He had a little hike ahead of him today, just ten miles. But on snowshoes and with a backpack it would work him some. He had a GPS if he got lost, though he'd try to locate his next campsite the old-fashioned way, with a compass and landmarks. It wasn't as easy as the GPS, of course, where all you had to do was punch a couple of buttons and it would tell you exactly where you were and how to get to where you wanted to go. But batteries could go dead, satellites could fall, and a compass was reliable if you knew how to allow for magnetic north and all. If you lost your compass, there were the stars, including the sun. And if it was cloudy, there was dead reckoning, though that was a little more iffy.
Truth was, he hadn't been lost in a long time. He had a good sense of direction.
At six a.m., he pulled his virgil and keyed his morning check-in code. He could also find his way out using the virgil, and could go to vox to call for help if he needed it. If something happened and he couldn't call out, Net Force or other rescuers could also find him via the little device, which had a homer with a dedicated battery in it. It wasn't as if he were Lewis and Clark, a million miles away from civilization. Still, it was cold and he was all by himself out here in the middle of the high desert, with fresh snow piled a foot and a half deep. If anything happened to him, help wouldn't get to him right away.
There was a real risk to being here. Which was, of course, the point. The way a man found out what he was made of was when he tested himself against real danger. VR only went so far, no matter how real it felt. You always knew you weren't gonna die in VR. But in real life, sometimes things went to hell, and you had to survive on your wits and your skills. This little three-day trip was not that big a deal. He'd lived off the land on his own for a couple of weeks, in terrain ranging from desert to jungle. There was a great sense of accomplishment in knowing that if you survived a plane crash in the middle of nowhere, you could probably survive long enough for help to arrive. Assuming anybody wanted to find you…
How did you come to climb that big old mountain, fella?
Well, sir, it was in my way…
The water started to boil, and Howard dug in his pack for the freeze-dried coffee crystals.
Somewhere, he'd heard about an order of Zen monks or some-such, who lived high up the slopes of an Oriental mountain. They had a little café there, and when climbers would stop in, they would sell them coffee. There were two prices: a two-dollar cup of coffee — and a two-hundred-dollar cup of coffee. When asked the difference, the monks would smile and say, "A hundred and ninety-eight dollars." The brew, the water, the cups, all were exactly the same, but there were always those who were willing to spring for the more expensive cup. They swore it tasted better.
He could understand that. What he was about to drink wasn't in the same class as freshly roasted and freshly ground premium beans strained through a gold filter and served in fine china by a well-practiced and attentive waiter, but the first cup of coffee on a survival camp out was always better than the best restaurant stuff. Always.
Hughes rolled over in the king-sized orthopedic bed and watched as Monique waded through the ankle-deep white carpet toward the bathroom. It was a nice view, her naked backside, and he enjoyed it until she slipped into the bathroom and closed the door quietly behind her. He grinned. She was no more a natural blonde than her boobs were real, but neither of these things detracted from her expertise as a lover. After three sessions with her — last night, a quickie at noon, and tonight — he was completely spent, tired, and more relaxed than he had been in years. This was one of the perks of wealth, a well-practiced mistress, and he toyed with the idea of hiring Monique full-time. He could afford her now, and soon would be able to afford thousands like her.
But — perhaps not. It might be better to avoid any more entanglements until his major goal was achieved. Even an entanglement as much fun as Monique.
He glanced at his watch. Just after eleven o'clock. What would that make it in D.C.? Was it four hours ahead here? Five?
It didn't matter. Platt was back there, merrily adding gasoline to various fires, setting up the project's end-stage. Hughes hadn't called the cracker while he'd been here, but that wasn't necessary at this stage of the game.
Negotiations had gone well with Domingos, even better than he'd expected. The main reason the man hadn't closed the deal with Platt had been a simple matter of money — Domingos wanted more. Hughes had anticipated all along that the President would up the ante, and had been surprised when he hadn't done so earlier, so this was not an unforeseen bump in the road. It had merely come later than expected. For the sake of appearances, Hughes had dickered, pretended to be insulted, and had offered a stiff resistance to any change in the basic agreement. After sufficient time for Domingos to convince himself that he was the equal of a platoon of Arabic horse traders, Hughes had allowed himself to be worn down and persuaded. Another thirty mil was thrown into the pot, bringing the payout to the President to an even hundred million dollars U.S. Or, if he preferred, he could have it in French francs, Japanese yen, or British pounds. Or dinars, rupiahs, rubles, or Guinea-Bissau's own pesos.
Dollars would be fine, the President had allowed.
Hughes grinned again as the bathroom door swung open and Monique walked through the thick carpet toward him. The view was even better from the front, he decided, what with her dyed-blond pubic thatch shaved into that little heart shape. Even the breast implants had been hung by an expert medico, for they looked — and felt — quite real.
Spent as he thought he was, he felt a bit of a stirring in his groin.
"Ah, you are awake, I see."
"Not all of me."
"Oh, but I am certain I can remedy that, oui?"
He chuckled. If anybody could raise his hopes, certainly Monique could.
"Let's see, shall we?" he said.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
"You want to stop for some coffee or something?" Alex asked. He waved at a service station off to their right.
"No, I'm fine," Toni said. "I had my two cups already."
The day was chilly, but clear, and traffic was light. The inside of the van was a hair too warm.
He smiled at her, a little awkwardly, she thought.
"Yeah, me too," he said.
Toni had the impression that he wished he hadn't done this — invited her to go along with him to look at the Miata. They were in the company car designated for his use, a politically correct electric/hydrogen-powered minivan. And as everybody who'd ever driven one knew, as gutless a piece of machinery as you could find. It had all the get-up-and-go of a turtle with a broken leg. Top speed was sixty-five — and that was downhill, with a tailwind and a god who took pity on you, and it took a long time to get to that fast. Range of the van was about two hundred miles — if you added both propulsion systems together. Then you had to pull over, plug in, or get a new bottle of hydrogen. Alex was allowed a certain number of personal miles every month, though he seldom used them. Easy to understand why. The joke around the agency was that if you had a roller skate, you could sit on that, push with your hands, and get where you wanted to go faster than the minivan — and your butt would hurt less when you arrived.