"I'll leave you to get to work, then," Serena said. "I've posted everything we have on the Connor case onto your computer. If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask. I meant what I said when I told you I consider this to be top priority."
Jordan looked at the computer. "Great," he said. "I'll get right on it."
She smiled at him, a slow satisfied smile that sent a little shiver down his spine.
"I can see you're eager to get to work," she said. "So I'll leave you to it." She offered her hand and he took it. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Dyson."
"Great to be here, Ms. Burns."
With a nod Serena pulled his door closed behind her and crossed the hall. She stopped at Duprey's desk and the secretary looked up at her with birdlike brightness.
"Mrs. Duprey," Serena said confidentially, "I've told Mr. Dyson that you will be acting as his administrative assistant as well as my own for the time being."
Duprey's face and posture stiffened and it amused the 1-950 to realize that even a human could have read her displeasure. is it because of his race? she wondered.
Or does she think he might be an unredeemed sinner? Not that it mattered to Serena one way or the other. Perhaps she'd been too lenient with Mrs. Duprey.
But the woman was a veritable fount of illicit information. Still, maybe it's time
to, as she would put it, put the fear of God into her. After all, it wouldn't do to have her gossiping about what went on in the security office.
Serena straightened. "If that's not to your taste, Mrs. Duprey, perhaps I should have human resources"—how she loved that term—"send up a more accommodating secretary. Then you could work for someone else."
The secretary's jaw dropped.
"But I would hate to do that, Mrs. Duprey. I've come to rely on you. Your efficiency, your discretion—these are not common traits. Most of all I prize your loyalty." Serena allowed herself to look troubled. "I wish you would think about it before you decide." She smiled weakly. "I've very much enjoyed working with you."
"Of course I'll stay!" the woman said. "I've enjoyed working with you, too."
Serena smiled mistily and offered her hand, the secretary took it, and they had a special moment together. The t-950 squeezed the human's hand slightly. "Well, back to work," she said. "I'm sure Mr. Dyson won't need you to do things for him too often."
"Oh," Duprey said, rising, "I have a message for him."
"Why don't you go and give it to him," Serena suggested. "It will be a perfect opportunity to get acquainted. I'm relying on you to make him feel welcome."
"That's a good idea, Ms. Burns," the secretary said, rising. She picked up a slip of pink paper and started across the hall, then turned. "You know you can rely on
me, Ms. Burns."
"I do," Serena said seriously, then entered her office, grinning as she closed the door behind her. Ah, humans, she thought as she started toward her desk. They provided such great comic relief.
She sat down and probed the ether, receiving no answer from her Terminator.
Meaning that he has been… terminated. She felt anger spurt and suppressed it ruthlessly. Useless emotion. What was the point of anger? It interfered with clear thinking and as far as she could see had no productive results. Unless you were so primitive that you needed an uncontrolled spurt of hormones for maximum fight-flight efficiency.
Obviously the Connors had been ready for trouble. Due, no doubt, to the interference of von Rossbach and Griego. True, they wouldn't have been expecting a Terminator, but they were primed for trouble. With those two, as history had proven again and again, that was all it took. She felt a prickle of disquiet. Or quantum effects could be at work, the inertia of the time-stream seeking to bend events back toward the maximum probability, the time line that had originally seen John Connor destroy Skynet.
She hit speed dial for the number that Cassetti had given her. It had amused her at first to know it belonged to a restaurant and that he was some low-status employee there. Now she was simply impatient as the phone was answered,
"Mario's!" accompanied by the cacophony of a kitchen.
"Marco Cassetti," she said.
"Marco!" the man bellowed. There was a pause. "No," he said. Another pause.
"He's not here," the man said. "You tell him when you see him that I'm gonna fire him if he doesn't start showing up soon." Then he hung up.
Serena sat, phone in hand, and thought. Cassetti could have instructed his friends at the restaurant to say he wasn't there. Which would mean that he must have seen or known about the Terminator's… termination.
She hung up the phone as it began to bleat. She could hire someone to check it out, but decided not to muddy the waters any further. After all, the restaurant man might have been telling the truth. Which would mean that the Terminator had eliminated Cassetti before it was itself destroyed.
The important thing now was that the Connors were alerted and they were coming. Soon.
She smiled. A very comprehensive set of military-history records had been among her downloads. The history of the U-boat campaigns was among them. .
Submarines had been an unanswerable weapon, as long as warships tried to find them, hunting through the wastes of water. The ocean was too big-The answer was to group all the merchantmen into a convoy and surround it with warships. Then the submarine had to come to you.
NEW YORK CITY: THE PRESENT
Ron Labane opened the envelope marked "personal and confidential" and pulled out the newspaper clipping within. He checked but found no note, and there was no return address on the envelope. With a quirk of lips and brows he shook the
piece open and started to read. Soon he was chuckling richly.
The article concerned a university professor who'd been found, near-smothered by methane, tied to a stake driven into the middle of a lake of pig feces adjacent to a gigantic hog-factory farm. The good professor had conducted a study of such farms and had concluded that their impact on rural communities was minimal.
I wonder if he still feels the same way, Ron thought.
The article went on to list the complaints of the people who lived near the hog factory, including the horrible smell and the resultant drop in property values in the nearby town. A local environmentalist talked about how runoff from the lake of feces had contaminated local streams and the ponds and lakes they ran into.
He also suggested that the wells that many of the area farms relied on were no longer safe.
Ron folded up the piece and put it back into its envelope. It seemed the "fab four" had taken his advice. He looked forward to their next escapade.
He rose and took the article to his secretary. "How could we get this picked up by the wire services?" he asked her.
She took the envelope from him and read its contents, then laughed out loud.
"Let me take care of it," she said, her eyes dancing. "I know just who to call."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
VON ROSSBACH ESTANCIA,
PARAGUAY: THE PRESENT
What Dieter meant by "primitive" was a thatched-roof adobe cottage with a stamped-earth floor and a noisome pit out back sheltered by a broken-down lean-to. The well out front lacked even a bucket. Things rustled and creaked outside, and chirped and buzzed. The Chaco had a fine assortment of things that crawled, hopped, flew, and stung, and nobody here had been waging the continuous battle that was the only way to keep them out of a building. But it was dry and swept clean.