Eleanor Dupres smiled graciously into the camera. "Ladies and gentlemen, what you have just seen was the real broadcast given by John, the Supreme Commander at last night's gala here at the Los Angeles Medical Center. Tragically, terrorists, rewarding generosity with contempt and hatred, cut in a faked broadcast, using materials stolen from several local television stations. Michael Donovan, the former newsman, was one of those responsible."
Eleanor's gracious smiled faltered, and her face assumed lines of well-controlled but nevertheless poignant grief. "One of the most tragic aspects of last night's hoax was the slaying of Kristine Walsh, the Visitor spokesperson. Terrorists cold-bloodedly kidnapped the newswoman and filmed her actual murder, making it appear that the Visitors were responsible."
She hesitated, then continued gravely, "I'm sure I speak for all the peace-loving people on this planet when I say that the Visitors have given to us, far more than they have ever asked from us. And I'm sure you'll join all of us in our grief at the unconscionable slaying of a talented professional like Kristine Walsh—mercilessly killed by the terrorists we must uncover and stamp out, if our planet is ever to know peace again." She hesitated for a dramatic beat. "This is Eleanor Dupres, from the Los Angeles Medical Center. Good night."
"Cut!"
Eleanor smiled tentatively as Diana and Steven approached her. "How was that?"
"Perfect," Diana said warmly. "Excellent, Eleanor."
"As long as you're pleased," Eleanor said, watching the groups of Visitors dressed as human guests. From where she was standing she could see clearly the dark marks of the Visitor weapons scoring the lobby walls. Debris lay everywhere, except where it had been cleared away to do this broadcast. Eleanor smiled over at Steven as Diana walked over to direct the cleanup operation. "Do you think the audience of television viewers will . . . accept this broadcast?"
"We've had a lot of experience in this sort of thing already," Steven said, not looking at her. "Humans tend to believe the things that they want to believe, and it's certainly more pleasant to accept the version of the evening that we taped tonight, wouldn't you agree?"
"Of course," Eleanor said, looking at him. She had seen Diana's anger at what she had termed Steven's "inexcusably lax" security, and knew that today might not be the best time to approach the Visitor. But with his new duties, Steven had had less time for social visits. She'd better speak with him now, while he was here, Eleanor decided.
"There's something I've been wanting to ask you about," she said, looking up at him with a warm smile.
"What's that?" Steven said, trying for his usual gallantry, but falling a little short.
"Actually, two things." She hesitated. "Two favors."
"You have only to ask, Eleanor." he said, doing better with his smile this time.
Eleanor reached into her evening bag. "This is a photograph of my grandson. I'd like him back. He's been . . . detained. I understand he's aboard your L.A. ship."
She handed him the picture. Steven took it, studied it, nodded. "That's very easy. I'll have it seen to."
"Thank you, Steven." Eleanor looked back up at him, her eyes very direct. "And, secondly, I feel I've made a rather . . . sizable contribution to your . . . movement."
"If it's a question of more money—"
"No, no, not the money." She picked her words with obvious care. "I'd like to serve in a more fulfilling capacity, so to speak."
"You want position."
Eleanor was taken aback by his candor. Trying to recover herself, she nodded. "Well, yes, in a sense, that's it, I guess."
He was all business. "Certainly. Would 'World Spokesperson' suit you?"
"Kristine Walsh's position?"
"Yes."
"Well, yes. That would be—"
"Done. It's yours. Now I must go. There's a security operation I must oversee," He took her hand, formally bowing over it. "Good day, Eleanor."
"Good day, Steven."
Daniel Bernstein watched Steven walk across the room, not missing Diana's glare at the Security Officer's back. He grinned at the tall, attractive young woman in the nurse's uniform who stood beside him. "Diana's really pissed at Steven—I heard John tell Diana that if it weren't for her brainstorm to shoot this broadcast today, the underground could actually pose a real threat to their mission."
"John?" she said, looking up at him in a way that made Daniel feel about six inches taller. "You don't mean—"
"Sure," he said offhandedly. "The Supreme Commander. I met him this morning. He congratulated me for capturing the rebel leader."
