Six
“It’s a lie!” He squeezed the telephone receiver. A tendon in his wrist went pop, then cramped. Groping behind himself for the forcechair, he lowered himself into its soft resilience. On the other side of the room, Sam broke off his conversation with H’nik and turned to stare. “Walking Mule, Greystein would never—”
“The holo says different, McGill.”
“Then the holo says wrong. I know him. He’s my friend.”
Silence ensued, broken only by the clicks and crackles of a patient line. Then Walking Mule sighed. “Decide for yourself.”
A hologram appeared on the Flop Table in the corner. “Wait a minute.” He went over and picked it up.
Fifteen centimeters on a side, in full color with good detail, it held two miniature Terrans who sat at a wicker table in a treetop restaurant. One was Greystein. The other, with the tonsure of dark hair and caterpillar eyebrows and machine-smooth planes of his cheeks, was Milford Hommroummy.
Feighan scowled at the two, who smiled at each other. Hommroummy was handing Greystein something small and green; it sparkled where light hit its facets full on: an emerald. “Walking Mule, this doesn’t mean a thing.”
“One of the top men in The Organization is paying off your roommate and it doesn’t mean anything?”
Extending the receiver to arm’s length, he gave it a glare that should have melted its plastic, then returned it to his ear. “No.”
Sam waddled over. “What’s wrong?”
“Later,” said Feighan abruptly.
“What?” said Walking Mule.
“Not you, I was talking to Sam.”
“So answer my question.”
“What—about the meaning of this—this frame?” He eased himself into the chair again, settling a centimeter as its contours adjusted to his.
“Come on, McGill.”
“No, you come on! Let’s put you in the scenario. You’re sightseeing on Rehma. You can afford a posh restaurant, so you go to one. It’s crowded. Somebody says, ‘Are you alone?’ and you say, ‘Yes.’ He says, ‘Mind if I share your table?’ and you say, ‘No.’ Over dinner you talk. He says he’s a jewelry sales rep. He digs into his valise and says, ‘Here, this is what I peddle,’ and you say, ‘My god, is it real?’ and he laughs. A real, deep, straight-from-the-belly laugh. And he says, ‘Hell, no! We grow them in a lab at L-5.’ You go ‘Whew!’ and wipe the sweat off your forehead. And you don’t know—you don’t ever know—that somebody’s in the next tree taking your holo with a tele-setup. And even if you did know, you wouldn’t care, because you don’t know the guy across from you is the guy who’s spent twenty years trying to kidnap your best friend. You see what I mean, Walking Mule? This picture isn’t evidence or proof or anything but a hologram of one lousy moment in time that could have been accidental or could have been staged or could have been any goddam thing—”
“McGill,” said the Senior Flinger firmly, “calm down.”
“My best friend’s got a million bucks on his head and you tell me to calm down?”
Sam tugged his sleeve. “I thought I was your best friend.”
He looked down into his ward’s unhappiness. “You are. Greystein’s my other best friend.”
Walking Mule said, “What?”
“I’m talking to Sam again.”
“Oh … look, McGill, it could be your scenario’s the truth—it strikes me as one hell of a lot more likely than Davis’ theory that Greystein’s done himself a dirty deal—but there is no way anybody in NAC-HQ will believe it until Greystein comes back and defends himself in person.”
“Hah!”
“What?”
“First off, I mean just for starters, who is he going to defend himself against, huh? An anonymous accuser? A holo?”
“Well, now—”
“And second, just how much defending could he do with scrambled eggs for brains?”
“It ain’t that bad!”
“Yeah? Somebody’s gone to a lot of trouble to smear him. If you think about it, you’ll realize somebody hired a Flinger to shadow him. So you tell me this: what guarantee is there that the ‘behavior modification’ isn’t going to turn him into a carrot, accidentally on purpose, if you know what I mean?”
“Hold your horses, son—are you saying somebody here is out to get him?”
“It sure looks that way, doesn’t it?”
“McGill …” Walking Mule sounded old and frail; it was clear the strain was telling on him. “I see what you’re saying, but there is only one way for that boy to clear his name. This is his only chance.”
