by Simon Hawke
However, she didn't see how St. John could possibly believe her. The truth was simply too incredible. She had a hard time believing it herself, even with access to Marvin's files. No, she would have to come up with a convincing story to tell Howard, something he could accept that would still fit the situation. As she walked briskly back to her apartment, she turned the matter over and over in her mind, trying to work up a plausible scenario.
Hightower's story was immaterial. He had stumbled onto the truth somehow, but it made no difference. Judging from what Howard had told her about Hightower, he'd have no difficulty believing it was just some outrageous story the reporter had concocted. So she would have to find some element of it that she could connect to the story she'd give Howard. The artist's rendering. She could show Howard some sketches she had made at home from memory based on Marvin's notes, which of course she had not been allowed to remove from the laboratory. That would show that Marvin's machine and the artist's rendering in the paper were similar enough to cause her great concern, though coincidence was not out of the question. She nodded to herself. Yes, that would add some plausibility to the story. It could just be a coincidence, and she wanted to contact Hightower to satisfy herself on that point. But she still had to tell Howard something about what the machine was supposed to be.
What could she tell him? The time machine looked vaguely like a helicopter. In fact, the bubble and part of the body, as well as the skids, had been taken from a military helicopter, though she could not recall which one in particular. It didn't matter. If Howard researched it, he could easily find that out himself and that would add further plausibility. So, something similar to a military helicopter. But what? There were no rotors, no guns were mounted, and part of the body was missing. Plus there was that unusual looking torus that surrounded it, the accelerator for the Buckminsterfullerine that created the time warp. So the machine looked somewhat similar to a helicopter, only it clearly wasn't one. What could it be?
A simulator. Yes, that was it. A sophisticated military helicopter simulator designed for ... what? Some top-secret, super-advanced model of military helicopter, obviously. Her firm had done some work on the original Visually Coupled Aircraft Systems Simulators, fully enclosed, computerized helmets that were the basis of the Virtual Reality simulators that were currently all the rage. She knew enough about that to throw around some convincing technical details that would hold up under scrutiny in case Howard decided to investigate. But if she made the story convincing enough, there was no reason why he should. She knew Howard St. John was a man of his word. He had promised to keep this to himself, and if he believed that national security was at issue, he'd act responsibly. He was a journalist, but not of the Hightower sort.
All right, she thought, what was special about this particular simulator that it should be so highly classified? VCASS technology was nothing terribly new, after all. It had to be the next generation. What could that be? Something sufficiently advanced-and perhaps just a little outrageous-to convince Howard of the need for absolute secrecy.
Brain/computer interface. She stopped as the thought popped into her head. Yes, that was perfect. It was all still in the realm of theory in reality, more the province of science fiction than science fact, but it was just outrageous enough to sound believable, though nowhere near as outrageous as time travel. The simulator was something Marvin had designed as a complement to an implantable microprocessor designed to decrease pilot reaction time and allow him to operate the new helicopter with the speed of thought. Hightower had obviously made something even more outrageous out of the story, but the question was, had he seen a copy of the top secret plans? Had the security of the EnGulfCo lab been compromised somehow? Was there the possibility that Hightower was part of an espionage network and this ridiculous story he'd concocted was nothing more than an excuse to run the drawing in the paper and in that way transmit it to some foreign power? Yes, that was a nice touch. Howard already had a very low opinion of Hightower, and that would fit right in. She started walking again, then stopped, wondering if perhaps that last touch was a bit much.
And that was when she heard the footsteps.
The street was practically deserted at this hour, except for the occasional passing car, and the sound of footsteps might not have struck her at all had they not stopped as soon as she stopped. She almost turned around, but caught herself just in time. She continued walking, suddenly on the alert, the hairs prickling on the back of her neck. She was being followed. She was certain of it.
She continued walking toward her apartment without looking back, but listening intently. When she paused, the footsteps paused. When she sped up, the footsteps sped up. She ducked inside the lobby of her building and ran to the elevator. She pushed the button and the doors opened immediately. She was thankful for that. She quickly went inside the elevator and pressed the button for her floor, then ducked back out again before the doors could close. Then she hid behind some of the lush, potted plants in the lobby.
No sooner had she concealed herself than a man wearing a trench coat and an Irish tweed walking hat came into the lobby. He approached the elevator and watched the indicator lights until the elevator stopped at her floor. He did not press the button to summon it. Instead, he merely nodded to himself, turned around, and went back outside.
That clinched it. She waited until he'd left, then took the stairs, running all the way up to her floor. She went into her apartment, closed the door behind her, and leaned back against it, breathing hard. She checked her watch. Still about forty minutes left before her meeting with St. John.
Who could be following her? Who knew what she was working on? Only three people, herself included. The other two were the CEO and the vice president of R and D for EnGulfCo. She exhaled heavily. Of course. They didn't trust her. They were having her watched. It occurred to her that the man following her could have been a stalker, but she dismissed the idea immediately. No, that would have been too much of a coincidence. Given the nature of Marvin's project, it made perfect sense that they would have her followed. They probably even had her phone tapped. She cursed herself for not thinking of that before. Stupid.
