Troy brightened up. “Hey, Professor. That lizard-man who warned you on Thenia was black. You went ahead anyway despite his warning. What if he had been white? Would you have turned around and gone back to the shuttle? A black man playing the game encounters a white lizard-man on Thenia. It’s part of the show, man. There are twenty or so changes in the scenario that are based on racial input.”
Nick’s expression was clearly disbelieving. “Really,” Troy said, standing up to return to the room where they had played his game, “I’ll show you. Watch how the game starts if you register that you are a black male.”
Nick followed Troy back into the computer room. His curiosity was clearly piqued. Troy turned the game on and Nick entered the biographical data, changing his race to black. This time, when the television picture in his space station cabin came into focus, Princess Heather was black! The princess this time was, in fact, Angie Leatherwood. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Nick said, looking over at a beaming Troy. “You are one clever dude, Mr. Jefferson.” Nick walked out of the room whistling and shaking his head again. Troy turned off the game and followed.
“Okay,” Nick began, once they were back in Troy’s living room and seated on the couch, “one last question and then let’s forget the game for the time being. How did you get my name into it? I thought that was very impressive.”
“It was originally Lanny’s idea, based on a movie he watched about a speech therapist. Lanny had all the minor characters spend a day mouthing all the vowel and consonant sounds in a test session. Then we just put the sounds together with what are called audio analytic continuation techniques.” Troy laughed. He was feeling ebullient and basking in the compliments. “But it does have its drawbacks. Our interpreter only knows how to read simple English words. We may have to suppress that feature if we sell the game abroad.”
Nick stood up. “Well, I’ve run out of superlatives By the way, are there more of you, brothers, sisters, anything? I guess I’d like to warn the rest of the world.”
“Only me now,” Troy replied. a faraway look fleetingly crossing his face. “I had a brother, Jamie, six years older than me. We were very close. He died in an automobile accident when I was fourteen.”
There was an awkward silence. “I’m sorry,” Nick said, again touched by Troy’s openness. Troy shrugged his shoulders and struggled with the sudden memory.
Nick changed the subject. They talked about the boat and then about Homer and his crew for several minutes. Suddenly Nick looked at his watch. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “It’s after four o’clock. Weren’t we supposed to meet Carol Dawson at four?”
Troy jumped out of his chair. “We sure were. Some partners we turned out to be,” he was grinning again, “spending the entire afternoon drinking beer and playing games.” The two men shared a small hug, threw the empty beer cans in the trash, and went out the door toward Nick’s car.
7
Carol was clearly irritated as she sat in the communications room at the Marriott. She was drumming her fingers on the desk while she listened to the telephone ring. There was a click and then Nick’s voice said, “I am not at home at the present time. But if—” She flipped the switch off hastily and completed the sentence, her sardonic mimicry releasing some of her frustration, “But if you’ll leave your name, your number, and the time that you called, I’ll get back to you as soon as I return. S-h-i-t. Shit. I knew I should have called before I left Miami.”
She dialed another number. Bernice answered and put her right through (on video) to Dr. Dale Michaels. Carol did not bother with a greeting. “Can you believe that I can’t even find the stupid bastard? He’s not on his boat, he’s not at home. Nobody knows where he is. I could have stayed in Miami and taken a nap.”
Carol had not told Dr. Dale much about Nick and Troy. And what she had said about Nick had not been flattering.
“Well, what did you expect?” Dale responded. “You wanted to go out with amateurs as a cover. Why would you think that he would be easy to find before your appointment? That kind usually stays in bed with his dame of the day until he has some reason to greet the world.” Dale chuckled to himself.
Carol found herself strangely annoyed by Dale’s disdainful comment about Nick’s love life. She started to say something but decided against it. “Say, Dale,” she said instead, “is this phone line absolutely secure? I have a couple of sensitive items to discuss with you.”
He smiled. “Nothing to worry about. I have sensors that flash if there is the slightest unexplained break anywhere in the line. Even on your end.”
“Good,” Carol replied. She pulled out her notebook and scanned a handwritten list.” As far as Arnie Webber knows,” she said, looking up at the video camera, “there are no legal prohibitions against salvaging any U. S. government property, provided it is returned to its rightful owner very soon after its retrieval. So I wouldn’t technically be committing a crime if I pull the missile up.” She checked the first item off her list.
“But, Dale, I thought about something else on the flight down here from Miami. This thing is, after all, some kind of guided missile. What if it blows up? Am I crazy to worry about such a thing? Or is it somehow incapacitated or what-ever by sitting down there in the sand and salt water for several days?”
Dale laughed. “Sometimes, Carol, you’re divine. I am fairly confident that the new missile is designed to operate either in the air or in water. And I don’t think that the sand would be able to foul up its critical parts in a short period of time. However, the fact that it hasn’t exploded yet suggests to me that it probably wasn’t armed in the first place, except possibly for a small destruct device that may or may not have already failed. You are taking a calculated risk in retrieving that missile. I still strongly suggest that you make your dive, obtain the photographs, and then go public with the story. Dredging the missile up for display purposes seems to me to be more of a stunt than journalism. Besides, it’s dangerous.”
Carol was curt. “As I said in the car, you are entitled to your opinion. The Navy could make a case that I faked the pictures somehow. But they cannot argue with a missile that has physical presence and can clearly be seen by a nationwide television audience. I want maximum impact for the story.”
She checked another item off the list in her notebook. “Oh, yes, I forgot to mention this morning that I met another boat captain down here, a bit of a creep actually, an older fat man named Homer. He seemed to recognize me almost immediately. Wealthy, big yacht and all that. Strange crew—”
“Was his last name Ashford? Homer Ashford?” Dale interrupted her.
Carol nodded. “So you know him?” she asked.
“Certainly,” Dale replied. “He was the leader of the expedition that found the Santa Rosa treasure in 1986. You’ve met him too, although it’s obvious you’ve forgotten. He and his wife were guests at the MOI awards banquet early in 1993.” Dale stopped to think. “That’s right. I remember now, you were real late coming to the party because of that threat made against you by Juan Salvador. But I’m surprised you forgot them, the wife especially. She was a great big fat woman and she thought you were the cat’s pajamas.”