Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Broadstreet finished his doughnut, then reached for the second bear-claw; his mind was racing, and finally he dared to say, “Then if Baxter comes to nothing, you won’t mind?”

  “Oh, I’d mind, all right, but I wouldn’t do anything foolish. You’ve been behind your desk too long; you’re turning into a bureaucrat, and we have far too many of them in DC than we need already. No, you need to get your feet wet, and this seems as good a way to do that as anything.” He chewed in reflective silence.

  “Um,” said Broadstreet—the bear-claws were very good today, if his was any example.

  Finally Channing spoke up again. “That doesn’t mean you’re free to do whatever you like. You have your orders and I expect you to follow them. No dawdling, no getting sidetracked. If you want to think of this as a test, or an audition, go ahead and do so.” He poured more coffee into his mug and held the pot out to Broadstreet. “Top up?” He clearly expected to have his offer accepted.

  After a brief hesitation, Broadstreet extended his mug. “Thank you.” It was the least he could say, yet it would show that he was aware of the potentialities of his immediate commitment to the case he was going to pursue. “I’ll try not to disappoint you, sir. I’m grateful for this opportunity.”

  “Keep in mind that Atkins is really up to no good. Don’t waste sympathy on him. What he’s doing is not an intellectual ploy or a trick he’s playing: he is deliberately giving our enemies—our enemies—information on rocket fuels and load-thrust ratios as well as the formulae for them to do similar calculations. If there are intercontinental ballistic missiles involved, those formulae could spell real trouble for the US for years to come.” Channing shook his head. “He has to be found and he has to be stopped, and everyone who aided him has to be checked out, and dealt with appropriately, or it’s possible that the work will continue even after we eliminate Atkins from the picture.”

  The word eliminate made Broadstreet uneasy, but he made sure his discomfiture was unnoticed. “Do you expect any trouble with him? Extradition, and so forth? Or do you think the Commies have got him already?”

  “I don’t believe we will bother to ask. Nor should you. We can’t bring Atkins into public view until we know how much damage he has done.” Channing spoke softly, which convinced Broadstreet of the sincerity of Channing’s threat.

  “Understood,” said Broadstreet, and bit more bear-claw off than he had intended. He could feel a bit of the filling cling to his cheek. He grabbed his napkin and rubbed it away.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing what you can accomplish in the next few days. We need to be diligent as well as accountable in everything we do.” Channing took the nearer of two folded napkins and wiped his fingers. “You have most of the afternoon to get all your ducks in a row, and tomorrow, I want to see results. Give me a call around mid-day to apprise me of your progress. I want to see you get a promotion out of this.” He bared his teeth in imitation of a smile. “This way, you’ll be prepared to deal with Baxter, if he ever shows up.”

  Realizing that his audience with Channing was almost over, Broadstreet returned the half-eaten bear-claw to the plate on the serving-cart, picked up the second napkin to get the sugar-glaze off his hands, and brushed down the front of his jacket and vest, working out how to end this audience on an appropriate note. “Thank you. I’m glad to have something useful to do for the … company. I will do all I can to perform to your expectations.”

  “Yes, yes,” Channing said, sounding a bit bored.

  Standing in the doorway, Broadstreet asked, “Is it true that Atkins’ first name really is Daedalus?”

  Channing blinked, somewhat surprised. “Yes. Daedalus George Atkins.”

  “I supposed that he gave himself the first name,” Broadstreet said. “In a gesture of self-aggrandizement.”

  “No. His parents had big plans for him from the first. They called his brother Pythagoras William. He died in a prisoner-of-war camp in ’forty-two.” He laughed once. “Can you imagine getting through grammar school with a name like Daedalus? Or worse, Pythagoras?”

  “Must have been rough,” said Broadstreet, who knew it was expected of him.

