Abban's nit-picking outraged Florian; Catlin found his reminders merely a waste of her time and treated them with cool disdain. That was the difference in them. Ari smiled, shook her head and walked on into the living area of the master suite, gratefully turned the briefcase over to Catlin and fell into a formfit chair with a groan, while Florian went straight to the Minder to read out the entries since Abban would have set it sometime today.
"God," she sighed, leaned back in the soft chair and let it mold around her, feet up. "How are we, clean enough?"
"Nothing's clean enough in this place," Catlin said. She set the briefcase on the entry table, opened it, pushed a button and checked the interior electronics. "Everything's real nervous," Catlin said. "I'll be glad to get out of here."
Florian nodded. "Minder was set up at 1747, only staff admitted since then."
"It was supposed to be set by 1500," Catlin said, cool disapproval.
"Abban did the set." Snipe. "Probably re-set it when he came in." Double snipe. "I'll ask him. —Sera, just sit here awhile. Let us go over everything."
"God," Ari moaned, and reached down and pulled off her shoes. "If there's a bomb I don't care. I want my shower, I want my supper, I want my bed, I don't care who's in it."
Florian laughed. "Quick as we can," he said, and left the Minder and went and looked at Catlin's readouts, then unpacked his own kit, laying out his equipment.
Carelessness was the one direct order they would never obey. No one checked out her residences except them and that was the Rule. Catlin had made it, years ago, and they all still respected it. No matter the inconvenience.
So she tucked her knees up sideways in the chair and shut her eyes, still seeing the cylinder going into the ground, the cenotaph slamming down; Abban's pale face; Justin's, across from her on the plane, so pale and so upset—
Damned long day. Damnable day. Corain was willing to deal but Corain was being careful, Corain was playing as hard and as nasty as he could. Corain had gotten to Wells, on the Bureau committee, and after the recess the questions had gotten brutal and detailed.
What is your present position in Reseune? Who approved it?
When was the last time you spoke to your father? What was his state of mind?
Have you ever had treatment for psychological problems? Who administered it?
You have an azi companion, Grant ALX-972. Did he come with you? Why not?
Have you ever been subject to a psych procedure you haven't previously mentioned to this committee?
Justin had held his ground—occasionally outright lying to the committee, or lying by indirection, a flat challenge to the opposition inside the Bureau to see if they had the votes to mandate another psychprobe: they don't have, she had assured him in the recess; but let's don't put that to the test, for God's sake.
He had held up, absolutely no fractures, till his voice began to give out: the temper built, the nerves steadied—he always did that, nervous as hell because politics gave him flashes, because that mind of his saw so many possibilities in everything, and sorted and collated over so wide a range he had trouble thinking of where he was and what was going on around him, but he had stalled off, found his equilibrium—she had recognized that little intake of breath, that set of the shoulders the instant she saw it on camera in the adjoining room, known that all of a sudden the committee was dealing with a Justin Warrick who was inthat room, and starting onto the offensive.
Good,she had thought then, good. They think they can push him. He hasn't even been here till now. Now he is. He's too smart to go over to Corain. He'll never follow anyone's lead who's making mistakes: he's got far too much impatience with foul-ups and he said it while he was under kat: No one helped my father then. Not one of his damn friends. He has a lot of hostility about that.
They'll find out they're dealing with a Special, after he's made off with their keys and their cred-slips—damn, he's good when he cuts loose; everything they say his father has, including the temper—once you get it going, once you get him to stop analyzing and move. He's still learning these people and he hates real-time work with a passion. Field-too-large. He's never learned to average and extemp the way I have: Justin wants exactitudes, and you don't get that in real-time and you don't get it in politics. The same precision that makes him so valuable in design, that's why his designs are so clean—that's why he's so damn slow, and why he keeps putting embellishments on them—patches, for intersects he can see and the other designers, even Yanni, damned well can't—
Someday, when we get back, out of this, we've got to talk about that. . . .
There's got to be a search-pattern he's using that isn't in program, even if he's got total recall on those sets—
If he could explain it—
I can almost see it. There's something in the signature of the designers themselves—a way of proceeding—he's comprehending on a conceptual level. But he's carrying it into CIT work—
"They're sending a tray up," a strange voice said, and Justin, lying on the bed and almost gone, felt a jolt of panic: it should be Grant's voice; and it was not.
Kelly, the man's name was. Security. He passed a hand over his eyes, raked fingers through his hair and murmured an answer.
He was all right, he kept telling himself; he was safe. Kelly was on his side, there only to protect him.
He levered himself up off the bed, dizzy from fatigue, the down-side of the adrenaline high he had been on hour after hour. "I don't think I can eat."
"I have orders you should, ser," Kelly said, in a tone that said he would, bite by bite.
"Damn." A thought got to him. "I have a hospital appointment tomorrow. Rejuv. God." He thought of making the request through Kelly, but by his experience, nothing got done through lower levels. "Is Florian or Catlin still in the net?"
"Yes, ser."
"Tell them give me a call. Tell them I'm without my medication." He went into the bath and splashed water into his face and onto the back of his neck, worried now about Grant. He had no liking for taking medication from any random stock in Novgorod; he thought about Ari's elaborate security precautions around Grant and worried about the breach it could create, or whether there was any motive for anyone at Reseune to substitute drugs.
"Ser Justin?" Florian hailed him, from the wall-speaker. "This is Florian. Do you mean your prescription? We have that."
"Thanks. Have they made arrangements for Grant? He's on the same schedule."
"We thought of that. It's taken care of, ser. Do you need it tonight?"
"Thank you," he said, relieved. Trust Florian. Nodetail dropped. "No, I'm going to rest tonight, it sends me hyper—God knows I don't need it before bed." It also hurt like hell; and he was not looking forward to it. Could notgo through tomorrow's hearings on pain-killer.
"Yes, ser. It's all right then. Have a good sleep."
"Endit," he said to the Minder. And heard the suite door open. His heart jumped.
Kelly, he told himself. Dinner was a little early. He toweled his face dry, hung the towel on the hook and walked out into the bedroom.
No Kelly.
Not likeSecurity. "Minder," he said. "Minder, get Florian AF. Next door."
No sound.
"Minder, give me an answer."
Dead.
O my God.
"It's Abban, sera," the Minder said; and Ari levered herself out of the chair to manual the door herself, Florian and Catlin still being occupied about their checks in the bedroom.