Fiction 1, Chapters 17 & 18

Chapter 17

"Groans the sad earth, resounds the rattling sky.

Wrath, Terror, Treason, Tumult, and Despair

(Dire faces, and deform'd) surround the car;

Friends of the god, and followers of the war."

Aeneid, Virgil

EDMONTON, ALBERTA:

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

"Would you be believing Yul Brynner, now?" said the "I" in the mirror, in a comic-opera Irish brogue.

"No! You look like such an ugly pain in the ass, you've got to be Richard. Where's your pirate's earring, Nephew?" John McGovern's face was all corkscrewed up in mock puzzlement.

Again it was my image in the mirror that answered him __I was busy admiring my skull. "I couldn't figure out which side to wear it on, Basset, my man." A bit of swagger helped to show off the new look.

"Well, Master" __he clicked his heels__ "you do look different, I'll say that. I'd have expected any change to be more of an improvement, though."

"Thanks a lot."

"And maybe you should get yourself a barber who's more versatile," he went on. "This one overdoes his razor-cut."

All right! I had gone a little overboard. The beard was gone, the hair was gone, and the almost imperceptible stubble on my face was darkened with a hair coloring that got right down into the roots. It had been done by a wigmaker, who normally only did a little trimming to blend in toupees. The lack of tonsorial expertise was no barrier; all he had to do was stop at the skin. After that he fitted me for a beard and wig similar to the hair he had just chopped, but a bit fuller. Both were made of real human hair.

The beard had to be delivered by express courier from Toronto, where there is presumably a demand for them. The wig was matched to the beard and both were stitched together, for security.

A polypropylene underlayer wicked away any perspiration underneath, so the whole thing was almost as comfortable as my own hair and beard. Bushy as it was, only a little stickum was necessary to keep it in place. It would normally be kept in my briefcase. A little mussed-up that way, it's true, but it was there if I needed it and not left behind to excite anyone's curiosity.

Without it, the five o'clock shadow changed the planes of my face so much that I flinched every time I passed a mirror and caught that same stranger sneaking up on me.

My body was now the object of admiration in the mirror. I twisted from right to left, admiring the cut of my dinner jacket.

"What are you doing in a Tuxedo?" asked Uncle John. He had a Traveller's distrust of the lower classes putting on airs, which is a paradox because they'll wear formal clothing at the drop of a top-hat. But that's usually at a wedding, and this wasn't a wedding.

I put on a patronizing smile.

"Technically, it's not, Uncle; a Tux is something else. But it says right here in the paper, 'the Institute's short dinner seminar is to be followed by a cocktail party.' They're both listed as Black Tie Optional. And Optional means that those who dress up get to sneer at those who don't."

Uncle John mumbled something about "Tuxedos that ain't and a Black Tie that's not black...." Then he went off to put on his chauffeur's outfit.

It was now Friday and high time to take a look at the Institute. My man, "Basset," would drive me out there in the limousine. Of course, I let him know that his peaked black cap was "precious," and the resulting scowl was a wonderful sight to see. We threw some telephone lineman's gear, my "black box," and some dark coveralls in the trunk just in case any obvious opportunities to tap the Institute came up.

Jack came with us, dressed in a dark blue, three-piece suit __ostensibly my assistant, obviously my bodyguard. Like most Travellers, he made a damn fine impression all dressed up. We shared a similarly dark genetic inheritance, but Jack's full-blooded set had picked up the Designer gene. Whichever chromosome it was on, I had missed the trait that gave that mean old bastard __my grandfather__ his nickname among our kind, "Gentleman Jim."

"Gentleman"; what a laugh! As far as I know, only one thing he ever said was true: "It's the Quirk blood, you know. All the Quirks are a little touched." He was talking about my grandmother who belonged to another branch of the Quirks. Most of us are related, more or less distantly, and there is something about that I can never quite figure out. How can I be only a half-breed and still be the craziest of the Quirks? The other side of my family is quite normal.

It took about a half hour for Uncle John to drive the fifty kilometers west to the Institute at Elkprong. Jack was sitting up front with him. For me, it was time well used, studying two books and some print-outs on the northern Irish troubles. I already had enough of a background on biogenetics, for a layman, that is. A niece does research in the field and I like to maintain a respectable level of ignorance on that subject and a few others.

We had stopped in Elkprong, a village nearby, for final directions to the New World Institute. But nobody warned us just how impressive the lay-out would be as we pulled over the last ridge.

"I'm not sure," Uncle John murmured, "that we're up to this."

The Institute was silhouetted against the setting sun. Storm clouds, thunderheads, hovered over all of it as twilight began to take over. Even though we were looking down on it, it seemed to hang over us like the statues of Ramses II once did at Abu Simbel. "Look upon my works, Ye Mighty, and despair."

Six huge outer buildings surrounded a campus. Their orientation to the road and to each other gave them a diamond-shaped look, but they were rectangular. From the window spacing, I figured them to be about one hundred and fifty to two hundred feet on each side and two stories in height.

In the center of the campus, a true hexagon of a building stood six stories high, with a smaller hexagon for a penthouse. That was topped on one end by three powerful satellite transceiver dishes. The setting sun was burning a hole through the parabolic grid of the central one. The other end of the roof looked like a heli-port. It was hard to tell in the glare, especially at that angle.

Each wall on the central building was about two hundred feet on a side, which would mean that every floor had the area of two or three football fields.