  “Not half so rough as I require you to be in dealing with him. Keep in mind that he is working against US interests. Persevere, Broadstreet. Do not hesitate to do all you must to end Nugent’s spying, with or without the help of Baxter. We need to get a good result on Atkins, and soon. He cannot be allowed to escape. Hoover’s men should have kept him from leaving the country, but since they didn’t … So long as I see results, you can keep your position, but if you become lax, someone else will take over for you, and you’ll be in the archives for the rest of your career.”

  “Don’t worry.” Broadstreet drank most of the coffee remaining in his mug, and rose to his feet, not needing an omen to make it clear what he would have to do. “It’s an honor to be—”

  Channing waved him in the general direction of the door. “Tomorrow, Broadstreet. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, just barely resisting the urge to salute. He bent to pick up his briefcase, then started for the door. He paused as he put his hand on the doorknob. “I know this is a real opportunity, sir. I’m most grateful.” Confident that he had said enough, he let himself out of the small room and made his way down a long corridor to the elevator. He pushed the buzzer and the mechanism sprang to life, the dial over the door marking the progress of the cab, all the while thinking he had found the meeting much more encouraging than he had expected. He could tell that there were complexities here that needed a lot of attention, and he would have to be careful how he presented whatever he learned from Baxter.

  The uniformed elevator operator opened the door into the elevator cab. “Sir?” he asked when Broadstreet hardly moved.

  “Oh. Yes.” He walked into the cab, wondering as he looked at the middle-aged black man running the elevator, if he were some kind of agent as Walters the waiter was. He sighed, reminding himself that no matter how he looked at it, this was more than sport: he would have to watch himself closely, and be at pains to make sure everything he reported on Baxter was consistent, which meant establishing his own file on the man, so he could keep track of what he revealed. Under other circumstances, he would have told Channing about his deception, but he was convinced that Channing would not give any approval to the scheme Broadstreet was putting together in the cab-ride back to his office. He left the cab with a preoccupied air, but as he started toward the door into the building, he noticed a man in a navy-blue raincoat standing by the newsstand, who glanced up as Broadstreet went by. Broadstreet made an abrupt change of plan, and veered off toward the parking lot; he increased the speed of his walk as he made for the staircase to retrieve his Frazer. He glanced back once and thought he saw the fellow keeping pace with him some twenty feet behind him. He sighed. He would have to be doubly careful if he were to be under surveillance, if the man behind him was actually following him, and not just going to the parking lot. This possibility did not reassure him, and he lengthened his stride, but did not look back as he made for his car with unusual swiftness, trusting that his speed would be seen as diligence by anyone observing him.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM MADELAINE DE MONTALIA IN HAVANA, CUBA, TO LE COMTE DE SAINT-GERMAIN IN PARIS, SENT BY AIR MAIL AND DELIVERED FOUR DAYS AFTER IT WAS SENT.

  7B Avenida de Santo Alonzo

  Havana, Cuba

  18 December, 1949

  Le Comte de Saint-Germain

  108 Rue Currie

  Paris, France

  My most dear Saint-Germain,

  Peru, Ecuador, and Venezuela are all withholding dig permits. I’ve used every academic contact I have that might convince the various ministries that I have nothing nefarious in mind, but just at present, there is a fear that any European seeking to venture into the back country of South America must be an escaping Nazi, looking for a remote place to start the Fourth Reich. Rumor has it that there is a small but steady stre
am of Nazis leaving Germany through Genova and Marseilles for South American ports. Argentina and Paraguay are said to be the most popular destinations.

  Since I haven’t been able to secure permits for a dig in South America, I have accepted my friend Hugo Gemelo’s invitation to join his dig in the Yucatan Peninsula, unearthing Mayan cities. It’s not what I would ordinarily want to do, but it’s preferable to remaining here in Cuba watching the tourists gamble and whore their way through Havana as a preparation for Christmas. So I will be off tomorrow for Mexico City, which means hours in a plane over water; you understand what that can be like among those of our blood. I will be met by a guide and an escort next Thursday, and will go from Ciudad de Mexico by road to the Yucatan and prepare to spend months digging and cataloguing racks of stone skulls and stone glyphs. I’ll try again in a year or so to see if Peru at least will consider letting me look for Incan cities. There is so much I have left undone, and that I want to explore. I confess I didn’t understand what you called the advantage of long life—perhaps because I hadn’t lived long enough to gain the perspective one can gain—but since I’m well past my two hundredth birthday, I do begin to appreciate what I can do with so many years to come.

