Cover

Death Tolls was first published by Ace Books in 1987. Copyright 1987 by John E. Stith. All rights reserved. Amazon Kindle edition published 2008.

"…succeeded where so many others have failed…. respectable both as science fiction and as mystery." – Drood Review of Mystery

Death Tolls

by

John E. Stith

For Kirt Bailey, Pam Haggart

Chris Hill, Greg Hill, Perry Knowlton,

Cynthia Lyeth, and Bill Williams.

Chapter 1 Harbinger

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Chapter 2 Eavesdropper

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Chapter 3 Impostor

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Chapter 4 Shadower

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Chapter 5 Entrapment

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Chapter 6 Negligent

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Chapter 7 Broadcast

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Chapter 8 Education

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Chapter 9 Revelation

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Chapter 10 Guesswork

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Chapter 11 Hazardous

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Chapter 12 Evidence

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Chapter 13 Illumination

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Chapter 14 Search

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Chapter 15 Examination

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Chapter 16 Newsworthy

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Chapter 17 Bait

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Chapter 18 Evidence

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Chapter 19 Ramifications

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Chapter 20 Gamble

Chapter 1 Harbinger

I took a deep breath, willing myself to relax. It did no good. I slammed my open palm down on the solid desktop. That didn't help either.

The message on my desk screen remained, and I couldn't suppress my feelings.

Restless, I rose and strode to the window. Outside, the wind forced iron–red dust across the plains beyond the edge of the city, almost obscuring the base of Olympus. I tried to forget about the message. But I had to know more. I had to know why.

"Intercom," I said, still staring, unseeing, at the view.

"Active," the desk responded.

"Achmed?" I said.

"Yes, sir," came the voice of my receptionist.

"Is that fellow still in the lobby?"

"Yes, he is."

"Send him in, will you?"

There was just the barest hesitation before Achmed said,

"Will do." If he was puzzled about why I should ask to see someone I'd earlier refused to admit, he handled it with his usual discretion.

I snapped off the intercom and looked back out the window as I waited. It was dark enough outside that I could see the interior of my office clearly reflected. I could almost read the reversed headline of the two–day–old news sheet next to the picture on my desk. I knew what it said without needing a better view: Air Crash Death Toll Rises to Seven.

A knock sounded on my door. The man who entered was a little shorter than I, with black hair cut quite short and a trimmed mustache. His roughened skin suggested frequent exposure to wind and dust. Draped over his arm was a black coat. Gently he closed the door.

"I know you," I said, surprised. "Freeman, isn't it?"

"Detective Sergeant Angelo Freeman. You've got a good memory, Mr. Kettering."

Without comment, I gestured toward a guest chair.

The serious expression on the man's face probably matched mine. He sat in the chair, hardly looking at me, and withdrew a card he first pressed with his thumb, and then placed on my desk. "Just in case you have any doubts. I'm sure you know the techniques available to imposters."

I took my seat and reached for the card. His thumbprint had made the identification emblem glow orange and blue, and it slowly faded as I watched. It had to be genuine. The picture matched him, and I knew how difficult they were to forge. I shoved it back. "Care to tell me why a policeman would send a message like that?" I asked, feeling remarkably civil.

"I wanted to make sure I saw you," he replied. "I tried to see you after the funeral this morning. When I failed there, I thought I could reach you at home. I didn't expect to see you back at work."

"Sorry," I said dryly. "I haven't done anything productive since I got here, but it's somehow better than home."

"I'm sorry about your brother, Mr. Kettering."

Suddenly irritated, I could stay seated no longer. I stood up quickly and paced to the window. "That's enough. You probably didn't even know him. And you sent me this bizarre message, 'Do you want your brother's death to be for nothing?' Besides not signing it, you wouldn't even tell my receptionist who you are. I want an explanation, and I want it before we go any farther."

Detective Freeman looked up at me briefly, as though measuring me, and then looked back at the desk. I didn't take his bad eye contact as a sign of guilt. He'd had the problem when we met years ago, when I was in another line of work.

"You're right," he said. "I didn't know your brother. And I owe you an explanation. But it's going to take me a few minutes to tell you all I need to. I'll go away quietly after that, and I apologize for putting you through this on the same day as your brother's funeral. Obviously I feel it's quite important. Will you hear me out?"

The detective's clear reflection in my window gestured toward my desk chair. I looked back at him and got the feeling he was trying to make the best of a bad situation. I relented, feeling trapped, and took my seat. "Go ahead."

Freeman tugged gently on the corner of his mustache. "I wasn't able to talk to your brother before he died. I had hoped he would recover and I could ask him some questions about the accident."

"I had rather hoped he'd recover, too," I said bitterly. But Sam hadn't recovered. He had died less than a day after the crash. It was still all I could do to accept it as actually having happened. I'd worried about him ever since we were children. He'd always been the reckless one, a couple years my junior. When I had gotten the call saying he'd been in an accident, almost my first thought was that it must have been the result of some chance he had taken. I remembered feeling guilty when I found out it was in no way his fault.

Freeman's dark eyes met mine for another instant before his gaze wandered again. "I don't mean to be insensitive. It's just that I'm not sure the crash was accidental." He held up a hand to keep me from interrupting. "I have to give you some background before it will make much sense."

"Bloody hell," I said, still angry, but surprised, too. "You're telling me someone arranged that crash and you want me to be quiet?"

"Please, Mr. Kettering. Just hear me out."

I moved uncomfortably in my chair, but kept silent with an effort.

"All right," Freeman said. "Tell me, then. Did you see the news coverage of the crash?"

I nodded, for the moment unable to speak. I hadn't wanted to watch, but there was no way I could turn off the television. Someone could have threatened me with my life, and I probably still would have left it on, staring, transfixed. The cameras caught the plane as it hit the runway, wing first. Crimson fire boiled out of the rear of the plane, and only the spinning of the craft after the fuselage hit the ground kept the entire plane from being consumed. I shuddered.

"Whose coverage did you see?"

"What?" I asked.

"I asked whose coverage you saw. It's important."

I looked at him blankly for a moment. "MNBS."

Freeman leaned back and brushed some imaginary dust off my desktop. "I knew you'd say that."

"Then why in bloody hell are you—" My anger at it all exploded, and it took a moment to regain control.

"MNBS was there first," he said, not seeming to notice my outburst. He stared at my desk for a moment before he said, "You understand hunches, Mr. Kettering?"

The transition slowed me for an instant. "I suppose so."

"I get these hunches, you see? Oh, I'm not saying they're always right. But sometimes they are. We don't have all that many air crashes, you know."

"And?"

"And I found out the reporter who covered the crash for MNBS took a ride on that same plane the day before the crash."

I shifted uneasily in my chair, aware of a cool draft in the room. "That's not quite enough to convict someone, though. Or even to suggest guilt."

"Oh, I agree. I agree. But a coincidence like that is—well, it's worth following up. And I did. He had a legitimate need to fly from Melas to here. So I checked some more. He was at the Melas airport in time to take a scheduled nonstop commercial flight that left an hour earlier and got in almost two hours earlier. And, yes. It still had seats available."

"That's still not much evidence," I said.

"I realize that. I've got little enough to go on that bringing him in for questioning wouldn't do anything more than warn him. But my hunch generator is making me lose sleep. I think there's a tie–in." He must have felt strongly about the last point, because he looked me right in the eye. "I don't know why, but I suspect that man had something to do with the accident."

"Okay," I said slowly. "It's a possibility. But why me? Why are you here?"

"I need you. I still remember the information you obtained on Gunderson, you know."

"That was years ago. I'm not in journalism anymore."

"So I see. The receptionist told me you own this engineering firm. Why did you quit such a promising career?"

"'Promising' is a matter of opinion, and I still fail to see the relevance."

"It takes me a while sometimes to tie all the pieces together, but I'm getting close. You worked for a television news department, and, from your results, seemed to be quite competent." He tugged at his mustache.

I was starting to get an even worse feeling about all of this, but I kept silent.

"I think someone with your talents and background is the only kind of person who can help us. Sean Franco works for a television station. You used to work for a television station. And it was your brother who died." Detective Freeman overcame his eye–contact problem for five seconds and looked steadily at me.

"You can't be serious," I said at last, realizing exactly what he wanted. "Me hire on at MNBS to investigate?"

"Precisely, Mr. Kettering."

Disbelieving, I stared at him for a long moment before I rose and went back to the window. The twinge in my knee started acting up again. "No," I said softly, but forcefully.

The room was so quiet that he must have heard, but he went on anyway. "You shouldn't worry about being recognized. We have a few experts in temporary and permanent disguise. And it has been several years. When you were a journalist, it was here in Biblis, so people in Helium aren't likely to know you. We don't have anyone with the experience you've got." He paused. "We need you, Mr. Kettering."

"You need me. You need me to investigate someone who may not be actually guilty of anything. You need me to leave my business for who knows how long, and pretend to be someone I'm not. Don't you think they'll be a little curious about my credentials as an investigative reporter?"

Freeman looked at his wristcomp. "I don't think they'll spend a lot of time looking at your credentials. The only job opening right now is for a driver."

I looked closely at the detective's reflection in the window and tried to recall if I'd ever seen him smile. He sat there calmly and looked at my nearly barren desk.

Beyond the window, the wind had picked up, and a maroon dust cloud reached high enough to touch the clouds that usually obscured the upper half of Olympus, so the volcano was totally invisible. Things I hadn't thought about in a long time seemed somehow clearer than before. I could remember the passion I'd felt for the news business. And, quite surprisingly, I could see Sam sitting in a comfortable chair, a warm drink in his hands, that carefree smile on his lips, and saying, "You worry too much, Dan. I'm fine. Really."

The image startled me. Ever since I had gotten back to the office, I had tried to remember the good times. All I had been able to summon was the television news pictures of the exploding plane, and Sam lying limply in the hospital bed. I also realized that I was actually beginning to consider seriously Freeman's request.

"How can you guarantee I'd be hired?" I asked after another long moment of thinking about Sam's death and things left unfinished.

"I can't. But I think I can push the odds up to a comfortable level. You see, I have a fair amount of latitude." Freeman didn't press, but he must have sensed the change I was feeling.

I hesitated, thinking about the reasons I had left the television business. Sam had understood, even if Dad hadn't. And I could still hear Sam saying any decision is better than no decision. "Do I go in cold?" I asked.

"No. Maybe being a cop is a lot like being a reporter. I brought some materials with me." Freeman reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew a packet, and laid it on my desk.

"You were pretty sure of yourself."

"Think of it as being thorough."

I unfolded the wrapper. Inside were two pictures and a recording wafer.

"The wafer includes a dossier on MNBS," Freeman said as I arranged the pictures on the desk. "And ones on some of the key employees."

The pictures were of a man and a woman. The woman's face was striking. The picture had been taken outdoors in sunlight, and she squinted slightly in the glare. The carmine dust in the background seemed to bleed into her image and make her cheeks rosy. Simply cut blonde hair framed her face and fell to her neck. I shifted my gaze enough to see another angle in the hologram, and saw that her cheekbones were high and attractive. I remembered her from the coverage of the plane crash.

"That's Janet Vincent," Freeman said. Moving the second picture toward me, he added, "And this is Sean Franco. He's Janet's boss. They usually work together on assignments."

The other picture showed another half–familiar face: the male reporter at the scene. The man was reasonably good looking, with black hair and a thin face. His mouth was compressed into a horizontal slit.

"I'm fairly sure we can get you to work directly with them," Freeman added.

I noted without comment that Freeman acted as though my doing this had never been in question. "How soon?"

"They start interviewing tomorrow for a new driver. One quit rather suddenly. A new name and job history for you are all ready to add to the employment service." It was obvious from his tone that he had something to do with the driver deciding to leave, but he didn't smile.

"Tomorrow?" I asked, suddenly giddy. Things were moving way too fast.

"It's probably best if you don't have a lot of time to reconsider or worry about it. If we don't get someone in soon, we may lose the chance. And if Sean Franco really is responsible, more people may die before they might otherwise."

I looked back down at the pictures. Sean Franco looked a little tense, but did he look like a killer, an assassin? Janet Vincent's picture recaptured my attention. "What time tomorrow?" I asked.

"Fixing you up with a disguise and some different clothes might take an hour. Come down to our building at nine. Room one–eleven."

"Aren't you worried about my being seen there? You took pains not to let anyone know why you came here."

"Someone with a recently dead brother going into the judicial building is less noteworthy than a cop calling on him. It would have been easier if you hadn't shut off all calls on your wristcomp."

Absently, I spoke a soft command to let calls come through again.

"I'll have you entered in the files as a deputy, but that information won't be accessible to the general staff," Freeman said. "Do you want to pick a new name now, so we can have things ready?"

I hesitated. Somehow, this was the first act to force me to say, "Yes, I am going to do this." It was all going so fast. "Bill Letterer," I said finally. My full name was Daniel William Kettering. And some of my relatives had called me Bill. I tried to tell myself this was just like being an investigative reporter all over again.

"You know you don't actually have to do this," Freeman said, as though now that I was committed, he wanted it obvious that I'd had a choice.

"I hear you," I said. It was more like hearing a sound while being halfway into a dream state. I recognized the words, but things didn't make complete sense. I shook my head. The feeling remained. "Anything more?" I asked finally.

He shook his head and rose to leave.

"I'm going, too," I said. "I can read this packet at home."

On the way down the hall, I stopped in my second–in–command's office. I told her about some vacation plans, my to–do list, and left her in charge. I had to close the door behind me to cut off her flow of objections. At the front lobby, I told Achmed some of the same things, and walked out the door with Freeman. The wind whipped my coat away from my body, and I felt the chill before I got it buttoned securely. Dust stung my face and eyes.

"Are you worried about leaving your business with someone else?" Freeman asked.

"She can handle it. I pick my people pretty carefully." I started toward my car. I was halfway to it when he caught up to me and said, "Mr. Kettering."

I glanced quickly around and saw no one else in the parking lot. "That's Letterer."

"Excuse me, but I may have to give you a hand with your car."

I said nothing as he walked ahead of me. When he reached my car, a five–year–old Far Star, he reached under a wheel well and withdrew a small black box. "You should be all right now," he said, looking almost apologetic.

"Was that your fall–back position? To help me with my car when I left work?"

"Something like that. You gave me a hard time."

I didn't reply, so Freeman left without another word. For the moment, nothing seemed real. In my car, I sat for several long minutes, aware of only the wind buffeting the car and a curious mixture of excitement and strong post–decision depression.

#

At home, I put Freeman's packet on the table and went to let Hungry and Lazy out of the bathroom and give them some fresh food. The two cats couldn't have the run of the house unless I was home. Martian gravity was almost as bad as Luna's. The dwarfs could get anywhere that wasn't locked, no matter how high.

While the cats ate, I fed the recording wafer into the computer and looked at the index. There were sections on MNBS, Sean Franco, Janet Vincent, and several others on the staff. A quick examination indicated the dossiers were made with an attempt to be fair and unbiased. There were no obvious subjective impressions, just details with the feel of verifiable facts.

The writing style in the dossiers was fairly dry, so I decided to timeshare. I set the television controls to MNBS and lowered the news trigger to four to be assured of seeing something.

News levels ran from one to ten, where one was dog bites man, three was man bites dog, and on up to ten, which was likely to be so bad that viewers wouldn't be alive to see the newscast.

I continued reading the material Freeman had given me. For over an hour the television was inactive, but then a bulletin lit the screen. Hungry and Lazy stopped their playing and watched the image. They blocked part of the view, so I moved. Naturally once I moved they resumed their play. I no longer saw the announcer's face head on, but he was obviously Sean Franco. Near the top of the image a short cylinder showed the digit five to every viewing angle.

"A boating accident on Elysium Lake has killed two people," Franco said. "Details after this."

Behind him in the distance stretched the lake. "Lake" still seemed an odd word choice for a circular body of water over a hundred kilometers across. Four large ice asteroids directed to an impact at the same point had vaporized the lakebed for what was the largest body of water on Mars. Other terraforming efforts had raised the atmospheric pressure and humidity to the point at which the condensers around the shore would keep Elysium Lake from simply disappearing due to evaporation.

Sean Franco's image disappeared, and a beautiful, scantily clad young woman materialized in his place. "Show me a man who knows what he likes," she said, gently biting her lower lip as she paused and leaned toward center screen, "and I'll show you a man who likes what I like." From there, the commercial started to push upscale consumer buttons, hitting appeals to hedonism, glamor, and prestige, one after another. The woman never did state any tangible reason for buying depilatory cream. It was all as subtle as a public execution of a minor.

As the commercial started to fade to black, I was jolted forward by an impact in the back of my neck. A cat. "Not now," I said, tossing Hungry to the floor.

When I looked back, Sean Franco was in view once again. "A man and his daughter died this afternoon in a sudden storm on Elysium Lake. And now, over to Janet Vincent."

Janet Vincent's blonde hair blew almost forty–five degrees up from vertical as the wind seemed to try to push her out of camera range. The air tugged at her voice, but she came through clearly and evenly. "Jack Argonne and his daughter Heather were both drowned in a freak accident, less than a hundred meters offshore in Elysium Lake early this evening."

She went on to describe the unfortunate happening, observing that, had the two been planning to go farther out, they would have used life jackets, and would probably still be alive. In the distance was one of the large condensers lining the shore.

As she talked about Argonne and his daughter dying, I could think only of Sam.

The scene moved to a segment showing Sean Franco and several other reporters talking to the bereaved wife and mother whose face was ash rose, obviously taking it badly. Sean shoved his microphone past one of the other reporters and asked, "What was your reaction when you found out about the accident?"

It was at that moment that I started disliking Sean Franco. The woman didn't look as if she were too fond of him either.

There wasn't much more to the story. One more commercial, which somehow managed to appeal to both fear and ego, broke through before Sean Franco said, "And now back to our regular programming."

There were about five seconds of a typical inane situation comedy before the image went dark. I took a deep breath and realized that I still got angry watching even a little television. I could all too easily imagine Sean Franco on the air saying, "Luna to collide with Earth. Video at twenty–three hundred."

#

My eyes felt gritty as I drove to the judicial building the next morning. I had finished the dossier, found a friend to keep Lazy and Hungry, and spent another night filled with hours of trying to force myself to sleep.

The judicial building had been built mushroom–style, over fifty years ago, before the atmosphere had reached a breathable pressure, and before the air temperature had risen to a cold but tolerable level. The arched roof was mostly windows, and the core of the building sank into the ground. As I went in, the pressure doors were standing wide open. The seals had darkened to a dirty chestnut and showed numerous cracks.

The offices surrounded a circular courtyard. I found room 111 with no trouble. The glowing sign over the door read "Probate Court." I entered.

"Mr. Kettering," said a young man with slightly off–putting solicitude. "Come with me, please."

He led me past several offices while inquiring about my health and the trip down. Finally, he reached a door he unlocked with his thumb. "Take a right," he said. "Keep going until you get to the door marked one–thirty, and just go right in. They'll be expecting you."

The door closed behind me, and I walked along a cool, narrow corridor with doors set on the right side at perhaps ten–meter intervals. Ahead, the corridor curved out of sight to the right. The access hall must have completely circled the office area. Fine dust made a free–form mosaic on the floor. No matter how hard people tried, the dust always found its way inside.

Running footsteps sounded in the distance behind me. My breathing quickened. A moment later, a runner came into view and I relaxed. Just a jogger. The legend on his chest said "Perspiration Shirt." He loped by me, surely unaware of the tension he had caused, and I resumed my walk. The ceiling was no higher than normal in the hallway. Each time the jogger left the ground, it looked as if he would hit his head, but he didn't.

At the door marked 130, I pressed my thumb against the plate and entered. Inside was an unsettling hospital odor of disinfectants and a woman who escorted me to see a short male doctor whose name I wasn't told.

"Detective Freeman tells me your face needs to change," he said. "Let me show you what I intend to do." He invited me to sit and then handed me a screen displaying an accurate replica of my head. The doctor absently scratched his nose.

He spoke to his desk computer, and the image began to change. My thin, light–blond hair, which was maybe five to ten centimeters long in parts, looked normal at first, but then seemed to pull into my head. The image gave me the impression that someone had taken a time–lapse series while my hair grew out, and then played the recording in reverse. The result was quite short hair, perhaps ten times longer than stubble.

I turned the screen far enough to see a side view. I didn't like it at all, but said nothing.

"Next we have to deal with your bone structure. Your face is so thin that your cheekbones are distinctive. We'll do two things. First, I'll inject your cheeks, here and here." He gestured. "That will make the skin puffier. Then, a simple attachment to two back teeth will force the skin slightly farther out. That will alter your voice a little, too. If it's not enough, we can worry about that next."

The image on the screen now looked a little overweight. Very unappealing. "This is all reversible, I assume," I said.

"In less than a week after you decide you want it off," the doctor said gently, as though he had suddenly remembered that he was talking with a patient rather than a med student. "We're not doing anything permanent here."

"I appreciate that," I said, looking at the image and thinking that he shouldn't have shown it to me before the treatment, when I still had a choice. "Still, it couldn't hurt to wait until we know if it's really going to be necessary." I didn't want to look like that for a week if it weren't absolutely vital.

"Oh, there's no need to wait. Your interview is scheduled for just after lunch."

#

I took a commercial flight to Helium, using a different assumed name. The person next to me seemed uninterested in talking, so I spent a lot of time thinking. I thought about Sam dying, and MNBS.

I also thought about how I didn't like the way I looked. The doctor's modified image had been surprisingly accurate. After the changes were made—fortunately, they were fairly painless—someone in another office had found me a set of new clothes. I should say different clothes. My new shirt was more colorful than I typically wore, and my trousers were of worn but heavy, durable material.

The doctor was right about people looking at me less. It was hard to tell if it was the clothes or the new face, but the baggage–check counter people had hurried my transaction almost without looking up. And my silent seatmate might be loquacious in other company.

The plane began to lose altitude, and Helium came into view. It was the largest city on Mars, four to five hundred thousand people, and the city stretched far out from the central district. Wind stirred up carmine dust, which swept between dusty houses. As we flew lower, the city seemed to flow over the ground, like a blood–tinted tide coming in.

#

In the parking lot, I destroyed the phony identification that brought me here, and put the new one in the front of my wallet. My real ID was back home, but I still wore my own wristcomp. It would now answer messages sent to my new name. Anything sent to Dan Kettering would get saved in a queue until I looked through it. I had been assured that my fingerprints, retinal prints, hair characteristics, and new voice patterns were now linked to the name of Bill Letterer.

#

MNBS occupied a larger building than the station where I had worked years ago, but I found the personnel office with little trouble. It had a sign by the door saying HUMAN RESOURCES.

A crisp, efficient secretary, who didn't look at me very much, showed me to a waiting room about three minutes before my appointment. I let the twinge in my leg make me limp slightly. Reflexively, I ran a hand over the back of my head, still feeling awkward that my hair was so short.

Soon, a man–and–woman team from personnel brought me in for a few questions. They didn't ask me anything that was already in my new file, but merely asked for elaborations. I was back in the waiting room before I even got a feel for whether I was doing good or bad.

About ten minutes later, the secretary came back and escorted me to an office on the second floor. The person seated behind the desk turned to the door, and I found myself face to face with Janet Vincent.

Chapter 2 Eavesdropper

Janet Vincent introduced herself, shook hands, and then motioned for me to have a seat. She seemed very much at ease.

"You're the lady on television," I said, trying to establish immediately the kind of character I had to be. And to cover up what I had felt when her hand touched mine.

"One of them, anyway," she said softly. She looked about the way she had last night, except her hair was combed, and she seemed taller. It was hard to tell since she was seated, but she seemed to be a little shorter than I was. Even though she looked the same as on television, her appeal was stronger, the way it usually is in person. I liked the way she looked when she smiled. And I wondered if Sam might be dead because of her.

She had more success in meeting my gaze than some of the people I'd encountered on the trip. She looked at me frankly for several seconds before glancing back down at her copy of my file.

I pay a lot of attention to eyes. The frequency of small, rapid motions, the apparent focus, the confidence behind the gaze, eye contact, all were good clues about what to expect. It was far from infallible, but, if Janet Vincent's eyes were good indicators, she wasn't one to miss much. I got the strong feeling that she would be someone around whom I'd have to watch myself carefully. I kept my gaze focused on her desk, and tried to slow my own eye motions.

"It says here you now work for Astron, Mr. Letterer," she said. "Why is it that you're interested in a change?" She still managed to look friendly after her smile disappeared and she turned more businesslike.

"Call me Bill," I said ingratiatingly. "I'm bored. I want a little more excitement. Television seems like the place for me."

"I'm not sure it will be all that exciting, Mr. Letterer." She looked at me deliberately. "From the outside, it may have some glamor, but from the inside it gets old just like anything else." She was perfectly right.

"That may be, but I guess I'll have to see for myself."

She nodded. "Your file also says you're licensed for light aircraft and jump jets."

"That's right." So was probably a third of the population, but at least I was in the right third. "There'll be lots of flying out to where the action is, I bet."

"Mr. Letterer, I don't want to get your hopes up too high. For this job, there's lots of driving around town, and an occasional flight to a story location. This month, the regular days for this job are Monday through Friday, but that changes. Your private schedule will get rearranged constantly. You may get stuck at an airport waiting for the wind to die down for so long that you could have driven. I appreciate your optimism, but I have to be fair."

She was starting to talk as if there were a job offer coming. I wondered how dismal the other potential candidates that Freeman had arranged were. I simply said, "Okay. You've warned me." I tried to give the impression that I was unconvinced, but would humor her.

She glanced at her wristcomp briefly and then down at her desk screen, which must have been displaying my job service file. She looked back at me. "Mr. Letterer, let me be very candid. Personnel has no objections to your background. If we can agree on a fair wage, you can have the job. I know your qualifications from your file. You can handle the job. I have very little excess time. If you're genuinely interested in the job, I'll show you around a little more to help you make up your mind. If you're not interested, please just say so now."

I looked at her. "I want the job."

She smiled briefly, perhaps at knowing she wouldn't have to interview the other candidates. She hadn't been entirely candid, because she hadn't mentioned that I was probably the only acceptable candidate, but I let that pass. "Let's go see Mr. Hartley," she said, rising. "He'll want to talk to you for just a minute before I show you around." On the way she told me what I recalled from the dossier: Hartley ran MNBS.

I said nothing as we walked. I was still quite surprised that someone in Hartley's position would interview a courier.

Glenn Hartley was at the end of the corridor, in a corner office. He greeted me with a beefy handshake. His smile puffed out his already plump, baby–faced cheeks. His wispy hair was gray, and his cheekbones were so high and prominent they looked like twin bruises. Hartley's gaze moved from me back to Janet for an instant, and I was sure a signal had gone between them. Once she had gone and we were seated, Hartley said, "I understand you're interested in the job."

"I sure am. It looks like a real nice place to work."

Hartley came right to the point. "How much do you want?"

I pretended to give that some thought for a few seconds. "Ten percent over what I'm making now."

Hartley probably would have choked if he knew what I was really making, but he looked at the job service summary on his desk screen and nodded. "I think we might be able to do that if everything else checks out all right. You know your schedule may be erratic?"

"Yes. The lady told me. But it's okay. I'd do almost anything to work at MNBS." I hoped that wasn't too direct, but I wanted to start the foundation for the belief that I might be a potential recruit if it turned out that something illegal was going on around here. And having Hartley interview me made me think maybe Freeman's hunch was accurate. Things did feel wrong here.

Hartley gave no sign of reading anything of significance into my oblique offer. "Well then, are there any questions I can answer before letting Janet finish the interview?"

"No. It all sounds good to me."

"You think you can find your way back to her office?"

Since it was just six doors down the hall, I thought I could manage. It made me curious, though, about what kind of people they usually hired. "Yes, I think I can."

I walked along the hall, wondering if Hartley typically underestimated people or if my disguise was simply working well.

Janet was on the phone when I got there. She motioned for me to have a seat. The view of Helium from her window was nice, but not as nice as looking at her. From her window, I couldn't see any of the old section of Helium, where the first settlers had started to spread out. The buildings in sight were mostly new, rather than scavenged, cylindrical hulks.

"Okay then," she said into the phone. "You had your chance." I couldn't see who she was talking to since the screen pointed toward her. She hung up and looked back at me. "That was quick."

"He didn't have much to ask."

"That's not too unusual. He frequently goes with my judgment. I wanted Sean Franco to talk with you, but he's too busy right now. He would be your boss."

"Does that affect my chances?"

"No," she said confidently. "I'd better show you the layout here, so you can—"

"Miss Vincent?" I interrupted. She hesitated, so I continued. "The tour won't change my mind. You're busy. If you want to skip it, I'll understand."

She met my level gaze. "You want the job? At the ten–percent raise?"

"How'd you know that?" I asked, surprised that she had talked with Hartley while I was on my way down the hall.

"Mr. Hartley told me after you talked with him," she explained patiently. "Do you want it?"

"Yes."

"You've got it. When can you start?"

I looked at my wristcomp. "Today. Tomorrow. Whenever you like. Astron's in a lull right now. They won't be angry."

"Start this afternoon then. Any last questions?"

"One. Do reporters and managers usually interview couriers?"

Her thin eyebrows arched just a bit. "No. Not all the time. But you're going to be mainly assigned to Sean Franco and me. So we were most interested. Glenn just likes to see everyone briefly. Personnel will want to talk to you again, but they'll go along with whatever we want." Her thoughtful gaze returned.

I bet they would, particularly if the other candidates had criminal records, or drug addictions, or whatever sordid details Freeman had chosen to add. "If you want to just send me back to personnel, I'm sure they can give me a map so I can show myself around."

"Yes, certainly." The faintest puzzled expression came across her face before it vanished abruptly.

I left Janet Vincent in her office. I was angry with myself for letting my mask slip, but it was still hard to adjust to being a menial laborer. And something at the back of my mind told me I didn't like Janet Vincent thinking of me that way.

#

The people in personnel had acted put upon to process me in that very day, but complied. My new badge displayed essentially the same awful picture that was in my wallet. But it did give me free access to the building.

The map they had given me in personnel was a good start, but it was obviously out of date, and was done from their point of view, which meant it showed all the public relations areas, break rooms, supply storage rooms, and bathrooms, but didn't thoroughly indicate all active functional departments.

Walking through the corridors in the MNBS building was a little depressing. Back in my own company, there were twenty people who worked for me, and we all knew each other. At MNBS, there must have been more than a hundred people, and few of them seemed overly friendly to someone who looked the way I did.

The other reason it was depressing was that MNBS reminded me of the station I had worked at years ago. For a moment I tried to convince myself the things that had bothered me then were being eliminated, but last night's brief exposure to MNBS programming told me I was being unjustifiably optimistic.

The roof had been the first area I inspected. The landing pad was in good shape. Five jump jets, the same model I used to fly, appeared to be in good condition, sporting MNBS in large ruby–red letters in back of their large observation windshells.

The map didn't show it being where I was now, but the morgue looked far larger than the one I had known before. I showed myself around, feeling that it would be all right if I were seen in unusual places, at least on the first day. Reference recordings filled most of an entire file cabinet. News sheets from the Helium Herald went back for several months, and obviously the recording file contained older issues in compressed form. I looked through the index to current on–line pictures and bios.

It was amazing. They must have had a significant staff assigned to interviewing anyone whose death would be major news. Not only files on maybe the most newsworthy two dozen people, but in the hundreds, and far more thoroughly than I had seen it done before. Company profiles, picture files, quotations, copies of public information records—it was all incredibly thorough.

As I went back up to the second floor, the building was showing signs of emptying. It was after quitting time, and Glenn Hartley's office was closed and dark. I walked down the hall, noting the names along the way. Janet Vincent's office was empty but the door was still open.

Ahead, sounds of a conversation came from another office. I walked close enough to see the name outside the door: Sean Franco. I could hear slightly better, but it was still fairly difficult. I stopped to read notices on a nearby bulletin screen.

Isolated phrases echoed down the hall. "…more careful … won't need warm clothes …"

I considered moving closer, but in a moment I was glad I hadn't. As I peered at the bulletin screen, pretending to be intrigued by the employment regulations and government requirements dominating it, I was peripherally aware of motion in the doorway to Franco's office, as though someone had leaned his head into the hall for a quick look and then retreated.

For a moment, there was no sound at all, then I heard a few more words, slightly clearer than the ones earlier. "… overworked … for a vacation … time to go …"

There was another short pause, and then two people left Sean Franco's office and the light went out. I was deciding whether to notice them when Glenn Hartley said, "Oh, good, you're still here," loudly enough to make it clear that he was addressing me.

Without moving my feet, I turned my head to face him, and let surprise alter my expression. "Hello," I said.

"You missed Sean Franco earlier. He wanted to meet you." Sean was indeed the other man, and I moved forward to meet him.

Sean's eyes looked different when I met him face to face. On television, he had directed his gaze primarily to the front of the viewing area, occasionally looking from side to side so that home viewers not directly in front of the image would think he was looking at them. Off–camera, his gaze was more erratic, almost birdlike. He still spent most of the time looking ahead, but his gaze flicked out and back, as though he were in a new environment, trying to take it all in as quickly as possible.

Hartley introduced us. "I'm glad you were able to start so soon," Sean said. "We've been doubling up with one of the other drivers, but one poor woman has been working sixteen to twenty hours a day."

"And there's only twenty–four and a half hours in a day," I added helpfully.

Sean's mouth tightened fractionally, whether because he didn't like being in the company of dolts or he had an aversion to clichés, I couldn't tell. And then he was smiling broadly again, the perfect host. "So true, so true. And it's time I was going home, too. I'm surprised to see you here so late."

"It's all new to me. It seems exciting just being here in the building. I can't wait until we're out on assignment." I stopped, suddenly wary of overdoing it.

Sean didn't seem to notice. "So, you've been briefed on the job requirements, and you're hooked into the paging system."

"Yes, sir. All set."

Franco and Hartley said good night and left me there in the hall. I was deciding what to do next when I remembered seeing a meager cafeteria downstairs. The one meal I'd had today was the snack on the plane from Biblis.

The cafeteria was almost empty and the vending machines were the only option since the crew was gone. Nevertheless, part of a sandwich and a hot cup of cinnamon tea made me feel considerably better. It was nice to buy a drink so I didn't have to cope with the time limit on the public drinking fountains.

I was sitting there, half finished, digesting and thinking when Janet passed the door, hurrying. I didn't think she saw me, but I underestimated her powers of observation. A second later, she was back at the door and came into the cafeteria.

"Thanks for showing yourself around, Mr. Letterer. I'm surprised you're still here. Did you have any last questions for me? I was just leaving."

It felt funny to be addressed as Mr. Letterer when she was probably the same age as me. I didn't have any real questions yet, and I felt guilty keeping her here when she'd obviously had a long day, but I asked one anyway. "Personnel explained about my being on–call. Do you think I'll be working regular hours mostly, or funny hours?"

"Probably half and half. I'm the same way. Which is why I'm going home to wash my hair. This place is so dusty my hair always feels dirty after an hour. And then I plan to get some sleep."

"Sleep when you can, and sleep when it's all over," I said. Just as I finished, I thought her eyebrows went up slightly. "Mr. Franco already told me that," I added quickly.

Janet seemed to relax. "It's good advice. So you met him after all. What do you think of your new boss?"

"I think he'll be fine." If you like being subjected to intense scrutiny whenever you're around him. Or perhaps I was being unfair. It was just that his eyes seemed so piercing, so interested in everything. "Why is it that I report to him instead of you?"

"Seniority," she said calmly. "He's been here twice as long as I have. You may have a little trouble, though, because it may seem like having two bosses."

"I think I can handle it. But I'm forgetting my manners. There are more sandwiches in the machines." I gestured toward a chair.

"No, I'm sorry," she said, visibly more reserved. "I've got to get home. I'll see you in the morning unless they call us in tonight. I'm glad you're on board, Mr. Letterer."

With that, she left, her cool professional air about her once again. I ate the rest of my sandwich. Somehow it didn't taste as good as it had at first.

#

In the MNBS parking lot, I found the ten–year–old Eclipse registered to me. Its oversized, underinflated tires were so dirty they were almost uniformly the color of the ground. I had opaqued the windows to cut the sun earlier, so I cleared them and swept off the fresh layer of dust.

I punched my new address into the guidance system and maneuvered the car out of the lot. Periodically, the indicators told me which turn to take. I told myself how lucky I was that there was no one with me to see that I needed guidance to reach my own home. I also paid close attention to the route so I wouldn't need help again.

Finding the house gave me some good news and some bad. The good news was that it was indeed a house and not an apartment, and that it wasn't in a crowded area. The bad news was that it was a very old house. I parked on the chestnut–brown dirt road in front of the ancient cylinder–style home. The cylinder lay on its side, the axis parallel to the road, half buried. Steps led down to the floor about a meter below ground level.

The door opened to my thumb, and a small light came on. A brief inspection told me there were only four rooms. Next to the living room was a bathroom, and in the back were the kitchen and one small bedroom. I didn't like the steel–gray walls curving in to be the ceiling. The windows in the back looked as though they were tightly shut, but carmine dust had formed pools beneath both windows.

The furnishings were modest, too. The television was an old one–meter model with only a sixty–degree field of view. The desk computer looked correspondingly old and cheap. The worn couch was so massive it was hard to believe it had been brought in through the door. Freeman's people had stocked the house with a meager supply of food and one set of sheets and towels. When I saw a few changes of clothes, I realized suddenly that events had started in motion so fast that Freeman and I hadn't discussed the potential duration of this impersonation.

At least having this kind of house would make working long hours less annoying.

After a half hour of settling in and cleaning up dust which had leaked in, I thought to check my wristcomp for calls to my real name. Maybe Freeman would want a briefing. There was one message, but it wasn't from Freeman.

It was from Carolyn, my ex–wife.

The call had to be about our son Brad, who was the only reason we ever talked. Since we couldn't agree on custody, he flip–flopped between us, three months at a time. He was a good kid, but still angry over the divorce, even though it had been a couple years ago.

I gave my wristcomp a command to retrieve the message, and Carolyn's face came up on its screen in 2D. The image seemed to be black and white since her hair was so dark and she was so pale.

"Hi, Dan," said her recording. "I need you to take Brad for the weekend. I'll drop him off Friday night."

That would never work. I called her immediately, but she wasn't answering her phone, so I left a message. "I'm sorry, but I absolutely can't take Brad right now. I've got real complications this weekend. He's been back with you for only a couple of weeks now." This was one of those times when it would be more convenient if Brad were a little older so he could be left on his own.

Besides the other complications, explaining my disguise to a young boy would be difficult. I finished recording, hoping Carolyn would understand. She usually paid as much attention as when I had first told her that her affairs were something I couldn't live with.

I had very little time to spend thinking about the situation. Five minutes later I got a call from the MNBS assignment desk.

"You're needed at the station ASAP," said a young man I hadn't met before.

"Should I bring anything?"

"A travel kit. Whatever you need for up to three days, except food."

Despite my hurrying, I paid attention to the turns I took on the way back to the office, so I'd recognize landmarks from this perspective and wouldn't need help the next time.

The daytime guard was gone, so I let myself into MNBS with my new badge. I still didn't like the picture of the new me embedded in it.

#

I met Sean Franco on the roof. He looked impatient and cold.

"Get a jumper started up," he shouted when he saw me. The chilly wind almost whipped his words away into the darkness. A circle of landing lights was the only illumination.

"You care which one?" I asked quickly. It was too cold to spend a lot of time on the decision.

"No. They should all be fueled and working. A big red tag on the throttle means pick another."

It wasn't hard to fake my limp as I moved away. Between the cold and my fatigue, my leg did hurt. Fortunately, the first jump jet I tried was ready to go. Pushing the big green button on the front panel started the flight prep and diagnostic run. By the time it finished three minutes later, Sean and Janet had joined me. Janet gave me a tired smile.

"Where to?" I asked as we threw the last bags into the cargo bay.

"The airport," Sean replied. "From there, to Edom by plane."

Sean dropped into the front passenger seat. When it became obvious that he was going to say nothing more, Janet added, "The desk received a report just before they called us. One of the processing stations seems to be malfunctioning. Something about it running hotter than normal. Whatever's happening is rather unusual." She got into one of the two backseats and strapped herself in rapidly.

I flicked two controls on the instrument panel and finished entering the airport identification. The computer said it was safe, so I gave it the go command. Dust blasted against the windshell, the body of the jumper lurched, and we were off the ground. The thunderous noise from the twin vectorable jets easily penetrated the extremely thin shell. For a few seconds, I let the jumper hover on the ground effect cushion, stabilizing the craft against the prevailing wind.

I left the computer–assist turned on. It would keep the craft as level as it could, and override me if I made what it determined to be a mistake. I pushed on the stick. The jumper sagged almost imperceptibly as we left the limits of the ground effect, and then we began to rise faster. The circle of landing lights below began to shrink into a small ball before the dust finally obscured it. As we gained speed, the jets gradually aimed rearward. I called ahead to the airport to tell them what we needed when we got there.

As we approached a comfortable cruising speed, I extended the wings all the way, and the landing gear thudded into retracted position. The computer was responsible for making sure we didn't violate any local air traffic control regulations, so I finally had some time to think. Edom Crater was near the equator, about a third of the way around Mars. It contained a large supply of atmosphere–processing plants.

I considered asking Sean a question, but a sidelong glance told me he was trying to get what sleep he could. Janet was too. That gave me still more time to think.

As the lights of Helium swam in the depths below me, occasionally showing through the swirling black dust, I reflected on the curious fact that MNBS was spending quite a lot of money on what seemed to be a minor incident.

I wondered if the trigger for this assignment was anything like whatever had made Sean Franco go out to the airport so he could record the crash of Sam's plane.

Chapter 3 Impostor

With the computer's assistance, we settled easily onto the ground effect cushion and then onto the ground at Helium airport. At first I thought I hadn't even woken Sean or Janet, but they both began to stir as I got out to make sure the Hawk I had requested was ready. The nearest plane to where we were directed to land was a Moonfire. That worried me.

I leaned into the cold wind and jogged toward a sign indicating the office. In the distance, a swept–wing airliner reached probably half of its cruising velocity and lifted from the ground, starting a gradual ascent. Inside the office there were two people on duty, a pot–bellied man at the counter and another with his feet up on a desk, watching a portable television.

"I'm Letterer with MNBS," I said. "I need to pick up the Hawk."

"There wasn't one up close, so we did you a favor. There's a Moonfire out there."

I took a deep breath, trying to hold my temper, then began calmly: "Ignoring the fact that you should have told me when I called, we must have that Hawk, and we've got to have it fast. These people are in a hurry." It was only after I stopped talking that I realized that my irritation had deafened me to the noise of someone entering the same door I had used. Janet had followed me in.

"Look, friend," said the guy behind the counter. "We were just trying to do you a favor. The Moonfire is plush, and you get it at the same rate."

"I'm sure you had terrific motives. But we need the Hawk."

The guy stared at me for a moment, seemingly about to protest, but instead told his television–watching friend to hustle out and get one.

"It'll take ten minutes," he said.

"Then we'll have to wait," I said, just as firmly as he had.

"What's the problem?" Janet asked me, once the man behind the counter had returned to whatever he did between confrontations. Her hair was even more windblown than usual, but she still looked good.

"Just a small mix–up on the plane I requested. It's all straight now." I turned toward the door and touched her arm lightly to suggest we leave.

She obviously didn't like the gesture. She withdrew her arm quickly. "I asked you a question, and you gave me a condescending reply instead of a factual answer. Do I have to be a man to get a straight answer? You're costing us ten minutes more."

I blinked at her. This job was going to be harder than I thought. I hadn't intended any disrespect. "I'm sorry," I said slowly. "Just give me the ground rules. Do you want to make the transportation decisions, or leave them to me?"

"You can make them if I'm satisfied that you're making them correctly. What's the problem?"

I hesitated too long, trying to decide how to appear to be a lowly paid but bright employee. She turned her head slightly as if to start to talk again, and I plunged ahead. "Edom is almost seven thousand kilometers from here. The Hawk cruises at nearly three thousand kilometers an hour. The Moonfire can reach half of that with a strong tail wind. The Hawk carries more than enough fuel for a round trip. The Moonfire will have to refuel at least once if not twice on the way. But the Moonfire is a lot more comfortable."