The buildings __as well as the surrounding fields__ were enclosed by a stone wall about twelve feet high, and there were no obvious security measures beyond that. No barbed wire, or razor wire coils, or high-voltage fencing were visible. But who bothers with a wall that big around, and then doesn't safeguard it? The passive measures will probably be electronic, I thought. Their active measures would include patrols, possibly with dogs.

I whistled when I saw the dishes. "So much for tapping their lines. Everything we'd want to intercept goes out by satellite."

Jack was curious about my limitations. "Out of your league?"

"Definitely, Jack. Notice there are no trees?"

"So what?" That was Uncle John again.

"These people are supposed to be working on forest management mostly. You'd think they would want some trees around to show off."

The site plans were a matter of public record. Still, the size and capacity of the buildings were most impressive, almost overwhelming. Even if you figured only about one square foot in twenty for research labs, and the rest for administration and support, this had to be the largest facility in the world for research in bio-genetic agronomy and forestry.

David and Goliath had nothing on this situation.

We had to check in at the gate house. The driveway barrier was only a rolling pipe frame with wire fencing wrapped around it; nothing to stop a determined truck.

"Yes, sir! How may I help you?" The beefy guard with his hand up looked capable of stopping a determined truck all by himself.

"Mr. Carter and Mr. Clancy are attending your seminar, Sergeant," my man "Basset" informed him. "Is that at the main building?"

The guard with the three chevrons on his sleeve aimed a flashlight at the rear left window. A second guard with master-sergeant's stripes was busy watching us from the gatehouse. I mean that exactly as phrased. There was nothing idle in his attitude. I doubt if his hands were straying too far from appropriate buttons and/or weapons.

"May I see your invitations, gentlemen?" Out went the guard's left hand, and it wasn't for a tip. I pressed the button to lower the window, and passed the envelope with the tickets through to him. The buck-sergeant was polite enough not to aim the light directly at our faces, but his eyes virtually scoured the inside of the vehicle as he checked out the invitations and returned them to us.

There was an almost imperceptible sensation for a moment __not anything visible or audible, just a fleeting touch of something different that was gone before it registered. -Welcome to the wonderful world of infra-red photography-

The road we were on was paved and looped around the main building, apparently all the way. All of the side roads and the broad foot paths that criss-crossed the included area were of crushed gravel.

I leaned forward to ask, "Have either of you ever dealt with microphone pickups?"

"What kind of pick-ups?"

"I'll take that for a 'no.' See the gravel roads and footpaths? Two will get you twenty they're covered by audio pick-ups, microphones, on each side. Evasion techniques are almost as noisy as playing it straight."

"Any weaknesses there?" Straight and to the point with his questions, that's Jack.

"Just one," I answered. "They're planted low, to be inconspicuous, and there's a top cover to protect against rain. So, they're almost useless except to detect the sound of footsteps, but they do that very, very well."

The little planted mikes were strictly low-tech but they'd be almost impossible to evade or counter at ground level.

Building security at the main building was pretty typical, except for the fountains and statuary around the entrances. To the knowing eye, all that art-work was designed with the Lebanese style of car-bomb attack in mind. If you just considered the oversize pedestals, instead of their eye-dazzling burdens, a site-defense plan took shape. A layout that would have served as a paradigm for any medieval castle.

The corridors within were covered by TV cameras at each end, with infra-red spotters mounted beneath. Normally, with that kind of a set-up, the cameras wouldn't transmit unless triggered by the IR unit. But that's a pretty pathetic way to handle the security surveillance __not state-of-the-art at all. And all of the fire extinguishers were the carbon dioxide type. They were practically begging me to come calling. But I still had to wonder if they were really that naive, or was it a trap?

The dining room was set up for about two hundred invitees to be seated at the standard round banquet tables. Twelve places were set at each table, with a placard in front of each. We had been directed to table eighteen, and a brief examination of the cards there didn't tell me anything except that the corporate "shepherd" for the table was only an assistant accounting manager. A non-entity named Lester Polewicz. That is, he would have been a non-entity except for Dupont and Tedeschi. According to the Monsignor, Polewicz was the only man aside from Orlando who might know the truth about the aftermath of Tedeschi's raid.

After the available places had been claimed, a distinguished looking man rose from his seat on the dais, and stepped to the lectern. Introducing himself as Cecil Rhodes Phaethon, the technical chief of the Institute, he went on to give a brief summary of their goals. All bullshit, of course. And then he introduced the bean-counter who was actually in charge, Theodore Langerhans.

The Scotsman from the Hebrides -he made a terrible pun about the Islets of Langerhans- went into a little more detail about their self-imposed responsibility for guiding mankind through the oncoming Greenhouse and Ozone crisis.

Dinner was pretty good, a choice of sauteed trout almandine, baked salmon or Beef Wellington. Jack took the salmon and I ate the beef. The wines available were adequate; not Canadian, fortunately.

Five speakers took their turns at the lectern before Monsignor Tedeschi, and they were obviously constrained to twenty minutes each. No limit was enforced on a question and answer period for each presentation, but none was required as it turned out. Their presentations were geared to the IQ of the generally well-educated public and seemed pretty well self-explanatory.

Two were climatologists____they didn't agree on just how much increase in temperature was coming, or how soon, but what they did agree on was enough to give anybody indigestion. Especially the part about the northward shift of the Japan Current and other sources of rainfall for the American West and Mid-west.