"You did what?" she moved closer, avidly hanging on his words.
"I was the one that shot the tires out of the ambulance that Juliet Parrish was trying to escape in last night. Diana said her capture alone almost made up for the nuisance of having to reshoot the presentation ceremony so it can be shown tonight."
"Juliet Parrish? The leader of the terrorists was a woman?"
"Yeah. A little blonde thing. Not my type, really. I like 'em more like . . ." He grinned widely at her. "Actually, more like you, darlin' . . ."
She lowered her long, dark eyelashes before his gaze, blushing slightly. "Geez, a real hero. You really captured some terrorists singlehanded?"
"Yeah. Had to kill one of 'em—they said he was an intern here. King was his name. But I got the leader without hurting her." He shook his head, remembering. "She might have been luckier if she hadn't been taken alive. Diana was really torqued about the raid. Juliet Parrish is in deep shit."
"Where is she?" She glanced around the lobby, eyes wide.
"Oh, they took her up to the Mother Ship last night."
"What are they going to do with her?"
"Dunno. If I was Diana, I'd make her admit that the live broadcast the people saw last night was a hoax."
"It was?"
"Sure, baby. You're not dumb enough to believe all that stuff, are you?"
She was indignant. "Of course not. But it did look so real."
It was, you dumb bitch, Daniel thought, looking speculatively down the neck of her uniform. Nice set you got there . . .
She looked around at the shock troopers assembling in one of the halls. "What's going on now?"
"Security stuff." Daniel smiled tolerantly. "So, how about your giving me your phone number, honey? I'd like to take you someplace nice for dinner tonight."
"Really?" Her face fell. "But I don't get off duty till almost curfew time. Maybe on my day off . . ."
"Hey," he grinned. "Don't worry your pretty head about the curfew. The curfew is for civilians—you're gonna be goin' out with the Second-in-Command of Visitor Youth Activities worldwide."
"Really?" Daniel saw admiration in her eyes, although she was trying to play it cool. "Well, Daniel, if you're talking about a date, I'm interested. If you've got something more horizontal in mind, I'm warning you that I'm not that kind of girl."
Wanna bet, sweet? Daniel thought cynically, smiling down at her.
"I know you're not, Margaret," he protested, looking hurt. "Don't tell me you're one of those men-haters, who think a guy is only out for one thing."
"Well . . . nooo . . ." She glanced at him sideways, trying to hide her smile. "I just thought I'd get a few things straight before we went out."
You've got me straighter than a ruler, baby. Daniel smiled. "Okay, Margaret. I've got the picture. Tonight, all right?"
"Okay," she capitulated with a grin. "And call me Maggie. I hate Margaret."
"Sure, Maggie."
Brad Mcintyre peered through his binoculars. The gray-haired man squatting in the shadow of some bushes halfway down the hill was surveying their resistance headquarters through his binoculars. "Take a look at this, Sancho," he said, indicating the man. "He sure doesn't look like a Visitor, but I'd almost rather find one of them spying on us. That guy looks mean."
"What do you think we should do with him?" Sancho asked. "Where do you think he came from?"
"Dunno," Brad said. "We can't le
t him just walk away. Do you suppose he's somebody wanting to join us?"
"Somehow he doesn't look like a recruit," Sancho said, frowning. "He looks like one of the foremen I used to have when I worked as a picker. He broke a kid's jaw one day, when the boy talked back to him."
"Well . . . this guy's not armed, at least as far as I can tell."
Sancho clicked on his walkie-talkie. "Hill patrol here. Do you read me?"
"HQ here. We read you," said Caleb's voice. "Commence identification sequence."
"Three-four-two-nine, SB."
"Go ahead."
"We've got a guy down the hillside who's observing the plant through binoculars. This place is getting too crowded for comfort, no?"
"We're packing as fast as we can." Caleb's voice assumed a more personal note. "But you'll never convince me that they'll get anything out of Juliet."
"Hey, man." Sancho shook his head. "Don't talk until you've been there. Those snakes can be very persuasive."
"I don't want to think about it," said Caleb. "What about your target? You goin' to capture that Joe and bring him in for interrogation?"