“Ah, Jesus Christ!”
“If he turns up, talk him into it, will you? You got my word on this, McGill: if he turns himself in to the PsychSection, nobody—but nobody—is going to hurt him. I will watch them all like a hawk.”
“Yeah, I … if he turns up.” Sickness rose in the pit of his stomach. Even a moment’s more debate with the old Indian would bring on despair. “I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up.
H’nik still stood—squatted? sat?—in the shadows of the far corner; motionless, it could have been dormant or eavesdropping. Sam lay sprawled beside Feighan’s forcechair; his tail thumped a melancholy beat. His snout rubbed circles on the carpet. A half-full stein was going flat on the bar. And Greystein’s bedroom was empty.
“Dammit!”
H’nik rippled its spines; Sam sat up with a jerk.
“I’m sorry,” said Feighan. “I didn’t mean to disturb you two.”
“It is no disturbance,” said H’nik. “I understand the agony of soul which you are experiencing. Two centuries ago, my favorite teacher stood accused of civil disobedience and would not reform; we, its pupils, were forced to assist in the ceremonial root-and-spine-stripping. It lived less than a month before it was forced to tap down—now its bud is my pupil. It is genetically identical to its forebear, yet it is not the same. I miss my teacher greatly.”
“Ah …” His thoughts spun in spirals then flew off on tangents. He appreciated the Actuni’s attempts to soothe him, but not its timing. The world had turned topsy-turvy: his closest friend, his roommate for over eight years, an Organization pawn? True or false, it needed to age, to soften with time, before its edge dulled.
If only everyone else did not believe it to be true!
Wait. “Sam.”
The Rhanghan lifted his head. “What?”
“You’ve spent a lot of time around Greystein—did you ever notice, did you ever feel, any, ah, malice on his part toward me?”
“What’s malice?”
“Did you ever feel him wanting to hurt me?”
Sam crinkled his forehead. “If he’d wanted to, he would have, wouldn’t he?”
“No. I mean … do you know what a plot is?”
“Part of a story?”
“No … it’s a secret thing, where people get together and decide they’re going to hurt somebody else at some time in the future, but until that time they pretend they like the person and—”
“Oh, yeah, I know what you mean, McGill. No. Greystein never felt that way about you.”
“Dammit!”
H’nik rubbed the spines below its left “eye.” “Should that not please you?”
“Well, yes, but … I mean … it’s good to hear that Greystein wasn’t plotting against me—not that I thought he was—but I said dammit because what Sam says is proof that he wasn’t working for The Organization. If he wasn’t, he was being framed. And …”
“And he is in mortal danger, yes?”
“Yeah, he is.” The chair helped him up. He began to pace, then snapped his fingers angrily. There was only one thing he could do: find Greystein himself. If he could do that, he could convince him to return to New York and straighten the whole mess out. Somehow.
It was the only way.
“Sam.”
“What now, McGill?”
“How about helping me look for Greystein?”
“I’m pretty sleepy. It’s twelve-thirty in the morning, you know.”
“You want somebody else to find him first?”
“But why? I thought he was your other best friend.”
“He is!” He clenched his fists. He needed Sam’s skills at their most acute, so it frustrated him when the child acted, well … childish. “Listen … anybody else will kill Greystein for the reward. If we can find him first, and talk to him, then maybe—maybe—”
“Can I have some candy?”
“If you have it quickly; then we’ll take off.”
“Where?”
“Canopus Eighteen—Hideaway—I have a hunch he’s basking in the sun right now.”
While Sam slithered into the kitchen for his bonus snack, Feighan went to his own bedroom. In the doorway he paused and bit his lip. Then he crossed to the chest of drawers that stood against the wall. Opening the bottom drawer, pawing aside the mismatched socks and torn shirts he had never gotten around to repairing, he retrieved the bag of fifty-millimeter ball bearings.
He hefted it thoughtfully. Once upon a time, in a hotel room on the Moon, he had defended himself against Milford Hommroummy and company by using his Talent to impart high momentum to pebbles. At two kilometers per second, a pebble acts like a bullet. And the Talent permits more accurate aiming than do lands and grooves.