  All this means, of course, that I shall miss seeing you for another decade, which is one aspect of this vampire longevity that I do not enjoy. I must also admit that I am becoming accustomed to dealing with people who assume I am the age I appear to be, which is one of the reasons I am so glad to see you, and James, whenever our paths can cross. James, I understand, is in Canada now, still writing adventure books for boys as J. T. Emmers. When I have sent this to you, I’ll write to him so you will both know where I am. When I have an address in the Yucatan, I’ll send you the particulars.

  Repairs at Monbussy are proceeding well; work starts on Montalia once winter is over. In three years I should be able to return to completed homes and electrical wiring in both places, remodeled kitchens, new windows, and improved plumbing. There was trouble with the gaslights at Monbussy during the Allies’ advance, and the German soldiers who had occupied it left it in a disgraceful state. All that will be taken care of, and I have Jean-Marie de Camp, to supervise both. He has been a great support to me even though he has decided not to take that final, sixth step and come to our lives when he dies. I have found him most dependable, especially since he is a former lover and is now a married man with two children.

  Would you mind very much if I gave him your address so he can consult you if he cannot reach me? I know you will get on with him. No doubt you will be interested in the other changes being made at Monbussy and Montalia, and Jean-Marie will know all the details. He’s not a man to intrude, so do not worry that he will consult you on every detail of the decisions; I left him comprehensive written instructions that will no doubt prove valuable to him during my absence. I will remind him not to approach you unless there is a real problem, or a legal complication. You may rely on him to be discreet. He’s aware how important it is that anything to do with me be kept utterly confidential.

  Saint-Germain, I miss you. I would like to be in your company from now until the end comes, whenever that may be, but I know that would be unwise in many ways. Being apart is difficult but it is preferable to being found out for what we are, and were we together we would be at risk. Think of what modern science would make of actual vampires! I know what academia is like, and I don’t like to imagine what they would want to find out about us. All this does not change my love for you. The Blood Bond has sustained us at great distance since I came to your life in 1744, and it will be there until the True Death, as steady and dependable as the Evening Star. What dreadful sentimentality, when I hoped to express myself with concision and profundity, in a manner befitting a tenured professor. So before this becomes too cloying, I will close with

  My eternal love,

  Madelaine

  Part Two

  THE EX-PATS’ COVEN

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM HAROLD TREAT IN NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA, TO CHARIS TREAT IN PARIS, FRANCE, SENT BY AIR MAIL AND DELIVERED FOUR DAYS AFTER IT WAS MAILED.

  January 3rd, 1950

  My dear Charis,

  If only you had been with us, Christmas and New Year would have been perfect, but as it was, I think having my parents come to New Orleans rather than the boys and me going to them was a fine solution to the weather problem. The boys were thrilled, and it made your absence a bit easier, having Mom and Dad here. In fact, it turned out so well that they’ll be staying on, at least to the end of the month, and perhaps longer. This means that I needn’t pay for a housekeeper since Mom is taking that job over and is a much better cook than Priscilla. Dad says they might consider moving out of Raleigh and coming here until such time as you return; Dad is planning to fix the back porch and put in new plumbing in the upstairs bathroom, which needs it badly. They’ve bought one of those home movie cameras—Mom plans to take movies of the boys and send them to you so you can see how they’re doing. You should be able to find a projector somewhere. My parents and I have asked the boys about the possibility of Mom and Dad making the move, and both of them are pleased at the prospect of having them living with us. I can see improvement in Arthur’s behavior already—he’s not so timorous anymore, and he has fewer crochets. David is happy to have the attention they will provide. With you gone from the house, he has gone around it like a little ghost.

