over to the window beside him. "Most people are," Guthrie replied, adding, "at least, among my employers." He crossed the office with his efficient, expert gait, secretly pleased at the look of plain envy that crossed the face of the executive. Not long in space, Mr. Millard, he queried silently, still feeling a little sick are we? Feeling that he should reassert his authority, Millard gestured grandly at the view through the window. "Tell me what you see out there, Mr. Guthrie?" he prompted. "A lot of grey dirt and several pieces of very expensive machinery." Donald answered, blandly. In truth he could see a lot more, each tiny detail providing fuel for a wealth of conjecture, but Guthrie had quite clearly surmised the real meaning behind Millard's question, and had chosen to give the inadequate manager a worthless victory rather than face a prolonged, and pointless, contest with someone so obviously his intellectual inferior. "Ah, a practical man." Millard sneered, "The backbone of many a company, but never the brains." Guthrie interrupted him, "And yet you need my services. Presumably for something you lack the backbone to do yourself perhaps?" He watched the little man rage for a moment, with private satisfaction, before adding, "Your company, I mean." "That `grey dirt', as you called it, could not be more valuable if there were a diamond in every cubic foot." Millard explained, with a feeble attempt at a withering look, "And in a matter of weeks our `expensive machinery' is set to extract a fortune beyond your imagination." He turned away from the trouble-shooter and made his way back to his desk, carefully keeping one hand on the rail below the window at all times. Once seated, the executive gestured to the chair, placed conspicuously across the desk from him. "Helium-3, Mr. Guthrie, enough to finance this operation for over a decade." Guthrie made himself comfortable, and raised one eyebrow in surprise. "I thought all the commercially viable deposits of Helium-3 had been mined out long ago?" he noted. "As did we." Millard confirmed, "At least, up until six months ago. The company was surveying possible sites for a `haz-mat' facility, for low- G production, when we found huge deposits that had somehow been overlooked. Obviously, we quietly bought up the area, while maintaining the haz-mat operation as a cover. As long as our discovery remains a secret, we can supply locally obtained Helium-3 at import prices." He grinned avariciously. "The profit to be made is incalculable!" "Nothing in what you've said indicates why you require MY services." Donald remarked. Millard shifted uncomfortably. "Three weeks ago, a routine internal audit of this operation turned up a potentially, shall we say, embarrassing mistake." he admitted, "It seems that our acquisitions department had incorrectly interpreted the surveyors' report, and consequently only thirty percent of the lands incorporating the deposit are actually in our possession." The executive drummed his fingers anxiously on the desk in front of him. "Unfortunately, the commissioning of this project was quite accurately based on the survey data, hence seventy percent of this facility has been built on territory we don't, as yet, own." "I'm sure your own people are more than capable of buying the necessary deeds." Guthrie commented. "Yes, but there are legal requirements attached to us doing so." Millard explained, "We could not misrepresent our interests in the transaction without leaving ourselves open to a very costly suit at some future time. But if we don't conceal the nature of those interests, we effectively invite the owner to insist on `blackmail' prices. "You said `owner', singular." Donald noted. "The land in question was sold as a ninety-nine year lease to a `gem- hunter'. A small-time prospector looking for individual pieces of value." Millard clarified, "The gem-hunter in question met with an accident about twenty-five years ago and was invalided back to Earth, which is probably why the land was never inspected for Helium. But he, or his beneficiaries, still hold all the mineral rights. We need you to track down the person, or persons, who own the deed and convince them to sell it to you at a reasonable price. One that doesn't take into account the fortune in Helium, obviously." "And if they won't sell?" Millard's expression was deadly earnest. "One way or another, my company want's the threat of future legal action eliminated. Clear?" Guthrie shrugged. "Does this gem-hunter have a