He wanted to put the bag back—he wanted to believe that he, of all people, would be safe with Greystein—but … the holo. The plague. The rape. They scared him. Wittingly or no, Greystein had done them all—and if he could do that, he could threaten Feighan, as well. Shaking his head in true sorrow, he tucked the bag into his pocket.
Then he went to find Sam, who was slamming cupboard doors in the kitchen. “You ready?”
“Not yet.” The Rhanghan chinned himself on the counter edge, planted his front feet on its top, and, balancing on his tail, dragged the rest of his body up. He opened a cupboard. “You want some fried grasshoppers?”
“You kidding?”
“They’re dipped in honey.”
Feighan made a face. “They’re all yours, kid.”
“Gee, thanks, McGill!” Clutching the box, he swung his tail over the edge and began to clamber down.
“Save a few, huh?”
“I thought you said you didn’t want any.”
“I don’t, but somehow I don’t think it’s good for you to eat a whole box of—of those things. Not all at once. Take a few, put the rest back.”
“Oh, all right.” He poured himself a double handful and replaced the box. “Can I ride on your shoulder?”
“Now I know you’re kidding.”
“Aw, come on, McGill—I’m tired.”
“You’re too big.”
“I don’t feel big.”
“That’s ’cause you’re more horizontal than vertical—but there is no way I’m going to lug your forty-five kilos around, kid. You’ve got feet. Twice as many as I do, in fact. Use ’em.”
It was Sam’s turn to make a face. “Okay.” He dropped to the floor and pressed up against Feighan’s right leg. “I’m ready.”
“Let’s go, then.” He concentrated on the black sand beach in the quiet cove, concentrated—visualized—felt—knew—
*PING*
The gale pelted them with rain like ice; it sucked the breath from their lungs and bent Feighan backward with its force. Forearm over his eyes, he peered into the storm. He could see less than five meters. To his right thudded the surf, its spray salting the rain. Squinting, he tried to spot the glow of Greystein’s energy tunic. All was a haze.
Sam tugged at Feighan’s jacket. “He’s about fifty meters away, McGill.” He had to shout it. “Behind that big rock.”
Leaning into the wind, they slogged through the wet sand. Sam had to lead them; Feighan could not see the boulder until they were almost upon it. He doubted he could have found it on his own.
Greystein huddled in the outcropping’s lee. Though wet and bedraggled, he retained his insouciance. “Welcome to Hideaway!” He cupped his hands around his mouth to make a megaphone of them. “You come to drag me home?”
Feighan squatted and brought his face close to his roommate’s. “No! I want to talk you home.”
“What?”
He leaned closer yet. Their noses almost bumped, but the wind still whisked away one word in three. “I want to talk you home.”
“No way! I’m not having my brain molded.”
“Come on, Greystein, don’t make it any rougher on yourself.”
“I’m NOT going back.” His tunic flared a reflection of his defiance.
“Jesus! You planning on spending the rest of your life on the run?”
“If I have to.”
He stared into Greystein’s pallor. The rain streamed down his neck; it soaked through his underwear. Every time he wiggled his toes they squished. He shivered with cold—and with fear. “Come on.”
“No!”
“But they’ve Rogued you! Anybody can shoot you and get paid for it.”
“So what?”
“For Christ’s sakes, Greystein—”
“No!”
He wanted to grab his friend by the shoulders and shake him till he came to his senses. He had crossed half the galaxy to help Greystein save his own life, but Greystein seemed intent on throwing it away. It angered him. And it goaded him into saying, “What are you going to do, run to your buddy Milford Hommroummy?”
“What?”
“I said, you going to hide behind Hommroummy’s skirts?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He wiped the water out of his eyebrows.
Feighan patted his pocket. Damn, left it at home. “Wait here with Sam.”
