Aw, hell. It warn't no schoolmarm, it was—
Lieutenant Joanna Bimbo Winthrop.
Damn!
She pulled the buggy to a stop ten feet short of Jay and smiled. "Well, well. Jay Gridley. Fancy meeting you here." She climbed down from the buggy and stood facing him from a few feet away. Her face went blank for a second.
Jay knew what she was doing. She was in her own net program and she was re-phasing to allow his to set the joint scenario.
Her face came back to life and she looked around, seeing now what Jay was seeing.
"Well, yee-haw, little doggies," she said. She smiled.
"What are you doing here, Winthrop?"
"Perhaps this silver bullet will tell you." She held out her hand, and upon it was a shiny handgun cartridge. "Go ahead, bullet, tell him."
The cartridge was silent.
"Very funny." Jay wasn't in any mood to be insulted by the likes of Bimbo Winthrop. "And what freeware are you running?"
"Not freeware, horsie-boy. Something with a little subtlety." She waved at the high desert around them. "And a little complexity."
Oh, really?
In the Real World, Jay was sitting in his office chair at HQ, wearing full VR gear, connected to his workstation and the net. In RW, he finger-jived out of his Old West program to let Winthrop's vehicle become the default. In half a second, the VR blinked and reformed into Winthrop's—
He found himself on the boarding platform at a train station. Winthrop stood across from him, and a passenger train was stopped behind her. Her hair was in a bun, tucked under a wide-brimmed hat, and she wore a long, dark cloth coat over an ankle-length gray wool dress. From her clothes and the style of the train, he guessed it was late nineteenth or maybe early twentieth century. A sign on the station to his left said "Klamath Falls." It was winter, the air crisp and cold, and fresh snow was six inches deep on the ground, with higher drifts piled up outside the roofed platform. Passengers boarded the train, the women in long dresses and coats and hats, the men mostly in suits, hats, and overcoats. There were a few working-class souls mixed in among the more affluent passengers, wearing caps and jackets and workboots. A big pale guy who looked like a bodybuilder in a tan duster stopped to help an old lady lift her bag onto the train. A little girl ran by, trailed by a dog. It looked like a setter or a retriever of some kind. The smell of coal smoke hung heavy in the air, mixed with the dregs of cooling steam… and just a hint of unwashed body odor.
People hadn't bathed every day back when. That was a nice touch.
And looking around, he saw she had done a pretty clean job on the scenario. No gray areas, no sketchy backgrounds, plenty of detail, even to the wood grain in the fir posts supporting the platform roof.
He looked at himself and saw he wore a three-piece gray wool suit and black-leather dress shoes. A gold pocket-watch chain draped across the vest. He saw a slip of colored paper in one of the vest's pockets and removed it. A train ticket. He could read every word on it, down to the fine print. A very nice touch, that.
Well, okay, he had to admit it, this was a first-class piece of work.
He didn't have to admit that to her, however.
"All abooard!" the conductor yelled.
"Well?" she said.
"It's a little busy," he said. "I prefer mine." He overrode her program, and half a second later was back standing in the desert next to Buck, looking at her and the buggy.
"What do you want?" he asked her.
"I was looking for you. We're going to be working together, whether either one of us wants to or not. I know you don't like me, and you're not on my top-one-hundred list either. But I'm a professional, I can get around that."
"Meaning I can't?"
"No, Gridley, meaning exactly what I said. This isn't about who is the better programmer, it is about getting the assignment done. Commander Michaels wants me on the project, I'm on it. We don't have to hold hands and walk through the spring meadows, but we also don't have to get in each other's way, can we agree to that?"
Jay looked at his horse. He could see why cowboys spent so much time on the trail. Women, especially pretty women, tended to complicate things. He knew he was a better programmer. He hadn't gotten any doors opened because of his looks, and he was damned sure Winthrop had. But he sighed and nodded. "All right. We can stay out of each other's way."
"If I come up with something before you do, I'll pass it along."
"Fat chance of that," Jay said. It was under his breath, however.
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing. I'll do the same for you."
She said something he didn't catch.
"Pardon?"
"Nothing," she said. "I'll leave you to your scenario."
She climbed back into her buggy and snapped the reins over the big mare's back. "Giddyap," she said. She waved as she drove away from town.
Jay watched her go. The horse whinnied.
"Yeah, pal, my sentiments exactly," Jay said. "Come on, we got bidness in town, Buck old boy."
Jay put his left foot into the stirrup and mounted up.
They moseyed toward town.
Hughes had his virgil — his Virtual Global Interface Link — in the limo, but he didn't want to use it to call Plait. Supposedly, the telephone signal was binary-encoded and nobody could understand him if he used the phone in the virgil, but he didn't trust it. It was a great toy, about the size of an electric shaver, and in addition to the phone it had in it a GPS, clock, radio, TV, modem, credit chip, camera, scanner, and even a fax. Of course, if he hadn't been White's chief of staff, he wouldn't have access to such a device. He couldn't have afforded it, and likely couldn't have gotten on the list to get one even if he had saved up the money.
There was a pay phone just ahead, a landline, and as random as any. He directed his driver to pull over.
It was cold out, a damp wind blowing, and the sky had that dark, heavy, nacreous gleam of snow clouds about to let go. Hughes stepped into the graffiti-covered clear-plastic paneled booth and pulled the door shut. He set the phone for vox-only, no vid, slipped the one-time throwaway scrambler over the mouthpiece, tapped in the number, let it ring once, then hung up. Platt had the gear to trace the number on his end, and also a matching scrambler. Nobody was going to decode their conversation.
Thirty seconds later, the phone rang. Unless it was a very large coincidence, that would be Platt.
"Yes," Hughes said.
"Hey," Platt said. He managed to shoehorn a whole lot of southern Georgia into that one drawn-out word.
"Okay, what's the situation?"
"Well, we got us a little problem there. Seems the Lord High Ooga-Booga wants to see you face-to-face ‘fore he seals the deal."
"Not possible. I sent you to be my representative."
"What I told El Presidente Sambo, but he ain't listenin', it's some kind of native thing. You know how these darkies are, it's always somethin'."
Hughes ground his teeth together. Platt was a cracker, a racist, and probably a member in good standing of the Georgia Ku Klux Klan and the Sons of the Confederate Veterans. Sending him to Guinea-Bissau, a little dirt-poor tropical country on the North Atlantic coast of west Africa shoehorned in between Guinea and Senegal, was an invitation to disaster. Platt was so white he gleamed, and ninety-nine percent of the population in Guinea-Bissau was black; worse, they spoke Portuguese or Criola, or French, plus a slew of African languages with names like Pajadinka, Gola, Bigola, and the like. As far as he knew, Platt didn't have any foreign languages. He had trouble enough making himself clear in English past that Georgia cane syrup of his, but somehow he always managed. Being six and a half feet tall with a build like Hercules probably helped — people tended to be polite to Platt even if they didn't like him. And while he was crude, he wasn't stupid. He liked to play the good old boy and let people think that was all there was to him, but he knew his way around computers, from laptops to extended mainframes, he could shoot any weapon capable of firing, and fix a computer or a gun if either of them broke.