“Wherever you wish,” Hellstrom said.
Janvert glanced at the woman. She sat with hands folded in her lap, looking down at her plate almost in an attitude of prayer. Look as innocent as you want, honey! Janvert thought. We have you right where we want you. And if you try to sneak off the way your friend did, I will really shoot. We’ll worry about consequences later. I might not even aim for your legs.
“We’re having baked pork chops,” Hellstrom said. “Are you sure I can’t order a serving for you?”
“Not on your sweet life or mine,” Janvert said. “Especially mine.” He glanced up alertly, tension appearing in his gun arm, as the kitchen door creaked open. An older, gray-haired woman with dark olive skin and startlingly bright blue eyes came through the door. She had a heavily wrinkled face which creased into a smile as she peered questioningly at Hellstrom. Janvert jerked his attention to Hellstrom, caught a strange flicker-fingered gesture, obviously directed at the older woman. At the same time, a message-loaded look passed between Hellstrom and the younger woman seated beside him.
“What’re you doing there?” Janvert demanded.
Hellstrom noted Janvert’s attention on the hand signal, looked up at the ceiling with a weary expression. Janvert was going to be very difficult unless they got him to eat. There were so many things that needed doing and Saldo was too young to be trusted with all of them. He had older advisers to consult, but there was a headstrong character developing in Saldo that Hellstrom knew he had to curb. Saldo might not consult the backup brains in the Hive.
“I asked you a question,” Janvert pressed, leaning toward Hellstrom.
“I was trying to enlist my associates in helping me to calm you down and get you to join us for luncheon,” Hellstrom said, his voice weary. Would Janvert buy that?
“Fat chance!” Janvert said. He looked back at the older woman. She still stood expectantly behind Hellstrom, one hand holding the kitchen door open. Why didn’t the old bitch say something? Was she just going to wait there until someone told her what to do? Apparently, that was just what she was going to do.
A long silence dragged out while the odd tableau continued.
Have I judged him correctly? Hellstrom wondered. Should I signal for the serving to go ahead as ordered?
What the hell are they waiting for? Janvert wondered. He recalled Peruge’s reference to “silent women.” The excuse had been that they were studying a difficult accent. The old bitch did not look like an actress, though. Her eyes remained bright and alert, but there was pure patience in the set of her shoulders, the way she held the swinging door open.
We must risk it, Hellstrom thought.
He broke the silence then. “Mrs. Niles, would you bring us two servings, please, just for Fancy and me. Mr. Janvert is not eating.” At the same time, masking the action by scratching his head, Hellstrom signaled for her to proceed. The words would be nonsense sounds to Mrs. Niles, who was a nonfertile worker trained specially for this job. She read his hand signs, however, nodded, and retreated into the kitchen.
Janvert grew aware of appetizing smells from the kitchen and began to wonder if he’d acted foolishly. Would these people dare try to poison him here? They were weirdos, certainly, but . . . Yes, they might try to poison him. The elaborate setup confused him, though. Hellstrom surely must’ve known about Peruge’s death. Who else could’ve ordered that? Who had they been expecting for this meal, then? Knowledge of Peruge’s death could mean they’d prepared this luncheon as an elaborate sham. That might mean they’d prepared nothing but straightforward, wholesome food. God! That smelled good in the kitchen. He loved pork chops.
Hellstrom was staring calmly out the window at the other end of the table, his manner casual, unconcerned. “You know, Fancy, I always like it when we eat here. We should do this more often, instead of grabbing a quick lunch on the set.”
“Or missing lunch entirely,” she said. “Oh, I’ve noticed how you do sometimes.”
He patted his stomach. “Doesn’t hurt to miss an occasional meal. I tend to fat, anyway.”
“I’m going to remind you about this,” she said. “You’re going to ruin your stomach if you go on the way you’ve been.”
“We have been busy,” Hellstrom said.
They were nuts! Janvert thought. Chatting, small talk at a time like this!
Mrs. Niles backed through the swinging door, turned to reveal a plate in each hand. She hesitated a moment beside Hellstrom, then served the young woman first. When both plates were on the table, Hellstrom signaled for her to bring the drinks. He had ordered vat beer. They made a limited amount of it as a reward for superior work and as a mask to convey some of the adjustment chemicals occasionally required for reject specialists who were being sent back to dronedom.
Janvert glanced at the plate in front of the woman beside him. There was steam rising from it. The pork had been covered with gravy in which large mushrooms could be seen. There was spinach and baked potato beside the meat course and a stiff, white serving of sour cream had been spooned onto the potato. The young woman just sat there, though, hands still folded, eyes downcast. Was she praying, for Christ’s sake?
Hellstrom startled him then by placing both hands folded together over his own plate and intoning, “Dear Lord, for this food we are about to eat we give our true and heartfelt thanks. May thy divine grace visit us in this sharing of the substance of life. Amen.”
The young woman joined him in the amen.
The wealth of feeling in Hellstrom’s voice confused Janvert. And this dame, the way she joined him at the end. They must do this regularly. The ritual shook Janvert more than he liked to admit, even to himself, and he responded with anger. More of their damned acting!
The aroma from the plate beside Janvert added to his angry frustration. She was reaching for her fork, too. They were going right ahead with the damned meal!
“Are you sure we cannot serve you anything?” Hellstrom asked.
In sudden angry glee, Janvert reached past the young woman, took Hellstrom’s own plate, and said, “Certainly. Glad you asked.” He placed the plate triumphantly in front of him, taking special delight in the way the captured dish clinked against the service plate. And he thought: There won’t be anything wrong with the food Hellstrom was going to eat!
Hellstrom threw his head back and laughed, unable to restrain himself. He felt that the Hive suddenly had come into a new vitality, expressed in his own person and helping him do battle. Janvert had behaved exactly as he’d hoped.
Smiling, Mimeca peered up through her lashes at Hellstrom. Janvert was predictable, but then Outsiders often were. He had behaved precisely as Hellstrom had said he would. She had to confess to herself that she’d harbored doubts when Hellstrom had flashed the plan in Hive-sign. Janvert had the loaded serving in front of him, though, and was picking up knife and fork to eat it. He’d be docile enough pretty soon.
Hellstrom wiped laughter tears from his eyes with a corner of his napkin, called out to the kitchen door, “Mrs. Niles! Bring another serving.”
The door opened and the older woman peered around its edge.
Hellstrom pointed to the empty place in front of him, signaling for another serving. She nodded, ducked into the kitchen, and reappeared almost immediately with another heaping plate. Probably her own, Hellstrom thought. He hoped there was more. The neutered workers had such enjoyment from an occasional break in the common fare of vat gruel. Idly, he wondered where these chops had come from—probably that young worker who’d been killed in the generator room last night. They looked tender. And he thought as he picked up his knife and fork: Bless this one who joins the eternal flow of life, becoming part of all.