IX
Presently free fall went away and we entered the incredibly thrilling sensations of hypersonic glide. The computer was doing a good job of smoothing out the violence, but you could still feel the vibration in your teeth-and I could feel it elsewhere after my busy night.
We dropped through transonic rather abruptly, then spent a long time in subsonic, with the scream building up. Then we touched and the retros cut in... and shortly we stopped. And I took a deep breath. Much as I like the SBs, I can't relax from touchdown to full stop.
We had lifted at North Island at noon Thursday, so we arrived forty minutes later at Winnipeg the day before (Wednesday) in the early evening, 1940 hours. (Don't blame me; go look at a map-one with time zones marked.)
Again I waited and was last passenger out. Our captain again picked up my bag but this time escorted me with the casualness of an old friend-and I felt enormously warmed by it. He took me through a side door, then went with me through Customs, Health, and Immigration, offering his own jumpbag first.
The CHI officer did not touch it. "Hi, Captain. What are you smuggling this time?"
"The usual. Illicit diamonds. Trade secrets. Weapons specs. Contraband drugs."
"That's all? It's a waste of chalk." He scrawled something on Ian's bag. "Is she with you?"
"Never saw her before in my life."
"Me Injun squaw," I asserted. "White boss promise me much firewater. White boss don't keep promise."
"I could have told you. Going to be here long?"
"I live in the Imperium. Transient, possibly overnight. I came through here on my way to New Zealand last month. Here's my passport."
He glanced at it, stamped it, scrawled on my bag without opening it. "If you decide to stay a little longer, I'll buy you firewater. But don't trust Captain Tormey." We went on through.
Just beyond the barrier Ian dropped both our bags, picked up a woman by her elbows-proving his excellent condition; she was only ten centimeters junior to him-and kissed her enthusiastically. He put her down. "Jan, this is Marj."
(When Ian had this sultry job at home, why did he bother with my meager assets? Because I was there and she wasn't, no doubt. But now she is. Dear lady, got a good book I can read?)
Janet kissed me and I felt better. Then she held me with both hands at arm's length. "I don't see it. Did you leave it in the ship?"
"Leave what? This jumpbag is all I carried-my luggage is in transit bond."
"No, dear, your halo. Betty led me to expect a halo."
I considered this. "Are you sure she said halo?"
"Well... she said you were an angel. Perhaps I jumped to a conclusion."
"Perhaps. I don't think I was wearing a halo last night; I hardly ever wear one when traveling."
Captain Ian said, "That's right. Last night all she had on was a load, a big one. Sweetheart, I hate to tell you this but Betty was a bad influence. Deplorable."
"Oh, heavens! Perhaps we had best go straight to prayer meeting. Shall we, Marjorie? Tea and a biscuit here, and skip dinner? The whole congregation will pray for you."
"Whatever you say, Janet." (Did I have to agree to this? I didn't know the etiquette for a "prayer meeting. ")
Captain Tormey said, "Janet, perhaps we had better take her
home and pray for her there. I'm not sure Marj is used to public confessions of sins."
"Marjorie, would you rather do that?"
"I think I would. Yes."
"Then we will. Ian, will you hail Georges?"
Georges turned out to be Georges Perreault. That is all I learned about him just then, save that he was driving a pair of Morgan blacks hitched to a Honda surrey suitable for the very wealthy. How much is an SB captain paid? Friday, it's none of your business. But it was certainly a handsome rig. So was Georges, for that matter. Handsome, I mean. He was tall, dark-haired, dressed in dark suit and kepi, and looked a very proper coachman. But Janet did not introduce him as a servant and he bent over my hand and kissed it. Does a coachman kiss hands? I keep running into human practices not covered by my training.
Ian sat in front by Georges; Janet took me behind with her and opened a large down rug. "I thought you might not have a wrap with you, coming from Auckland," she explained. "So snuggle under." I did not protest that I never get cold; it was very thoughtful and I snuggled under with her. Georges wheeled us out onto the highway, clucked to the horses, and they broke into a brisk trot. Ian took a horn from a rack on the dashboard and sounded a blast on it-there didn't seem to be any reason for it; I think he just liked to make a loud noise.
We did not go into the city of Winnipeg. Their home was southwest of a small town, Stonewall, north of the city and closer to the port. By the time we got there it was dark but I could see one thing:
It was a country estate designed to hold off anything short of professional military attack. There were three gates in series, with gates one and two forming a holding pen. I didn't spot Eyes or remoted weapons but I was sure they were there-the estate was marked out by the red-and-white beacons that warn float craft not to try it.
I got only the barest glimpse of whatever matched the three gates-too dark. A wall and two fences I saw, but I could not see how they were armed and/or booby-trapped and hesitated to ask. But no sensible person spends that much on household protection
and then relies totally on passive defense. I wanted to ask about their power arrangements, too, recalling how at the farm Boss had lost the main Shipstone (cut by "Uncle Jim") and thereby lost his defenses-but again it was not something a guest could ask.
I wondered even more what would have happened if we had been jumped before they got inside the gates of their castle. Again, with the brisk trade in illegal weapons that wind up in the hands of the putatively disarmed, it was the sort of question one did not ask. I walk around unarmed, usually, but I don't assume that others do so-most people have neither my enhancements nor my special training.
(I would rather rely on my "unarmed" state than depend on hardware that can be taken from you at any checkpoint, or that you can lose, or that can run out of ammo, or jam, or be power-down when it matters. I don't look armed, and that gives me an edge. But other people, other problems-I'm a special case.)
We rode up a sweeping drive and under an overhang and stopped-and again Ian sounded a foul blast on that silly horn-but this time there seemed to be some point to it; the front doors opened. Ian said, "Take her inside, dear; I'm going to help Georges with the team."
"I don't need help."
"Pipe down." Ian got out and handed us down, gave my jumpbag to his wife-and Georges pulled away. Ian simply followed on foot. Janet led me inside-and I gasped.
I was looking through the foyer at an illuminated fountain, a programmed one; it changed in shapes and colors as I stood there. There was gentle background music, which (possibly) controlled the fountain.
"Janet... who's your architect?"
"Like it?"
"Of course!"
"Then I'll admit it. I'm the architect, Ian is the gadgeteer, Georges controlled the interiors. He is several sorts of an artist and another wing is his studio. And I might as well tell you right now that Betty told me to hide your clothes until Georges paints at least one nude of you."
"Betty said that? But I've never been a model and I must get back to my job."
"It's up to us to change your mind. Unless- Are you shy about it? Betty did not think you would be. Georges might settle for the draped figure. At first."
"No, I'm not shy. Uh, maybe a bit shy about posing; the idea is new to me. Look, can we let it wait? Right now I'm more interested in plumbing than in posing; I haven't been near any since I left Betty's flat-I should have stopped at the port."