They took a walk in the local park, enjoying the flowers and birds. In the afternoon they went to see a movie. As usual, she took his hand in the darkness. She did have some discretion now, and didn't cling in public, which he appreciated.
In the evening they ate in their room, microwaving a frozen entree, with fresh fruit and milk. It was faster, more convenient, healthier, and far more private than eating out.
That night he slept before she did. He woke to discover her hand holding his, not in the ordinary way. She had a firm grasp of his extended middle finger. That was suggestive as hell, but he didn't challenge it. There were worse things she could do with his body while he slept, and he preferred that she not soon discover them. It was bad enough that she was aware of his natural nocturnal erections. At least she had the discretion to pretend to be oblivious.
The second day he tackled something he feared she would resist. “You're in tenth grade. You have summer homework to keep up with.”
“Mom blabbed!”
“She did. Let's get on it while we have free time.”
“It's mostly boring reading. Something French, I think.”
“You haven't looked?”
“Why would I look at it an instant before I had to? It's homework.”
It seemed she was no better student than he had been. But college had provided him a more mature perspective. “We'll read it together. There may be male and female parts we can animate.”
“Gee. Then maybe it won't be so boring.”
“Let's see the book.”
She dug it out. “Cyrano de Bergerac,” he said. “I remember this.”
“So you know it's boring.”
“It's nothing of the kind. It's one great love story. A play, actually.”
“A love story,” she repeated, perking up.
“About a great swordsman with a very long nose, so the woman he loves isn't interested.”
“Is the nose a symbol of his penis?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Too bad.”
Then her cell phone rang. Their next mission was upon them. They scrambled to get in order to travel.
The play would have to wait. But at least he had perhaps piqued her interest.
The assignment was in another state, but Crossed Lasers evidently pulled some strings and within the hour they were on a plane going there. The type of business they had could not wait long. There was no Crossed Lasers unit there; they would be on their own.
Before the day was out they were on a city street where a suicide bomber was holding court of a kind: he demanded that all American troops be pulled out of his native country immediately, or he would blow up the city hall.
“He's an amateur,” the police captain confided quietly to Orion. “A truly committed one wouldn't talk, he'd just march in and detonate. But he's got a real bomb, and it will go off the moment his grip on the hand unit relaxes. We've evacuated the building, but he can still do a lot of damage. We need to defuse that bomb soon.”
“I don't know anything about bombs,” Pira murmured.
Orion took charge. “You have identified its type, of course. Show us a diagram of the wiring.”
They presented a color picture with the key wires marked. “If you can fuse these two, from a distance, it won't go off. But that's the problem: no one can get close enough. Fifty feet, and he'll blow it; he has said so. And if you fuse any other wires, it'll blast instantly. This has to be exactly right.”
Orion looked at Pira. She nodded. She could do it at that range. Probably no other laserist could.
“But that small, that far away, I'll need a few seconds to orient,” she said. “Can you give me that time?”
“I'll see what I can do,” Orion said.
A car dropped them off at the hundred foot perimeter, and they walked to the fifty foot line. There stood the bomber, a disheveled older man with a spring mechanism in his right hand. He was easy to identify, apart from being the only person there; the bomb mechanism surrounded his upper section. It was clear that no one could charge him and disarm it, and neither could a sharpshooter take him out from a distance, because his death would loosen his grip and set it off.
They walked slowly around the fifty foot perimeter, marked on the pavement in chalk. They stopped. “Hellooo!” Orion called.
“Who are you?” the man demanded.
“We are a party of two, come to talk you out of this nonsense,” Orion called. “I'm Orion, and this is my ward Pira.” He actually patted her on the head. She, meanwhile, was focusing her sharp vision on the bomb, and her hands were spreading wide apart. She was orienting on the key wires.
“A civilian and a child?” the bomber said derisively. “You better have the news I want, or I'll blow it right now.”
There was a faint sound as Pira activated her lasers. “Got it,” she whispered.
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
“I'm sorry, I don't have the news you want,” Orion called. “But I can make you this offer: end your threat, let the bomb deactivator man approach and null the mechanism, and you will be charged with only a misdemeanor, not a felony. You will also save your life.”
“You spawn of Satan!” the man shouted. “I'll show you. I'm doing it now!” and he dropped the detonation mechanism to the ground.
Nothing happened. The man flinched, then stared, evidently not quite believing that he remained alive.
“I'm sorry you did not accept my offer,” Orion said. “You had a bum bomb, but you're still in deep trouble for the threat.” He nodded to the police. “He's all yours.”
The police walked with deliberate speed toward the bomber, seeming not absolutely sure yet that this was not a ruse to get more people in close enough to be bombed.
“A bum bomb!” the man echoed, his shock converting to rage. “Those bastards!”
“You can get back at them,” Orion said. “Give their names to the police, in exchange for leniency.”
Then the police were there, efficiently holding the man and stripping away the bomb. The crisis was over.
Orion and Pira turned and walked away.
