The meat was not only tender, it was juicy, and Janvert displayed obvious relish.
“Eat hearty,” Hellstrom said, gesturing with a fork. “We serve nothing but the very finest food here and Mrs. Niles is a superb cook.”
She was, too, Hellstrom reminded himself as he took another savory bite. He hoped again that she had saved at least one serving for herself. She deserved a reward.
The words of Trova Hellstrom.
The model of the Hive’s insertion into those patterns of other life around us is that of the tesseract, a cube projected into four dimensions. Our tesseract is built of mosaic parts that cannot be detached, whose boundaries blend one into another with indissoluble flow. Thus, the model gives us a habitat and a timeline remarkably self-contained, but merging into the larger system of the planet and the universe beyond. Remember always that our tesseract merges with other systems, and it does this in such diverse and complex ways that we cannot remain concealed indefinitely. We consider the physical dimensions of our Hive as a habitat only for a particular stage of our development. We will outgrow this stage. It is of the utmost concern for the managing specialists of the Hive, therefore, that we not restrict our genetic lines of adaptability. We are aimed at other times as well as other habitats.
“That sounded like an interesting conversation, what I could hear on this end,” Clovis Carr said.
Lincoln Kraft stared at her across his big flattop desk. He could see a corner of Steens Mountain out the window behind her head. The sounds of afternoon shopping were just beginning to pick up in the big commercial complex one floor down. There was a poster on the wall to his left giving detailed recommendations on how to prevent rustling. Random patrol of fences was the third item down, and his gaze kept returning to that number, seeking some magic in it. It was almost 3:00 P.M. He had received three telephone calls from the office in Lakeview thus far and each time had been told to “sit tight.”
Clovis Carr squirmed her tiny, wiry body into a more comfortable position on the hard wooden seat of her chair. Her deceptively young face tended to set into harsh aging lines when she relaxed. She had been with Kraft since shortly before 11:00 A.M., first at the motel where Peruge’s death had been reported by a tough-looking runt of a man who had identified himself to Kraft only as “Janvert.” Kraft had understood almost immediately that Janvert and this Clovis Carr were associates, and the pieces had begun to fall into place from there. The pair belonged to Peruge’s team. Kraft had played it very carefully from that point, for Hellstrom’s suspicions about the recent intruders were well known to everyone associated with Hive security. These two suspected him, Kraft soon realized. This female stuck to him like a burr on a bear.
The third call from Sheriff Lapham at the courthouse in Lakeview had been part of a pattern that had Kraft more nervous than he’d been since the summer the Hive had picked up a runaway toddler and an entire family had fanned out over the range around the farm hunting the lost child. That one had been turned off by a quickly hatched story that a child of the exact description had been seen being picked up by a couple in an old car only a block away from the place where the toddler had been last seen.
Lapham’s orders in this last call had been explicit. “You wait in your office until the FBI gets there, you hear, Line? This is a job for very delicate professional handling. Take my word on it.”
Kraft had been at a loss how to respond to this. He could act professionally insulted (and leave a political scar that the sheriff would never forget); he could obey like an obedient public servant; he could act the dumb, western hick for this dame; or he could appear to be knowledgeable and sophisticated. He didn’t know which response would give him the best leverage to probe and seek any clue to help the Hive. One way, they might mistakenly underestimate him, although he rather doubted this was possible now. Another way, he might gain valuable insights by what they did not do.
Such as not leaving him alone.
Kraft’s long conditioning to protect the Hive at all costs left him irritated and frustrated, all of his fears sharpened by the sense of danger; but the need to maintain his cover dominated every response that occurred to him. In the end, he did nothing except obey Sheriff Lapham—that and sit here like a lump waiting for the FBI.
The Carr female annoyed him. As long as she stayed there, watching, listening, he could not call Hellstrom. She knew he was nervous, too, and seemed to enjoy it. As though he couldn’t see how phony she was! Vacationer? That one?
Her skin was badly sunburned, and there was a hard and direct stare from cold gray eyes, a firm jaw, and a thin, unsmiling mouth. He suspected she was carrying a pistol in that big black canvas handbag in her lap. There was something about her faintly reminiscent of the models on TV commercials: a controlled and purposeful way of moving, a remoteness that no amount of surface glibness could conceal. She was one of those tiny women who would be skinny and energetic until the day they died. She was all fitted out for her western vacation: dungaree slacks, matching blouse, and brass-button jacket. The clothes still had a sheen of newness about them and looked as though they’d been picked by a wardrobe mistress according to a script adviser’s list. They didn’t suit her style. The blue bandanna over her long dark hair was the final unlikely touch. Her left hand held that black canvas purse in the casual-but-ready manner of a policewoman. Every time he looked at the purse, Kraft felt more certain she carried a gun in it. Although she had avoided showing Kraft her credentials, Sheriff Lapham had known her name on that first call and he’d treated her with the kind of deference that spoke of official clout, highly potent clout at that.
“That was the sheriff again, wasn’t it?” she asked, nodding at the telephone on Kraft’s desk.
Her voice carried unconcealed scorn, Clovis knew, but she had decided not to worry about that. She did not like this thick-nosed, beetle-browed deputy and it was a dislike that went deeper than her suspicions about his involvement in the deaths of her fellow agents. He was western and he showed an evident liking for outdoor life. Those two items alone would have done it. She preferred the nightclub circuit, just as Eddie Janvert did, and this was a damned hick assignment. The skin of her cheeks and nose felt tight and painful from sunburn, adding to her irritation.
“It was the sheriff,” Kraft admitted. Why deny it? His answers had signaled the questions and those questions could have originated only with the sheriff: “No, sir; the FBI hasn’t shown up yet. . . . Yes, sir; I haven’t been out of this here office.”
Clovis Carr sniffed. “What’ve they found out about Peruge’s murder? Anything on the autopsy yet?”
Kraft studied her a moment. There had been one closing item from the sheriff that had to be weighed carefully. When the FBI team arrived, the sheriff wanted Kraft to relay a message to the man in charge. The message sounded simple enough. The U.S. attorney still was not ready to deliver a firm opinion “on the legal basis for intervention.” Kraft was to tell the FBI, however, that the agents could proceed on the “presumptive assumption” that Hellstrom’s activities in interstate commerce would provide such a basis. According to the sheriff, the FBI team was due at Fosterville any minute and the sheriff wanted to know about it the minute they arrived. Rented cars had been sent to the airport and “Janvert’s people” were there to give a briefing.
As the sheriff had given this message, Kraft had written “presumptive assumption” on the notepad beside the telephone. He wondered now if it would lull suspicions if he shared the message with the Carr female. He knew he would have to deliver the message intact to the FBI, but that was another matter. Could any advantage be gained from it now?