"You seem very bright and sprightly this morning," Eric remarked, buttering toast.
"It's those girls they had over on Sunday," Harriet said over her shoulder from the stove. "Life here will never be the same now. Which one do you fancy, Kevin? The tall one, the blonde, I bet."
"Oh, I don't know. . . . One life at a time's enough," Kevin answered, grinning faintly.
"Where do they live?" Eric asked.
"Avril's on this side of Tacoma. Janna . . . I think she's somewhere around there too. I'm not sure exactly."
"Hmm. Sounds as if we might be seeing more of them." Eric winked at Harriet as she refilled his coffee cup.
Kevin shrugged neutrally. "Maybe."
"Good morning," Vanessa's voice said from the doorway. She came into the kitchen, make-up on, hair tied back and high, dressed to go out.
"Very nice," Eric complimented.
Vanessa acknowledged with a wisp of a smile and a nod. "Just a cup of coffee for me, Harriet," she said. She remained standing by the breakfast bar.
"Not hungry?" Eric said. "If it's a diet, you don't have anything to worry about." He indicated her appearance generally with a motion of his head. "You look as if you're off out somewhere."
"I have to go into the city."
"What, again?"
"Just to check the shops, and a few chores. I'll probably have lunch. Somebody told me there's a new Scandinavian place opened at the Center. I might try that."
Kevin was unable to comprehend her nonchalance—even though there was no reason why it should be any different today than any of the days that had preceded it. Confusion and the claustrophobia that he had feared began taking hold of him.
"Can I have the keys to the Jag, then?" he asked Vanessa, at the same time standing up. "I'll get those boxes out of the trunk before I go."
"Oh yes, I'd forgotten about those," Eric murmured.
Vanessa looked mildly surprised. "Well, certainly. They're in my purse, in the den. Can you get them?"
"Sure." Kevin tried to think of something more to say, couldn't, and left the room awkwardly.
"He seems quiet, not his usual self this morning," he heard Eric say as he left the kitchen.
"Definitely the signs," Harriet pronounced.
Kevin found Vanessa's keys and went out the front door. The morning had a sharp nip, with frost on the grass and a clear sky. He felt as if he had walked out of what had suddenly turned from a home to a prison, into a different world.
He crunched across the gravel to the Jaguar, which was in front of Corfe's bronze Chevrolet, and opened the trunk. The black plastic bag containing the relay was in the top of one of the two boxes of gadgets and tools, standing among other items of Vanessa's. The rip in one side didn't seem to have been investigated, although he wasn't exactly sure how he expected to tell. Despite all his experience with mecs, it was still a strange feeling to find himself looking at the same cuts that he had made himself and crawled through, days ago and miles away. He lifted out the boxes and started to close the trunk again. Then his motion slowed, and he let the lid rise open again as a new thought struck him suddenly.
If it hadn't been for the mec finding its way onto Payne's yacht, nothing that he had discussed last night with Michelle and Doug would have been known. He had never thought of using mecs as intelligence-gathering devices before, and that one, brief, fortuitous episode had proved how amazingly effective they could be. In that case, why be restricted to that one lucky episode? Michelle had said they needed more information, and one sure thing was that in times ahead, Vanessa would be going to the right places to get it. Why not prepare for future opportunities in advance? He didn't exactly feel the ethical constraint at such a thought that he might have a week ago.
He leaned inside and checked the back of the trunk space. The sides and floor were carpeted; the overhead panel beyond the lid, bare metal. The farthermost recess, high at the rear, was lined by a foam-backed rubber strip, molded into the angle and glued to exclude drafts. Kevin reached up and checked along with his fingers. The rubber was not solidly anchored all the way along. Behind it he could feel gaps between the structural bracings. The gaps probably opened through to space behind the rear seating. He straightened up and looked at the house. All was quiet and still. Kevin picked up his two boxes, carried them inside, and went on down to the lab.
