The fat man tried a probe again. Apparently he thought she was a Stage One, who could be broken down. It reduced her respect for him, but that respect returned immediately as she realized he had used it as a feint, that he was busy on an illusion. A very respectable illusion. A uniformed policeman angrily waving the bus into a side street. It was almost real enough to deceive her. She thought quickly. Block the side street with something.
A blow crashed against the back of her head. As she fell forward off the seat, she cursed her own stupidity in not thinking of a definite physical attack, the most elementary move, and therefore one of the cleverest. Though consciousness slipped a bit, she held the screens tight, recovered. Lorin was helping her up.
“That fat guy hit me in the back of the head, mister!”
Lorin turned. “What’s the idea, friend?”
This time Karen Voss was ready with the illusion. The fat fist struck Dake Lorin in the face so quickly that Karen guessed Dake had no chance to notice that the fat man’s arms had stayed at his sides. She was pleased to note that Lorin had beautiful reflexes. The fat man’s head snapped back and he crumpled in the seat. She probed deeply and viciously, realizing with satisfaction that Shard would be minus one Stage Two agent until probe wounds healed, in six months. She had broken through the first two screens.
She saw a chance to simplify things. Illusion made the fat man’s head flop over at a crazy angle. This could be done with artistry. She gave the passengers a loud male voice. “Hey, you killed him!”
She took the stunned Lorin by the arm. “Come on, let’s get off this thing. There’s going to be trouble.”
She yanked the cord and pushed at Lorin, followed him to the front of the bus. He got off blindly. She took his wrist. “Come on.” People yelled at them. No one pursued. They would quiet down when they saw the fat man was all right.
Karen hurried down the block with him and around a corner. She stopped and leaned against the side of a scabrous building, dipped again into her blouse pocket to bring out a cigarette and hang it on her lower lip. Lorin lit the cigarette for her with a hand that trembled. She could sense his emotions. Distaste for her, annoyance with the situation, a vague shame that he had run. She knew that he was a troubled man, as who wouldn’t be with the illusions Shard’s agent had provided for him to block the newspaper article. Yet she was slightly uneasy. She had studied Branson and Lorin. She knew them well And now Lorin seemed a bit too upset. She wished she dared take him under full control. He might be hard to handle.
“I cert’ny want to thank you, mister.”
“That’s all right. I hope I didn’t get us in trouble, miss.”
“Karen. Karen Voss. I bet I know you. I bet you’re Dake Lorin. I used to see your picture next to your column all the time.”
He looked mildly pleased. “Don’t tell me you used to read it.”
“Sure. Maybe you wouldn’t think so. I go for that stuff. Politics, economics, international relations. I got a friend. He’s got money. Lots of money. He was saying just the other day he’d like to see you back in business. He says you used to make a lot of sense. Maybe he’d back you — buy space in a paper or something.”
“The Public Disservice Act keeps anyone from saying anything very critical, Miss Voss. I don’t think your friend would want to join me on a shale pile.”
She snorted. “Nobody touches him. Not twice anyway. I guess you heard of him. Miguel Larner.”
“The racketeer? Certainly I’ve heard of him. He’s got his hands in every filthy...”
“Don’t go Christer, Mr. Lorin. Mig has got... well, two sides to his nature. He might be a lot of help to you.” She was secretly amused at her words. “He’s a good friend of mine. Want to see him?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Maybe you’re in some kind of trouble. He likes helping people. You wouldn’t think so, would you? But he does.”
“I don’t think there’s anything he can do for me.”
“You in a rush? You got an appointment or something? It isn’t far.”
She could sense his indecision. She urged him gently. At last he agreed reluctantly. She broke the connection by sliding the stud on the catch of her bag. Miguel would have heard Lorin agree. He’d be ready. She walked beside the tall man, alert for any form of interception. She hailed a cab, settled back in the seat beside Lorin, giving him a mechanical sultry smile, crossing her round brown legs.
By the time they reached 215th Street he said, accusingly, “Not far?”
“Just a couple more blocks, honey.”
The cab let them out. Lorin paid the fare. She saw his quick curious glance at the sleek above-ground lobby. As they passed through the doorway Karen felt the barrier break, fold shut again behind them. She gave the traditional sigh of relief that came up from the stubbed toes of her shabby pumps. Nothing could touch her in here. Nothing could reach into the warm security of the egg-shaped barrier. The pointed end of the egg was above-ground, making a small dome over the entrance. The rest of the egg encircled all of the levels below-ground. Here Miguel Larner, Stage Three, presided over the agent teams, routed the field operations, maintained the communications network. Usually, the moment she was inside, she could erase the Karen Voss hypno-fix temporarily and revert to her own identity. But with Lorin in tow she had to keep her makeup on.
The Stage One at the desk had been alerted.
“We want to go down and see Mr. Larner, Johnny.” How did I do?
“I guess you can go right on down, Miss Voss.” Nice going, lady.
“Thanks, Johnny.” And scratch one Stage Two.
“You’re welcome, Miss Voss.” Don’t get too many credits. We’ll miss having you around.
She led the way back to the elevator. As it slid silently down the shaft she gratefully let the rest of the screens slip. She had released the first one to permit communication with the Stage One at the desk. She felt warmly proud of herself, knowing that she had come out of this with a credit. One step closer to the heart worlds, my girl. One step closer to Training T to become a Stage Three, and then one more tour and you’re out of it, and you can go to work. Next time, by God, they’ll have to do better than this chippy cover. The fix went a little too deep. You had to watch your reflexes.
“Have you known Larner long?”
“A pretty long time. Here we are.” The door slid back and they walked directly from the elevator into the main room of Lanier’s suite. It was a garish room, furnished with the best that Bombay supply houses could offer. One whole wall was a vast and intricate diorama, portraying a walled garden with a pool. Miguel spent a lot of his time by the pool, and the perspective was so cleverly done that it gave the impression of being a vast open space, rather than a twenty by twenty cube cut into bedrock. Miguel kept the controls set in such a way that the diorama changed through each hour of the twenty-four, from cloudless days to full-moon nights.
Miguel was sitting out by the pool in the four o’clock sunlight, a chunky sun-browned man with very little forehead and eyes like oiled anthracite. He wore lemon-yellow bathing trunks, and had a glass in his hand.
He waved casually. “How’s it going, Karen? Come on out. Who’s your friend?”
They went out by the pool. “Don’t you recognize him, Mig? It’s Dake Lorin.” Is this going to be one or two credits? I broke down a Stage Two.
Miguel reached up with a languid hand. “Nice to know you, Mr. Lorin.” I suppose you were too busy congratulating yourself to scan properly. Take another look and see why it’s only one credit for not seeing the obvious.