“You should take better care of yourself. Of course, I dimly remember what it’s like to be young. I used to be that way myself.” Bates leaned back in his leather chair, idly twisting the paper clip in his fingers. “So what do you think of this ‘little water purification project’?”
“I don’t like it—the sound of it, I mean,” Julie said. “Do you think they may be onto us? Onto the fact that Science Frontiers is behind the ocean-based red dust experiments?” “They’re onto something.” Bates pressed a button on his console. “Mr. Chiang, have some of your men down by the beaches tonight. Check any unusual Visitor activities and report back to me.”
Julie bit her lip and pushed her glasses back onto her nose. Once in a very great while, she wished that the resistance and Science Frontiers could work together. Having the resources of Nathan Bates’s vast conglomerate at their disposal would have been extremely helpful on several occasions—and this might well be one of them. She couldn’t tell Bates what she knew without risking his discovery of her own connection to the hated resistance, however, and her position of trust was too valuable to risk.
Meantime, she had to get to a phone as fast as possible. . . .
5|< 5|C
“The warehouse operation is proceeding, uh, smoothly and on schedule, Diana.” In her laboratory complex aboard the Mother Ship that morning, Bernard fidgeted with the hem of his uniform sleeve. “We, uh, will have sufficient quantities of our red dust by ten o’clock this evening. The distribution in coastal waters can occur anytime after that.”
“Excellent, Bernard! I am most appreciative of the efforts you have made on our behalf. I know our Great Leader will also be very pleased.”
“Thank you, Diana.” He pulled himself up a little straighter, a smile lifting the tumed-down comers of his mouth for an instant.
Diana smiled at the botanist and thought he looked tired and in need of some diversion. Perhaps, when this was over, she could express her gratitude in a more personal way.
He was shy and rather thin, but she had certainly had worse. And for him, it would no doubt be the most thrilling— Barely pausing to knock, Lydia strode into the lab, a folder under one arm. “Security division reports that they have troops standing by to assist with Operation Red Dust this evening, Diana,” she said.
“Thank you, Lydia.”
“Should we anticipate any trouble from the humans?” “None. Nathan Bates is a fool, and far more concerned about his profits and losses than anything we might be doing. He doesn’t suspect a thing.”
Lydia’s blue eyes narrowed. “What about the resistance?” “Dear Lydia, have you forgotten about the little bird I let out of our cage to fly and find their nest and then come chirping back to me? I expect to hear from Maijorie Donovan sometime today. In the meantime, no doubt Mike Donovan and his playmates are so busy plotting uses for the other presents that I sent them, that they will never realize what has happened— until they open the door to their secret hiding place and we are there.”
“I must admit, Diana, these little operations of yours have gone much more smoothly than I would have anticipated.” Lydia’s smile looked plastered to her face.
“Yes, there is a certain elegance about them, isn’t there?” “Certainly more than some of your recent endeavors.” Diana’s smile faded, and she felt her crest prickle as venom rose in her mouth. “And certainly better than some of your
schemes, darling, which proved very costly.” She glanced at Bernard, who was tugging furiously at his sleeve, obviously wishing he were somewhere else.
It really was poor form for senior officers to air their personal grievances in front of junior personnel, and she would not lower herself to respond in kind to Lydia’s unprofessional remarks.
“Let us return to tonight’s operation.” Swallowing her venom, Diana smoothed her features into a smile again and moved over to a nearby worktable. A map of Los Angeles and the coastline was spread out on its surface. Various red-marked lines curved through the blue of the Pacific Ocean, whose coastal islands jostled against marked-in Visitorese comments.
“I have studied the local currents and have plotted, in order of preference, the most auspicious spots in which to dump our red dust so that it will diffuse quickly. You will note that the warehouse itself, where we are manufacturing it, is located on one of the possible sites. At worst, we could simply push it off the pier there, although it would spread more slowly than at these other areas.” Diana pointed to several spots highlighted in green.