Fortunately, she had called St. John from a pay phone. Of course, that was no guarantee the call had not been monitored. She knew only too well what kind of sophisticated electronic surveillance devices were available to people with resources like EnGulfCo had. But she hardly ever used pay phones. And if they had her apartment wired, which was likely, then there would be no reason for some sophisticated bolometric mike. There was a good chance the call had not been overheard. If it had been, then they already knew about the meeting and it was too late to do anything about it.
She'd have to proceed on the assumption that they hadn't overheard. She grabbed her raincoat and umbrella and took the stairs back down, going past the lobby to the basement level. She took the maintenance corridor to the back entrance and carefully slipped outside, then walked several blocks in the wrong direction, taking side streets and checking to see if she was being followed. When she was satisfied that there was no one on her tail, she hailed a cab and drove to her meeting with St. John.
She got there a little late. St. John was already waiting for her. She gave him the story she'd concocted, including the bit about Hightower possibly being a foreign agent, which she said with just enough paranoia to convince St. John that she was seriously alarmed and even slightly hysterical.
"Take it easy, Pamela," he said, patting her lightly on the back. "I suspect you're overreacting just a bit. Hightower may be a lowlife, but he's not that much of a lowlife. And I can't imagine any foreign power employing someone as unreliable and unpredictable as him. Still, I must admit the drawings look remarkably similar. Perhaps it's only a coincidence, but I can certainly understand your concern. Still, don't you think this sort of thing is a matter for SIS? I mean, if military secrets are involved ..."
She hadn't thought of that. She improvised quickly. "We can't risk involving SI
S at this point," she said. "I mean, they have been compromised before, you know. The Philby case and all that. The security on this project is so tight that only a handful of people are even aware of its existence. You can appreciate why I had to swear you to absolute secrecy. They don't even trust the intelligence service. If anyone knew I'd spoken to you about this, we'd both go to prison for violation of the Official Secrets Act."
St. John nodded gravely. "Yes, I can see that. All of which makes it sound that much more incredible that someone like Hightower could have gotten hold of the drawings. Especially in America. I mean, it just sounds so bloody improbable. It has to be a crazy coincidence, that's all."
"Howard, that paper's just come out," she said. "If the intelligence service was in on this, they would already be investigating. But the handful of people who know about the project aren't really the sort to read the tabloids, if you know what I mean. They probably don't know about this yet. What worries me is... well, it's Marvin. You know how he is. He's brilliant, but when it comes to things like this, he can be hopelessly naive. And you know how absent minded he is. They always search him before he leaves the lab, not because they don't trust him, but because it's just like him to slip something into his pocket and forget about it. And he doodles constantly. He might have made a drawing and lost it, or perhaps left it somewhere . . ." She sighed heavily. "The thiing is, he's disappeared. He's done this sort of thing before, as you well know, but this time he's been gone for a long time, and we're concerned that something may have happened to him. We've got people looking for him, but the company is trying to keep the whole thing very low profile, because there's a great deal of money at stake, and, well, you know how it is."
"Yes, quite," said St. John, nodding several times. "They don't want the government boys to know they've lost track of their pet genius. It does sound like a rather sticky situation. You poor dear, no wonder you're so frantic."
"It's possible Marvin may have gone back to the States for some reason," she said, quickly following up. "It would be just like him to take off to consult with one of his old colleagues back home and become so caught up in work that he's utterly lost track of time. That's why I've got to speak with this Hightower person and try to find out if he knows anything about this."
"But how do you intend to do that without tipping him off?" St. John asked. "He's a cagey bastard."
"I don't know," said Pamela. "I'll think of something. I think I can throw enough technical jargon around to utterly confuse him. Can you put me in touch with him? Discreetly?"
St. John nodded again. "Yes, of course, I'll get on it right away. It shouldn't take more than a telephone call or two. How do you want to handle this? You want him to call you, or do you want to call him?"
"We need to be very careful about this," she said. "I think it would be best if we arranged a time for him to call me, but not at home or at the office. That would be too risky."
"You could use my place," St. John offered.
"You're a lifesaver, Howard. Thank you. But don't call me. I'll call you and check in periodically, to see if it's been arranged."
"Right. But this whole thing sounds so farfetched ... it's probably only a bizarre coincidence."
"If it is, then it will be a great relief to me," she said. "But I have to know for sure. And it's all got to be kept strictly on the Q.T."
"Mum's the word," said St. John. He checked his watch. "It should be about noon in New York. I've got a friend at The New Yorker. I'll give her a call as soon as I get home. She should be able to track down Hightower without too much trouble. I won't tell her why, of course. She owes me a few favors."
"I don't know what I'd do without you, Howard. I owe you one."
"Nonsense, old girl. Glad to help. Now go on home and try to get some rest. No need to worry yourself into a state. Just leave everything to me. Give me a call tomorrow."