Later, in the privacy of the police station, they got the word. “It was a live bomb, all right, and powerful enough to take out the whole building,” the captain said. “If you hadn't fused those wires, it would have detonated. Amazing.”
“But we'll just pretend that the bomb was a dud,” Orion said. “Pira and I want no publicity.”
“No credit?”
“None on the record. Crossed Lasers prefers to operate quietly, so no one knows we're coming. Forget we were here.”
“You got it,” the man said, bemused. Indeed, there was hardly a reference in the local daily newspaper.
“Now Cyrano,” Orion said firmly that evening when they were alone in their hotel room.
“I'd rather watch TV.”
“This first. It's better than TV.”
She frowned, but did not argue further. Soon she was laughing as they got into the “noses” sequence, and then she was crying as the tragedy of Cyrano’s hopeless love came across. “He's such a good swordsman, and so clever. He loves Roxanne so much, but she doesn't know, and he can't tell her, because of his nose.” she said, sniffling. “He even has to help his rival win her.”
“That's what makes it a tragedy.”
“Like the way I love you, and you don't care.”
“Not exactly. I care about you, Pira, as a friend, not as a girlfriend.”
“I'm like a top swordsman, and I'm sensitive, but I look like a child, so you won't touch me.”
“All true.”
“At least I don't have to help a dumb college girl get you.”
“You can see how this story relates to real life,” he said. “There's a bit of Cyrano in many people, and many are hurting. That's what makes it good literature.”
“It would be better if I didn't have to write a damn paper on it.”
“That's part of
your tragedy.”
“Oh, pooh!” But by this time she was smiling.
Other assignments followed. Pira was competent to handle them all, and they were largely successful in keeping out of sight, or at least out of public notice. Then came one that was different. It was a dam that was the hostage, with a bomb to be set off by remote control, and only the terrorist knew exactly where the bomb was hidden.
Orion talked with the anonymous Crossed Laser dispatcher. “Listen, she can't defuse a bomb she can't see,” he said.
“But she might defuse the remote control,” the man responded.
“So might anyone else. Why her?”
“Because she's a child.”
“Come again?”
“The bomber is a grandfather type who likes children. He'll let a child come close, but not an adult.”
“Let us consider.” He turned to Pira. “You want to be a child?”
“I want to be a woman.”
“Put her on,” the dispatcher said.
Orion handed the cell phone to Pira. “What is it? A pedophile?” she demanded, then listened. After a moment she returned the phone to Orion. “I'll do it.”
Thus it was settled, to his surprise, and they were soon on the plane to the new location. “What did he say?” he asked.
“Not a pedophile. I can handle it.” She glanced obliquely at him. “But I'm always a woman to you.”
He did not argue the case. “We've got a couple hours on this flight. Time for your studies.”
“Oh, beans!” But she seemed resigned, and not really displeased. She had been learning the nuances of literature, and was coming to appreciate them. “What is it this time?”
“The curriculum says early 20th century British poetry. You have to select a poem and analyze it.”
“Oh, double beans! I hate poetry.”
His eye skimmed down the list of prospects. “What about this one? 'Among School Children' by the Irish poet William Butler Yeats. Maybe that will help you get in the mood to be a schoolchild for the bomber.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then reconsidered. “Maybe it will. Let's see it.”
“First the background note. It seems the poet as a man of 60 saw children in a schoolyard and was reminded of a story told him in the past, by a loved and beautiful woman, of something that had happened to her as a child. He tried then to see her as she had been as a child: did she look like one of these? He succeeded, and it was as if she was that child standing before him. But he also sees her as old as he is, and in the poem he transitions between these ages.”
“Let's just get to the poem,” she said impatiently. “Read it to me.”
“'I walk through the long schoolroom questioning:/ A kind of old nun in a white hood replies;/ The children learn to cipher and to sing,/ To study reading books and history...'” He continued, and the poem did not seem to relate to her interest well until the conclusion. “O chestnut tree, great rooted blossomer;/ Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?/ O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,/ How can we know the dancer from the dance?'”
They went over it again, discussing its aspects, and gradually the meaning clarified. “It's so hard to know what is real,” Pira said. “Is she old or young, or both together? Does the dancer make the dance, or the dance the dancer? He really was thinking it through.”
“He really was,” Orion agreed, realizing that Pira herself had issues of age and appearance, so was picking up on it here.
Then the plane was descending for its landing, interrupting their dialogue. The time had passed in an instant, perhaps fittingly.
Pira covered his hand with hers. “You're right; there are good things in old poems.”
He was glad to agree. “There are.”
They were soon at the key site. “The bomber's in that cottage,” the local police chief said, indicating the location of a map. “We don't know exactly what he wants, but we know he has set the bomb. We have to stop him somehow; hundreds of lives could be lost if that dam is breached, not to mention property destruction.”
“We'll do what we can,” Orion promised.
“One thing: you won't be able to get close to him, being grown. He's a hermit, and doesn't trust any adult. But he does like children.”
