It looked like a small meeting room; a chalkboard and desk were placed at one end of the room with several rows of chairs in front of them. A middle-aged man in good physical shape sat on the edge of the desk; he raised his head to look them over.
Tricker! Clea thought, almost delighted to see him. It was like unexpectedly finding an old friend. Then, He'll recognize me! she thought. But he didn't seem to at the moment. He appeared bored, so much so that even though he was looking at them, he wasn't really seeing them. I suppose I can keep out of his way. Time would tell if he was going to be a problem. I'll think of it as a challenge, she decided.
Somehow he seemed to wear his tan chinos and plain gray flannel shirt as
though they were a uniform. Casting a brief look at the guards, he nodded and the two men went out, closing the door behind them.
"Welcome to Red Seal Base," he said. "My name is Tricker. I'm the chief of security and I'll be your supervisor here. If you have any problems, or needs that we aren't meeting—and I mean anything—come and see me."
He looked them over as though trying to ascertain if they'd understood him, then he continued. "You're probably tired, so I won't keep you tonight. Tomorrow morning at 0800 hours I'll take you to the cafeteria and introduce you around.
After breakfast, we'll take a brief tour of the base. It will be a brief tour, as you aren't allowed into most sectors. Then I'll show you to your own labs and you can get settled. After dinner, we'll have another meeting and you can tell me about anything that you need that we haven't yet supplied."
Tricker paused, assessing each of them with cool blue eyes. " 'It's important that you understand from the outset that you are not to discuss anyone's work with them, or to discuss your own work with anyone else."
Clea saw the two men glance at each other.
"Obviously," Tricker said, not even trying to hide his exasperation, "if you're working together, that doesn't apply as far as your own work goes. If you find this too confining come and speak to me and we'll see what we can set up. Do not"—he held up a warning finger—"simply decide to break this rule. You would regret that, I promise you." He looked at them; they looked at him. "Do you understand?"
"Yes," they mumbled.
"There are sandwiches and coffee in your rooms for tonight," Tricker told them,
"but generally you'll eat in the cafeteria with everyone else. We'll do our best to make you comfortable here, folks. How comfortable is up to you."
Maybe he's asleep, the I-950 thought, surprised that he hadn't responded to her appearance. He certainly sounded it.
"The people outside will escort you to your rooms," Tricker said, rising. "You'll receive a wake-up call at 0700. Be ready for me to pick you up an hour later.
Good night."
The two men and Clea looked at one another, then turned and toddled to the door, somewhat awkward in their heavy clothing. Outside two men and a woman were waiting for them, smiling for all they were worth.
"Welcome to Red Seal Base," they said cheerfully and more or less in unison.
"You must be Clea Bennet." The woman stepped forward offering her hand. "I'm Josephine Lowe, your buddy."
The I-950 just stared at her. This was almost unbelievably presumptuous, beyond anything she'd yet experienced from humans.
"You know, like in swimming class or fire drill," Josephine continued. "We're in a dangerous place, you know, and so they feel we should all have someone looking out for us; that way, if we have to evacuate in a hurry no one will get left behind. Unless"—she chuckled—"both buddies are together."
Lowe was plump, and crammed into a belted gray jumpsuit with sneakers on her feet. She was about forty-five with short blond hair brushed back from her rather ordinary face. She wore no makeup.
"I'm right next door to you," Josephine was saying.
Somehow Clea didn't find this reassuring in the least. She looked around and saw the two men going off with their buddies.
"You look exhausted, you poor thing," Clea's buddy said. She lifted her arm as though she was going to put it around the I-950's shoulders but didn't actually touch her. "Let me show you to your room. A little supper and a good night's sleep will do wonders for you."
Ah, Clea thought, I look exhausted. That's why Tricker didn't recognize me.
Well, she'd have to see what she could do to continue looking mousy and uninteresting. Meanwhile she'd have to see what she could learn from this source. "Have you been here long?" she asked Josephine, smiling tentatively.
"Oh! Just ages, honey! At first I thought I'd go stir-crazy, but then I really got to like it here. We've got a pretty good mix of people. You'll see…" A hopeful note. "Do you like bridge?"
Clea followed her down the hallway listening to her nonstop chatter and wondering if, in fact, poor Josephine had gone stir-crazy and just didn't know it.
The cafeteria was the single largest room on the base, Tricker told them. With the exception of the warehouse, naturally.
Clea found it almost excessively institutional, with its rows of long, Formica-topped tables on either side of a wide central aisle. There were the same beige floor tiles and walls with the inevitable bulletin board for decoration. At the head of the room one picked up a tray and utensils and dragged it along to the place where food was dispensed. It was rather noisy, and smelled like a medium-priced chain restaurant; Applebee's, say.
The ceiling lights mimicked natural daylight, as did most of the lights on the base, so Tricker had told them. It didn't surprise her that the humans needed to be indulged this way. They were animals, after all, and six months of night or day was not a natural part of their cycle.
The people in the big room seemed to take a polite interest in the three new arrivals, watching them surreptitiously as they got their food and found seats. As Clea moved to join her fellow newcomers she found herself greeted with friendly smiles and nods. The I-950 found them rather… what was the word?
Ah. Creepy.
She joined the conversation already in progress at the table Tricker had chosen.
He glanced at her as she set down her tray and continued to watch her as she pretended not to notice. When she looked up she smiled at him, then let her face drop as he continued to stare at her.
"What?" she asked defensively.
He spooned up some oatmeal before answering her. "You look familiar," he said.
Clea looked at him askance. "Is that a line?"
He swallowed the oatmeal and took a sip of coffee before he answered her, his gaze never wavering. "No. I've met you. I'm sure of it."
Shaking her head, Clea told him, "I don't think so, Mr. Tricker."
"Just Tricker," he said.
"Uh-huh. Well, Tricker," she said, leaning forward, "have you ever been to Montana?"
He shook his head, spooning up more oatmeal.
"Well, except for one trip to New York and one trip to L.A., both in the last month, I've never been anywhere else. So I don't know how you could have met me. Do you?" She widened her eyes at him and took a sip of coffee.
The two men who'd arrived with her turned their heads back and forth between them. "Is this important?" one of them asked tentatively.
Clea thought that the fact he asked at all hinted at a habitual arrogance that circumstances had temporarily muted.
"No," Tricker answered. "Not at all." With a last, indecipherable look at Clea, he returned to his lecture about the base's rules.
"Ah, I see we have some new prisoners, Tricker."