“And how do you intend to transport the dust to those other places?” Lydia asked. “It is highly volatile outside of the water, Bernard said. I hope you aren’t planning to use our own vehicles—”
“Of course not, Lydia. Especially when there are always humans who are willing to do things in exchange for money. Small boats can be used to reach the desired distribution points, provided the cargo is loaded and unloaded very carefully. Of course, the risks are great. . . .” She shrugged. “That’s why I have asked Bernard to make extra quantities.”
Actually, she hadn’t, and the botanist blinked at her. “We, uh, were only planning to have a ton or so in reserve, Diana,” he said, reaching for his sleeve again.
“That may not be sufficient. Bernard, you should return to the warehouse at once to personally oversee the final operations and the manufacture of additional quantities, which we will hold as needed. We will join you later this evening.”
Bernard had to suppress a sigh. “Yes, Diana. At once.”
Moving slowly, Willie pulled the old and hated uniform out of the back comer of his closet, where he had stuffed it over a year ago. He had wanted to throw it away then, but Elias had stopped him, saying, “It might come in handy someday. You never know.”
It still fit, although it was a bit snug around the waist—that was the fault of Miranda and her cheese enchiladas, and Henri, the Club Creole’s wonderful French chef, who knew how to prepare some fine vegetable meals.
He had to sit on his narrow bed to wrestle on the stiff black boots, then he fastened the belt and placed the cap on his head. His shoulders unconsciously straightened as he faced the mirror. Gazing at his reflection, he remembered the combined excitement and dread he’d felt when he had learned he’d been chosen to be among the enlisted personnel accompanying the first ships to Earth.
Even though he’d been drafted, there had still been good moments for him while wearing this uniform—the parades, the honors, children coming up to rub his crest, then later gaze wide-eyed at his human appearance. The Great Leader himself had come to wish them well, giving a stirring, emotional speech about how they were all ambassadors for their world, going forth to meet and make new friends across the stars.
How real it had seemed then, and how false it had turned out to be, when he’d discovered the real reason behind their visit to Earth.
Willie turned away from the mirror, his expression grim as he headed for the door.
“You look real official, Willie,” Elias said, leaning back against the bar in the Club Creole. In front of him, the early afternoon lunch crowd laughed, talked, and clinked silverware against china—a smaller group than usual, since the Visitors had been banned from the club. He was wearing his “jive ’n’ slide” suit, as he called it, the one he put on to impress bankers, creditors, and an occasional young woman.
“You look . . . most elegant, Elias,” Willie said, tugging self-consciously at his belt.
“Thanks. I hope this works. Come on.” Picking up several large paper-wrapped bundles, Elias led the way to the front and his waiting car.
“What did Julie say when she called?” Willie asked, trying to see over the packages he was also balancing in his arms.
“Diana’s apparently going to move on her Operation Red
Dust sometime tonight. Which is why we’ve got to get down to the legation to see if we can find anything more specific about the when and where.”
Miranda helped them load the bundles in
to the trunk of Elias’s car. “You two be careful,” she said, giving each of them a quick kiss. “I’ll hold the fort until you return.” “There is no armed encampment here, Miranda.” Willie looked about in confusion. “And how would you pick one up?”
Elias grinned. “Come on, Willie. It’s just another one of our quaint human expressions. I’ll explain it to you in the car.” Willie could feel excitement as tiny spasms moved up and down his spine and crest. Not particularly athletic nor skilled in the use of weapons, he had seldom been included in any actual resistance operations. Here was his chance to do something more than hunt for bandages or pour coffee or cognac following a raid.
“Let me do most of the talking,” Elias advised as they swung into the wide horseshoe drive of the Visitor legation fifteen minutes later.
“Good afternoon,” said the guard in Visitor’s uniform, stepping out of the gatehouse. “May I help you?”
“I’m Elias Taylor, owner of the Club Creole, and this is . . . Benjamin. I wanted to make my personal apologies to Diana and my many fine Visitor friends from the legation who patronize my humble establishment for the unfortunate incident that occurred outside the club last night.”