The botanist following them offered suggestions for the introduction of beneficial species of plants and trees that would be able to take advantage of the new ecology in central Canada for the production of renewable resources including oxygen. The Neem tree, which had been spotted at the Farm, was included in the list. Every part of it is usable, and it puts out a dynamite natural insecticide.

The next speaker was a civil engineer who had started his career on the Aswan Dam, in Egypt. He gave estimates on the cost of minimizing damage from constant torrential flooding. I hoped he was prepared to do a better job than the one that had been done at Aswan.

The fifth, a marine biologist with a penchant for mathematics, described the "discontinuous function describing the probable effects of the dissipating Ozone Layer with respect to the growth of phytoplankton. Succinctly put __in layman's terms__ that meant "life sucks, and then you die."

Even a know-it-all like me sometimes knows when to keep a low profile, so I stayed in the middle of the herd. A few questions were asked, most of them "look at me, I'm brilliant" responses to clear-cut statements. For once, I left that to the other show-offs, who wanted to be conspicuous. My appearance was already drawing enough attention. At least I assumed that was the reason for the curious __and sometimes suspicious__ looks coming my way.

Jack was getting the occasional once-over from some of the younger ladies in the crowd, as well.

One thing about the seminar was predictable. The longest speaker was the worst. Tedeschi had the most boring presentation imaginable. How it was possible to take the life and death drama of disaster relief, and turn it into the most meaningless statistics, I couldn't tell you. Lucky John McGovern was able to sleep through it outside in the car.

I made a mental note to recheck the limo for bugs and beacons after we left.

After Tedeschi __the principal and the last speaker__ we were asked to retire to the corridors or ante-room briefly, while the staff cleared the tables away for the cocktail party.

"I thought that was very educational, Mr. Carter," said Jack.

"Well, Clancy," that was his alias, Steven Clancy, "Tape an explanation for me, would you? For insomnia. Have you ever heard the one about Donald Trump trying to explain trickle-down economics?"

"How's that?"

I mimicked the Monsignor, "Think about four billion dollars, my good man. A meaningless number to you, no doubt, so picture it this way. In fifty million dollar demand notes, it's this high." I held up thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart. There was a yelp of laughter behind us.

I turned around to see Phaethon grinning and Tedeschi looking steamed, about six feet away. Behind them was a more pleasurable sight, a lovely blue-eyed blonde who was also smiling at me. She was in her early thirties __at most__ and well equipped to hold up her strapless blue gown. An adhesive name tag hugged her left breast in my place. Unfortunately, she was too far away for me to pay homage to it. I smiled back at Phaethon and nodded at Tedeschi, without looking at anyone or anything but the blonde. Then Jack and I wandered off nonchalantly in the direction of the rest rooms. Hoof in mouth disease was nothing new to me.

As we walked away, I told myself that her bright blue eyes were nothing special. -Yeah! Right!-

Chapter 18

"...stand fast! The devil tempts thee here

In likeness of a new untrimmed bride"

King John, Shakespeare

ELKPRONG, ALBERTA:

"Jack!" I muttered, really pissed at myself. "Do you think Tedeschi heard your voice just now?"

"I don't know." He didn't look worried, but then he never looks anything.

"Well, don't try to disguise it if he approaches you. That might draw his attention instead. Just make sure your brogue doesn't slip. Damn! I should have thought of this. You were the one who told the driver of the Lincoln what to do, right?"

"Yeah, that's true as far as it goes," he said, "but the brogue should cover me. Even if he recognizes my voice, Dick, all that's going to tell him is that we're players. Everybody's going to know that soon anyway."

"Yeah," __ Maybe too soon, I thought__ "but what I'm thinking about is the CIA. If Tedeschi connects us to his kidnapping, he still won't know who we are. But if the CIA gets wind of his suspicions somehow __maybe through their phone taps__ the jig's up with them. They'll know it was Quirk and Company that kidnapped him, even if he doesn't."

My own accent was not a brogue, but basically a cross between B.B.C. English and Mid-Atlantic. Not unlike Claude Raines; I was trying for that silky sound, a Voice Grandma never tried. The other two options in places like Belfast are a Scots-Irish burr or the traditional Irish brogue, and the religious, racial and economic overtones involved in each accent are inseparable from the history of Irish conflict.

Jack said, "Well anyway, it looks like you made a hit with the lady."

"It's more likely that she's happy to see the Monsignor pissed-off, my boy." Regrettably true, I thought. "Still, I'd be happy to stomp him for her if she'd smile for me like that again."

My fingers played with the other two cards, the ones for Jack and I to attend the cocktail party and meet the bigwigs. I hoped the blue-eyed blonde-haired lady wasn't firmly attached to a bigwig.

The invitations had not been difficult to get. Allison had arranged for a suite for Alan Carter and staff of two at the Fantasyland. Then she'd called for two complete sets of invites from the Institute on Monday __to be delivered to our hotel__ laying it on thick about Carter's holdings in the United Kingdom. The girl from Elphingstoke had the makings of a first-class shill, and that is no small compliment.

Jack was registered at the hotel with his father and me, but he'd be spending most of his nights in the bedroom of the Holy War Wagon with Allison. Mickey would sleep on the overhead bed in front. Fortunately for Mickey's peace of mind, the motor home had hydraulic stabilizers that would keep it from bouncing on its springs.

Finally, a flunky walked through the milling group, ringing a little bell. Along with the other millers, Jack and I walked back into the large room that had served as the dining room.

The layout was completely changed. A twelve-piece band was playing on the low stage where the dais had been __Sixties pop music. Mostly elevator stuff. The electronic display on the wall behind them was showing a new postcard picture about every two minutes or so.