*PING*
He trailed wet sand from the Flop Table to the end table by his chair, where he had left the holocube. After pressing the button to test the batteries, he—
*PING*
—returned to the beach. “Look at this.” He pushed the cube close to Greystein’s face and turned it on. “The detective brought this to Davis. The NAC is saying you work for The Organization.”
Greystein’s dark eyes widened. “That—that’s Milford Hommroummy?”
“Yeah.”
He took the cube from Feighan and scowled into its leafy spaciousness. “The same guy who’s been trying to snatch you?”
“You recognize him, huh?”
“Holy shit.” He sagged back against the boulder, apparently oblivious to the water coursing down its face. “Jesus, McGill, I didn’t know.”
He had defended Greystein to Walking Mule, but now he had to know the truth. “What happened? Why were you together?”
Greystein’s tired head move might have been a shrug. “I went out to Rehma between shifts one day—I was supposed to meet a friend in that restaurant there—she never showed up. The guy you say is Hommroummy did; he came over with a message for her. He introduced himself as her uncle.” His eyes unfocused slightly; he seemed to be watching something over Feighan’s right shoulder.
It was enough to make Feighan want to look in that direction, too—but he could let Sam worry about that.
“Anyway,” said Greystein, “he says his niece feels bad about standing me up, and he’s supposed to buy me lunch to make up for it. Okay, fine. I never argue with people who want to buy me lunch.” A flash of the old Greystein emerged with the words: “There aren’t enough folks around like that; it doesn’t pay to discourage them.”
“So what’s he doing giving you an emerald?”
“It was a bribe.”
Feighan swallowed hard. “For what?”
Greystein tilted his head back and let the rain splash his eyelids. “For the obvious—a bit of unauthorized Flinging.”
“Why?”
“He had two or three tons of artwork to go from Rehma to, uh … Edbarg, I think. There was a six-month waiting list at the local Flinger Building; he said he couldn’t wait because he’d already paid to rent an exhibition hall on Edbarg, and if he didn’t have the paintings there by the time the exhibit was supposed to open, he’d be indicted for some kind of fraud or something …” Greystein leaned forward, set the cube down, and spread his hands. “I didn’t know, McGill. The Network’s crazy; I believed the guy. So when he offered me the emerald for an hour’s work—” This time he shrugged with his shoulders.
“Let’s go back, Greystein. Tell all this to—”
“No.”
“Jesus, man! Would you—”
“No!” He scrambled to his feet. “I’m not going back.”
Feighan stood, too. Squatting had stiffened his knees; they wobbled. “Please.”
“No.”
“For me and Sam.”
“No.”
“Listen, what have you got to lose?”
“My soul!”
He made a mistake: he reached for Greystein’s arm.
Greystein backed up against the boulder. “I thought you were my friend.”
Feighan opened his mind, his Talent—and grabbed Sam’s hand.
Greystein vanished.
But Feighan was ready. When the other’s Talent tugged at him, he unleashed his own. Promptly unmooring him from that point in space, it hooked onto Greystein’s for a tow across the light years.
The darkness hurt, as always, but it frightened Feighan too, because he no longer knew who Greystein was. A fugitive, yes, but with what destination: life, or death? If he had collapsed as completely as his behavior suggested, he could be trying to commit suicide—and would take Feighan and Sam with him.
A mechanism he could not describe sensed Greystein’s change of momentum. It was like knowing without seeing whether it is light or dark. He altered his own inertia to match Greystein’s.
They materialized. The room held a bed and a chest of drawers which Greystein was already jerking open. Feighan looked around, frowned, then smiled as he oriented himself: they were home.
“Thank God-you changed your mind.”
Greystein stiffened. He spun. “You! You—” He disappeared.
Feighan had almost but not quite relaxed his guard. He followed, hand in scaled hand with Sam.
Again the darkness and the tearing and the infinity that was no time at all. Again the shift in momentum, slighter this time, a banked curve on a high-speed track.
But now he sensed something in his way, something standing where he and Sam would materialize. For a moment he panicked. If he were to appear in a place that was already occupied, the explosion would waste a metropolis.
Then he relaxed. If Greystein fled, he wanted to live, not die. He would not risk such a blast.