name?" he asked. Millard opened a desk drawer and removed a slim, manila folder. "All the lunar records on him are in here." he said, shoving the folder across the table at Donald, "The next Earth shuttle leaves in two hours." Guthrie took the file and stood up, favouring Millard with an openly appraising stare. "I chose how I work, Mr. Millard, not you." he contradicted, "I'll leave in the morning." He turned and walked towards the door, leaving the executive to seethe in his chair. Bastards I can stand working for, he thought to himself, but not turds like you! As he closed the Millard's office door behind him, Donald was momentarily unsettled to see the secretary regarding him questioningly. Belatedly, he realised that the executive's frustration would inevitably be directed against her, and not the trouble-shooter. "Watch yourself, he's in a bad mood." he warned her, "But on the plus side, I'm free all this evening." Guthrie saw the secretary smile at the latter remark, only to wince as Millard buzzed for her presence in his office. Privately, Donald resolved to use the evening to prime Miss Boyle with a psychological boost that could have her in Millard's chair within the year. As the secretary gathered up her data-pad and stylus, Guthrie quietly slipped through the other door and into the waiting-room. He paused for a moment to look at the folder he held. A single name was emblazoned on it in large, black type. The name `Peter Ivanov'. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- From dmb@any.isis.rl.ac.uk Wed Dec 25 01:07:47 1996 Date: Wed, 4 Dec 1996 17:41:22 GMT From: Devious Brownies To: b5-creative@lists.best.com Subject: "Concessions." - Part 2. "Concessions." -------------- Chapter 2. Susan brushed a stray lock of hair from her face and closed her eyes. Absently, she rubbed the lids with the fingers of one hand while the other swirled the glass it held. The blue-white liquid sloshed soundlessly inside its crystal prison, gossamer wisps of vapour rising off it to condense against the sides. Ivanova opened her eyes with a tired sigh and finished the vodka with a sharp flick of her wrist, immediately refilling her glass from the bottle on the table in front of her. She made to replace the bottle, then paused, regarding the heavily depleted contents with some concern. "Nuts." she spat, then turned her attention back to the papers laid out in front of her. She had just picked up the first sheet, and was blinking at it through wet and sore eyes, when she was interrupted by the chime of her doorbell. "Go away." she said, quietly and to herself, and tried again to focus on the document she held. Persistently, the chime sounded again. She slapped the paper back onto its pile. "What!?" Ivanova snapped, making her annoyance plain in the tone of her voice. The door opened to reveal Garibaldi, data-pad in hand, waiting patiently for permission to enter. "What do you want, Garibaldi?" "The commander said I was to keep you informed on the `Mozechenko' case, C&C said you were here so I thought..." the security chief explained, trailing off once the rest of the sentence had become obvious. "The what case?" Ivanova queried, puzzled. She winced as she realised that she had invited further discussion when she had been determined to brush off the unwanted intrusion as quickly as possible. "`Deuce' Mozechenko." Garibaldi elucidated, "A real bad type, the kind of slime even rocks steer clear of. He recently started shaking down some of the slum traders in addition to his usual line of sickness, fortunately one of them's had the sense to spill the beans." Michael knew for a fact that he had already told the lieutenant commander this once before, and was initially puzzled at Ivanova's lack of comprehension. He noticed the bottle, and its pessimistic bias, and his puzzlement changed to concern. "How much of that stuff have you had, Susan?" he asked quietly. "That's none of your damn business, Mr. Garibaldi!" Ivanova snapped, accenting her use of his title to remind him of their relative ranks. She regretted this instantly as she saw him tighten up, his betrayed expression making his coming to attention an almost insolent gesture. "I... I'm sorry." she retracted, "This is not a good time, Michael. Come back later, okay?" The chief relaxed again, mollified but still anxious for his friend. "Uh, sure..." he agreed, without moving. Garibaldi waited until Ivanova raised her eyebrows quizzically at his continued presence. "Listen, Susan, are you all right?" he