No one was dancing yet but the room held about a hundred people already, and a third of them __presumably women__ were in ball gowns. The former banquet tables and chairs were missing, replaced by ten long coffee tables flanked by two couches and four end-chairs each. None of the tables sported seating placards, so the affair was strictly free-form.

I snagged glasses of champagne for each of us from a passing waiter, since Jack was carrying around my briefcase. Not the "black box" this time, but a regular briefcase to hold hand-outs and some of my papers. There was also an 8mm. camcorder rigged up in it and a highly directional microphone array.

It's a pretty neat set-up, but I'll spare you the details for now. Suffice it to say that the gadget will pick up and record any one conversation in a room that size and, with electronic massaging later, render it clear as a bell. With decent video of the whole thing, no less.

"Do you have to lead when you dance, Jack?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Me too. So, why don't we just circulate?"

There was a small group obviously playing host in one corner of the room, the blonde lovely among them, and I circulated straight toward them. Jack would keep the working side of the briefcase aimed at Langerhans and/or Phaethon while he kept his eyes on me.

The closer I got to her, the more my eyes stayed riveted to her breasts, until I could read her name-tag. And they would have stayed riveted, except that her big blue eyes caught mine and lifted them up. Full lips, high cheekbones, eyebrows so blonde they almost weren't there, long eyelashes. Full marks, old boy.

"You were smiling at me, Miss Stuart. I am not sure why, but I promise to press on with whatever it is that makes you happy."

She smiled even brighter. "To tell you the truth, I always had a crush on Mr. Clean. I hope you'll take that as a compliment, Mr._____Carter." A little near-sighted, she had to peer at my nametag for a second or two to get my name.

"Call me Alan, just Alan, please," I protested. "Diana, is it? And direct me to the nearest mop, if you would."

She added, "And __to be honest__ I didn't mind seeing that stuffy old priest taken down a peg. He thinks biogenetics is right there on a par with devil-worship, and women are Satanic witches."

I wasn't going to argue. "Where is Torquemada now that we really need an Inquisition?"

Diana's dimples competed with her gleaming teeth for my attention. She had beautiful, full lips and a straight nose, with slightly flared nostrils. The cheekbones echoed Rodin and her hands, Dürer.

I leaned forward and whispered into her left ear, "I am lost from here on in, lass. You must let me know how to make you happy."

She looked almost straight into my eyes. Even without her heels she must have been close to six feet tall. The beautiful smile wavered while my eyes searched hers, and my heart sank with it as we were lost together for a minute, in danger of drifting apart. Then the sun shone and rainbows swirled, she smiled even more brightly, and my heart started beating again.

"Would you like to dance, Alan?"

"At the very least, Diana." I took her hand and led her out on the dance floor.

The band was back into the Fifties, and Diana flowed into my arms as I tried to remember the Fox-Trot. After a few beats, we just settled for moving around, more or less in time to the music. I held her loosely and she was as hydrogen in my arms.

Lighter than air and combustible as hell.

The strapless top to the gown she wore had some sort of spandex-type material around her chest and back under the arms, to hold it in place. Beneath that, the firm globes of her breasts were given full rein by the jersey material to sway with her movements, and occasionally to press against my chest.

"Where did you come from, Diana? Do you work here?"

"Yes and no," she said, nodding her head from side to side. "I work for the Institute, but up in Ungava Bay, off the Hudson Straits."

"South of Baffin Island?"

"That's the place. How do you know it, Alan?"

"I took a bush flight once that touched down in Fort Chimo; from Churchill to Goose Bay. It's an impressive stretch of nothing. What do you do up there?"

"I'm a marine biologist," she said. "My team's doing basic research on the interaction between the North Atlantic and Hudson Bay bioecologies. We're out for four weeks and in for two, eight months of the year, sampling Ungava to Repulse Bay. Each round trip, I bring the data and report summaries down here to headquarters, and head home to San Diego for a week or so. R. and R.."

"When do you close down for the winter?"

"After the next trip. It'll be a cold one, but after three years I'm used to it. They're pretty generous, you know. I get paid for the whole winter to work on a post-doc fellowship at Scripps down in La Jolla."

"Do you think your fellow biologist was on the mark about the phytoplankton and the Ozone Layer?" I asked.

"Could be," she said with an odd lack of urgency. "I haven't heard of too much work being done on the subject, which is strange, but the potential's there for an enormous disaster. Do you remember when they had phosphates in detergents?"

"Quite. They acted like fertilizers and caused algae blooms. Killed a lot of rivers when the algae overwhelmed the local ecosystem and died."

"Who can say it won't happen again? This time on a global basis. Phytoplankton is mostly algae. The more potent ultra-violet light penetrates significantly to more than fifty feet down in the ocean and __as energy__ it's part of the photosynthesis that drives the oceans' food chain. And produces most of the oxygen we breathe, by the way."

"You're sure the UV would produce a phytoplankton bloom?"

"Not at all sure." She shook her head emphatically. "Most think the ultra-violet rays might kill most of it along with the krill, outright. Of course, we can't be certain of that, either way. There's never been anything like what's going to happen. But microscopic life can be very adaptable. There's evidence that some species can grow UV-resistant pigment to protect them, up to a point. So we can't tell beforehand exactly how it will turn out. It might kill the top two-thirds of the phytoplankton and allow the rest to mutate. Then the mutated stuff could flourish at the expense of all other life in the oceans. The point is, any change as great as this one is going to be a catastrophe, no matter which way it goes. The KT boundary might wind up looking like a minor footnote compared to this."

