"I am filled with confidence," he breathed, shaking his head. "Don't worry, Cheradenine."
"Me, worry?"
The car came; he saw it from his window. He went down to meet Mollen. He'd liked to have worn the suit again, but doubted they'd let him into their high security areas wearing it. He took the old raincoat, and the dark glasses.
"Hello."
"Hello there, Mollen."
"A pleasant day."
"Yes."
"Where are we going?"
"I don't know."
"But you're driving."
"Yes."
"Then you must know where we're going."
"Please repeat that?"
"I said you must know where you're going if you're driving."
"I'm sorry."
He stood by the side of the car while Mollen held the door open.
"Well, at least tell me whether it's very far, I may want to tell people I won't be back for a while."
The large man frowned, the scarred face creasing in strange directions, unusual patterns. He hesitated over which button on the box to press. Mollen's tongue licked his lips as he concentrated. So they had not literally taken his tongue out, after all.
He assumed whatever was wrong with Mollen was to do with his vocal chords. Why the man's superiors hadn't just fitted him with an artificial or re-grown set he couldn't deduce, unless they preferred their underlings to have a limited set of replies. Certainly they'd have a hard time speaking ill of you.
"Yes."
"Yes it's far away?"
"No."
"Make up your mind." He stood with his hand on the open car door, indifferent to his unkindness to the grey-haired man; he rather wanted to test his inbuilt vocabulary.
"I'm sorry."
"Is it quite close then, within the city?"
The scarred face frowned again. Mollen tutted with his lips and pressed another set of buttons with an apologetic look. "Yes."
"Within the city?"
"Perhaps."
"Thank you."
"Yes."
He got in. It was a different car to that he'd been in the night before. Mollen got into the separate driver's compartment and belted himself in carefully; he pedalled a gear and drew smoothly away. A couple of other cars followed immediately behind them, then stopped at the entrance to the first street they took outside the hotel, blocking the cars of the pursuing media people.
He was watching the small, high specks of wheeling birds when the view started to disappear. At first he thought that black screens were rising outside the windows behind and to either side of him. Then he saw the bubbles; it was some black liquid which was filling the space between the double-layers of glass in the back of the car. He pressed the button to talk to Mollen. "Hey!" he shouted.
The black liquid was halfway up the screens, gradually rising between him and Mollen as well as on the other three sides.
"Yes?" Mollen said.
He grabbed a door handle. The door opened; a draft of cold air whistled in. The black liquid continued to fill the space between the panes of glass. "What is this?"
He saw Mollen carefully pressing a button on his voice synthesiser, before the liquid blocked the view forward.
"Do not be alarmed, Mr Staberinde. This is just a precaution, to ensure that Mr Beychae's privacy is respected," said an obviously prepared message.
"Hmm. Okay." He shrugged; he shut the door and was left in the dark until a small light came on. He sat back and did nothing. The unexpectedness of the blacking out was perhaps meant to frighten him, perhaps designed to see what he would do.
They drove on; the yellow light of the small bulb gave a stale, warm feel to the interior of the car, which although large
was made to seem small by the absence of an exterior view; he turned up the ventilation, sat back again. He kept the dark glasses on.
They turned corners, zoomed and dived, boomed through tunnels and over bridges. He guessed he noticed the vehicle's motions more because of the lack of any outside reference.
They echoed through a tunnel for a long time, going downwards in what felt like a straight line but could have been a wide spiral, then the car stopped. There was a moment of silence, then some indistinct noises from outside, perhaps including voices, before they moved forward again a short way. The transceiver jabbed delicately at his ear-lobe. He pushed the bead further into his ear. "X-ray radiation," the earring whispered.
He allowed himself a small smile. He waited for them to open the door and demand the transceiver… but the car only moved forward a little again.
The vehicle dropped. Its engine was silent; he presumed they were in a large elevator. They stopped, moved forward again, still silent, paused, then carried on forward and down. This time the spiral was obvious. There was still no noise from the vehicle's engine, so they were either being towed, or freewheeling.
The black liquid drained slowly from the windows as they drew to a halt. They were in a wide tunnel under long white strip lights. The tunnel extended back until it started to curve, forward until it ended before large metal doors.
Mollen was nowhere to be seen.
He tested the car door, opened it, stepped out.
The tunnel was warm, though the air seemed fresh enough. He took off the old raincoat. He looked at the metal doors. Set into them was a smaller door. There was no handle to pull, so he pushed it, but nothing happened. He went back to the car, found the horns, blew them.
The noise crashed into the tunnel, rang in his ears, echoing. He sat in the back of the car.
After a while, the woman came through the small door. She came to the car, looked in through the window.
"Hello."
"Good afternoon. Here I am."
"Yes. And still wearing your glasses." She smiled. "Please; come with me," she said, and walked quickly off. He collected the old raincoat and followed.
Behind the doors the tunnel went on, then they came to doors set into the side of the wall; a small elevator took them down still further. The woman wore a straight, all-covering gown in black with thin white stripes.
The lift stopped. They entered a small hallway like that of a private house, set about with pictures and potted plants and finished in streaky, smokily smooth stone. A thick carpet smothered their footsteps as they went down some steps and onto a large balcony set halfway up the wall of a large hall; everywhere else the hall was covered with books or tables, and they walked down a staircase with books below the wood under their feet, books above the wood over their heads.
She guided him round floor-standing book-stacks, and led him to a table with chairs around it. A machine stood on the table-top with a small screen set into it and spools scattered about it.
"Wait here, please."
Beychae was in his bedroom, resting. The old man — bald, face deeply lined, dressed in robes which hid the modest paunch he'd developed since he'd devoted himself to study — blinked as she tapped at and opened the door. His eyes were still bright.
"Tsoldrin. I'm so sorry to disturb you. Come and see who I've brought to see you."
He came with her along the corridor, and stood at the door while the woman pointed to the man standing at the table with the tape-reading screen on it.
"Do you know him?"
Tsoldrin Beychae put on some glasses — he was old-fashioned enough to wear his age rather than try to disguise it — and peered at the man. The fellow was fairly young, long-legged, dark-haired — the hair swept back, held in a pony-tail — and possessed a striking, even handsome face, darkened by the sort of beard-growth that never disappears through surface shaving alone. The lips were disquieting, looked at exclusively; they appeared cruel and arrogant, and only when the eye took in the rest of the face as well did this impression seem too severe, and — reluctantly, perhaps — the observer had to allow that the dark glasses could not completely hide wide eyes and full brows, which — open and obvious — made the complete impression not disagreeable.