"I was in the ballpark," Herbert said as the elevator reached the lobby. "I still think my names are better. You can always tell big from little. But you may get 'em mixed up if you don't know which end of the city's in and which end's out." "Perhaps you should place a note in the suggestion box," the porter said, pointing. "It's right over there, beside the letter box." Herbert looked at him. So did Hood, who couldn't tell whether the kid was being facetious or helpful. Germans weren't known for their sense of humor, though he'd heard that the new generation was learning a lot about sarcasm from American movies and TV.
"Maybe I'll do that," Herbert said as he rolled out. He looked over at Stoll, who was bent beneath the weight of his backpack. "You've got the translator. What would those names be?" Stoll punched the English words into his paperbacksized electronic translator. Almost at once, the German equivalent materialized in the liquid crystal display.
"Looks like they'd be called the Grossalster and the Kleinalster," Stoll informed him.
Hood said, "Doesn't have a particularly elegant sound, does it?" "No," Herbert agreed, "but you know what? It beats hell out of what we have back in Philadephia, Mississippi.
Dead Cat Pond, Mudworm Creek—" "I kind of like those," Stoll said. "They paint a picture." "Yeah, but not one you'd want on a postcard," Herbert said. "Matter of fact, all we've got in our metal twirly thing at the general store are postcards of Main Street and the old schoolhouse and nothing else." "I'd rather have the pond and the creek," Stoll said.
As they made their way through the crowded lobby, Hood looked around for Martin Lang and Deputy Foreign Minister Richard Hausen. He had never met Hausen, but he was anxious to see the German electronics tycoon Lang again. They had spent some time-together when Los Angeles hosted a dinner for international guests at a computer convention. Hood had been impressed with Lang's warmth, sincerity, and intelligence. He was a humanist who understood that without happy employees, he had no company. There were never any layoffs. Hard times were borne by the top levels of management, not the bottom.
When it came time to price the construction of the new brainchild of Mike Rodgers and Matt Stoll, the Regional Op- Center or ROC, Lang was the first person who came to mind for the computers they'd need. His company's patented photon-based technology Leuchtturm, Lighthouse, was adaptable, cutting edge, and expensive. As with most things in government, though, Hood knew that getting the ROC constructed at all would be a delicate balancing act. It would be difficult to get the half-billion-dollar budget for the ROC through Congress under any circumstances, more so if they bought foreign components. At the same time, Op-Center would have a rough time getting the ROC into foreign countries unless it contained hardware from those countries.
What it would ultimately come down to, Hood reflected, were two things. One, that Germany would soon be the leading country in the European Community. The ability to move a mobile spy center in and out with relative freedom would pre-position the U.S. to watch everything Europe did.
Congress would like that. And two, Lang's company, Hauptschlssel, Main Key, would have to agree to purchase many of the materials they needed for this and other projects from American companies. A good portion of the money would thus remain in the United States.
Hood felt confident that he could sell that to Lang. He and Matt were going to show him a new technology in which the Germans would surely want to become involved, something the small R&D division of Op-Center had stumbled upon while looking for a way to check the integrity of high-speed electrical circuitry. And though Lang was an honorable man, he was also a businessman and a patriot.
Knowing all about the ROC's hardware and its capabilities, Lang could persuade his government to underwrite technological countermeasures for national security. Then Hood could go to Congress for the money to undermine those, money he would agree to spend with American companies.
He smiled. As strange as it seemed to Sharon, who loathed negotiating, and to Mike Rodgers, who was anything but diplomatic, Hood enjoyed this process. Getting things done in the international political arena was like a big, complex chess game. Though no player came through it unscathed, it was fun to see how many pieces you were able to retain.
They stopped near the house phones, away from the flow of guests. Hood took in the baroque decor of the lobby, as well as the thick, curious mix of smartly dressed businesspeople and casual tourists. Stepping out of the human traffic gave him the chance to appreciate the people, all of whom were focused on their own business, their own destinations, who they were with— The golden hair flashed at him from the front door. It captured his eye not because of the movement itself but because of the way it moved. As the woman left the lobby, her head cocked right and the long blond hair snapped left, fast and confident.
Hood was transfixed. Like a bird darting from a tree, he thought.
As Hood watched, unable to move, the woman disappeared to the right. For a long instant he didn't blink, couldn't breathe. The noise in the lobby, so distinct a moment ago, became a distant drone.
"Chief?" Stoll asked. "You see 'em?" Hood didn't answer. Forcing his legs to move, he bolted toward the door, maneuvering around the people and stacked luggage, shouldering his way around guests who were standing still, waiting and chattering.
A golden lady, he thought.
He reached the open door and rushed through. He looked to the right.
"Taxi?" asked the liveried doorman.
Hood didn't hear him. He looked toward the north, saw a cab moving toward the main thoroughfare. The bright sunlight made it impossible for him to see inside. He funned toward the doorman.
"Did a woman just get in that cab?" Hood asked.
"Ja, " said the young man.
"Do you know her?" Hood demanded. Even as he said it, Hood realized he probably sounded a little scary. He took a long, deep breath. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to yell like that. It's just— I think I know that woman. Is she a guest here?" "Nein, " said the doorman. "She dropped off a package and left." Hood pointed a thumb to the lobby. "Dropped if off in there?" "Not at the desk," said the doorman. "She gave it to someone." An elderly English woman came over, needing a cab.
"Excuse me," the young man said to Hood.
While the doorman walked to the curb and blew his whistle, Hood looked down and tapped his foot impatiently.
As he did, Stoll strolled up beside him, followed by Herbert.
"Hi," said Stoll.
Hood was staring at the curb, fighting a storm of emotions.
"You shoved off like a guy whose dog ran onto the highway," Stoll said. "You okay?" Hood nodded.
"Yeah, I'm convinced," Herbert lied.
"No, really," Hood said distantly. "I, uh— never mind.
It's a long story." "So's Dune," Stoll said, "but I love it. Want to talk about it? You see somebody?" Hood was silent for a moment, then said, "Yes." "Who?" Herbert asked.
Hood answered almost reverently, "A golden lady." Stop clicked his tongue. "Ooookay," he said. "Sorry I asked." He glanced down at Herbert, who shrugged and gave him a don't-ask-me look.