Janet turned to the man behind the desk. "Is that right?"

The man nodded.

She looked back at me for a moment saying nothing, but the scrutiny made me uncomfortable. Her eyes squinted slightly in thought. Finally she said, "Okay. I was wrong. I'm sorry."

"No harm done," I said neutrally, and left her in the office.

Sean was still in the jumper when I got back. I opened the cargo door and began to heave bags out and onto the ground so we'd be ready. When I was about two–thirds finished, I turned back to the bay and bumped into Janet. She was helping to unload bags.

#

The Hawk was a four–seater, too. It was noisier than the Moonfire, but at least it was far quieter than the jumper.

At cruising altitude, twenty minutes out of Helium, I was tempted to let the computer handle the whole thing, but stayed awake instead. The wings were now swiveled back so we looked a little like an arrow, with the broad, flat underbelly of the Hawk providing most of the lift. I could see Phobos ahead and above us, or rather I could see an ellipsoidal patch of darkness slowly moving through the brilliant field of stars. With our combined planetary rotation and air speed, we were gaining on it.

Sean was asleep in the right–hand seat again. I took a look at Janet in the rearview mirror and saw with a start that she was silently watching me. I quickly turned my gaze back to business. The view of the dark planet below was almost unobstructed. The Hawk's tiny canard wings were far enough aft of the nose that they blocked only a fraction of the scenery directly below the cabin.

The Hawk droned on into the night. The clock on the instrument panel caught my eye as it rolled over from 24:37 to 00:00. A new day. I wondered if today would be as difficult as yesterday, and I thought of Sam. Why did Sam die? I hoped for the sake of the people in the plane with me that they hadn't been responsible.

I realized that I was no longer questioning whether Sam's death had been a genuine accident. An uneasy chill came up my spine. Sean Franco made me distinctly uncomfortable. He seemed similar to some people I had known before, ones whose smiles could change to decidedly nasty expressions with only the slightest provocation.

Piloting the Hawk brought back more memories of my earlier television days. My old station hadn't had the budget for couriers and drivers. You flew yourself or you didn't go. And if you didn't go, you couldn't hope to find the truth amid all the lies.

If I were flying one potential murderer, why couldn't it be two? I glanced at the rearview mirror, and this time Janet's eyes were closed. I stared at her for quite a long time, until without warning her eyelids opened as abruptly as if she had just blinked. I looked away hastily.

I abandoned the thought of two murderers. Call it an ex–journalist's hunch. Call it wishful thinking.

#

Sean and Janet were both silent, asleep or otherwise, until we began the descent into Edom Crater. Edom was one of the largest craters on Mars, perhaps six hundred kilometers across, so from the air it seemed more like an enormous valley with small mountains on all sides.

As we neared the ground at the center of the crater, the instrument–panel images of the crater walls fell below the horizon.

Besides the normal lurching caused by descent, the Hawk had entered the hot air layer produced by the equipment at Edom. The resultant wind–shear buffeting was enough to wake both reporters.

"There's a second runway farther east," Sean said, sounding fully awake. "Let's land there."

"Okay." I slowed our rate of descent and selected the smaller visitor's landing runway rather than the main freight strip. I knew about the second runway, but there was no need for Sean to know that. I watched to the rear while the swivel wings came slowly out from the body. As we neared the ground, the forward lights lit a solid mass of tire tracks on the runway.

I tried to prepare myself for the heat I remembered from a trip here long ago, but, when I opened the cabin door on the ground, the air outside seemed as hot as exhaust gas from a plane. I had spent so much time in Mars' normal combination of low temperatures and dry air that my sweat glands should have atrophied. They hadn't.

As I walked over to a nearby visitor car, I wished I had known where we were going so I could have brought some lighter clothes. Janet and Sean had emerged from the plane when I returned. Their jackets had concealed short–sleeve indoor clothing which looked far more comfortable than my own heavy shirt and trousers.

Even the fact that it was still night didn't prevent it from being hot. The temperature was over thirty degrees C. And if we were still here during the day, the sun's energy would add to the heat being produced by the equipment in the area. It could easily reach fifty. The stifling air made the distant lights ripple.

I parked the car next to the Hawk and unloaded the gear. Sean and Janet got in, and we drove to the administration building. Our air conditioner struggled against the heat.

"No new developments," Sean told Janet. Apparently he had just checked his wristcomp. "I hope this isn't just a waste of time."

I didn't point out that a waste of time for us was good for the facility. If anything bad enough to make news actually happened, it might mean the trip was worth it, but it would be bad news for everyone else. I wondered if Sean was one of those people who liked to nurture the news a little, to help it grow.

"If nothing else," Janet said, "you can get some file recordings."

"It wouldn't be worth it. I was out here just two weeks ago."

I still didn't know what had brought us here, and decided that a courier had the right to be curious. "What is the problem?"

"Just a little fuss about some equipment failures," Sean said, giving me an insight into Janet's reaction back at the airport.

He said no more, so Janet added, "This area is covered with atmospheric processing stations. They do filtering that the imported vegetation can't handle yet. One of the stations near here reported equipment failures earlier today, and one worker was injured as he shut off the process. They plan to start the plant back up sometime tonight. Like Sean says, it may turn out to be nothing."

We drove through the heat. In almost every direction, dim lights shone in the distance. Ahead, the lights grew larger, and shortly we arrived at the administration building. The parking lot was full of jeeps, golf carts, and white, air–conditioned passenger cars.

The office of public affairs was on the ground floor. Sean Franco took a camera out of his bag, and I waited outside while they went in to get the latest word. They came out in a hurry, bringing three hard hats.

"I want to get there fast," Sean said, pointing at a map of the surrounding area. I took him at his word and drove fast, even though it soon became evident that there was almost no additional news.

Colored triangular flags on ropes, cordoning off reserved areas, flashed by our view as we traveled. Ahead was a water truck spraying the road with enough water to keep the dust down for a few hours. I was amazed at the extravagance. I cut around him and increased our speed. To the side of the road lay movable solar panel generators and portable comfort stations.

The cool rush from the car air conditioner lasted only another minute, because we reached the point where Franco wanted to get out and record some video.

The sweat band in my hard hat was wet almost instantly. Fortunately, the hat itself was comfortable. I had been here during the day and almost burned my hand when I took off my sun–heated hat. At least the designers had used thermal insulators where the band touched the head.

The building ahead was an enormous round structure. Large circular vents on the roof drew in air, which was then forced out through vents which nearly surrounded the building just above ground level.

When it happened, I was leaning against the warm car, feeling puzzled that MNBS would send people this far on such unlikely stories. Then almost a quarter of the outside building surface exploded in a crimson and white flash of energy. An instant later, the ground shock and a thunderous noise seemed to arrive simultaneously.

Janet's face still showed a look of horror as Sean, who had just started shooting, swung his camera toward the disaster area and began to zoom.

I turned to Janet and said quickly, "Do you need me for a while?"

She looked at me blankly for a moment, but recovered fast. "No."

I ran toward the building, trying to avoid Franco's line of sight. My lungs felt as though they were on fire before I was halfway there, so I forced myself back down to a jog. Sitting at a desk wasn't a good way to keep in shape, and I hadn't gone climbing in years. I felt better by the time I reached the main door. A blast of air–conditioner exhaust air hit me like a blow drier.

If there was normally a visitor–control guard on duty, the guard had already gone to help. I couldn't remember how many people were usually in one of the stations, but I thought it was about half a dozen. And they might need help.

I climbed a flight of stairs leading in the direction I thought the blast had hit. As I hurried, I noted that the building must have been fairly new. The visitors' chairs in the lobby still had their price tags on.

At the same time I started seeing signs of destruction, I left the air–conditioned area. The hallways were filled with unbelievably hot, arid air. To my left, one wall showed a large crack. A pool of water was forming from an apparent plumbing break. Large, powerful, deafening fans set at intervals were trying to generate the illusion of breathable air by shooting out the hot air.

At the end of a series of hallways, I passed through another door, and the air turned cooler but acrid. That was the last point the hallway turnings made any sense. From there, it was a maze. A myriad of passages and equipment racks, plumbing and valves, guard chains, and grated walkways gave the interior an Escher quality.

Then I heard the cry. "Over here," it came again.

"Keep talking. I can't tell where you are," I yelled back.

Whoever it was began to count. It sounded like a man in a lot of pain. I pushed past a cable tray that had been knocked loose, and the counting sounded louder.

I found him not long after. He was pinned beneath an equipment rack, which must have toppled when the explosion hit.

"Just a minute," I said. "Maybe I can lift this. Can you tell how bad you are?"

"I don't know about my leg," the man said, gritting his teeth between words. "Mostly I'm just caught." He must have been in pain if he didn't even ask who I was. He looked twice my age. His bald spot was in plain sight since he was reclining.

I found a handhold and lifted. Nothing moved. One more time. I was tired, but I put all I could into it. The cabinet lifted. "Can you pull—" I started.

"Yeah," he said. A moment later he had pulled himself out by holding a nearby pipe. As soon as he was clear, I let the rack fall back heavily, and I stood there panting.

"Thank you, stranger," the man said, sounding as though his breathing was getting closer to normal.

"Who else is in here?" I managed.

"Can't be anyone else alive. The others were all in the control room." The man pointed in the direction of more intense destruction. His left pant leg was blood–soaked, but he didn't seem to notice.

"What exploded?"

"No idea. I didn't think there was anything that could."

"Can you get out on your own?"

The man pulled himself up and took a step. He shuddered and the muscles in his jaw tightened. He took another step. "I'll get by," he said grimly.

I started toward the others.

"Hey, where are you going?" the man called after me.

I didn't bother to answer. A sign was visible from here, indicating the way to the control room. Minutes later I was there. I pushed open the last door, which was miraculously still on its hinges. And then I almost gagged.

I backed through the door fast. As soon as the tears cleared from my eyes and I could breathe again, I started back, going as fast as I could. No one was going to be alive in that room. But my worry extended beyond the deaths. Why was that smell there?

I got lost a couple of times, because the route back didn't look exactly like the route coming. There were too many sharp corners and dead ends. Finally I caught up with the man from the cabinet. No more than a minute later, a rescue crew found us.

"Any more?" asked the team leader, a man about my age with an air of authority. He started to move past me.

"No," I said. "I'm Letterer with MNBS. I went all the way to the control room. No one's alive in there."

"You know that for a fact?"

"All I know is there's the strongest smell of camsonite in there I've ever experienced."

The team leader had good reactions. He had two of his party help the injured man out, and as a group we departed hastily. On the way out I explained all I knew. I also told a few fairly innocent lies.

Outside, more flashing lights in the distance indicated additional help on the way. The team leader yelled at two men running toward us to turn around and clear the area. He and the others got the injured man into an ambulance.

I started out on foot. Before I had gone fifty meters, the ambulance passed me. Ahead of me, Sean tried to wave them down, but they weren't having any. I don't know whether it was concern for the victim, or that the team leader had appreciated my help and had believed what I told him about professional rivalry among me and the two MNBS reporters.

I was probably two–thirds of the way back to Janet and Sean when the second explosion shook the ground and sent another mass of pulverized building materials high into the hot night air.

I stopped where I was and watched the chunks of reinforced walls as they seemed to float back to the ground. As I stood there, hoping my stomach would quiet down, more emergency vehicles arrived. This time, however, they started cordoning off the area rather than investigating further. I couldn't blame them really. There aren't many explosives uglier than camsonite.

I doubted very much that camsonite was a part of normal operations in that building. And where there were two bombs, there could be three. I kept moving away.

By the time I reached Sean and Janet, Sean was demanding answers of one of the guards. "Damn it, we're press. We have the right to know."

"And I'll tell you one last time, sir," the guard said. "No one is allowed in the building. We're here to ensure that. That's all I know. See the Information Officer."

Sean's façade was slipping. I surely wouldn't want him looking at me that angrily. But then he did see me. "What were you doing?"

"Just getting a closer look. Janet—ah, Ms. Vincent said you didn't need me for a while."

There wasn't much he could argue with, so he didn't. "You see anything worth mentioning on the news?"

"You mean I could be on the news?" I asked with what I hoped was unabashed eagerness in my voice.

"Oh, skip it." He turned back to Janet. "Let's send what we have so far."

Janet had looked at me when I spoke. I could use only my peripheral vision to see her face, and the weak light complicated matters, but she seemed to have a puzzled expression that she dropped before looking back at Sean.

They set up their equipment right there. Sean stuck a dual camera on the top of the car and they stepped into the line of sight for their respective fields of view. Janet positioned herself so her hair wouldn't blow into her face. With less than a minute's exchange, they began.

It wasn't until I realized that Sean was using two cameras to make their coverage seem more thorough than it actually was that I remembered more of the old days and started wondering why they hadn't in fact split up to cover as many possibilities as they could.

I backed slowly away, until the sound of my wristcomp couldn't reach their microphones. Setting it to MNBS, I saw normal programming in progress. That is, if you can call normal a science–fiction movie whose producers didn't feel overly concerned about physical facts in the real world. As I watched, the news–level indicator changed to five. A text message and announcer's voice said simultaneously, "Stand by this station for an up–to–the–minute report on the explosions in Edom."

I stood by while a commercial started. Obviously, the transmission I could see several meters away was not going out live. There could be several reasons for that. One of which could be that MNBS was obviously here far faster than any of the competition. The first explosion was no more than a half hour in the past, and the second was hardly ten minutes old. Unless there was a third, no one else would have a chance at anything other than showing the damaged area and interviewing people.

I turned the sound down on my wristcomp and moved closer to the car.

"… not yet known if there were any deaths," Janet was saying. "But an ambulance left the scene shortly after the first explosion and just before the second." The way she was positioned, the scene behind her was empty and dark.

Behind Sean lay the gutted building. Some of the lights were still on, but the dark area where the explosions had ripped away the walls looked like a gaping wound where the blood had clotted and blackened. Sean began to speak, and I moved away again.

Their report lasted another ten minutes, but the story still hadn't hit the air. The delay surprised me, but at the time it didn't bother me.

#

We loaded the gear in the car and had almost reached the administration building before I noticed that my wristcomp was displaying the news. MNBS reported that there would be an in–depth summary on the morning edition. A couple of other reporters were entering the building when we got there.

After no more than five minutes in the briefing room, I was cold. The air temperature was evidently set low enough so that people going back and forth from inside to outside could get comfortable more quickly than they could at normal room temperature. I noticed the goose bumps on Janet's arms and ceased to envy her lightweight blouse. For a moment, I reflected on how long it had been since I'd thought about how appealing thin clothes could be.

Reporters from several more stations joined us before someone representing the facility arrived to provide us with the official version.

The someone was a short, redheaded woman with a businesslike air who gave the impression of still being a little sleepy. "I'll tell you all I know," she said after the initial clamor died down.

"Three women and two men are missing and presumed dead." She had to pause again while reporters got the names.

"Why is the building being sealed off instead of sending a rescue squad in?" asked a reporter I vaguely remembered from my old days. I hoped my disguise was adequate.

"The explosions were not caused by equipment malfunctions. There was an initial report, now confirmed, of camsonite detonations being—"

This time it took longer for the uproar to quiet.

"No, we don't have any idea yet, but it seems the explosions were deliberately caused. From the description of the one man who survived, the other five must certainly be dead. And with the possibility of further explosions, the director won't risk any more lives."

During the following surge of exclamations, I looked back at Janet. She had on a headband camera, so she was trying to keep her head still. She looked even more tired than the woman in front of the group.

There was little new information gained during the briefing, at least from my point of view. Shortly, the woman ran out of news, and the other reporters exhausted their supply of questions.

As a group, the reporters scrambled out of the room, each probably trying to find an adequate place to transmit the balance of the report from. I was willing to bet that Janet's headband camera had been transmitting the whole while, and the station had been using it live or at least would do the editing on their end.

Tired, and not feeling like keeping up with Janet and Sean, I followed them out slowly. Coming down the same hall was the team leader from the rescue squad. He must have had time to think about that second explosion since I last saw him, because he mouthed "Thank you" as he passed.

It was only after I'd given him a slight smile and nod that I realized Janet was looking back down the hall at me. But even if she had seen my gesture from there, it couldn't mean anything to her.

#

The flight back was an exhausting end to the day. I don't care what they say about auto–pilots. There's still that constant pressure when you know it's your responsibility.

Franco and Janet must have been tired, too, but several times on the return journey I looked into the rearview mirror and found Janet's gaze on me. Under almost any other circumstances, it would have made me feel good.

Franco didn't even say thanks when we reached MNBS. They left me to secure the jumper. Now the cold wind felt welcome.

It was only after I reached my new home and started preparing for bed that I saw the dried blood on my trouser cuffs. And I wondered if anyone else had seen it.

Chapter 4 Shadower

When my wristcomp woke me after four hours of sleep, I felt as though I had walked back from Edom. Even if I hadn't been climbing since the accident, I should have been in better shape.

A quick shower helped to wash the grit out of my eyes and hair, but did little to improve my new appearance. When I got out, MNBS was running a follow–up on last night's explosions. I moved closer to the small television than I normally sat.

Sean's camera caught the first blast just after it started. He must have had the camera mounted and trained on the building for the second one, because the entire duration of the blast showed on the screen.

"The death toll from the explosions last night at Edom is five," said an announcer who recapped briefly before following up the video from the explosions with the file update Sean had made a few weeks ago. The older recording showed the facility during the daylight. Ripples of heat waves distorting even the nearby buildings made me thankful that we had been there at night. At the end of the video segment, another announcer at MNBS said, "Stay with us for news about the possible causes of this incident."

I sat there, after all these years still surprised that what took so long in real time managed to coalesce into so little transmission time.

After a couple of commercials for products to satisfy invented needs, the announcer came back on. "We have recently received word that responsibility for last night's damage at Edom is claimed by the Martians Against Repression Society, a group thought to be defunct. In a message sent to the director of activities at Edom, they claim there will be more incidents if Mars doesn't eliminate all immigration qualifications." The announcer had little to add.

From there, after a television doctor confused his role with real life and reminded people to watch their health habits, MNBS interviewed two of the politicians who were evidently competing for one of the top jobs in Helium. Neither actually had anything of substance to say regarding the disaster, but the second one was somehow more annoying due to what he didn't say.

There was another break for a car commercial featuring a young lady who was so scantily clad she would have been comfortably dressed for Edom in the daytime heat—except for sunburn—and then they started into a happy news story about a teacher who let his students give him an evaluation on how well he was doing. I thought about how incredibly little television ever really changed, and about the old quote which said that advertising trends didn't so much go in a straight line as they went in a large circle.

Following that was a political advertisement for the first of the two politicians MNBS had interviewed moments ago. His name was Newton Alsop. Alsop was balding, but still had thick hair on the sides of his head, and wisps in the front. He had a commanding presence. I found myself paying more attention to him than I had the news story.

Alsop gave me the feeling that he had watched a lot of gospel–slingers and had taken the charismatic elements that worked, while discarding the obvious emotional techniques. His voice sounded calm, yet forceful. His good, steady eye contact helped make his message seem brief. As for the message content, it was as meager as most, but the commercial was effective.

I switched stations and watched while I ate. MNBS was clearly in the lead on the Edom story. No one else had gotten video on either explosion.

I drove to work without navigation assistance. Maybe I was in the wrong business. So far I was doing much better as a driver than as an investigator.

#

Janet's and Sean's offices were empty, so I decided to look around the facility again. They could always reach me if they chose to.

Shortly I was back in the morgue.

I was still impressed with MNBS's facilities. As an individual, I could hook into one of several public information services, but the system here was far more thorough. Where you could find a few dust motes on a company in the public records, you could find grime here.

I quickly found what I was looking for. The Dublin Car Company seemed to be up to the same tricks they had been back when I worked as a reporter. Pulling statistics out of the database was easy. And they said the same as before; Dublin was still spending lots more on advertising than they apparently invested in making their cars safe. That old resentment at leaving things undone flared again. Quitting with that story unwritten bothered me more than I had realized.

I looked up for a moment, thinking about the old days. The door to the morgue was open and, although the terminal screen in front of me blocked most of my view, I saw Sean Franco pass by on his way down the hall.

I got up quickly and shut off the terminal. My first thought had been to get out before anyone got curious about my presence there, but something in Sean's determined gait aroused my interest.

He turned a corner ahead just as I peeked into the hall. With no plan, I followed.

He turned the next corner without looking back. He was moving toward a section of the building I hadn't explored yet.

I peered around the next corner and saw him take another turn. I quickened my pace. I was halfway to the turn Sean had taken when a man came out of one of the doors along the hall, so I couldn't peer around any more corners without getting some undesired attention. I turned the next corner casually and saw Sean ahead.

He was standing in the center of the hallway, looking vaguely in my direction. Just at the moment he could have realized who I was, he snapped his fingers in a plain gesture of forgetfulness and started back my way. Then he turned toward a men's room door. His chin lifted, and he appeared to see me for the first time. "Oh, good morning, Bill. Are you finding everything all right?"

"Sure am," I said, coming closer. "The map the people up in personnel gave me is a little out of date, so I've been seeing where things really are."

"Good, good. You found your office yet?"

"An office? I get an office?"

"Sure. Give me just a minute, and I'll show you." Sean entered the bathroom.

I waited in the hall, growing even more curious about why Sean had been here. I considered walking down to the place he had been when he saw me, but decided not to.

It was a fortunate decision. Sean was out in less time than it would take to wash his hands. I let him lead me back to the central area of the building. "You're in early," he said as we walked.

"I couldn't sleep. It's just so exciting working for a real television station. I even saw the story on the news this morning."

Sean nodded. "It's fun to know things before anyone else sometimes. And it's fun for us when we know before the other news outfits." He seemed in a better mood than he had been in several hours ago. Maybe he wasn't a night person.

"Well, you sure were the first to know last night. It was incredible."

Sean smiled modestly. "A lot of times we just waste our efforts. But you have to go after all those little possibilities, just in case they turn out to be something special."

Five dead people and a couple million in damages wasn't exactly what I would call something special, but I nodded energetically.

By that time we had reached a vacant office almost a third the size of Janet's. Sean spread his hands and said, "Your new home."

I looked at the windowless walls, the beat–up desk chair, and the desk without drawers, and said, "My very own office. That's terrific."

Sean gave me a quick once–over with that flickering gaze of his, and apparently decided that I must be reacting honestly. "I may have some errands for you to run today unless something big comes up. I'll let you get situated and talk to you later."

There wasn't much to getting situated. My new desk computer was older and more cheaply made than my new car and had only a two–dimensional screen, but the desk chair felt more comfortable than it looked. I settled into the chair and realized the computer was even older than I had thought. It was made by a company, long since out of business, whose idea of human engineering was to label the power on/off switch with "one" and "zero" instead of simple friendly indicators.

I briefly examined the computer screen. At least it had access to current information, ranging from this month's edition of Guinness File of Solar System Records to the MNBS style sheet.

I swept off the layer of dust, which had settled on the desk top. I had been in my new office for no more than ten minutes when Janet Vincent showed up.

"Oh, here you are," she said. "How is everything?" She wore a crisp pale–blue business suit today, and her blonde hair looked great with it. She smiled as though she didn't recall any of the previous night's confrontation.

I caught myself just in time as I started to rise to greet her. Must stay in character. "Great, great," I said. "Desk computer and everything. It's just like downtown." I stopped short, suddenly cautious about overdoing it with her. Sean's eyes seemed to catch a lot of details, but I was quickly coming to the conclusion that Janet was the more perceptive of the two, by a healthy margin.

"Where did you learn so much about planes?" she asked suddenly.

"I don't know all that much. The auto–pilot did most of the work."

"No. I mean speeds and fuel–consumption rates."

I'd thought that was what she meant. "No particular place. I guess it's like sports with me. I'm just interested."

Janet wasn't smiling as hard now, but she still seemed cheerful. "What do your interests include?"

"Oh, lots of things. Money, excitement, climbing, pretty women." I was beginning to feel uncomfortable under her scrutiny. Maybe, if I made her uncomfortable, it would stop.

She blushed the lightest shell pink, and then focused on the one thing I hadn't really intended on including. "What kind of climbing?"

I hadn't anticipated the question. I should have, but somehow she made it hard for me to concentrate on the job at hand. So I told her a little of the truth. "High climbing. I've been down the Grand Canyon, but it's nowhere as good as high climbing. There's something not right about having to go back up when you've gone as far as you can. And the view just isn't the same."

"Is that why you limp?"

"Yeah. I fell wrong." Actually, if I'd had to fall that far, I'd fallen incredibly right. If I hadn't fallen onto a sand–covered slope, I wouldn't be talking about it now. But the sand still hadn't slowed me enough to prevent that jagged outcropping of rock from ripping into my leg. It drove deeply enough to make total recovery impossible. I hadn't climbed since. But I thought about it a lot.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." Janet's voice broke the chain of recalled memories. She looked at me questioningly, and I realized that her eyes were turquoise.

"Oh, I'm fine," I said quickly. "Just thinking. Sorry."

She looked abruptly at her wristcomp. "I've got to get started. I'm sure Sean will have things for you to do. I'll see you later."

She left me with the feeling that I'd just taken a test, but I had no idea whether I'd passed or failed.

An hour later, after having heard nothing from Sean Franco, I walked back to the corridor I had seen him in earlier. I read the labels on all the doors, trying to gauge exactly where he had been when he had seen me.

As near as I could tell, he had been outside the office marked Special Effects.

#

I was tired by the time I quit work Friday evening. I really wasn't prepared for the recorded message from Carolyn.

"I'm sorry, Dan," she began. "I tried to find someone else to take Brad for the weekend, but I just couldn't. He'll probably be there by the time you see this. He won't be that much bother. I'm sure you'll understand. And thanks a lot. I sure appreciate it. And maybe you can tell him about Sam. I'm awfully sorry. I promise to give you more warning next time."

Bloody hell. I didn't even think about next time. I tried to call her back, my irritation growing with each second longer that she didn't answer. When the request for recording came on I was so angry I didn't trust myself to say anything.

So now Brad would be waiting at my house in Biblis. I couldn't just leave him there, and I didn't know anyone I felt I could ask to take him for the weekend. With no other option, I got in my car and started for the airport. I thought hard on the way.

At first I had tried to make Carolyn consciously use the word "promise" when she made what most people viewed as commitments, but it seemed to have no effect. I was constantly having to rearrange my schedule because she would announce at the last minute that I must have misunderstood her, or that she'd never said that.

It was only as I reflected on her call that I realized how quickly my real name could sound slightly wrong.

#

At the airport, I waited impatiently for the next flight out. The only thing that made the wait less boring than it could have been was listening in on a group of tourists. They must have been new to Mars, because they kept calling everything they saw "red" when there was obviously a multitude of shades.

#

The flight attendant was a relaxed man approaching retirement age. As a few stragglers finally reached their seats, the attendant said matter–of–factly, "We're about to leave for Biblis, with connecting flights to Mesogaea and points west. If Biblis isn't in your travel plans for tonight, now would be a great time to get off."

I liked him because he didn't say "deplane."

He continued his talk, explaining to any tourists who were used to heavy gravity that they still had to use their seatbelts. Finally he made quite sure that everyone could tell the bathroom door from the cockpit door.

#

After ten cc of tea and fourteen grams of peanuts, I was wondering what Carolyn's excuse would be this time. She would have a good one. Carolyn always had terrific excuses.

Idly, I munched on the edible drinking cup.

The balance of the flight was noisy, especially because of several young children running up and down the aisle. The worst offender was a blond boy wearing the message "My folks went to Ganymede and all I got was this cheap shirt."

#

It was starting to get dark as the rental car sped me to my house. Brad was sitting cross–legged against the front door, bundled up in his parka. The overhead lamp was gaining on the fading daylight, and a small pool of light surrounded Brad's form. He glanced up as I pulled to a stop. He looked cold.

Not wanting to get out of the car wearing my new face, I called to him. "Brad. Come get in the car. I'll explain it to you as we go."

I reached over to open the passenger door. When I looked back, he was still sitting before the door. "Come on."

Brad crossed his arms against his chest. "My parents don't let me go for rides with people I don't know," he said solemnly.

"I'm—" I stopped suddenly and got out of the car. As I got closer to him, he hunched more tightly, without saying a word. When I got about three meters from him, I knelt and said softly, " I'm your father, Brad. It's me—Dan. Get in the car and I'll explain."

He looked back at me and his dark eyes blinked a couple of times. "That's not my dad's car. You get any closer and I'll start yelling." There was a small quiver in his voice.

"It's a disguise, Brad. It really is me. Look at me."

He was silent for a little longer this time. "Okay. I believe you. But I've got to wait here until my mother comes for me. In just a few minutes."

Fine. Now he was humoring me. "Your mother isn't coming for you in just a few minutes. She sent you to spend the weekend with me. Don't ask me one more time about your mother and me getting back together, because it's not going to happen. If you're not in bed in three minutes, I'm going to feed you to the dwarfs. And will you turn that bloody television off before I start using your allowance to pay someone to haul it away?"

"Dad?" Brad blinked again. "It really is you?"

"Yes, damn it. Now let's go. I'll carry your bag."

"Okay." He scrambled up and beat me to the car. I guess he made decisions just as fast as I did sometimes.

"What do you have in here—your rock collection?" I asked, surprised at the weight of his bag.

"Yep."

I shook my head and climbed into the car. "Why didn't you go inside?"

"I tried. The lock wouldn't open."

Damn. The manufacturer claimed it could deal correctly with growing thumbprints, but we had already had the problem once before. I'd fix it later.

Once we were pointed in the right direction, I looked back at him. He was obviously quite curious.

"Are you going to tell me what happened, Dad?" he asked finally.

"You mean about the way I look?"

"Yeah. And where'd you get those clothes?"

I'd been trying to decide what to tell him. As a class, boys his age didn't have a great record at keeping secrets. "I'm doing a favor for a friend here in Helium. And he doesn't want anyone to know who I really am. So I'm disguised."

He looked at me solemnly for a moment as I took a turn onto the next street. "Will you tell me the truth some other time?"

I looked back at him abruptly. "That is the truth. I just can't tell you all of it. I'll tell you the rest sometime. I promise."

"Mom says you're always keeping secrets." Brad's eyes were hard to see in the dim light. His hair looked as black as Carolyn's, but I knew it was dark brown.

"Maybe I am. But this is important. I don't want you telling anyone about it. And that includes your mother. Is that a promise?"

"Okay."

I wished I knew if he would treat his promise the way I would, or the way Carolyn would. But there was no help for it.

The next flight to Helium left a half hour after we got back to the airport. We were on it.

Now wasn't the best time for Brad to visit, but it was good to have him here. He hadn't flown much before, so the sights diverted some of his attention.

I was tired by the time we were in my car and headed for my temporary home.

"Mom's going away to a weekend party," Brad said after a longer–than–normal silence. "Maybe you should invite her on one sometime."

"It's not going to happen, Brad," I said gently.

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. Your mother and I just aren't suited to each other. You've got to accept that. I know it's difficult, but it has to be that way."

Brad lapsed into the angry silence I had felt so many times already. I didn't know what would be worse—the silence or his continuing the hopeless argument. I said nothing more, thinking back to the times when talking about it had seemed to make matters even worse.

We passed by an old house with a tractor tread for a front fence, and began to near my house. The interior of the car was still silent when we slowed to a halt. But it was quiet for only a moment.

"Where are we?" Brad asked as I stopped the car.

"Home," I said. I got out of my door and hoisted the boy's weekend bag. At the door, I pressed his thumb against the lock and registered his print.

He didn't say any more until we were inside. Even then, he took a quick tour. "Dad," he said finally. "What's wrong? This place is a dump. The house is tiny, the television's smaller than me, and the kitchen looks worse than my room at Mom's."

I sat down in a chair and offered one to him. "Everything's Okay. In a little while, I'll be back in Biblis in my own house, looking a bit more normal. I can't tell you why all this is happening, but I'm Okay. Really." I hoped it was all true.

I don't know if he really believed me or not, but he relaxed some. We talked a while before bedtime, but the undercurrent of anger never seemed to die away.

#

I was just cleaning up after our breakfast, trying to avoid stepping on the rocks Brad had strewn on the floor, when the computer chimed. I motioned Brad away from the viewing area as a precaution. I was glad I had. The caller was Sean Franco.

"I need you to make a pickup, Bill," he said. Brad's chin went up at the name "Bill."

The timing couldn't have been much worse, but I merely said, "Okay. Do I get overtime on my day off?" I knew the answer, but my character might not.

"Sure. You ready?"

I told my wristcomp to start recording and said, "Go ahead."

"United Repair, downtown on Stendahl, has a camera that's been repaired. Pick it up and leave it in my office. Clear?"

"Clear." I rang off and went to see if there was a light jacket in the closet. "I won't be gone very long, Brad. Did you bring anything with you to read, or do you want to look at your rock collection?"

Brad didn't reply. I glanced back and saw that he was sitting quietly on an uncomfortable–looking chair.

"I've talked to you about pouting," I said. "That's not the way to get results. Tell me rationally what you want and we'll talk about it."

Brad's eyes were bright. "First Mom dumps me on you for the weekend, and now you're off to drive around town and I don't even get to go. It's not fair."

"It's not simple either. I'm sorry, but this thing I'm doing could be dangerous. I won't be gone long."

"Please, Dad. I'll just stay in the car. I'll do whatever you say."

He had made his request earnestly, without whining, so I had to pay attention. "That's a promise? You'll stay in the car?"

He must have sensed that I wouldn't ask unless I was almost ready to give in, because he tried hard to suppress a grin. "Sure. Promise."

Even before we reached the car, I was beginning to be angry with myself for letting him come. But it was hard to stay angry when he was obviously so pleased.

The repair shop was easy enough to find. My MNBS identification was all it took to claim the camera. Less than an hour after Sean had called, we rolled into the MNBS parking lot.

"Dad, you didn't tell me we were going to a real–live television station," Brad said. "But if you're a reporter again, why are you dressed like that?"

"I'm not a reporter," I said sharply. "And don't you ever mention to anyone that I was."

"Sure, Dad. Sure." Brad looked quite surprised at the insistence in my words.

I forced myself to relax. "Okay. I'll be back in just a few minutes." I reminded Brad not to leave the car. I left him there and entered the building with the newly repaired camera.

The door to Sean's office was open. I deposited the camera on his desktop. For a quick moment, I wondered what a search of his office might reveal. But what about surveillance? Suppose Sean had arranged this trip to see what I would do. Suppose he was right this moment listening and watching everything that went on.

I turned abruptly and left the room. I couldn't afford to take the chance right now. Particularly not with Brad waiting in the car. I hurried out.

Brad wasn't in the car.

What had happened? I looked around wildly. There didn't seem to be anyone else in the parking lot. And then I saw him. A long decorative ramp led from the ground to the second floor. Almost at the top, his head showed over the edge. But there was someone with him. And I already felt that I'd recognize that blonde hair anywhere.

I hurried toward them, wanting to run, and not daring to. As I started up the ramp, I wondered what Brad might have said, innocently enough, while they were together. Even, "We're sure staying in a cheap house," could be enough to start an ominous chain of questions. And as I walked up the incline, dozens of immediately deadly replies kept my imagination active.

I wasn't very social when I reached them. Without even greeting Janet, I said to Brad, "I thought you promised that you'd stay in the car."

"I'm sorry—"

"It's all right," I said gruffly, sure he had been about to add "Dad." "Good morning, Miss Vincent. I hope my sister's boy hasn't been too much trouble."

"No trouble at all. He was up here, looking at the view. It was a nice clear day, so I joined him." Instead of her weekday business suit, she wore a simple blouse and slacks. I tore my eyes away and looked at what she was talking about.

It was a nice view. South Spot showed on the horizon, plainly visible. And it was so clear we could see the clouds hanging over Middle Spot.

Fortunately, Brad must have understood my comment about not being my son, because he was silent. I wished I knew what had already been said.

"I didn't know Brad was with you," Janet said. "But I guess I can see some resemblance now that I think about it. He lives here in town, then?"

Brad saved me just in time. "No. I said I live in Biblis."

Janet never faltered. "Oh, that's right. How silly of me to forget."

How silly of a professional reporter to "forget" a question asked moments earlier. I tried to keep suspicion out of my face and voice. What else had Brad already told her?

"Has your uncle showed you around the building?" Janet asked, not giving me time to get a sentence in.

"My—oh, no he hasn't." My heart had almost stopped when I thought Brad was going to throw it all away.

"And I'm sorry I can't today," I said quickly. "Maybe some other time. We've got to be going, Brad." I had to get him away. It was only a matter of time before he said something irretrievable.

"You're sure?" Brad asked calmly. He was probably less insistent because he felt guilty.

"Say 'good–bye' to Ms. Vincent."

"You've got a nice nephew there, Mr. Letterer," Janet said as we departed. The almost unnoticeable pause before "nephew" worried me, but there was nothing I could do about it.

It wasn't until we were halfway to the car that I remembered something that bothered me even more. According to the dossier Freeman had prepared, I didn't have a sister.

Chapter 5 Entrapment

"You're mad at me, right, Dad?" Brad said softly once we were back in the car.

I slowly released my grip on the steering wheel, letting the blood flow back into my whitened fingers. Half tempted to say "Whatever makes you say that?" I instead said quite calmly, "Yes, I am."

"You take things too seriously. Mom always says that."

I turned to face him. "Listen to me very carefully. You promised to stay in the car. That was a condition for your coming along. You broke your promise to me."

"But, Dad. It wasn't that—"

I interrupted harshly. "A promise is a commitment. When you say you promise to do something, it means you'll do anything within reason to do it. You don't pretend later not to have heard. You don't say you misunderstood." I consciously left Carolyn out of it as I talked.

"You simply do it," I went on. "I realize there can be extenuating circumstances. If you'd seen a tornado approaching, you would have had every justification for leaving. But you don't just break a promise because it's a nice day or you want to see the view."

Brad deliberately looked away. I reached over and turned his head back to me. "You like Sam, don't you?"

Brad nodded.

"Well, he's dead," I said brutally. "He died last week, and the cops think someone who works here may have something to do with it. That woman you met up there works here, and for all I know she's just as guilty as anyone. And if she suspects that I'm not who I say I am, I could wind up just as dead as Sam."

I didn't add that I was already afraid she suspected, because I realized that in my anger I had gone too far. Brad began to cry.

"Sam's really dead?" he managed between sobs.

I put my arm around him. "Yes. I'm sorry." Brad leaned against me and cried some more.

After a while, he began to recover. "I'm sorry, too, Dad. I didn't know what was going on."

"I guess that's one of the points I'm trying to make," I said softly. "If you make a commitment to someone, and that someone starts doing things based on what you promised, and then you don't follow through, almost anything could happen. You don't know what damage you could do if you just forget about your promise. Sometimes it might be nothing bad. But you don't know."

Brad nodded as though he finally understood.

When I pulled out of the MNBS parking lot, there was no sign of Janet on the ramp where she had been. It was a very quiet ride home.

#

To make up for my outburst, I took him over to the house where Ray Bradbury was born. I don't know why it was in Helium instead of Xi City.

In the middle of the business district, surrounded by cylindrical buildings and square–frame construction, stood a small Colonial house. The picket fence around it had originally been white, as had the house, but after having to clean them every two weeks, the city had painted them both carmine so the dust wouldn't show.

Actually, the house was more of a museum than anything else, but the Bradbury story attracted children. In one room or another we saw a rocking chair, a spinning wheel, hardwood floors, hand–woven rugs, a wood stove, and an early computer.

Brad was already old enough to realize that Bradbury hadn't actually been born on Mars, but we had a good time anyway.

#

Monday morning was bleak. Brad had gone back to Biblis, promising vehemently not to pass on anything he had learned during the weekend except the fact that I was temporarily staying in Helium. I had questioned him extensively about what Janet might have learned from him, but nothing he could remember seemed hazardous.

I was sitting in my office, feeling bored when Janet leaned into my office door without coming in.

"I've got an assignment for you," she said. Her cheerful smile made the morning more tolerable.

"Is this good news?" I asked, smiling back.

"I don't know. It's not hard physical labor. But you might learn something while you do it. Or are you content with driving?"

"I'm ready for a change."

"Good. Let's go down to the morgue."

"I thought you said this was easy. I get squeamish at the sight of blood."

"Not that kind of morgue. That's what we call the reference files."

"Okay. Show me to it. But I'm surprised. Why don't you call the courier trucks 'meat wagons'?"

She explained what she wanted as we walked. "I'm interested in anything you can find on the Martians Against Repression Society."

This was good luck. I was curious about them myself. "You mean the MARS group?" I asked. "The ones who blew up that processing plant?"

"The same. I want to do a story on them."

We reached the top of the stairs that led down to the first floor. She took the steps with a springy bounce which made me pay less attention to my own footing.

"I could do a lot of the research from my office," she continued. "But I'd like you to do some of the groundwork, and have access to the materials that aren't in computer–readable form yet."

There was no one in the morgue when we arrived. I was hardly older than Janet, but I felt like a dirty old man while I let her explain a terminal that I had probably logged a solid year on. She stood behind me as I sat at the screen. Her head was so close to mine that I could easily smell her shampoo and a hint of perfume.

Totally by accident, I leaned back and my shoulder pushed against her breast. Embarrassed and a little distracted, I spent an instant trying to decide whether or not to make it clear to her that my motion had not been deliberate, and I almost missed what she tried to do.

"Okay, you try it," she was saying. "Jump ahead ten pages." She had just casually mentioned the controls for paging forward and backward, but she had pointed to the wrong controls. She'd actually indicated the screen blowup controls, used to magnify and shrink the image.

I caught myself as I reached for the correct controls out of habit, and at the last moment touched the switch she had shown me.

Naturally, the screen image enlarged dramatically, rather than paging ahead to other views. Now we had a terrific view of the teeth of the person whose face had filled the screen a moment earlier.

I turned to Janet to speak, and looked directly into her eyes. She was even closer than I had realized. Her presence made it suddenly difficult to talk, but I managed to say, "That's funny. The image is larger. I thought it was supposed to go on to the next pages."

Her turquoise eyes blinked once, her soft lips came together, and she rose abruptly. "Oh, my mistake," she said quite casually. "Use this control to page forward." This time she got it right.

A subtle cooling on her part and an increase in the distance between us were the only signs I could detect that she was backing off. I knew how close I had come to failing the test.

Janet was good. She hadn't quite tricked me, but she was doing an outstanding job of distracting me. I wondered how much longer I could keep up the pretense.

She showed me the rest of the terminal operations with no more distractions. "That should do it," she said finally. "You learn fast."

I thanked her, without asking her why she hadn't simply let me "learn" the terminal with the self–training system.

"Now here's what I need," she said. "If you just give me every reference to MARS that exists, I'll be overloaded. Besides that, I could make a request like that in a lot less time than it took to show you how to use this. What I need is a filter. You're the filter."

I nodded in understanding.

"First, I want full accounts of their activities in the last three months. Any at all. I want the standard file summary of the group. I want a list of dates, summaries, and references for all acts of violence attributed to them. Am I going too fast?"

"No." I tapped my wristcomp to indicate it was recording.

At that moment, her wristcomp sounded. She glanced at it and said, "I've got to get back to my office. Can you handle it?"

"Yes."

She gave me a quick smile and hurried away. Her perfume lingered slightly longer.

I forced my attention back to the terminal. The search took less than an hour, but I had other things to look for, and I didn't want her to think I was too fast.

I should have left Dublin behind me, but for some reason I couldn't let it go. I had watched very little television over the past few years, and whenever I'd seen an ad for the Dublin Car Company, it had made me angry all over again.

The brief search I had done the week before had shown me that they were apparently still making the same trade–offs as before. If anything, the number of deaths attributable to mechanical failure was even higher than it used to be. I could almost imagine a callous board meeting during which the president discussed a contemplated new design.

"Okay, group," the president would say in my imagined scenario. "To make this work one hundred percent of the time for normal driving conditions, it'll add two percent to the price of the car. But Harry here tells me that by cutting a little material right through there, we can cut the price of the car two percent, and it will still have the strength to handle over 98 percent of the road conditions. And Mary here tells me she can make the reduced weight look like a selling point on television."