"I will. And thanks again, Howard."
He stayed with her until she flagged down a cab, then waved good-bye as it pulled away. She settled back in the seat and exhaled heavily. He'd bought it. Now, all she had to do was figure out how to handle Hightower.
Six
While Pamela Fairburn was eluding the detectives on her tail and Colin Hightower was eluding the police, not to mention half a dozen collection agencies and his ex-wife, Marvin Brewster wasn't eluding anything. He had started this entire mess and now the weight of it rested squarely on his slender shoulders.
They all sat together in the great hall of the keep, around a long wooden table, while Calamity Jane served breakfast and dodged Thorny, who kept trying to help, but only wound up getting in the way. The peregrine bush that Brewster had adopted when it was just a little shrub had grown alarmingly in the last year and now stood over seven feet tall, which meant it could no longer follow Brewster all around the keep, the way it used to do. It would no longer fit through the narrow stairwells or the doorways of the smaller rooms, so it had been relegated to the lower floor and the great hall, where it resided like an ambulatory Christmas tree and visitors had to keep careful track of its movements for fear of getting impaled on its large and spiky thorns.
Thorny didn't seem to understand that it was capable of hurting people. It was just a bush, after all. Actually, at this point, it more closely resembled a mesquite tree on steroids, but the point is that shrubbery doesn't think. It simply reacts-to sunlight, to moisture, and in Thorny's case, to Brewster's kindness. Mick had intended to brew wine from its roots, but Brewster had intervened and made a sort of pet of the plant. On some primitive level, the bush had sensed that and had bonded to him. During the last migration season, it had disappeared, and Brewster thought he wouldn't be seeing it again, but when the peregrine migration season was over, Thorny had returned to the keep-only it had grown another three feet. Now, with its much larger thorns, the plant was dangerous, but Brewster couldn't bring himself to bar it from the keep. Like a cat, it went out each night to burrow its roots into the soil and came back again each morning.
"Watch it, you overgrown weed!" said the chamberpot as Thorny brushed against the table and accidentally swept Brian off. Brewster just managed to catch the chamberpot before it struck the floor.
"Thorny!" he shouted.
The plant responded to his tone and backed away, its branches drooping.
"I just hope you all know what you're doing," Brewster said, glancing around at the others sitting around the table as he set Brian down. "Raising some troops for defense is one thing, but actually breaking off and starting up your own kingdom is inviting trouble."
"Our kingdom, Doc," said Mick. "You're just as much a part o' it as we are."
"Mick's right," said Harlan, nodding emphatically. "After all, you started all this. We owe everything we have accomplished to you."
Brewster looked uncertain. "Well, maybe I provided some ideas and technical help, but I never considered the political implications. When it comes to things like that, I'm out of my depth."
"I'll handle the politics, don't worry," Harlan said. "We just wanted your support on this. And we wanted to ask if you would accept the title of Royal Wizard."
"But I've told you, I'm not a wizard!" Brewster protested. "I've tried and tried to learn how to do magic, but it's simply hopeless. Ask Mick."
" 'Tis true," admitted Mick with a shrug. "But then I am not a very good teacher. I have some ability with magic, but only because I am a leprechaun and it comes to me naturally. I am not a trained sorcerer. 'Tis not that you have failed, Doc, 'tis that I lack the knowledge to instruct you properly."
"It makes no difference," Harlan said, dismissing the whole debate with a wave. "People believe you are a sorcerer, Doc, and your science is a sort of magic. 'Tis merely a different form of knowledge. In any case, the title is what counts. Every kingdom has a royal wizard. The office would be merely a formality."
Brewster turned to Shannon. "Are you sure this is what you want?" he asked her.
"Doc, you and I have had
our differences," she replied. "In the beginning, I had little faith in your abilities, but you have proved me wrong. I have learned to trust your judgment. And if I am to be queen-strange as that may sound- I would like the benefit of your advice. I would be honored if you would accept the title."
"Well, if that's what you all want, then I'll accept, of course," said Brewster, "but I'm not sure you really understand the implications of what you are proposing to do. I had no idea that when I taught Mick and the others how to make aluminum, I was actually showing them how to make nick-allirium. I didn't realize what that meant. In my world, gold is what the currency is based on and aluminum has little value by comparison. Here, gold is worthless because it is so plentiful." He shook his head. "Everything is different here. You'd think I would have learned more by now. Producing products for the market is one thing, but manufacuring nickallirium is something else entirely. By manufacturing nickallirium, we are threatening the economies of the twenty-seven kingdoms, and if we continue, they will have no choice but to go to war against us."
"All the more reason for us to be prepared," said Shannon.
"Shannon, you're talking about taking on the whole world!" said Brewster. "Don't you see that our producing nickallirium is the one thing that will unite the other kingdoms against us? And by forming our own kingdom, we would be announcing to the world that we are a power unto ourselves."
"What's wrong with that?" asked Robie. "Why shouldn't we have the right to determine our own destiny?"