He sorted through the mec boxes on a shelf at the back and picked a black one about cigarette-pack-size, built to hold three of the smaller mecs, and checked that its batteries were good. For mecs he selected two: Tigger, the chain-saw wielder; and Mr. Toad, which with its huge eyes would make a great spy. Then he renewed the batteries in Taki's relay, rewrapped it in the plastic, and put it, along with some packing foam and adhesive tape, a Stanley knife, screwdrivers and a few other items that he might need, in a portable tool carrier. To these he added the flashlamp from its hook by the stairs, then went out via the rear door and back around to the car.
He cut a slit through the rubber high up in a corner at the back of the trunk, where only deliberate searching would have found it, and probed through with a screwdriver to explore the other side. Bringing his face up close and peering through with the flashlight, he verified that it was the space behind the rear seatback. He taped the relay to the metal behind the flap of carpeting that he had loosened, extending the antenna that Taki said worked better in confined metal spaces behind the rubber strip. He secured the mec box next to the relay, leaving the incision open so that a mec emerging from the box would have access both ways, forward or backward. That way, he reasoned, it would be possible to "bug" (he rather liked the double meaning), say, a purse or coat left on a seat in the passenger compartment, or a bag placed in the trunk.
The sound of a motor came through the trees, and Eric's van appeared from the driveway just as Kevin was finishing up. He waited while it drew up alongside the Jaguar. Corfe switched the motor off and wound down the window. "Hi, Kev. Being an early bird today, eh?"
"Not really. I always figured that stuff about birds is an example of vertebrate chauvinism. Nobody ever thinks of it from the worms' point of view: Early worms get eaten. I'm with the worms." It was a tired line that he had voiced before. He was speaking mechanically, his expression distant, still preoccupied with the unreal charade that was playing itself out inside the house.
"Watcha up to?" Corfe asked.
"Oh . . . just taking some stuff inside."
Corfe cocked an eyebrow pointedly. "How is everything in there?"
"Just . . . like normal. I can't believe it. It feels eerie."
"I know what you mean. Is Eric up?"
"Yes. He's in the kitchen."
"Maybe I'll come in and have a coffee and say hi. Like me to drop you off at school afterward?"
"Sure."
Corfe climbed out and closed the van door. They began walking up to the house. Kevin decided that until there was something specific to use his planted mec spies for, he couldn't see any good reason to mention them.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"Hello, Ms. Lang?"
"Yes."
"Thanks for holding. Yes, I have the record here: Jonathan Charles Anastole, age 52, died March three this year. The cause of death registered here was myocardial infarction. There's no indication of anything unusual. The exterior examination showed a couple of minor abrasions, but nothing that would be associated with cause of death. No organ abnormalities. . . . Blood alcohol negative."
"Is there a toxicological report—poisons, neural agents, that kind of thing?"
"Those tests are specific. We wouldn't normally screen for them unless there was a reason to be looking for something like that. It wasn't requested in this instance."
"I see. Thank you."
"Would you like me to fax you copies of the death certificate and autopsy report?"
"Yes, if you would, please."
"The company is Prettis and Lang, you said? What is the fax number there? . . ."
* * *
G
In movies and things like that, yes. But movies were made to escape into from unadventure and uniformity. Things like this didn't happen in real life.
". . . is it, Heber?"
Kevin shook himself back to real life. "Excuse me? . . . Oh, I'm sorry. What? . . ." Somebody with terminal-phase brain atrophy giggled at the back of the classroom.
"Jazz" Jarrold spread his hands, turned his eyes imploringly toward the ceiling, and went through his mime of mock martyrdom that always made Kevin feel that he'd missed his historical niche and should have been around at the time of the old silent movies.