Sure, maybe they weren't callous enough to say, "Okay, I guess a ten–percent improvement in profits balances out against a death risk increase of point one percent." But it was the same decision, no matter how it was phrased.

I tensed in my chair, wondering what I could do, if anything. Dublin Car Company had been the last big story I worked on before I quit the television business. In my current position, I hardly had the latitude to investigate on my own. And old news would affect few people. But surely there had to be something I could do.

#

Janet was on the phone when I went back to her office, but she rang off quickly. "You're back sooner than I expected," she said. "Did you get everything I asked for?"

"I think so." I handed her a recording wafer.

"Can you give me a synopsis before I start on it?"

"You're probably not going to like it, but there isn't much recent news on MARS. Other than the message they received at Edom last week, the group hasn't been heard from at all in over two years. That was when Tompkins, one of their members was quoted by one of the underground papers as saying the group was disbanding. Enough of their goals had been met that the core group didn't have the same cohesiveness. They had served their purpose."

"That's it?" Janet asked, partly closing her eyes in thought.

"No. There's also the list of all their activities in the records. As well as the standard file summary."

"What do you think about all this?" Janet asked, leaning back in her chair.

"I don't think they did it," I said simply, not asking why she was soliciting my opinion.

"Oh? And why is that?"

"Just a feeling." That, and the fact that the incident at Edom was totally different from their past modus operandi. Their earlier activities had all included forewarning to prevent loss of life. Being inactive for so long before they pulled an unannounced stunt like this seemed uncharacteristic if the files were to be believed. "I get these hunches," I explained.

Janet looked at me without comment for a moment, and then took the wafer and loaded it into her desk computer.

"Is there anything else I can do?" I asked.

"No, I guess not for now," she said, looking at her screen. "Thanks very much."

I was moving toward the door when she said suddenly, "Wait. What's this last item here—the one about other groups?"

"You were called away just as you were finishing your directions. I thought you might want to see a summary of other groups that might have done something like that."

"That's very thorough," she said slowly. "What do you think?"

"About the other groups?"

"Yes."

I didn't think one of them did it either. I said, "No idea."

"Okay. Thanks for the work. And while I'm thinking of it, be ready for a trip downtown just after lunch, will you? There's a news conference we plan to cover."

#

"We" of course included Sean. I dropped them off in front of the federal building and found a parking lot two blocks away. Fortunately there was no heavy gear to carry this time. Downtown Helium was the only section of the city with buildings higher than three stories. With them as a reference, and having a volcano to the west, it was difficult to get thoroughly lost in Helium.

I found the room Janet and Sean were in, and saw them sitting about halfway toward the front, with no vacant seats nearby. The last two rows of chairs were still almost empty, so I sat there.

"News conference" hadn't been quite accurate. "Miniature debate" was closer. The two candidates I had seen on television recently were fielding questions on their positions.

From the back of the room, it was hard to decide if Newton Alsop looked more or less like a moderate minister in person. The other guy's name, which I hadn't remembered, was Frank Sloane.

Sloane did seem different in person. I remembered being slightly put off by his earlier statements, but today it seemed as though he had been taking lessons from his campaign manager. He seemed friendlier, more open.

Sloane also seemed more willing to tackle the tough questions first, without waiting to see what Alsop's position was and then reacting afterward. I turned on my wristcomp to monitor the video from MNBS.

There wasn't any yet, which wasn't too surprising. I looked back up at the two men on the stage. Apparently their aides and associates were polarized along the same lines. The front sections of chairs were occupied by people wearing over–the–shoulder supporter ribbons, Alsop's to one side of the room, Sloane's on the other.

At that moment, both groups began to cheer. Sloane had just told the group how much he favored the truth–in–campaign laws, that he would keep all of his transactions public. As soon as the activity died down, Alsop assured people he felt the same way, and there was another round of applause.

The questions and answers continued, my attention gradually waning as the session went on. I perked back up when someone asked Alsop a loaded question about his feelings toward the incumbent, a woman named Marnie Peterson who was serving her last allowable term.

Peterson was one of those few politicians about whom I almost never heard a bad word. Alsop was no different. But he did try to take advantage of the situation.

"I'll tell you what I think about Peterson," he said after the rustle of the shifting audience died down. He paused still further. "I think she's done a great job. In fact, I don't think I could find very many people here who don't agree. Let me put that to the test. You people don't want me to say anything bad about Peterson, do you?" His voice lifted on the last few words, and I could easily see Alsop on the commercial religion stage.

Alsop had easily predicted the right thing to say. The response wasn't as loud as some of the previous peaks, but the word "no" echoed off the walls, apparently coming from every faction in the room.

The gathering broke up after another forty–five minutes. I kept my head angled down to minimize the unlikely chance of anyone recognizing me as the reporters began to hurry out. I could have gone for the car then, but I waited to make sure what Janet's and Sean's plans were.

"Want the car out front?" I asked when they got back to where I was.

"Not yet," Sean said, making sure no one was close enough to hear easily. "Janet got a message saying that Sloane's going to have a more private session in about fifteen minutes." Obviously, the more private, the better Sean liked it. Reporting directly is always preferable to sharing or having to attribute your story to someone else.

We reached the small conference room that Janet's message had referred to, went in, and closed the door while we waited. Sometimes a reporter seen waiting was enough to attract others.

Sean seemed a little atypical for the breed of reporters I knew; he had trouble waiting. He paced. I sat back down and relaxed, conserving my energy, while he burned his with an agitated manner. Janet merely seemed amused at Sean's impatience.

Twenty minutes later, though, I was beginning to feel impatient also. Fortunately, Sean was ahead of me, so I didn't have to say anything. "Where is he?" Sean asked. "How about if you double–check on him?" He looked at Janet.

"Okay," she said, and left.

Five minutes later, she returned, looking puzzled. "He's gone. The people out front say he left just after the session."

"Damn," Sean said. "So we've wasted twenty minutes?" He grabbed his coat, and we left. "How far's the car?" he asked, once the three of us were out in the hallway.

I told him.

"Let's just walk. It'll be quicker."

Outside, I fell in step behind them as they began discussing Sloane's unreliability. I turned a corner, pulling my jacket tighter against the wind, and I noticed something that shouldn't have been where it was.

Smoke issued from a fifth– or sixth–floor window in the hotel across the street.

I interrupted Janet and Sean. "It looks like you've got a story if you want one." I looked back up at the smoke. While they were still in the initial stages of surprise, I called the emergency service with my wristcomp. Sean began shooting almost immediately, while Janet looked around, probably to select a vantage point that would be good even after the street filled with emergency vehicles.

As I gave the operator the remaining details, I jogged to the hotel lobby, trying to keep enough wind to talk, and trying to get there quickly.

The clerk inside, a portly man about my age reading a news sheet, looked far too calm to be aware of the fire, so I told him.

"My hotel?" he said incredulously. "This building? Not one next door?"

"This building. Fifth floor. The service is on the way. But hadn't you better warn people?"

He finally shook off his disbelief and pushed a large red button behind the counter. A chime sounded loudly, and a calm voice began, "Attention. Attention. Please evacuate the building immediately. Please evacuate the building immediately. Do not use the elevators…" Echoes of the message sounded from points further into the building.

I could hear sirens wailing in the distance. I convinced the proprietor that he couldn't do anything else where he was, and the more people in the building when the service arrived, the more they would have to look for. The man still seemed dazed when we got outside.

The smoke was much worse. The wind pushed it away from the building quickly, but the volume of sooty black smoke made a long dark plume. The building materials probably wouldn't burn, but the hotel contents certainly could.

As though the proprietor could deal with the situation better once he saw for himself that it was really happening and help was on the way, he seemed to recover his reasoning powers. "Why didn't the alarm system trip?" he asked. Why indeed?

I was gratefully surprised by the speed of the emergency service. Fires weren't all that common. The vehicles drew to a halt at a prudent distance from the building just as the first guests started exiting from the main door. Some of them had actually carried out their luggage.

"You'd better get close to that woman there." I pointed to the emergency team leader. "Just in case she needs information about the building from you. Let her know who you are then back off."

The proprietor nodded and started toward her.

The emergency service people got the air bags out just in time. There were several windows open on the top floor, the seventh, and not a minute after the bags were in place, people began to jump. Apparently the stairs near the top were unsafe.

I looked around for Janet and Sean. They both had good views of the happenings. Sean had gone back to the top of the steps in front of the federal building, and Janet had found a perch on a railing just high enough to ensure that no pedestrians would block her view. I started for her, keeping my head down so I'd be unrecognizable if I happened to be in the picture transmitted on the news.

As I walked, one emergency jumper arrived and began rescue operations on the side of the building away from the fire, and another began to lower a rescue team onto the roof. The rescue leader had patched into the hotel communications and her voice emanated from open windows, giving guidance to the people still inside.

Apparently, there were quite a few people still inside, for there was a steady stream of people riding the jumper's safety chute to the ground.

"You saw it first," Janet said, still recording as I approached. "You want to be on the news? We could do an on–the–spot interview right here."

"No," I said hastily. "I didn't do anything special. When this is all finished, why don't you ask the team leader what they do between emergencies?"

She looked away from her viewfinder for a moment, but didn't go back to the possibility of interviewing me. "Maybe I will."

I turned back to the fire, still surprised at its magnitude. Most public buildings had several forms of fire control. But this fire threatened to destroy the whole top three stories. What had failed?

Over an hour later, it was finally obvious that the danger area was shrinking. We stayed the whole time. By then, all the other news services were on the scene, and the proprietor had the names of everyone who had escaped the building.

Four names were missing from the list.

A man and his two children registered in room 526, and a woman in room 528 were not among the crowd of guests. The survivors wore expressions ranging from complete boredom to shock. One feisty little boy had almost been run over by an emergency vehicle, and his mother still had a good grip on him.

An hour later the rescue squad had confirmed the deaths of the four missing guests. They had all died right in their own rooms.

Their rooms seemed to be the focal point of the damage, but when we left to go back to the station, there were still no theories on the cause of the blaze or the failure of protection systems.

I felt drained as I drove Janet and Sean back to the station. Despite my fatigue, my mind was overactive. Perhaps I thought about too many things.

I thought about Sam. I thought about asphyxiated bodies in hotel rooms. And I thought about how if Janet hadn't had us wait for Sloane's post–meeting interview, MNBS wouldn't have been first on the scene of the fire.

#

It was almost quitting time when we got back to the station. Janet thanked me for the ride and started for her office. Sean just left. I plugged the company car in to get a recharge.

I could have just gone home then, but the house would seem particularly empty now that Brad was gone. Instead, I went into the cafeteria and bought a sandwich. When I was just about finished, Janet passed the cafeteria door, apparently on her way out. She waved briefly. I waved back.

Now both Janet and Sean were out of the building, for at least a while. It seemed as good a time as any to look around more.

The door labeled Special Effects was still closed. I opened it. A small outer office looked reasonable enough. A few chairs for waiting were opposite a decorative desk. The desk was locked. So was the door to the inner office.

A large expensive picture on the wall showed a still life with a warm drink on a small table, which managed to look as though it were in sub–zero temperatures. It made me thirsty just looking at it. The detail was superb, and the viewing aspect had been altered. Where a conventional wall hologram let you see up to 180 degrees of view by moving from one side of the picture to the other, this one had been constructed so you could see the full 360 degrees.

I was admiring the effort that had gone into the picture when I heard sounds from behind the door to the inner office. So someone was still at work. I left hastily.

The hall outside was empty, so I explored farther down the corridor. Three doors away I found one of my largest surprises.

A small sign on the door said Vanderland Agency.

Vanderland was a boutique advertising agency, meaning they specialized in creative accounts and had a selected client list. But the most surprising aspect was finding an advertising agency in bed with a television station.

#

I had been right about the house. It was lonely. Lonely in a way my own house hadn't felt. It wasn't just the missing dwarfs; it was more than that.

The television helped a little. I was curious about how the fire coverage had been done. And I wanted to make sure my face wasn't prominent in the news.

The coverage was repeated shortly after I got home. The death toll was still listed at four. MNBS had again gotten a strong time advantage over the competition. The picture was so good it seemed as though my television was smoking. Janet and Sean gave level–headed reports about what went on out of camera view. I showed up a little more clearly than I felt comfortable with, but hoped my disguise would be adequate.

Suddenly uneasy, but not sure why, I set the television to replay the most recent minute. It showed me in the bottom of the image, face averted, running backward into the hotel. And then I realized what was wrong. I had neglected my limp.

I leaned back in my chair, suddenly worried, thinking about Janet's ability to catch details.

Chapter 6 Negligent

Back live, the fire report ended, and MNBS announced that on Sunday they would replay the top forty news stories of the week. A couple of downscale commercials later, the "hit" series, actually the least objectionable series, about a quadriplegic private eye began. I turned the volume down.

I was still puzzling over the situation with Vanderland when coverage of today's session with Alsop and Sloane came on. I turned the volume up. The segment was obviously edited to fit the coverage into less than real time. How much it was edited I didn't appreciate until several minutes later, when I got so angry I stood up and paced in front of the television.

Everything had seemed reasonable until they replayed the segment showing Alsop as he was giving his somewhat melodramatic endorsement of the truth–in–campaign laws. Then, when in real time the audience had been uniformly applauding, the editor had switched segments to show Sloane's supporters clearly mouthing the word "no."

I couldn't believe they had done something so blatant. I knew and I'm sure the editor knew those people were saying they didn't want to hear anything bad about Peterson's conduct. And even if the station were to admit a "mistake" in a day or two, it wouldn't affect most of the people who had seen only the broadcast. And the Morgan Poll results on next said Alsop was increasing his lead over Sloane.

Someone on the staff made up for a deficiency in morals with a surplus in editing power. I wondered what other tools would be applied to whatever job this someone planned to accomplish. And I had the strongest feeling that those asphyxiated bodies in their hotel rooms wouldn't be the last victims.

#

"You were so fast yesterday, I've got some more research for you to do today," Janet told me when I reached her office in the morning. She looked fresh and alert. Apparently she hadn't slept uneasily, hadn't spent restless hours thinking about why we had been first on the scene of the fire, and about the damaging news conference report. And it was quite unlikely that she had even known Sam.

"I think I found out all I could yesterday," I said, sitting down in her visitor's chair.

"New topic." Janet crossed her legs. "I want—" She looked up at someone in the door behind me.

"Morning," said Glenn Hartley's voice.

I'm good at voices. Some people have told me they can never tell who's on the other end of the telephone unless their screen is on, but not me. Voices had always seemed as distinctive as faces. In fact I could remember some voices better than their owner's faces. I didn't always know which factor clinched it, but with pitch, timber, speech patterns, and pronunciation to work with, I almost always knew whether a voice was one I'd heard before.

I turned around in my chair. "Good morning," I said just after Janet did.

"That was good work yesterday," Hartley said, obviously talking to Janet. "The coverage downtown."

She tacitly assumed, just as I did, that he was talking about the fire, not the conference. "We were lucky. And Bill here saw it first. We might even have passed it by."

So now I was the reason we got there first. Was this an attempt to downplay her contribution of waiting for a meeting which had never materialized?

"You would have noticed it in another second," I said, not wanting the credit.

"Well, the coverage was fine," Hartley said. "Regardless of who saw it first. It's too bad those folks had to die, but at least we can warn people to keep safety systems in good shape."

There was nothing in his words that made me think about what kind of station manager Hartley was, but something in his tone did. Maybe it was that he was just a bit more casual than someone else might have been. Whatever the reason, I decided that Hartley must lean toward the authoritarian school.

"Are you going to expose them?" I asked. "Are you going to make them close all the hotels that aren't safe?"

Hartley didn't pause for thought. "No," he said. "No, I feel sure this was an isolated event. I'm positive the other businesses in town will check their safety systems. No one wants something like that to happen again."

Authoritarian and supporting the status quo. He probably wasn't all that different from other station managers on Mars; news was whatever happened to upset the status quo. Lord give me high ratings and a dominant market share, and just don't tamper with my cost–per–thousand. Give me those old–time, upscale advertisers.

Then I backed off. I was probably being too harsh on him, letting my old anger with broadcasting spill over onto someone who was innocent until proven guilty.

"Did you see the news last night?" Hartley continued, looking at Janet again.

"No. I hardly ever watch. Why?" she asked. "Anything special?"

"No. I was just wondering if you spend all your time on the job lately. See you later." He smiled. Smiling makes most people more attractive. With Hartley, it made his jowls more prominent.

Janet spent just an instant lost in thought after Hartley left, as though she were pondering some hidden message in the man's words. "Okay," she said abruptly. "Where were we?"

"You were about to give me my junior reporter badge. You wanted some research done."

Janet's smile was far more attractive than Hartley's had been. I wished I could see her eyes better, but her back was to the window, and the backlighting made it difficult. "Fires," she said. "I want you to find out how the number of fires last month compares to this time a year ago, and month–by–month totals for these last twenty–three months."

I tried to keep my expression neutral. For the second time she was interested in almost exactly what I wanted to find out. It could be the coincidence of two minds following the same logic, but it could be she already knew the answer and wanted to see my reactions. "That's sure a funny request," I said. "What do you want to know for?"

"I'd rather not say. I'm probably just imagining things anyway, and there's no need to start speculating. Do you think you can handle that?"

I debated about telling her I needed more training, but, as attractive as the idea was, it wasn't fair to her and it was more than a little risky. "I think so. After you left yesterday, I found a self–help program that I think will get me by. I'll call if there's something I can't figure out."

"Good for you. Come back when you get finished."

I left her office feeling like a dog who'd just been patted on the head for fetching slippers. Still, a pat on the head was quite a bit better than a knife in the ribs.

#

I had done the research Janet asked for before I started looking into the other things that were on my mind. I hoped the other areas would be as interesting.

The first one was. Thanks to freedom–of–information laws, I could see exactly who the Vanderland Agency had as clients. It was an elite list. And it included Newton Alsop.

But that still wouldn't explain the distortion on the newscast last night. Advertising agencies didn't present the news. Although, with Vanderland moving into MNBS, who knows? Maybe that would be the ultimate merger. Just edge out the intermediary, the broadcaster. Let the advertisers generate their own programming, the way they had done originally.

Of course, that wouldn't be much of a change. Right now, an advertiser from Dublin Car Company could say to the production company making an entertainment segment, "If you want us to sponsor this, you'd better make sure you have only the good guys driving Dublins." And, surprise surprise, when the shooting was complete, and the potential advertisers had their private screening, the villain would bisect someone with a laser, hop into a Rover or a Maraco, and proceed to slam into a building while trying to elude the authorities.

And if the production crew got a clear message from the folks paying the bills, the audience might even see, rolling out of the cloud of russet smoke, a wheel cover bearing the name and symbol of Rover or Maraco. If they saw Dublin, it was when the heroine and hero happily drove off into a ruby sunset.

But this wasn't getting me closer to an answer. I still couldn't tell if there was a link between MNBS and Vanderland any stronger than one renting space to the other. I spent more time running searches in the court records file, city directories, land–holding transactions, tax, and criminal records.

I found out a little, but it didn't help much. Vanderland Agency was owned by the Midas Corporation. But who ran Midas wasn't part of the records I had access to. There was just an address, here in Helium. I stored the information in my wristcomp, not at all sure it would be of any use.

#

Janet wasn't in her office when I got back, so I sat down and waited. I hadn't ever paid much attention to her office when Janet had been in it. A couple of journalism awards hung on the wall to one side of her desk. A sign on her desk said: "It's hard to be efficient when you're obnoxious." There was no picture on her desk that looked like one of a husband. Maybe she was still in the phase I had been in during my television days: working a lot and socializing very little. Except that I had been married.

Footsteps clicked up the hall toward the door. They had to be Janet's. They were.

"You're sure fast," she said when she saw me. "You got what I wanted?"

"Maybe I'm a natural," I said, deciding to go even slower if there were a next time. I handed her a wafer.

"Okay." She sat down and swiveled her chair so she faced her desk screen. A moment later, the first summary page I'd prepared occupied the screen.

"What does it mean?" I asked.

She was quiet for a moment before she spoke. "It means the number of fires is up."

"I saw that. I mean why."

She looked back at me, as though suddenly realizing I was in the same room. "I don't know. I was curious, but I don't know the significance."

I decided I believed her. I don't always have to have good reasons for doing what I do. "So, are you going to make it into a story?"

"No. I don't know what the story is, or whether there is a story. It could be safety standards are getting too lax. It could be we've got an arsonist in Helium. It could be people are reporting a higher percent of the fires that actually occur. There's no need to shout 'fire' when I'm not even sure there's actually any smoke."

I liked her answer. I found myself liking her. With an effort, I pulled back. Starting to like someone who might have contributed to Sam's death wasn't prudent.

"Besides," Janet continued, "I don't have time for it right now. I've got to get busy on a business profile. It's scheduled for the end of the month, and I haven't even picked a subject."

"Who are the candidates?"

"I don't have a list. Every once in a while, I think of doing one on MNBS itself, or the broadcast industry." Janet leaned toward me. "Did you realize that broadcasting on Mars has a lot of similarities with early, mid–twentieth–century broadcasting on Earth?"

"No," I lied. "Is that strange?"

"Yes and no. We're going through a social period with some similarities. Until just a couple of decades ago, almost all our efforts had to be directed toward survival. Now, we suddenly have leisure time, a commodity that seemed prevalent during early broadcasting. Commercials for cars and luxuries, which probably would have been ignored earlier, are now big business. And once the consumers here get jaded with the current techniques, there are lots of others in broadcasting's bag of tricks. We even use some of the old jargon. It's a form of nostalgia, I suppose."

"So, are you a reporter, or just someone who gets the viewers to watch?"

Janet looked at me thoughtfully. "A reporter. Every job has its bad side. But I don't have to cater to it."

I wanted to believe her. "What will you do your feature on if you don't use MNBS? One of the advertisers?"

"Probably. That keeps Glenn from objecting. And I can go a little farther than I would otherwise."

"What about a car company?" I asked calmly. "Dublin's new two–seater LandAir is a nice–looking machine."

"Maybe," she said. "But I—" The sound of a call on her desk computer cut short her comment.

It was Sean Franco. He wanted Janet to fill in for him at the weekly staff meeting.

"Okay," Janet said, obviously unhappy about going to a meeting. "I'll be there." She rang off, and let an even deeper indication of regret come over her face. "I'm sorry, but I've got to run." She took a quick look at her desk screen. "Oh, no. I was supposed to finish that this morning. Will you do me a favor?"

"Sure," I said. "Name it."

Silent for a couple of minutes, Janet jotted a quick few paragraphs on a piece of scratch paper. When she finished, she gave it to me. "Can you take this down to Talon in the newsroom? Apologize for me?"

She rose and started to leave.

"Apologize?"

"For handwriting it instead of the usual," Janet called back, her quick steps sounding down the hall.

As I walked downstairs with her note, I read it. An obituary. The content was fairly ordinary, except, in her haste, she had used the word "epithet" instead of "epitaph." I corrected it, imitating her handwriting, so Talon wouldn't see her error. I wasn't quite sure whether I was feeling protective because she was one of my bosses, or because she was Janet.

The handwriting itself wasn't what I would have expected. Maybe it was because Janet did almost all her writing at a keyboard or a voice–recognition unit, but her handwriting reminded me of a ransom note.

#

It was only when I got downstairs and looked closely at the names outside the newsroom door that I realized Talon was Larry Talon, and I knew him from my old days. I paused outside the door.

Fortunately, my relationship with Larry hadn't been a close one. Larry Talon was quiet, efficient, and likable, but we had both been so busy back then we hadn't made the time to get better acquainted. My disguise wouldn't get any better or worse by standing in front of a mirror, straightening hairs, so I pushed the door open and walked in.

There were two offices, one farther in than the other. They were both unoccupied. I breathed a little easier, feeling even better when I saw the nameplate on Larry Talon's desk. I wrote a quick "To Talon, from J. Vincent" on the paper and put it in his in box. The door to this office had a small window in it with a view of the broadcast studio beyond, but I paid it no attention. I left quickly.

Back out in the main hallway, I relaxed. Even if I had talked to him, there was only a minuscule chance of Larry connecting my current persona with Dan Kettering. Still, there's no point in fighting unnecessary battles.

It took me only a moment to decide what to do next. Janet would be busy for a while longer since she'd known that she wouldn't have time to finish that story properly by noon. So I went back to the morgue. I could always use the excuse that I had forgotten to look for something she had requested.

What I was looking for now was tougher to determine than easy things such as the number of fires reported. A new thought was disturbing me. I wanted to see the proportion of the time MNBS was first on the scene of a disaster. And to see which teams were there.

A few minutes in the morgue convinced me the task was going to be even harder than I had thought. Delay from event until transmission time was not a factor typically recorded in the MNBS database, a fact which didn't surprise me much once I thought about it.

I tried it a different way. It was laborious and slow, but I found text copies of transmitted newscasts from MNBS, MRED, MARS, and MCBA, the four largest stations with active news staffs. Plowing through the coverage of ten major new stories convinced me that MRED nearly always presented the most out–of–date information, so I dropped them from my analysis.

I tried to remain objective as I went through the next ten stories. It was a little difficult since part of the evaluation had to be subjective. For instance, if MARS knew the exact death toll before MNBS, but MNBS was first to report the identity of a prominent citizen who was a victim of the accident, who was ahead?

It was at least an hour later that I added the numbers on the tally I had been keeping. Out of thirty stories, MNBS had been clearly ahead on twenty–four. I sat there a long moment, growing nervous. MNBS had one hell of a good record.

But did it mean something illegal was going on? It was still conceivable that this was merely the manifestation of a superior news team, motivated and organized by an efficient, perceptive central figure. Conceivable, but I had problems accepting the theory.

Rather than spend time thinking more about that now, I looked at another breakdown. On the twenty–four stories that MNBS led with, there were five sets of bylines of MNBS reporter teams. The five teams accounted for one, three, four, six, and ten stories.

The team with ten was Sean Franco and Janet Vincent.

#

After running an errand for Sean, I was back in my office that afternoon, puzzling over possibilities that could explain MNBS's success rate with failures of aircraft, fire–prevention systems, and industrial equipment. It didn't seem that I was any closer to an answer than I was when I first came. Therefore, it was a pleasant interruption when Janet stopped by.

"You still want to see a LandAir close up?" she asked. Her smile seemed more appealing each time I saw her.

"What do you mean?" I asked, feeling growing certainty that she had taken my suggestion about visiting Dublin Car Company.

"I mean I'm going over to Dublin tomorrow. I want you to drive."

I looked up at her smiling face and wondered if maybe I should just hire on permanently at MNBS as Janet's courier. Who needs to run an engineering outfit? Then, after an instant of letting myself get almost too carried away, I toned down my own silly grin and said mildly, "Sure. That would be nice."

I'm a man of many knacks. I seemed to have the knack for investigative reporting. I have this late–blooming knack for running an engineering firm. And I seem to have this knack of being able to say exactly the wrong thing at times. Just after I quit talking, the light just slowly faded out of Janet's eyes.

"Well, then," she said, not angrily, but subdued and businesslike. "You'll be ready to go in the morning?"

I nodded, trying to think of something I could say quickly, before she went away. Something that would make her feel better, without her realizing I could plainly see her disappointment.

I wasn't fast enough. As Janet left, she gave me a final smile, only a one or two on a scale of ten.

I didn't sleep well that night, thinking of numbers. I wished I had seen Janet's smile at a ten again. But I couldn't help remembering MNBS's eighty–percent share on firsts. And I couldn't forget that Sam had been dead for a little under two weeks.

#

Janet was still not quite so perky as usual during the drive out to Dublin Car Company the next morning. She sat calmly in the passenger seat as the outskirts of Helium sped by us.

Aside from realizing that Janet was obviously less happy than she could have been, and feeling that it was my fault, the day was a good one. Sean Franco was nowhere near. It was bitter cold outside this early in the morning, but the wind had miraculously stopped, and the sun shown brightly on the rust–red plain before us. With good visibility and light traffic, even this old car sailed along comfortably at 200 kilometers an hour. But the best part was that we were on our way to Dublin.

I was still surprised that I was so obsessed with the idea of exposing Dublin. It probably wouldn't have been so bad except that Dublin had been the story that took me to my breaking point at the old station.

My father had been a journalist. He was the one I had been trying to please by choosing the same career. Maybe I had just been too naive when I started work, but I had always expected my work environment to be dominated by people with high values, worthwhile ideals, and lots of integrity. Oh, I had met people like that, some of whom were quite good examples, but there were many who weren't like that. It seemed sometimes that the news was unimportant, just an upward path to higher ratings, higher shares, higher cost–per–thousand, and higher billings.

I had done quite well in a couple of the investigations I had undertaken, and, just before I quit, I was on the track of what I thought was another. But somehow the station manager had heard that it was Dublin I planned to expose. And Dublin was one of the old station's heaviest advertisers. Suddenly I was requested to take a break from my work and concentrate on a series of spots to increase our ratings during the upcoming sweeps.

When I pressed to find out how soon I could resume, I knew I never would. Oh, they assured me that I could when there was more time, but I saw what was happening. So I quit. Dad had been monumentally disappointed. He used several Australian oaths I hadn't even heard before.

A silver–and–rust Running Fox sped past us in the opposite direction. He must have been going fifty percent faster than we were. The sound of the car's passing jogged me out of my reflections. It must have done the same for Janet, because she spoke for the first time in several minutes.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked.

"About how you apparently decided on coming out to Dublin based on my suggestion, and then I didn't even give you the satisfaction of letting you know how pleased that made me." I looked over at her as I spoke, and saw the surprise come into her face.

"So you are pleased?" she said.

"Yes, I am. And I apologize for not being open about it."

Janet turned toward me in her seat. I looked back at the road for a moment. Ahead, the road made a sweeping turn around a boulder much larger than most of the ones nearby.

"Why?" she asked finally.

"Why conceal my reaction, or why apologize?"

"The first."

So she wouldn't realize how badly I wanted to go to Dublin. But I couldn't just say that. I dug a little further into my mind and found another factor with at least a tiny amount of truth. "Maybe I didn't want to feel obligated, like I owed you a favor."

"You don't owe me anything," she said, her voice softer than before. "I picked Dublin because I wanted to, not because of you."

I looked back at her. "Now who's not being totally honest? It seems like a huge coincidence that you picked it after I suggested it. I'm sorry I didn't react the way you wanted. Don't just pay me back and keep the cycle going."

"Okay," she said, looking surprised again. The corners of her mouth started a brief motion upward and then wavered before she broke into a full smile. "Okay. Start again. I'm glad you want to go to Dublin, and I picked it because I knew you wanted to go there. How's that for candid?"

I couldn't help smiling back at her just as broadly. "Excellent."

Janet looked back at the road ahead, which now straightened out and cut through a boulder–strewn plain. Carmine sand filled in the valleys between the boulders and covered some of the smallest rocks. She grew quiet for a time and then, with no preamble, she said, "Who are you, really?"

Chapter 7 Broadcast

Suddenly it felt much warmer in the car. I swallowed painfully. I kept watching the wide road ahead, paying more attention to it than I did when there was a hitchhiker I didn't want to pick up. "You mean what am I like in my off time? What about politics, religion, and sex?" Then I made the mistake of looking back at Janet.

She stared levelly at me, her perceptive turquoise eyes quite clear. "Give me more credit than that. You're pretty much in control when you're talking to Sean, but when you're talking with me your guard slips sometimes. And you made a mistake yesterday. You corrected the error in the note you took down to the newsroom. I want to know why you're here and what you're doing."

I stared ahead, suddenly aware that I had let the car slow down. I increased our speed. My mouth was as dry as the dust by the side of the road. "How'd you catch me?" I asked finally.

"You're too smart, for one thing. You're too educated, and you make intelligent decisions too fast. A few little things. We've had couriers with maybe one or two of your capabilities, but no one with it all. But we're getting off the subject."

"I'm a writer," I said, hoping to make the lie believable by including the barest truth. "I'm working on a book about occupations, from the inside, and from the bottom. I've been an assembler, a technician, a waiter, and a few others." I took a calming breath and looked back at her. "Are you going to turn me in?"

Janet's eyes narrowed. I couldn't tell if she didn't believe me, or she was angry at being duped, or whether she was merely thinking. If she were angry at thinking I was just writing a book, it was good that I hadn't told her the truth. Only an instant later, a sheepish grin turned up the corners of her mouth, and suddenly I felt a lot better.

"A writer," she said. "Of course." She laughed lightly, almost a nervous laugh. "And here I thought you might be sent from another station." She began to relax visibly and leaned back into her seat.

"Absolutely untrue. I promise you. But what would another station stand to gain?"

"Oh, who knows? This is the first one I've worked at. We've been beating the other stations to more than our share of stories. Maybe they do things differently, and they want to find out the difference. It doesn't matter now."

She paused, but before I could figure out a safe way to get back to that topic, she said, "So tell me. Is this a long habit of yours—–tricking women?" She looked a little more intense than just idly curious. Maybe resentment was working its way to the surface.

"No. It's not a habit. It's what you might call an unfortunate side effect."

"Yes, I might," she said, not explaining further. "But how could you know you'd get here—here at MNBS?"

"I didn't. I had applications in at a dozen other places. This just happened to be the one that opened up." I hesitated, suddenly unsure of how to continue. "But I am glad it was MNBS." I looked directly at her for just a moment.

She said nothing.

"I'd like to stay for a while," I said. "Do you plan to tell anyone?" My mouth went dry again.

"No," she said finally. "I'm glad you came, too." And she smiled, as though with a secret shared.

I wished I could share the whole secret, but if she was smart enough to detect me, she could be smart enough to be a good actress. "If you knew yesterday that I wasn't a simple courier, why did you agree to go to Dublin?"

"Because you wanted to. And because I just couldn't believe you were out to harm us."

"Speaking of Dublin," I said, nodding toward a large distant structure on the horizon.

We were both quiet for the remainder of the journey. I slowed the car and turned it onto the service road. At that moment, Janet reached over very close to me and her hand reached over to the window on my side. After I got another close–up view of those beautiful turquoise eyes, she retreated. I looked back at the window and saw that she had attached our Dublin day pass to it.

I never did see the pass readers, but, after a short time, one of three gates ahead of us opened. After another hundred meters, the road split again. This time, too, one open gate showed us the way we had to go.

"Was there anything you wanted to see besides the LandAir?" Janet asked as the factory rose larger ahead of us.

I shook my head.

The light–green building was built in a style similar to the conventional mushroom shape, but it was an enormous oval rather than the more usual round style. It wasn't until we had traveled a third of the way around the building's perimeter that I realized it was really more of a horseshoe with one end open.

By the time the automatics showed us where to park, the structure loomed high above us. Dublin was enormous.

"How should I treat you?" Janet asked as we approached the entrance.

"Exactly like a courier."

"But you may not get to see as much as I do then."

"That's okay. If sometimes I'm a writer and other times I'm a courier, I'm going to get in trouble. And I really don't want to waste all this effort."

"Would it all be wasted?" she asked, making a sidelong glance at me.

"No," I said truthfully. "No, it wouldn't. But please don't tell anyone."

"I promise."

I hoped that Janet's promises were better than Carolyn's.

A huge green–tinted door opened automatically before us. Inside, the foyer contained one of the largest collections of green plants I had ever seen. There must have been hundreds, maybe thousands, ranging from potted palms to rows of daisies. The humidity was high, and the air smelled as good as the hint of Janet's perfume. Clear overhead skylights let in even more sunshine.

A casual receptionist was expecting Janet. He directed us to an open–air elevator, which took us smoothly up the face of the wall. The feel of the place was so luxurious, I half–expected to see a fountain in the plaza and a red carpet awaiting us at the top.

There was neither, but the view made up for it. The inside of the horseshoe contained a large oval test track dwarfed by the size of the complex. In the center of the track and between it and the building was an enormous expanse of green. Dublin must have found a hardy lichen or ground cover that thrived despite small quantities of water. It was incredible.

All the greenery gave me such a strong impression of Emerald City that I wouldn't have been surprised to see Toto sniffing excitedly at the base of a potted plant.

"You must be Janet Vincent," said a voice behind us.

We turned from the view, and found a well–built man about my age. His tidy blond hair somehow seemed not to fit properly with his pale–green business suit. "I'm Paul Santel," he said. He shook hands with Janet, spending enough longer than usual with the gesture and his inspection to convey the message that he found her attractive. I didn't like him.

"This is Bill Letterer," Janet said at last. "He drove me out."

"Bill," said Santel, nodding in curt acknowledgment, favoring me with a tiny smile and not volunteering to shake hands. I almost clicked my heels.

"Why don't you come with me, Janet?" he asked. "Bill should be comfortable here until we're finished. Obviously, I can't be totally candid about events the company has planned unless I'm dealing only with a reporter I can count on to honor privileged information."

Privileged information. Probably the most revealing thing he had planned was to tell Janet that next year's models would be more expensive. Or to ask her out. I smiled passively to Janet as she looked at me questioningly. "Don't worry," I said. "I'll be fine. I won't get nose–prints on the window or anything."

Janet's mouth and Paul Santel's mouth tightened, but I felt sure Santel's reason was irritation while Janet was trying not to smile.

They walked into a nearby office, leaving me to enjoy the view or to sit down and relax. After a short time, I sat.

A single hallway stretched into the distance. Close to the door to Santel's office, which was now closed, sat a confidential clerk who had yet to look up or acknowledge my presence. A sign on his desk identified him as Kevin Rourke, secretary to vice–president Santel. I watched him for a while. I must have let my irritation with Santel cloud my thinking, because it took me a couple of minutes before I realized that this was probably as close as I could hope to come to Dublin's private information.

Kevin was a freckled man with neatly trimmed chestnut hair. Near his feet, almost out of sight from where I sat, lay an open floor–safe. Periodically, he retrieved a recording wafer or a paper document from the safe, only to return it soon after.

For several minutes I tried to figure out how I could get the clerk away from his desk long enough for me to take a look through his safe. And how to get him away fast enough that he didn't lock it. Anything as unusual as a fire would attract more attention than was desirable. A fake phone message could raise a lot of questions, too.

After another moment or two I remembered a trick kids used to pull, and got up from my seat. "Is there a rest room nearby?" I asked.

"On the right." Kevin pointed, barely looking up from his work.

I was in luck. Dublin had installed waterless toilets, but their sinks used water. Fortunately, they weren't the protected variety usually provided in public places. Dublin evidently didn't worry too much about vandalism. I felt just a little guilty as I did it, but I quickly unscrewed the electrical capacitance sensor which determined whether someone's hands were in the sink. Once the wires were exposed, I twisted a bit of insulation off each wire and shorted them together. Water started flowing.

I screwed the sensor back in and moved my hands away from the sink. Water kept flowing. I winced as I thought about the waste, but it was precisely the result I wanted.

Back out in the reception area, I tried to put just enough concern into my voice. "Did you know there's a water faucet in there that's on full all the time?"

"Are you serious?" Kevin asked me sullenly.

"I can let Santel know if you'd rather he dealt with it."

The threat was unnecessary. He was already moving quickly to the rest room. Here was someone who at least knew the value of water.

An instant later I was alone in the lobby with an unlocked safe. But I waited a minute just in case.

I was glad I had. Kevin came out in just a minute. "Call maintenance, will you? Just push M on the phone. I've got to plug this up until they get here."

"Whatever you say." I moved to the phone as he went back inside. I felt guilty about not phoning immediately, but I could live with it.

I ignored the papers in the safe. They might be missed faster, and they were too bulky anyway. The labeled recording wafers were much more interesting. I assumed I had less than a minute I could count on, and looked fast. There must have been fifty wafers. Every topic had an original and two backups. They included memos, research and development reports, activity summaries, press releases, and court activity summaries.

One secondary backup each of memo files and research and development reports seemed to be a good compromise between things that would be interesting and those not immediately missed. As quickly as I could, I stripped off the two labels, stuck them on a couple of blank wafers in a file on top of Kevin's desk, and put the blanks back into the safe where I had found the others.

There were several light notes on Kevin's desk pad. The short phrases that could be passwords, I memorized.

With two wafers tucked into my shirt pocket, I found the phone and tapped the M.

The maintenance people were quite interested. While I waited for them, I put the wafers into my socks. That wouldn't survive a close inspection, but it should keep them from being accidentally revealed.

Once finished, I went promptly back to the rest room. If Kevin thought I'd had only enough time to make the call, he wouldn't spend time thinking about an open safe and performing an inventory. That looked like the last thing on his mind when I got in there.

At some point, while apparently using his fingers or thumb to stop the flow of water, he must have slipped a little. The pale blue of his shirt had a large dark–blue splotch over his stomach from the water that must have spurted out. I tried not to grin.

"I'm glad they finally answered the phone," I said. "They're going to be up soon."

"Damn it all," Kevin said. "Only soon? I'm not going to stand around here all day."

"Well, maybe they said, 'right away.' They did sound excited."

"That's better."

"Dublin seems so fancy I would have thought you could afford to lose a little water," I said, trying to keep his attention off the safe.

"Even if we could, the wasting fines are worse. And fines come out of wages. Damn it all. Where are those people?"

He didn't have much more time to wait. Soon a young woman in light–green work clothes knocked on the door and came in. She snapped a screwdriver off her belt and opened a small maintenance panel on the bottom of the sink. Unhesitatingly, she touched a control. "Okay," she said to Kevin. "You can take your hand away."

"You took your damn time," Kevin said on his way out.

"I came as fast as I could," she said, but he was already gone. "What's his problem?" she asked me.

"Maybe he's intimidated by a woman in the men's room," I said. "I know you got here as quickly as possible."

She smiled her thanks and I left.

Kevin was in an even worse mood than before, but he didn't seem to be paying any unusual attention to the safe when I returned. I settled into a chair, feeling more and more relaxed. This had gone appreciably easier than a few occasions I could still remember clearly. One time, I had come within an angstrom of being arrested for impersonating a policeman.

After a couple minutes of reflection, I decided the wafers in my socks were probably about the best information I could reasonably hope for today, so I casually touched a finger to my lips and bit off a fingerprint pad I had put on before I left the house. A moment later, I had the others off, and they were on their way to destruction in my digestive tract.

The air inside Dublin was actually so humid that Kevin's shirt still showed a large dark patch by the time Janet and Paul Santel came out of Santel's office.

"I'll be down at the track if anyone can't wait," Santel told Kevin. "I'll call up for Mr. Letterer when we get back to the lobby."

I wasn't really looking forward to being left there, and fortunately Janet spoke up. "I think it would be best if Bill came with us. He was quite curious about the new model, and he may be a future customer. Besides, I may need to have him go back to the car for more gear."

There was no more gear in the car, but I appreciated her using all the arguments at once.

It wasn't plain in his face or voice, but I was sure that Santel was displeased as he said, "If you wish." He started for the elevator.

Behind Santel's back, Janet gave me a puzzled grin and a quick rise of her eyebrow in Kevin's direction. I wondered if she ever missed a detail.

"He likes to play with water," I said under my breath.

Janet gave me another surprised grin, and an expression which said she'd like to know more later.

The elevator arrived, and I entered with Janet and Paul Santel. Kevin was back at work, sullenly doing whatever jobs he had to do. I strongly hoped there was no surveillance established for that area.

#

Paul Santel took Janet and me down to the track. A shiny forest–green LandAir waited there. Santel even let me sit in it, too.

The car was luxurious. It would let you customize the controls if you chose to. Two membrane panels on either side of the steering controls and another on the ceiling were overlaid by flexible displays. Under control of the car computer, you could literally design your own symbols for any control you chose, and make the required action anything from a single touch to using your finger to draw an arrow on the surface.

Customizable controls were probably the ultimate theft–prevention technique. Who would steal your car if the controls were meaningless to the thief, and it was just as easy to turn the forward jets on full power as it was to vaporize the ashtray contents? You could always get back to the standard configuration, but you had to know how.

It was a curious car, one of those mechanisms made to appeal to the young. By the time most people could finally afford one, they had matured to the point that they didn't want to spend the money on something like that.

