"So how do you contact this RMS?" Bruce asked.
Sherrine shrugged. "A million ways. It's just a question of getting the word out on the net. The Legion of Doom will see it and--"
"I used to think I understood you people," Alex said. "Legion of Doom--"
"Super hackers. They--well, they're pretty good, and not always responsible. Some are fans, some aren't. But they listen to RMS, and he's a fan--they'll let him know we want him. The question is, will he believe us? Everyone's after RMS. Pick his brains, jail him, reeducate him, study him in psych labs, he's an odd fish and--"
"Easy," Bob said.
She tried to smile. "Yes, we could get him to do it. I don't know why I didn't think of it before. RMS and Marshall, they can do it if anyone can." It doesn't have to be me. I don't have to sticky myneck out. I can crawl back under my covers.
"So what do we do now?" Bruce said.
"Don't know about you," Harry said. "I've got a message for the merry soul."
"Then what?" Alex demanded. "Why should we care what that crazy man says?"
"He was one hell of a man, once," Thor said.
"A hell of a man who got his brains burned out," Alex said. Strain in his muscles was making him irritable. "So what happens? He tells us another story, and we end up in another stupid chase across the country, more crazy aldermen, cheese trucks, people with guns--"
"Alex, it was not so bad," Gordon said.
"What?"
Gordon shook his head. "Was not fun, then; but think of the stories we tell now. Bed races. Dancing on ice."
Oliver Brown chuckled. "Sure you're not a writer?"
"I wish to be. I have written… minor things. But it was not survival-oriented task, so…"
Harry shrugged. "I don't know what will happen. Not my job to know what will happen. I know what I was told to do."
"Resent what Wade said, don't you?" Jenny said.
Harry glared at her.
"True, though," she said. "Everybody knows it. Deep down, you do."
Harry tried to grin. "You didn't have to say it."
"Sure we did. I'm still with you, eh? You must do something right--" She caught herself. "Anyway, we got our job straight. Go tell Cole it's time to see what free men can do--oops."
"Yes?" Bruce prompted.
"Without the Angels, why is it time?"
Bruce nodded to himself. "All right, we should all go see Cole."
"Not me," Thor said. "You guys carry them. I'm not going back there."
"That does present a problem," Mike said.
"Maybe not," Bruce said. "Harry--Harry, go find Cole, and bring him here. Make sure you re not followed."
"Maybe he won't come," Harry said.
"He'll come," Oliver Brown said. "He knows the way."
"Oh. Yeah, of course he would," Mike said.
And that would be that, Sherrine thought. They'd take the Angels to California, either to hide them or to try again with Phoenix. But that wouldn't matter to her. By tomorrow she would be back home in Minneapolis, safe and snug and not quite warm.
The wind blew cold sleet into Captain Lee Arteria's face, stinging her exposed skin with a thousand tiny needles. The Minnesota troopers and the Minneapolis police formed a cordon around the small, one-bedroom house. Neighboring houses winked in the dusk as their inhabitants pulled window shades aside for a glimpse of the goings on. One or two neighbors had bundled up and come out onto their porches. They stood there with their arms thrust under their armpits, bouncing up and down in nervous anticipation.
Lee Arteria had never liked spectators.
A glance into the pulpy sky showed that the storm had hours yet to run. Arteria called to the squad on the Hartley porch. "No answer?"
A pantomime shake of the head.
"Then break the door in, Sergeant Pyle." The policeman hesitated, and Arteria shouted, "Its fucking cold out here."
Pyle nodded and raised a boot. Two well-aimed kicks broke the latch and the door swung in and banged against the back wall. Arteria crowded into the hallway with the others.
"Shit," said one of the state troopers. "It ain't that much warmer in here."
Conte stood by Arteria's elbow. "Are you criticizing the thermostat law, Trooper?"
"Uh, no, Captain."
"All right. Spread out and search the place."
"What are we looking for?"
Arteria threw back the military parka's enormous, furlined cowl and gave the trooper a grim smile. "You'll know when you find it."
A search did not turn up much. One of the city police located a photograph of Hartley and handed it to Pyle, who showed it to Conte and Arteria. "Horsey looking, ain't she? You'd want to brown bag a date like that."
"That will be all, Sergeant," Arteria said in severe tones. "Homeliness isn't a crime." Besides, it isn't true. She's attractive enough.
"Good thing, or she'd be doing hard time." Pyle barked at his own joke and resumed supervision of the search.
Conte studied the picture over Arteria's shoulder. "What do you think, Captain? Is it her?"
Arteria passed the photograph to him. "Probably. Show it to some of those nosy neighbors hanging around out there. Verify her identity. Find out if they know the name of the man in the picture, too."
Conte called to a trooper and gave him the instructions.
"Wait," said Arteria as the man turned to go. "If it is Hartley, have him get copies of the photograph made for distribution."
Lee went from room to room looking for inspiration. Nothing was conspicuously missing from the closet. The toothbrush still hung in its rack above the sink. One toothbrush only. An ice-coated pool of water stood in the sink. A housecoat thrown across the bed. Wherever Sherrine Hartley had gone, she had left in a hurry and had expected to return soon.
That fits. Angels down. Fans to the rescue. She picked up the housecoat. It was quilted; down-filled. Whatever happened to flimsy negligees? Arteria had always liked those. Now you couldn't find them anywhere. Victims of the new, chillier age. Besides, judging from her picture, Hartley had never been the type to wear risque nighties.
Or was she? Aah, who ever knew? Lee dropped the housecoat onto the unmade bed. What are we doing here, pawing through some poor woman's personal things and laughing? The people at the University had described her as a loner, a misfit. A talented programmer, they granted, but, really, a nerdette, lacking in the social graces.
And didn't I know a lot of those, boys and girls both, once upon a time? This could be my room, if I'd stayed where-Bit late for that, now. Or is it? How long before one of the searchers found-
The thought was hardly born when a city policewoman, her hands trust deep underneath the mattress, shouted in triumph. She pulled out three tattered, dog-eared paperback books, looked at the covers, and handed them over to Pyle with a smirk. "She's one of them, all right."
The books were The Sixth Winter, The Man Who Awoke, and Fahrenheit 451.
"Look at this crap, would you," Conte said in disgust. "With all the problems here on Earth, why would anybody waste their time with this escapist stuff? We oughta take these and throw them right into the trash can."
"What're the stories about, anyway?" Arteria took the dry, brittle volumes from Conte and read the back covers. Won't do to let them know I know already… "Get this. It says here that The Sixth Winter is about the sudden onset of an ice age; and The Man Who Awoke is about a scientist in 1933 who goes to sleep and wakes up in a future of depleted resources and ruined environments."