"What's your meeting about?" I asked Ted.
He opened his mouth to answer-and Dinnie said, "It's the Spiralist Free World Association."
"Spiralism? You're going in for Spiralism now? I-" Stopped myself. "Never mind-" I held up both my hands. "-It's not my business. Everybody gets to go to hell in their own handbasket."
"It's only a breakfast, Jim-" he started to say.
Dinnie plowed right over him. "They're really charming people. And it's at Ragamuffin's, which is one of the few places that knows how to serve a decent continental breakfast-although I have to say, I don't think their wine list is very good, so I wouldn't recommend them for anything past brunch. Did I tell you how I once sent back the sommelier?"
Suddenly, I was no longer angry at Ted. He'd found a far more appropriate fate than anything I could plan for him. "Well, it certainly sounds ... uh, interesting. Um-will they be drinking the blood of any gentile babies this morning?"
I saw Ted's quick glance to the rearview mirror-he caught the expression on my face, how far my tongue was in my cheek. At least it was in my own cheek.
"Listen, Jim," he said, seriously. "I'm going to leave you off outside the hotel. But it's not really a hotel anymore. Uncle Sam's taken it over, using it as a temporary conference center. For the duration. So that makes it permanent. Anyway, I've gotten us both C-clearances-don't ask-so you'll have access to just about every formal session and most of the informal ones. I don't know if that includes the red-lined ones. You'll have to scout that out yourself-but carefully. Listen, you don't want your credentials examined too closely; you're valid, but just barely, so try to be inconspicuous, okay?"
"Sure-sounds good to me. But how did you do it?"
"I come from a long line of dog-robbers. Now, listen-you'll have to check in, first thing. Dial CORDCOM-REG; any of the terminals can rewrite your card. Oh, and by the way, your clearance also entitles you to use the vehicle pool. Unlimited access. It's very convenient. You don't have to bother with Rec-Rec's paperwork. You can have almost anything except the President's limousine or a Patton charger."
"Now, why would I want a laser-equipped tank?"
Ted shrugged. "For the fun of it?" The car bumped as it hit the road, bounced once and settled heavily. Ted touched the brakes lightly to bring the cruising speed down.
"You could get it, you know, if you really wanted it. Because you're-um, military. Special, you know? That's where the clearances came from too. All you have to do is take a couple hours training. And prove you have a real need for it."
"I'll pass, thanks."
"Well, keep it in mind. Could you imagine the look on Duke's face-or Obie's-if you drove up in one of those?"
I thought about it. No, I couldn't imagine it.
Ted turned onto a ramp and pulled up at a convenient side entrance. "I'll see you later, okay?"
"Sure. Uh, nice meeting you, Dinnie." I stepped back as they rolled away. Spiralism?
I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets and headed into the hotel-huh? What was this? Oh, Dr. Obama's lockbox. I'd almost forgotten I was carrying it.
I found a row of terminals and slid into a booth. It took only a moment to register with CORDCOM. My card disappeared into the slot, then rolled out again, overprinted with a yellow stripe. A large C in a red box had also been printed in the upper right corner. Was that it?
I cleared and punched for Directory, Lieutenant Colonel Ira Wallachstein.
The screen flashed: SORRY, NOT FOUND. Huh?
Maybe I had miskeyed. I typed it again.
SORRY, NOT FOUND.
Well, that was ... weird. I called up PROJECT JEFFERSON next, tried to list its personnel.
SORRY, NOT AVAILABLE.
Tried the Denver Area Military Directory. He wasn't listed there either.
I sat puzzled for a moment, wondering what to do next. I scratched my head. Why would Dr. Obama give me a package for somebody who wasn't here? Or maybe this Colonel Wallachstein had moved on and hadn't let Obama know? Maybe I should call Dr. Obama and ask. No, something told me not to.
I took the box out of my pocket and looked at it. There was nothing extraordinary about it, just a one-piece lightweight unit. Rounded corners. No markings, other than the printed keyboard and the lock. Not much rattle to it either. I had to think about this. I didn't want to destroy it. Not yet. That would feel like failure.
I slid it back into my pocket. Maybe tonight, back at the barracks. Maybe I'd missed something obvious.
I cleared the board and called up the day's conference schedule. The general session on Chtorran biology and behavior began at ten o'clock. Apparently it was a weekly session. I scanned the rest of the calendar, hard-copied it, logged off and went in search of breakfast.
I had bagels and lox and strawberries and cream. I ate alone, and I was still in better company than Ted.
TWENTY
THE MAN at the podium looked unhappy.
There were too many empty seats. The auditorium was only a third full.
I hesitated at the back of the room. The audience had already begun to segregate themselves into sections.
The military attendees were seated up close, but on the sides. I hadn't realized it was possible to sit at attention. The funnylooking types were all in the first five rows. Of course, I'd never been to a convention where it hadn't been so. The serious types scattered themselves in the center of the room. The turbans and the burnooses-and there were an awful lot of them-were milling in the aisles, chattering away at each other as fast as they could, ignoring the frowning man on the dais.
The room roared with the noise of a thousand separate conversations-a babbling torrent of words. Didn't they realize how loud they all were? Each one was shouting to be heard above all the rest, and as each one raised his or her voice, all the rest became correspondingly louder too. It wasn't hard to see why the man at the podium was so unhappy.
I found an empty row halfway to the front and took a seat near the center. I put a fresh clip into my recorder and slipped it back into my pocket.
The unhappy man stepped to the edge of the stage and whispered something to an aide, the aide shrugged, the man looked unhappier. He checked his watch, I checked mine-the session was already fifteen minutes late. He stepped back to the podium and tapped the microphone. "Gentlemen? Ladies?" He cleared his throat. "If you would please find seats, we can begin-?"
It didn't work. The noise of the conversations only increased as each speaker shouted to make himself heard over the public address system. I could see that this was going to take a while.
"Delegates? If you please-?" He tried again. "I'd like to call this session to order."
No one paid attention. Each and every one of them had something so important to say that it superseded every other event in the auditorium.
The unhappy man tried one more time, then picked up a tiny mallet and started striking an old-style ship's bell that was perched on top of the podium. He hit it four quick times, then four times more, then again and again. He kept on striking it, over and over, a steady rhythmic dinging that could not be ignored. I saw him looking at his watch while he did it. Apparently he'd been through this before.
The groups began to break up. The various conversations splintered and broke off-they couldn't compete any longer-and the participants began drifting into their separate seats. The only conversation still going full bore was one between three deaf women--or maybe they were interpreters-in Ameslan.
"Thank you!" the unhappy man said at last. He touched some buttons on the podium in front of him and the screen behind him lit up with an official-looking announcement. It repeated itself every fifteen seconds, each time shifting to a different language: French, Russian, Italian, Chinese, Japanese, Swahili, Arabic-I couldn't identify the rest. The English version said: "English interpretations of foreign language speakers may be heard on channel fifteen. Thank you."