A burst of light blinded him: sunlight. He drew a breath of hot, humid air. With a blink and a gasp, he recognized the harbor and the Peak on the other side of it. Hong Kong. Or that part of it called Tsim Sha Tsui, the most densely populated neighborhood in the world.
The crowds had already swallowed Greystein.
“Dammit.”
Swarms of brightly colored sports shirts pushed past without a glance.
“That way, McGill.” Sam pointed up Nathan Road. “Around the corner.”
He was tired. Two Flings in less than five minutes, even with Greystein doing most of the work, had sapped his strength. But he caught his breath because he had to and fought his way through the crowds.
Around the corner, a panting Greystein leaned against a fruit vendor’s stall. His eyes were closed. The sun made his cheeks look ghostly pale.
Feighan approached him. “Greystein—”
*PING*
In the interstitial darkness Feighan bellowed out his anger and frustration. Flinging was exhausting when done properly; repeatedly teleporting without enough rest between each move invited collapse.
But he had to do it, and he had good reasons.
If he let Greystein escape, anybody with a gun and greed could collect one million dollars simply by pulling a trigger.
And no matter what Greystein said, he was not acting normally. He needed therapy—fast.
And sooner or later, the bureaucrats of the North American Consortium would begin to wonder about Greystein’s immunity to the behavior modification fields emitted by the computer that had monitored the room he and Greystein had shared back at the Academy.
And he, McGill Feighan, feared brainwashing every bit as much as Greystein did.
So he bellowed, and adjusted his angular momentum as soon as his roommate did, and materialized simultaneously with him on the shoulder of a road.
The forest beyond the gravel was yellow.
The sun in the sky was red.
The sky, at least, was blue.
Where the hell are we? he thought in desperation, afraid even to breathe lest the atmosphere be poisonous. He clamped his hand over Sam’s muzzle; the Rhanghan raked him with his claws.
Greystein turned. “You bastard!” Spinning, he ran.
Feighan ached to lie down and sleep. Three Flings in six minutes. Not fair. He could not keep it up. But he forced his legs to pump, because Greystein was clearly trying to open such a distance between them that when he teleported out, Feighan would not be able to follow.
Gasping, he ran; the air burned his lungs but seemed to have no other effect on him. Silly—he wouldn’t take us someplace he couldn’t survive.
The pavement hurt his feet, his shins. Strange sounds chittered out of the forest. Overhead wheeled something with a wingspan much too large. He hoped it was a scavenger, rather than a carnivore.
Greystein looked over his shoulder. “Damn”—breath—“you”—breath—“Feighan.”
“Come”—breath—“home!”
“No!” His arms churned as if they could give him extra speed. His leather soles slapped the roadbed. He kept looking back, looking to see if Feighan had fallen far enough behind.
But Feighan was in better shape. If he had not exercised during the past several years, neither had he dissipated himself. Whereas Greystein drank too much, slept too little, and partied too hard.
His breath came short and sharp, but he was gaining. A few meters more. A flying tackle. Bring the other down and—
It was then that he realized that he would take Greystein back. No matter what.
Greystein, just out of arm’s reach, glanced back, and—
*PING*
Feighan twisted frantically as he materialized in midair, nose to snout with a boggled Rii-edsch. He was in an elevator shaft, falling. Panic raced his heart—
Sam vomited on his pants, then said miserably, “I’m sorry, McGill. When I saw how far up we were, I just couldn’t help it.”
“That’s okay, kid.”
“Where are we?”
“The Hub.” The world-city of Flinger Network Control Headquarters was New York cubed. Buildings shot three klicks up and five down; more people lived in one of them than in all of Iowa. “Where’s Greystein?”
Sam pointed below their feet. “He’s moving faster than we are, though.”
The anti-grav gripped them so firmly that Feighan could not understand how the other could fall more rapidly—then it came to him. Greystein was giving himself little bursts of momentum—inertia that the anti-grav field quickly canceled, but which did widen the gap between himself and his pursuers.
Feighan smiled grimly. Pulling Sam closer, he unslung his Talent and had it add a few meters per second to their velocity. They jumped ahead.