Santel took us for a ride around the track. Even with the three of us in it, me cramped into what was normally a storage area between the seats, the LandAir still had acceleration enough to push Santel's body several centimeters into the seat padding. It was an interesting ride, especially when he turned on the hover fans and the rear jets. But it wasn't really the car I wanted to see.

I would rather have been in one of Dublin's bottom–of–the–line cars. This one was so expensive they probably hadn't made any cost–safety compromises. Those would be in the cheap ones, like the one I drove now.

Paul Santel asked Janet what else she wanted to see during her visit, and she hesitated long enough to give me a chance to interject a request. When I was silent, she said, "I think that's going to be enough for today. It will take me quite a while to dig through all those wafers you gave me."

Santel smiled and drove us back to our car. The LandAir settled back to the ground as gently as a raisin floating down through a cup of molasses. Janet thanked him for his time, and, as I walked back to the car, Santel stopped Janet, making a gesture to indicate he had a question but couldn't quite remember it. He remembered it when I was almost out of hearing.

I couldn't hear all he said because he talked quietly, but the words "any time" and "see you again" reached my ears.

Janet's response was too soft to hear.

She started toward me and the car, and I saw Santel smile. "Weasel," I muttered.

"What did you say?" Janet asked me, her smile growing broader as she neared me.

"I said, 'easy.' This is one easy day."

Janet's smile didn't go away. If anything, it grew. "Yes, it is," she said. "It's nice to get away from the pressure once in a while."

#

We had been driving for perhaps five minutes when Janet asked, "Have you written any books before? I don't remember seeing the 'Letterer' byline."

"This is my first. I'm putting so much work into it, I almost think it should be my last."

The recording wafers itched. I sped by a slow–moving truck, and looked back at Janet. She was resting her eyes, but she still wore a small grin. It wasn't until we were nearly back at the station that she began talking again.

"Brad really is your son," she said, "isn't he?"

I was finding it harder and harder to lie to those turquoise eyes. "Yes." I found myself wanting to add that I was no longer married, but she went on abruptly.

"I thought so. The likeness was just too plain."

I thought for a brief moment about my short hair and puffy cheeks, and marked another one down for Janet's perceptiveness. By that time we were at MNBS so I let her off and went to park the car. As I walked back, I was worried. I wondered if she really believed my story about being a writer.

#

I ate lunch by myself. The afternoon was surprisingly calm. In the old days I hated to be out of the office because it seemed that whenever I was gone for any length of time things would pile up.

In the middle of the afternoon, I remembered one thing I had forgotten to ask Janet, so I went over to her office.

"Those wafers that Santel gave you this morning," I said, making sure no one else was nearby. "Could I see them when you're finished with them?"

"Sure. In fact, you can have them in just a couple of minutes. I'll copy them."

Moments later I had three new wafers to add to the fresh duplicates in my shirt pocket. I had copied the ones I brought back from Dublin, too.

Janet seemed happier than she had for the last few days, although even her normal self was more cheerful than a lot of people I knew. "I'm going down to the newsroom," she said. "You want to see it?"

"Sure," I said immediately. I hadn't had a bad time yet with Janet. It was only after we were almost there that I took my mind off Janet and remembered that Larry Talon worked in the newsroom. But if the disguise worked for my own son who had seen me a month earlier, it should work for an acquaintance who hadn't seen me in years. I hoped.

We passed through the outer offices and Janet dropped a wafer into an in basket. She pointed to the QUIET sign as we entered the center. It was a more expensive installation than my old station, but the components were easily recognizable even before Janet began to point them out and whisper their identifications in my ear. I did my best at acting as though it were all new.

The news–level indicator was set to four, but it dropped back to one just after a reporter I hadn't seen earlier finished narrating a story. The station resumed regular scheduling, and the interior QUIET signs faded to black. A sizable portion of the room held unoccupied desks. I wondered idly which one Janet used when she had occasion to.

"Who's your friend, Janet?" asked a familiar voice from behind us.

"Hi, Larry," she said. "Bill Letterer, meet Larry Talon. Larry keeps this operation going. Bill's a new courier."

"Welcome aboard," Larry said, shaking my hand. Larry had hardly changed at all. His cheeks still looked as though he hadn't shaved today, but I was sure he had. His quick, dark eyes scanned my face briefly, stopping for just an instant when he looked into my eyes.

"Thanks," I said, suddenly uncomfortable. "Great place you've got here."

Larry put his hands in his pockets, and swiveled just a little as though to reexamine the room. "We're pretty proud of it." He looked back at me suddenly. "I don't know you, do I?"

"I really don't think so, Mr. Talon. I've only been here a week. Say, if you've got all this equipment in here, why do you need the other roomful?"

"Other roomful?"

"Down the hall. It's labeled 'communications' or something like that."

"Oh. That's where we run the station from during an emergency," Talon replied, diverted to the new topic. "For instance, when there's a national weather system check. We take a wafer, feed it in there, and the station automatically transmits the message. That room lets you set the news–level control to whatever's required."

"What's the highest it's ever been set to?" I asked.

"I've never seen it over an eight, thank God."

"And you can run this whole station from that one tiny little room?" I said, letting disbelief creep into my voice. Maybe if I could keep his impression of me low, I could keep him from wondering where we might have met before.

"That's right. Depending on the emergency, there might not be very many people around."

I had to get out of there. Larry still had that puzzled expression on his face. And if he had time to recall who I reminded him of, he would be quite interested in the similarity between "Letterer" and "Kettering." I cursed myself for not picking a substantially different name.

I wondered briefly if Larry was a potential ally. He had been an ethical, industrious worker when I had known him before. But then I had no idea what temptations he might have been exposed to over the years.

Larry showed me a few more of the features of the news room, pointing out the prompter controls, final broadcast monitoring equipment, recorders, a bank of equipment meant for handling remote–site reception, mixing gear, and showing where various people sat during normal operations. I was still trying to find an acceptable excuse to leave when Larry was called to the phone.

"I think I've seen plenty," I said to Janet. "I shouldn't keep you from your work any longer."

"I'm okay for a while."

"I think you're just being polite. Please. Seeing more would just help me lose track of what I've already seen."

Janet resisted a moment, but fortunately we got out before Larry finished his call. We waved to him through a window in one of the interior walls.

When I said good–bye to Janet, she still seemed a little puzzled about why I hadn't wanted a more thorough tour.

#

The last part of the afternoon had gone slowly, but finally I arrived home and had a chance to examine the recording wafers from Dublin.

A quick check of the first one told me there was good news and bad news. The good news was that I could read some of the memos. The bad news was that they were dull, and that quite a few of the memos were protected by encryption.

I leaned back in my chair and thought for a few minutes. Maybe this wasn't altogether bad news. Encryption was a problem that cropped up periodically in the news business, and I still had a program stored in my wristcomp that had a chance of slowly digging the information out, especially if the phrases Kevin had on his desk were passwords. If Dublin had used a phrase code, it might have been next to impossible to decode the messages without access to the phrase book. I hoped they subscribed to the theory that "good enough" was good enough for them.

The other good part was that Dublin had unknowingly narrowed my search to less than five percent of the wafer's contents. Given the volume of data that would fit on a wafer, I appreciated having my search time cut by a factor of twenty.

I transferred the wristcomp program into my desk computer, and read in all the encrypted files from both wafers. I started the program running in the background, and gave it a key phrase to prevent its results from being seen by anyone but me. If it ever reached a point with the first file where it found actual words in its results, it would save the converted text and start on the next file. If it had to spend more than a couple days on one file, it would move on to the next.

Once that started, I looked through the wafers Janet had received from Paul Santel. They were loaded with hype and professionally produced videos. I wondered if I would ever get to the point of being able to compare what was in front of my eyes now with actual internal memos.

#

The rest of the week lulled me into a false sense of security. I had little time to talk to Janet; she was almost always in the company of someone else.

I felt tired as I drove home from work on Friday afternoon. I also felt a little depressed. The drive to Dublin with Janet had been such a pleasant change from the solitude I'd nearly grown to think of as normal that I really wasn't looking forward to going home to a house I shared with no one.

As it turned out, an empty house would have been preferable.

I locked the car and walked to the steps. The first sign of trouble was the door hanging slightly ajar.

I could have turned around right then, knowing that someone had entered the house. But if they had, and they were waiting inside for me, they wouldn't have left the door open. At least I didn't think so.

My heart pounded heavily and my breath came short as I went down the steps and pushed the door open.

Chapter 8 Education

The door banged hollowly into the wall as it swung as far as it could go. I felt sick.

Inside was a bigger mess than ten drunken parties could be expected to produce.

The interior was dark. Not utterly black, but dark. The overhead light glowed dimly, and I knew what must have happened. Whoever had paid me a visit had brought a supply of paint. There was paint on the walls, paint on the floor, paint on the furniture. I moved to the desk computer, my feet crunching against food and utensils thrown from the kitchen.

The computer was still on. The power indicator showed dimly through a coat of paint. The computer was built to take a lot of punishment. That wasn't true of the rest of the house.

Searching nervously in the dim light, I made sure there was no one still hiding in the house. Then I went to the front door, locked it behind me, and drove to a store. I was seething.

I bought large trash bags, cleaning cloths, paint supplies, and about five kinds of solvents. As I drove back, my anger gave way to questions. The damage could be the result of some delinquent's vandalism spree, which it was obviously meant to look like. Or my visitors could have been from Dublin, bent on retrieving some of their property, trashing the place when they left to conceal their motives, and to make up for the fact that they wouldn't have found the wafers. Or it could have been someone from MNBS, searching my place to find out more about me and also interested in making the visit appear to be something other than what it really was.

But why did they have to be so bloody thorough?

As I pulled up in front of the house, I realized I was giving no credence to the delinquent theory. No. This had to be Dublin or MNBS. But which?

I deliberately avoided looking at the large boulder near the side of the house. Whoever had visited couldn't possibly have been thorough enough to find the wafers buried beside it. Or to have checked my home computer back in Biblis. If anyone knew who I really was, I could expect worse than this.

Inside, I once more made sure I had no company, and began to clean up. I started with the overhead light. The third solvent I tried seemed to work the best, and the black film slowly gave way until most of the light surface was translucent again. The solvent also ate into the surface, leaving it with a frosted texture.

Someone's timing was good. I had just cleared off most of the computer and communications screen when the phone rang.

I answered it in voice–only mode. I was surprised to see Janet's face peering out of the screen.

"Is that you, Bill?" she asked. "I can't see anything."

"Just a minute." I swiveled the unit so it faced one fairly clean wall and stood close enough in front of it to block most of the view. "There," I said, switching on my video.

"Are you okay?"

"Sure. Just doing a little rearranging. What can I do for you? Has a story come up?"

"No. I just wanted to say I was sorry I didn't get to talk to you more after we got back. Things really stacked up while we were out."

"I understand."

"Are you sure you're all right?" she asked again and cocked her head slightly, and then suddenly drew back. "I shouldn't have bothered you at home," she said quickly. "I'll see you at work next week."

As she reached for her controls, I realized that I knew exactly what she was thinking. And I didn't want her thinking that. "Wait," I said, just before she rang off.

"Yes?"

"Brad is my son. But I'm not married anymore. There's no one with me here."

Janet's smile was dazzling for a brief moment. Then she frowned and said, "So, why are you so uncomfortable, then?"

"Because." I hesitated. "Because some delinquent just trashed my house. And I'm starting to clean up." I backed away from the camera so she could see more. "I'm just unsettled, that's all."

She gasped. "What's your address?" she asked, recovering quickly.

"What's my address?"

"You must be a little dazed. I haven't had to repeat myself before."

"You're not planning to come over here?"

"I certainly am. You look like you could use some help."

"Hey, this is my—"

"I'm not going to argue with you. I want to help. Are you going to give me your address, or are you going to let some foolish notion make you do it all by yourself?"

I looked at her image in the screen. I looked at the disaster around me. I thought about not only what a mess this place was, but how lonely it could be. And I gave Janet my address.

#

I had the computer mostly cleaned off by the time I heard a car come to a stop out front. I went to the door.

Janet had traded her business outfit for a pair of durable slacks and a faded plaid shirt. To me, she looked just as good as ever. "Hi," she said simply.

"Hi. And thanks." I smiled at her and showed her in.

She hung her coat by the door. I had already swept away most of the trash from the floor, but she still looked horrified when she saw the rest of the room. "It's terrible."

"I know, but it's home to me."

She laughed nervously. "But why?"

"I don't know. Maybe they just picked my place at random. I haven't been nasty to any of my neighbors." I didn't even know my neighbors.

"Okay. Where do you want me to start?"

"Wherever you'd like. But don't bother with the walls. I'll just repaint them."

She started with the chairs, soaking sections to loosen the grime. She had been working quietly for a few minutes before she said candidly, "Don't be offended. But I thought maybe a writer would have a fancier house."

"Common misconception," I said off the top of my head. "And it's only my first book. Do reporters live in fancy houses?"

"Not particularly. And I'm not there a lot anyway."

"I suppose it's rough," I said while scrubbing on the table. "Not only do you have all the regular work to do, but you waste time with people like Sloane calling meetings they never make it to."

"There's not too much of that. That might not even have been Sloane's fault, though. It could have been just bad communications with Sean."

"You mean between you and Sean?" I asked neutrally.

"No. Sloane and Sean. Sean's the one who gave me that message."

I scrubbed furiously against the black layer on the table. I desperately wanted to believe her.

#

The work went incredibly fast. No more than three hours later, Janet and I had the house looking not a whole lot worse than when I had moved in. Not that its initial appearance had been terrific, but it was almost presentable.

Janet's clothes were sloppy now, her shirt hanging outside her slacks, but she still looked great. She walked in from the kitchen and said, "Well, I think it's pretty close now. I should probably get back."

"No. Wait, please. Let me buy you dinner. You couldn't have had time to eat before you came over."

"Dressed like this?"

"I'll drive out and get some things. You could just sit down and recuperate while I fix it."

"Okay. You can do the cooking, but I'm coming with you. I need to get away from these smells for a little while."

"It's a deal."

#

The exhaust fan had done a passable job by the time we got back. I had just started to heat the lasagna when the phone rang.

"Let it ring," I called to Janet.

"But it might be the station."

"Then let it ring anyway," I said half seriously. But I walked over to the console and answered it. I would rather it had been the station. It was Carolyn.

"Why's your screen blank?" she asked.

"Problems on this end. Could I call you back tomorrow?" I asked. "It's been a long day."

"But then you'd miss Brad at the airport."

"What?"

"I'm sorry. But something's come up. I need you to take Brad for the weekend. He's already on a flight. You are still in Helium, aren't you?"

I tried to keep my voice soft because of Janet. "Yes, I am. But you can't keep doing this to me, Carolyn. For all you knew, I might have been out for the weekend."

"Who are you trying to kid? You probably haven't even gone out with a woman since we were together."

"But that's not the—" I gave up. I'd never be able to make her understand. "What flight, and when does it arrive?"

She told me. At least I had another hour before I had to go. "Okay. I'll get him. Good–bye, Carolyn."

She once again made the instant switch from demanding to thanking me as though it were my idea. "Oh, thanks, Dan. I knew you'd understand. Thanks a lot." With that, she rang off.

I was so tired I didn't even absorb the fact that she had called me "Dan" until after Janet started rising from the couch.

Janet's face was dark, her gaze distant. She rubbed her arms as though she was suddenly cold. "I just remembered something I've got to do. Thanks for the offer of food. Maybe some other time."

"Janet, please stay."

"Why should I?" she snapped, anger and pain showing on her face. "And who would I be staying with? Bill, Dan, Tom, Dick, Harry?" She walked resolutely toward the door.

I stayed where I was and said quietly, "If you'll stay, I'll tell you the truth this time. All of it." I no longer had any choice. If she left now, I could never go back to MNBS. I had to trust her or quit.

She hesitated near the door. She had grabbed her coat and reached to open the door, and then her hand dropped back to her side. She stayed there a moment, facing away from me. "Do I want to hear this?" she asked finally.

"I think you do." I started breathing again.

She slowly turned to look at me.

I said, "My real name is Daniel William Kettering. That was my ex–wife Carolyn. Brad is our son."

Janet walked to the couch and sat down.

"I had my video off when I talked to Carolyn because she doesn't know what I look like now."

"So you're not a writer. I thought the writer story sounded too convenient. I guess I just wanted to believe you."

"No. I'm not a writer."

"You lie quite well. But you probably know that."

"I'm not lying right now." I tried to see her eyes, but her head was turned away, as though she could judge from only my voice whether I was telling the truth.

"So, what are you?"

"I'm investigating."

"Who are you investigating—me?"

"No. Sean Franco." I sat down beside her. This time she looked at me.

"I don't understand," she said. Some of the anger was gone from her voice, but not all of it.

"I have to backtrack a little. About two weeks ago, my brother Sam died as a result of an air crash that you and Sean covered."

Janet turned toward me, her eyes widened, but she said nothing.

I told her about the visit from Freeman and the disguise. I told her I wouldn't look the way I did deliberately.

"But why you?" she asked at last.

"I spent some time working in a station several years ago. And Freeman knew me."

"Why were you willing to tell me all of this? I could be in on it—whatever 'it' is. Aren't you taking a risk?"

I looked at her levelly and said, "I don't think I've ever taken a larger risk. But sometimes you have to go with your instincts. I don't think you're part of what's going on here."

She was silent for a long time, and then she looked up at me suddenly. "Wait a minute. You're Daniel Kettering. Dan Kettering. Not Devious Dan?"

"I haven't heard that name in years. But, yes, I guess I knew it was used."

"I'll be damned," she said grinning suddenly. She looked at me more closely. "I was in my last year of school when those stories hit. Do you have any idea what a role model you were to my entire class? And you had been on the job for only a year or so, as I recall. I thought maybe you were dead after you uncovered stories like those and then the stories stopped coming."

"Not dead. I just quit."

"Why?" She looked astonished.

"Let's start eating while we talk."

While we were busy in the kitchen, I told her about working on the Dublin story back then, and being pulled off it.

"So that's why you wanted to go to Dublin. I couldn't figure it out. You didn't seem nearly as excited about the LandAir as you should have been. So you wanted inside information. It's too bad the trip was a waste."

I grinned at her. "Number one, going on a trip like that with you could hardly be called a waste. That was the most fun I'd had in quite a while. And number two, I got about as much as I could reasonably hope for. Private industry doesn't protect proprietary information nearly as well as the military guards secret data." I told her about Kevin's stint with the water faucet.

For a short moment, an amazed smile crossed her face, and then she grew serious. "Did they do this?" she asked, indicating the walls. "Or someone at MNBS?"

"I don't know. You obviously had your suspicions about me. Did anyone else?"

Janet paled. "I'm not sure if anyone else did, but when you first started I told Sean that you seemed a little too competent. He could have acted on that information, or mentioned it to someone else. But I'm having trouble thinking of Sean as a criminal."

I told her how the number of MNBS's firsts compared to the other stations' totals. And how she and Sean had compared to the other news teams.

"I still don't know if Sean could be involved in something like that," she said at last. "He's not an altogether open person—–neither are you, for that matter. But I haven't had any direct reason to suspect him—"

"I've got to go," I said, suddenly conscious of the time. "Brad's going to be at the airport." I hadn't realized how long we had talked.

Janet nodded reluctantly.

At the door, I told her how grateful I was about her coming over.

"You're welcome." She looked at me levelly. "I enjoyed it. I'll talk to you more during the week."

"It's probably really paranoid to say this, knowing how fast you pick things up, but it's imperative that it's business as usual. If this theory is well–founded, people have died because of whatever Sean's doing. And he may already be quite suspicious." I waved a hand back toward the center of my house and said, "Is that clear enough, Ms. Vincent?"

She stiffened just a little, and that cool shell started to fall into place. "I hear you, Mr. Letterer." And then after just a second or two more, she softened the words with an understanding smile.

She started out the door, but I brought her back with one last question.

"This is almost certainly none of my business, and you can tell me to go to hell, but—at Dublin, as we were leaving, while you were talking to Paul Santel—why were you so amused?"

"Why, Mr. Letterer, what a thing to ask." She moved again as though to leave, and turned back and smiled. "It wasn't because of anything he said. It was because of you. You know, you're not always as opaque as you might like to be."

#

I could hardly keep my eyes open on the way to the airport. The vapors from the cleaners coupled with my exhaustion were almost too much.

I got there just in time. Brad was escorted off the plane by a matronly lady who was still asking him questions even though she had probably sat next to him on the plane. She didn't seem overly happy to see Brad walk off with someone who looked like me, but as he obviously knew me there wasn't much she could say.

I was a terrible conversationalist on the way back to the house. My energy seemed to have faded away after Janet left.

"Dad, what's that smell?" Brad asked, wrinkling his nose when we got through the door.

"Just an accident. Let's go to bed, all right?"

"Okay. But don't you even want to know why I'm here this time?"

"Tell me in the morning." I didn't need another account of Carolyn's activities.

Brad wouldn't accept the "no." "Mom sent me over here as punishment. I've been suspended from school for three days."

#

Brad woke up long before I felt like getting out of bed. I tried to ignore him and go back to sleep, but after a while I gave up. The stale smell of solvents didn't help.

"Dad, what happened to the walls?" Brad asked when he saw I was up. "They look terrible."

"We're going to repaint them today. Tell me about this suspension while we fix breakfast," I said. "What did you do?"

Brad beat me to the refrigerator, and began taking out some of the few things still left there after yesterday's visit. "I skipped class a few times," he said, already chewing on something he'd found.

"Come on. What did you really do?"

"Honest, Dad."

"You're telling me you skipped a few classes, and your punishment is to be suspended for three days? That doesn't make any sense."

"It's what happened." He looked me in the eye without flinching.

I put a few things back in the refrigerator and loaded some synthetic eggs in the microwave. When they were done and we started to eat, I said. "Okay. Why did you skip classes?"

"So I could see you," Brad said simply.

"Care to explain your reasoning?"

"Simple. Mom sends me to you for punishment. What she doesn't know won't hurt her, right?"

I stared at him. "You're awfully cocky. I think next time you've been bad I won't let you come."

"You couldn't. Where would I go if both you and Mom wouldn't let me in?"

This early in the morning, his logic was irrefutable. I went back to my eggs. "What's so exciting about being here?" I asked finally.

"Are you kidding? You're in disguise in another city. Who knows what you're up to? Besides, no one would believe me."

"What exactly do you mean?" I asked carefully, keeping my voice level. My stomach felt queasy.

Brad must have known he'd said the wrong thing almost immediately after he'd said it, because he wouldn't look me in the eye now. "I just mentioned it to Jerry at school. And Mom."

Great. Janet knew what was going on. Brad knew some of it. And now Carolyn and some school kids I didn't even know knew part of it. "So your mother knows all those things you promised not to tell her? Damn it, Brad. When are you going to grow up so I can trust you?"

"I didn't tell her everything." Brad's voice rose in pitch. "I tried not to tell her anything, but she pried it out of me."

I was too tired to press it further. I knew Carolyn, but surely Brad's school friend wouldn't have the same power. "Okay, then," I said finally. "How about if we paint some walls?"

#

I thought I was tired already. That was before I spent half the day with my arms reaching up to handle the portions of the walls where they curved in to become the ceiling. Somehow the motions managed to make the base of my spine hurt more than anything else.

But at least we were done. And the beige looked a good deal more attractive than the former steel–gray. It almost seemed like a home.

"Tell me the name of that counselor I'm supposed to call," I said. I put my feet up and tried to make myself as comfortable as possible.

"Ms. Smith," Brad said.

"Can you be more specific?"

"I think her first name is Adrienne."

I had the computer search for Adrienne Smiths in Biblis, and find any who were connected with Brad's school. It found one. A few moments later, I saw a fair–haired woman about my age appear on my screen. Her hair was cut quite short. I identified myself as Brad's father. "So, where do we go from here?" I asked.

"As Brad must have told you, we have asked him not to come to school for the next three days. He is also restricted from major school activities for the next three months. We hope that this, combined with your own discussions with him, will discourage him from similar problems."

"Let me make sure I have this right. The problem was that he skipped school a couple of days, correct?"

"Yes, that's so."

"Well, if he's already a little cut off from his peers and the classroom, wouldn't it make more sense to punish him by making him do extra assignments or more work, rather than further dividing him from school?" I didn't understand her apparent preference of punishment rather than help.

"Maybe." She sounded unconvinced. "But we're not set up for other methods. And if I made an exception for Brad, I'd have to do it for all the children."

"That sounds good to me," I said. "I'm not asking for favoritism, just common sense."

"I'm sorry, but Brad knew he shouldn't skip classes. And those are the rules. We're trying to show our students that they have to live by the rules, just like coming inside when the wind–speed warnings are out." By now, her tone was almost condescending.

"Yes, but in real life the rules get tempered by reason and compassion. The law recognizes mitigating factors and considers the punishment in context. And even penitentiaries give time off for good behavior. I'm sure Brad would be willing to take on extra assignments to atone." I looked over at Brad and he nodded vigorously.

"I'm very sorry," she said. "But that's the way it must be, for Brad's own good."

I could see how much progress I was making. I felt like saying if this were a free enterprise, I'd take my business elsewhere, but I merely said, "Okay, Ms. Smith. Thanks for taking the time." I wondered if her condescending, by–the–book manner came from dealing with children more often than adults. Leaning back wearily, I looked at Brad.

Brad looked straight at me and solemnly said, "Boy, Dad, you sure do have a way with women."

#

I bought another lock for the door. The new one wouldn't be any harder to open with the right tools than the old one was, but it was a whole lot stronger. I set the replacement to recognize Brad's thumbprint and mine. Brad left on a return flight at my expense. I also sent a message to Carolyn, saying that she'd better not send Brad over unannounced again, because I might temporarily be unavailable.

It's funny sometimes how the lie becomes the truth.

Chapter 9 Revelation

As I was preparing for work Monday morning, I got called in early.

When I reached MNBS, I went directly to the company car lot and took a small van. I'd been waiting for not even five minutes when Janet arrived and climbed into the van. Seconds later, Sean pulled up in a car, got out, and joined us.

"Downtown," Sean said.

"It's a big place," I said, accelerating the van into traffic.

"We're going to a meeting at the federal building," Janet told me. The corners of her eyes in the rearview mirror crinkled in a smile for just an instant.

For the next few minutes, I made small talk. Naturally, the topic made its way to what kind of weekend we had all had, and I confessed that some delinquent had caused me a little extra work.

"Probably some kid on a spree," Sean said, sounding sympathetic. "There was a kid last year who got fifteen houses all in one day. He got caught on the last house he planned to do. So he said anyway."

Janet asked me if I had managed to clean it all up yet, and I said I had.

I merged onto one of the spokes heading for downtown. The air was fairly calm. We passed a park, and the grounds reflected the sunlight so brightly that it seemed to be comfortable without a coat. I knew better, though.

A mass of brake lights flashing ahead was the first indication that this ride wasn't going to be just like any other. Reflexively, I slowed. Farther ahead, a couple of cars had their brakes on hard enough for a panic stop, the rear ends of the cars thrust up by the force.

I slowed way down, moved to the right side of the road as quickly as I could, and turned on my emergency lights. We were less than a hundred meters from an overpass ahead.

"What's wrong?" Sean asked in the middle of it all.

"I don't know yet," I said. "Probably an accident up ahead."

Sean and Janet looked up the road. Even as two cars whipped by us, their antiskid brakes making that controlled screech, I was aware of Sean withdrawing a small camera from his pack.

Sean popped open his door. He threw aside the pack and began to run toward the activity ahead. Janet followed after him almost as fast.

I called the emergency number and gave them all I knew before I got out of the van. And then my gaze shifted up and I saw the truck taking the curve on the overpass ahead.

I felt a sudden terrible lurch in my stomach, and sat transfixed as I watched the scene play out before my eyes, as if it were a grotesque Rube Goldberg device, with only a few cause–and–effect links.

The driver of the truck must have been completely on manual, and not looking very far ahead. Maybe he was intent on the mayhem on the ground below. Whatever the reason, he obviously didn't see the stopped traffic ahead of him and around the curve.

As I watched, he must have finally realized what lay before him, and he applied the brakes, hard.

He was clearly in trouble. The distance remaining wasn't enough for the loaded truck to stop completely. The pipes on the truck's flatbed were too massive. So the antiskid brakes did their best as the driver struggled to keep the truck on the road instead of crashing into the guard rail. It was a hard fight. The inertia was forcing him toward the rim, and the fact that he was braking made it hard to use tire friction to pull the truck back toward the inside of the curve.

He came closer to a successful halt than I had guessed he would. But not close enough.

He was still shedding speed and hugging the outside of the curve when he ran out of room. He was far enough to the left that, when he hit the car in front of him, he hit with his right–hand tire. All in one instant, he lost a sizable portion of the friction that had been working to keep him from the curve, and the twisting impact with the car gave him an additional impulse toward the edge.

In my mind, there never had been much doubt about the outcome. Friction and reaction time weren't up to the task. But now the situation was totally in the hands of gravity. There could be no remaining question.

In what seemed to be the longest and slowest portion of the tragedy, the truck crashed through the railing, tipping over as it forced its way along. It appeared to hang for a final instant before it began to fall toward the roadway below the overpass.

When it landed, I felt the ground shake. But some of the people under it now would probably never feel anything again. At least four vehicles, maybe more, had been standing still on the road directly below.

The pipes came free in the impact, scattering over the rubble. I could hear sirens from almost every direction.

Janet. Where was Janet? I shook off my daze and ran forward.

I couldn't see her. My breath came faster, not just from the running. And then I did see her. She was fine. Well back from the roadside, she stood with her camera. Not too far away was Sean, talking into his microphone as he kept shooting.

I resumed my run. Survivors were already pulling bodies out of the wreckage when I got there. I helped.

Miraculously, one woman in a car hit almost directly by the truck was still alive. It took us until about the time the authorities arrived to get her out safely. None of us had been able to get her to stop sobbing, however. All the while we had struggled to free her, she had been pinned within half a meter of her husband's dead body.

As more and more trained emergency people arrived, I backed away. Broken solar panel material crunched under my feet. Finally I had time to quit reacting to the chaos and destruction around me, and I could at last give some attention to the question that had been running through my brain since this all started: What caused this?

I set my wristcomp to MNBS. An announcer was filling in the background just then, apparently between live or delayed shots. His strongest theory was that the highway guidance system had experienced a localized failure.

For about a half–kilometer circle centered near us, the navigation assistance, road signs, and warning systems had simply ceased to function. The situation might have resulted in no casualties if it hadn't been rush hour and if it hadn't been for maybe a few key drivers who panicked and pulled to a dead stop in the middle of the road. From there, it just got worse. The rest of the drivers had to contend with the same problems that spooked the first few, and deal with the first few. The tragedy escalated.

The announcer faded and the transmission cut to an aerial view of the destruction. There had to be a thousand cars stopped, although perhaps only thirty of them had problems.

I switched briefly to a rival station. They hadn't even gotten visual coverage started yet. Their news was entirely verbal.

I switched back. MNBS was playing ground coverage of the truck crashing through the guardrail. Sean or Janet had gotten a good shot. You could see the truck driver brace himself as he obviously realized he was on the way down. And then the lens zoomed back for what seemed to be a slow–motion view of the fall. But I knew it was actual speed. I had to look away.

I glanced up. An MNBS jump jet still hovered above the center of the damage. As I watched, a second jumper came into view. Finally one of the rival stations had arrived. I wondered where MNBS's jumper had been when the first reports of the activity came into the news desk.

With no warning, I saw Sam lying in the hospital bed. I promised myself that someone would pay.

#

Whatever meeting we had been going to was long over by the time we drove away from the disaster site. The traffic death toll had reached twelve, including one old man whose car wasn't damaged but who had suffered a massive coronary apparently after he had seen all the destruction.

As I drove Janet and Sean back to MNBS, I had my wristcomp set to record one frame every five seconds from the MNBS transmission. It probably wouldn't tell me anything, but, if I could detect any pattern in the news coverage, maybe I'd be closer to an answer.

The pattern of the actual events still held, meaning that MNBS was in the lead on the story and that people had died. I glanced at Sean in the seat beside me. Could it be that specific people were to die? That could have been true when the plane carrying Sam had exploded, at Edom, and in the hotel, but a traffic mishap like this one seemed too unfocused. Instead of a bullet with someone's name on it, the message read, "To whom it may concern." I looked briefly into the rearview mirror and saw Janet. I held my gaze for just a second and she met it.

"So the police say this won't happen again?" I said. "I can't say that makes me feel really good."

Sean looked at me. I didn't think he was going to respond, but he did. "I'm satisfied. Having two traffic control computers go down near the same time must be pretty rare. It hasn't happened before."

"Still makes me nervous. I drive a lot."

Sean gave me a patronizing grin and said, "So leave it on computer–assist. The accident wouldn't have happened if so many of those people hadn't been on manual."

"Where's the fun in that?" I asked as we pulled up in front of MNBS.

"It's your job. It's not supposed to be fun." With that, Sean left the van and started into the building.

Janet got out, too. Just before she shut her door, I heard her soft words. "That's you, all right. All play and no work."

#

I was on my way from the parking lot to the building when I noticed an unfamiliar car in the lot. Someone had a shiny new gun–metal–blue LandAir. I walked to my office, wondering who the owner was.

Being a courier was even more of a feast–or–famine job than being a reporter. Janet and Sean both had some finishing up to do on the morning's story. I had nothing.

I had no official MNBS work, that is. I had plenty I could do. The first thing I did was have a seat in my office and roll up my sleeves to help me cool off. Next I started reviewing the frames my wristcomp had recorded. I routed them to my desk computer and tilted the screen away from the door so no one else could see.

I went through the frames quickly at first. There was extended coverage of the accident. Then the primary coverage ended and programming went back toward normal. Commercials interrupted the flow, and next I saw a text screen showing the latest Morgan Poll results for the Alsop–Sloane race. Alsop was ahead by a small margin. Maybe Alsop was a fairly good choice.

I was still thinking when Janet showed up in my office doorway.

"How's your house?" she asked.

"It's passable. Come on in."

She did so. Once she was closer and I could speak more softly, I thanked her again for all the help she had given me on Friday evening.

"You're welcome," Janet said, helping herself to the empty chair next to my desk. "But it's too bad that our frank talk was so late in the evening. I've got lots of unanswered questions."

"So do I. But I'm afraid if people see us talking very much they'll be suspicious."

"Maybe some other time they will. Today, Sean asked me to give you a preliminary review, now that you've been here for almost two weeks. I could even close the door." She grinned.

"I thought there were rules against that," I said, grinning, too. "But by all means."

She got up and closed the door. It was funny how such a simple act seemed to make the meeting more intimate. "How long do typical reviews last?" I asked.

"It varies. Fifteen minutes up to maybe an hour."

"So maybe we should limit it to thirty minutes. Do you need to spend some of the time actually doing the review?"

"No. Part of it's for your benefit anyway. Besides, I know your type." She smiled again, returning to the chair.

"Let's see what else you know. Could this morning's accident have been anticipated?"

"You're suggesting it's part of the pattern?"

"It fits in some ways. MNBS was there first, by a good margin. Lives were lost."

"But it seems so unlikely. If the traffic computers had been blown up, maybe I could accept it." She crossed her legs and it took me a long moment to regain my concentration.

"Electronic equipment doesn't have to be blown up to make sure it quits working for a few minutes," I said finally. "I'm an engineer now, remember?"

"But wouldn't there be some sign?"

"Maybe. Maybe it would be small and no one would notice. A small receiver and a heat bomb supported by a small, high–temperature wire could be hanging in the equipment cabinet with the computer. A signal sets off the bomb. The bomb gets so hot it vaporizes the transmitter and the rest of itself in the process, while the heat gets the equipment well over its acceptable operating range. If the equipment has a little ventilation, investigators might not notice the leftover smell."

"What about the wire?"

"It's naturally coiled, so once there's no longer any load on it, the wire draws into a small coil on the ceiling of the cabinet. And it's a small wire. It could easily go unnoticed."

Janet thought for a moment. "So as we're on our way downtown, someone pushed a button at just the right time. Who?"

"I don't know. Some anonymous caller who told MNBS there would be an accident at that time and location. Someone who likes to see his damage on television. Someone who's found out that if he calls MNBS the message gets routed to the news desk but not to the police, so there's no chance of missing the fun when the police cordon off the area."

"Would that mean Sean knew about it?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. He could have just been planning to go to the meeting, and someone else at MNBS knew that would fit right into the plan."

"I just don't understand yet."

"You're not alone. There are several things I don't understand yet. You said you didn't see the televised version of the coverage you got of the meeting downtown before the fire?"

She nodded, obviously unsure why I was asking.

I told her about the deliberate editing job that had made Sloane look bad.

Janet was even angrier about it than I had been. It was her station, after all, and her coverage. "But there's got to be something we can do," she said finally.

"I don't know what. I still can't see what's going on here. Or why. Obviously someone isn't conforming to the broadcasters' code of ethics. But I can't tell if everything is related or not. It could be we have here the equivalent of an organized crime unit, with several departments. You know, one for vice, one for protection, and so on. It could be a few key people, bent on one goal, and we're seeing just the manifestations stemming from that one purpose. Or it could be in between, or something entirely different. Did you know that the Vanderland Agency has an office right here in the building?"

Janet tapped her fingernails on the desktop. "I'd heard that. But I never heard a good explanation."

"Alsop is a client of Vanderland's."

"My, you have been busy."

"It's nice to have a station's resources."

Janet's turquoise eyes met mine for a moment, and I thought she was going to say something then, but she didn't. After a time she said, "What does Vanderland get out of helping Alsop win, other than a cut of his future salary if he wins the election?"

"I don't know. It's even possible they don't get that if he's paid them a flat fee, win or lose."

"This is getting too complex without more information to go on. Maybe we should split up and each do research on our own."

"Maybe a better idea is for me to keep researching and periodically bounce ideas off you. Until I have a better idea of what's happening, I don't have a clear idea of the risk. Someone here might get quite upset at snoops."

"That's funny," she said evenly. "You don't look sexist."

I looked at her sharply, and saw nothing but a serious expression. I watched her a little longer and her façade slipped. The barest grin escaped before she said, "You had it coming. This is my station. If there's something not right here, I'm in on it."

She was right, of course. I was surprised at myself. How had I suddenly become so protective of her? "Okay. End of discussion. Can you find out anything about Midas Corporation?"

"No problem. Who are they?" Janet visibly relaxed.

"They own Vanderland."

She nodded and looked at her wristcomp. "I'd better go. I don't want to be accused of fraternizing." She rose and started to open the door.

"No," I said just before she left. "We certainly wouldn't want that."

She held her hand on the doorknob for a moment. "You know, you really did look a lot better as Dan Kettering. I looked at the old file pictures."

#

The house looked just the way I had left it when I returned. The lock on the door seemed untouched. I went inside.

Apart from my uncharacteristic lonely feeling, everything seemed normal. I got a hot cinnamon tea from the kitchen and sat down in front of the desk computer. The right password brought up the program running the Dublin memo analysis.

I was in luck. Dublin had as much confidence in their physical security as did a couple of companies I had visited several years ago. Their encryption method was one that made it easy on themselves, so they didn't have to remember lots of passwords. And that made it easier for the program to get results by brute force.

Brute force was slow, though. So far, the program had cracked only ten percent of the contents.

I turned on the television while I skimmed what was available so far. The first few minutes told me that Dublin seemed to use the same protection scheme consistently. I had started on the oldest memos and reports first, to gain a sense of continuity. I could revise the order in which the program attacked files, but I didn't.

As I read, I occasionally checked to see how MNBS's evening programming was going. Several times they recapped everything I had seen in the morning. After several boring memos and food commercials, I fixed a quick dinner and continued.

It took another hour before the Dublin memos suddenly warmed up. I had just finished scanning a tedious financial projection when I found a preliminary report on an instability in the LandAir. A preproduction model had failed one of its performance tests, and the engineering manager explained that he needed a schedule extension. It still wasn't the kind of item I really wanted, though. The defect could well have been fixed before the production run started.

After that report, there was nothing further in the section that had been converted to clear text. I had to let the computer continue its task. I hoped it was learning enough to accelerate the remaining analysis.

There was still no way to tell if Dublin or MNBS had been behind the damage done to my house. I hoped further revelations from the Dublin memos would be damaging, but I almost hoped there wasn't anything they would kill to protect. And if my visitors had been from MNBS, I felt fairly confident that they wouldn't have found anything that implied I wasn't exactly who I said I was.

I leaned back in my chair and considered going to bed. But then I finally realized the source of the frustration that had been growing in me during the day. I just wasn't making fast enough progress. It wasn't simply that this house reeked of cleaning solvents and paint and that I was getting tired of being away from home. The real problem was that, the longer I stayed with MNBS, the greater the chances of someone catching me. Someone other than Janet. Someone who would take strong actions to purge the station of its contamination.

If I were going to keep ahead of that someone, I needed to go faster. I put the code–breaker program back in the computer's background, and rose. I retrieved a parka from the closet, wishing fleetingly that Mars had oceans to provide a thermal flywheel. At night, it got cold.

My car, despite its appearance, started smoothly. I pulled it out into the darkness. Deimos was up, looking like one more star above, just a little brighter than most. I set the address for the Midas Corporation into the car's navigation system. A map lit up on the dash. Only a minute passed before I could no longer see my breath.

Few cars passed me on the way. The route took me toward downtown. I stayed on a main spoke until I was within a kilometer of the office. As I pulled off the spoke, I passed a dark–colored LandAir going the opposite direction. There were more people with money around than I had realized.

As I got closer to the address, I slowed down. Instead of feeling my car rushing along the road, I was now more aware of other things moving. Dust swirled and raced across the expanses, making distant lights flicker. When it slithered over the dimly lit road, winding its way around obstacles, it gave me the feeling of a mass of millions of tiny insects scurrying across the flat stretches, all of them consumed by a bizarre herd instinct.

The wind rocked the car more now, too. Before, the road vibrations had covered up most of the buffeting. The map on my dash had grown to a larger scale, showing only the surrounding square kilometer. Midas was a blinking red point less than a third of the map away.

I didn't drive directly to it. Now that I was out in the night I didn't feel so tired, and I wanted to see what lay nearby.

Once around the perimeter told me what I was dealing with. Midas sat near the center of a round industrial park separated from the nearby residential areas by large access roads and a ring park. As the wind forced dust toward some of the largest boulders in the park, the dust formed eddy currents in the angular shadows. Lichen meant to cut down on dust was covered over in places.

I began a pass around the outside. The nature of the park became apparent shortly. I saw no manufacturing and no sales. Most of the businesses simply had large initials in front, but all the ones I could read and understand appeared to be service organizations, selling expertise, not goods.

The industrial park was laid out in the form of a bull's–eye. I finished driving around the outermost ring, seeing only a few scattered cars and vans parked outside businesses. Some of the vans were plugged into nearby outlets to avoid draining their storage cells. A small car like mine could get enough energy from the solar panels to be independent of external power; a fully loaded van with accessories took too much.

The next layer in held no surprises. I continued my sweep, looking for nothing in particular.

The wind hit the car sporadically. Some of the buildings were large enough to temporarily block the worst of it, but it seemed even more violent than before when I drove past gaps between buildings where the wind funneled through. Ahead I saw a familiar sign: Morgan Polls.

I drove past the building slowly. The first floor was brightly lit, but the upper stories had apparently shut down for the night.

Midas was on the next ring in, so I skipped it, going to the innermost ring first. I saw nothing familiar there.

The ring with Midas on it looked very much like all the others. It had the same mixture of above–ground structures and excavated buildings with steps leading down to the top floor. The Midas Corporation resided in a circular, below–ground building. Only one floor was visible, ground–level windows letting yellow light from gold–tinted panes spill onto the cold ground outside.

The illumination from the lamps near the main door showed that the walls were also gold–tinted. I couldn't tell, but I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that the building designers had sacrificed a little energy efficiency to tint the solar panels on the roof. In the daylight, the building must have looked even more like an enormous gold coin.

I looked carefully at the surroundings as I drove past. Between the buildings, I could see through to the next street. After a moment more of thought, I sped up and went back to the next street out. From there, I drove until I should have been just about in back of the Midas building. As I pulled to a stop, I saw with faint surprise that I was almost in front of the Morgan Polls building.