She glanced at me to see if the last reference needed explanation.

I nodded. "Iridium, the extinctions about sixty five million years ago."

Diana snuggled a little closer to reward me for my cleverness, a nice means of positive reinforcement. If I were a dolphin, I'd be quoting Shakespeare in a year. Forget about tossing fish.

She thought for a minute. "There was an oceanographer named El-Sayed __I think he was working for Texas A&M__ who worked with phytoplankton and ultraviolet-B. He found that a ten percent increase in the UV killed all the phytoplankton. Of course, he was working in vitro, or rather in plexiglass. The effects in the sea would be different; maybe better, maybe worse."

I gave it a little thought. "If memory serves, lass, for every one percent decrease in stratospheric ozone there is a two percent increase in UV-B at the Earth's surface. And the unofficial consensus is that we could be losing as much as six to eight percent every ten years. Right?"

She said, "Right. They've been testing in Toronto and the results seem consistent with that estimate. You're pretty well informed for a civilian."

I ignored her minor probe. Actually, I'd been in Arizona a few years back, wondering why the saguaro cacti were dying from a disease that only occurred on their southern sides __the sunlit side. A research team from Boston U. was on the spot and figured they might have an answer in five more years. Not a solution; just an answer.

When a cactus that used to be able to live in the desert for hundreds of years starts dying from sunlight, it's time for the rest of us to dump the cocoa butter and reach for the sunblock. Now the amphibians are dying off, as well.

"So how long does that give us?" I asked. "Less than ten years?"

"For the worst-case scenario, don't forget. And even then, the seas wouldn't die all at once. Although that might be one reason for the loss of the Grand Banks fishing grounds. I don't know. Nobody does."

I thought, Scientists: most are just barely sensible enough to leave a burning building, arguing that 99.7 is not quite statistically certain. What I said was, "Do you have any good news tonight, Diana-my-love?"

"That is the good news. You should hear the bad. The coral and the forams __their cousins__ are already dying off from the UV, even down in Florida and Australia. The Aussies are practically in a panic. Anyway, total ozone depletion should normally happen at the Poles first, regularly at the South one, and occasionally in the North Polar Vortex. That's just the beginning. It's already been happening in Antarctica, of course, and just starting to appear in the North. There's maybe a hundred years' worth of chlorine atoms, wrapped in Freon, drifting up to the stratosphere all over the globe, each of them ready to break up a hundred thousand ozone molecules. Right now they do the most damage at the poles, but soon there will be ozone holes all over the world, especially over the industrial countries. I'll probably be in a good position to monitor the effects on the biosphere sooner than anybody else in the Northern Hemisphere."

"Don't forget to wear a hat," I cautioned her.

It wasn't meant as a joke and Diana knew it. She nodded seriously and moved even a little closer. "Well, now you know all about me, Alan. What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a recovering workaholic; can't touch the stuff. It's hard enough being an Anglo-Irishman these days, without trying to make a living too."

"What's an Anglo-Irishman?" she asked.

"Don't tell anybody I said this, but it's what you people think of as a Northern Irish Protestant."

"Do you have to be religious?"

"No, I just Protest a lot." A Methodical scowl on my face illustrated the point.

"Is it as bad as they say over there, Alan."

"Worse, my dear. Much worse," I repeated. "It's not home anymore; nothing like it once was for any of us, Catholics or Protestants."

"That's sad."

"Trust me to hold a beautiful woman in my arms, and then to depress her. Talk about your 'melancholy Dane'." I pulled her a little closer.

"You wouldn't have thought I was beautiful last week," she demurred. "These nails are glue-ons and my hair looked like a rat's nest when I got to Edmonton. My contract covers a 'make-over' under 'Maintenance' every six weeks at the ritziest place in the Mall."

"The West Edmonton Mall?"

"Yes. You hear the locals talk: It's the only Mall in the world. I stay there when I'm in town, at one of the Institute's rooms at the hotel there. What's the matter? You feel tense, all of a sudden."

"Just an old injury; it comes and goes." A premonition about the hotel __about betrayal__ passed through my mind too fast to capture it. I explored further, hoping to trigger something more specific. "How do you get back and forth when you need to be here?"

"Oh, the Institute has jitneys, you know, shuttle busses. Many of the upper-level employees here live in or around the city. Elkprong is just a little place and the dormitories here are not very comfortable. It's mostly the volunteers that use them."

"Well, Diana, I think that injury is starting to get to me. I'd better take it easy on the dancing, and your Institute will start to resent my monopolizing your time, anyway."

"Are you dumping me, Mr. Carter."

"Look at my eyes, lass. That would never happen. But Mr. Clean must return to his floors sooner or later, you know. I'm supposed to be here on business actually. Additional financing for the Institute, whether they need it or not."

"An offer we can't refuse?" she asked in a mock Godfather voice.

"Exactly. But I hope that I might give you a lift back to the Fantasyland later. That's where I'm staying myself, and we could have a nice conversation in the lounge over a nightcap."

"Let me think about it, Alan. I might have to change some plans. Suppose I let you know later?"

