Conte took the books back. He scowled at them. "Yeah? What's the third one about?"
"Burning books."
Conte looked uncomfortable and opened his mouth to say something, but he was interrupted by the arrival of Jheri Moorkith and the Green Police.
"Bureaucracy," said Moorkith, shaking his head. "Would you believe it? I never received your memo announcing this raid."
Arteria shrugged. Okay, let's play head games. First you dribble crane around the floor; then I'll dribble yours. "It's probably lost somewhere in the interdepartmental mail. The courier will find it stuck in the bottom of his pouch tomorrow."
"Well, no matter." Moorkith dismissed the breach of protocol with a wave of the hand. "I'm here now. What's going down?"
Arteria hated civilians who tried to talk like cops. They always got it wrong anyway. Conte flashed a sympathetic smirk. I'm glad he's your problem.
"We're checking on a possible lead. The details were in the memo--"
Arteria was interrupted by the return of the state trooper with the photograph. "Good news, Captain," he said, reporting to Conte. "We've got a definite make on Hartley. Neighbor lady on the west says the fellow in the picture with her is an ex-boyfriend named Robert Needle--or something like that. A university prof. Get this: he's a materialist scientist. He used to hang out with her a lot. We're running a make on him now. But, get this, the neighbor says he drives a maroon van. And he showed up here about two in the morning the night the air thieves went down."
Moorkith sucked in his breath and traded triumphant looks with Conte and Arteria. "I think we're onto something here." He took the photograph from the trooper and studied it.
We? "How can the witness be sure about that early morning business?" Arteria asked.
"She says she sleeps light and the noise of the van woke her up. Me, I think she's a nosy old biddy who likes to spy on her neighbors. But what the hell, a lead's a lead, night?"
Right. And the University said Hartley called in later that morning and took an unscheduled week's vacation. She's supposed to be back tomorrow. When she does, we'll be waiting for her. And then what do I do?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"The Sister of Misfortune…"
"We'll get him," Harry said. "It may take a while. Ron gets spooked easy."
Oliver Brown nodded. "Well he might. I'm not overly anxious to have him seen here, for that matter."
"We'll be careful." Harry and Jenny left, and Oliver barred the door.
"Do authorities watch this house?" Gordon asked.
"We don't think so," Oliver said. "Helga and I are better known for fantasy. And the SCA."
Alex shook his head. "SCA?"
"Sorry. Society for Creative Anachronism. The Current Middle Ages. I was king, once."
"I think I will let Alex explain later," Gordon said. "May I read now?"
"Certainly," Oliver said. "What would you like?"
Gordon grinned and swept his hand to indicate the disorderly piles of books everywhere. "I think I will find something--I will remember where, and put back there."
"Thank you. Use my big chair if you like, the light's good there; very good, it's a comfortable place. Alex, you look tired."
"Heh. Considering that I weigh almost a hundred kilos--"
Oliver patted his ample bunk. "Alas, so do I. So do I, but I am more accustomed to it. Perhaps you would like to rest in the spare room?"
"Yes, please."
Oliver led the way. "I'm afraid it will be a bit cold," he said. "We don't heat this room. Hydrogen is scarce." He ushered Alex through the door.
"Hydrogen?"
"Yes, the Greens like to use hydrogen. They pipe it through the old natural gas lines. Alas, much leaks, and is wasted, and since they shut down most of the power plants there is little electricity to make hydrogen."
"But they do make it?"
"Oh, yes. Here we are. As I said, the room is cold. I'll get you a blanket."
The room was cluttered as well as cold. In the habitats, a space this cluttered would be a death trap: masses could crush a man from any direction. Here, gravity… then again, gravity was part of the problem. Loose objects had to rest all against the same surface.
There were the inevitable book cases, but here odd tapestries hung on one wall. They showed scenes of dogs chasing deer. Two large steel swords hung in the corner, and below them were two almost identical swords made of wood. A day couch near the window was piled high with--"Costumes?" Alex asked. "Armor?"
"Yes. I mentioned the SCA? We still meet, we still hold tournaments. It is an allowable activity. Indeed, many of the Greens come."
"But what do they--you--do?"
Oliver Brown grinned. "Why, we dress up in medieval costumes and pretend we live in the Middle Ages," he said. "What else? It used to be fun to learn medieval skills, how to live on common, cheap food, fight with swords and spears, and run a civilization with low technology. Now--"
"Yeah. I see."
Oliver piled the stuff from the couch onto a chair. "We don't go often now," he said. "I am afraid someone will get drunk and forget that the Greens are listening." He handed Alex a heavy wool cloak. "Use this as a blanket. I'll call you for dinner."
The window looked out onto gray, mean streets. Other apartment buildings, identical save for their graffiti, lined both sides of the block. The cars were old and in disrepair. One was up on blocks; another, stripped. Street lights flickered uncertainly, then brightened in the growing dusk. Alex looked to the sky, but found it overcast with low-hung, gray clouds. A solitary figure, heavily bundled, walked quickly down the street on the opposite side. He--or she--clutched a cane not needed for walking, and glanced warily left, right, behind.
Get used to it, Alex, my boy. From now on this is home.
Maybe not. Phoenix! He remembered the program. A low-cost system, not merely reusable but savable. It could get to orbit even with one engine out. Ran on liquid hydrogen and liquid oxygen.
They make hydrogen. If they make hydrogen, they must have oxygen as well. But-
There was a tap at the door. "Come in."
Gordon came in, frowned at the costumes, swords, and tapestries. "I thought perhaps you might want company."
Gordon found a pair of cushions and lowered himself to the floor, slowly, carefully. "It is tiring, standing upright so long. But, every day grows easier. Perhaps I will like it here. The people are… interesting."
Alex smiled and sat on the bed beside Gordon. "Remember what they do to interesting people."
"Is criminal. Alex, is no objective evidence for the effectiveness of psychoanalysis. Just replaces conscience, original sin and confessor with superego, id and analyst. In Stalinist times, was used in same way to deal with dissidents. Our way is so obviously right and good that if you disagree you must be crazy."
"I never heard you talk this way before, Gordo."
"I sound angry? I am angry. I like these people, Alex. I am half-Russian. Mental health clinics… I know what they are risking to help us. You saw Cole. I don't wish that to happen to Sherrine, or any of our friends."
"Neither do I. It's simple enough. We let them go home, and we keep moving. No more dreams."
"You must always have dreams." Gordon craned his neck and looked at him. "You do not wish to remain down here, do you?"