asked bluntly. "I'm fine, Garibaldi!" the Russian reassured him. She watched him take in her reddened eyes and her tear-streaked face, watched him note her slumped posture. Defeated, she gave up her pretence. "I'm not fine." she admitted, and started to cry. Disconcerted, Garibaldi hurriedly stepped through the doorway and activated the mechanism to shut, and lock, the door behind him. "Christ, Susan." he blurted, shocked, "I didn't think anything could get to you like this!" Ivanova gestured absently at the piles of papers in front of her. "Family matter." she explained, concisely, "Now Father's gone I... I've got to settle up what remains back on Earth." She forced an unconvincing smile. "Doing the accounts always makes me tetchy." she added with false levity. "Yeah." Garibaldi acknowledged, shifting uncomfortably, "Susan, I've been trying to find the right time to say..." "Don't!" Ivanova snapped, angrily, "Don't tell me you're sorry. I've had it up to here with people telling me they're sorry my father's dead. THEY didn't know him, YOU didn't know him, NOBODY here knew him! So how the hell do they know to be sorry!?" Garibaldi raised his hands placatingly. "Hey, I'm not sorry he's dead." he started. Ivanova stared at him, her mouth hanging open in shock, and Garibaldi realised how what he had just said must sound. Hastily he corrected himself. "I mean, it's very sad, but..." The chief stopped again, and smacked his forehead angrily with one hand. "For you, Susan." he explained, "I'm sorry for YOU!" Self-consciously, Michael shoved his hands into his pockets, appearing to shrink a little as his body winced at some unbidden thought. "I know what you're going through." he remarked, sympathetically. The lieutenant commander sneered at him. "Oh, SURE you do!" she answered sceptically. This time it was Garibaldi's turn to be angry. "Despite frequent remarks to the contrary, I did HAVE a father, Susan!" he snapped. Ashamed, Ivanova looked away from the security officer, her eyes falling by default on the waiting documents. "Sorry, Mike, I'm just feeling kind of under pressure at the moment." She pushed one of the piles with the tip of one finger, straightening a slight imperfection. "I can't help remembering how Father and Uncle Pete used to talk. I'd sit on the floor between them, and listen to them build their pipe-dreams, arguing over the little details of some imagined memorial they thought they'd leave behind them, until I fell asleep curled up against one or the other's legs and wake up next morning in bed, never knowing how I got there. I guess some of it must have rubbed off, and I want them to realise their dream to leave behind a legacy for future generations to be proud of!" Garibaldi shrugged. "Sounds great." he commented, moving across the room to sit on the sofa beside her. "Yes, only there isn't enough here to pay a graffiti artist to spray their names on a wall." Ivanova snarled in frustration. She lashed out, petulantly, at the paper heaps, sending them cascading to the floor. "Besides, what future generations? My mother, Father, my brother, even Uncle Pete, they're all dead. And if I'm not to be the last of the Ivanovs I'll have to start my own family pretty soon now!" "So do we go next door? Or do I just dump my clothes on the floor right here?" Garibaldi asked. Ivanova stared at him for a long moment, then began to giggle uncontrollably. "It wasn't THAT funny." Michael added, sullenly. Susan sneered at him with mock disdain. "And what makes you think YOU'RE such a catch?" she asked. "Rarity value. We Garibaldis are thin on the ground." "And on the head." Susan smiled, uncharitably. She softened the comment by reaching out to ruffle the security chief's hair. "Thanks, Michael, I DO feel better now." "If you need any help, say." Garibaldi offered, "I've done this before." He stood up. The security chief paused as Susan pouted pensively. "Well you could help pick up some of these papers." she suggested. Michael put on a face that suggested he'd been suckered, with a sigh he kneeled down and started shuffling the scattered documents together into fistfuls. A thought occurred to him as he made to restore the first bundle to the table top and he looked across to where the lieutenant commander crouched with similar industry. "These weren't in any particular order, were they?" Garibaldi asked. "Not anymore." Susan answered, candidly. She caught Michael's grimace and added, "I'd just split the one big pile into three littler ones. You