The man's voice had a thick German accent and came from behind the I-950.
South German, her computer half supplied helpfully. Within fifty kilometers of
Vienna, but not actually in Vienna. Originally middle-class. She turned to look and found a tall, muscular blond man looking down at them.
Kurt Viemeister! she thought, and her heart leapt, like a human girl meeting her favorite musician.
Serena had decided that Viemeister was insane because of his extreme hatred for certain classes of human being and had stopped associating with him. But Clea had always felt her parent/sister was wrong.
If the scientist hated humans, well, so did Skynet, and so did the Infiltrators, for that matter. Of course, they hated all humans, and wanted to exterminate them, but why was that reason to judge Dr. Viemeister for only hating some?
Though she was painfully aware that Serena entertained almost fond feelings for humans.
Subversive, misguided, and a failure, Clea thought dismissively. She intended to encourage Viemeister's efforts for Skynet. It didn't matter if he hated humans, but making Skynet sentient did.
Viemeister put his tray down beside Clea, giving her a pleasant smile. "Aren't you going to introduce us?"
Tricker took a sip of coffee and looked thoughtfully into the distance while the three newcomers watched him. Viemeister buttered his toast and salted his omelet as though he'd never said a word.
Clea rolled her eyes and gave a crisp "tsk!" Then she turned to Viemeister. "I'm
Clea Bennet," she said, offering her hand. "From Montana."
"Charmed," he said, taking her hand gently and giving her a warm smile. He looked at the two men opposite them.
"Joel Gibson," a heavyset middle-aged man said.
"Maxwell Massey," his friend said. Maxwell had the dark looks of an East Indian.
"So what have they got on you folks?" Kurt said cheerfully.
Clea blinked as she realized his accent was much less thick than it had been.
Serena had always suspected that he affected it. What he'd said was as interesting as how he'd said it, too. She glanced at the two men.
"See, now this is where you have to watch out," Tricker interrupted. "If any of you answer that question, you may find yourselves segueing into a conversation about your work. Now, what did I say about discussing your work?"
"But I already know something about Mr. Viemeister's specialty," Clea said eagerly. She turned to the scientist. "My uncle was a great admirer of yours and I've read all of your published work." Obviously gushing was the right tack to take with him; he fairly glowed in her infrared vision. "Your ideas on—"
"Hey!" Tricker interrupted. He pointed his spoon at her. "That's something you and I will have to discuss in private. Do you know why?" He drew out the last word.
Clea rolled her eyes again. "Because otherwise we'll be discussing Mr.
Viemeister's work and we're not supposed to discuss one another's work." She raised her brows at him. "Did I get it right, teacher?"
"Yup," he said. Tricker scraped his bowl and ate the last spoonful.
"If you're granted permission to talk about your work to one another, you can yak about it all you want in private." He rotated his spoon, indicating the room around them. "Never in here. In here, none of us have jobs. Comprende?"
"Yeah," she said, letting a little insolence seep into her voice. Beside her Viemeister seemed amused.
"Great! If you folks are ready we should get started. I know you all have a lot to do today." Tricker rose and looked at them expectantly.
"I haven't finished my coffee," the I-950 hazarded.
"Well, too bad. Chop-chop, Ms. Bennet." He gave Viemeister an artificial smile.
"Nice seeing you, Kurt." Then he turned on his heel and walked away.
Gibson and Massey scrambled to follow him, but Clea lingered, taking a last sip of her coffee. Then she gave Viemeister a conspiratorial smile, rose, folded her napkin, and slowly sauntered after the men.
Her walk gave the scientist something to watch if he was so inclined.
Kurt watched the young woman walk away. It looked as though the long dry spell was about to end. And to end very pleasantly indeed. As the girl followed
Tricker and his chumps out the door, she glanced at him over her shoulder and gave him a delightful little smile. If only she were a blonde, she'd be a perfect Aryan.
Yes, definitely, things were looking up.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CYBERDYNE, LOS ANGELES
Meg Horton, secretary to Roger Colvin, CEO of Cyberdyne, sighed as she looked at the tower of mail on her desk. It seemed the stack got bigger every day.
Taking her seat, she began sorting the mail into separate piles. Most of it was junk, and could be disposed of without opening. But one large envelope had a note written on the front.
Here’s the material you requested. Thank you for your interest Jesse Hooper
Inside was a stack of brochures from the Utah Tourist Bureau. Meg frowned, checking the address o>n the envelope. It was indeed addressed to Roger Colvin.
The boss must be thinking of going skiing. Or turning Mormon. She added the material to the personal pile to go directly to his office and discarded the envelope.
Inside the envelope were several insectlike machines. As soon as the envelope hit the wastebasket they emerged and climbed out, dropping to the floor and scurrying to the nearest dark corner as they'd been programmed to do.
In Utah, the Terminator that had been assigned to monitor the bugs' progress took over their function, ordering one to remain below the secretary's desk while directing the others to various positions around the perimeter of the room to give the Terminator a broad view of the office.
It saw that the gap between the door to the CEO's office and the thick carpet inside was too small for the bug to slip through; the T-101 continued searching.
In the ceiling there appeared to be a ventilator cover. That would be optimal placement. Once they were in the ventilation system, the bugs would have access to the whole building.
Soon it had one of the bugs stationed in Colvin's office and had sent the others off to explore and map the whole facility. Then it alerted the I-950 that the bugs were safely implanted. It arranged for their input to be recorded, then turned to other tasks.
Paul Warren looked up from the screen at his friend—the CEO of Cyberdyne—
his face split by a delighted grin.
"I can't believe these numbers!" he said.
Roger Colvin grinned back at him. "Neither can I."
Their automated factories were a complete success, not one breakdown in their pilot plant in over a year. Production clicked along 24/7 at a fraction of the cost of a human-run production line. Granted, it would take a while to amortize the capital costs, but with a guaranteed market like the Pentagon, that was a sucker bet. Best of alclass="underline" No employees equaled no unions and no support infrastructure
for people, and all this minimized environmental impact—not that the environmentalists appreciated that.
The intercom on Colvin's desk gave a warning chirp.
"Mr. Colvin," Roger's secretary said, "there's a Mr. Pool here to see you."
"Just Pool," a voice said.
"Sir!" they heard the secretary snap.
The office door opened and a tall, rather nondescript man of middle age entered.
Behind him Colvin's secretary hovered, looking outraged.
"It's all right, Meg," Roger told her; he looked at Warren, then back at the intruder. "You must be the new guy," he said wearily.