“Oh,” the exec was saying. She glanced up with a start. Her coffee had gone cold, and she signed for the serf to bring another.
“Oh, well . . . Why didn’t we think of that?” He looked down at the screen, rubbing his brow in puzzlement.
The American grinned. “Hey, man, it always looks that way. That should get you down to, hm, fifteen percent rejections, easy. Null-G applications of amorphous silicon deposition are tricky; it’s not my specialty, you know, but I think that’s the way to go. Especially with EV channels and particle-stream etching, you know.”
“Many thanks, suh,” the exec continued, as the terminal downloaded the details into his attaché case and clicked completion. He shook hands with the ex-American. “Service to the State.”
“Have a nice d—Glory to the Race,” Ekstein replied.
The room fell silent as the exec left. There was a crackle from the big fireplace, a glimmer of flamelight, and pale winter sun on polished stone and wood. Ekstein sighed, shifting restlessly and then moodily taking another croissant. The serf moved in deftly to sweep up the crumbs around his plates. She was a pert little thing, in a uniform of short skirt and white cap and bib apron that had been another of Ekstein’s eccentricities. He ran a hand up her thigh, but half-heartedly, even when she leaned into the clumsy caress and smiled.
That’s a bad sign, Bennington thought. He’s not screwing anything that moves, anymore.
“What’s the matter, Dave?” she said quietly as the serfs left.
He slumped in the chair, hands resting loosely between his knees.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, frowning. “I . . . I feel lonely, I guess.”
“Hm, I thought you were lonely befo’,” she replied. Every word and gesture was going down on record for the SD psychs to mull over, but you had to get a personal gestalt to really know an individual. Besides, he was like a puppy; you wanted to see him wag his tail. “You girls not givin’ satisfaction?”
“No, no, they’re great!” he said. “Mei-ling and Bernadette especially.” His face puckered a little. “Yeah, I was real lonely. Only . . . well, sometimes Bernie and Izzy and Pedro would come over, and we’d have beer and peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, and play Knights and Sorcerers on my old Pacifica. I sort of miss it, I guess. I can play against myself here, but it’s not the same.”
He looked up, and his eyes were misty. “Say, Cathy, maybe you could get me an online terminal, and I could patch into PanNet? Then I could play them remote.”
Bennington sighed inwardly; you had to swat a puppy if it piddled on the rug, but it wasn’t pleasant. She forced a warm smile. “Mm, Dave, I don’t think we could do that. I mean, the other end wouldn’t allow it.” Probably true, and no way the SD would let an OSS op get a line on this prize.
He blinked. “Look,” she continued, “you’ve been workin’ too hard, Dave. What say, in a month o’ two, we fly down to Nova Cartago or Alexandria. We’ll go out to some of the nightspots, meet a few”—carefully selected—“people, relax, hey?”
He nodded, halfway between interest and listlessness. She crossed around the desk, put an arm about his shoulders. “An’ in the meantime, we’ll have cook make us up some peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches”—Mother Freya, the things I do for the Race—“an’ you can teach me how to play Knights and Sorcerers. Mei-ling and Bernadette will sit in.”
OSS SAFEHOUSE
STATE OF VIRGINIA
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
JANUARY 1973
“Goddammit, my brains are going to run out my nose!” Marya said, and grunted as she bench-pressed the weights again. “Ninety-nine, one hundred.” The link rod fell back into its rest with a clang. She took a deep breath; the room smelled of sweat, hers and others, of oil and machinery and the straw matting on the floor. The lights were sunlamps, to give them the appropriate tan, and the walls were lined with mirrors.
“That’s, ‘Gods curse it mah brains is goin’ run out mah nose,’ ” the instructor said. “Repeat it, Lefarge.”
She lay back on the padded exercise bench and repeated the sentence in Draka dialect, turning her head to watch the instructor. He was a defector from the Domination, about twice her age: an unremarkable man, medium-brown hair and eyes and an outdoorsman’s weathered face. He was doing one-handed chin-ups while he listened with a slight frown of concentration on his face.
“Bettah,” he said. “But remembah, don’t drawl too much. Brains is buh’rains, not braaains. The dialect has roots here-abouts, but it’s changed in different directions since the 1780s. Over to the cycle.”
She groaned and swung herself up, walking over to the fixed exercise cycle. Her sweatsuit was soaked and chafing; she wiped her face on the corner of the towel around her neck. Her brother was using the Unitorso machine beside it, with his forearms against the vertical spring-loaded bars, pressing them in to his chest, holding, then slowly out again. The muscles of his chest and stomach stood out, moving fluidly beneath the fair skin. Marya felt a sudden sharp stab of affection, oddly mixed with the sort of aesthetic admiration you might feel for a statue or a sunset.
Damnation, she thought dismally. The number of eligible males around was small, and seemed either gentlemanly or disinterested. A man could marry outside the field, as long as the wife didn’t mind not being told a lot of things. For a female agent, another agent was about the only game in town. It’s like being tall, she thought. You have to go for the tall boys, but the short girls poach on them, too.
Of course, she could start asking them herself . . . Her mouth twisted wryly. Sex was a tool of the trade, and she was sure enough she could do anything required in that line, but somehow it was different in a social setting. Benefits of a Catholic upbringing. Shit.
The instructor had finished his second sequence of fifty and dropped lightly to the ground, landing silently on the balls of his feet. He was dressed as they were, in loose felted cotton exercise clothing and soft shoes, but he seemed to flow as he walked.
“Get to it,” the Draka said. “You wind needs it.” He stopped by Fred, looked him up and down appraisingly. Then he seemed to blur, and his fist struck the man low in the belly. Marya winced at the hard smack, and her brother doubled over with a grunt. His hand had come down to block and stayed suspended three-quarters of the way to completion.
“Bettah,” the Draka said, then chuckled. “Back home they’d envy me mah chances, gettin’ to beat up on Yankees fo’ a livin’.”
Marya pedaled grimly. “If you loves us so much, why’re you heah?” she enunciated carefully.
The Draka looked at her. “Good. Treatin’ yo’ r’s right, now.”
It isn’t a lack of expression, she thought, puzzled. Like most Draka she had seen, the instructor somehow gave an impression of stillness even when he was moving. Ah. No unintentional gestures, she decided. The hands moved only when he wanted them to, and the body stayed rock-still unless ordered to move. No twitches, jerks, shifts.