know, try to sort through one a week or something?" "Ah yes, good intentions." Garibaldi added wistfully, "I remember those!" As he started gathering a new handful, Michael glanced absently at one or two of the papers around him. He picked one out for closer inspection, scrutinising both sides with a puzzled frown. It was notarised, and very clearly bore a date in 2329, and was written partly in Russian, but mostly in German. A legal document then, Garibaldi surmised. "Say, what is all this..." Michael began to ask, suddenly snapping his mouth shut as he realised what he had been on the verge of saying. "Junk?" Ivanova finished for him, Michael twitched guiltily at the word. Susan shrugged. "You're quite right, it is all junk." she admitted, "That's the trouble with being the last of your family, you get a big inheritance, but most of it's completely worthless." The security chief continued collecting up the documents. "So are you just going to bin half of this?" Ivanova shook her head. "Hell, no. I'm going to save it up to inflict on MY kids after I'm gone." she explained, "Seriously though, there's a lot of family history amidst the waste." She smiled semi-secretively. "I think I'll keep it, use it as background for the book on my family I hope to write as an old woman. How about THAT for a memorial?" Susan raised one eyebrow, inviting comment. Michael copied her expression. "Do you think anyone will read it?" he asked, sceptically. The lieutenant commander's grin turned sly. "Of course! By that time I hope to have a cushy teaching post at the academy. I'll make it required reading for all my students." Garibaldi laughed, infectiously, and Ivanova soon found herself joining in. As she placed her pile of paper on the one already there, Susan caught sight of the waiting bottle and sighed. "How about you finish up here, while I make us some coffee?" she suggested. Garibaldi nodded. "Sounds fair to me." He watched the young Russian gather up her bottle and glass and set off towards the kitchenette. He smiled at her retreating back. "Glad I could help." he added, under his breath. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- From dmb@any.isis.rl.ac.uk Wed Dec 25 01:14:27 1996 Date: Fri, 13 Dec 1996 15:36:13 GMT From: Devious Brownies To: b5-creative@lists.best.com Subject: "Concessions." - Part 3. "Concessions." -------------- Chapter 3. Lou Welch stared at the man's shoulder. It wasn't that there was anything particularly unusual about it, nor were the clothes that covered it remarkable. No, what the security guard was having trouble reconciling was that this particular shoulder was on the same level as his eyes. Lou looked up into the man's patient blue stare. A Minbari warrior could walk under his chin and not even have to duck, Welch thought to himself. He looked down to the card-reader, where the same azure eyes greeted him. The man's details flowed up alongside his picture. Perhaps it was the slow day he'd had, or just a natural curiosity, but Welch caught sight of a familiar name, and stopped the flow of data, expanding one item to fill the four by three inch screen. Though European by birth, the man had attended Washington State University, and the enhanced detail confirmed what Lou had half suspected, that he'd got in on a football scholarship. Must have been one hell of an offensive lineman, he thought to himself. "Running Back, actually." Guthrie corrected, causing Lou to wince as he realised that he'd mistakenly spoken aloud. Donald relieved the guard's embarrassment with polite conversation. "If we'd had a better passing game, Washington might have made the Orange Bowl in my last year." The security guard looked the visitor up and down. With his practised eye, Lou could tell that the guy kept in shape, not just working out to build muscle, but actually training his body until it retained it keen edge. Welch recognised the dangerous leanness that surrounded Guthrie from the one other person he'd seen with it, Lou's combat tutor from basic training. "You never thought of going pro?" Welch asked. Guthrie shrugged. "I graduated with a pretty good degree and an urge to travel. With a hundred worlds to see, running ten yards with an inflated leather bag just didn't appeal to me." His face took on an air of chagrin. "I guess it says a lot about someone when they stop finding one planet big enough for them." Welch gave an understanding smile. "Another space junkie." he laughed, "So what brings you to B5, Mr. Guthrie?" "Business." Donald