I drove ahead and parked in the lot of the next business, an advertising agency. I turned off the ignition and the headlights switched off. I pulled up my parka hood, put on my gloves, and pushed the car door open against the wind. Fortunately I had a good grip, because once the door got about halfway open, the wind shifted and threatened to rip it off.

Then I remembered why I didn't like to go outside much at night. It was a little like being a feather in a blender. The wind blew forcefully, and, once you leaned into it, it changed direction. I stooped as I walked, trying to lower my center of gravity and keep the wind out of my face.

A delivery alley ran between the Morgan Polls building and Midas Corporation. I crossed it and tried to keep myself on course for a couple of darkened windows near the rear of Midas. I shivered. My leg hurt.

In my path were a few boulders that predated the structures and had apparently just been left there by the builders when Midas had been constructed. A sudden thought about night surveillance made me decide to pause for a moment in the lee of one of the rocks. It wouldn't hurt to get out of the wind for a moment either.

I rounded the side of a large boulder and settled heavily against it. I took a deep breath, happy to find that the wind didn't tear it away from me before I could inhale.

I'm not sure what made me search the shadows around me. Even after I looked, I wasn't sure. But as I stared into the darkness and let my eyes adjust, my breath began to come as hard as it had while I was exposed to the wind.

There, in the shadow beside me, I had company.

Chapter 10 Guesswork

The form in the shadow didn't move.

I sat there frozen, alternatives spilling all over themselves in my head. One, the person slinking there was a figment of my imagination. Two, the person was really there and dead. Number three opened up too many possibilities. If it was a live person, why did it stay silent? My pulse pounded loud enough to hear over the sound of the wind.

If there really were no one there, or if the person were dead, it couldn't hurt much to talk. If it was a person, it must be a guard or someone like me.

I didn't think a guard would stay silent for so long.

"You come here often?" I asked, just loudly enough to be heard over the wind.

The wind was the only sound for a long moment. I kept hoping the noise of a laser discharge wouldn't join it. And then a voice from the darkness said tentatively, "Bill?"

I knew that voice. "Bloody hell, Janet. You gave me a damn awful scare."

"It is you. What do you mean I gave you a scare? And come closer so you're not so exposed."

I scooted closer. My heart began to shift back to low gear. "What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice even softer now that I was next to her.

"What am I doing here—" she began, irritation creeping into her voice for almost the first time since I'd known her. And then it disappeared. "Let's back up. I was so nervous there for a minute that I let it spill out. I'm here," she said calmly, "because you suggested I check out the Midas Corporation. Why are you here?"

"I couldn't sleep. And I wasn't thinking about you being this thorough in your research."

"I take my job seriously," she said softly, her breath making a tiny puff before the cold wind whipped it away. I still couldn't see her face clearly. She was as wrapped up as I was.

"Do you mind some company?"

"Of course not. I just don't like it arriving the way you did."

I turned my head toward the Midas building. "What have you found out so far?"

"Nothing. I'd been here about ten minutes before you showed up. I've got my office computer checking tax records, court records, property records, everything that seemed reasonable, but I haven't seen the results yet. I just wanted to see what the place looked like."

"So you didn't intend to go in?"

"No," she said emphatically. "Why, did you?"

"No. I was just curious about how much risk you were prepared to take. I don't think what we know so far justifies taking the risk of breaking and entering. I'm glad we agree."

We were both silent for a moment. I looked back at the Midas building. The gold–tinted windows made the light coming out look cold. I shivered. "Is this as close as you planned to go?" I asked finally.

"I hadn't planned that far. I suppose so." She was close enough that her eyes reflected a little of the light from Midas. "What are you doing?" she asked suddenly.

"Just getting something from my pocket." I showed her the compact binoculars as I got them out of my pocket. "It's lucky we're sitting. These are strong enough that if I were standing in this wind, I'd never see anything."

I lifted them to my eyes and looked at the nearest lighted window. Even though I was seated, the scene shook.

"What do you see?" came Janet's whisper.

"Nothing. If they have anything to hide, it's probably unlikely that they'd leave it in plain sight for outsiders." I scanned a few more rooms, and noticed one desk–top screen that seemed to be on, but it was at too much of an angle.

I handed the binoculars to Janet and she began a sweep. Several minutes went by before she said, "It's too bad it's so late. I saw only one person and he didn't look familiar. The only thing that might be even close to worthwhile is the screen that's on." She handed them back.

"I could go for a closer look," I said.

"I don't know if it's worth it."

"Neither do I, but there's a straightforward way to find out." I started forward, but she stopped me with a hand on my arm.

"Shouldn't we take some precautions?"

"You're right. Establish a private link?"

"And a meeting place," she said. "How about your place if we get separated?"

"Fine." We each gave our wristcomps a few commands. "I'm ready."

"Me, too. Here's a test." She spoke a brief command to her wristcomp and mine beeped barely perceptibly.

"Thanks." I moved away at an angle. The wind almost knocked me over. Near another boulder, I stopped and tried the binoculars again. The angle was better, but the screen was still too far away.

There was still no sign of anyone else in the area, so I started forward slowly, hunched low. I covered about two–thirds of the distance and stopped next to a small mound of rock. The binoculars froze the skin around my eyes; I hadn't put them back in my pocket. After a moment the screen came into view.

The screen was split into two windows. One showed text too small to make out. The other displayed a picture of Frank Sloane.

I was sitting there, trying to figure out why Sloane's picture would be there, debating about going closer, when my wristcomp beeped. I held it to my mouth. "Yes?"

"Don't move," Janet's whisper told me. "There's someone making rounds through the rooms. He'll be in sight in ten seconds."

I pressed myself flatter against the cold ground, trying to make myself a part of the mound of rocks. I breathed as calmly as I could into my gloves covering my mouth. No guard likes to see vapor coming from a rock.

Why a human guard, I asked myself. Almost all buildings actually needing protection used internal sensors. Anyone who didn't need that, typically had nothing except locks.

Ten seconds passed. Fifteen. Thirty. I could hear nothing but the wind rushing past. I tried not to shiver.

Maybe the guard was standing there at the window, looking intently at a rock he remembered as being smaller. Maybe he was calling quietly for assistance. Or maybe he was pointing his gun at me, setting it for lethal.

A voice startled me, until I realized it was Janet. "I said, 'all clear.' Do you understand?"

"Right," I whispered into my wristcomp. I rose to a crouched position and began to walk back quietly and quickly. My knees were weak.

I made it back to Janet's hiding place without feeling the agony of a burning needle entering my back and exiting my chest. "Thanks," I breathed. "Let's get out of here."

"Fine with me," she whispered back. "You go first."

I debated for a brief moment whether to argue that she go first, but I really didn't have the faintest idea which would be safer. Besides, taking time to argue might make the risk even higher if we had been noticed and the guard was going for help. "Okay. But let's meet after we get our cars. How about in front of that restaurant near the main spoke intersection on the way back toward MNBS."

"I know the one."

"See you there." I took one last long look back at Midas, and started moving. I circled the Morgan Polls building to the left. A backward glance told me Janet was on her way, but going around the other side. I kept looking back until she was out of sight. I studied the building until I passed it and crossed the road.

Janet hadn't come into view on her side yet. I reached my car and tapped in the combination. I kept looking back for Janet, but I took long enough to make sure there was no one hiding in my back seat. The alarm system was fairly trustworthy, but my paranoia was running high.

I started the engine, feeling good to be out of the wind, and feeling terrible that Janet hadn't made it this far yet, when she finally came into view. At least I saw someone in low–temperature gear, walking the right direction. I started forward, and drove slowly past her as she got into her car, a dark Far–Runner.

I maintained my slow pace until the Far–Runner was behind me on the road. I accelerated hard.

Janet kept up with me easily, and I saw no other cars that seemed to be taking the same path. She pulled in next to me in the restaurant parking lot. The interior of her car was dark. I waited for her to get out. When she didn't I began to get a little worried.

I put one hand on the starter and brought my wristcomp up to my lips. "You are all right, aren't you," I asked over the dedicated link.

Silence. Then, "I'm fine. You're okay, too, right?" It was her voice.

"Never better," I said, expelling a relieved breath. She was just as cautious as I was. I got out of my car.

Janet got out of hers almost at the same moment. Together we ran to the main door. Inside, we found ourselves at the foot of the stairs. I pushed back my hood and Janet did the same. She smiled at me nervously. No smile ever looked better.

"Maybe we should coordinate our activities a little more closely," I suggested.

"I think maybe you're right." Janet's voice was still a little breathless.

"How about a hot drink as long as we're here?"

She nodded energetically.

We climbed the stairs to the front entrance. The air grew noticeably warmer as we rose. Inside the main door, a waiter promptly led us to a private booth. This late at night there was no waiting. If there had been, I wouldn't have stayed.

I didn't really start to relax until we had steaming drinks in front of us. I gripped my tea with both hands for the warmth.

"This job has taken longer than I thought it would," I said at last. "It's been about two weeks, but I feel a year older."

The skin at the corners of Janet's eyes crinkled with her smile. "I couldn't believe it when you sat down near me back there. I almost screamed. Then I realized I was far enough into the shadow that you might not see me, so I stayed as still as I could. I thought I was delirious when I heard your voice." Janet sipped her drink before she looked back at me with those clear turquoise eyes. "Did you see anything with your binoculars?"

"As a matter of fact I did. But I still don't understand it." I told her about seeing Sloane's picture on the screen at Midas.

"I don't understand either," she said. "Alsop's a client of Vanderland. So I could maybe hypothesize an explanation for his picture being there, since there's a link between Midas and Vanderland. But I don't see the connection to Sloane."

"Other than the obvious, that is—that they're opponents in an election campaign."

"Right."

"Maybe they were reading his file to see what they might be able to take advantage of?" I suggested.

"Maybe. But that assumes a stronger link from Midas to Vanderland than just parent company to subsidiary."

"True. Okay, we'll table that one for the moment. You know what else bothers me?"

Janet shook her head.

"We went looking for Midas and right next door we found Morgan Polls." I put my cup on the warming pad in the center of the table.

"So?" she said.

"So Morgan Polls also has an influence on this election. That says they have at least a potentially unifying purpose in common with Vanderland, which is controlled by Midas. The fact that the two buildings are physically close is certainly no guarantee, but it makes me curious."

"Isn't a pollster on the opposite side of the fence from an advertising agency, though?"

"In theory. But people can be influenced by poll results." I hesitated for a moment. "And polls could be deliberately distorted to sway the public."

Janet took another sip. "So we should add Morgan to our list of things to investigate. How would we handle them?"

My thoughts drifted back to the view I had gotten of the Morgan building and the skylight.

"Are you all right?" Janet asked, shaking my arm some time later.

"What? Oh, I'm fine. Fine."

"You sure don't look it. You look pale all of a sudden. What were you thinking about?" Janet's eyes were full of concern. When I looked into them, I couldn't avoid telling her.

"I was thinking of a way to get to see more of the inside of Morgan Polls," I said, my mouth dry. "They apparently have a large skylight."

"I don't see why that would bother you," she said patiently.

"I was thinking of climbing the side of the building." I took a large sip from my drink.

"That fall you mentioned earlier. It was a bad one, wasn't it?" Janet could add two and two better than anyone I had met. And she could do it faster. She looked at me, empathy in her eyes.

I nodded. And then I began talking, not really conscious of much around me. "It was all so stupid, really. Sam and I and a friend of his were in the Grand Canyon. I guess it was appropriate since I don't like climbing down as well as up. We were on an easy climb, relaxing too much, and Sam was telling jokes. It was one of those freak accidents that wouldn't ever repeat itself."

I took another sip and continued. The room felt hot. "I had just disconnected from the rope because I was on a stable shelf and ready to start on a new line. And then Sam told us one more joke. I must have blocked it out of my mind, but I remember it being funny. Funny enough that I laughed hard. It—–it turned out the shelf I was on wasn't all that stable. The vibrations were enough to crack whatever support existed. I was facing away from the ropes."

I realized I was sweating. I wiped a napkin across my forehead.

"I shouldn't have made you talk about it," Janet said.

"You didn't," I said shakily. "Maybe I needed to."

"How were things between you and Sam afterward?" Janet asked after I was silent for a moment.

"Same as always."

"I mean good or bad?"

"Good, of course."

"I had wondered if there might have been some—well, resentment."

"Resentment for what? That I don't climb anymore?"

"No. Toward Sam."

Surprised, I looked at her and shook my head. "Sam was my brother. And it was an accident."

She looked down at her drink for a long moment. Finally she said, "You must have been very close."

I finally relaxed enough to give her a mild grin. "It was probably more like a father–son relationship in some ways. I always felt protective of him. Maybe that's the way I feel about anyone close to me." I looked into her eyes briefly as I said that, looking away again quickly so she wouldn't realize I was including her.

I rushed on. "He was always the practical joker, always getting into small troubles because he seldom took things seriously. I worried about him because he was careless. Evidently worrying about someone isn't enough."

Janet had grown still while I talked.

I continued. "One of the worst things about these last two weeks is that I keep trying to remember the happy times. I laughed harder around Sam than anyone else. But the only thing I can visualize right now is that news coverage showing the burning plane."

"That will pass," Janet said, her voice husky. "I know it will."

"I'm sure you're right. But I wish it would hurry." I stopped, suddenly conscious of how much I was saying. "Did anyone ever tell you," I asked slowly, "that you have an unusual power to get people to talk about their pasts?"

"No. No one's ever said that. Don't you talk much to Brad?"

"Not really. At least not the same way. In fact I might be less talkative than some parents."

"I've noticed. Why?"

"Maybe to force him to decide what he believes based on actions, not words." Janet gave me a questioning glance, so I continued. "Even after being married to Carolyn for several years, I don't fully understand her. At times, she says she wants me back. At other times, she tells Brad stories about me."

I tried to make myself more comfortable in my seat. "For instance, this joint custody arrangement is because we both wanted Brad. But when he's with her, she tells him that he's there because I don't want him with me."

"But surely he can see the truth."

"Maybe he can now. I'm sure he will eventually. But when he finally does, it will hurt both him and her."

"And you want to protect him against that." She made it a statement rather than a question.

"I guess I can't really. But it's hard not to try." I finished the last of my tea. "I didn't have any extras in my drink. How did you manage to squeeze so much information out of me?"

"Maybe I'm just a good interviewer. Or maybe I'm just asking questions I should have asked before."

I gave her a questioning look, but she merely shook her head and looked away.

I finally said, "I just told you this much to obligate you to tell me something about you. It's only fair, you know."

At first I didn't think she was going to say anything, but she did. "The news business makes it hard to spend time with people you care for, doesn't it?"

"I suppose. Or it can be a convenient excuse."

"It's important to know which it is."

"Is it? Or is it the results that count?"

Janet lifted her drink to her lips and held it there for a moment before she took another sip. "Maybe I'm a little like you were when you were still in the business. Sometimes it just doesn't seem like there's enough time to decide what's really important."

She said nothing more for a long enough time that I grew conscious of how long we had been talking and how late it was. "Would you like to talk some other time? When you don't have to be up early the next morning?"

She looked at her wristcomp. She looked back at me. "Yes, I'd like that."

I walked her to her car, trying unsuccessfully to turn off my urge to be protective. I felt a little sheepish when it became obvious there was no indication of threat or tampering with her car.

I watched the lights of her car as they sped into the distance. For a long time I was completely oblivious to the frigid wind.

#

The next morning was terrible. Besides suffering from lack of sleep, I had to drive Sean Franco downtown to a meeting. Janet could have gone, but she begged off, explaining that she had too much to catch up on.

It must have been my week for being interviewed. No sooner than we pulled onto the main spoke to downtown, Sean began asking me questions.

"So," he said. "Do you like it better here than at Astron?" Almost at the same moment, he turned on the car receiver and set it to MNBS with the volume just loud enough to make out. It was the sort of thing I might have done if I were trying to distract someone I was questioning, in hopes of making it more difficult to fake answers.

"Lots better," I said. "The pay's a little higher. I get to drive nicer stuff. And it's not the same thing every day." Then I thought of one other thing I could add, a "confession" to allay whatever suspicions he might be harboring. "And you want to know something else?"

"What?"

"It's a lot more secure here. I was afraid of being laid off. Astron's not doing too well right now."

"Oh? Why's that?"

Good question. I tried to fake it the best I could from what I had heard about Astron. "Maybe the folks up on mahogany row could tell you. At my level we never heard the same story twice. Once it was a manufacturing problem—they made too many televisions. More than they could sell in two years. And the cost of all those televisions just sitting there was killing the company. One time they told us it was because someone who sold them components went out of business. Astron had paid for the shipment but they hadn't gotten the stuff. It was a big shipment."

I watched the road as I talked, unable to see Sean's reaction. "Seems like every week it was something new. The market dried up. They made custom sets for another company that folded. Probably it was just bad management." Bad management was what the news articles had claimed. I had no idea, but it should be believable to Sean.

Sean was quiet for a moment. During the lull, I realized how much easier it was to lie to him than to Janet. I was an incompetent liar when she turned those turquoise eyes on me.

"Now there's something you don't see everyday," I said, starting to slow the car. Ahead was a stalled car, its owner standing beside it.

"Don't bother," Sean said curtly. "There's nothing we can do."

Maybe he was right. The driver would have already called for help. And Sean was the boss, for now. I resumed speed.

"Have you always been a driver?" Sean asked a moment later. "What did you do before Astron?"

I gave Sean answers that I hoped sounded reasonable, feeling increasingly uncomfortable under several more questions. The questions could easily have been innocent, but I felt a little nervous because Sean was suddenly paying so much attention to me. When I finally got a chance, I asked, "How about you? How did you get to be a reporter? Did you go to reporter school or something?"

"There is no such thing. You make it sound like being a mechanic."

"It's more like an art, huh?"

Sean never did answer the question. Just after I asked it, I heard a news story that seemed to interest him, too. I turned up the volume. Some guy had flipped his LandAir over a few kilometers out of the city, and was dead when the police responded to the emergency beacon.

"Damn," Sean said. "I don't even have one yet and here's some jerk spreading his all over the dust."

"You're getting a LandAir?" I tried to make the natural surprise in my voice sound more like awe.

"It's been on order for a month."

"Wow. Reporters make even more than I thought. How do you get to be a reporter?"

Sean ignored the question about career paths, but said, "Reporters don't get rich. But if you save up for those important things, you can do pretty well."

As we listened to the rest of the story, I reflected that although a LandAir was an appealing toy, it didn't rank up there with "important things." And I wondered how good a saver Sean was, or whether he had an income supplement.

Sean hadn't been far wrong about the driver spreading himself over the dust. From the pictures, he must have been airborne, going fairly fast, apparently too fast to negotiate a large boulder sitting just over the top of a small ridge. The wreckage must have covered a triangle fifty meters on a side.

"That could be you out there with that fancy car," I said. "Isn't one like this good enough?"

"This piece of junk? Its brakes wear out five times as often as a LandAir's. The LandAir's nav system makes it just about impossible to have an accident, unless you're out of your mind like that guy." He went on for another minute talking about safety features. I was surprised that he never once mentioned any of the things the commercials were all pushing: luxury, acceleration, customizing, styling, status. It was as though he really believed he would buy a car like that for the basics.

"You won't be the first at MNBS, you know," I said.

"What?" he said, pulling his attention back from the story.

"There's already someone at MNBS with a LandAir."

"Yeah. Glenn has one. He had his order in for months."

So the LandAir in the parking lot was Glenn Hartley's. Somehow I had expected a bigger sense of revelation, but, on reflection, I didn't see why. Maybe I had been thinking of the LandAir I had seen near Midas last night. But there was no good reason to suppose that it was Hartley's.

Chapter 11 Hazardous

"So Glenn Hartley has a LandAir," I said. "I bet he makes enough that he doesn't even have to save up for things like that." I passed a van and pulled into the right lane.

Sean said nothing, so I continued. "What kind of guy is Hartley? Is he good to work for?"

"He's okay."

Sean was no more talkative for the rest of the trip.

#

"Am I glad to be back," I told Janet later that morning. "That guy is even less sociable when you're not around. Maybe he misses you, too"

Janet looked at me closely for just an instant before she said, "It's doubtful. There's never been anything other than a business relationship between us." She leaned back in her desk chair and said, "I hope you're as tired as I am."

"Probably. Can you give me an assignment in the morgue this afternoon? Something that might justify my staying there for a couple of hours?"

She checked something on her screen. "I suppose so. What do you have planned?"

"It's probably nonsense, but I want to try an alternate approach. We've been thinking maybe some of the accidents seemed to have enough warning so that MNBS got there first. What if the accidents were deliberate, and meant to eliminate certain people?"

"You're not serious? Outright murder? What would be the motive?"

"No idea. It's just another hypothesis. Maybe if I can find some common link among the victims it will make sense. Maybe every accident kills another ex–lover of Sean's."

"Or several." Janet grinned.

"Lots of them, huh?"

"Is Mars dusty?" She tried unsuccessfully to suppress a yawn, and then stretched. She looked quite appealing. I wondered how she looked in the mornings, fresh out of bed and ready for work.

"Maybe I'd better get down to the morgue," I said suddenly, starting toward the door.

"Don't you want to know what you're supposed to do for me first?"

I grinned sheepishly. "Sure."

She gave me a make–work assignment to get summaries of tax law changes to be implemented within the next year. I left.

In the morgue, I finished her request in about ten minutes and began working on mine. Mine was not nearly so easy.

There were so many possible variables, I wasn't sure where to start. I assumed that only one death per accident was required to fit a pattern, if there were one. But what pattern? The victims could all be employed by the same firm, or relatives of employees. They could all have the same doctor. They could even all be members of some secret group, whose membership roster would be unavailable to me.

The last possibility would be too depressing to dwell on, so I started my task, with the first goal being to establish a complete list of the people who died. Even that was a little tough. It took me almost an hour to get it.

I scanned the list looking for anything at all, but it didn't seem likely that someone was out to kill people whose last name started with "L." I stopped when I got back to the name "Samuel Kettering."

I tried my best to force away the pain and think rationally about the plane Sam had been on. I was unsuccessful for several minutes. Finally I swallowed hard and forced my thoughts away from Sam. Six other people had died in that accident. Besides Sam, there were two men, three women, and one child under five. Would Sam have been the target, or was it one of the other adults? I ruled out the child for now. No children had died at Edom.

I tried to think of what other factors from those people's backgrounds I could search. Boards of directors on certain companies, members of a sports team, live near each other, used to live near each other, majored in the same subject, all failed a particular course, taught the same course, owned the same brand of television, had offspring with red hair, or who knows what. I felt giddy, thinking about all the possibilities.

Okay, I told myself, let's be practical, let's be thorough, and let's just start doing it. And I did. The first step was to request background database checks on everyone killed. I started the computer on its task of compiling every commonly recorded parameter it could find in the public domain. Once it finished its compilation maybe I could just sort all the keywords it found and look more closely at the ones found most frequently.

The search program indicated the magnitude of the request was such that it would be unlikely to finish it during the rest of the afternoon. I acknowledged and gave it a password to request before giving the results to anyone. I leaned back, wondering whether, if there were a common factor, it would show up in public–domain data.

I got up from the terminal and stretched my legs, receiving a mild twinge for my efforts. I was on my way out of the room when I thought about news sheets. Maybe I could learn something from looking at how the way they covered one of the disasters contrasted with MNBS's way.

Within a few minutes I had found coverage of the traffic computer malfunction in the Helium Herald, the Deimos Dispatch, and the Martian Chronicle.

I gave up after fifteen minutes. They all covered the general story, and they all had similar pictures. The only differences were in the stories of the people they focused on. They all attributed the accident to the same cause the traffic engineers had.

#

I was on my way back to my office when I received a summons to visit Glenn Hartley. When I arrived, Larry Talon was just leaving. Larry passed me with a friendly nod, but it seemed as though he looked at me just a little longer than he might have if he didn't know me from before and was trying to place me. Or he had already placed me and wanted to see what had changed in my appearance.

Hartley gave me a beefy handshake and closed the door behind me. "Sit down," he said. "Make yourself comfortable."

I did, feeling nervous. "Yes, sir." His piercing gaze made me distinctly uncomfortable. The room felt warm.

"Sean and Janet tell me you're doing a good job so far. And you've been with us for a couple of weeks now, so I wanted to see if you had any questions you haven't gotten answered yet."

Did I ever. "Boy, I can't think of anything. Mr. Franco and Ms. Vincent have been great. And it's even more interesting than I hoped." I hesitated. "Mr. Hartley, maybe I do have one question."

"Go on." He smiled and his cheeks puffed out a bit.

"How could I get to be a reporter? Oh, I know you won't just promote me because I drive real good and get here on time. I mean is there a school? You know, a school for reporters or something like that?"

"No. Nothing like that. But you do need more education than you have now. There's no need to be hasty. Why don't you decide after you've been here a few months. You do intend to stay, don't you?"

"Oh, sure. I'm not threatening to quit if you don't promote me. I like it here. It's a great place to work."

"Good, good."

"Oh, maybe I've got another question, if I can ask it." I noticed a new feature since I had been here the first time.

"Go right ahead."

"The model of the LandAir on your shelf there. Sean Franco says you have a real one. If you don't mind my asking, how do you like it?"

Hartley got a look on his face that made me think of a king being asked how he liked his lot in life, but he did answer. "I like it very much. It's a fine machine."

I prodded further with a couple of questions like the ones I asked Sean about the sporty features, and Hartley gave me some motherhood words about its practical features, just like Sean had. Didn't anybody want that car for what the commercials showed, or was everyone interested only in the low failure rate and safety? Maybe everyone was too embarrassed to admit what they actually liked most in the car.

Hartley let me go soon after that. Again puzzled that Hartley would pay me this much attention, I started for my office. I hadn't gone halfway when Sean saw me in the hall.

"I've been looking all over for you," he said. "I need you to pick up one of our reporters who's been stuck out in the middle of nowhere."

I didn't ask why he hadn't simply called me if he was looking for me, but instead asked, "Where and who?" I assumed it wasn't Janet from the way he phrased his question.

"Tony Warner. I don't think you know him. He and his pilot are up at a small weather station about a hundred kilometers northeast of here. Here's the map." He handed me a wafer. "The jumper they took has mechanical trouble. Just get up there and bring them back. A mechanic will fly up later to look at the jumper."

"Okay," I said. "I'm on my way."

#

The crew on the roof must have already heard from Sean that there was a rush trip. They had a jumper all set to go.

I made a quick preflight check on the craft myself, especially since I would be away from nearby sources of repair. The cold–weather gear was in good shape. I climbed in, loaded the map, and started the final checklist sequence. I looked at the office building, thinking about calling Janet, but decided not to. There was no telling who she would be with when I called.

The jumper shuddered just a little as it left the ground. The wind tried to push us off the roof, but the jumper had more than enough thrust to cope. It was so windy that at first I just let the computer handle navigation to a standard altitude and heading based on the map. This was not a good time to be going on a trip. It would be dark soon and the day was terribly windy. But, if I were Tony Warner, I wouldn't want to be stuck where I was all night.

As I traveled, South Spot provided an occasional attractive view to the port side. I wasn't close enough to see the base, and the crater was lost in the clouds, but the rest of it was a pleasant change from the low, rolling, boulder–strewn hills below me.

The wind kept buffeting the jumper, rocking me back and forth in my seat, forcing me against the safety belt. The jolts grew monotonous, so I decided to break the routine. I switched on the comm gear and called the meteorological station.

There was no answer at first. Finally a face filled my screen. It was a pleasant male face, probably several years older than me, weather–beaten and good–humored. It turned out to be Tony Warner himself.

"Am I glad to see you coming," he said once I identified myself and my purpose. "I wasn't looking forward to being stuck here for a day or two." He turned his head and said to someone else, "No disrespect meant, of course." He turned back to me with a big smile on his face. "How long before you arrive?"

I checked the map display and my ground speed. "Forty–five minutes, tops."

"Terrific."

I started to ring off, but curiosity made me keep the connection for a little while longer. "Sean Franco tells me you had mechanical trouble. What happened?"

"'Mechanical trouble.' That sounds exactly like that rock–head. We were damn near killed." Tony shed his smile for a moment. "We were taking off from here to come back home, and something failed in the drive mechanism. Lost all power to the jets. We were just low enough to get back down without bouncing us so hard our heads were in our laps. If we'd been any higher, or if we'd gone twenty meters sideways, well—" Tony shook his head.

He didn't have to say anything else.

"Well, just rest easy." I said. "Help is on the way."

Tony regained his smile before he thanked me and rang off.

I refocused my attention on the terrain ahead, trying to isolate the source of my new tension. The landscape held only more rolling hills and boulders, so it didn't distract me.

I let my thoughts simply wander for a few moments. When they stopped, I realized I was thinking about quality control on the small assembly line we had at my engineering business. Defects came in two common varieties. One was entirely random. The other was systematic.

Systematic defects came from a lot of sources: a bad batch of components, a new employee who didn't realize he was making the same mistake in every operation, a poorly written assembly instruction. Automatic operations, once the pilot manual run was finished, could have some of the same kinds of problems. And systematic errors, since by their very nature they caused more occurrences than random errors, were the ones we found most often.

My tension grew. I felt warm in the cabin.

I flew for only another thirty seconds before I arrived at a decision. I entered new commands into the nav system, and the jumper began to lose altitude. The wings wouldn't help increase stability, but I extended them fully.

Not long afterward, I was skimming over the hills, low enough to cause dust of my own.

I felt a little silly. I was probably worrying about something far out of the realm of high probability. But I didn't like taking chances I could avoid. I could have gone higher and have been prepared to use a parachute, but when it was as windy as it was today, even a parachute wasn't a safe way down.

Soon my stomach started to protest. At normal altitude, the wind was bad enough. Down low, the turbulent flow coming off some of the gullies and boulders made it worse. Added to that was the nav system making automatic altitude changes even more frequently as it spotted potential hazards or needed to rise above a hill.

Besides being a rougher ride, it was noisier down this low. And slower. Even simple level flight in this model would have been slower than at normal altitude. Constantly rising and falling burned up air time also.

I kept close watch on the instruments. At such a low altitude, there would be little time to correct for errors.

The sun had started to fall toward the horizon and finally it was abruptly cut off as I traveled far enough northeast to lose it. The cabin temperature dropped noticeably.

I sped into the dusk, relying even more heavily on instruments and the nav system. I considered going back to cruising altitude since I had made it this far with no problems, and then reflected that Tony Warner's troubles hadn't begun until the return trip.

I tried to keep my concentration solely on the panel before me, but I found myself thinking of Janet. I hadn't talked so openly to anyone in longer than I cared to think about.

I was still trying to force my attention to stay on the instruments and away from Janet when it happened.

It was at one of the worst possible times, too. I had just cleared an average–size hill when the sudden silence and the mild feeling of weightlessness told me instantly that I was in trouble. The same kind of trouble Tony had experienced. Except I was more than twenty meters in the air and traveling at an unhealthy velocity.

I didn't bother to turn on the emergency beacon. An impact this great would do the job for me. Instead, I put my hand next to the manual control switch. The computer could probably do a better job than I could in a completely unplanned mode of flight, but I wanted the option.

The noise from the air rushing past the windshell was now the loudest sound. The feeling of weightlessness increased.

A voice in the middle of my head told me I might not survive this. Another voice said, Don't die. Don't you dare leave things unfinished.

I couldn't see the ground coming up fast to meet me. I did see the indication on the screen though. I left the landing gear retracted. It wouldn't do the slightest bit of good. My stomach felt queasy, whether from the fall or the prospects of dying, I didn't know.

For just an instant, I suddenly thought this might not be as bad as I had feared. The jumper's fall seemed to slow for a fraction of a second.

And then we hit the ground, hard.

#

Cold, cold air against my face and straps pushing into my parka were the first things I was aware of. I don't know why I knew about them before my arm.

My head felt as though it had spent some time in a blender. As I gradually regained the ability to think consciously, I realized I was hanging from what was now the ceiling, suspended by my seat straps. My head was slightly lower than my chest, possibly contributing to my lightheadedness.

I shivered uncontrollably. Frigid wind freely blew through two large rents in the cabin wall. Fortunately, an emergency lamp provided a small pool of yellow light which spilled garishly over the contents of the wrecked cabin. It was because of the light that I first realized something was stuck into my right arm.

Other than the fact that it was evidently a sharp fragment of broken housing, I couldn't tell what it was from. I didn't care. As soon as I moved, I suddenly felt the pain, and that was all I thought about for the next several seconds.

I almost blacked out again from the pain of loosening the shrapnel, but I had to get down and seal the cabin before I froze to death. I was enormously lucky to have revived soon enough after the crash to avoid freezing to death. In the process of getting the shrapnel out of my arm, I decided, despite the pain, that it hadn't significantly damaged my muscles.

I felt a little like I imagined an old–time circus performer might feel when he was accidentally hit with a knife while he was spinning on a circular target board. The flash of irritation and pain were moderated by appreciation for where the knife had not gone.

My body applied so much pressure to the seat straps that the buckles were difficult to unfasten. Either that or I had lost a lot of strength. When I finally got the main strap undone, I practically fell to the floor, which was now formed by a heavily fractured windshell with a dark pool of frozen blood at its bottom. The floor seemed stable when I reached it, so maybe I wouldn't be risking nudging the wreck into rolling down some hillside.

First things first. I sat a moment to let my head clear again, and then I reached up behind the seat to get the first–aid kit. With shaking fingers I opened it up. Carefully, I removed the items I wanted and laid them out neatly where they would be quick to get to. I gave myself a standard post–emergency dose with the injector. I cut what I thought would be about the right length of gauze.

Then I sat for a moment, needing the rest. I felt even colder than I had at first, and taking off my parka wasn't what my body wanted right now. But bleeding to death wasn't what I wanted either.

As fast as I could, trying to ignore the shooting pain from my arm, I took off my parka and gloves and put a large gauze square over the wound. It stuck easily. I forced away the thought of how it would feel coming off. I couldn't tell whether the wind felt icy or burning, not a good sign. My shivering made it hard to wrap the gauze strip neatly, so I settled for speed. My fingers wouldn't easily do what I wanted them to do.

By the time I got my parka back on, I felt more lightheaded than ever and a lot colder. I sat there a moment, trying to remember what I had been going to do next.

Then my head stopped spinning, and I reached behind the seat and tugged out a couple of tarps. The first I stuffed into the gaping hole where the wind was coming in. After another brief rest, I did the same to the second hole. My arms were growing stiff.

The inside of the windshell stayed as bitter cold as it had been, but my spirits lifted immediately. If I could just last until the rescue team arrived.

I looked behind the seat again, knowing what should be there, unbelievably grateful when I found one. I dragged the cocoon down.

If I hadn't felt so near hypothermia, I might have first spent a minute looking at the control panel. As it was, I sluggishly unzipped the cocoon, squirmed inside, and zipped it over my head. I found the only vent to the outside, the short breathing tube, and stuck the end in my mouth.

This time the darkness was absolute. I wouldn't have thought that I could fall asleep in circumstances like that.

#

I dreamed of waking in a hospital bed. Janet was my doctor, and no doctor had ever possessed a better bedside manner.

#

I awoke in total darkness. Panic pushed a surge of adrenaline through me, jerking me instantly wide awake. I realized I was in the cocoon, but claustrophobia suddenly grew so powerful that I had to unzip the cocoon partway. My right arm hurt so much I used my left. My side and my left wrist ached.

It was brighter than when I had gone to sleep. That was vaguely puzzling until I realized why it bothered me. Light outside meant I had been here maybe ten or twelve hours.

I checked my wristcomp to find the time. I thought my eyes were not focusing correctly at first, and then I realized that it was damaged. I must have hit it quite hard against something in the cabin. That explained the soreness in the wrist.

I got out of the cocoon, moving carefully because of the pain and stiffness. My head felt better than the night before, but it still throbbed slowly. I suspected that I had a broken rib.

Through a small undamaged section of the windshell, I verified that the sun was responsible for the new light. Assuming things weren't even worse than they had to be, that made it morning the following day.

My breath came more quickly. The vapor hung in the air, and misted the instrument panel surface.

I didn't understand. Rescue teams were never this late.

Something was not right. I reached toward the instrument panel, having to reorient myself because it was upside down. I found the emergency beacon. Its panel light was off. I twisted back the safety cover and pushed the button. Still no light.

Four quick–release fasteners held the module into the panel. I undid them. I slid the beacon slowly out from the panel. A growing nervousness bothered me even before I got it all the way out and pried off the outer cover. Inside was a jumbled mess.

I sat down heavily, discouraged. It was probably a reflection of my state of mind that it took me several more minutes to ask myself why the rescue team hadn't come anyway. MNBS knew my flight path and they should have realized within an hour of the failure that something was wrong.

Chapter 12 Evidence

For a few minutes, I just felt numb. No emergency beacon. No wristcomp. And no sign of a rescue team, which should have been able to figure out where I went down within a two–kilometer strip from MNBS to the meteorological station.

Okay. I accepted the fact that the rescue team was late. Maybe they were overhead now, working with a metal detector too insensitive to distinguish the few metal components in the jumper from the iron in the soil. It didn't seem reasonable, but there was no percentage in not helping the searchers.

Moving stiffly and painfully, I retrieved a couple of flares from the emergency supplies. One of the tarps I had jammed in a fissure in the windshell came loose and let the wind in again. At least it wasn't the bitterly frigid air that had swept in last night. Not for the first time, I wished Mars had oceans to provide a thermal flywheel for the planet. As it was, the temperature variations from day to night were abominable.

The fissure wasn't large enough to get through. I had another short bout with claustrophobia as I tried to force the door open, but it finally gave. I climbed out.

I had been lucky. The demolished jumper windshell lay nestled in a small crook between two tiny hills. Over the top of one hill stretched a long downward slope with several large boulders at the bottom. At first I couldn't even see fragments of the extendable wings, but, when I climbed the short rise to the top of one of the hills, I could see almost a third of one.

It couldn't be any later than an hour after dawn. The sun was too close to the horizon. The air felt good at first, but soon I had to put up my parka hood. I scanned the horizon. Nothing but more hills, dust, and boulders. I looked every direction in the air. Judging solely by appearances, I could have crash–landed the first manned spacecraft on Mars. In the distance, I could see the clouds over South Spot just above the horizon.

I considered waiting until I saw some sign of life before I fired a flare, but decided against it. I didn't want to stay out any longer than I had to.

The flare whooshed high into the air. A moment later it exploded incandescently against the creamy pink sky.

I waited expectantly, constantly scanning the horizon for what I estimated to be thirty minutes. Nothing.

I sat there for another ten minutes trying to decide what to do. Survival rule number one was to stay with the aircraft. But if no one was searching for the aircraft, it could be a never–ending wait.

I couldn't stay there. That was all there was to it. Helium was probably no more than fifty kilometers away. If I was lucky, I could make it before dark.

Before leaving, I packed a few items in the cocoon. The idea of carrying that weight didn't appeal to me, but if I didn't get back before dark, there was no way I could live without it. Then I took the best sighting I could on the crash location. My damaged wristcomp was useless weight, so I discarded it.

There were some things I would have liked to investigate before I left, but I ignored them. I felt groggy enough already. For the moment, survival came ahead of everything else.

At the top of the hill, I took bearings as best I could, using the perspective of South Spot and comparing it to the perspective I was familiar with in Helium. I could also use the sun as a reference for my journey southwest. I wished a compass were useful on Mars, but with only fifty kilometers to go, and with a fairly good landmark, I should be okay. My only real problem would be stamina.

The first thirty minutes actually didn't go that badly. I wasn't able to walk consistently in the same direction unless I was willing to follow the contours of the land, so I spent a fair amount of time zigging and zagging. But I was starting to feel tired already. And ahead of me now was not a major problem, but one that forced me to add downhill and uphill to my morning's requirements.

I made it into the small valley relatively comfortably, but going up the other side was considerably more demanding. I took my bearings again at the top. There wasn't much change in the perspective at all.

I had intended to wait until noon to take a short midday break, but instead found myself forced to stop for a brief period almost every thirty minutes. By the time the sun was at its zenith, I felt comfortably warm, but I was exhausted.

By then, there was definitely a change in the perspective of the volcano. It looked comfortingly more like it did from Helium.

The emergency rations would have been more welcome if they had been tasteless. Someone's idea of trying to make them taste like known foods hadn't been totally successful.

By midafternoon, I felt like I had gone as far as I could. But I kept going.

Besides the pain in my arm and ribs, my head was starting to fog. I took more frequent rests, but kept moving. Utmost in my mind was the need to leave just enough energy to get into the cocoon if I decided there was no way I could make it all the way today.

As I got closer to my remembered perspective, I could still see no indications of civilization. If commercial airliners flew as high as the top of South Spot, I should have been able to see air traffic, but they didn't, so I couldn't.

After one more hour of feeling progressively more like walking death, I dug out another flare and sent it into the air. Nothing.

Sunset was less than an hour away when I sent another flare up. I kept walking and sent up yet another thirty minutes later.

Still there was nothing. I trudged down into a small valley, wondering if I would have enough energy to make it up the other side. I stumbled and fell. I wouldn't have thought such a mild fall could produce so much pain. I couldn't have done a better job of hurting myself intentionally.

My head pounded, and I was unbelievably depressed. I knew I had come as far as was possible. I weakly unzipped the cocoon and tried to maneuver my legs into the bottom.

My legs wouldn't cooperate. I pulled the cocoon toward them, and at the same moment my ears picked up the sound I had wished so dearly for ever since my jumper hit the ground.

Somewhere near, the pink–noise roar parting the air told me help had arrived. I scrambled for a flare to make certain they couldn't miss me. I fired one into the air, and one into the ground ten meters away.

Only a minute later, I could see the blue–and–white emergency jumper overhead. As the last daylight started to fade, the jumper settled onto the ground fifty meters away. I waved weakly.

They put me on a stretcher after a couple of questions about my injuries. As they carried me toward the jumper, the sun must have gone below the horizon, because everything went black.

#

When I awoke I was alone again and it was still dark. But at least I was on a bed in a room.

It was hard to see in the gloom, but the surroundings looked like hospital furnishings. I let my head clear for a moment as I came more fully awake. To my left was a light switch. My shoulder gave a twinge as I put my hand on the switch.

I had to shut my eyes against the light. The glare made my head throb again, but after a few minutes I felt much better.

I finally raised my wristcomp to my face so I could see the time and date, but I wasn't wearing it. The weight around my wrist was not a wristcomp. I frowned. Why would I be wearing a tracer?

I didn't understand. I wasn't some criminal or a psychotic who needed to be kept track of with a tracer.

I found the call button near the light switch. I pressed it.

Maybe five minutes passed before someone arrived. I distinctly heard the door being unlocked, and a muscular young man came in and said, "I'm glad you've come around, Mr. Letterer. Is there anything I can get for you?"

My mouth was dry. "The standard replies, and a glass of water."

He got the water before he said anything more. He sat down about two meters from my bed. He looked more like an athlete than a doctor or a nurse. "You're in Kyle Hospital in Helium. You've got a busted rib, a big cut on your right arm, hairline fracture in one of the bones in your left hand, general bruises all over, and lots of blisters on your feet." He stopped. "Oh, and it's five in the morning. You were brought in last night."

"Thanks." The water helped my voice. "What about this?" I asked, holding my wrist in the air.

"That's not hospital property. The police provided that for you."

"But why?"

"I guess you'll have to ask them. All I know is it's something about stealing a jumper."

#

The next visitor I had was from the police. She introduced herself as Detective Gardotti. Fortunately I felt stronger by then.

Detective Gardotti was a woman not quite old enough to be my mother. She didn't seem motherly at all. She sat down in the same chair the athlete had used, her back stiff, a frown on her face.

She started to read me my rights. I had heard it so many times, although not from this end, that I tried to wave her off, indicating I understood already.

Maybe she took that to mean I was bored with the whole thing since I had been caught so many times before, and her frown deepened as her voice rose and she completed the notice almost as if nothing had happened.

"Mr. Letterer, you are accused of stealing a company jump jet from MNBS the night before last. Is there anything you would like to say on your behalf?" Her stare made me feel like a school child caught cheating on a test.

