The pyramid itself was maybe eight feet high and wide enough at the base to contain the two seated people. It glowed as though it was alive with energy and the sheet crystal was somehow conductive. It stood on a solid, square platform that appeared to be constructed of alternate sandwiched layers of bright metal, polished steel or maybe silver, and strata of dark, compacted organic fiber. Some kind of supercharged orgone box? The most elaborate sex aid that Gibson had ever seen? The rest of the room looked like nothing more than a very expensive recording studio. The ceiling was filled with pulsing track lights, and the sound came from eight large speaker bins. The four walls were lined with ranked racks of electronics, each unit powered up and highlighted by its own set of rippling and flashing LEDs. If Windemere was practicing witchcraft, it was a form that could only have been developed in some dark subbasement of NASA or MIT.
When they reached the inside hallway, Gibson turned and faced Cadiz. "What the hell are they doing down there?"
Cadiz shook his head. "No questions, senor. No questions."
"What's that pyramid thing?"
Cadiz's eyes flashed with implacable warning.
"I said no questions, senor. Just go on upstairs and forget everything you have seen."
The threat didn't have to be stated. The tattooed teardrops said it all. Cadiz stood in the hallway, watching Gibson as he climbed the stairs. He hesitated outside the drawing room door. Perhaps he should have a nightcap and think about all this.
Cadiz called up to him. "It would be better if you went to your own room, senor."
Gibson wanted to snap back that he wasn't about to be ordered to his room like a naughty child, but he restrained himself. At the top of the next flight a second voice called out to him.
"Joe Gibson."
This time, it was Christobelle. What now? If she wanted to frolic again, he wasn't sure if he was in quite the right mood. One door on the second landing stood slightly ajar, and her voice was coming from inside.
Gibson stopped at the top of the stairs. He was more than a little wary.
"Yeah, right. That's me."
"Please come in here."
Gibson shrugged to himself. What did he really have to lose? The spectacle in the basement had put an end to any ideas of sleeping in the immediate future. If Christobelle had decided to be nice to him again, who was he to refuse? It sure beat brooding. He went to the door and stepped inside, feeling a little like a character in a French farce. The bedroom was large and dark, and the spacious bed was quite capable of accommodating four or five people with no effort. Christobelle sat alone in the middle of it, cross-legged with her toes curling into the black fur cover. It was a very different Christobelle. The androgynous daytime severity had been replaced by a houri straight out of some sultan's fantasy. Chiffon scarves in soft pastel colors were draped around her neck and did nothing to hide her breasts. The scarves and the collections of gold chains and bells and bracelets on her wrists and ankles were all that she was wearing apart from a gold Balinese headdress that would have delighted Mata Hari. She was backlit by a collection of a half-dozen candles in a floor-standing candelabra on the far side of the bed.
Gibson stopped in the doorway and took in the display. "What was the word the Victorians used? Odalisque?"
Christobelle nodded. "Odalisque, a female harem slave."
"Is all this for my benefit?"
"I called you, didn't I?"
"I thought you weren't friends with me anymore."
"What made you think that?"
"I haven't had a kind word from you all the livelong day."
"I like to maintain a professional distance during working hours."
"But now you're off duty?"
Christobelle slowly spread her arms. "Don't I look off duty?"
Gibson grinned. "That depends what your duties include."
"Why don't you stop talking and come to me."
He didn't immediately go to her. Instead, he peered around the room. It didn't look at all like Christobelle's bedroom. It was too masculine. Framed prints were hung along one wall in a geometric arrangement: Guido Crepax's illustration for the works of the Marquis de Sade, the ones from the notorious Private Portfolio, and a set of Robert Mapplethorpe nudes. The starkness of the prints was offset by Afghan hangings that looked ancient and extremely valuable, Moroccan wooden screens, and a large Louis Quinze dresser, but it still didn't add up to Christobelle.
"Who's room is this?"
"It's Gideon's,"
"Might he not take exception to us romping about on his bed? Some people are kind of territorial about their bedrooms."
Christobelle's eyes sparkled in the candlelight. "Gideon is otherwise engaged. He won't surface until morning."
"I know. I caught a little of the act."
The sex languor instantly drained from her face. Christobelle looked worried. "You saw him?"
"I went to the basement. I was curious about the noise and that weird smell."
"That wasn't a very smart thing to do."
"Cadiz gave me that impression."
"You also ran into Cadiz?"
"He hustled me out of there mucho pronto and sent me off to bed."
"You're lucky he didn't break your arms and legs as well, just to impress upon you the desirability of minding your own business."
"It seemed that he wanted to but someone had given instructions not to."
"Like I said, you're lucky."
"People keep telling me I'm lucky. I don't think they see it quite from my perspective."
Christobelle's voice softened. "Why don't you take your clothes off."
Gibson sat down on the edge of the bed. "What exactly was Windemere doing down there?"
"You went down there, you saw."
Gibson pulled off one of his boots. "He takes his loving very seriously. That setup must have been burning thousands of kilowatts."
Christobelle smiled.
"The electricity bills can be a little steep."
Christobelle was obviously trying to divert Gibson's queries, but he hung on like a terrier. "There was more to that than a little expensive fun."
Christobelle abruptly lost patience, "Of course there's more to it than fun. You really can be very naive at times. Gideon's generating psionic energy. He's energizing the house and everything in it. We may need all the power we can get. First you show up and then Yancey Slide. Who the hell knows what's going to come next? I wish he didn't feel that he had to do it with that black bitch but that's his decision."
It was a definite flash of jealousy. Gibson wouldn't have thought that Christobelle had it in her. It occurred to him that Windemere might actually maintain a real harem here. You never could tell with the very rich and very powerful. He started to unbutton his shirt. Christobelle was visibly working on regaining her composure. Her breasts rose and fell with each measured, regulated breath. He didn't say a word, just went on undressing. When he was naked, he stood up and faced her. She leaned over and lit a thick, yellowish green stick of incense. The smell of the smoke was the same smell that had been coming from the basement. She turned back to him and held out her arms, apparently not noticing his look of suspicion.
"Come here."
Realizing that it was far too late to back out, he crawled across the bed toward her. The fur felt good. He was about to make a playful grab for her when she fended him off.
"Just sit facing me,"
Gibson did as he was told. Whatever she had in mind was almost certainly worth going along with. He crossed his legs and sat upright with a straight back. Their faces were about eight inches apart.
Christobelle smiled. "As with many things, the secret of the tantric arts is that less is more."
Gibson had done his share of the Kama-sutra but he kept quiet and let her go on. "In the jab-yum, the key is to do as little as possible as slowly as possible. All I want you to do is to sit very still."