Michael shook his head. "You won't! Goddamnit, Bryn, isn't that what we're about? To get rid of the old guard and bring in new ways— better ways?"
Kustow shivered. "Maybe. I don't know. I just looked at things from the outside tonight, that's all. Looked at all that backslapping and fund-raising and the bodyguards and the whispering between friends, and I wondered if we were really going to be any different from the rest."
There was a moment's silence between them, then Michael took his old friend's arm. "Come on. My apartment's only up the corridor. Let's get a few hours' sleep, then talk again."
Kustow smiled gently and nodded. "Okay. Lead the way."
Outside his door, Michael turned and looked at Kustow again.
Maybe Bryn was right. Maybe it would turn out just as he feared. But if they didn't try, if they just left it, that, surely, would be just as bad?
Michael thumbed the lock and touched out the combination with his other hand. As the door began to open, Kustow smiled drunkenly at him and stumbled past.
The explosion was deafening. Michael was thrown back across the corridor and fell awkwardly, blacking out. When he came to, what seemed only a moment later, there were Security guards everywhere and two medics were leaning over him, doing something to his legs. His legs were numb.
"Where's Bryn?" he asked, trying to sit up. But he couldn't sit up and the words came out as a kind of dry cough. He realized then that his chest hurt. One of the medics leaned close to his face and told him to relax, it would be okay. What would be okay? he wanted to ask, but his hold on consciousness was weak. He kept slipping back into blackness. Each time he woke things seemed to have jumped. Bit by bit he began to piece things together. He was strapped to a trolley, his head propped up slightly by cushions. To his right a big blunt-faced man was talking into a handset and listening to the responses. He was muttering something about a bomb. Someone had been killed.
It was only later that it hit him. Someone had been killed. Bryn. But by that time he was lying in a hospital bed, under armed guard, and there was nothing he could do. Again and again he saw Bryn smile and stumble past him, unsteady from the wine he'd drunk. He wanted to put out his arm and stop him. To call him back. To warn him somehow. But there was nothing he could do. Bryn Kustow was dead.
KIM STOOD at the head of the steps, looking out across the sunken floor of the reception hall, surprised by the sight that met his eyes. The air was cool, the lighting a subdued shade of blue that seemed to fill the huge, high-ceilinged room with moving liquid shadows.
He smiled, amused by the effect. It was like being at the bottom of a pool. A huge pool filled with the soft, slightly echoing murmur of voices. There were three, maybe four hundred people down there, gathered in groups between the pillars. The Steward, two steps down from Kim, turned and looked back at Kim impatiently, then continued down the steps. A moment later, Kim followed.
A group of about thirty people—men for the main part—were gathered beside what seemed like a large glass table set into the floor. The Steward made his way across to them, then stepped back, beckoning Kim to come forward.
At the center of the group stood a big, bearlike man in his early sixties with an unfashionable goatee beard, neatly trimmed ash-white hair, and an elegant cut in silks. He was William Campbell, SimFic's Regional Controller for the North Atlantic Cities and, as he greeted Kim, he leaned toward the young man.
"Forgive the informality, Kim, but it's how I like to do things. You see, out of all eleven of SimFic's Regional Controllers, I have the biggest administrative area and the smallest staff. Like the plankton, there's a lot of me, but I have to spread myself very thin!"
Kim smiled, then took Campbell's offered hands, shaking them firmly. He stepped back, looking about him, conscious of how all eyes were on him.
"I'm delighted to meet you, Controller. And your friends, the ch'un tzu here ... are they all SimFic employees?"
Campbell looked about him, his casual ease contrasting strongly with the tenseness of the men surrounding him. "Not at all. We have these evenings 'once a week. Anyone who's anyone in Sohm Abyss comes along. But quite a number here are SimFic. I'll take you around in a moment. Put names to faces."
"Thanks," Kim smiled, warmed by Campbell's manner. Yet at the same time he was conscious of a strange tension in the air about him, as if things weren't quite as they seemed. He set the thought aside, determined to be sociable. "I was up on the viewing gallery just now. It's a beautiful place. I don't know why they don't build more of these Ocean Cities."
Campbell laughed. "Economics, Kim. Pure economics. The cost of the City itself is fairly negligible, but to site one of these little beauties—to carry out all of the necessary surveys and secure the seven great tether-cables—that costs a phenomenal amount. We just couldn't justify it these days."
Kim nodded thoughtfully. "And yet it^ias done."
"Oh, sure. But as far as SimFic is concerned we've a different strategy these days. I mean, why build these things new when you can acquire them? Take Sohm Abyss, for instance. Right now we own twenty-five percent of the facility. It's the most we can own under present legislation. But things are changing." Campbell looked about him. "It would be nice to fly the SimFic flag over one of these Cities, don't you think?"
There was a nodding of heads, a strong murmur of agreement.
"But enough of that." Campbell reached out, laying one large, bearlike hand familiarly on Kim's shoulder. "Let me take you around. Introduce you to the people you'll be working with."
Kim let himself be turned and led away. "Who were they?" he asked, glancing back at the group they had left.
"Company men," Campbell said quietly, stroking his goatee thoughtfully. "Administrators for the most part. By the way, would you like a drink?"
Kim hesitated. "I. . ."
Campbell stopped one of the waiters and took a wine cup from his tray. "Oh, that's right. You don't drink. That's good. Some of them out here drink far too much. And other things besides. They think I don't know what goes on, Kim, but IVe my own sources. Take the guy in the gray, for instance."
Kim turned, looking back, noting a tall, thin-faced man in gray silks.
"YouVe got him. Good. That's Bonnot. Alex Bonnot. He's the Scientific Supervisor here. Your direct boss. A good man according to the records. Reliable. Honest. But I've my doubts. So watch him, eh, Kim? And let me know if he oversteps the bounds."
Kim's eyes flicked up to Campbell's face and then away, not quite understanding what was meant. But this whole thing felt odd. Why, for instance, hadn't Campbell introduced him to them? "I don't follow," he said after a moment. "I thought you were in charge of things here."
Campbell smiled. "Overall, yes. But Sohm Abyss is Bonnet's. At least, the science side of things. The fish-farming, cold-storage, and star-gazing part, as we like to call it. The administrative side is run by the man standing next to l»iih, Schram. Dieter Schram. He fancies himself as a bit of a scholar, but he's hardly in your league, Kim. Dull, too, unfortunately. Which is probably why he got this posting. As for myself, I spend most of my time traveling between the Cities. I've eight in my region, though I'm actually based at Cape Verde."
"So I take my orders from Bonnot?"
"And Schram. But they take their orders from me." Campbell turned slowly, relaxedly, drawing Kim on through the crowd, ignoring the staring faces, moving toward a group who were standing beside one of the pillars. "Oh, I know what goes on in places like this. I also know what's happened to you in the past, Kim. IVe read your file thoroughly. But you can be sure that nothing like that will happen here. In fact, you have my word on it." He slowed, looking down at Kim. "Oh, I'll work you hard enough, Kim Ward, but I'll be fair with it. And if we get results, I'll be generous to you. Outside the terms of your contract, understand me?"