"I stole no jumper," I said as mildly as I possibly could. "I was on assignment from MNBS and the jumper crashed. That's how I got all this." I gestured at the wrappings across my chest and the wires leading into them.

"That doesn't match what a Mr. Franco at MNBS told us when he filed the report."

"But he's the one who sent me," I said too forcefully. Gardotti's head moved back and I could tell she was annoyed. "Could you please tell me what the report says," I said, mild once again. "There's some major confusion here."

She looked at me for a moment. "All right. Mr. Franco says you were assigned to fly out to a weather station northeast of town. You left in the jump jet. You talked to someone at the weather station, as though you were on your way, and you dropped out of sight. Mr. Franco reported at eight that night that you must have crashed."

"That's right. I did."

She continued as though she hadn't heard me. "Five minutes later, a search and rescue team was sent out. They could detect no emergency beacon, and a search of the ground under your flight path showed no signs of a crash."

"What?"

"When Mr. Franco learned that, he changed his report. He said you must have instead stolen the jump jet."

"I don't understand how the search missed me unless I was off course," I said. I hesitated. "Would you let me call MNBS and explain?"

"I'm afraid not. I think maybe your call would be better spent on a lawyer. This will all get straightened out soon." Despite her refusal, I had the feeling that she wasn't taking as hard a line as at first, but I couldn't risk taking too much longer. If there were any chance that this was all deliberate, it could mean that Janet was in trouble, too.

"If I can't call MNBS, could you please make one call for me?" I put all my sincerity into the request and tried to obliterate the traces of frustration and impatience.

"And what would that be?"

"Just call Detective Freeman with the Biblis police. Tell him my name and the pertinent details. And please don't let anyone overhear your call."

That got her attention. "You want to tell me what it's all about? You won't get any favoritism here."

For the moment, I savored being one up on her. "Freeman can explain it much better than I could. Just tell him it's vital that I not be confined or traced."

"I think your call would be better spent on a lawyer. You can make up stories when you're in court."

"Please call him. This is not a story."

Gardotti compressed her lips in thought. She sat there for just a minute, making me worry that she would still refuse my request, then abruptly she rose and left the room. The door locked as it closed.

When Gardotti returned, she was almost another person. It was as though she had bedside manners she adopted for each kind of case. "Detective Freeman wasn't too happy to get a call this early in the morning, but he tells me you have the official blessing of the Biblis police. I guess that's good enough for me. Freeman insisted that if I let you go, he'll give me a valid explanation."

"Thanks very much," I said, relieved. "Is there any way I can get a favor in the process?"

"It seems to me you've just gotten a terrific one. What else would you like?"

I finally relaxed a little. "At least on the surface, no more than the average person would want. I'd like to call MNBS, explain the situation, and see if they will drop the charges until the wreckage is confirmed. I know I was approximately northeast of Helium, but maybe I somehow strayed from my flight path. I'd like to delay finding the wreckage by a few days."

"Very well." Gardotti left the room again and returned with a portable communications terminal.

"Thanks very much," I said. "One last question. What is the absolutely earliest time I can leave the hospital if I promise the doctors to be careful? Assume someone else might die if I stay here too long."

She summoned a doctor who told me curtly that I could get out by early afternoon and then departed. He obviously thought I was crazy.

I straightened the screen on the terminal. I took a deep breath and called MNBS. I wanted to talk to Janet as soon as possible, but Sean might think it curious, so I asked for whichever one of them was available. Neither was.

I repeated the call every thirty minutes. Finally Sean's face occupied the screen.

I had deliberately left my video off until I could focus on the image from the other end. When I switched it on, I could see the blood drain from Sean's face. The man was not the actor he might have wanted to be. And I felt positive I now knew who had contributed heavily to my mishap.

"Mr. Franco, hello," I said, trying to sound tired and relieved to see him. It wasn't impossible. "The jumper I was in crashed. And for some reason the emergency beacon didn't turn on. Can you please tell the police I didn't steal it? They think I did."

It took him a moment evidently to adjust to the fact that I was still alive. "Yes, yes, of course. I only thought you'd stolen it because we hadn't heard from you. Are you all right? And how could you survive a crash?"

"I guess I'm just a lucky guy." I didn't want to mention yet that the jumper had been low enough that the evidence of tampering might not have been completely destroyed by the crash. "But I'm not feeling too good. The doctors say I have to stay here at least until tomorrow or maybe the day after."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Detective Gardotti sit down in the guest chair. She tapped her fingernails on the arm rest.

"How badly were you hurt?" Sean asked.

I told him what the athlete had told me, embellishing it just a little. "I'll be at Kyle Hospital until they'll let me out. Can you tell people that so no one else thinks I stole the jumper?" In particular, I wanted him to tell Janet. I was connecting fragments that hadn't been clear until now, and I needed to talk to her.

Sean said he would pass on the word. "Why didn't you call for help with your wristcomp?"

"It got a little beat up in all the commotion. I wish I'd had it to get a fix on where I went down. I'll probably have to go out next weekend with the search team to try to find the wreck."

"Well, at least you're Okay. Come back as soon as you can, but don't push yourself too hard. It's a miracle that you're alive." Sean rang off.

I leaned back in my bed and moved my head so I could see Gardotti. She had been much more civil since she talked to Freeman, but there was still an aura of reserve about her.

"You heard him say he would retract the charge?" I asked.

She nodded. She rose from her chair and moved to the side of the bed where she opened a panel on the side of my tracer, tapped in a combination, and removed the bracelet. "They may not bother to move you to another room since you'll be leaving soon."

"That's fine with me. I'm hoping to get another call I wouldn't want to take in a semiprivate room."

"I'm not surprised," she said dryly. "The search team will be in contact, but I'm not sure they will want to wait that long."

"Thanks for your help, Detective. I appreciate your making that call."

When she was gone, I waited, wondering how long it would take for Sean to tell Janet.

#

Three hours passed. My initial impatience had long turned to anxiety by the time the terminal rang.

It was Janet's face. "Mr. Letterer, I'm glad you're all right. Sean just told me about your accident. I just wanted to say I hope you recover quickly." Her eyes were a little puffy, but I didn't mention that to her.

"Thanks, Ms. Vincent. I'm feeling better already."

She rang off a moment later, never letting loose of the façade. I wondered who was within listening range.

Not until almost an hour later did she call back again. "Are you really all right? I was afraid you were dead." She kept her voice low, and she did look a little afraid.

"I've had better days, but the doctors tell me I'll live. I need a large favor from you, though. Can you meet me at my place tonight?"

"Tonight? Sean said—" She suddenly had to suppress a faint grin and shake her head. "What time?"

We settled on an hour before dark, to give her a safety factor for getting off work without seeming too eager to be gone.

And that gave me time for the errands I needed to run.

#

My house was untouched, fortunately. I'd had enough abuse for the last couple of days. I sat down gently near the desk computer. My errands were complete, and I wore a new wristcomp of the same model as before. I would be happier after I'd used it for a while and it had a few scratches on it. I hated wondering when I would give it the first blemish.

I was less interested in how the computer was doing on the Dublin memos than in several other questions, but Dublin was about the only thing I could handle until Janet arrived.

I was surprised at the progress. The computer had about half of the information unscrambled. Apparently people at Dublin committed the number one sin of reusing passwords. The computer was trying all the ones it already knew before starting in on new ones.

I started reading.

#

The knock on the door came about an hour before dark. I let Janet in and looked at her closely. "Are you all right?" I asked.

"Am I—are you all right? I knew you wouldn't have stolen a jumper. I thought you were dead."

"I would have told you I was alive if I could have. My wristcomp and the jumper communications gear were both out. But how about if we talk on the way?" I gestured toward the door.

"On the way where?"

"To the crash site."

She said nothing as we went up the front steps. From there, instead of moving toward her car or mine, I started down the street.

"Don't tell me you crashed within easy walking distance," she said after a moment.

"No." We walked past a curve in the road and arrived at my intermediate destination. "How do you like it?"

Janet stopped where she was. "You bought a LandAir?"

"Rented. Hop in."

I tapped in the combination and opened the passenger door for her. I eased in, trying not to put any force on my torso. "Did you know that there are probably a thousand features that the guy from Dublin never even mentioned during our tour there? Listen." I turned up the gain on the outside noise and the wind pushing against the car suddenly sounded like a gale. I switched it off.

"But that's not why you asked me to come," she said. "This is just transportation to the crash site."

"That's right. And I want you to know what we're facing." I turned toward her. "That accident was not an accident. And there may be other people interested in the crash site."

"You're saying it was attempted murder?"

"How about if we talk about it on the way? That is, if you're willing. And yes, I do think it was a deliberate attempt."

"Lead on."

I touched a designation on the control panel and the display instantly turned into a replica of my own Far Star. "I'm more familiar with these," I explained. Above the normal indicators lay the new ones unique to the LandAir. In my conventional car, there wasn't need on the dash for hover–fan controls. Reflected from the inner surface of the windshield was a heads–up status display so I didn't need to take my eye off the road.

We accelerated fast enough to make our lateral force greatly exceed that from gravity. I eased off as soon as my side began to ache. "The reason I'm still alive is that I was flying just off the ground." I pulled onto an artery heading for the northeast side of town and told her about my fortunate conversation with Tony Warner.

"Sean mentioned the problem to me," Janet said. "He said they had recently hired a new mechanic who wasn't as good as his rsum. The poor guy was apparently miserable when you didn't show up on time. But when they couldn't find you Sean was sure you had just stolen the jumper."

"That must have been according to plan. The radio failed and the beacon failed. By total coincidence I hit my wristcomp hard enough to damage it. But I'll bet Sean was responsible for only the mechanical problem and the beacon failure. I was supposed to crash from cruising altitude, in which case it would be far less remarkable for the beacon to fail. And Sean wouldn't have cared if the comm gear worked or not. I wouldn't be able to use it. And now that he knows I'm alive, he may figure out that I wasn't as high as I should have been, and that maybe some evidence also survived. He probably arranged Tony Warner's failure so it didn't look like I was singled out."

"You keep saying you're sure Sean is guilty. What proof do you have?"

"None. And I won't even have any after this trip necessarily. But you should have seen his face when I called him." I was nearing the section of the city I had been over when I left town two days ago.

Janet was silent for the next kilometer or two. "Why didn't you just bring back the evidence with you?"

"I didn't realize until I got back that it was there. Before that I could still believe it was an accident. But not now—with no trace of the jumper, and with Sean's reaction."

We reached the departure point where I had left the outskirts. I pulled to a halt. "The capability to hover wasn't the only reason I picked this car. It also has a really good inertial guidance system. I can't remember everything about my course, but I think my heading was forty–eight degrees. Can you be the navigator for a while?"

"Sure. But wouldn't it be easier just to enter the destination coordinates?"

"Not necessarily. The weather station is really forty degrees out from here. I'm almost certain Sean gave me an altered map. We need to follow the heading I took so we can find the wreck."

"Forty–eight degrees it is."

I switched on the fans and the rear jets. The LandAir virtually leaped toward our destination.

The ground we traveled over looked generally familiar, but I had been at a lot greater altitude over this part of it two days ago. The LandAir handled beautifully. From time to time Janet warned me if I varied too far from forty–eight degrees.

We cruised for another twenty minutes as I told her about my walking journey. The LandAir's noise–cancellation gear worked perfectly, but the outside noise was probably almost as bad as that generated by a jumper.

Eventually, I could see ahead a familiar pair of boulders that looked as though someone had split open a single larger boulder. They told me we were getting close.

"I'm sure that map was wrong," I said. I touched one of the new LandAir controls I had created and a map display lit up an unoccupied square on the overhead dash. "Look at where we are now compared to the air corridor from MNBS to the meteorological station."

The display showed a blue bar from the city northeast to the weather station. Outside the bar, perhaps halfway along it, lay a blinking green dot. The distance from the edge of the bar to the dot was about triple the width of the bar.

Janet examined it for a moment. "No wonder they didn't find you. But why bother to send you off on the wrong direction?"

"Maybe to make sure I wasn't found soon, so they could claim I stole the jumper. And that way, if I survived the crash, I would still have been dead by the time anyone found the wreck." I looked to one side. "We're getting close."

I angled left over a small depression. A moment later, I was sure. There was debris from the crash. So the jumper body would be just over the rise ahead.

"I don't want to park right at the site," I said. "If anyone notices the remains of our visit, they may ask questions we'd rather not answer."

Janet nodded. "How about over there, just over the hill? Searchers coming from town shouldn't need to go there."

"Good." I took the LandAir over the top of the rise and put the forward jets on gently. Our horizontal motion faded away, and I gradually cut power to the fans. We settled smoothly into the shadows.

We got out of the LandAir so quietly one would think we had parked in a library. Janet was probably as nervous as I was about the possibility of someone joining us at the site before we were ready to go.

Chapter 13 Illumination

The sun was nearly down, and it was starting to get cold as Janet and I walked toward the wreck. My pack of equipment felt awkward over my shoulder.

"The wind should cover our footprints as long as no one else gets here within an hour or two," she said.

I nodded, feeling subdued at seeing the scene of destruction again. The terrain was desolate. Only the sounds of the wind, our crunching footsteps, and the rustling of our parkas disturbed the silence. For a brief moment, I wished we had parked closer.

I looked at Janet's face when we came within sight of the windshell. I didn't think her pallor came only from the cold wind. The windshell looked old. It could have been the empty carcass of some bizarre creature.

Janet said softly. "I'm amazed that you're alive. And glad."

I blinked. "So am I. And thanks."

We entered the windshell carefully. Dust had piled up in the cavity at the bottom. I reached for the map wafer Sean had given me, and slowly extracted it from the instrument panel. From my pack, I retrieved a hand laser and another wafer. "Can you keep this safe?" I asked Janet, giving her the map wafer.

"Sure. What next?"

"Guard your eyes for a minute." I put my replacement wafer on the dust drift at the low point of the windshell. With the laser, I gave it enough energy to make the previous contents unrecognizable. "Okay. It's safe."

I left the wafer there to cool off for a moment. "I also want a section of the mounting bracket for the emergency beacon."

"Because you think it was tampered with, too?"

"Right." I began to pry off one of the fragments. I tried to hurry. It wasn't long until sundown.

It was cramped inside the windshell. Janet was able to make her own inspection while I worked, and she never did disturb the smooth drift of dust in the center of the bottom. She looked out through one of the gaps in the hull. I was trying to find out why the mounting wouldn't come free when she gasped.

"We've got company coming," she said. "Jumper to the southwest. Maybe a kilometer away."

"Bloody hell. Get out and hide any obvious footprints. I'll follow you in a minute."

She didn't hesitate for even a fraction of a second. "There's not time to get to the car," she called from outside the windshell. "I'm heading for the gully to the north of it."

"Right." As fast as I could, I put the newly damaged wafer into the map reader. I made a last one–millisecond inspection of the interior and pushed myself into the wind. I could hear the jumper roar.

Luck was with me for at least a little longer. The sun was setting, and the small depression holding the wreck was in shadow. A glance over my shoulder told me the approaching jumper was still high enough to be in sunlight. Bold, ruby–red MNBS letters stood out clearly.

I ran. I was fairly sure I knew which direction Janet had taken. As I ran, I tried to step mostly on rocks to minimize footprints. My imagination was calling up morbid images all the while, but when I looked back just as I made it over a small lip, the MNBS jumper was still a second or two from dropping into the darkness.

I couldn't see Janet in the gloom. "Where are you?" I whispered.

"Right behind you."

I whirled in surprise and then relaxed. "So we made it," I said softly.

"As long as they don't notice our footprints or find anything missing." Janet's voice was low also. The wind was blowing from the crash site toward us, and the jet roar was still howling through the dusky air, but she seemed as unreasonably nervous as I was about being overheard. I thought about the LandAir sound–detection gear for a moment and I tried to quiet my breathing.

"Damn but it's cold," I whispered finally. Janet only nodded.

We peered over the rim and watched the door to the MNBS jumper open. I wished I'd had the foresight to bring binoculars in my pack. The two figures who got out were too far away to identify.

"Watch your breath," Janet murmured.

It was a good point. The air temperature was dropping just as the sun was. Another minute and the darkness began growing faster. Night was here.

Fortunately night would handicap the two figures from the jumper, too. One turned on a light and they both entered the windshell hulk.

Even though we were downwind from the wreck, we couldn't hear any conversation. I considered trying to get closer, but decided against it.

"How did they find it so fast?" Janet whispered next to my ear. "They came right to it."

"If they were monitoring my position when someone pushed a button, it wouldn't be too hard."

The two figures hadn't been in the windshell for more than a minute before they came back out and started for the MNBS jumper. They hurried. Either they had noticed signs of our presence and were worried about a trap, or they were as nervous as we were about being here and having someone else come along. No sooner had they closed their doors than the jets started up. The jumper lifted into the air and started back the way it had come. Its running lights were off.

"Very strange, wouldn't you say?" I said, no longer careful about the loudness of my voice.

"Yes, I would. But I'd prefer saying it in the warmth of the car. Or did you want to go back to the jumper for anything?"

"I don't think so. It's not too likely, but they could have left a bug."

We made our way to the LandAir. My lightheaded feeling had returned, so I just sat for a moment before starting up. Then we drove away from the site at an angle to the flight corridor. Once we found a LandAir–size level spot with good concealment, I let the car settle back down to the ground.

"Is your heart still pumping as fast as mine?" Janet asked.

"Probably. Still have any doubts that my accident was deliberate?"

"No. I didn't have much doubt after you'd said it. You suppose those two were there to conceal evidence of the tampering?"

I reclined my seat so my chest wouldn't hurt so much, and nodded. "I'll be real surprised if the search team and the failure–analysis people don't find a perfectly good map to the weather station in the wreck. Do you still have the wafer we retrieved?"

"Sure. You want to look at it?"

"Go ahead. The slot's right there." I pointed.

She carefully inserted the wafer. I took a few actions with the dash controls, and two images lit an unused section of the console. I pushed another designation on the dash.

The side–by–side images looked quite similar. They both had Helium just off screen to the lower left and the weather station as a dot at the upper right. But the blue corridors weren't parallel. On the map we recovered from the wreck, the weather station wasn't where it should be according to the map I had brought with me.

"That's why they didn't find you," Janet said, pointing to the right–hand image.

Sure enough. The blinking dot, indicating the crash coordinates I had just entered, lay outside of the blue corridor by about twice the width of the corridor. On the bad map, the coordinates fell neatly inside the corridor.

"So there it is," I said. "No more doubts about whether something funny is going on at MNBS."

"You're awfully calm for someone who just found out he was the target of a murder attempt."

"I'm scared. Believe me. But this is only the formal confirmation. I was convinced of it ever since I talked to Sean. I just wish we knew more. We don't know whether it was because of something I saw, or because he found out who I am. And we don't know who else is in it, either reporting to Sean, or over his head."

"And going to the police with what we have would only get Sean."

"If that. For all I know the weather station used to be where Sean's map says it is. He could claim that the station had only an old map. Or he could claim that he was just passing on the map someone else gave him."

"True, true." Janet adjusted her seat–back parallel with mine.

Outside the car, the wind intensified. The LandAir was sturdy enough that the rocking wasn't pronounced, but the air shrieked as it cut through the boulders nearby.

We were silent for a long moment before she spoke again. "Things have been happening so fast, I forgot to tell you. I think your hunch about a link between Midas and Morgan Polls must be right."

"Why?"

"I got a call last night. I wasn't thinking too straight then." Janet glanced at me for an instant, which probably seemed longer in my mind than it really was. "Anyway," she hurried on. "It was a poll call, one of those random number things supposed to sample public opinion. It was Morgan Polls. The man said he was compiling an attitude census about the current state of politics. I tried to beg off, but I was curious about Morgan, so I let him ask the questions.

"He started off with several innocuous ones. What did I think of capital punishment for driving under the influence? What did I think about mercy killing in several cases? And then he asked if I knew which candidates were in one specific campaign."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Exactly. The Sloane–Alsop race. I pretended not to know either candidate, so he gave me their names. And then it got really interesting. A couple of questions later, he asked me if it would influence my vote if I knew that Alsop's opponent has had four different jobs in the last four years."

I whistled. "I wonder if Alsop knows what ethics are guiding his reelection team."

"I don't know. And I don't see an easy way to find out without drawing attention to you or me. Or warning someone to be very careful."

I considered it all for a moment. "I'm surprised the pollster would continue the poll when he realized he was talking to a reporter."

"He called my number, not me in particular. And I had my picture off. I didn't—"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Okay."

After a moment, Janet turned her head suddenly and said, "Oh, this is no time for me to start keeping secrets. I didn't want anyone to see me. I was a little upset when you disappeared."

I thought I understood. Her eyes had been puffy when I had first talked to her. "I'm sorry you were upset. I'll try my best to avoid a repeat. And thanks. For your concern." I had to clear my throat when I finished talking. It felt constricted.

Janet nodded without looking at me, as though she really hadn't meant to say that much. I searched for a neutral topic that might put her more at ease. Tension gripped me, too, but it was the kind of tension that might take my mind off other problems long enough for me to make a fatal slip. "The Dublin memos contain more information about this car than the owners manual does. Do you want to hear some of it?"

"Sure," she said and gave me a weak grin. "So your computer's still working on it?"

"Slow and steady. Suppose customer X buys a LandAir. Say she completely customizes the dash controls so pushing on a left arrow sets the driver's seat to the position she likes best. The right arrow is the left turn signal, and the red octagonal indicator means accelerate at the highest possible rate. She dies. The dealer who gets the car from her estate doesn't want to risk his life trying to find out what her controls do, or spend a lifetime trying out password possibilities."

"So there's a code or a key?"

"Exactly. You press the magnify button on the rear–view screen. Then turn on the overhead light on the passenger side." I did so while I talked. "And finally press the magnify button five times quickly. And there it is."

As I finished, a large control panel image overlaid the area on the dash right in front of me. "Now I could just press 'Reset' to make every control indicator revert to the way it was delivered from the factory. Or I can use these cursor keys to move that blinking dot to any section of the dash, and it will tell me what that control is set to do." I demonstrated as I talked.

"And if I need to see something this screen is covering up, I just move the screen." At my urging, the diagnostic panel screen moved over to her side of the dash, rippling over the irregularities in the surface the way an old movie projector would look if it were turned while projecting.

Janet smiled. "So you could set it so that if your dating–age child reclined both seats like this at the same time, the horn would go on."

"If you were so inclined." I grinned back, and she made a face. "I can even get into any locked LandAir."

We were both silent for a moment. The wind had died down.

"Being with you is both good and bad," I said finally. "With you, I can talk freely about things I haven't been terribly open about, or I can completely forget there's an outside world. But right now, if I forget about that outside, we may not be in a position to be able to talk anymore. If Sean tried once already, he may wait a few days before he tries again, to reduce suspicion, or he may be desperate enough to try something else immediately. I can't let my guard down."

Janet nodded. "Be careful, will you?"

The dim car lights softened her features. Good and bad again. I felt terrific that she was concerned about me. But she was potentially in as much danger as I was.

"That goes for you, too," I said. "Sean could notice a slip on your part, too. Or he might have already. Maybe he would have asked us both to go on that jumper flight if he had been able to think up a reasonable excuse."

"What if something does happen to both of us?"

"You mean, does someone else have to start all over?"

"Right."

"Maybe. But every day or so I send what new information I've learned to my home computer. My real home. So maybe the police won't have to start completely over."

"Assuming Sean doesn't find out your real identity and blow up your house."

"Right."

When I added nothing more, she said, "Sorry. I didn't really mean to be depressing. Maybe it's getting too late for me to be optimistic. I'm really a morning person."

"I'd rather risk a little depression than go off unreasonably confident. Pride goeth and all that. How about we call it a night?"

She nodded.

I switched on the fans and we rose gently. "You want to navigate again? I don't care about the course as long as we stay away from the corridor out to the wreck. Since it's dark though, maybe we'd both better watch what's ahead. That guy who was killed in his LandAir was probably driving fast enough that his visibility was lower than his stopping distance."

I brought my seat back up to driving position and Janet did the same. The landscape at night looked so desolate that we could have been driving a pressurized vehicle around on the surface of Phobos, except for the gravity.

Talking with Janet had kept my mind off how tired I really was. It was almost all I could do to keep my eyes open during the journey back.

#

The occasional lights I passed in the city hurt my eyes. I had dropped Janet off at her car and followed her for the first couple kilometers. When no one seemed to have any interest in either of our cars, I headed south and turned the rental car back in.

My Eclipse, which had seemed a little clunky compared to the Far Star I had back home, felt like riding in a box while someone dragged it down the road compared to the feel of the LandAir.

In the hospital parking lot, I leaned against my car for just a moment before tiredly walking inside. Twice the wind almost blew me over. The athlete wasn't around, but he had left a note on my terminal. "One call for you from MNBS. I said you were sleeping. No message."

For the second night in a row, I slept more soundly than I ever had previously in a hospital.

#

I didn't feel like doing it, but the next day I flew as a passenger in another jumper. The search team asked me to go with them to the site.

On the way there and at the site, I answered most of their questions truthfully. I think I gave a passable impression of surprise when they retrieved a map wafer from the wreck, and the map showed I had been well off course when I went down.

They dropped me off back at the hospital. One of the team wasn't very good at concealing her contempt for my piloting abilities.

#

"I can't tell you how grateful we are to have you back, Bill." Glenn Hartley leaned back in his desk chair and stretched his beefy arms. "It really didn't seem reasonable that you had stolen the jumper. But Sean couldn't see any other easy explanation. Will you accept my apology for not making a stronger objection? It's too easy sometimes to take the path of least resistance."

"Oh, sure. I probably would have done the same thing myself. No hard feelings." I grinned at Hartley. "I still don't understand how I could have gotten so far off course though. The search team people seemed to think the map course was simple enough that I shouldn't have gotten lost, but I guess I make mistakes, too. But I'm sure it wasn't my fault the jumper crashed. Does anyone know what happened?"

"Apparently the maintenance department hired someone whose skills didn't quite match his résumé.”

I thought I noticed just the briefest pause before Hartley continued, but it was probably just my nerves. I hoped he wasn't knowingly including me.

"He was handling routine preventive maintenance," Hartley went on. "And he misread some of the diagnostics. He was apparently responsible for your problem and that of Tony Warner. We found two more units in the hangar with the same problem."

"You're not going to fire him, though. I mean, it was an accident, right?"

"That's right. And we're not going to fire him. It was probably as much our fault for not monitoring his performance more closely since he was new."

"That's good. I'd hate to think I'd lost someone his job."

"I'm glad to hear you say that." Hartley smiled as though he meant it. "But what about you? Are you feeling fit enough to go back to your job?"

"I'm feeling better, but not great. I'd be grateful if I could have the weekend to rest up a little more. Could I get out of being on call?"

"Certainly. And if you don't feel well enough by Monday, just let Sean know."

The way things were going, I would be moderately happy simply to be alive on Monday, but I thanked Hartley and let myself out of his office.

I found Sean and told him about having the weekend off. Sean seemed to be dealing more successfully now with the fact that the "accident" hadn't been fatal. I tried my best to be convincing when I told him, indirectly, that I didn't suspect the "accident" had been deliberate.

I left him in his office. On my way downstairs, I wondered whether I had a reprieve of a few days because they would wait a while to avoid calling attention to themselves with another immediate attempt. Or maybe they thought I knew something so damaging that I needed to be dealt with right away.

The corridor downstairs was almost deserted. As I neared the end of the hall, a door to one side opened and Larry Talon from the newsroom stepped out.

"I heard about the accident," he said, stopping for just a moment. "I'm glad to hear that you're all right, Mr. Letterer."

I thanked him, but Larry was already on his way. He had always been in a hurry in the old days, too. But replaying the short conversation in my mind, I had an uncomfortably strong feeling that he had placed more emphasis on "Letterer" than seemed natural.

Talon was one possibility I hadn't spent much time on. He had a reputation for honesty. But if he had recognized me earlier, and mentioned it to Sean, that might be reason enough for the accident.

I walked out to my car, shivering slightly, not entirely because of the wind.

Chapter 14 Search

It wasn't until I had gone several kilometers that I remembered something I had wanted to do at MNBS. The search program in the morgue might have some results by now.

I kept going. It would raise too many questions if I went back now. Shortly, I pulled up in front of a store I had never visited before, but one which had a familiar appearance. Acme Climbing Equipment's sign showed a climber on the face of a large stylized ace of spades. The interior seemed friendly enough, but I still felt queasy there.

#

My last stop before going home was at a hardware store. The clerk raised his eyebrows, but he sold me what I wanted without question.

#

Janet called not long after I reached home. I told her I was feeling better.

"We didn't get much chance to talk today," she said. "What are your plans?"

I started to say something and changed my mind. I probably hesitated for less than a second, but Janet was quick.

"You're up to something," she said quickly. "I know it."

I grinned and shook my head slightly.

"What is it? Tell me."

"Okay. I thought I'd do a little climbing tonight." I told her where. I had been smiling at Janet's perceptiveness, hoping I never desperately needed to keep another secret from her, but I suddenly sobered at thinking about climbing again. I wondered if I could handle it.

"So soon after the crash?" Janet was serious now, too.

"If someone tried to kill me once, there could be a second time. Either I pull out now, leaving things unfinished, or I speed things up. And I guess I'm learning some things about myself that I should have learned a long time ago."

I looked at Janet's somber image, still surprised at the candor she induced in me. "I really don't like leaving things unfinished. Maybe I should have gotten Dublin out of my mind, but it's the same story there. I can't just walk away from it before it's complete."

"You might live longer if you didn't finish some things," Janet said quietly.

"Maybe. But maybe I'd eventually die unsatisfied."

"Let's not talk about dying. Where should I meet you tonight?"

"You don't. I'll tell you what I find out as soon as—"

"I hate to repeat myself," Janet cut in.

Maybe I was getting as good at reading her expressions as she was mine. There was a little humor in her eyes, but insistence dominated the faint lines in her face. Here was a woman who not only wasn't going to take no for an answer, but who could also tell if I really meant it when I said yes.

"Why don't we meet in the restaurant parking lot at two?" I said.

"Two." She sighed.

"Of course if that's too late—" I let the sentence dangle and grinned mischievously.

"No. No. Two's fine. " She gave me a wry grin and then grew serious. "Are you going to be okay? Climbing, that is?"

"I guess I'll find out tonight."

#

I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and took another look to see if Janet's car was in sight yet. There's nothing like arriving a little early to make you think the person you're meeting is late.

I had parked well away from the other cars in the lot, which was easy to do. With the normal cold at night everyone else was parked close to the front door or the rear door. The temperature was comfortable inside my car, but I still felt cold. The raw churning in my stomach, familiar from when I had first found out about some of Carolyn's escapades, had kept me from sleeping very well. Outside, the wind howled.

Still no sign of Janet's car.

Without really wanting to, I thought about the one and only time I had tried climbing again after my fall. It was a disaster. Perspiration had made me uncomfortable while I was still on level ground. Once I started, the unbidden memories of the fall seemed to grow stronger in proportion to my height above the ground. I climbed less then ten meters before I decided to pick another pastime.

But I never did. I started pouring all of my resources into the business. Carolyn was out of my life by then, and the time I spent with Brad was almost my only social time outside of work. Maybe that was why the business had done so well, and why I felt so lonely when I looked at Janet and imagined us together.

The lights of a car in the distance brought my thoughts back to the present, but the car went right on past the restaurant without slowing. I settled back and tried to relax. Another car approached. This one pulled into the parking lot and drove toward me. It looked like Janet's car, but it was hard to tell because of the lights.

It rolled up next to me, driver's window to driver's window. It was Janet. We rolled our windows down a little.

"Whose car do we take?" she called just loud enough to be heard.

"Mine. I've got too much equipment to transfer." That, and if someone did see a car that didn't belong near Morgan Polls tonight, it would lead them to me instead of Janet.

Janet pulled her car around so her door opened next to my passenger door, parked, and scrambled inside. "I think you just didn't want to get cold," she said, grinning. Her cheeks were flushed.

"That's right. I'll be cold soon enough." I pulled out of the lot.

"Are you sure you're doing the right thing?"

"If you mean do I know if we'll find out anything, the answer's no. If you mean, can it be done, I think so. Morgan's building is thick, with solid windows. They surely have an intrusion–detection system inside, and a perimeter–penetration system for the walls and windows, but I really don't think they'll have an external–threat system."

"You sound like you know about breaking into places."

"The electronics business. You meet people from time to time, and everyone likes to talk about inside information that isn't sensitive but sounds like it is."

"Are you sure about the alarm systems?"

"Not totally. Reasonably sure. That's all I can hope for."

Janet was quiet for a moment as we sped through the cold night. "Is this a two–person climbing operation?"

"No. I have equipment for one. But I'd appreciate it if you would keep watch from the car and warn me if you see any sign of trouble. I brought an extra set of binoculars."

"Extra. You mean you will have one so you can look through the skylight?"

"Right. It's a long shot, but I don't see an easier, quicker way to get a look."

I kept driving. We set up another private link between our wristcomps as we neared the Morgan Polls building. The industrial park looked even more dead than the last time we had been here. That was fine with me.

I found a parking spot with a view toward the back of Morgan Polls. There were no windows on the rear wall. And the wall was dark except for a band of light about halfway up. It would have to do.

I swallowed hard. "The combination to the car is T–V–N–E–W–S," I said. "If anything happens to me, get out of here."

"But I can't just—"

"I'm not leaving until you promise." I looked over at her. "You know, I don't think I've seen you angry before."

"What are you, some kind of male chauvinist?" Her gaze was steely, more severe than I'd ever seen it.

"There's no need for both of us to be in trouble if only one of us needs to be. You invited yourself along. I'm going to have enough pressure on me up there worrying about myself. If I have to worry about you, too, maybe I should come back later, alone."

She said nothing, but she still looked angry.

"Look," I said. "Am I actually asking anything unreasonable? If I'm caught, there isn't much you'll be able to do about it."

"All right," she finally said grudgingly.

"I'm sorry. I just don't want to risk both of us if only one is necessary." I picked up my hardware sling from the back seat and slipped it over my head and one shoulder. "I don't want anything to happen to you."

She gave me a startled look. Before she said anything, I opened the door and left.

The wind was vicious. But tonight I was ready for it. I didn't need any additional problems, so I had rented a heated suit. I pulled the hood over my head and tapped a control in the center of my chest. The warmth felt good. The power pack should be good for ten hours. That would be ten times longer than I needed it if all went smoothly. If I was still on the building ten hours from now, I would have worse troubles than being cold.

I walked casually, wanting to appear to any watcher to be a night worker reporting for duty, rather than an intruder. No one confronted me as I made my way to the base of the Morgan building. There, the air swirled in the lee.

From the relative darkness, I took a quick look around. The Midas building looked deserted.

I rubbed my glove over a small area of the wall. It had looked fairly smooth from a distance, and I was glad to see that it actually was. I pulled a strong, lightweight rappelling rope out of my sling. Earlier in the day, I had threaded an ample supply of quick–release pods onto the rope. Pods weren't typical climbing gear; they were too expensive.

This wasn't my normal climbing method. Conventional means weren't necessarily suited to buildings, and the more my method changed, the fewer bad memories the experience would summon. I hoped.

I looked up the wall. For a moment, instead of a plain dark wall topped by a star field, there was the cliff face I had fallen from. I shook, despite the comfort of the powered suit.

I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, the Morgan Polls building rose several tall stories above me. I told myself it really wasn't all that bad. I could probably get most of the way to the roof with a good trampoline if the wind would die down.

I took a deep breath. Not waiting to think any longer, I slid the first pod to the end of the rope and positioned it flush against the wall, hook upright, as high as I could reach. I pushed the activating button and pressed the pod against the surface.

Ten seconds later I took my hand away. While I waited the rest of the thirty seconds required for it to set, I withdrew one of two sets of stirrups from my sling.

The stirrup set hung from the pod. There were two stirrups, one about a half meter below the other. The setting time had elapsed, so I put one foot into the lower stirrup and hoisted myself with the rope. My chest hurt as I did.

Suddenly that feeling of hanging in the air, instead of bringing back fond memories of successful climbs, roused the worst ones again. I clenched my teeth and told myself to ignore them.

My wristcomp beeped. I pulled my thoughts away from that last climb and said, "Yes?"

"Are you sure you're going to be all right?" came Janet's voice, full of concern.

"I think so." We left it at that. Hearing her voice had somehow helped.

I hung there a moment longer and then I jumped up and down on the stirrup. It held.

Forcing away all thoughts except those centering on the sheer building face in front of me and the act of placing my other foot in the next stirrup up, I succeeded. The pod was about even with my chest. I held the rope tightly with one hand. With the other hand, I slid the next pod on the rope to a point about a half–meter farther along. I reached up the wall as far as I could and sealed the next pod onto the surface.

When the second pod had time to set, I withdrew my other stirrup set and hung it. I stepped up and then fetched the first set of stirrups for reuse.

The novelty of using pods was strong enough that they helped keep my mind on the immediate task for at least three or four more pods. Then my concentration lapsed again.

It was worse this time. The sensation of falling was almost overpowering. I could see that bloody cliff face receding far too fast above me. In my imagination, I finally hit that sloping surface and began to slide and tumble, my leg broken, my climbing outfit helping to save my life by dragging on the ground as I slid.

I blinked and it was gone, the only remnant being the perspiration on my face. I realized my grip on the rope was weak. I withdrew a clip from my sling and hooked my parka to the rope. A quick downward glance told me I had come less than a fifth of the way. Back to business.

Steadily I worked my way up until I was just below the lit portion of the wall. I looked back at the surrounding area and saw no movement.

I stuck on the next pod feeling as though someone was aiming a searchlight at me. There was no alarm. I attached another. And another.

I was almost to the top of the lighted area when my wristcomp beeped.

"There's a car coming," said Janet, her voice breathless. "I don't know if it's trouble or not, but you'd better get out of sight."

I ran the rope coil under my thigh and over my shoulder, and gripped the rope. With the two sets of stirrups over my shoulder, I rappelled down the wall. More sweat broke out on my forehead as I hoped the uppermost pod had a good enough bond. If it popped loose, the force of my body falling on the next ones could possibly rip them off one by one until I hit the hard ground below.

I reached the relative safety of the darkness and my heart began to slow down again. Above me, only two lengths of rope and a few pods showed in the light. The rope was thin enough not to cause much of a shadow.

I turned, dangling on the rope. I could see the lights from the car, but another five seconds passed before the vehicle itself came into view.

There were no special markings on it. I couldn't tell if it was an unmarked patrol car or some late–night worker in the complex. It drove by without stopping.

I hung there another several minutes, ready to rappel the rest of the way down as fast as I could. But there were no further signs of activity.

Quickly I worked my way back to where I had been. Two pods later, only my feet were still in the light. One more and I slowed down to a safer pace, allowing more time for the pods to seal.

The edge of the roof finally loomed above. When I reached it and stuck my head just over the lip, I remembered the wind. It seemed even worse than on the ground. I hauled myself over the edge, the wind trying its best to push me back.

"I'm here," I said into my wristcomp. "I should be finished in twenty minutes."

"Good."

The large skylight was tilted. It extended to within a meter of the edge of the roof on all sides. I walked lightly. In spite of the gale–force noise where I was, anyone inside would be easily able to hear me tramping around on the roof if I weren't careful.

I was in luck. The building plans on public record were accurate, and no structural modifications had been made since the plans were recorded. By the illumination of a few emergency lights, I could see quite an array of desks.

The Morgan Polls building designers had liked the open office approach. That was part of the reason for the skylight—so most of the employees could enjoy it. In the center of the building was a large open courtyard, and offices faced directly onto it. If office sizes were any indication, the higher the elevation, the more senior the employee. Fortunately, I couldn't see any employees.

I brought a pair of binoculars out of my sling. The light level was too low for easy viewing, so I switched them into intensifier mode and took a look. Good. I had to brace myself to keep the magnification from vibrating the image. The wind didn't help.

I turned the heat in my suit down. The longer I was here the more I thought about being caught.

I started with the top–floor desks since they would be the ones with the largest access to information. My old news background also told me that the senior people might be among the more indifferent to the protection of confidential information since they had dealt with it for so long.

The first desk I examined was a waste of time. The desk surface was totally clear, and the screen was turned off. The in box had a blank cover on top of it. The wastebasket was empty.

The next couple of desks were similar. Then I finally saw an open report on a desktop. The paper showed the latest Sloane–Alsop poll results, broken down by demographics. It didn't actually seem to be useful information, but I had come all this way, so I was going to take everything I could.

I put the binoculars next to my wristcomp and pressed the frame transmit setup button. A light winked on and off on my wristcomp. Ready to receive.

I put the binoculars back to focus on the report. Once the image was clear, I pushed the transmit button. The wristcomp indicated one frame received and stored, and I continued my search.

Three desks later, I captured the image of an advertising brochure. I felt like a kid with his first camera; if it moves, photograph it.

I put the binoculars down so I could rub one eye, and in doing so I was incredibly lucky. Something moved inside, on the bottom floor.

I pulled back from the skylight so I wouldn't be blocking out a field of stars for whoever or whatever was below. With just the tip of one lens jutting past the edge of the window, I aimed toward the motion.

There was a man inside. A guard.

I watched him for just a minute longer before pulling back in amazement and disbelief. Not all that many places used live guards. But Morgan Polls and the Midas Corporation did.

What was just as surprising and even more disturbing was the star that I had seen on the butt of his holstered gun. Expensive guns were adjustable by means of a control in the gun butt. Mild stun settings were usually denoted with a symbol of a feather. A fist meant heavy stun. Knives indicated physical damage was to be expected.

I hadn't ever seen anyone with a gun set to star before. Most of the guns I had seen only went up to knife.

I hadn't been in the news business for my entire life, but I had never heard a news story about someone surviving a hit from a star. Morgan Polls took their privacy more seriously than I had guessed.

I tried to slow my heart rate, unsuccessfully, and took another peek. He was moving slowly, casually. Good.

I did something I should have done when I first reached the roof. I withdrew another lightweight line from my sling and moved quietly to the edge of the roof opposite where I had arrived. I found a secure vent pipe and anchored the rope so it would be available if I had to leave quickly.

Then I did the same thing at the top of my column of pods. The guard was still making his rounds, examining the windows at the front of the building, when I looked again. As cautious as I knew how to be, I looked to see if there was a second guard. There didn't seem to be.

Sitting down on the roof, I looked at the time. Maybe he made his rounds once an hour. I called Janet and explained briefly what was causing the delay. Despite the howl of the wind, I whispered.

When I looked again, the guard was apparently on his way back down to wherever he had been when I first arrived. I waited almost five minutes after he was gone before I started looking again in earnest.

Keeping my head close to the side of the skylight, I inspected desks on the other side of the building from me, going from the top to the bottom. I saw nothing of interest.

I moved to the other side of the skylight, trying to walk without causing any vibrations on the roof. I started to scan again, looking at the offices on the other side this time. The third office I saw had something at least a little different than some of the others.

The wastebasket had been used since the last cleaning. Lying in the bottom of it were the remains of what had once been a solid piece of paper. Sprinkled across the bottom of the basket were numerous small pieces of paper. I, for one, wasn't likely to go to that effort unless I preferred that no one easily read what I discarded.

With magnification increased on the binoculars, I could barely see that several of the small pieces had marks on them. The odds were that half of them were face down, and a few were probably covered by others. But it was all I had seen so far that looked potentially interesting, so I took several shots from slightly different angles. I moved to a point where I could see the previously concealed corner of the basket, and took several more.

I looked diligently at the remaining desks. At one, I thought I had something until I realized someone had just left out a news sheet. There was nothing more that seemed to be of any possible use. I felt discouraged.

There was still no further sign of the guard, but I stayed cautious. I checked both escape routes before retrieving the rope at the front of the building.

The safety line I had used on the way up was still in place. I used a different rope to start rappelling down the wall, but only after I had gotten a small canister from my sling.

I started down. I considered just leaving as fast as I could, but the evidence I would leave behind could raise the risk right back up to where it was if I made a slow retreat.

I paused as I reached the first pod. With a little spray of loosener on the seam, the pod came free. I started a coil on my arm. The next one came free easily, too. I continued my downward trek, trying not to bump hard against the wall.