"Yeah, I think we'd better," Sancho replied. "Have a little welcoming committee ready, okay?"
"Roger and wilco. HQ out."
Sancho turned off the walkie-talkie with a sigh. Brad grinned at his expression. "Caleb's been watching those Audie Murphy jungle epics again."
"Yeah." Sancho's gaze shifted to the silent figure downhill from them. "I'll go first. You back me up."
Climbing to his feet, he picked up his shotgun and started down the hill, making little noise on the tough brownish grass. As he neared the silent observer, he stepped even more carefully, so that he made no sound at all. Finally, standing just behind the spy, his shotgun pointed at the man's head, he said pleasantly, "Hey, my friend, you looking for something?"
The man's steel-colored head did not even turn to look into the double barrels. Sancho heard Brad coming up behind him. Then the ex-cop stepped in front of the binoculars, blocking the man's view. The man casually reached out and pushed McIntyre aside as though he were a sunbather and Brad were blocking the rays. His voice had all the warmth of a file dragged over rusty metal. "Do yourself a favor and tell the greaser back there to take that twelve-gauge away from my head before I make him swallow it."
Brad stared incredulously down at the man. "You got a nasty mouth, pal."
Sancho gestured with the shotgun. "Why don't you stand up, amigo, and we'll take a little walk, okay? Move mucho quiet, or this greaser would love to unload both these barrels into your muy poco brain."
"In about five seconds you're going to be cloud dancing, slick."
Sancho, furious, was about to grab the man when something cold and hard was gently inserted into his left ear. He stiffened, then heard a voice say, "Drop it."
Sancho carefully lowered the shotgun, then let it drop to the hillside. "You there," the voice said, addressing Brad. "Hand over that Smith and Wesson, real slow."
With exaggerated care, Brad handed his gun, butt first, to the man on the ground, who took it without even putting the binoculars down. "Look at them, Chris," he said disdainfully. "Bottlenecked both front and back. They're in a tomb, not a camp. What a bunch of yo-yo's. Jeezus." He replaced the binoculars in the case hanging around his neck, retrieved the shotgun from the grass beside him, and stood up.
He was of medium height, his features bony and undistinguished save for his eyes, which were a very light, bright blue. They were nonreflecting eyes, taking in everything and letting nothing back out. "Okay, slick. You and macho man here can take us to your leader."
Caleb and several others were waiting in the entrance for them. When they saw the gun muzzle pressed to Sancho's temple, they slowly moved out of the way, allowing the four men to enter. The gray-haired man spoke to Sancho as they stood in the hallway. "You got a war room?"
Sancho found his voice, sullenly. "I'm telling you nothing."
"Chris," said the man. The gun moved near Sancho's ear as the man cocked it.
"I'll show you where it is," Brad said hastily. "Not that it'll do you creeps any good. If you haven't noticed, you're badly outnumbered." Keeping his hands up, he started up the stairs, then down the hall. Sancho followed, feeling the gun hovering near his hairline. Behind him he could hear Caleb, Elias, and the others. Brad paused in the doorway of the main conference room. "Here."
Mike Donovan was sitting at one of the tables, writing in a notebook. He looked up as Brad spoke, then his gaze went to the gray-haired man holding the shotgun. The cameraman's eyes narrowed. "Well, well, well. I wondered when you'd crawl out from under a munitions dump."
The two intruders lowered their weapons. Sancho turned to look at his captor. Chris was young, compactly built, and had all the friendly presence of a wolverine.
"Hey, Gooder," the gray-haired man said. "Long time no see."
"Short for 'do-gooder.' That's his little nickname for me," Donovan explained to the resistance fighters who were assembled in the corridor watching uncertainly. "He blows it up, I film it, and the folks back home hate him for it. We met in Laos, El Salvador—you name it. Meet Ham Tyler, master of covert operations, communications, and bad relations. If the world weren't sick, he'd starve to death."
"If the world weren't sick, all you'd have to cover is rose festivals, Gooder," Tyler said, with what he evidently considered a smile. It lacked charm. "This is my associate, Chris Faber." He paused for a beat. "And you people are doomed."
He beckoned to the rest of the resistance fighters. "C'mon in, folks. We're gonna have a little talk."