We were close to the sidelines of the dancing area now and in a corner, to boot. I intended to drop my arms and kiss her hand in some corny old-world gesture, but for some reason, I just held her a little tighter and kissed her on the forehead, just above her brow. As I stood on tip-toe to do so, my chest lifted her breasts where they were in contact, and through my thin shirt I could feel her hardened nipples as they tickled twin grooves in the skin over my rib-cage. Diana's back was to presented to the rest of the room, so that it was a very private moment.

She was blushing. I looked down at our conjunction and it was as though she wore nothing at all over the perfection of her upper body. Jersey knit material will tend to do that. For that matter, we were conjoined at some lower pressure point, as well.

I looked up into her blue eyes again. She was a beautiful and brilliant woman, one not accustomed to being so flustered. "Suppose, Diana," I suggested, "we try a more casual embrace, and circle around the dance floor again for a time or two, so that I can settle down. That was intended to be an innocent kiss, lovely lady, and no more."

"That's fine, Alan. I believe you. I don't know why, but I do."

"Perhaps if Mr. Phaethon or Mr. Langerhans is free, you would be kind enough to introduce me to him when we get around to that side."

"Sure. You want to force money on him, right."

"Right, lass," I confirmed. "It's not as easy as it sounds."

Langerhans was free of any pressing social duties by the time we had made a few circles, as it turned out. Diana made a perfunctory introduction and excused herself.

The tall Scot paused briefly to consult his mental file and turned on a modicum of chilled charm. "Ah, Mr. Carter. Good of you to attend. Your secretary gave your affiliation as INRI, if I recall. Normally, my memory is like a sieve for these things, but the acronym is such a Christian emblem __the very marquee of the Crucifixion__ that it's impossible even for me to forget."

I gave him a knowing grin. "It was intended to be remembered that way, sir. Our organization is not religious in the classic sense, although our members tend to be Anglican or Presbyterian, and the name stands for nothing that would have any meaning for you. Frankly, we're a reasonable group of responsible businessmen who are appalled at the mindless violence not only of the IRA, but of Ian Paisley's bully-boys as well."

"Why are you here, Mr. Carter?" Langerhans wanted to know. "It would not seem that our scientific projects could be of much help to Northern Ireland." Langerhans was nothing if not to the point, and his Scottish burr provided all of the vocal punctuation required; enough to turn a bald statement of fact into an ironic thrust.

I leaned toward him and spoke softly, so that we could not be overheard. "Consider that name, INRI, again. Not as an acronym, but as a symbol of the usual result when an unworldly principle is confronted by overwhelming worldly power. We know of what you" __I prodded his rib cage__ "are doing for the South Africans, and perhaps others. The members of INRI are strongly dedicated to ensuring a future for our families and for our culture in much the same way, for the generations to come. We too are 'Orphans'."

Langerhans looked around the room until he spotted Polewicz, and caught his eye. Only when Polewicz had joined us, did he respond to my statement. "I think that I understand what you are saying, Mr. Carter, but this is not the time or place to talk of such serious matters."

"You could improve on the place with one a little more private, sir. And perhaps that includes, or rather excludes, your associate. No offense, Mr. Polewicz. But I must tell you that my time constraints are severe, and if I do not return to Edmonton tonight with a positive report, my principals will immediately open negotiations with the Canadian Government."

Polewicz answered. "No offense taken, Mr. Carter. But I think that you and your bodyguard over there had better be going. It's a long drive back." He looked at Langerhans for approval. "Perhaps if I escorted them personally, sir, along with a few of my men, you could get back to your guests."

I headed off Langerhans' affirmative nod. "If you have not given us what we want within three days, then the Farm at Elphingstoke will be given up to the Canadians in return for future consideration. Any attempt to move the armaments before then will be stopped."

Langerhans and Polewicz both lost their air of casual disinterest immediately, both glancing around to make sure that no one else was in earshot.

I went on. "By the way, you, Mr. Langerhans, and your associate, Mr. Phaethon, would be killed as soon as is practicable. I apologize, Mr. Polewicz, for ignoring you in this regard. Again, no offense is intended. Then the Institute will be embargoed and the underground areas searched thoroughly."

I hadn't given it much thought until then, but if they built down deep in Elphingstoke, they did it here. Then the lack of trees finally got through to me. -Shit, they dug up the whole property for a basement __not just under the buildings-

Langerhans and Polewicz exchanged meaningful glances.

I gave it the old salesman's trial close. "Or would you prefer a quiet spot of negotiation for 'Canadian Shield'?"

The stairwell was all beige and aqua __both of which are still very popular among glorified decorators with PhD's in Psych. The cleaning crew must have been around not too long before because the smell of pine oil was strong enough to taste.

We had a large, impersonal conference room, two flights down, all to ourselves. They had expected me to drag Jack __"Mr. Clancy"__ along, but I dismissed that idea as we walked downstairs.

"Steven is excitable, Mr. Langerhans," I lied, "and I would rather he enjoyed himself at the party. After all, my principals could do all of those things I threatened without my stepping foot on your property. And I have come to offer you our money and our cooperation __which might be even more valuable than money__ so I am quite sure that we will be able to work together constructively."

Actually, if Jack had accompanied me, they would have insisted on inspecting the briefcase for recording devices __and I would rather they didn't know that I felt the need to fish for more information. The briefcase was better employed at eavesdropping on Phaethon upstairs. Jack and I did pass a few words regarding contingency plans before I left with the others.

Langerhans asked, "Who are you?"

"A man who doesn't exist. An agent for an organization that cannot be found."

"Why should we believe you?"

