"Anyway," John said, nodding toward the map, "I can only speak for the condition of the caches we have in Paraguay. We've been checking them every year or so to make sure they were okay. Mostly to keep in practice." He shrugged. "I guess old habits die hard."
"Which is why you're both still alive," Dieter commented. He rapped the map with his pen. "We're going to need a lot more than this."
John looked him in the eye. "I know," he said.
Dieter wondered what that look and that tone of voice meant. He waited a
moment for John to speak. Then, impatiently, he said, "And?"
"And I'm wondering how practical you're prepared to be about it."
Von Rosibach rotated his hands in a bring-it-forth gesture. John's lips thinned for a moment, then he blurted, "Drugs." Dieter threw down his pen and looked away, leaning back in his desk chair. "That'; one of the things I've spent most of my life fighting, John." With a shrug John spread his hands. "Not hard drugs; those guys are crazy. I'm taking about marijuana."
"They're, all crazy!" Dieter interrupted. "Something about millions of untaxed dollars does that to people. Not to mention that it's against the law, and it's wrong."
"So how do you think Mom got these caches we've been mapping all day?
Working in day care? Taking in laundry? Telling fortunes? She'd be the first one to remind you, Dieter, most people are dead. They just don't know it yet."
"You can't get something goad out of something wrong. I know that if I know anything," von Rossbach said. He was getting angry, and to no purpose. "I don't want to discuss this anymore."
"Fine," John said, getting up.' If you can come up with a better way, I am more than open to it." He shook his head. "I've never liked the idea either. But it's the fastest way to do this I can think of and our time is running out."
Dieter lifted his hand to stop him and John raised his and shrugged in surrender.
"I'm hungry," he said. "Think I'll go hit up Marietta for something to eat."
Von Rossbach checked his watch. "Good luck," he said. "Dinner is in a few minutes. You know she won't let you spoil your appetite."
"I don't think it's possible to spoil my appetite, at least not with food," John said.
"Mom says I've got hollow legs."
Dieter sat thinking about what John had said after the boy left him. He picked up the map and looked at the numerous circles denoting arms and food caches.
Well, he'd read her record; he'd known Sarah wasn't a Girl Scout all those years she'd been running with the wild ones. Still…
Drugs.' he thought in disgust. He couldn't—he wouldn't get involved with that.
Flinging the map onto the desk, he leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his neck. Well, if they needed money he was rich. And if Judgment Day is real, and it appears that it is, then my money won't do me any good afterward.
So. He would dedicate his considerable personal fortune to the cause. And he knew a fair number of moneyed eccentrics he could involve, too.
Meanwhile he would start seeking out arms dealers. Nothing big, at least not at first; he didn't want to come to the Sector's attention. Not yet. It would mean a trip to the U.S.
Maybe we could swing by Pescadero and spring Sarah while we're there.
He spent a few pleasant moments imagining her face when she saw him. Then he sighed. No. Given the move to minimum security, there was a good chance she was going to be released anyway in just a few months; it would be pointless to interfere with the process.
Marietta rang the dinner gong and he got up. I wonder if John managed to weedle any food out of her, he thought.
MONTANA
Clea smiled as she read her E-mail from Vladimir Hill, the artist selected by committee to create a sculpture to be placed in the plaza at Lincoln Center in New York. The committee happened to be headed by a Mrs. Roger Colvin, who just happened to be married to the CEO of Cyberdyne, which just happened to be sponsoring the sculpture.
Vladimir was ecstatic about the new material. It had inspired designs by the hundred, he said, he couldn't get them down on paper fast enough.
Really? Clea thought, impressed. What a shame it's so carcinogenic.
It had completely changed his ideas on the Lincoln Center project, Hill went on.
He'd demanded a special meeting with the committee and shown them both the material and the design he'd created. They, too, were ecstatic. They'd loved the new design, the new material.
They all wanted to meet her, he'd written, so she was to be invited to the gala unveiling. Mrs. Colvin's husband was particularly eager to meet her.
"Yesss!" Clea said, clenching her fist in victory. Skynet would be pleased. If there was a Skynet. But now she had her feet firmly on the path that would lead her to her long-lost, never-known creator. She was on her way home.
CHAPTER SIX
ENCINAS HALFWAY HOUSE, OCTOBER
After only a scant seven months in maximum, Sarah had been transferred to minimum-security wing at Pescadero. She'd been there an additional six months when Dr. Ray had gotten her transferred to the halfway house. It was rather pleasant here, comparatively speaking. No screaming in the night. Except for herself, of course. No sudden rushes of stink. The place was shabby, but in a comfortable way, sort of like a boardinghouse with a poor but honest clientele, rather than the antiseptics-and-despair atmosphere of a violent ward. And the patients were much safer to be around.
With the possible exception of herself, naturally. Sarah was pleased to think that she was growing more dangerous by the minute. It was good to walk without pain again, though she still felt a peculiar internal pulling in her abdomen that might signal an adhesion. Particularly when she exercised hard, and she did, getting back into fighting trim.
She'd been doing great physically even in maximum, until that crazy bitch Tanya had punctured an artery in an attack she'd been lucky to survive. The attack had set her back physically, but had gained her enough sympathy to get her transferred to minimum.
Unfortunately, there she'd developed a nasty case of jaundice that still had her feeling weak. Hospitals were great places to catch bugs. Between her physical frailty and Ray's silver tongue, she was pretty much where she wanted—but had never really expected—to be.
After the shock of seeing Dr. Silberman again, Sarah had settled into the routine
of the place. But she was still surprised at how deeply upset she had been by coming face-to-face with him unexpectedly. Understandable; her days under his care hadn't been the brightest in her life.
She was happy she'd been left to Dr. Ray and her own devices the last couple of weeks. Sarah knew that eventually she'd have to face up to the good doctor and deal with the complex stew of emotions he evoked, but not yet. Please, God, not yet.
Still, after so many weeks in a hospital bed and in physical as well as mental therapy, she was more than a little bored. She missed John and thought of him constantly. But thanks to Dieter—whom she also missed to the point of being lonely—Sarah wasn't afraid tor him. One corner of her mouth lifted and she told herself that she should be grateful to be bored. It was something of a treat.
She also found herself becoming slowly addicted to television. It couldn't be accounted for by the content; Sarah was convinced it had some soporific effect on the brain. But anything that kept her soothed and even inadequately entertained until they let her go was a tool she'd gladly use.
Sarah walked into the common area to find the nurse resetting the channel and threw herself down on one of the threadbare couches.