"Freaky world," Suzi said above the noise.
"Yeah," Greg called back. The endcap rose vertically for the first hundred metres, which was as high as the balconies and windows went, above that it sank into a slight depression of blank rock, with the lighting tube sprouting out of the centre. He could see another five of the exotic Coriolis waterfalls spaced round it at regular intervals.
The train station was on the other side of the bridge, below ground. They took an escalator down to a whitewalled, spotlessly clean platform. Greg asked the station 'ware for a private coach. There was a rush of dry air from the tunnel, and the bullet-nosed aluminium cylinder glided out, hovering a couple of centimetres above the single rail. They all trooped in, and Greg showed his Event Horizon card to the driver panel, requesting the Kenton station.
The fall-surf beach was spread out along one side of a deep horseshoe-shaped cove which hugged the foot of the northern endcap. This time there was no cliff of balconies at the base, the endcap was a simple shallow hemisphere carved out of the rock. The six Coriolis waterfalls were replicated, but lacking the severe drop of their southern endcap counterparts. They flowed down channels cut in the rock, clinging to the curve. One of them emptied into the cove with a dramatic foam cloud of spray. Thin rainbows swirled inside it.
Greg watched in amazement as a woman on a surfboard shot out of the mist, flying across the cove. Another followed her. He looked up.
The fall-surfers were dotted at fifty-metre intervals all the way back up the waterfall. Where it jetted out of the endcap, a kilometre above him, he could just make out a small metal platform like a broad diving-board. A tiny dark figure leapt off it, descending almost vertically to start with, low gravity only just managing to provide the stability for a lazy glide. The tail of the long board barely touched the water. Then gravity took hold, building constantly as the curve of the endcap increased underneath the surfer. His speed began to pick up. By the time he reached the bottom he was travelling at a hellish velocity.
They all heard a gleeful whoop as he exploded out of the waterfall's foam cloud and flashed past, slicing out a long creamy wake. He had almost reached the end of the cove before he slowed to a halt and began paddling back to shore.
"Now that is something else," Suzi muttered in admiration.
Greg knew what she meant, his immediate reaction was: I want to try that.
Charlotte stared up at the waterfall with a fond smile. "It takes a lot of nerve to kick off the first time. But after that it's addictive."
"You've done it?" Suzi asked, slightly envious.
"Oh, yes. Fall-surfing is one of their greatest tourist traps. It looks wild, but actually it's very safe."
"I'm sure it is," Greg said. "But it isn't on our agenda." He led them along the path towards the cove, Suzi grumbling behind him.
The beach itself had a Riviera look, organized, colourful, and crowded. Bars that were little more than wooden planks under dried-palm roofs lined the bluff above the sand. Behind them was a more substantial row of restaurants. Regimental squares of sunbeds covered the top half of the beach, competing for space with netball pitches. The powder-fine sand was dazzlingly white. Waiters in white shirts and dark-green bow ties scurried between the bars and sunbeds, carrying trays of drinks.
Greg walked along the crumbling sandy soil of the bluff.
There was a steady drift of families coming up the steps from the beach, carrying their bags and towels, small children with tired-looking faces.
Suzi stayed at his side, looking out over the bodies lying on the sunbeds. Rick and Charlotte were still together, locked at the centre of a protective triangle formed by the three hardliners. Greg was pleased with their unobtrusive professionalism.
Teresa Farrow was a psychic, equipped with sac implants; he could discern her espersense pervading the beach and the bars, alert for hazards. She had told him she possessed an empathy similar to his, but no intuition.
Jim Sharman was one of the crash team's tech specialists. All of the team members had one or two fields of expertise.
"Can you see him?" he asked Charlotte.
She was standing at the top of some stairs. "No, he isn't here. Sorry."
"I didn't expect to find him first time," he said, and gave her a reassuring smile.
They walked on.
Greg's cybofax bleeped. It was Lloyd McDonald.
"I think we've got something for you," the security chief said. "A couple of bobbies saw three people distributing leaflets outside the Trump Nugget casino. Two men and a girl. One of the men is in his late fifties, they say."
"Great," Greg said. "Tell the bobbies to keep watching, we'll be right over."
One of the bobbies was waiting for them in the station, barely able to keep his excitement contained. His name was Gene Learmount, a boyish freckled face and ginger hair; Greg thought he was about twenty, terribly naïve.
He told Greg how he and his partner had seen the suspected Celestial Apostles, and immediately taken a table in the casino's beer garden where they could watch without being seen. The search for the Celestials was the biggest deal for New London's police in months. Did it mean the Governor was finally going to do something about them?
Greg gave a noncommittal shrug as they rode the escalator up from the station to the park.
Victor had told him that the police were there principally for the tourists; company security handled the workers and possible tekmerc deals. He wondered how the police felt about that, but the kid seemed happy enough deferring to his Event Horizon card. It was his tradecraft, or rather lack of it, which was worrying. The Celestials must have developed some kind of watcher routine.
The escalator brought them out under a small marble rotunda. The Trump Nugget was fifty metres away, a three storey Disneyland fairy castle with tall circular turrets, a moat, drawbridge, and portcullis. Flags were fluttering idly at the top of turret spires. It was ringed with young apple trees in full blossom, white and pink petals coating the grass like dry snow.
Gene Learmount muttered into his cap's comset. "They're still in the quadrangle," he said.
"How do we go?" Melvyn asked.
Greg looked at the portcullis and drawbridge again, letting his espersense expand. There were a few people coming and going, it wasn't a busy time for the casino. Too early. He caught the watcher's steely wakefulness, completely out of phase with the passive thought currents around him. When he looked he saw a young man in scarlet shorts picking small yellow fruits from a bush above the moat.
"Bugger," he muttered. The watcher would have seen Gene Learmount walk from the casino to the station. "Is there another way out of the quadrangle?" he asked the bobby.
"Yes, certainly. If you go into the castle, there's a goods delivery subway, and a couple of footbridges over the moat."
"OK. Charlotte, Suzi, and Teresa come with me. The rest of you stay here, but be ready to move."
They walked out into the open. Greg kept his espersense focused on the watcher, waiting for any sign of alarm, but the man just showed a mild interest in their approach. He carried on filling his net bag with the fruit.
"Tell you, we're being watched," Greg said to Suzi.
"Yeah, I know," she said. "Stud in the red shorts. I clocked him when we came up the escalator."
"Oh. Right." He turned to Charlotte who was staring at the watcher. "Don't be too obvious."