“I’m afraid Diana will not be available to receive guests this afternoon. Perhaps if you come back tomorrow . . .”
“Oh, but surely I could speak to someone. I feel terrible about having to close my club to the Visitors, and I’m anxious to make some amends. You see, I have small gifts, humble tokens of my goodwill, to give all my friends here.” Slowly, Elias reached into the bundle beside him on the seat and held up a blue Club Creole shirt.
As they had hoped, the Visitor’s eyes lit up hungrily. The shirts had become real status items among humans and Visitors alike. “Why, I think this one would fit you just fine.”
“I’ll see whether someone else might be able to see you,” the guard said, reaching for the shirt with one hand and a phone with the other. “You can park your car in the lot over there.”
“‘Benjamin’?” Willie asked as they got out and retrieved the rest of the packages.
“It was my brother’s name. Don’t do anything to disgrace it.”
“May I see your passes, please?” The Visitor guard at the desk inside the entrance was the picture of politeness but hardly warmth.
“Oh, this is a very informal visit. I’m Elias Taylor. ...”
Thirty seconds later, Elias was winking and dropping a yellow shirt on the guard’s desk. Grinning, the Visitor held it up to his chest as they walked past. “Check with Malcolm at the security office for your pass,” he called after them. “Tell him George at the front desk okayed it.”
“Thanks a lot, my man.”
Outside Malcolm’s office, a near riot ensued as legation employees clustered eagerly around Elias, seeking his apologies—and his shirts.
“Yes, step right up here, folks, for your free Club Creole sport shirts.” Placing his and Willie’s packages on a nearby desk, Elias began pulling the shirts out one at a time. “Two of my best customers got shot the other night right outside the club door. So to protect all of you, my friends, I’m declaring the place off limits until Nathan Bates can clean up the area and it’ll be safe again. I sure miss my favorite customers. . . . Here you are, sir. A blue one, goes with your eyes. . . . No, I think you’re an extra-large. ...”
Amid the commotion of Visitors grabbing for and exclaiming over the shirts, Willie sidled away and slipped around a comer.
The nearest office was deserted—no doubt its occupants had run down the hallway to get their own shirts—but the computer terminal screen glowed ready.
Seating himself, Willie frowned behind his dark Visitor glasses as he tried to recall the general-entry sequence. His nervous fingers touched a couple of wrong controls, and he had to try several times before he managed to complete a successful log-in to the system.
Then the screen was flashing the symbols in Visitorese requesting his personal identification code.
Depending on the level of security for this particular terminal, a mistake here could set off alarms. Holding his breath, Willie carefully tapped in Bernard’s name, position title, and access codes—the things he’d drunkenly babbled the other night at the Club Creole.
To Willie’s vast relief, the screen flashed a series of questions about the area of inquiry and whether he wanted a new or existing file. Finally he tapped in the Visitorese translation for Operation Red Dust, and figures began scrolling before his eager eyes. The secret operation was a definite go. Two units of ground personnel and twelve armored vehicles were to be deployed at 0100 hours that night, and the location was a warehouse and dock near the—
“Hey!” A pink sport shirt in one hand, a Visitor in officer’s insignia was pushing the door open with the other and striding toward him, expression grim. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”
Chapter 13
Win Some, Lose Some
Willie sagged forward, thumping his head on the control console at the same instant as his thumb sent the information on the screen into electronic oblivion. In his year as a bartender, he had observed a number of drunken humans and Visitors. Now he hoped desperately that he could pull off a creditable imitation of a drunk himself.
“I said, who are you?” Grabbing the collar of his uniform, the officer roughly jerked him upright.
Willie belched gently, then grinned widely up at the man, making no attempt to straighten his glasses, which had been knocked askew. “Bemar’,” he said, adding the title and codes he’d entered into the computer and slurring the words. “I’ve been working on special ’signment for Diana, an’ I’ve been workin’ so hard, have t’ check our progress ev’ry minute. . . .”