There were a few more moments of intense nervousness as I passed the brightly lit section of the wall, and then I was back in relative darkness.

Minutes later, with all the pods, I finally got back to the car. I opened the passenger door and said to Janet, "Let's get out of here."

"Are you okay?" She shot me a quick look of concern just before she reached for the ignition switch.

"Just tired and hypertense. And depressed. I didn't see much."

She started the car slowly and took it calmly up to the right speed for getting out as fast as possible without making any observers curious about us. "So, what did you see?" she asked once we were safely clear of the industrial park.

I told her about the poll results and the note. "I can try image enhancement on the note. I'll have to, after making that much effort to get it." In the rearview screen, there was a car behind us.

"You think it's likely that anything important would be just torn up and left, rather than taking it to a disposal?"

"No idea. They must be fairly confident that no one is going to break in." We sped out along the spoke taking us toward the restaurant parking lot. The car that had been behind us was gone. I finally began to relax.

We were both silent until we reached the lot and pulled up next to Janet's car.

"How about some hot tea before we separate?" I suggested.

Janet looked at her wristcomp. "Isn't it a little late?"

I was disappointed in her response. I was absolutely exhausted, but I still didn't want to go home alone yet. I made one more mild attempt. "They're open twenty–four and a half hours."

She looked at me in the dim interior of the car. "All right. Let's go," she said cheerfully.

We got out of the car and started for the restaurant. I didn't think I was a manic–depressive, but I sure felt a lot better than I had just a short minute ago. The night must have been almost at its coldest, but my powered suit still had enough energy to keep me comfortable as we walked to the restaurant.

I felt even better, though, sitting at a table next to Janet and with a hot cinnamon tea in my hand.

"So," said Janet. "Let's see one of the pictures. You did store them in your wristcomp, didn't you?"

I nodded and brought one up on the screen. We both peered at the shot of the torn note. The image was fuzzy. "I've got several shots that I can merge to help the resolution. I don't think we can blow these up without image enhancement."

"Try it anyway, just to see."

I did. But the small blur at the center of the screen merely became a much larger blur.

Janet leaned back and rested her eyes. She sighed. "What's the number of the exhaustion hotline? I've got a serious case here."

"Me, too. Maybe there was nothing in the building to see."

"With the guard and the gun?"

"You're right. There's got to be something there. But I'm tired of thinking about it," I said. "Why don't we talk about you?"

"Why me?" Janet asked, reaching for her drink.

"I've told you about me. You've said so little about yourself, you probably have some dark secret."

She swallowed wrong. Suddenly she was coughing hard.

I waited until she was over the worst of it. "We don't have to talk about it. Just mark me down as too snoopy. Maybe I haven't been completely able to get rid of my reporter's blood."

"It's not like that," she said at last. "I come from a Hamptonnite family."

I almost choked on my drink. "You're serious, aren't you? That's incredible." Hamptonnites were a small sect who believed in male supremacy and didn't believe in technology. How they had ever gotten to Mars was as big a mystery as how they could successfully indoctrinate in most of their children the belief that females were inferior to males, unable to handle any role in society except the narrow one the elders had defined.

"I'll drop the subject if you want," I said after a moment. "But I am curious. About you. And how you got out."

"Getting out wasn't all that hard. There aren't cages or chains. Most of the other teenagers are either happy enough or tolerant enough of the rules that hardly anyone leaves. Deciding to get out was the hard part." Janet took another sip from her drink and her eyes focused on a spot far away.

"I liked to read," she went on. "I liked to read so much that, when I had finished reading all the allowed books, I read others. You probably can't imagine the relief I felt when I realized that other people felt the way I did. Here were people who treated man and woman as equals and they never once worried that God would strike them down for blasphemy. I had felt so guilty for thinking that I wasn't inferior. And I was incredibly angry at having been lied to like that. So I left. I guess what hurts most is thinking about my mother still there."

"She wanted out but couldn't?"

"No. Maybe that's what's so terrible, in a nonsensical way. She believed it all. She's still there, living the same life. At least I think she is. I haven't talked to anyone in my family for years now."

"Don't you ever want to?"

"Oh sure. But it's not me who's too stubborn to talk. To them, I no longer exist."

I thought back to the expression on my father's face when I had told him I was quitting the reporting business. "Have you talked about it with anyone else?" I asked. "I've had feelings I could work out better by talking than any other way I tried."

"You're the first person I ever told," Janet said, looking at me intently, as though puzzled that she had spoken about it.

We talked a while longer. I felt better when we were finished, and I think maybe she did, too.

The last thing I saw of her that night was a set of tail lights vanishing into the city's own early morning lights.

#

I was at home, dreaming about my parents, when I was awakened by a call. It was Janet.

"Can you talk?" she asked.

I rubbed my forehead, trying to clear my fogged brain. I looked around the room. "Sure. What is it?"

"Someone's searched my house."

Chapter 15 Examination

I was suddenly wide awake. "You got the same treatment I did?"

"No. Nothing like that," Janet said, sounding more nervous than I'd heard her before. "This worries me even more. They were careful."

As she talked, I moved to the desk computer and put her image on the larger screen. My eyes couldn't handle the tiny wristcomp picture right now. I brushed my hair into place and switched on my video.

"When you live alone, you can develop habits," she continued. "Call them quirks, but they're ruts. There are some things I put back in exactly the same place after I use them. This morning I needed a blank memory wafer for the computer. The box had been moved. Not much, but I'm sure someone's been here. I checked several other small things, and they're all changed."

"I assume you're talking freely because you've checked for bugs?" I said.

"That was the first thing I did. Nothing."

"Is there any chance that someone wants to scare you into panicking, by deliberately searching and trying to make it both obvious and subtle?"

"I really don't think so. If someone knew me well enough, he might realize that those small changes would be enough to convince me the place had been searched. But most people would probably think they were leaving everything exactly where it had been. At least no damage was done."

"Except for the fact that someone now suspects you, too. I wonder what might have tipped them off."

"Maybe nothing. I feel a little paranoid right now, doing the things we've been doing. Maybe if they've been committing crimes for quite a while, they probably feel a little paranoid, also. Maybe they check anyone who seems at all suspicious. I suppose conspiracy insiders have as much right to paranoia as outsiders."

"I hope you're right." For two reasons. First, I didn't want anything to happen to her. Second, if I knew they suspected her, I'd want to get her out of the way. And I could easily guess her reaction if I tried anything like that. Talk about your irresistible object. "When do you think the search happened? While we were out last night?"

"No. It could have been, but it probably also could have been almost any time in the last week. I didn't notice anything changed that I use every day. And the odds are a lot higher that it happened one day while I was at work. That way someone at MNBS would know exactly where I was."

"Makes sense," I said. "So, what do you think is best? Ignore it and not mention it at work?"

"I guess so. I just hope we're near the answers."

"Me, too."

We talked a little longer and I rang off, thinking about how difficult it was to protect someone who didn't want protection. Someone who in fact would be so offended by being protected that she might never talk to me again.

#

A small breakfast made me feel better. My muscles felt even more sore than they were yesterday, and I didn't feel any better informed for my assault on Mount Morgan.

I sat down in front of the desk computer and transferred to it all the pictures I had taken last night. I encrypted each one, and then began my work with copies. The poll results still seemed unimportant, but I looked at them since the torn note was the only other thing I had.

The page said that, on the whole, Alsop had a two–point edge on Sloane. The demographics said that Alsop was weakest with the people who felt most strongly about the need for more emphasis on crime control, and leading with the folks who rented rather than owned their homes. The date on the page was two days ago. I read a little further and quit, more interested in the note.

Each frame was rectangular, with the round lip of the basket almost reaching the edges of the screen. There was a convenient pattern on the top of the lip. I arbitrarily selected one frame to be the master. With the next frame overlaid on the first, I told the computer to stretch the second image until the two lined up on five key points in the pattern.

One by one, I did the same thing to the rest. When I was finished, I turned on all the images simultaneously. The result was good agreement right around the pattern keys, with the convergence progressively worse toward the center, because of the different aspects for each frame.

I told the computer the key points and asked it to adjust the slave images for the highest correlation. Before my eyes, the blurred imaged slowly sharpened until I was looking at an image almost as clear as if I had been shooting from three meters over the basket.

Now I could see distinct handwriting segments on the individual pieces of paper, including the word "and" quite clear near the center of the basket.

The hard part was coming up. I selected graphics–assistance and used my finger to indicate the sections of the frame to discard. Once I got rid of the large areas of extraneous image, I used a pen on blowups of each quadrant of the image to leave only the actual pieces of paper.

Now for the jigsaw puzzle. With the pen, I identified boundaries of each piece that overlapped another, telling the computer which edges were real, and which were concealed, and therefore unknown. Finally, the computer had track of every piece, so I could begin.

I split the screen and had the computer move all the blank pieces to the bottom. These would either be pieces that had fallen upside down, or ones that had simply been blank. With my finger, I had the computer rotate selected pieces so the letters I could see were all upright.

I picked all the ones I could see with a flat edge on top. Then one at a time, I had the computer search for a torn edge matching the one I indicated. Slowly the note took shape. Unfortunately, the odds weren't with me. As I went, it seemed that more pieces were face down than face up. If the computer had to flip over a piece to make it fit, I had it color the piece green so I knew there was potentially lost text there.

Finally I was finished. But I still didn't feel any more knowledgeable. I stared at the contents of the screen:

NEED IN          T                CT L      ND O                E.

SUGGES        ASS          N OF            ENT        ON.

I didn't see any sense in the fragments for several minutes. Finally, as I was about to turn away, I connected "l and o." There was enough space that the phrase could have been "law and order." I immediately thought of the poll results from a few minutes ago. They had mentioned crime control as an issue. So maybe this memo was tied into whatever was going on. But what did it say?

If the phrase "law and order" was really there, then the word after it must be "vote." I stared at the message. After a period of analysis, I decided the text was fragmented enough that I wasn't going to learn anything else at the moment.

After transmitting copies of all the results to my home computer in Biblis, I fixed myself some hot tea. I finally started feeling more awake.

There didn't seem to be anything else I could do immediately to learn more about the MNBS/Midas/Vanderland and maybe Morgan problem, so I checked on how the computer was doing on the Dublin files.

It was finished. Every file had been converted to clear text. Running true to form, Kevin had decided that internal security would protect the wafer from prying outside eyes, and had used his password extensively, effectively negating the sophisticated encryption methods used.

I leaned back and started to scan memos. At first I looked at every one. Soon I was filtering my search, examining only the ones with the word "LandAir" in them. There were still a lot of memos and reports.

It was incredibly boring work. During a break, I got up and turned on the television. I set the news level to two, and turned the sound up so it was barely audible.

At dinnertime, I stopped for a brief meal and then resumed. Sitting in front of the desk computer was fatiguing. I did mild calisthenics for a few minutes and felt better.

An hour later, I saw the first truly interesting piece of information. A memo from the engineering manager to the general manager reported a flaw that had shown up only during final testing. There was a bug in the control system.

I read further. The design error had killed an employee, a test driver.

The driver had been in a monitored, planned test, so as soon as the furor subsided they ran a remote–control test. According to the next memo, same thing.

There was an instability in the control system which showed up under heavy acceleration and banked turns to the right.

I continued reading while the television noise faded into the background. The next few memos bounced the issue back and forth between the two managers. Engineering said the problem was a subtle one, one which showed up only in live tests of the LandAir. Simulations weren't any help on this one.

Management asked how long it would take to fix. Engineering estimated a month, but was quite uncertain. Management: cut the time. The advertising campaign has started and the release date is two weeks away. Engineering: we're working as fast as we can.

Next was a terrific memo. Terrific for me. Not so good for the fellow who died in his LandAir a week ago, assuming this defect was the cause. This memo was from the legal department, evidently in response to a verbal question from management. It was concise and revealing.

"Failure is only probable under almost reckless operational modes. Given the estimate of 0.012 percent chance of accident occurrence during one hour of straight–line LandAir high–speed travel, and 0.00065 percent chance during low–speed travel in traffic, the estimated annual lawsuit cost and recall costs to the company are likely to be less than one–quarter of the estimated costs of wasted advertising, loss of market lead for two months, and intangibles such as loss of image caused by announcement of delays and problems."

I leaned back, tired but elated. Finally.

After a few deep breaths, I scanned the remaining memos, until I saw one from management to engineering saying, "Freeze the design at revision H, which will be the initial production model. Any enhancements you initiate will be incorporated as soon as possible." A quick look back told me revision H was the version which crashed, killing the test driver.

#

I was napping when something on the television must have intruded enough to wake me. I sat up slowly, saw it was getting to be morning, and started listening. An announcer was talking about the Alsop–Sloane race. That must have been what woke me up.

She added a few more familiar details and then summarized recent roll results, courtesy of Morgan Polls. "Newton Alsop gains have been relatively slow but steady. The latest poll indicates forty–five percent favor Alsop, forty–one percent for Sloane, with the remaining fourteen percent undecided."

She talked briefly about upcoming events before a commercial began. I sat there thinking while the commercial ended and coverage of an airball game started.

It wasn't until I'd had some hot tea that I realized what was wrong. I hadn't recorded that segment, but I was sure she had said Alsop had a 45 to 41 margin. To be absolutely sure that I was connecting the figures accurately, I looked back at the frame I had stored from Morgan Polls, the one with poll results.

My memory was accurate. The picture said there was only a two–point margin.

There was my link between Morgan Polls and MNBS. I still didn't know why or how, but certainly MNBS wouldn't distort poll results unless they knew they wouldn't be called on it.

So MNBS and Morgan Polls both had reasons for Alsop to win the race. But what?

I ate breakfast, trying to list all the possibilities I could imagine. I must have generated fifty, but I had nothing to tell me even which twenty–five deserved more attention than the others. It should have been depressing, but not fifteen minutes later, when I glanced at a mirror, I caught myself smiling.

Now why is that? I wondered. I'm not necessarily any closer to finding out what's going on at MNBS. Someone's tried to kill me once already. A woman I find appealing, one who's managed with no effort to awaken feelings I've been trying to do without for years, may be in every bit as much danger, and if I try to protect her, it will only alienate her. So why did I feel good?

Finally I realized what it was. Leaving things unfinished must have bothered me more than I realized. Having some clear evidence on Dublin, after giving up so long ago, felt wonderful.

By the time I had sorted out some of my feelings, it was late enough that I probably wouldn't wake Janet if I called.

I was right. She was up. She really was a morning person. Her turquoise eyes were more alert than mine probably were until I'd been up for two hours.

"There's a big operation here," I said after exchanging greetings. I told her about the difference between the poll results I saw at Morgan and the ones MNBS had reported. I also told her about the torn note, in case she could fit the missing words into context. When she temporarily gave up, I also told her about the Dublin memos.

"Should you tell Glenn Hartley about it?" she asked. "Without telling him who you heard from. Just in case."

"I'd rather not. For one thing, I don't want to attract any more attention to myself than I already have. For another, I'm not sure that he's not in on this."

She didn't bother with "You're not serious." She simply said, "What are your reasons?"

"For one thing, if this mess we're uncovering really does affect MNBS, Morgan Polls, Midas, Alsop, and probably Vanderland, then it could easily involve highly placed people at each location. For another, when I first started here, I seem to remember overhearing a conversation between Glenn and Sean. I think one of the two said something about dressing lightly. That night we were on our way to Edom."

"So we don't trust anyone?"

"Only ourselves."

"I don't know if Alsop is in on this or not," she said. "I did some checking yesterday. Alsop filed a protest at the handling of that news conference. The one that was edited to make Sloane look bad."

"So either someone who's helping him in his campaign has overstepped the limit, or Alsop knows everything and he's trying to protect his image."

"I suppose so. But aren't we getting a little astray?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Simply that all this started out because you thought some of these accidents could have been prevented."

"I haven't forgotten that. It's just that all we've learned so far seems to be tied more into a political race. And it's got to be connected to the accidents, but I don't see how."

"What next, then?"

"For one thing, I left that analysis running at work, to see if there was any common element for the people who've died in the most well–covered accidents. I'd only raise suspicions if I went in today, but tomorrow I'll check the results. Maybe that will give us a clue."

Janet tried to suppress a grin and failed. "Just like in the adventure shows, right? It will turn out that one person from every fatal accident used to be a bully in school."

"Well, it's possible. I'm not saying I've placed all my hopes on it. It's just a try."

"Okay. I'm not saying it's a bad idea. It's only that it seems so, well, typical."

We talked for a while longer about various possibilities to check. Just before Janet rang off, she said brightly, "Say, maybe most of the victims were clients of a competitor's life insurance subsidiary."

Then a smile and a quick shake of her head told me she realized she was teasing too hard.

"You're forgiven, my child," I replied solemnly.

The afterimage of her face in my screen lasted much longer than simple persistence of vision could account for.

#

I went back to work full–time on Monday, the next day. The rest of Sunday had been generally unproductive, filled with numerous false trails of speculation.

The first few hours of work were generally unproductive, too. Sean sent me on an errand to pick up a repaired camera. I was cautious on the way, looking for potential traps, but there was no incident.

Back at the station, Tony Warner stopped by to say he was glad I was all right, and sorry he had been the cause. I didn't tell him I was sure who the cause was, and it certainly wasn't him. He wished me well, and, with a broad smile, went back to work.

#

The search I had initiated in the morgue was complete. A couple of hours had passed before Janet had a chance to make a convenient excuse for me to be down there.

I might as well have saved my time. I felt like a little boy who, after waiting for a new game for his birthday, finds a shirt inside the gift wrapping. I couldn't see any value at all in the search results, even after I tried several correlations on my own.

The only consistencies the search had uncovered were ones common to people who died all at the same time. So it had just picked up similarities between co–workers or family members. There didn't seem to be any more than typical random coincidences linking victims from one disaster to another.

Pairs of people happened to go to the same school, and a trio was born in the same city, but I simply couldn't see any pattern that seemed a likely possibility.

I considered starting more searches, but I hadn't a clue as to what to request. Instead, I ate lunch by myself in the MNBS cafeteria.

I was lucky not to have digestion problems. The instant I finished eating, Sean called to say we were going on assignment.

#

The preflight whine of the jumper bothered me a little at first, then when Janet climbed in, her brief smile raised my spirits. But what really made me feel good was having Sean climb in with us. It's funny how your perspective can change when you get to know someone better.

"Not back to the weather station?" I said when Sean had closed the door.

"No," he said, his voice muffled as he strapped in. "Biblis. Arrange us a plane from the airport."

I powered up the jets, feeling nervous. "Biblis. What's in Biblis?"

"Governor Newall."

I was used to Sean's lack of details. "Sure sounds exciting," I said.

"It might be," Janet said from the backseat. "He's giving a commencement speech for the graduating class at B.U. Rumors say he's been saving up his public comments for this speech and intends to be quite candid. He's a B.U. graduate, so maybe he feels he can give the university some extra publicity this way."

We left the ground as Janet finished. The wind wasn't as bad as usual, and the ascent was surprisingly smooth. I breathed easier now that Sean hadn't made some last–minute change and said, "Go on ahead. I'll catch up."

#

The trip to Biblis was unsettling. I wanted to go home as myself and just stay there. But coming back in this way was disturbing. Biblis was a large enough place that I was unlikely to run into anyone who knew me, and even then the disguise should be more than adequate. But I still felt nervous.

Aside from the fact that Janet was in the Moonfire, too, the only good point on the trip was that the view of Olympus from the air was impressive. The Moonfire's forward–swept wings blocked the view of part of the base, but made the flight so smooth it was like sliding a hockey puck over brand new ice. Clouds still obscured the top of Olympus, but even the visible sections of the massive slopes were enough to make me think of climbing again.

The feeling passed as I reminded myself that I had a job to do. And that trouble seemed to follow MNBS on its assignments.

#

We actually got to the university early. As we drove up, it was still a half hour before the evening ceremonies were scheduled to begin. The one time I had a chance to speak to Janet privately, I had asked why we had such short notice on this kind of assignment. She said another team had been assigned, but a problem came up and we were the substitutes.

I pulled the car into a downward–sloping driveway and stopped at the entrance to the underground parking lot. The controller read our press pass from the window and the gate swung open. Ahead, a lighted indicator showed the direction to the best empty spot that we were entitled to.

I parked the car. Sean looked at a map display on his wristcomp and said, "Looks like we go this way."

If the ceremonies were going to be in the grand hall, I could have told him that myself. I had graduated from B.U.

A familiar, well–lit tunnel took us where we wanted to go. At the end of the journey, we found an elevator leading up, and more people on their way to the ceremonies. Further along the tunnel, perhaps a hundred meters away, was the other elevator to the grand hall. Several tunnels joined at angles, leading to other buildings on the campus.

Walking along the tunnel brought back old memories. Recently it had seemed that the only memories of times with Carolyn had been bad ones. But these halls took me back to a time when I had been quite happy.

"We'll meet right here," Sean said. "Immediately after the governor's speech. He'll have to come past here on his way out."

Janet agreed, and the three of us shared the elevator with two students. On the ground floor, the doors opened onto a much larger mass of people. Apparently most people still used the surface walkways.

Following Sean's lead, we found three seats together. He didn't seem entirely happy to have me sitting with the real reporters, but there was plenty of space. When he went off for just a minute to get a drink of water, I asked Janet under my breath, "Doesn't it ever get to you when he's so condescending?" I imagined that with her Hamptonnite background, she was extra–sensitive to male chauvinism.

She smiled lightly, putting on a headband camera, and said, "Probably no more than it bothers you. He treats everyone that way, so why should I hope to be treated better than anyone else?"

Then Sean was back, and shortly afterward the ceremonies began. When it was time for Governor Newall to talk, he quickly refreshed my memory of why he was such a popular politician. Newall was one of those people who have the gift or acquired talent for talking about important elements of people's lives in a context that mixed in humor often enough to really drive the point home. I could see him as an old–time honest politician, shaking hands with the simple folks, asking questions that showed he actually understood their problems and concerns.

Tonight he talked about violence and how he hoped each member of this new graduating class would decide to do something independently or as part of a group to chop away all the images that went with violence, and strip it down to the lowest common element. Strip away the sensationalism and the outlaw–hero myths and the adventure. Focus not on the excuses for it and the glorification of it. Leave it all by itself in the spotlight, exposed for what it is: a destructive element to be eradicated.

Then he went on about the way to do it. He encouraged the graduating class to involve themselves with the educational system, the judicial system, and the media.

He probably spent more time on the media and sensationalism than any other topic. I hoped he made a few converts. When he finished, the audience applauded even more loudly than I had expected.

As the grand hall began to grow quiet again and the actual diploma presentations began, Sean indicated it was time to go. Janet took a final minute at the rear door to record the first few students.

The tunnel at the base of the elevator was deserted.

"If we can get even a minute with him, it will be all we need," Sean said, his voice echoing from the tunnel walls.

We spent the waiting period in silence. Finally the elevator traffic began. The first few loads seemed to be mostly students. Far down the tunnel, the other elevator also started to deposit people leaving the ceremony.

A few minutes later, Sean's wristcomp must have beeped to indicate the time was on the hour. The elevator disgorged another load of people into the tunnel, and the governor had still not arrived.

"I just realized," Sean said abruptly. "Newall could be coming down the other elevator. I'd better check it." He started off fast down the tunnel.

I should have told him it was a waste of time, but it was pleasant to be with Janet without Sean listening to every word, and it wouldn't be a good idea to demonstrate my knowledge of the university. The governor could come down the other elevator, but he'd still have to come this way to get to the parking lot.

I watched Sean get almost there, look back at us, and shake his head as though he finally realized that it was a waste of time. He was perhaps halfway back when the elevator opened again. This time, surrounded by reporters from competitors, the governor was inside.

Janet moved to cut off the easy exit. I held back while she waited for the next two questions to finish, and she fired in her own.

I looked back toward Sean, who was hurrying now that he realized who was here, and, as I glanced back toward the small crowd, I saw a young man drop his pen. I started to call to him, but didn't.

I wasn't sure at first what stopped me, but then I saw the worried expression on his face. I was suddenly overcome by an incredibly bad feeling. Janet and I were here. Separated from Sean.

I watched the young man closely for his next few steps, and my tension rose to a boil. He started to walk faster, and then, before he was more than five meters away, he began to jog, as though he was late getting to where he needed to be.

That was all it took to drive me out of inactivity. With no though about the possible result, I lunged forward, starting toward the pen on the ground. An elbow hit me in the side of the face.

"Watch where you're going," came an angry male voice from behind me. And now I didn't see the pen. I pushed a new graduate out of the way, peripherally aware that he tripped on his robe as he stumbled away from me.

Then I saw it in the gap between two people stopped to listen to the governor. I barged between them, ignoring the startled exclamations. And as I reached closer, someone's foot sent the pen skittering further into the small crowd.

I was acting like a maniac by this time. I saw the pen ahead of me, and someone stepped between me and it. "What are you doing?" said a belligerent voice.

I lost any remaining tact at that point. "Get out of my bloody way," I yelled, heaving the fellow to one side.

I landed on my knees within reaching distance of the pen. I grabbed it. And then I was on my feet again, trying to get out of the throng before anything happened.

Chapter 16 Newsworthy

The "pen" felt warm in my hands.

People in the small crowd must have been so shocked at my conduct that they were getting out of my way. An opening cleared, and ahead I could see two things. Sean had slowed his return to the group, and was using his camera. And the "student" who had dropped the cylinder I now held in my hand was running for a side tunnel, glancing backward with panic in his expression.

Now that I finally had a clear view to make sure there were no other innocent people ahead, I threw the cylinder at the "student's" retreating form. He reached the side tunnel about the same time the cylinder caught up with him.

The cylinder caught the edge of the tunnel wall, bouncing into the side tunnel. It probably hadn't been out of sight any longer than a second when I was knocked over by the concussion. Fragments of rock flew out of the tunnel, followed by a dense cloud of dust and smoke.

Then suddenly it was almost silent in the tunnel. Someone back in the crowd said, "I'll be damned." That must have been the trigger for everyone else, because then everyone began talking.

I walked slowly toward the rubble. To one side of me, a man with his back to the wall slid to the floor in apparent reaction to realizing what had almost happened to him. Behind me, there were sounds of at least two people calling the police on their wristcomps.

The smoke and dust cloud still hung in the air by the time I reached the side tunnel. Janet had caught up to me, and Sean was busy with his camera pointed into the tunnel. I said quietly to Janet, "You probably don't want to see this."

I was right. The "student's" body lay no more than five meters into the tunnel. What was left of the body was a mess. I shouldn't have looked myself. I backed out of the tunnel and sat down. I tried to quiet my stomach and admit to myself that I had just killed another human being, albeit a potential murderer.

I wasn't destined to have much time for deliberation. By that time, the people in the crowd had fully realized what had happened, and another load of people had exited the elevator. Suddenly there were people all around me congratulating me and asking me how I had known about the bomb.

For a moment I just sat there. And then I was aware of the crowd beginning to quiet down. When I opened my eyes again, Governor Newall was squatting next to me.

His speech had been moving even though I had been sitting well back in the audience. Up this close, I was sure he would have made an excellent actor. Who knows? Maybe there's no difference. His eyes were wide open, frank, appraising.

"I want to thank you very much," the governor said. "I don't know how you knew it was necessary, but I'm quite grateful, both for the sake of these fine people here with us, and for my own sake."

When I said nothing, he went on after a brief pause. "Probably there are people who, when they hear about this, will say, 'Old Newall gave a talk about violence, and on his way out, someone tried to kill him. It must have been a set–up.' But it wasn't, was it?"

I couldn't refuse him. "No, sir. It wasn't."

"How did you know?" He must have been as aware as I was that at least three television cameras were focused on us.

"I didn't know for sure that anything was wrong," I said, my voice a little shaky. "And I didn't know at first that it was a bomb. But I just happened to notice this guy, you see." Almost too late, I remembered my role. "He was real nervous. He looked all around a couple of times. And then he took a pen out of his pocket, only I knew it couldn't be a pen since he dropped it on the floor, on purpose. And then he started walking away real fast. I've seen a lot of crime shows. And it didn't look like he was doing something he should be doing."

"He certainly wasn't, young man. What is your name? I need to know the name of the man who saved my life."

Trapped. In all the rush, I hadn't even thought this far along. Now my face was going to be on every television. I wondered how many people might see through the disguise. But I had to answer. Not answering would create even more risks. "Bill Letterer," I said, trying not to sound reluctant.

"Well, I thank you, Mr. Letterer," the governor said, taking my hand in his and shaking it. "It's people like that man lying over there that we must protect from the causes of violence. And it's people like you that we must use to reduce the causes."

Newall stood up and lowered his hand to help me up. I knew it was a symbolic move, but at the moment I couldn't deny him. I stood beside him for a moment, four cameras trained on us. As we stood there, the governor smiling into the cameras, and me standing there numb, the police finally arrived.

I had to go through my story with them, too, but at least they moved me to a private corner of a tunnel for a few minutes while we talked. I could hear the sounds of a paramedic team and a cleanup crew working in the background.

I was exhausted by the time we finally started for home. Sean's comment, just before getting into the car, was, "You're such a celebrity tonight, maybe I should drive you." He didn't, of course.

#

I was exhausted by the time I got home, but I stayed up long enough to watch the coverage. I had set my computer to record MNBS full–time. I scanned past the intervening commercials, looking only at the actual coverage and follow–up interviews with police, Alsop and Sloane, and a few others.

I was interrupted by two congratulatory calls before I turned off all calls and went back to watching the news.

It was just as bad as I had feared. My face and voice were quite prominent in several segments. I went to bed, hoping no one would manage to connect Bill Letterer and Dan Kettering.

#

On the way to work the next day, I listened to what the police had learned about the guy with the bomb. He hadn't been a student. His name was Harry Venti and he had been employed as a mechanic. There were no clues from people in his life that he had anything against Governor Newall.

#

It was late morning before I had a chance to talk with Janet. We were in the cafeteria, and I was fairly sure Sean was out of the building.

"Aren't you worried that someone you used to know well saw that broadcast and is going to call the station to make sure he heard your name right?" she asked.

"Yes," I admitted.

"I hate to suggest this, but maybe it's time for you to quit. Let me keep investigating. Let the police get someone else in here, too, if they can."

"No."

"Just like that? Simply no?"

"I'm not going to leave something like this unfinished," I said. "I'm more sure than ever that it's not coincidence that MNBS gets to the scene first so many times. Maybe they're actually causing the disasters. This guy Venti could have been paid by Sean or someone at MNBS to kill the governor."

"But we still don't have any motive. The cliché is that people will kill for ratings, but I don't accept that."

"There has to be a logical explanation. I think we have to assume that MNBS is responsible for these accidents in one sense or another. That means they have to profit by the results. The results are the killing and the damage themselves, and the viewers watching MNBS."

Janet thought about it for a minute. "Okay. What then?"

"Well, I'm not clever enough to see the pattern behind the disasters, so that leaves the broadcast and the viewers. Maybe it would help if I watched all the file recordings for the last several accidents all in the space of an hour or two. Maybe I could see some pattern I haven't noticed before."

"How about if I make copies today and we watch them together tonight?" Janet said.

"You've got a date."

#

We met at my place. The first accident on the wafer Janet brought was the plane crash that caused Sam's death.

"I brought this one because it seems to be part of the pattern," Janet said. "How about if I watch it alone and call you when the Edom–explosion coverage begins?"

"Thanks for trying," I said softly. "But I've got to watch it, too. Maybe I can get a better grip on myself and see something I couldn't see before."

She argued a moment longer, but I wouldn't give in.

I shouldn't have been so stubborn. I hadn't been watching the crash coverage any longer than a few minutes when I began to cry again.

Janet didn't say anything about "I told you so." She said nothing at all, but just put her arms around me and let me cry.

#

We started over with the explosion at Edom. I was quiet, looking only at the pictures before me.

Once again, the Edom wall exploded, sending construction materials and vapors into the night atmosphere. The downtown hotel fire sent smoke billowing into the air. The nightmarishly slow fall of the truck from the overpass brought back more ugly memories, and the recording from the bombing last night made me feel lucky to be alive.

Then we watched them again. We looked to see what commercials were inserted into each newscast. No, they weren't the same companies every time. The newscasters at the station were not the same ones in every incident. Times of day varied, as did the reason for each fatality.

Other than the fact that these were all MNBS coverages, the only other commonalities we could see were in the people interviewed for reactions after the fact. The police were on. The officials responsible for the facilities were on. And Alsop and Sloane were on.

"So, we're back to Alsop and Sloane again," I said finally. "Why them each time?"

"They're the two most prominent politicians in Helium. The election is a couple of months away. It doesn't seem too unusual to me." Janet had her shoes off and her feet up on the chair, her legs bent sharply at the knees. I didn't understand how she could be comfortable.

"Maybe. But they seem to be all we have."

Janet stifled a yawn. "Okay. But I'm running out of ideas."

I thought for a moment. "Me, too. Were you ever able to figure out anything about the fragments of the note I saw at Midas?"

"No. You still have it? Maybe we could brainstorm it."

"Fine." I called it up on the screen. It made no more sense than last time I had looked at it. I mentioned my theory about "law and order vote."

NEED IN        T                CT L      ND O            E.

SUGGES        ASS          N OF            ENT        ON.

We both stared at it for a few minutes before Janet said, "The first word on the second line must be 'suggest' or 'suggestion.'"

"I certainly agree. But what else?" I looked more closely at it.

"I don't—"

"Wait a minute," I interrupted. "My eyes aren't so tired as they must have been the other night. Do you see a faint line on the green piece right there? Between the 'O' and the 'TE'?"

"Yes. What about it?"

"That piece was flipped over in the wastebasket. So the computer reversed the image for me when I was assembling the whole. When you were a kid, did you ever trace on a piece of paper that was under one that someone wrote on, to see what was written there?"

"Sure," Janet said, leaning forward toward the screen. "You're saying that line is the indentation on the back of the sheet the note was written on?"

"It must be. With image enhancement, we might be able to read the backs of whatever pieces were face down and not covered up by other pieces."

It turned out that there were four note fragments in that category. We put the first one up on the screen. We must have had as hard a time as Lowell did trying to draw a map of what he thought were canals on Mars.

Little by little though, we were able to get various sections of the lines to show up. In some we shifted the color scale into black and white, and moved the differentiation point through the spectrum. On another we had more luck with greatly increasing the contrast. The computer merged all the line fragments we were sure of, and then color–coded the ones we could have been imagining.

The result was worth working for. A distinct chill tempered my elation with getting results.

NEED IN        T TTRACT L      ND O    R VOTE.

SUGGEST ASSASS ON OF            ENT PERSON.

"Are you thinking about what almost happened last night, too?" Janet asked softly, sitting completely still.

"I assume you're talking about the bottom line, where that has to say 'assassination'?"

"Exactly."

"What about the upper right?" I asked. "The poll results had a category for people concerned with crime control. What do you think about my 'law and order' guess?"

Janet nodded. "I think we've got enough here to feed into a crossword–puzzle solver. A seven–letter word ending in 'ttract' must be 'attract'."

There wasn't much left for the crossword–solver, but when we were finished, we looked at our results on the screen, our guessed letters identified by the orange color.

NEED INcideNT to aTTRACT Law AND OrdER VOTE.

SUGGEST ASSASSinatiON OF promiNENT PERSON.

"I'd say a governor was prominent enough, wouldn't you?" said Janet. "Especially one who had just completed a speech on combating violence."

"Yeah. That would do nicely. But I still don't understand. All these deaths just for an election–race win?"

"The note is fairly clear. And it doesn't seem likely that they would have planted it there just in case you happened to be out taking pictures some night. But it is funny that anyone wrote it on paper."

"Maybe they were preparing an encrypted message. One they could send without worrying who intercepted it." I leaned back in my chair. Despite all the new knowledge, I felt discouraged. "So, where do we go from here?" I asked.

"Well, first we—" Janet looked up at me abruptly. "I don't know. Even this note isn't admissible evidence. Maybe we need to clear out and let the police in."

"Like you say, though. There isn't any admissible evidence yet. And I don't think it's going to be possible for us to get out now."

"You mean because you're developing these strong feelings for finishing what you start?"

"I wish that's all it was," I said softly.

"Well, give. Give."

"You probably realize it, too. Maybe you just haven't admitted it to yourself. The note says 'assassination.' MNBS was there to cover it. The plan must have been known to Sean."

"Go on," Janet urged. Perhaps she was being less perceptive tonight because she didn't want to admit it to herself.

"Who was it that arranged for us to wait at the elevator where the governor would arrive while he put some distance between himself and the governor?"

Janet paled. She knew what I was talking about now. "You're saying Newall wasn't the only intended target."

I could see in her face that she had no doubts either.

Chapter 17 Bait

Janet just looked at me for another long moment. Finally she said, "Well, that sure makes it hard to get motivated to go to work in the morning."

I was relieved to see that she was taking it without panicking. I'd had a little longer to get used to the idea that Sean and persons unknown wanted us dead, and I still felt as queasy as I had been when I'd first learned that Carolyn was having an affair.

"That it does," I agreed.

"So they know what we're doing, or at least that we're a threat." She didn't say anything about how I dragged her into this or it being all my fault. She just turned her thoughtful turquoise eyes on me for a moment.

"I wish we were a threat," I said. "We still don't have anything to say who's doing exactly what, or why. And nothing we've got would be acceptable evidence."

Janet thought for a few more minutes and then snapped her fingers. "This doesn't help much, but I just realized the significance of a comment I heard yesterday. One of the other reporters was telling someone that he had been assigned to compile a profile on Governor Newall. I'll bet you anything that someone wanted the profile available quickly so it could be shown between replays of the actual killing. I wonder how many times the station was able to beat the competition to a comprehensive just because they had started on it before the 'accident.'"

"It's simply all part of being thorough," I said. "If they were morbid enough and cocky enough, they could plan what commercials to fit in the gaps."

"Maybe they do. At least the political commercials."

"You're right at that. Having Alsop on the screen soon after the report gives him one additional chance to be seen by the public when more people are likely to be watching. He could count on a news level of at least three or four. Last night might have been a five or six."

"Right," she said. "But why Sloane, too?"

She fell silent, apparently as puzzled as I was.

After a long deliberation, I changed the subject and said, "Okay. We know they suspect us. We don't have anything that would be tangible in court. We probably won't have much more opportunity to investigate. So, do we, A, become hermits, or, B, force them into giving us the evidence we need?"

"I'm starting to get really uncomfortable about this."

"I knew you'd want plan B. Here's how it works. We make them think we've got hard evidence. When they try to retrieve it, then we get hard evidence."

"Did you ever work for the government?" she asked.

"Okay. Don't take me seriously. What do you suggest?"

"Something that lets us stay alive. This is a powerful group we're on the edges of. We could come up with hard evidence, and for all we know it would vanish from the police station five minutes after we gave it to them."

"Okay. Make a better suggestion." I sat back in my chair and tried to think of a better one myself.

"Tell me more," she said. "Tell me how we stay alive."

"I don't know that part yet. Plans don't just spring fully formed into my mind."

"This isn't the part where you're trying to reassure me, is it?"

I looked at her and grinned. "I'll tell you when."

#

"Okay, he's coming," said Janet's voice on my wristcomp speaker.

I started walking fast. If I were going to make sure Sean overheard the conversation I had planned, his curiosity had to be aroused. I walked down the corridor toward the morgue. Fear made me tense. Sean could conceivably try to kill me outright almost any time after five minutes from now.

The timing was just about right. When I was a few meters away from the door, a soft footstep behind me sounded as though it came from the intersection of this hallway and the one next to it. As I covered the remaining distance, I heard no more footsteps. That should be Sean.

At the door, I made a quick show of seeing if anyone else was in the morgue. Of course, no one was. I hurried in, gave just enough time for Sean to cover half the remaining distance, and started talking. I supplied gaps, as though I were talking over my wristcomp to someone whose voice would be too faint for Sean to hear.

"I've got to talk to you tonight," I said. "No. It's got to be tonight. I think they're starting to suspect me." Pause. "Make it at my place. About eight." Pause. "No. I'll be there. If they give me an assignment, I'll develop a sudden illness."

I kept watching the hall. The light had shifted slightly on the surface I could see. It was nothing so obvious as a silhouette, but it was enough to make me positive that I had Sean's attention. I tried to relax.

"It's bigger than I thought," I went on, having to say enough to guarantee I had visitors that night. "All the accidents are being deliberately caused. And there's more, lots more. I'll gather up the evidence I've got hidden away and give you a neat package. You'll be able to blow the whole thing apart." Maybe the thought of hidden evidence would make Sean hold off for a little while.

"No," I said a moment later. "I want the money up front. I want to see it before I start talking. There's too much valuable material here." Maybe if Sean were inclined to bribe me rather than kill me I could at least reduce the risk a little. And I didn't want him to think I was an undercover policeman.

"Okay. Eight. Don't be late. There's bound to be another station who'd be willing to pay good money for this merchandise." Pause. "It's good. Believe me. You can see for yourself." Pause. "No. I'm telling you it's good. It would stand up in court if you were interested in that."

I hoped that would clinch it for Sean. If another station wanted to expose MNBS, I could wind up dead without him worrying about the police ever entering into it. I spent another fifteen seconds winding down so Sean would have a chance to get away.

"Look, I've got to go. Are you going to be there or does someone else get it?" Pause. "Good. You won't be sorry." I gave my address to the imaginary listener. "Just don't forget the money."

The slight darkened area on the wall across the hall had cleared up. I said a fake good–bye anyway.

I started toward my office. As I reached the area where more people were usually in the halls, three people I hadn't met before congratulated me on the incident with Governor Newall.

I walked by Janet's office and gave her a wink. She didn't look at all happy.

#

I left work early, complaining about a headache. I parked quite a distance from my house and walked from there. The trip helped burn off some of my nervous energy. I wished I had paid more attention to nearby houses and cars, so I could see now if anything was out of place as I got closer to my house.

I cut across the open areas between other dull–finished carmine cylinder houses. One owner had gone to the trouble of spraying his house with a mottled, random pattern of various reds and browns. Except for the silhouette, I would have had to look closely in the fading light to be sure there really was a house where I was looking.

Down the street from my house was a cinnamon Fire Breather parked close enough to the neighbor's house to convince anyone visiting me that it belonged to my neighbor. I still hadn't seen any indication of unusual activity near my house.

Unlocking the Fire Breather door, I slid inside, grateful for the rental business. On the passenger seat mostly covered by a pair of gloves lay a rental camera. I opaqued the windows slightly more, reclined the driver's seat, and leaned back far enough that no one would be able to see me.

I positioned the camera viewfinder so I could see it, and started recording. Once finished, I was ready for the wait. If Sean did decide to drive by and heave a bomb at the house, the camera should record it. A recording of an attempted murder was easily strong enough evidence to allow the police to hook Sean up to a lie detector and get the truth out of him. More cameras positioned inside the house would record whatever happened there if Sean broke in to find my evidence.

The car grew colder as the sun neared the horizon. I turned on the heat and kept watching the viewfinder.

The car grew warmer as night fell. Once it was dark, the light from a covered window shone weakly into the night. Everything was going according to plan, but I still felt nervous.

Two cars passed by during the next half hour. I watched them through the camera, but neither did anything suspicious. Nothing more happened until less than an hour before my imaginary appointment time.

A car approached. I couldn't gauge the color in the darkness, but it was the same model I had seen Sean in. Maybe I was finally going to get my proof. The car slowed to a stop in front of the house. I wondered fleetingly if I had done the right thing.

I zoomed in on the driver's side of the car. It was Sean. In the hues of my camera's nightlight, his face looked almost animallike. I wondered if he was going to go in or do whatever he had to do from the street. I lowered the car window just a little so I could hear better.

He opened his door and got out. Maybe he was going to make sure I was inside before he did anything. Sean casually scanned the area around him. Then he shut his car door quietly and walked up to my front door. He rang the bell.

As he waited, he withdrew a gun and held it behind his back, standing casually, as though he was merely resting his hand on his hip. I wondered if, when he got no answer, he would break in or wait for me to arrive.

A moment later I frowned and leaned forward. It was hard to hear, but I thought Sean had said something. He moved fractionally closer to the door.

