"You're not surprised," Greg said.
"Aren't I, Captain Greg?"
"No." He wasn't. In fact, Greg could sense some of his thought currents racing with gratification. "You want me to go deeper?"
"Thank you kindly, but no. You see, this strapping young man here—"
"Rick."
"Pleased to meet you, Rick. You see, Rick here, he calls it an alien. I call it a presence. A guiding light, Captain Greg. An angelic being come to grant us the sight. We'll be shown our own souls in all their nakedness. Do you think you can withstand that? You who entomb yourself in the physical world?"
Intuition deluged Greg abruptly, as it so often did; like cards snapping down on the table, everything laid out and visible. "You founded the Celestial Apostles, Sinclair," he said. "You're their preacher and their leader."
"Ah now, Captain Greg, you're becoming a sore disappointment to me. You said you weren't going to peek. And you an officer and a gentleman, and all."
"Tell you, I didn't peek," Greg said. "It just happens that way sometimes."
"Perhaps it was the spirit who showed him the truth," Suzi said, feigning complete innocence.
Sinclair wrinkled at her. "You could be right at that. Anyhow, this flower you're so keen about, it was brought to me."
"Who brought it?" Greg asked.
"Why, one of the little people, Captain Greg." Sinclair gave him a cheery smile. "About so high, they are." His hand prodded the air half a metre above the grass. "All dressed in orange and black, he was, very smart, his little antenna wobbling about."
"A drone," Greg said.
"Your word, Captain Greg, so crisp and functional. Suited to what you are."
"What I am is an orange farmer," Greg said, and had the enjoyable sight of Sinclair's face slapped by perplexity. He brought out the leaflet, and tapped it with an index finger. "What about this? What about tomorrow?"
"The simple truth," Sinclair said. "Oh, Captain Greg, come now, can you not feel it? And you with your marvellous second sight as well. It's like a thunderstorm sent by the Creator himself—one that builds and builds away on the other side of a mountain range. You can't see it, not with your eyes, but oh dear mother Mary, you know it's there, and you know it's going to come sweeping over the tallest peaks to remind you of nature's raw power. That's what tomorrow is. A storm to wash away our tired terrible perception of the world. We'll see everything in a new, clean, and golden light. The coming of Revelation."
As if on cue, the first drops of rain began to patter down around them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
We have a data alert situation, NN core one said.
Exit VentureCost Package. The three-dimensional accountancy lattice slipped out of Julia's mind. Event Horizon's finance division had put together a preliminary estimate of how much money she could raise to bid for the generator data. The numbers were ridiculous. At this level it wasn't even money any more, just digits in a memory bank. Risk and estimates; you were worth only what people thought you were, how you'd proved yourself. It was all so incredibly cynical. Yet it made the world go round.
She used to think she would prefer a life where wealth was a good solid nugget of gold. Nothing ephemeral about that.
But now she actually had Event Horizon tabulated and defined, some of it quite creatively. Banks and finance houses were reviewing their position, finalizing their figures, coming together in a consortium to back her. Market rumour said there were only three real contenders, Event Horizon, a Mitsubishi/General Electric partnership, and Jonathan-Hewit, with a Boeing/SAAB bid as a dark outsider.
The finance consortium members had a lot of confidence in Event Horizon's potential. And, of course, the intangibles. Mainly herself, and what she would do to them if they failed her.
She found herself thankful for her reputation again. The second time in one day. Must be a record.
What's the problem? she asked.
Charlotte Fielder has been issued with a replacement Amex card.
Oh, Lord.
Quite. We've been running constant monitor programs on the critical units of this deal to see if there has been any movement. Charlotte applied for a replacement card through a New London office, but her identity was verified by the company's memory core on Earth. She followed that by buying clothes at Toska's.
Clothes? At a time like this?
Yes.
Idiot girl! And if we know…
Correct. Leol Reiger, the Dolgoprudnensky, and Clifford Jepson are all hunting her. The hotrods will be running monitor programs similar to ours. We must assume one of the three will be told, if not all of them.
Bloody hell What does Greg think he's doing?
Perhaps he doesn't know.
Well, he ought to. She opened her eyes. The study was as depressingly sober as always. Wilholm without the children had little appeal. She might just as well be in the office.
Open Channel to Victor Tyo.
Where are you? she asked.
I'll be landing at Prior's Fen in five minutes.
Forget that. Come direct to Wilholm; you and I are going up to New London.
I'm sure Greg and Melvyn Ambler can handle the situation.
Ha! She told him about Charlotte's Amex. That gives us three reasons to join them. Greg says the alien is there. Royan told me he's gone up there to test his prototype nanoware. And now everyone and their mother knows Charlotte Fielder is up there. I'd have to go up eventually, might as well be now.
All right, Julia. But I still don't see how Royan and the alien can be tied together. Not now we've established that he grew the flower himself, that it didn't arrive in the solar system on a starship. In fact, I'm not entirely convinced that there is an alien any more.
Greg says he sensed it.
I know. Julia, I've known him as long as you, remember? But, well, I admit his espersense is perfection. Hell, I wish I had psychics half as good in security. It's just this intuition of his—
You don't believe him.
I'm sceptical, that's all I'm saying. Especially when you should be concentrating on the bid for the generator data.
There's no such thing as coincidence.
That's one hell of a bon mot to gamble your entire future on.
She sighed and gave a half-smile. Thank heavens for Victor, always gave his opinions straight.
What do you three think? she asked the cores.
I think Greg knows what he's talking about, Juliet, her grandfather said. This atomic structuring is just too odd.
Yes, we concur, said NN core two.
Unanimous, then. Sorry, Victor, you've just been outvoted.
All four of you?
'Fraid so.
OK, Julia. I'll be at Wilholm in seven minutes.
Fine. In the mean time, I'm going to phone Clifford Jepson.
Whatever for?
A truce. I want this hardlining to stop. There's been too much already.
Clifford Jepson was behind his desk in the Globecast office, dressed in an expensive light grey German Suit. His round manufactured face gave her a vicious smile. "Julia. Gonna make your bid?"
"No, Clifford. I want to ask you a favour."
He lounged back in a high-backed leather chair, toying with a pearl-textured light-pencil. "A favour? Changing your tune, aren't you, Julia? Coming down to Earth with the rest of us?"
Burn the conceited little shit, Juliet, Philip Evans raged.
No, Grandpa. And please don't interrupt unless it's a relevant observation.
That was a relevant observation in my book, girl.
Behave, NN core two said.
"My bid will be in tonight, Clifford. But I'd point out that you haven't filed a patent on the nuclear force generator yet."
"It'll be filed. Don't you worry about that."
"If you say so. But in the mean time, I'd appreciate it if you put the brakes on Leol Reiger."
The light-pen pointed rigidly at the ceiling. "Goddamn, Julia, it was your people at the Colonel Maitland."