“Children,” Orion repeated guardedly.
“He's no pervert. He's more like a grandfather. Name's Bill Butler. So the girl will be able to get close, and that's what counts.”
Orion was not entirely easy with this, but kept his mouth shut. Pira had been chosen less for her laser ability than for her youth?
But when they were outside, Pira said it: “He'll trust me, so I'm the one to mess him up?”
“Maybe you can talk him out of it.”
“I'll sure try.”
The cottage was on a slope part way below the caldera that was the giant dam. There was no road to it, just a winding path. “Look! Beavers!” Pira exclaimed, looking to the side where the beaver dam and pool were.
“Not for much longer,” Orion said. “That stream is almost out of water.”
They approached the cottage. “Halloo!” Orion called.
The door opened. A bent old man stood there, his head almost bald but his beard still full. “What do you want?” His whole attitude was hostile.
“My ward and I need to talk with you, Mr. Butler,” Orion said, indicating Pira.
“About the damn dam?”
“Yes.”
The man assessed the situation. “She can come in. Not you.”
“No,” Orion said. “She stays with me.”
“Then go away.”
Pira stepped forward. “Please.”
She had a visible impact. Butler did like children, and she was a fetching one. “Why?”
She glanced at Orion. “May I tell him?”
Should she? He made a risky decision. “Yes. Tell him the truth.”
“Mr. Butler, my name's Pira. I'm the one sent to stop you from blowing up the dam. I've got lasers. But I wish you'd let me talk to you.”
“Why?”
“Because you remind me of William Butler Yeats.”
Butler laughed. “That's because of my name, William Butler. But you can call me Bill.”
“Maybe,” Pira agreed. “I only know one poem of his, and that he was an old man who liked children.”
“And for that you want to come talk with me like a friend?”
She was abashed. “Yes. I'm sorry.”
“Okay, Pira. Come sit with me here by the house. But your guardian stays back.”
“Even if he promises not to mess with you?”
Butler considered again. “Do you trust him?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He was clearly moved by her cuteness. “Come into the house, both of you, and we'll talk.”
“Wait,” Orion said. “You're forgetting that we're here to stop you.”
“I'm forgetting nothing. You can't stop me.”
“We surely can,” Orion said. “I don't want to approach you on false pretenses.”
“How?”
“May we demonstrate?”
“Sure.”
Pira spread her hands. A pine cone on the ground exploded into smoke and debris. “It's lasers,” she explained. “Where I cross the beams.”
“You must have a way to signal your bomb at the dam,” Orion said. “Pira can melt the connection.”
“That's impressive,” Butler said. “But it won't work. It's a cell phone. When I punch the keyed in number, the dam will blow. If the phone melts, the damn will blow; that's the default. If you can even find the phone.”
“He's right,” Pira said to Orion. “I need to see it to melt it. And I don't dare melt it anyway.”
“Then we are at an impasse,” Orion said. “Maybe we can negotiate.”
“Easy to do,” Butler said. “All I want is to save the beavers and the other creatures that depend on them. They’re a keystone species, you know; if they're okay, t
he whole local animal and plant community is okay. But now they’re being starved for water. Come in; sit down.” He seemed positively affable, now that they had agreed to talk.
They entered the cottage and sat in the main room. “We saw the beavers,” Pira said. “They're nice.”
“They certainly are,” Butler agreed. “But the damn dam is stealing all their water, and they'll have to move or die. That's the tragedy of it. Sure the mucky mucks want to generate power from the dam; I understand that. But can't they spare a little for the beavers who were here first?”
Pira turned to Orion. “Please.”
“There may be a way,” he said, focusing. “Don't big dams have spillways, to stop them from overflowing in rainstorms?”
“They do,” Butler said.
“And wouldn't some water from a spillway be enough for the beavers?”
“It should.”
“Let me see what I can do.” Orion dialed his local police contact.
“Yeah?”
“Orion Ordovan, currently in negotiation with William Butler. If we can save the beavers, he'll let the dam be. Release enough water via the spillways so that the beavers have their stream back. It may take the dam longer to fill, but at least there'll be a dam.”
“That's it?” the sergeant asked as if smelling a joke.
“That's it. Do it now.”
“It'll take a bit.”
“We'll wait.”
“They'll do it?” Butler asked.
“If they don't, the dam is yours. That's our deal.”
Butler pulsed his lips appreciatively. “We'll see.”
“The poem is “Among School Children,” Pira said. “Do you know it?”
“Oh my yes. How can we know the dancer from the dance?” He glanced at her. “Can you do the dance?”
“I guess.” She got up and twirled on her toes so that her skirt flung out.
“That's it. What do you know about that poem?”
“Only how Mr. Yeats saw school children, and it reminded him, and he could see all the different ages of a woman when he looked at her. Or all the ages of a tree when he looked at it. So he wrote the poem.”
“He did indeed. He wrote many poems. I was teased mercilessly in school because of my name, so I made a study of Yeats and read all his poems. They range from love to total obscurity.”
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