“There is still nothing from Jeremiah.”
“There could be many reasons for that,” the sociologist said. “Not least of which are the dead in Singapore.”
“Could it be that he was not involved?”
“Why don’t we ask Mr. Dryke that?”
“I can tell you that we are launching now,” Yvonne Havens said, appearing calmer and more in control. “Operations resumed twenty minutes ago.”
“Very good,” Sasaki said.
“And we do have some further information. The cargo was made up of environmental and navigational subsystems and other black boxes for Memphis. I don’t know how serious the loss is. I’m waiting to hear from the construction office on Takara.”
“Please forward their answer to me when you receive it.”
“I will. Director—what are you hearing from Singapore?”
Sasaki nodded. “My latest information indicates sixteen dead and at least twenty-six missing. As you might expect, I am being pressed for statements, explanations. I have expressed regret, but I will need to say more soon. Mr. Dryke, what can you add?”
“We have what’s left of the boat,” Dryke said. “We have the canister—it was a thirty-year-old bottle rocket, Korean manufacture. Whoever pulled this off has disappeared. We’re searching the coastal area, Malindi. We’re getting some help from the Kenyans on checking sea traffic.”
“Do you expect to find those responsible?”
“I’d like to say yes. But the truth is we may well not.”
“Have you any evidence that Homeworld was involved?”
“It has Jeremiah’s fingerprints all over it. He hits Memphis, he hurts Allied, he gets people wondering about the safety of the T-ships just as the colonists are starting to report. The deaths in Singapore underline the point. All he really lost was a chance to get up on his soapbox.”
“Do you believe that he intended those deaths?”
“Yes,” Dryke said firmly. “At the very least he knew the risk was there, and went ahead regardless. They could have launched sixty seconds sooner and dropped the can in the middle of the Indian Ocean. I think he wanted a good show, a big scare, and rolled the dice.”
“I agree,” said the sociodynamicist.
“I value your opinion,” Sasaki said to Dryke. “All may be as you say. But the moment demands more. An accusation without proof will appear to be an excuse. Can you offer any evidence of Homeworld involvement which the world press would find persuasive?”
“No,” Dryke said reluctantly. “Not yet.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
“Hiroko, we were on top of this,” Dryke added. “We were very close to having him. We would have stopped him, except that one of our people reopened a door we’d closed.”
“That, too, offers little to me now,” she said. Sasaki turned to the man beside her on the bench. “I am ready for your counsel. How should we deal with this?”
“Hold our nose and take our medicine,” was the answer. “I was looking at lightning polls in the outer office. We’ll be seen as responsible whether or not we blame Homeworld. And if we blame them, we publicize our vulnerability to Homeworld tricks—and probably the details of the gag they used against us. In my opinion, it’s marginally better for us to be seen as fallible than as weak.”
“Yes,” Sasaki said. “I agree.”
“Perhaps something can be worked out with the Kenyans.”
Sasaki nodded. “I have already consulted with the Kenyan government,” she said. “They understand the true circumstances and are willing to be helpful. For appearances, they will insist on a suspension of launch operations while an investigation takes place. But I have been promised the restoration of our license, with certain cosmetic changes in the inspection and oversight provisions, in no more than ten days.”
“Wait just one moment,” Dryke interrupted. “Are we talking about taking the blame for this ourselves?”
“Yes,” Sasaki said. “I have decided to issue a statement accepting full responsibility for the accident. Mrs. Havens, we will need to agree on a plausible failure scenario.”
“Yes, Director.”
“What in the hell are we doing this for?” Dryke exploded. “They’re the murderers, not us.”
“We can’t win the war of opinion,” the sociologist said simply. “We have no credibility. This is Robin Hood we’re up against. Who listens to the Sheriff of Nottingham?”
“This is wrong,” Dryke said, shaking his head in disgust. “This is dumb wrong.”
Sasaki sought and held his eyes. Her focus made it as though no one else was with them. “This is reality,” she said. “We must win the other war. We must persevere, and complete Memphis.”
“This is a crime,” snapped Dryke. “A bloody crime. And you want to wash it away.”
“No, Mikhail,” Sasaki said softly. “We will not forget, no more than we forgot Dola Martinez. You must find Jeremiah and put an end to his interference. You made a promise to me. I am counting on you to keep it.”
His eyes questioned, then accepted, her meaning. “There are some threads I can follow.”
“Then do so,” she said, her voice still soft, but her eyes hard. “It is clear that Jeremiah can hurt us. He must not get a chance to try.”
CHAPTER 12
—AUU—
“…the fabric of life.”
Like a child exploring the scar left behind by a bandage, Christopher McCutcheon traced his finger along the nearly invisible crack on the back of his ancient Martin steel-string. The luthier had lovingly healed the wound in the century-old rosewood dreadnought. McCutcheon strummed a chord, and the mellow-voiced guitar sang as sweetly as always.
The club audiences preferred the bright sound of his Mitsei electronic, which was just fine with Christopher. The Mitsei had a versatile effects kit, could go six- or twelve-string at a touch, and still looked more or less traditional. Most important, unlike the Martin, it could easily be replaced should anything happen. Christopher did not want to expose the fragile antique to the rigors and risks faced by a working instrument, much less violate it by having a performance port installed.
But there were certain songs and certain times that demanded a softer, richer voice. And when he played for pleasure, more often than not it was the supple-actioned D-42 that came out of its case. The luthier had asserted that a wooden instrument held all the music that had ever been played on it, and said that Christopher’s Martin had been played well. He was not inclined to argue.
Almost of their own volition, his fingers found the opening chords of “Caravan to Antares.”
“Look at me, I’m flying free, living in the stars,” he sang, head down, eyes closed. “Signed my name and set my sights on a destination far—”
Sometime between the first verse and the last, Loi came to his room. He opened his eyes to discover her leaning lightly against the wall near the doorway, folded hands pinned behind her, listening. Though it was barely eight, she was wearing a short black nightdress which showed much leg and shoulder and clung slinkily to the rest.
“Haven’t seen that for a while,” he said. She had bought the nightdress for herself on an early dinner-and-shopping date in the Embarcadero, then proceeded to take him home and show him that no visual aids were necessary. As play wear went, the nightdress was demure, but the associated memories were still potent.
“Are you busy?” she asked in her thoroughly direct and un-coquettish way.
“I was planning to be for a while,” he said, gesturing at the guitar. “I just got Claudia back.”
“Too busy to help a friend in need?”
A crooked smile. “Is that a proposition?”