The door opened. Without Sean touching it.

My heart probably didn't stop, but it felt like it for a long, agonizing moment.

Brad.

"Bloody, sodding hell," I said when I could catch my breath again. How on God's red Mars could Brad be here?

Horrified, I watched Brad let Sean into my house. The door closed behind them.

My plan was in shambles.

I flipped the switch on the interior lights so they would stay off. As quietly as I could, I got out of the car door farthest from the house. I crouched on the ground outside, sweating in the cold. I simply could not leave Brad alone with Sean.

But if I went in now, we would both be dead. If only I had brought a gun.

Running through the night, trying not to trip on the rocky surface, I circled around behind my house, arriving at a window in the back. Ever–present dust had laid an impenetrable film over it. I rubbed a spot and I could see dimly. Part of the living room was visible. Brad had his rock collection scattered around on the floor. I couldn't see Sean or Brad. I was nearly panic stricken, but I forced myself to act.

I moved to a second window and tried again. Now I could see them. They were both standing. But I could hear nothing. Sean was calm, maybe asking Brad when he expected me back. Of course, Brad wouldn't know. Carolyn must have brought Brad over and just left him. Unless she was there too, but that didn't seem likely.

Sean slapped Brad. The façade was down. Brad reeled onto the couch, holding his cheek, crying. I clenched my fists.

Then Sean was standing over Brad, struggling with him. I didn't understand until a moment later Sean stood up with Brad's wristcomp in his hand. He threw it on the floor and aimed his pistol at it. Light sparkled on the wristcomp, and a charcoal smoke plume rose from it. I tried desperately to figure out how I could get in there without getting us both killed.

Sean asked Brad a couple more questions. Obviously unhappy with the responses, he slapped Brad again. I began to go back around to the front door, but stopped myself. While he was unaware of me, there was still a chance.

Sean started a quick tour of the house with Brad in tow, obviously wanting to make sure I wasn't inside. As if he could believe I would hide in the house while I let Brad answer the door to him.

Sean walked Brad out of my view. Back at the other window, I watched as Sean pushed Brad onto the floor and then lifted the couch, turning it, and putting it upside down over Brad, pinning him. Sean hefted one end of the couch, apparently satisfied that Brad wouldn't have the strength to get free.

Sean moved toward the door. I finally guessed what he must be planning. He still wanted to confront me. But his car was out front, an obvious warning to me when I got back. He would move his car and then return to wait for me.

I reached the edge of the house just as Sean left the door. He started for his car. I hesitated. If I ran inside now, I might have time enough to free Brad and get out of there before Sean returned. But if I ran now, he might hear me, or see me. And then it would be all over.

I waited.

Sean got in his car. He drove it off the dirt road and onto the land next to my house, obviously intending to leave it behind the house. The wind would eliminate tire prints fifteen minutes after he left, so they would be no problem.

The instant he was past the edge of the house, I ran, trying to step on rocks so Sean wouldn't see my traces. If I were lucky, the wind would swirl away what little track I left. I reached the door, dismally sure there wouldn't be enough time to leave with Brad. Sean would be back so soon he'd see us as we ran.

I could hear Brad's sobs coming from under the couch. My stomach hurt. I lifted one end of the couch and said rapidly, "It's me, Brad. It's Dan. Get out from under there as fast as you can."

He scrambled out, his eyes wide and disbelieving. "Dad?" he said. He wiped an eye with his fist.

"And be quiet," I added as he opened his mouth again. I lowered the couch onto the floor. "We can't afford any time at all. He's coming right back. Get in the bathroom," I said, pushing him toward the door. "Hide as well as you can and don't make a sound until I tell you to."

Brad sniffed. He looked as astonished as I was at the events of the last few minutes. But he ran the rest of the way to the bathroom.

The noise from Sean's car stopped. He would be back immediately. With his gun.

I looked for a weapon. There would be a good one in the kitchen, but Sean might see me through the window. I grabbed one of Brad's heaviest rocks from the floor.

My only choice was to hide behind the front door. If Sean got back into the house and found out Brad wasn't still under the couch, he would be warned.

Over the rush of the wind outside, I could hear quick footsteps. A flicker of motion through the door hinge told me Sean was back.

I was lucky. He was apparently in a hurry to get into the house and shut the door. He moved past the door, not looking back as he reached to swing the door closed behind him.

I hit him on the side of the head with Brad's rock. I was moving from an awkward position, but I hit with strength. The rock dropped from my fingers on impact. It was just as well. The rock was good only as long as I had surprise as an advantage.

I had overestimated the advantage of a single blow. Sean reeled away, dropping his gun, but, by the time I had kicked the gun away from his reaching hands, he was already recovering, turning to face me. I punched him, pushing my advantage, but he moved just enough to divert the blow.

Blood flowed from several ragged cuts on his ear and the side of his head, but one look at his expression told me he was ready for a fight.

I swung at him again. My swing connected satisfyingly, but it didn't seem to hurt him much.

And then he started swinging. I knew immediately I was outclassed. Sean had obviously done this many times before.

He feinted and landed a quick hard right on my chin, followed up by two blows to my midsection. I thought my ribs might crack.

I got in two quick punches, but Sean was controlling the fight. He was able to move just enough to turn my punches into glancing blows. Then I connected with a solid blow to his nose and I felt it break.

Other than the sudden blood flow, my punch seemed only to make him angrier. He hit me with a sudden flurry of blows, the last one forcing me hard against the wall, my head snapping into the curved ceiling. For a moment, a burst of light in front of my eyes obscured the scene around me.

Sean obviously knew he was in control now. His blows came a little less often but much harder, as though he were enjoying the fight.

He was probably no longer worried about the outcome of the fight. He just wanted to inflict damage.

My strength was fading. He kept hitting me, and I couldn't dodge his fists.

Chapter 18 Evidence

Sean hit me again, hard, just under my ribs. I bent over, my eyes stinging with the pain. Sean was stronger than he looked. I couldn't breathe for a moment. My stomach was a mass of pain.

As I was recovering from the latest blow, Brad's voice surprised me. "Let my dad alone, you bloody son of a bitch," he cried.

I couldn't believe I'd heard correctly. I grinned despite the pain. I wondered if I'd ever get a chance to talk to him about his language.

While I was still recovering from the last blow, Brad ran at Sean, and began pounding on Sean's back with his small fists. "Let him alone," Brad cried again.

Sean swung around, probably feeling no more pain from Brad's blows than he would have felt from bumping into a door. Open–palmed, he swung viciously at Brad. The sharp retort and the sound of Brad starting to cry seemed to happen at the same time.

Even as Brad teetered off balance, I tried to take advantage of the opportunity to hit Sean hard enough to give me an edge. He blocked the punch, and hit me again.

"That was for telling us you used to work for Astron," Sean said coldly. "This is for telling us you wanted work as a driver." And he hit me another time. The following blow seemed even harder.

Brad had landed hard against the wall. He was still crying when I lashed back at Sean. I connected, but my strength was fading.

I felt as though someone had pulled me directly out of the jumper wreck, taken me back up to the same altitude, and dropped me again. My left eye was already beginning to puff shut.

Sean was swinging still another deliberate punch when something hit the side of his head. Sean cursed and his blow missed me. He looked at where the object had come from.

The round, dark object hit the floor and bounced away. Brad had thrown one of the rocks from his collection. Almost as surprised as Sean must have been, I punched him in the Adam's apple. Hard.

"Hit him, Dad!" Brad yelled.

Sean made a choking sound and swung at me again. And another rock hit him in the head. I almost laughed. I hit him as hard as I could in the solar plexus, with my fingers pointed together to drive his wind out.

Yet another rock hit Sean in the head, drawing still more blood. He turned sluggishly toward Brad. He had taken two steps toward the boy before I reacted.

Brad was crouched in the center of the scattering of rocks, throwing them as fast and as accurately as he could. Sean took another couple of steps toward Brad and I took three running steps and jumped.

Sean must have heard me because he turned. But it was too late. My feet caught him on his side. At the moment I connected, I kicked out as hard as I could.

I caught him solidly. The impact threw Sean into the wall. His head hit with a loud thunk.

My recoil spun me over, and as I recovered, I yelled at Brad, "Get outside! Now. Run if you see him come out."

Brad ran for the door. He grabbed his coat without missing a step.

As he ran, so did I, but I headed for the place Sean's gun had gone when I kicked it.

It wasn't there. I felt frantically under the bed where I had seen it go. Nothing.

I reached farther. It had to be there. And then Sean was behind me, kicking me.

I twisted away, and my fingers touched the gun. I grabbed it, fumbling for the grip, trying to survive Sean's blows.

I turned the gun toward him, and the thought of threatening him with it never even entered my mind. I shot him.

He quit fighting right then. The smell of burnt flesh entered my nostrils. Sean's eyes widened for an instant. And then he clenched them tightly shut, probably trying to block out the pain.

The gun butt indicated a star. The laser might not have been on long enough to cut through the roof of the house, but it certainly had enough power to run a boiling lance all the way through Sean's chest.

"That was for what you did to Sam," I said ever so softly, feeling giddy. "And for what you did to Brad."

Sean started to speak. His whole face was bloody, but fresh blood flecked his lips. There would be no point trying to get an ambulance.

"It won't do you any good," he said, straining. "Hartley will clean out the lab if I don't show up on time."

I said nothing. For the moment, it all seemed unreal.

"You bastard," he said. And he died.

I just sat there, numb.

After a minute of letting my head clear, I walked to the door and called to Brad. Soon afterward, he came in, looking quite cautious.

I smiled at him. At least I started to, but my lip hurt. "I think we're going to be all right, Brad," I said weakly. "Thanks for your help."

He started laughing this time. It was a cross between laughing and crying, and the laughing had a slight edge.

Brad came into my arms, crying now. I cried a little, too. He held on tightly while I tried to ignore the pain. My whole body shook.

After a while, I sat Brad on a chair and walked back to Sean's body. I searched him, taking his MNBS badge. In his shirt pocket was another cylinder bomb. I pocketed it. I was lucky the gun had neither detonated the bomb nor destroyed his badge.

He must have been planning to take care of me and the "evidence" all at once. If he was lucky, the public might even have thought the Governor's assassination was really all my fault, and I had killed myself while getting ready for another incident. Neat.

I went back to where Brad was sitting.

"Is he dead?" Brad asked.

I nodded. "Just sit for a few minutes," I said. "I've got to make a call and we have to get out of here in case one of his friends comes to investigate."

At the desk computer I called Janet. I thought about my appearance and turned off my video. She answered the call with an anxious look on her face.

"Hi, it's me," I said. "I need your help right away. This is not a trap. No one's holding a gun on me. Please come now."

"Why's your video blank?"

"I'm a—a little unkempt right now. There's been a struggle."

She hesitated. "You can't always protect me. If you've got a black eye, I can cope with that. But I can't risk coming over there without seeing for myself that you're okay, and that your voice isn't just a good voice synthesizer in operation."

I switched on the video and Janet went white. "I'm okay," I said. "I look worse than I am." I sincerely hoped that was true. "Sean's over there." I swiveled the console and pointed.

"I'm sorry," she said in a hushed voice.

"Just come on over. We both knew the risks. And whatever you do, be careful."

She inspected me for a moment longer, pain in her eyes. "I'm on my way," she said.

"Was that the woman from the station, Dad?" Brad asked me when I was finished talking.

"Right."

"Then you really won't be getting back together with Mom?"

"You're amazing. After all this, that's what you think about." I grinned, hurting my lip again, and quickly sobered. I leaned against the computer console. "No, I won't be getting back together with Carolyn. I don't know that this lady is the reason, but you've got to accept what I say. We're just not meant for each other." I settled into a chair next to him.

"I believe you," he said solemnly. "I won't ever not believe you again." He looked back at Sean and shuddered.

"How did you get here?" I asked, and then added hurriedly, "I'm not angry. I'm just curious."

"Mom left me here to stay with you for a few days."

I looked over at Sean. I put my arm over Brad's shoulder. Having my arm in that position created a sharp pain, but somehow I was able to tolerate it.

After a few moments, Brad said, "Thanks, Dad."

"For what?" I opened my eyes.

"For not talking about promises again. I think I understand now. If I had kept quiet—" His voice trailed off.

I looked over at Sean and back down at Brad. "I bet you do understand. I just wish there was a less painful way to learn. But maybe it's always painful."

#

Janet arrived soon. I had cleaned myself up as much as I could, but her eyes still widened when she saw me in person. And then she saw Brad.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, obviously amazed.

"Just visiting," Brad said solemnly, having apparently recovered more quickly than I had.

Janet looked at Sean and asked, "What happened?"

"How about if we talk on the way to the station?" I said. "We've got even more to do there. Are you still up for this?"

Janet nodded. She was regaining some of her color.

"Can you reach the cameras? I'm not too good at stretching yet."

Janet quickly retrieved the cameras from their ceiling mounts.

I moved weakly to the desk computer, loaded the camera recordings into it, and placed a call to Detective Freeman. I reached him at home. "Can you set up to receive a package of data?" I asked.

"Sure. What do you have? And what's happened to you?"

"You'll have to decide. And I got in an argument with Sean Franco from MNBS. Recordings of the argument are in the package I'm sending. As well as lots of other material. And Sean's here in my house. Your house. Whatever. You'd better send a doctor for him." I didn't want to tell him yet that Sean was dead.

Freeman raised his eyebrows.

"You'll understand when you see the recordings." I moved my hand to send the data package.

"But what about you?" he asked.

"I've got some things that have to be done tonight. I'll call you tomorrow."

I cut off his protest by terminating the call. "Let's go," I said to Janet and Brad.

At the door, I said to Brad, "If anyone tries to stop us, and you get a chance to run, you run as fast as you can. Just get away from us, and find anyone who will let you in long enough to call the police, or get them to call the police themselves. You got that?"

"I promise," Brad said simply, his chin angled high.

I stooped to hug him, my legs protesting at the treatment. "I love you, Brad," I said, and ruffled his hair. "Thanks again for what you did with your rock collection."

I had never seen Brad look that proud before.

I didn't see anyone out there. Apparently Glenn Hartley had confidence in Sean. We moved toward the cars in front of the house. The wind was still surprisingly calm. "Let's take the rental," I said, pointing. "It should be the safest."

Brad held my hand as we walked.

"The poor child," Janet said.

"I know. He's had a rough night."

We got a few steps farther before she said, "He's had a rough night?" She sounded as though her sense of humor was returning. Hers was ahead of mine.

"I'll survive."

I walked as fast as I could, slowing the other two down. Janet slid into the driver's seat and we pulled away fast. No one bothered us. I started explaining what had happened. A kilometer away, I asked Janet to stop the car.

We sat in silence for a moment. "You know we have two choices," I said.

"Go on."

"We could let the police start with the evidence we managed to get and let them proceed with it. And by the time they get to MNBS, everyone who's in on this will have had a chance to hide evidence. And even then, if people in this have enough clout, or if the group is large enough to influence the police, all that will happen is that they'll sacrifice one of the group. Or we can go to MNBS, and try to get whatever evidence is in the lab before it disappears. Sean had to mean the special effects lab. And there's a possibility there will be worse people than Sean along the way."

"You don't really want to let the police finish it, do you?" She looked at me in the darkness, and I felt the warmth spread through my chest.

"I want this bloody mess finished," I said my voice rising. "And I want to finish it myself. Or with you."

She started the car and pointed it toward MNBS. She accelerated so hard I could feel the pressure on my ribs. "I'd like to finish it, too," she said grimly.

Chapter 19 Ramifications

"Where can we drop Brad so he'll be safe?" Janet asked as she turned a corner. "A police substation?"

"There's not one anywhere near." I turned to look at Brad in the backseat. "You think you could convince people that you're lost and don't remember your name for about an hour?"

"Don't leave me anywhere, Dad. Please don't. I won't do anything wrong." Brad hiccupped.

"Relax, Brad. You'll be safe if we take you to an arcade. Where we're going is dangerous."

He was nearly crying. "Don't leave me anywhere. I want to be with you."

I reached back and touched his arm. I wondered how I'd have reacted if I had seen someone almost kill my father. "Okay, Brad. Okay. But you'll have to do exactly as we say."

"Anything, Dad. Whatever you say."

Janet looked over at me, and the lights of an oncoming car illuminated her questioning look.

"I know it's not safe," I said. "But giving him a breakdown isn't safe either. He's seen a lot tonight for his age. I've seen a lot."

"Whatever you say, Dan."

I looked at her closely to see if she was being sarcastic in her parody of Brad's words. I finally decided that instead she was trying to lighten the tension.

We reached MNBS without incident. No one had seemed to show us undue notice on the way over. The parking lot held only a few cars. Hartley's LandAir was there.

"Pull up next to it," I said to Janet, pointing. "I've got an idea."

Outside in the cold night air, I tapped in the factory combination, opened the door, and slid inside. From there, I adjusted a few of his controls, making judicious use of what I remembered from the memos. As the final touch, I changed the owner password to "killer" so he couldn't change back to factory defaults unless he had read the same company–private memos I had.

The three of us started for one of the side doors. "Listen to me, Brad." I said. "You will not speak unless you're spoken to—unless you see some actual indication of danger that you don't think one of us has seen. Clear?"

Brad nodded.

I looked at him for a long moment. He looked absolutely serious. Fortunately, his hiccups were gone.

We went in the side door, using Sean's badge. The security system could have already been set to send notifications if Janet or I entered the building. I hoped no one had initiated a watch for Sean's ID. I still had Sean's gun and the cylinder bomb. Janet carried the rental camera.

Our careful footsteps were noisier than I cared for as we walked down the first hallway. Fortunately, the first hall was empty. The second one wasn't. We didn't see who the other person was, but spent a tense few moments waiting for the footsteps to die away. Four out of every five ceiling lights were off, making the corridor much darker than during the day. I prayed we didn't encounter Hartley before we were able to do what we had planned.

Two halls later, there were footsteps ahead. We hid in the ladies' room. I felt awkward and nervous at the same time, hoping the owner of the footsteps we had heard wasn't female or had some other destination in mind.

One of the two possibilities must have been true. No one came in. After another minute, Janet went out the door and then called to us. We reached the outer office of the special effects lab with no additional encounters.

Outside the lab door, we waited and listened for a moment, in case someone was in there. From what Sean had said, this was a key location. There had been guards at Midas and Morgan. I hoped that because of the continuous–operation nature of a television station there wouldn't be additional protection.

"What view can you get from under the door?" I asked Janet, pointing at the camera she held. I put my hand on Brad's shoulder and moved him out of the way.

"I'll tell you in a minute." She kneeled at the base of the door and pulled out the lens extension. The door was just far enough from the floor to admit the narrow piece.

I bent over and watched the viewfinder over her shoulder. The angle of the view was unusual, but there was no one in sight.

"Looks clear to me," she said.

I nodded. "Let's try it," I said, retrieving Sean's badge from my pocket. "I hope he has permission."

He did. The lock snicked and the door swung open. We made a quick, nervous inspection. There was no one hiding inside.

We locked the door again and blocked it with a propped–up chair. I fervently hoped that no one was scheduled to work tonight. There weren't any windows, so we didn't have to worry about being seen. I moved Brad toward another chair and said to him, "Don't touch anything."

Janet and I started snooping, looking for anything interesting or involving Alsop or Sloane. The room was full of image–processing equipment, the central area dominated by a large desk computer and a pair of screens. We looked for ten minutes and found nothing.

"Damn," I said, resting against the desk. "Maybe Hartley's already been here."

"Maybe you're—wait a minute." Janet was looking at a bookcase across the room. "What do you think about this?" She walked over and ran her finger along a narrow groove on the front of the shelf.

I took a closer look. "Probably the same thing you're thinking. I hope Sean's authorized here, too." I withdrew Sean's badge from my pocket and inserted it in the slot.

Nothing happened at first. But then we heard a soft noise and Brad said, "Look, Dad." A file box had extended from the shelf.

Janet thumbed through the contents while I watched over her shoulder. Her whisper came clearly. "Take a look at this."

She was pointing at a packet of recording wafers. Two in particular had interesting labels. The first said ASSASSINATION: FILE COPY. The second said ASSASSINATION: TRANSMISSION COPY.

"Maybe things have changed since I was in the business," I said softly, "but I don't understand why these wouldn't be the same."

"Things haven't changed that much."

We took them to a desk computer and inserted the transmission copy, on the theory that it would be the one worth looking at. We scanned it, seeing nothing but what we had already seen on our home sets.

"Try the other," she suggested.

We did. It was the same.

"I don't understand," she said finally. "Why two?"

"I don't know. It stands to reason that they've got to be different—" I trailed off, thinking about an alternative that came to mind. "I've got an idea," I said, sitting down and inserting both wafers in the computer. "What about the differences? Let's subtract the two, frame by frame, and look at what's left."

"Have at it. But hurry."

It took me a fair amount of typing. This wasn't something I typically did every day. Finally the computer began the task.

"It's working," Janet said excitedly as the screen indicated that the computer was indeed finding differences.

As it worked, I took the camera back to the door to see if anything was happening on the other side. Nothing. When I got back, the process was almost finished. Brad smiled at me nervously.

I gave the computer a few more commands, and two holograms came up before us. "The picture on the left is the one the station transmitted," I said. "The one on the right is the difference between the file copy and this one."

We watched in silence. At first the right–hand image was blank. Then a snowy caption appeared. It bloomed into view and then shrank quickly. It said MNBS IS NEWS YOU TRUST. Back on the left picture, the caption wasn't visible to my eyes. Rather, the picture seemed to have the faintest bit of noise in it.

"So they are running subliminals," Janet said softly. "I suppose if they've been causing accidents, they're not going to stop there. What's one more crime?"

"This isn't illegal," I said, still watching the screen. "It was for a while, but it isn't now. Let me integrate the difference signal. It will blur if there's motion, but we'll see a good composite on anything else."

"You're—" Janet started, cutting off when the next caption came up: WATCH MNBS OFTEN.

The captions were merely the beginning of the subliminal signal. The transmitted recording began showing the scene near the elevator and on the difference recording there appeared the figure of Frank Sloane. He was standing and smiling, his image perfectly clear.

I looked back toward the transmitted version. I couldn't see him there, but I knew my subconscious would do a passable job of picking the weak signal out of the noise. At any given instant, only a small portion of his image would be in the hologram, replaced in succession by different elements the brain could integrate.

I stopped the images for just a moment, comparing. "So he's been inserted into the crowd around the governor," I said. The recording progressed until the image of Sloane pulled a hand out of his pocket and tossed a cylinder onto the ground.

"That's got to be a computer model of Sloane," Janet said.

"I'm sure you're right," I said, not looking away from the screen.

Shortly after Sloane's image released the bomb, my own picture was there on the master image, scrambling through the crowd. Sloane began to laugh so hard his features contorted into an ugly mask. Once I had located the bomb and thrown it, Sloane scowled, angry, obviously thwarted.

"Who is that man?" Brad asked.

"I'll have to explain it later," I said.

That segment finished and we scanned ahead until the next time the right–hand screen was occupied. This time it was someone I didn't even know. "So he's got several clients going," I said. "Maybe the accidents are staged to benefit the best–paying ones, so they get the highest audience."

"Makes sense. So Hartley gets money from clients, he builds the station ratings and billings, and he enhances the other customer bases like Vanderland. He can probably even increase the supposed accuracy of his polls, and then charge more for them."

We continued watching until Alsop was on the screen, being interviewed about the assassination attempt. Block letters told us to trust him, vote for him, like him. Then a brunette with a superb figure and a small wardrobe budget put her arm around him and kissed him on the cheek.

It was a much different situation when Sloane was interviewed. The composite image shared a heritage rooted in old cartoons. Sloane's primary image stayed untouched, but out of it seeped a Sloane alter–ego, like the personification of his conscience withdrawing from his body, shrinking, and coming to rest on the master image's shoulder where it proceeded to give advice.

But this image didn't shrink much, and it certainly didn't give good advice. It occupied the space just to the left of the primary figure and distorted into a devilish but recognizable Sloane. It opened a bag it found sitting on its lap. From the bag, Sloane's image withdrew what was programmed to look like a dead baby, blue–tinged, its eyes squinted shut. Laughing heartily, Sloane's alter–ego tossed the baby over his shoulder and looked for what was next out of the bag.

Janet reached over and turned off the playback. "I think we've seen more than enough, don't you?" She didn't look too well.

"Yes, I think we have." I felt a little queasy, too. The image of the baby had been realistically done.

I understood now why I had felt a mild leaning toward Alsop even though Sloane had impressed me more during that downtown conference. I also realized why there were delays during the transmission of some news events.

It was as though I were looking at one of those old double–view drawings, like the one with the old woman and the young woman, and suddenly seeing the picture from the other perspective. In one abrupt moment, all the pieces I was seeing fell into place in a new configuration, and I couldn't imagine how I hadn't seen it earlier.

"How about a two–barreled approach?" I said slowly. "We take a copy of this, and we fix up an emergency broadcast recording."

Janet grinned. "Let's. This place is probably no more risky than anywhere else in the building as long as no one saw us come in."

We spent a few hurried minutes with a voice synthesizer, generating our own news story. This would give the viewers something to think about besides designer clothing and breakfast foods.

We finished without being interrupted. I softly unblocked the door and drew my gun. "Try under the door again," I suggested. "We've been here long enough to be found if they're looking."

Janet repeated her operation with the camera. She started to stand up but then quickly hunched over again. "Block the door again," she whispered excitedly.

I did.

"There's someone out there, standing almost too far to one side to be seen."

So close. We were so close to being finished.

"You have the bomb?" she asked. "Maybe we could make a diversion."

"Good idea. But let's add to it." I moved my wristcomp to my lips and called Larry Talon.

A moment later his face was on my screen. He was in his office. "Larry, I need a favor," I said. "This is Dan Kettering. You remember me?"

"Sure I remember you, Dan," Larry said, smiling. "I see you about every couple days."

That stopped me for an instant. "You mean you knew all along?" I asked.

"Almost as soon as you were hired. But I didn't talk about it. You never did anything without a good reason that I can remember."

I didn't stop to question him. What I had planned should work whether or not I could trust him. "What I need is this. In about five minutes, there's going to be a loud noise. I want you to be at—" I gave him directions. "And right after the noise, I want you to say, 'What the hell's going on around here?' And say it loudly."

Larry shook his head, grinning. "You know you're going to owe me a personal explanation when this is finished. And, I have this strong feeling, a recommendation for a new job."

I grinned at him and split my lip again. "You've got it." Just before I rang off, I added, "But there might be lots of room right here for promotions soon."

I turned to Janet and Brad. "Help me slide this bench against that wall. Quietly."

Brad had sat exactly where I had told him. I winked at him. He smiled just a little, and the serious expression came back across his face.

Standing on top of the bench, I pushed a few ceiling tiles out of the way. The wall between offices reached only a small distance over the level of the tiles. Sean's gun easily cut through the barrier above. I pulled off a few ceiling tiles in the empty adjacent office and ducked into the special effects lab.

"Hurry," I whispered. "You first, Janet."

Moments later, she dropped lightly to the floor of the office next door. Brad followed and she caught him easily. Quietly I forced the bench back to where it had been. From a standing position below the opening in the ceiling, I jumped.

I had a bad moment when I grabbed a sharp edge, but seconds later I was balanced on the wall between offices. From there, I replaced all but one of the ceiling tiles in the special effects lab. It hurt to move like that, but the alternatives were worse.

"Get behind a desk or anything solid," I said, taking Sean's bomb out of my pocket, but Janet was already on the way, with Brad's hand in hers.

My fingers trembled a little as I inspected the cylinder. My memory told me these things had an adjustable delay, determined by how many degrees one twisted the end piece, but I didn't know what the scale was, or which way to turn it. I decided it was meant for right–handers and gave the top a quarter–turn clockwise.

I threw it toward the wall opposite where I was. Even as I heard it bounce, I was fitting the last ceiling tile into place. I didn't bother with the ones in the other office. I just jumped down and scrambled for the cover of the desk. I put my arms around Janet and Brad, and bent my head low.

"How long?" Janet said softly.

"I don't know for—" I got out before a thunderous noise and vibration rattled the desk that concealed us. A couple of ceiling tiles I hadn't even touched shook loose and fell slowly to the floor. Dusty air seeped through the holes vacated by the squares.

"Now we go?," said Janet.

"Now we go." As I finished speaking, a distant voice asked what was going on. All our friends' attention should be focused on the other side of the special effects lab, or inside it.

The three of us left through the office door. There was no one in the hallway, but the sound of several angry voices echoed around one of the corners.

We ran.

We reached the end of the next hall, heading for the emergency alert equipment. From there, a recording could be transmitted with no human assistance necessary, and no interference possible. As long as we could get the door unlocked. I hoped Sean's badge would do it.

We were lucky. The room was closer than I had thought. And Sean's badge worked. The room was much as I remembered one to be. We pulled the door closed behind us and Janet began setting up, explaining hurriedly as she went. Less than a minute went by before she looked at me expectantly.

"The wafer's loaded," I said.

"Fine," Janet said, grinning, adjusting the news level to ten.

The emergency alert setup was designed to be self–sufficient, so it overrode the main control room and had its own power. If we could keep people from getting through the door for the length of the transmission, no one would be able to stop it. I called Freeman on Janet's wristcomp and told him to start recording MNBS's transmission. He didn't understand why, and I didn't take the time to explain, but he grudgingly said he would.

We set the countdown timer and stood a sturdy cabinet on edge so when we pulled the door closed the cabinet would jam it. Janet set her wristcomp to MNBS with the volume down.

A heavy thud sounded as we pulled the door closed behind us. The door would no longer give at all.

"This way," Janet said, and we started toward the nearest exit. Janet held Brad's hand as we ran. Before we were halfway there, the transmission started, breaking into normal programming with a brief automatic warning.

Janet turned up the volume. "We have interrupted normal programming to bring you a late–breaking news story of paramount importance. We have just learned that MNBS Television has been directly responsible for the deaths of scores of people over the last few months.

"MNBS was responsible for the attempted assassination of Governor Newall, the recent multi–death highway disaster, and numerous other acts of destruction aimed at raising the station's ratings, charging more for commercials, and influencing issues with subliminal messages," said the synthesized voice.

My talent for identifying voices had come in handy. Except for diction, the voice sounded much like Glenn Hartley's.

The voice continued. "MNBS, the Midas Corporation, the Vanderland Agency, and Morgan Polls have strong financial ties binding them together. During this transmission, we will…"

Janet turned the volume down.

We grinned at each other and kept moving. We had just reached the door when a laser burst burned a pit into the panel in front of me and someone yelled, "There they are!"

Chapter 20 Gamble

"Stop right there," yelled Glenn Hartley from the end of the corridor. His voice held none of his casual office manner. Running footsteps echoed heavily off the walls.

He sounded out of breath. For all I knew, in addition to being ready to kill us, he was also angry about our wasting transmission time that could have been used for running commercials.

I turned and fired. "You two get out of here."

Janet didn't waste a second with arguing. She just grabbed Brad and scrambled out the door.

Hartley shot at me once more but the beam went wild because he was trying to stay out of the way of my shot. He didn't stop running. He probably figured he didn't have too much to lose now. I followed Janet through the door, wishing I could run faster. I took a small gamble and gave the door lock a couple of shots to jam it. The cold night air evaporated the sweat on my forehead.

By the time I finished with the lock, Janet and Brad were well ahead of me. "I'll get the car and pick you up," she shouted over her shoulder.

I had been ignoring most of the pains from the encounter with Sean, but I couldn't any longer. I did the best I could, but I was less than a third of the way to the car before Hartley reached the door. I could hear him banging and kicking on it.

The wind had picked up. Dust slid under my feet as I ran.

Janet reached the car and started it. She flipped it around and gave it power. What she did next made me fear for her, but impressed me. She oriented the car so that when she picked me up, the car would be between me and Hartley.

Hartley got through the door. His aim was no better than it usually is when anyone is running. A bright spot sizzled two meters ahead of me on the parking lot surface. And then Janet was between us, letting the body of the car block me from Hartley.

I scrambled into the car. My ribs felt as though they were on fire, but Hartley hadn't hit me. The car door wasn't even closed before Janet swung the vehicle into a hard right turn and gave it all the power available. We both ducked, Janet keeping her head only high enough to see part of the parking lot surface.

"Get down as far as you can," I shouted at Brad who was in the backseat. "And don't get up unless I say it's all right."

We were well away from Hartley when my peripheral vision detected another car starting up.

"He's going to cut us off," Janet said as the second car moved toward the entrance to the parking lot. Her blonde hair swung as she turned her head quickly. "Can you handle a few bumps?"

I said I could as she pointed the car away from the blocked exit. The other driver must have realized what we intended, because he started on an intersection course.

"I think he's going to try to ram us," I said, disbelieving. It took me a moment to remember Sean's gun. I lowered my window and began firing as the frigid air swept into the car.

Janet changed direction, and the other driver followed. I fired again.

I must have hit the driver, but it didn't help as much as it could have. The car careened out of control, and Janet slowed down to let it pass in front of us. And then it swerved into us. Maybe the driver still had a little energy left, or maybe it was an accident, the result of the driver falling onto the wheel. Whatever the cause, we hit hard.

The impact was jarring, but we hit at an angle. The car might still be usable.

"Are you okay?" I asked Janet. When she nodded, I asked Brad. His voice was shaky, but he said he was fine.

The motor had died with the impact. Janet tried to restart it. It finally did, but made terrible noises. Janet backed up far enough to disengage from our friend's car, and swung toward the exit.

"We made it!" Janet said as we reached the street. She was suddenly laughing harder than I ever had heard her laugh before. I joined her for a moment, the pain in my sides making me grimace.

I looked in the rearview screen. "Hartley's getting in his car. Slow down."

"Slow down?" She looked over at me and then back at the road. "Are you out of your mind?"

"I've got an idea. His LandAir won't do more than a hundred—now that I fixed it up for him. If he follows us rather than trying to get away and hide, we can get that much more evidence on him."

"You're certifiable, you know that?"

"Yeah. Do it, all right?"

Janet shook her head. "Okay. I'm not sure we can go much faster anyway."

We both watched the rearview screen. "He is following us," she said. "He must be as crazy as you are."

"Or he realizes it's all over and he wants revenge as much as Sean did." I called Freeman on the car phone.

"You again?" he said when the call went through. "What in the hell is happening tonight?" The sound of the MNBS transmission was audible in the background.

"I'll explain it all tomorrow. Patch me through to anyone you trust in the Helium Police Department. The higher the better. Tell them to do whatever I want unless it's illegal."

"No. I want to know what's going on first. There's a dead man in your house."

"Damn it!" I shouted. "You set me up to do this and you bloody well better follow through. The head of MNBS is following us and is trying to kill us. Now's your chance to catch him in the act."

Freeman blinked, and I almost thought he was going to smile. Abruptly he said, "You've got it."

The screen went blank for twenty long seconds before it filled with a face I didn't know. "Go ahead," said the middle–aged uniformed woman.

"Get a police jumper started for MNBS fast," I said. "Have them phone me as soon as they're started. Tell them the same thing Freeman told you." I gave her what information she needed to call our car. I could see the indecision in her eyes, and the disapproval on her lips, but she said grudgingly, "It's on the way."

I looked back in the rearview screen. "He's getting a little too close. Get farther ahead."

"I can't," Janet said. "This thing's damaged."

I suddenly heard wind whistling from a hole in the rear of the car. "Are you both all right?" I asked, afraid Hartley had hit more than just the car.

"Yes," shouted Brad from the backseat.

"Fine," Janet said, and I expelled a large breath.

"Let him get closer," I said suddenly, watching the road ahead.

"What?"

"Just do it. Let him get about five car lengths behind us, and then take that right turn up there just as hard as you can."

She did it. Seconds later we lurched around the corner, the car groaning and screeching. I looked back and saw Hartley's LandAir come out of the turn, having lost a little distance. "Damn."

"What did you expect?"

"I hoped he would flip the car. It's a design flaw."

"Ah," Janet said slowly. "So you want another right turn?"

"As soon as possible."

Hartley started gaining on us again.

A chime on the dash went off, and a mustached police jumper pilot came up on our screen. I gave him the details and our current location.

"I'm—ten minutes from you," the pilot said.

Janet tried another right turn. I was afraid the car would die right there, but it held on. So did Hartley's.

Hartley crept up on us. And then there was a hole through the center of our windshield, letting in the cold air. Janet and I ducked lower.

Hartley was probably one car length behind, and moving over to come up beside us.

"Turn right hard," I yelled.

"But there's no road here."

"Do it anyway. We don't have a choice."

She turned. My head hit the ceiling hard as we bounced over the rocks. The noise made it sound as though the bottom was being ripped off the car as we slowed to a halt.

Seconds later, Janet and I watched the rear–view screen and saw Hartley's LandAir start to straighten as it came out of the turn. It looked as though it was almost level when it slowly began to tilt again and then abruptly flipped over.

The car looked like a child's large eraser might look as it tumbled across a hard floor, bouncing high one time as it hit just right, and then making several low rolls as it lost momentum.

Janet brought our car to a complete halt. As we watched, the LandAir finally came to rest. By the time it finished rolling, I was convinced that Hartley had to be dead.

We sat there in shock. From the back seat, Brad softly said, "Wow." Neither Janet nor I moved for a moment, until finally I saw a tiny light coming down from the dark sky.

The police jumper lost more altitude and became a distinct shape against the backdrop of stars.

I looked back at the crashed car, my eyes focused far away. For just a moment, in the flickering red glare from the approaching police jumper's lights, I saw Sam's plane burning. "Are you all right, Brad?" I asked without moving my head.

"Yeah, Dad. Is it all over?"

"Mostly." To Janet I said, "Can you drive closer?"

She swung the car toward Hartley's. It sounded as though it had ground glass for moving parts.

As we neared Hartley's car, I switched on MNBS. The transmission was nearing the end. It had just started the final segment: the Dublin Car Company section.

The imitation–Hartley voice was reading a line from one of the most damaging memos. Janet let the car almost literally grind to a halt. "You stay here, Brad," I said, and opened my door to step out into the cold night air.

I approached the car cautiously, hearing Janet just behind me. The LandAir lay on its top, hover fans pointed skyward. Glenn Hartley hung suspended by his shoulder harness. The wrinkled remains of the deflated air bag hung down, blocking part of my view. I was peripherally aware of the police jumper landing nearby. The red lights flashing off the distorted LandAir panels grew brighter.

The door on Hartley's side was jammed. I tried to kick in the window, unsuccessfully. Luckily, the passenger door opened somehow. A gun lay just inside. I grabbed it and threw it behind me. Inadvertently, I almost hit Janet with it.

As I started to reach into the car, a hand tapped my shoulder and I said, "Just a second, Janet."

"It's not Janet," said a male voice. I turned to see the mustached cop I had talked to moments ago. "Move over there, please," he said.

"Officer," I said tiredly, "If you make me waste the time verifying my credentials, this man will be dead and important information will be lost. Just listen as a witness, all right?" With that, I turned immediately back to the car.

The bluff must have worked. I crawled toward Hartley without getting pulled back out.

Hartley was stronger than I had thought. Or the LandAir was more gentle on crash victims than I thought. Although his eyes were closed when I spoke, he was alive. His facial muscles were tight with pain. He hung upside down, bleeding only a little from a cut on his forehead.

"Why'd you kill all those people, Hartley?" I said, loud enough for the cop to hear, too.

"I—I don't know what—you're—"

"Give me a break, will you?" I said, afraid he would die right then, or recover enough that he would demand a lawyer. I could always prod him a little, using pain as a lever, but not with a cop right behind me.

I drew a deep breath, and tried to sound as official as I could while I lied. "Come on, Hartley. Sean gave us a full documented confession a couple hours ago. He told us all about how and why you staged the accidents. How do you think we knew exactly where to go at the station?"

He must have been dazed. He didn't ask why, if we knew all that, we hadn't come with police to back us up. Instead, he said, "I never—killed one person. Sean and the others—they did the killing. You can't pin that on me."

I didn't correct his impression that not having pulled the trigger meant a lesser penalty. "I know that, Glenn," I said, more softly. "All we need from you before we let the medic in is the names of the key figures at Vanderland, Midas, and Morgan Polls. Sean told us what he knew, and we want to verify it with you. If one of you is lying at this stage, you'll die without ever seeing the sky again."

He was silent for a long moment. I was afraid he was dying right then, but at last he said weakly, "All right." And he named names. They were new names to me, but my instincts said Hartley was too dazed and too defeated to be lying.

I was dazed, too. I felt suddenly quite tired. "Okay, Glenn. You're going to spend the time until the medic gets here, telling this officer behind me every significant detail you can remember."

Hartley nodded slightly and swallowed.

I started back out of the car, the cop edging out of the way to let me past. He had a puzzled look on his face, but he stayed with Hartley.

I stood up in the cold air outside. Janet stood there with a second cop. This one had his wristcomp monitoring the conversation relayed from the man with Hartley.

"You're sending this on to headquarters, too?" I asked him.

He told me he was.

"Officer, is there any chance you could let us have just a few minutes to relax? It's been a hard day."

"I guess it has been," he said, looking at my face. He hesitated, his tongue moving against the inside of one cheek. Finally he said, "It'll take at least five more minutes for the medics and fifteen minutes for the support crew to get here. That's all I can give you. Stay close."

"You've got it," Janet said. "We probably couldn't drive a hundred more meters in that car anyway."

I moved next to her. The flashing lights from the police jumper periodically illuminated her tired grin. I said, "I don't even have the energy to try to drive away."

We walked back to our rental car, my arm around her. We got in and turned the heat up high.

From the backseat, incredible as it seemed, came the sounds of Brad's little child snores. I grinned.

Janet leaned back against the headrest.

"Damn, but I'm tired," I said. "I wonder what happens next."

"Well, no matter what, you can get rid of your disguise. And maybe you'll even let me call you Dan."

I looked at the lights flashing off the crumpled LandAir, thinking about Sam and Brad and Janet. Maybe what had been bad for Sam could in some ironic way turn out to be good for Brad. "Janet," I said hesitantly, not at all sure how to say what I wanted to.

"I'm right here," she said simply.

I heard her turn to face me, but I kept staring at Hartley's car. "I've learned a couple things about myself in the last few weeks. One of them is that I really don't like to leave things unfinished."

Janet was suddenly very still.

I looked back at her. Her turquoise eyes were dark in the dim interior of the car. I had never wanted anyone as much as I wanted her. I cleared my throat, wishing I had a drink. "You and I. We aren't finished, are we?"

Janet looked at me, her eyes making small rapid motions as she scanned my face. Her grin had vanished. She took a deep breath. And then she reached out her hand. With one fingertip, she gently traced the curve of my cheek. "Daniel Kettering," she said breathlessly. "I don't ever want to be finished."

I grinned at her like a kid. I grinned so hard I split my lip again. I took a deep breath, too. My cheek tingled where she had touched it. "Well," I said. "Maybe some things aren't meant to be finished."

THE END

About the Author

Science–fiction author John E. Stith's works include REDSHIFT RENDEZVOUS(Nebula Award nominee), MANHATTAN TRANSFER (Hugo Award Honorable Mention), REUNION ON NEVEREND, and RECKONING INFINITY (on Science Fiction Chronicle's 1997's Best Science Fiction Novels list, on the Nebula Award preliminary ballot). His other novels are SCAPESCOPE, MEMORY BLANK, DEATH TOLLS, and DEEP QUARRY.Naught Again includes a Nick Naught novella and a novelette. His website is www.neverend.com.

Table of Contents

Cover

John E. Stith

Chapter 1 Harbinger

Chapter 2 Eavesdropper

Chapter 3 Impostor

Chapter 4 Shadower

Chapter 5 Entrapment

Chapter 6 Negligent

Chapter 7 Broadcast

Chapter 8 Education

Chapter 9 Revelation

Chapter 10 Guesswork

Chapter 11 Hazardous

Chapter 12 Evidence

Chapter 13 Illumination

Chapter 14 Search

Chapter 15 Examination

Chapter 16 Newsworthy

Chapter 17 Bait

Chapter 18 Evidence

Chapter 19 Ramifications

Chapter 20 Gamble

About the Author