explained, "I freelance as a negotiator, agent, realtor, whatever's needed. Basically whenever someone want's to buy or sell something but doesn't want to have to actually attend, they hire me." Lou retrieved the ident-card and handed it back to Guthrie. "Enjoy your stay, Mr. Guthrie, and good luck in your negotiations." Guthrie looked quizzically at the security officer for a brief moment. "Thank you." he answered eventually, genuinely surprised. He retrieved his briefcase and kit-bag from the floor at his feet and walked away. After what he judged to be a safe interval, Donald stopped, and turned to look back at Welch. The security guard was busy giving directions to a pair of blue-grey skinned aliens, from the amount of arm waving the task was not an easy one. Guthrie watched their interplay to its end, noting that the officer went back to his duties without a glance in Donald's direction. Guthrie still wasn't satisfied, he didn't feel SURE, and that worried him. Replaying their meeting in his head, Donald couldn't find any vocal clue, any telltale body language to unsettle him. But, subconsciously, he couldn't shake the feeling that the security guard had felt suspicious. I'm reading to much into one statement, he thought to himself, hell, here they probably suspect everybody! Guthrie noticed a free public access terminal to his right and strolled across to it. He pressed the box on the screen that selected Alliance standard English and inserted his ident-card into the slot below the monitor. "Please state the required service." the computer responded. "Information." Donald declared, "I have reserved transient accommodation for one individual from this date, departure date to be determined." "You have room..." the artificial voice started, then paused as it collated the appropriate data, "242 in section Red-17 allocated to you, tenure to be confirmed upon arrival. Do you wish to confirm?" The screen changed to a schematic of the station, the relative positions of the room and the terminal clearly highlighted. "Yes." Guthrie acknowledged, and removed his ID. He waited for the screen to clear to the home display before setting off in search of a travel tube. As he made his way through the many groups of humans and aliens that waited or walked through the passenger concourse, Donald kept a benign, almost vacuous smile on his face. He watched a large Narn male regard his larger frame with mild distaste, reserving a much stronger look for a passing Centauri woman, with mild amusement. He almost laughed out loud when he noticed a Markab and a Minbari locked in an unconscious battle to appear the most composed. And everywhere, his fellow humans, laughing, touching, pulling their faces into expressions, both natural and exaggerated, that reflected their infinite moods. By chance his glance fell upon a diminutive Minbari, priest cast from his dress, who appeared to be engaged in a study not unlike Guthrie's own. He diverted slightly from his route to pass closer to the alien. "Like us or loathe us, you can't ignore us." Donald said, amiably, "Humans, I mean." The Minbari looked up at him, puzzled. "Why would we want to ignore you?" he asked, turning his attention to the Earthman. Or apparently turning, Donald noted as he saw the unstable pattern of tension in the smaller figure's neck muscles. Indicating the quashed urge to look more closely at some peripheral sighting. Guthrie shrugged. "Some races would think us uncouth." he explained, "After all, we're still young to the stars, yet we act like we've always been here. Wherever you go in the galaxy, humans stand out like a loud shirt at a funeral, and sometimes we're just as welcome." "Would it not be disrespectful to attend a funeral improperly dressed?" the Minbari queried, then corrected himself before Guthrie could speak, "No, I see, it is a simile. It is not the disrespect that you refer to, but the very obviousness of the gesture." Guthrie nodded. "It is not a attribute to be condemned." the alien continued, "Humans are a remarkably honest people." Donald laughed. "You can't know us very well." he dissented, "Sadly, honesty is the exception among humans rather than the rule. Earth myths tell of Diogenes, who wandered the world, lamp in hand, searching in vain for an honest man." "You are thinking of individuals." the Minbari explained, "As a race, you never try to appear as something you are not. While a human may lie, humankind does not." "In contrast, perhaps, with your own race?" Guthrie