'Are ye a member, sorr?'
'The name's Findhorn. I'm expected.'
'Aye, Doctor Findhorn, sorr. Your party's waiting for you.' The door was opened and warm air enveloped Findhorn.
It was a big old tenement room, plush red and gloriously warm after the nip of the Edinburgh haar. It was sprinkled with an odd collection of comfortable, Victorian-style armchairs and tables. Each table had a jug of water: at cask strength, it was advisable to dilute the whiskies on offer. An open fire burned cheerily in a corner and a pot of coffee was on the go next to it. There was an aroma of whisky and coffee, and the air was light blue with tobacco smoke.
The Society was crowded. A woman, at a table near the fire, caught Findhorn's eye. She was tall, about fifty, with trim, greying hair and pearl ear-rings, and was wearing a long red coat. Her companion was squat, bulky and had a far-Eastern appearance; probably Korean, Findhorn thought. The woman waved. As Findhorn approached, it became plain that the Korean's bulk was due to muscle rather than beer. He had a heavily lined face and was smoking a cigarette.
Findhorn suddenly felt uneasy.
'Doctor Findhorn? I'm Barbara Drindle, from the Arendal office of Norsk Advanced Technologies. And this is Mister Junzo Moon. I'm afraid he doesn't speak much English.' Her voice was husky and her accent was good, very good, but it wasn't native English.
Findhorn put backpack and briefcase on the floor and sat down at the vacant chair, next to the glorious heat. The woman smiled: 'After your adventures I should think you need something strong. The Society buys direct from distillers. Because of some strange quirk in the law it isn't allowed to use their brand names, which is why the bottles here are labelled by number. But you'll see a little catalogue on the bar which tells you all you need to know. What would you like?'
'A coffee, I think.' Findhorn helped himself and returned to the table.
'The Company have arranged a room for you at the Sheraton tonight. I expect you'll want to get back to your office as soon as possible.' She slid over an envelope. 'An airline ticket for Aberdeen.'
Findhorn slid the envelope back. 'No trouble. I haven't seen you around at Norsk. Which division is that?'
Suddenly, the Korean's expression was hostile, but the woman's smile didn't falter. 'The Secretariat. I work directly for Mister Olsen. And now, we'll be getting on.' She leaned down for the briefcase.
Findhorn seized her wrist. The woman was surprisingly strong.
'Do I really know you're Company? Some very persistent Americans have been after this.'
The Korean looked as if he wanted to break Findhorn's neck. The woman's smile acquired a chilly edge. She sighed, disengaged Findhorn's hand and produced a sheet of paper from her handbag:
TO DR F.FINDHORN.
This is to certify that Ms. Barbara Drindle is employed by the Directorate of Norsk Advanced Technologies. She is to be given the documents retrieved from the Shiva City Expedition.
The paper was letter-headed with the Norsk Advanced Technologies logo of an Earth held in the palm of a hand, it had all the right e-mail, telephone and postal addresses, and was signed with the neat, precise hand of Tor Olsen himself.
'Satisfied?'
Findhorn said, 'Forgive me, I had to be sure. So, you're with Olsen's office in Arendal?'
'Correct.'
She picked up the briefcase and tried the lock. Then she handed it over to the Korean. Findhorn tried to look calm while the Korean hauled at it like a bad-tempered gorilla. He finally snarled and shook his head like a dog getting rid of fleas.
Findhorn said, 'It's been under tons of ice.' Ms Drindle gave him a cool smile once again and gestured to the Korean, then headed for the exit with a wave of the hand. The Korean stood up. To Findhorn's amazement he turned out to be little more than five feet tall which, with his girth, made him look like an orang-utan. He shot Findhorn a look of pure hatred and followed Ms Drindle out.
Findhorn gave them thirty seconds, then went to the exit. A car was taking off smartly on the riverside street and he just failed to catch its registration number. Then he was briskly down the stairs and off in the opposite direction. He trotted smartly up Constitution Street and turned into the Spiral Galaxy. Once in the safety of the crowded, smoky bar, he sat down with a sigh of relief: he didn't want to be around the muscular Korean when they discovered the Apeiron Trader's supply of Playboys.
6
The Museum
Findhorn held onto one certainty in his uncertain world. In no circumstances was he about to take up his room at the Edinburgh Sheraton. Not with the icy Ms Drindle and her knuckle-grazing companion on the prowl.
He gave himself an hour in the Spiral Galaxy before risking the streets, feeling his lungs silhouetted by tobacco smoke. He plodded up Leith Walk, the backpack heavy on his shoulders, keeping a sharp eye out on the dark streets. Once a car stopped about twenty yards ahead of him, began to reverse. It was probably someone looking for directions. Findhorn ran off up a side road and then into the mouth of a close and stood, heart beating, for about ten minutes, before risking the streets again.
At the top of the Walk, near Calton Hill, he waved down a taxi. He took it to Newington, and trawled half a dozen anonymous B & Bs before he found one with a room and a welcome. The doorbell was answered by the lady of the house, whose long, green Campbell tartan skirt matched the hall carpet. His room was small, clean and had a deep-piled, green Campbell tartan carpet. He dropped his luggage and flopped onto the soft bed, exhausted; the encounter with Norsk's unnerving representatives had left him drained.
He looked at his watch. It was 11 p.m. There was a payphone in the hallway, and a directory. A television was flickering in the lounge as he passed; some football match. He glimpsed a few semi-comatose guests sprawled over armchairs. He dialled through to the Sheraton and asked for a Mister Hansen, just arrived.
It was clear from the slurring in Hansen's voice that his liver was. having to cope with something like a litre of Glenfiddich.
'Hansen? Findhorn here. I need your help.'
'Well, well, if it'sh no' the elusive pimpernel. They seek him here, they seek him there, they seek yon Findhorn everywhere.'
'They? They've been looking for me?'
'Desperately. A comely wench, too, ye have hidden depths, laddie. I'd go for two falls, two submissions and a knockout wi' that one any day.' The captain giggled.
'She'd probably strangle you with her thighs. Will you sober up, man?'
There was a long silence. Findhorn visualised the captain swaying on the edge of his bed. Then: 'Whaur are ye?'
'A few miles away. Look, would you phone Norsk in Stavanger? I can't do it from here. Leave a message on their machine if there's nobody there. Tell them I have the papers they're looking for. And tell them I'll hand them over only if given good reason.'
The silence was longer. Findhorn could almost sense the struggle at the other end. When the captain spoke, he was clearly trying to get a grip on reality. 'Good reason?' 'Yes.'
'What the hell is that supposed to mean?' 'Listen, Hansen. Ten men died in that operation. Shiva were a hundred miles off base. They were carrying out a major tunnelling operation which had nothing to do with Arctic meteorology. There were people on that berg desperate to get their hands on that briefcase and for all I know they have a right to it. For all I know I am the rightful owner. I won't hand it over to the Company or anyone else until I know what this is about.' 'You won't hand over — my God, Findhorn.' 'I'm not an employee. There was no written contract, I accepted no payment. Nothing requires me to hand over material found in an iceberg to them or anyone else.'