The young man made his decision and processed her request, sold her insurance.
"Very wise, miss." And had her sign the rental agreement.
Wendy had bought a wrist brace when out shopping with Snog and it supplied the requisite messiness to make her handwriting an almost perfect copy of Carolyn's. Certainly it brought a look of relief to the clerk's face.
She stopped at the bank window to change her U.S. money into Brazilian currency, and remembered to buy some guaranies for when she entered Paraguay. Within ten minutes, a map on the seat beside her, she was on her way.
I hope John won't be mad, she thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
RED SEAL BASE, ANTARCTICA
Kurt Viemeister swaggered through the bland corridors of the base's living quarters to find Clea Bennet's door open. Putting his hands on either side of the doorway, he leaned in and looked around, pleasantly conscious of the way his broad sculpted shoulders and thick-muscled arms rippled beneath the thin T-shirt.
The room was just like a generous ten-by-fourteen cubicle, painted off-white, with a full bed, bookcase, cheap desk with an uncomfortable chair, bedside table, bureau, and a first-rate computer. Space was at a surprising premium in the base; armoring against the Antarctic was almost as much trouble as guarding against the environment of the moon.
Clea was packing.
"Going somewhere?" he asked, half humorously. As if there was anywhere to go.
"Yes," she said, coming out of the tiny bathroom. "Kushner, Locke, and I are going seal hunting." Clea gave him a sidelong smile. "In a manner of speaking."
"What about our work?" Kurt snapped, straightening.
The I-950 turned a cool look on the self-styled superman.
"Hey, Kurt, why don't you say that a little louder, I don't think Tricker heard you.
Or, you could wear a T-shirt that says 'I break the rules, please punish me.' "
Clea raised one sardonic brow at him as she crossed the room to take something from her bureau drawer. "If you want me to work with you it wouldn't hurt you to ask for my assistance. Officially." She gave him a very false smile. "I suspect Tricker thinks I want to be your groupie."
Viemeister frowned. "I will speak to him now, this hour. I don't want you wasting your time fooling around with dumb animals."
Serena had been right; Viemeister was ridiculously lacking in social skills, and laughably unaware of it. The man was convinced that it was his choice entirely that people left him alone. He was equally convinced that if he wanted someone's company he could charm them into liking him.
Fat chance! Clea thought. Viemeister had brains and good looks— but then, so did a very bright Doberman. Apparently he's never tested that I-am-charming-when-I-want-to-be theory.
She turned to him with a slight smile. "Kurt, I'm going stir-crazy down here. I want to see some sky." She tilted her head toward him. "Okay?"
"I didn't even know you were interested in pinnipeds," he said sullenly.
The I-950 laughed. "I'm interested in everything. Especially wringing concessions from Tricker. It amuses me."
Frowning, Viemeister took a deep breath and crossed his massive arms over his swollen chest.
Is that for my benefit? she wondered.
"I don't like Tricker," he announced.
"Big surprise there," Clea said. "I doubt he'd win a popularity contest hereabouts.
If you don't like him it should please you that I enjoy torturing him."
Kurt snorted. "I suppose it should. But it concerns me that you claim to be going stir-crazy. It is a weakness, and you should fight any weakness in your character."
"It's a state of mind, and I'll do what I like."
The I-950 gave him a hard look and watched him lift his head, like a bull scenting a challenger. She smiled and looked away, a dimple in her cheek. "I'll be back in a week," she said. "You're just jealous because I'm getting to do something different."
His stance and expression softened slightly. "Perhaps I'm jealous that you're going to be out on the ice with two other men."
Clea laughed and went to embrace him, chuckling as his arms wrapped around
her. She leaned back and looked up at him, her eyes sparkling. Yes, she was definitely developing a sense of humor.
"You have to have seen these guys," she said. "Kushner is a potato with legs and Locke looks like the mummy of Ramses the Second walking." She poked him in the chest, perhaps a little too hard, but he was such a jerk. "I've made my choice, and that ought to tell you something about my taste in men."
This time he laughed, and something in the way of it was intended to remind her she'd been a virgin until she met him.
"Exactly," she purred.
Clea pushed herself off from his chest, forcing him to let her go, though he obviously didn't want to. Arching a brow, she asked, "Weren't you going to go ask Tricker to allow you my services?" She smiled wickedly.
"I can't dissuade you?"
"Uh-uh."
"Then I may as well go." He turned on his heel and walked out without another word.
Clea snorted, knowing he heard her because she knew exactly how to direct sound to her intended hearer. She knew he'd been deliberately ambiguous, assuming that she'd wonder if he'd even bother to ask Tricker for her assistance in his work.
As if he'd risk alienating her. Poor Kurt was a very lonely boy and she'd made a point of filling his off-hours with lots of rigorous exercise and stimulating conversation. What ha considered stimulating conversation anyway, which alternated between talking about how wonderful he was, his absurd politics, and his project. Clea actually enjoyed talking about that last subject though.
So, no, he wouldn't risk antagonizing her. By the time she got back, everything should be settled and then she could begin work on the most important thing in the world. A thrill of anticipation shot through her.
Skynet!
Clea approached the downed leopard seal at a jog, moving effortlessly over the irregular, slippery surface of the ice. Had the humans been watching, she would have crept up on it, as if it was going to jump up and savage her. But she could plainly see that it was unconscious, and hear the rhythm of its heartbeat and breathing.
The I-950 quickly plucked the orange-tipped dart from its side and stowed it away in her pouch. Then she pulled out a radio harness, tested it, and fitted it around the seal's body. Pulling out a punch, she attached a tag to its flipper.
All of this was done at speeds far exceeding the human norm. It kept her warmer and she saw no reason to suffer when there wasn't anyone to witness her relative comfort. She couldn't push her metabolism too hard, unfortunately, as the supply of food was both limited and carefully calculated. So, like the humans accompanying her, her socks froze to the soles of her feet and she actually needed the multiple layers of clothing she wore.
Pulling a syringe out of her jacket, where it had been kept warm until this moment so the saline medium didn't freeze, she carefully flushed the needle to eliminate air bubbles. Inside, just barely visible to the most refined sight her augmented eyes could manage, were the microscopic machines that would allow her control over this animal.
She regretted the size of the things, but it was the best she could do with the materials at hand, the constant surveillance, and supplies so carefully monitored.
The I-950 had only gotten away with the limited number she'd managed to cobble together because she was using minute pieces of parts she then destroyed in "experiments."