  I realize this is a sudden development, and I won’t blame you if you aren’t too much in favor with the arrangement. You’ve mentioned feeling isolated, and said you were worried about the boys. But it appears that you’re going to be away for at least another year, if the news is to be believed, and for kids that’s a long time. Your letters have helped; I read them to the boys as soon as they arrive, and your copy of The Grimoire was a real hit with them. Even Mom and Dad liked it; they had been worried that you were being pressured to work with strangers. I know they worry that your unresolved difficulties here make you something of a target in Europe. I think Mom and Dad have a better understanding as to why you haven’t come back. I hope you’ll keep those coming, the letters and the Grimoire issues. It is a relief to see that you are in good company and that you have not had to resort to less distinguished associates. We discussed that before you left, including how it might impact us here at home, and it is gratifying to see that you took your situation to heart. When you return, you will have publications to bolster your position, which should make it easier for you to find a respectable position at a good university, but perhaps something smaller than Tulane. Of course, please send us a copy of your book as soon as it’s available. I’ll be happy to show all your colleagues that despite being under a cloud, you continue your studies.

  How is work coming on your second book? Have you solved the problem of dealing with slavery in Europe during the Dark Ages? You told me when we spoke the last time that you plan to work on it all through the spring and possibly the summer. I must say, your dedication to your writing is a surprise to me, but it reminds me that you are truly a gifted academic, and when your reputation is restored and it is safe for the family, you should have no difficulty in returning to teaching in the US with the regard of the faculty intact because of your continuing scholarship. It is just like you to turn a difficulty into an opportunity. You have good reason to be proud of yourself for your enterprise.

  You told me your sprained ankle was better, but I am worried that you may yet have problems with it if you use it too much, so let me ask you to curtail your jaunts into the countryside to see old convents and monasteries as part of your research. You said that the French physician who took care of you was very experienced and dealt with you in a most capable way. No doubt he was the best of the lot for you to work with, but I would feel more secure if you could find an American doctor to examine the sprain, to be sure that it is healing as it should. There must be an American military base near Paris, and as a citizen of the US, you ought to be able to command the attention of one of
their physicians. Let me know what he has to say once you have consulted him, and what his prognosis is for your recovery. There are many risks that come from sprains, as you know, and it troubles me that you may have to cope with some of them because of your misfortune.

  Speaking of prognosis, Arthur is going in for an evaluation next week; Doctor Sutherland has said that it is time to have a comprehensive look at him, and to determine how great the muscle-wasting is. Arthur is deeply worried, but Mom has promised to go with him to the hospital and to stay with him the entire time. This has calmed him somewhat, and that is encouraging in itself. Whatever Sutherland finds, I’m certain he will be candid with me in terms of its implications. I’ll send you a letter as soon as I have something to report, and I will tell you more when we have our next conversation.

  Things are running along well at the lab. Our corporate patron is increasing the amount of our grant for 1950, which will allow us to expand our testing into three new regions of the state, which should make our comparisons much more useful. If all goes well with this, we may be in a position to apply for a five-year grant with options for increasing our areas of operation by this time next year. There are several states I would like to include in our studies for the purpose of comparison if nothing else, and that is what we will have if all our requests are accepted, which is all the more reason I’m sorry that Marcus Sylvester will be leaving the team in May—he has the offer of a position at Texas A & M, which is what he has been hoping for. I don’t like the thought of losing him, but for his own sake, I have to support his ambitions. I am going to spend the spring looking for someone to take his place, though a geologist as capable as Marcus will be hard to find. I have another soil chemist who would like the position, but we need a geologist more than we need another soil chemist. If I can’t find a competent geologist, I may have to take on the soil chemist, just to fill out the roster. Next September, the government will review our work, along with Geological Services, Inc., which might lead to an even broader application for the techniques we are developing.