“Back to your quarters and sober up, Bernard,” the officer ordered, shoving him toward the door. “Or else you’ll find yourself with a special assignment in a detention cell. Now get out.”
“Yessir.” Saluting sloppily, Willie staggered out the door and down the hallway, hearing the officer follow him.
“Oh, Benjamin, there you are.” Hastily, Elias grabbed up his few remaining shirts and took Willie’s arm. “Come on. Honestly,” he rolled his eyes at the Visitor officer, “I keep telling him to lay off the stuff. He can’t hold it worth shit.”
The Visitor officer frowned, suddenly alert. “He said his name was Bernard.”
“Even he can’t remember sometimes, once he’s been hitting the bottle. His assigned name’s the first thing to go. It’s really sad. He was a decent fellow, then he started hanging around the club all the time. Tell you what. I’ll take him back with me for the afternoon and let him sober up. Least I can do, seeing it was my place got him this way.” As he spoke, Elias herded Willie through the lobby and out into the hot afternoon sunshine. He turned at the last moment. “And thank you so much for your understanding, sir. Here’s one for you—mint green, just your size.”
“I . . . am afraid I had to unhonor your brother’s name, Elias,” Willie said, staring unhappily at the dashboard once they were in the car and pulling away from the legation. “He was most certainly not a drunk.” He sighed. His one most important assignment, and he had not been able to complete it. He deserved to die in parched solitude for his incompetence.
“Willie, my man, you were brilliant!” Elias clapped a hand on his shoulder as he eased the car onto Fourth Street, heading back toward the club. “My brother, Benjamin, would have laughed, and he would’ve been proud of you, too. After all, you did it in the name of the resistance.”
“So we know everything about this defoliation operation tonight, except exactly where it’s going to be.” From his perch on the edge of one of the desks downstairs in the Club Creole, Mike Donovan looked across the room. “Is that right, Willie?” “That is correct.” Still wearing his Visitor uniform, Willie nodded.
“And that knowledge cost plenty.” Elias made a face over his ledger and adding machine. “All out of the goodness of my heart, not t
o mention the goodness of my wallet. Let’s see . . . forty-three shirts at fifteen ninety-five each. My God, I’ve sacrificed all but the shirt off my own back to this resistance. I’ve probably depressed the market for a while, too. Maybe I can declare it as a business loss.”
“We all appreciate what you’ve done, Elias,” Julie said a little impatiently. It was almost five in the afternoon, and she had had a terrible day working on the computer shutdown procedures. She hadn’t had time for lunch—even if her stomach would have allowed her any—and even had trouble getting away from Science Frontiers and Nathan Bates long enough to make the quick phone call which had sent Elias and Willie to the legation. Finally she’d announced bluntly that she was taking sick leave and going home—only she’d come straight here, even though she felt the only proper place for her was bed.
“The thing is, now how do we find out exactly where the drop-off point is?” Donovan asked. “There are a lot of piers and warehouses out there, and—”
“No luck finding the former Mrs. Donovan,” Ham Tyler said tersely as he strode in from the back entrance. “Even my own underground contacts, which are a hell of a lot better than yours, report no sign of her. it’s like the ground swallowed her up whole.”
“Or the Visitors did,” Robin muttered from the couch, glancing quickly away from Mike’s pained look and Elizabeth’s more shadowed one.
“We should be so lucky. ” Dropping his jacket and holster over the sagging easy chair, Ham poured himself a cup of the thick sludge that passed for coffee in the resistance. “Because if she’s gotten to Madam Chief Scaly alive and with the location of this place, then we can all kiss our Mickey Mouse clubhouse here good-bye, thanks to Gooder and his misplaced loyalties.”
“You’re out of line, Tyler.” Donovan’s voice was suddenly low and dangerous.
“Not as much as you were. Because your ex can also blow Julie’s cover to hell and gone. I bet Nathan Bates’d be real interested in her moonlighting, wouldn’t he? But of course Julie was the last thing on your mind when you came charging to the rescue.”
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