I shrugged. "Because I know too much for you to ignore me. And if we were an enemy of the Institute, there would be no threats; there would be action. If we were simply extortionists, there would be no money offered to you for participation in this great adventure. And if we are able to destroy your plan so easily, then we should also be able to facilitate it."

"Why do you wish to do so?" he wanted to know.

"Why do your South Africans wish to do so? Perhaps we do not face the threat of genocide on quite the same scale, but we are not about to pack up and leave our homes with nothing but the clothes on our backs, either. So we prepare for the inevitable, when Mother England aborts us."

"And when do you expect that to be?"

"Does it matter? Ten years? Twenty? It will happen. There is an historical imperative at work. And when it does happen, we will leave the other poor bloody bastards, the Catholics who hate us so much, with nothing more than the Irish dirt they love."

After a little anticipatory snicker, I went on. "But the Anglo-Irish will not be homeless, any more than we will be beggars. When we finally leave, there must be a new home ready to welcome us. And this land is one that Tories have come to before."

"And you plan to take our land for your own?" Langerhans' tongue was on a roll again.

I could hear four r's in 'our,' I swear. He nodded to Polewicz.

"Yours?" I laughed in his face. Polewicz grabbed me by both arms from behind, his elbows at right angles to mine, and his hands locked together in a fist pressing into my back. -Stupid! Did he expect Langerhans to punch me out?- Before Langerhans could react at all, I stepped hard on Polewicz's left foot and let him take me back with a little encouragement. By the time he hit the floor with me on top, my right side was turned toward him and one elbow that he had captured so well was bent into his solar plexus.

Rolling off the paralyzed security chief, I had a dagger in hand as I faced his superior. The Applegate-Fairbairn Commando knife is a most impressive killing machine. There is one moving part __itself__ and the only way any sane person wants to see it move is away. Its sheath was stitched into my cummerbund in back; the handle extended toward my right side. There's another toward the left.

Speed and versatility. The dagger's hilt is instantly accessible behind the unbuttoned formal jacket, and the position offers an underhand or an overhand grip with equal ease. I had been merciful to Polewicz, or at least discreet. It could have been the blade and not my elbow.

There was nothing but shock in Langerhans' face as the tip tickled his Adams apple. He stared at Polewicz, still not comprehending what the latter had unleashed.

"Help him; he'll die."

"He is still breathing and should be fine," I assured him, "unless he's torn up inside. Even then, he would not die without aid, not for days. Why are you so concerned? He seems to be of little use to you."

"For God's sake_____" he sputtered.

"That is the Monsignor's concern. For the present your man can lie there, and when we have gone, you may have him taken to hospital." I was proud: to hospital, not to the hospital. No excessive partiality for the use of contractions in my speech __a typically American practice__ and not once did I say "Ok."

"What makes you think that you can leave here alive?" he asked indignantly.

"Your good sense if nothing else," I said. "My organization will pay yours one billion dollars a year on a sliding scale. An even division between our equity and your fees the first year; down to ninety percent equity at the tenth year and beyond."

"Where is the money?"

"First the terms have to be settled. Tell me," I asked him, -pointedly- "if I remove this knife from your throat, will you avoid making a noisy scene?"

He possessed more physical courage than I had expected. "From what you say, Carter, you need us as much as you claim we need you. What if I don't?"

I pointed up to a sprinkler head in the suspended ceiling with the dagger.

"There is a part of that device that is mostly soft lead, Langerhans. The fusible alloy link that holds the sprinkler valve closed, that is." I waved the knife. "When cut or melted, the link releases the sprinkler, and fire alarms sound throughout the building. And at your local fire-station, as well."

The Scotsman looked up to the sprinkler, which pierced one of the ceiling panels.

"You and that lovely blonde lady will be our hostages," I continued, "though I doubt anyone else will even notice that fact in all the confusion. Mr. Clancy will be collecting her as soon as he hears the bell."

"Why Diana Stuart?"

"Are you blind, Theodore? If you force me to take hostages, they might as well be decorative."

"____All right," he agreed slowly, reluctantly. "____But leave the woman out of this. I should be the only hostage you require."

"Sorry, Theo." I was appropriately apologetic. "It is Theo, is it not. We will need something more than your assurances. Actually, I offered the lady transport back to Edmonton in my saloon car, but she declined. Perhaps if you invite her to come with us, Miss Stuart will be satisfied with the decorum of the arrangement."

"As long as no one is hurt; that's the important thing."

"And that is your responsibility, Theo. See that you live up to it. Tomorrow I will start to draw up a statement outlining our requirements and the amounts of money that we expect to invest in land, as well as the number of hectares and type of terrain and utilities we expect to receive. It will be ready in two days for Miss Stuart to bring back to you."

"What about Lester?" He nodded at Polewicz, lying semi-comatose on the floor.

"He might be helpless for another hour. Your concern is misplaced, Theo. How do you suppose we know so much about you?" It was my turn to nod significantly at the paralyzed man. Grandfather would have been proud of me for that bit of innuendo.

"What now, Carter?"

I had no chance to answer him. There was a knock on the office door.

"Come in." Langerhans called it out before I could even warn him not to. His expression was triumphant.

An armed guard walked in. The tall Scotsman's back was still toward the door and the guard, concealing the knife I held to his throat. A little pressure and a trickle of blood belatedly made my point for me. And wiped that smug look off his face.

I kept my captive's flaming red head between the guard's and mine. He asked, "Is everything all right, sir? I heard a noise."

I was ready to panic. What was it the old bastard used to say? Never bring a knife to a gunfight. Sudden sweat was starting to prickle my skin.