"Heber, what is it? I work hard, I try. . . . I do my best to discharge the mission that the taxpayers of this fine Evergreen State of Washington have entrusted me with. What do I have to do to get your attention?" Kevin thought of saying, "how about making the subject interesting instead of trying to be the subject"; or, "project something we'd be motivated to want to emulate, instead of acting like an ass." Instead, he conceded with a weak grin and showed a hand apologetically. Jarrold took a step to stage left and turned with a flourish. "Oscar Wilde said that we live in a society that is overworked and undereducated. I'm trying to make a humble contribution to correcting that deplorable situation, and I would appreciate what measure of cooperation it is in your power to muster, particularly since you are the intended beneficiary of the endeavor. We were discussing the works of the Baroque composers. Where were you—lost in computerdom again? So, could I have a little of that attention? Forget code and think coda, bass and not Basic. . . ." Jarrold paused, his eyes gleaming evilly with some inner inspiration that had just struck him. "In fact, you could say . . ." he was visibly fighting rising excitement as he strove to string the words coherently together, "it's the way to avoid growing up with . . ." Kevin saw it coming in its full awfulness a split-second before its triumphal delivery: "your Bach being worse than your byte!"
At least the rest of the class had the graciousness to groan with him.
"Good morning, this is the Ramada Inn, Patrice speaking. How may I direct your call?"
"Hello, Patrice. My name is Michelle Lang. I'm an attorney with the Prettis and Lang law offices. Could I talk to the general manager, please?"
"That's Mr. Willens. . . . He's not in his office. Just one second. I'll have to page him."
"Thank you." . . .
"Guy Willens here."
"Mr. Willens, my name is Michelle Lang, with the Prettis and Lang law offices here in Seattle. I wonder if I could talk to you for a moment about an incident that happened at the hotel about two months ago."
"What incident was that?"
"A man was found dead in one of your rooms. His name was Anastole, John Anastole."
"What did you want to talk about?"
"I'm trying to check some details as to the circumstances in which he was found—who made the registration; if anyone else was using the room; whether the door was secured internally. That kind of thing."
"I couldn't release any information like that. I'd have to refer you to the police department."
"Would it be possible to tell from your registration records if—"
"You have to talk to the police. We have a set policy with such matters. I'm sorry, but I can't help."
"I understand. Well, thanks for talking, anyhow."
"You're welcome. Have a nice day, ma'am."
It should have been obvious. What was she trying to do anyway, for heaven's sake? She wasn't that kind of attorney.
"Michelle."
"Yes, Wendy?"
"I've got Joe Skerrill at Neurodyne. He's on the other line now. . . ."
The yellow Ford was signaling to move in ahead, crossing right for the approaching exit ramp. Vanessa accelerated into the gap, forcing it to slow down and pull in behind. "My lane, lady," she murmured.
Sometimes she thought her whole life had been an obstacle course of people thrown in her way to stop her being what she was and getting where she wanted to go. The world operated to a double standard. She imposed no restrictions, made no demands, held nobody back from actualizing whatever potential lay within them to be expressed. The powerful would take unless the weak could organize to stop them, in which case they became the powerful—and then, as far as she was concerned, the laws that governed the play were the same. Meeting hard opposition to curb what others saw as "excesses," she could understand, even respect; but please, not some appeal to "right," "goodwill," or any of the other forms of guilt-based moral socialism in which the weak and the inept laid claim to a share in the winnings they could never earn for themselves.
And when, in a genuine effort to spare otherwise inevitable ugliness, you contrived to have somebody who had become a liability moved far away and set up comfortably for the rest of what could have been a much more protracted lifetime, what did he do but come back again, insisting on making more trouble! It was a different league now, with different stakes, from the one that Jack had played in three years ago. Jack had never risen beyond the class of specialist hired hand—looked after well enough and paraded in all the right places, there when Microbotics needed that awkward legal corner smoothed over a little; but one of the outside flunkies just the same.
Eric had been a passport to the inside—stimulating intellectually too, which was a relief. And for a while it had seemed they were bound for the inside summit, which lay in the global stratosphere—until he turned out to have scruples where men worthy of the name had balls. Typical of scientists: eager to dispense wisdom on the running of the world, but only from the safety behind someone else's throne; posturing verbally to compensate for what they lacked the nerve to risk physically. Or they ran away to build their haven beyond the empire's borders—which would last until the first legion of reality caught up.