risked. He knew that to accuse a Minbari of lying was a grave insult, how much graver then to accuse the whole race, but relied on his opposite number understanding the spirit of the question. "You are very perceptive." the Minbari replied, carefully, "It is true that we Minbari do not lie. Yet, as you have intimated, the Minbari race is more... private than your own." The alien appraised Guthrie in a swift, efficient glance. "Have you, perhaps, made a study of cultures besides your own?" "I know people." Donald admitted, "And to me, human or alien, you're still people." Securing his briefcase behind his legs, Guthrie made a small bow of introduction. "Donald Guthrie." "Lennier, of the Minbari delegation." the alien answered, returning the bow. As the alien straightened, Guthrie noticed him make a lightening glance to one side. "If you will excuse me, I believe the one I have been waiting for has arrived." Guthrie nodded permission, absently, and watched as, with a final bow, Lennier walked rapidly through the crowd to greet a female Minbari, also dressed as a priest. Donald noted the air of authority that came from the new arrival, and subtle deference of the male. Must be the boss, Guthrie surmised, then continued on his way. ---===***===--- Garibaldi authorised the pad his aide held out to him, and slapped him lightly on the arm. "Thanks, Jack, that's a great help." he admitted, "Get those new schedules circulated as fast a possible. And make sure everyone knows they'll need a damn good reason to change shifts, okay?" "Sure thing, Chief." Jack replied. He turned away, then remembering, turned back. "Er, Sir? Lou Welch wanted a word, he's outside now." the officer explained. Garibaldi raised his eyebrows, then nodded, leaning back in his seat as he waited for his aide to send the security guard through. "What is it, Lou?" Garibaldi asked when Welch appeared, "It's not like you to be coy." "Yeah I know, Chief. It's just... well it's kind of embarrassing, but I thought I ought to tell someone." Lou answered, hesitantly. Garibaldi smiled. "Don't tell me you've outgrown your uniform again!" he said mischievously. Michael caught his colleague's mood and the smile faded. "Trouble?" he asked, apprehensively. "Maybe, I checked a guy through today and... well, I can't place it but there was something wrong about him." Lou explained, "Oh hell, I don't know, maybe I'm getting jumpy, picking on `civs' for looking at me funny!" "Lou, you're one of the best people I've got." Michael encouraged, "I trust your instincts like my own. You talk, I'll listen. The worst that could happen is I'll think you're nuts, have you committed, and come in under budget for the year!" "Thanks Chief." Welch said, a trifle sullenly, "The man's name was Donald Guthrie, a big guy, and I mean BIG! He's fresh out here from Earth, says he's acting as an agent for someone in some negotiation or other." "Seems straight so far." the security chief mused aloud. "Yeah, but I've seen his type before." Lou continued, "It doesn't matter how pleasant they are, you can't shake the feeling they're dangerous as hell!" "A bit like a smiling tiger." Michael agreed, "Sure, it may look friendly, but it's still a tiger." Welch nodded. "Yeah, when you see one at a meeting, you know they're there as muscle." he added, warming to his topic, "Only this one's smart too, like he's the muscle and brains in one? What ever business he's here for, I wouldn't want to be the other guy!" Garibaldi looked at the security guard levelly, deep in thought. "Okay, you're not nuts." he said eventually, adding, "But at the moment we've got nothing but a suspicion. Keep this to yourself, Lou, but keep your eyes and ears open. Anytime someone mentions this guy's name, I want to know about it, check?" "Gotcha, Chief, and thanks." Welch acknowledged. To the security chief's puzzled expression he added, "For not thinking I'm crazy." "You don't HAVE to be crazy to work here," Garibaldi answered with a shrug, "it's just an amazing coincidence everybody is." He waved Lou towards the door. "Now get out of here! You came off duty an hour ago, and I can't afford the overtime." Welch came to attention with a smile, and Michael watched him walk out the door. Smart muscle, Garibaldi thought to himself, that smells of big league money. "It's just one damned thing after another!" he muttered, under his breath. It occurred to him that this was a pretty good definition of hell. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------