Buried somewhere within that rare earth-doped fiber-optic mass were the answers to his questions. Somehow he doubted it would be safe to plug in his spinner and try calling them up. Gaggii had warned them that the merest kiss of an unauthorized probe would unravel his molly. Moody didn’t delude himself into thinking he was weaver enough to braid between the seams. They needed an orber here; the best in the country.
Ooljee had reached the same conclusion. “We go back to Ganado and make out a report that includes the details I didn’t have time to phone in. An APB goes out on Yistin Gaggii. We particularly want to alert regional dealers in heavy-duty mollys and spinners. We do not want him reassembling anything like this in a rented house somewhere in Hope or Page Springs. He can only do so much with that wrist unit.”
“What about a little preventative medicine?” Moody asked tersely.
“I have already had the power to the house shut off.” Ooljee gestured at the overhead lights. “Our own equipment is running off a truck generator. Same for the phone, so he can’t access by radio link, and the roof dish, so he cannot use an orbital relay. This house is now isolated, my friend. There is no way he can reach his database. He’s isolated, too, wherever he is.
“The next time we run into him it will go better. Let him try to call up snakes without a molly.”
“Unless he’s got a backup stashed out in the woods someplace.” Ooljee eyed him sharply. “Another building, an apartment somewhere: we don’t know one way or the other. If he did lay in a backup, it’s probably not this elaborate. But it’s liable to be enough to let him get on with his work.”
The sergeant nodded slowly. “It depends how vulnerable he thought himself, despite what he told us.”
“From what we saw of him, he struck me as a pretty careful sort of guy. I’d be surprised if he didn’t have something to fall back on.”
“In the end it will not matter.” Ooljee was optimistic. “His features are distinctive. We will find him quickly.”
“Hope so.” Forensics personnel bustled around the garage while men wearing puzzled expressions and heavy sidearms griped about the lateness of the hour. “W’hat do y’all think he’ll do now?”
Ooljee considered. “If he is as dedicated as he seemed, he will continue with his work. Otherwise he will try to lice the country.”
“That’s the way I figure it. I imagine he’s trying to get deeper into the web. Wonder what else he can call up besides serpentine-shaped electromagnetic fields? What other cute li’l critters do you find in sandpaintings? No, never mind: I don’t want to know. I’ve had enough of your mutaphysics for one night. Let’s get some rest. Somebody else can scan reports for a while.”
“Rest, yes,” agreed Ooljee readily, “and some help. Specialist help.”
Ooljee’s lieutenant spent five minutes listening to their story before he cut them off and passed them up to the assistant chief, who escorted them to the Chief’s office and departed in haste. Chief Yazzie tolerated their story of weaver hatathlis and alien webs and thousand-year-old databases of unknown dimensions. Being a sensible, reasonable man with thirty years police experience, he bought little if any of it.
On the other hand, he was compelled by the reality of two people murdered by mysterious means in Florida, a house in the woods filled with more equipment than your average forward-listening military outpost, and most damn-ingly, one half-melted departmental pickup truck. He was willing to allow that something odd was going on within his jurisdiction, something illegal and dangerous if not immediately explicable. That much he was willing to acknowledge. Endless Snake he was not.
All in all, he decided, it would be a good thing to accept the recommendations of the two earnest officers that they find one Yistin Gaggii as quickly as possible and subject him to some serious questioning.
Of that much sought-after individual there was as yet no report, but Yazzie was as confident as his men that they would find him. He had not had sufficient time to get far, and controls had been placed on all roads and forms of public transportation. The Arizona Department of Public Safety was cooperating fully with Reservation forces. Mobile radar units would ensure that no off-road vehicle exited Reservation boundaries without first being challenged. Tonight Gaggii’s face would appear on one of the vid’s most popular criminal-cache programs. After that there would not be a place in the country where he could go without a chance of being recognized.
The department had moved fast. There was a good chance they could restrict their quarry to the Rez, the Four Comers area at worst. With every law-enforcement agency in the region giving him top priority, Yistin Gaggii was going to have a hard time buying breakfast without being spotted.
Samantha Grayhills agreed. It was she who took the form, if not the shape, of the help Ooljee had requested.
Moody found himself being introduced to a short, voluptuous, dark-haired woman with a broad smile and trenchant gaze. She didn’t eye him like a cop.
She smiled even when she talked, no matter how serious the subject matter. Her skin was the color of oiled oak. She had a man’s handshake, not some flighty caress-and-pass like a pair of railroad cars uncoupling. He wondered if she lifted weights, though he could detect no evidence of any unusual musculature beneath her clothing.
Her hair clip was traditional silver and turquoise, her attire anything but. The pleated beige jumpsuit boasted enough zippers and pockets to equip a closet full of uniforms. The pockets bulged with mysterious lumps and knots which distorted more familiar curves.
Unlike most of the other Navaho women he’s seen, she wore no jewelry save for the hair clip. Not that she was either poor or unfashionable; he guessed that she didn’t wear a lot of metal because it might affect the readings of some of the instruments she carried with her.
“What agency are you with?” Moody asked her.
That unwavering smile illumined the room where they had gathered. “I am not with an agency, Mr. Moody.”
“Vernon. Not with an agency?”
She sounded sympathetic. “I am the principal orber for Noronco International. That will have to do for credentials. Perhaps you have seen one of our commercials?”
Moody turned on his partner. “What the hell is this?”
“The department pulled some strings.” Ooljee tried to allay his friend’s discomfort. “Flew her up from Phoenix just a little while ago. I have barely had time to brief her.”
“I still don’t see why—”
“Because you apparently need my services, detective. Noronco is a Thai-American combine whose North American operations are based in Phoenix. We specialize in the manufacture of mollyspheres; everything from kids’ games to military molly ware. My particular area of expertise happens to be syndetic security. I would not be surprised if you used one or two of my inserts in your own office.”
“Oh.” Moody looked at her differently.
“When the department put in for assistance,” Ooljee explained helpfully, “they requested the most qualified individual in the area. The request did not go out with occupational restrictions.”
“From what I was told on the way up from the airport,” Grayhills said, “you two are either candidates for therapy or else you’ve stumbled across one of the secrets of the ages. The story is so fantastic, I find myself hoping there is something to it.”
“That’s funny,” Moody told her, “because we keep hoping there isn’t.”