Vanessa could have done without the complication of Kevin's being in the picture. But, materially he would still be better off than most—and perhaps even more so than otherwise, since this way the patents would be used more aggressively and effectively. He could even come out of it better in the long run—made of sterner stuff. It was hardly as if tragedy didn't happen every day, in any case. Sometimes it was just somebody's misfortune to be in the way. She could hardly rewrite the script of the world back to Day One.
As Payne's wife, she would come into joint control of a sizable portion of Microbotics, which, boosted by ownership of the by-then-reprieved technology and the deal that Ohira was talking about, would have appreciated to an impressive sum, indeed. Then, life would have acquired some truly interesting dimensions of possibility, cosmopolitan in scope and properly suited to her tastes. The only proviso was that in the meantime her spouse would need to overcome his narcissism and learn that there were greater things to aspire to in life than sailing his floating playpen and entertaining starlets with more boobs than IQ points. Otherwise, sad though it would be in some ways, one day, she might have to get rid of Martin. . . .
"Homicide Division."
"Hello, my name is Michelle Lang. I'm an attorney with the Prettis and Lang law offices in Seattle. I understand that one of your investigating officers was called to the scene of an incident that happened about two months ago. Could I speak to him, please?"
"What incident was this?"
"The deceased's name was Anastole, John Anastole. He was found dead in a room at the Northgate Way Ramada Inn on March third last."
"Anastole? Spelt O-L-E?"
"Yes."
"I'll check. . . . Here we are—Jonathan Charles Anastole?"
"That's right."
"That would be Officer Kollet. . . . Yes, he is in. Putting you through."
"Dave Kollet."
"Oh, hello. My name is Michelle Lang, with the Prettis and Lang law offices in Seattle. I wonder if you could help me with some background details of a case that you were called out to at the Northgate Way Ramada Inn about two months ago. A man by the name of John Anastole was discovered dead in one of the rooms."
"Just one momen
t. That was Prettis and Lang, in Seattle?"
"Yes. We're a law firm. I'm one of the partners."
"And we're talking about a John . . ."
"Anastole."
"Got it. Okay, well, I'm going to have to take your number and call you back on this. You're Ms. Lang, right? And what number are you calling from? . . ."
The premises of Microbotics Inc. were located among the space-age industrial developments and office parks north of Bellevue, just off Route 520 before Redmond. They consisted of a five-story metal-and-glass office building facing lawns, shrubbery, and the main parking lot; a laboratory block to one side; and two manufacturing units, which included stores and shipping, at the rear.
To avoid making her presence needlessly conspicuous, Vanessa drove past the visitor area in front of the main building and parked in the employees' lot at the rear of the lab block. She had called ahead, and Andy Finnion, Microbotics' head of security, was waiting for her. He was thickset and powerful in build, with iron gray hair cropped short above a lined, craggy face. His former background was with the city police department, which made him an invaluable accomplice to Payne's political and quasi-legal machinations. He worked competently and inconspicuously, and asked no questions. If he had one outstanding characteristic it was loyalty. Vanessa had always treated him as one to be particularly careful with.
"How was the drive?" he greeted as he held the door for Vanessa to get out.
"Bearable, I suppose. I think the geriatrics are all out on the road already, practicing for the holidays."
Finnion took her inside through a side entrance of the lab block and up to a room on the top floor. Martin Payne was there already, with the equipment set up ready for her.
The body-suit was a close-fitting mesh designed to stretch over skin contours, laced with a piezoelectric web that performed the two-way function of converting body movements to outgoing signals, and incoming feedback to pressure changes that would register as forces. The helmet was VR standard. A cabinet by the wall contained computing and conversion electronics, control console and screens, and a radio transmitter-receiver system connected to an antenna on the roof. In addition there was a secretary's desk, several office chairs, and incidentals.
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