The Voices!

"See to poor Mr. Polewicz. He slipped." Langerhans looked shocked and betrayed at the sound of his own strong burr coming from my mouth.

The guard naturally looked at me as he brushed by my captive, right hand on his holstered gun. As his eyes caught sight of the raised dagger, they widened in alarm. The right shoulder dipped to draw the pistol while his left arm was lifting to ward off any possible thrust.

A right jab to his jaw __holding a fistful of solid steel hilt__ dealt with the situation. The knife was back at Langerhans' throat before he could do more than blink. Then it backed him up against the wall away from the door.

"What now?" he repeated, when he had caught his breath again.

I lifted the guard's pistol and took a few seconds to check his unconscious form out for concealed weapons, then the two other men, before I answered him. All were clean. "Now I would like you to sit at that desk, please."

"Why?"

"So you can tell me how comfortable the chair is."

"What the hell_____" But the dagger blade at his throat gave him no recourse. He fell back into the chair.

"Now describe it to me, Theo. Are you comfortable?"

"Are you insane, man?" He was afraid now____afraid that I really was insane.

"Not at all, my friend," I assured him. "I just want to make sure that you are accustomed to the seat, that it feels natural to you."

"Are you going to restrain me?" he asked, with a nervous hint of claustrophobia.

"No," I assured him, "just Polewicz and your guard. But I have another good reason for asking. How does it feel?"

He relaxed a bit, slouched even. "It feels all right. A little low for me, that is all."

"Fine. Would you stand up, please?" I walked to the door, drawing the other dagger as I did so. As he rose and started to move around the left side of the desk __away from Polewicz__ I whirled and threw the right-hand dagger overhand into the center of the seat back, about fifteen feet away from me and two or three feet from him.

The Applegate-Fairbairn is nothing but blackened steel, slightly less than a foot long, of which seven inches is razor-sharp blade. It weighs only nine ounces, but the weight is so densely concentrated behind a point much sharper than a needle __that it will penetrate a bullet proof vest.

Thrown by the handle, the dagger revolved one full turn as it flew toward the leather, foam, plywood, and the sheet metal that made up the back of the chair. I was cheating by throwing over a pre-selected distance. The knife is not balanced for throwing, and __in a tight situation__ throwing the Applegate-Fairbairn by the blade is liable to result in the loss of several fingers. The Explorer knives that I had sheathed above each ankle are much more practical and versatile for throwing, but nowhere near as impressive.

There was a slight __whispering, scything__ sound as the blade whirled through the air, and the rough hiss of paper being sliced when the tip penetrated its target, even the metal back. Only the hilt showed in front; although I knew that Langerhans' viewpoint would display at least two inches of the blade protruding from the flip side.

Have you ever seen a freckled red-head turn pale as an albino in a split-second? It's the strangest damn sight. The freckles stand out like a leopard's spots.

Even tamed leopards are dangerous.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Dangerous, you say. Langerhans." It was the priest interrupting again. "The fisherman; the accountant. Yet Polewicz, the man who so impressed Bakker in Quebec some years ago, he was nothing to you."

I shrugged his curiosity off. We were getting closer and closer to the point of no return; where what he thought would no longer have any significance for me or anyone else.

"If I had been attacking him without knowing his capabilities," I answered, "it would have turned out just as badly for me. But it was Polewicz who made that mistake. Do you see the difference?"

"I see that you were lucky." He gave a painful chortle and hawked up some blood which he spat out onto the chapel floor. It joined a number of other stains there; blood, piss and more, the results of his painful captivity.

I was in a jocular mood. "Think about Providence instead, Father."

"Where was your prophesy, your thunder, Irishman?"

"My thunder? You know what? I guess it's been about five or six weeks since that campfire. At least four of those weeks have been filled with storms __all sorts of storms__ but mostly thunder storms. I am sick to death of fucking thunderstorms."

The good Father laughed. "Maybe that is just the 'Greenhouse Effect'."

I didn't join him. "I'm not kidding. When the goddamn weather was good __which wasn't often__ everything else sounded like thunder for a while. Let me see: there were jet planes, helicopter crashes, backfires, machine pistols, home-made bombs; you name it. Oh yeah! And a roaring lynch mob."

The priest clearly thought I was exaggerating.

I wasn't. "And in the silence, old man, when there wasn't anyone upstairs banging on a drum, that's when most of the shit that hit the fan got flung. I'm the one responsible for what happened to my...." I wound down, exhausted by self-recrimination and the memory of absolute terror. My voice fell to a bitter whisper. "It's like your Bible on that lectern, Priest. Prophesies aren't warnings; they're down-payments on the God-damned punishment."

He just looked at me sadly for an endless minute. "I feel even more sorry for you than before, you know. You may survive while your equals, and even your betters, die. But you can never know what it is to win, you see. Because you hold everything that you can dominate as cheap and contemptible, not worth the effort. And all that you might revere is so far above you, that you think it impossible to attain without spoiling it."

I offered my usual caustic retort to the priest __it doesn't matter what it was. Then I pulled my hatbrim low over my eyes to go back to sleep; for all the world oblivious to his criticism.

My unwilling companion still had to have the last word, though. "You realize that outlook is based entirely on self-contempt, don't you. That is all that maintains it, all that can sustain it."

It was then I made up my mind to kill him the next morning.

But I didn't, of course. There was too much need in me still; need for justification, I guess.

Another day, at most.

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