Greystein, floating upside down so he could watch them, widened his eyes. He porpoised, then spurted for/downward into an unoccupied stretch of shaft.
Feighan teleported to within half a meter of him.
He promptly disappeared.
Feighan and Sam followed: to a spot a kilometer above New York Harbor, where the winds whistled crisp and the running lights of tramp schooners flickered on aluminized sails far below. Gulls scattered as the three appeared with a slight upward velocity that carried them fractionally higher, then wilted under gravity’s demand. They fell. And fell. And—
Sam shrieked. Feighan hugged him. The water rushed up at them; to hit it would be like smashing into a brick wall. Two meters ahead of him, Greystein tucked in his arms and legs and sped up.
Feighan did the same. A four-meter gap now. And the harbor’s choppy waters clear and swelling in the moonlight.
He could put them into their penthouse easily, or would be able to if he were awake, but even with the updraft forcing his eyelids apart they kept sliding closed, and he yawned massively, and—
*PING*
The stars chilled him with their clarity, their numbers, their unblinkingness. He screamed at once because Greystein had taken them to vacuum. He squeezed Sam’s ribcage so hard that bones cracked, but the kid had to scream, too, to empty his lungs so he would not explode like an overblown balloon. His eyeballs were drying. Steam rose from his skin and vanished at once. Greystein hung a meter away, watching them steadily while the small veins of his face and nose ruptured. Feighan thought, I ought to go now, but if I do—
*PING*
And the rain whipped them with cold fury.
Whimpering, Sam fell to the black sand.
Feighan breathed, raised his eyes to the clouds, and thanked God.
Greystein looked a wreck, but he slogged through the clinging sand to the strip of rocks that ran from the water to the dunes behind the beach.
Feighan followed. He almost dropped from exhaustion, but he had come too far to give up the chase.
Sam cried, “McGill!”
He kept going.
The Rhanghan dragged himself after them.
Falling to his knees when he reached the rocks, Greystein scrabbled among them. He raised his head. Triumph gleamed in his eyes. “Get back!”
“What?”
The wind softened. Greystein held out his hands. They were full of pebbles. “You remember you taught me this?”
A pebble disappeared from his hand and thudded gently against Feighan’s chest. He jumped back in alarm—then understood what Greystein had done. He slipped his own hand into his pocket. “Careful.”
“Go home, McGill.”
“Only with you.”
“I won’t go.” Another pebble winked out of existence on his palm and reappeared a centimeter in front of Feighan. This had more momentum. It jabbed at his flesh, almost breaking the skin.
“Hey!”
“Go home.”
“No. Not unless you come too.”
Sam tugged his left hand. “McGill, he’s going to hurt you.”
“Listen to the lizard, Feighan. Get out of here before—before I do something I don’t want to do.”
“Give it up, Greystein. Come on home.”
This pebble knocked him on his ass. When he moved, rib bones grated.
“The next one comes fast enough to kill, Feighan. Get out of here!”
Sam grabbed Feighan with his six-fingered hands. “Stop it! He will kill you! What’s wrong with him? Why are you doing it? Stop it! Stop it!”
“Please, Greystein, don’t make me—” He shrieked. The pebble had burned right through his upper arm.
He had never felt so close to death. He looked up. The maddened, vacuum-reddened eyes of his closest friend focused on the pebbles, then shifted to him. Blood ran down his own arm. His body ached and he was angrier than he had been in years. Scooping a ball bearing out of his pocket, he said, “Don’t.”
A pebble smacked through his upper left arm. He groaned, but got to his feet, still holding the shiny ball bearing. And staggered forward.
Greystein’s tears mingled with the rain. “I don’t want to! I don’t want to, but I will!”
Between them, Sam ran from one to the other, his tail whipping, his hands clutching desperately at theirs. “Don’t! Stop! Oh, please, you two, why, please! Stop!”
Feighan’s teeth chattered. “Put it down.” He stood alone on an alien beach with a child he had sworn to guard and a crazed stranger who had been his friend. He stood there alone. If he did not act, he would die.