Caleb, Elias, Robert Maxwell, and the rest came into the room, edging cautiously past Chris Faber, who still held the .357 Magnum, though it was now pointed at the floor.
Ham Tyler sat down on one of the battered old chairs and looked around the room with a contemptuous smile. He shook his head, sighed, then spoke. "Gooder here's got you believing you're gonna pull down the baddies with a little muscle and God on your side. That's gonna get you nothing but dead. It's time you left it to the professionals."
Donovan leaned back in his seat, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Now that's got a familiar ring. If the world were to have an epitaph, that should be it."
"I'm not here to fence with you, Donovan," Tyler snapped. "We don't have the time. I'm telling you that we've got a world network going, and from now on, you guys are going to do what you're told."
"Shit!" Brad exploded. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
"Shut up!" Ham glared at him, and Brad glared back, then subsided. "You people got lucky last night and pulled off a nice little stunt. But without professional leadership, you're just meat on the hoof, waitin' for the barbecue. We're organized and we've got a plan. Plus new ammo that will cut the goddamn lizards in two. It's up to you: stay independent and get wiped out, or join our network and help hammerpunch those scaly bastards right off this planet."
A babble of voices filled the room as everyone began talking at once. Tyler sat silently until Brad, with a contemptuous glance, managed the last word. "I think we ought to kick him out on his ass with a set of bruises to remind him to be more polite to the next joker he talks to. You heard Donovan—this guy's a warmonger. Getting people killed turns him on. How do we know he's not working for Diana?"
With the motion of a striking leopard, Tyler was out of his seat and had Brad by the throat. Faber cocked his gun, still leaning negligently against the doorframe. "You bastard!" Tyler said, his face nearly touching Brad's. "Don't you ever say that again!"
"Stop that, Ham!" Donovan said, then, as the other returned to his seat, shook his head at Brad. "He's a creep, but he's a human creep. Believe me, he's too mean and perverted for Diana to convert."
Tyler nodded, his teeth showing in what passed for a smile. "He's right. Listen to me. Donovan may hate my guts, but he'll tell you. I know what I'm doing."
"What I'll tell you, Tyler, is this." Mike crossed the room and stoo
d over the other man, his expression stony. "And you'd better get it straight, or I'll explain it in terms even you can't miss." His green eyes held the pale blue ones determinedly. "Keep your damn hands off us. Don't ever touch one of us again. These people aren't trained killers like you and your apple-pie boy over there, but they . . . we . . . have done more to monkey-wrench the Visitors than any other group around. We may not be professional guerillas, but we're a unit, and we've been making a bigger noise than you have, so far."
Tyler nodded grudgingly. "Yeah. That was a decent little piece of business you folks pulled off at the hospital."
"They know we're here, man. Where's your so-called network been?" Elias challenged.
"You're damn right they know where you are. Matter of fact, they're planning a raid on this dump right now," said Ham, but he was obviously backing off slightly.
Donovan turned to face the others. "Okay. So he's a professional killer. But he's right about organizing. We've been looking for a chance to get together with the other resistance groups, join up with the network. I say if he gives us what we want, we should agree to help him out."
"What would that be, Gooder?"
Donovan turned back to him. "Juliet Parrish, our leader, was captured last night during the raid. We want her back. We need her back."
Ham nodded. "Deal. The network will do everything we can to spring her."
He offered his hand to Donovan, who hesitated. Flying footsteps sounded outside in the hall. Father Andrew slung himself through the door panting. "Ruby just called the Bernstein house from work and Stanley came to warn us! The lizards are on their way! We've got to get out of here!"
"Told you so," said Ham calmly. "We'll talk over the details of our association later. Right now you folks had better beat it. As a gesture of good faith, Chris and I will cover your retreat. I've got a couple of ideas for a little party in this dump."
"Okay! Get the stuff and load it in the trucks! Ten minutes, no more! Move it!" Donovan shouted. The room emptied.
"What've you got in the way of explosives?" Ham asked.
Donovan thought for a moment. "Not a lot. Some grenades, some dynamite. We're out of plastic explosives at the moment."
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