Greystein bent his head to study the pebbles. He had two left.
“McGill!” screamed Sam.
Feighan moved. The pebble seared his neck. He choked. Pain filled his mouth and nose and eyes and ears with red metal fog—
“McGill! McGill!”
Greystein held the last pebble between the index finger and thumb of both hands. He lifted his arms above his head, a warped priest raising the sacrament of death—
“No,” whispered Feighan, but—
Greystein triggered his Talent. And grinned.
Time slowed. Feighan’s Talent felt the other ready his. Ignoring Feighan’s conscious mind, it spoke directly to his subconscious—which did not even think before saying, “Survive! Kill!”
It did.
Bearings burst out of their bag, charring Feighan’s pants. A swarm of angry silver bees, they sped for Greystein at ten kilometers per second. Gone in a flash, they left a hole through his chest where his heart had been. The pebble rolled out of his fingers.
Feighan limped over to kneel in the sand. Wind tore at his hair. He eased the corpse onto its back and let the rain and his own tears wash its face. Head bowed, he groped for words he had not spoken in years: “Our Father …”
Then he lifted his friend, though the sand shifted beneath his feet, and he cradled him in his arms. “Come here, Sam.”
The Rhanghan said, “Why—”
“I had to.”
“I know that—and so did he. Why didn’t he just come back? Why did he make you do it?”
Feighan bit his lip. “I don’t know.” Greystein dead was heavier than he had looked alive; Feighan’s arms hurt. “We’ve got to go.”
“Okay.” Sam came over to him.
*PING*
NAC Director Nathaniel Davis sat behind a desk spun of glass and steel; it reflected the underside of his jowls and the front of his powder-blue suit. He was talking to Gina Maccari. They both looked up in surprise.
“McGill!” said Maccari. “Wha—” She saw Greystein and sat down heavily.
Feighan’s feet sank into thick grey carpet as he crossed the room. It pleased him to drip water and sand and blood all over that rug. He lay the corpse across Davis’ desk. “There. You wanted him dead? You’ve got him dead. Bastard.”
Davis leaned back, his eyes unreadable.
Maccari said, “You’re bleeding.”
“Tell the Director that his quarry is dead.”
She leaned forward, head cocked. Eyes closed, she touched Greystein’s cheek. Then she straightened. “There’s no brain activity at all, Mr. Davis.” She did not look at him.
The Director nodded. “We’ll credit the reward to your account, Feighan.”
A reflex Fling of anger gave the Director one meter per second’s momentum; it sent him sprawling across the carpet. “You’re a pig, Davis.” Again he called on the Talent. Shutting his eyes, he concentrated on the corpse—visualized intolerable radiance torn like taffy by fields of magnetism—felt—knew—
*PING*
Davis said, “Where’d he go?” and gestured to the empty desk.
“The sun,” said Maccari in a murmur. “The Flinger’s Burial.”
“Come on, Sam.”
*PING*
The doctor on duty at the Emergency Room in the Building’s Infirmary was chatty and curious, but when Sam showed his teeth, he patched Feighan up quickly, efficiently—and silently.
*PING*
They got down from the Flop Table slowly. Sam avoided Feighan’s eye. He said, “I’m going to take a shower and go to bed, okay?”
He understood. “Sure. I’ll see you in the morning, huh?”
“Uh-huh.” He waddled away, tail dragging.
As Feighan made his way to the bar, H’nik scuttled forward. Oh my God! he thought. The last thing I need is—
“You grieve deeply for him.”
“Yeah.”
“Your friend Walking Mule visited earlier, and left with me a message for transmission to you: ‘There was no detective. Maccari provided the facts. Davis provided the holo himself.’ He told me to tell you that when you were alone.”
Drink in hand, he stood as if frozen. Maccari provided the facts? Gina helped destroy Greystein?
Just then Oscar chimed. The printout chattered. Torn off, the hardcopy bore the return address of the Office of the Director, North American Consortium. It read: “McGill Feighan must report for behavior modification tomorrow morning at 9:00 am.”