Not that he was being treated like a prisoner—not like the two couriers in the deep sub-basement cell who lived like moles, seeing daylight only when Dr. James’s BLUESKY spooks needed them for their experiments. But Matt wasn’t a world-walker. Matt could tell Mike everything Mike wanted to know, but he couldn’t take him there. As Pete Garfinkle had so crudely put it, it was like the difference between a pre-op transsexual and a ten-buck crack whore: Matt just didn’t have the equipment to give FTO what they wanted.
“Listen, I’d like to get you somewhere better to live, a bit more freedom. A chance to get out and move about. But we’re really up in the air here. We don’t have closure; we need to be able to question any Clan members we get our hands on ourselves. So my boss is on me to keep pumping you until we’ve got a basic grammar and lexicon so if anything happens to you—say you had a heart attack tomorrow—we wouldn’t be up shit creek.”
“Stop bullshitting me.” Matthias had been staring at the fake window in the corner of the room. (Curtains covering a sheet of glass in front of a photograph of the cityscape outside.) Now he turned back to Mike, clearly annoyed. “You do not trust me to act as interpreter, is all. Am I right?”
Mike took a deep breath, nodded. “My boss,” he said, almost apologetically. And to some extent it was true; never mind Colonel Smith, the REMF—James—acted like he didn’t trust his own left hand to give him the time of day. And he reported to Daddy Warbucks by way of the NSC—and Mike had heard all about that guy. Read about him. “Using you as an interpreter would risk exposing you to classified information. He’s very security-conscious.”
“As he should be.” Matthias snorted exasperatedly. “All right, I’ll work on your stupid dictionary. When are we going to start creating my new identity?”
“New identity?” Mike did a double take.
“Yah, the Witness Protection Scheme does try to provide the new identity, doesn’t it?”
“Oh.” Mike stared at him. “The Witness Protection Program is administered by the Department of Justice. This isn’t a DOJ operation anymore, it got taken off us—I was seconded because I was already involved. Didn’t you know?
Matthias frowned. “Who owns it?” he demanded. “The military?” Mike forced himself not to reply. After a moment Matt inclined his head fractionally. “I see,” he murmured.
Mike licked his suddenly dry lips. Did I just make a mistake? he wondered. “You don’t need to worry about that,” he said. “Nothing has changed.”
“All right.” Matt sat down again. He sent Mike a look that clearly said, I don’t believe you.
Mike rubbed his hands together and tried to change the subject. “What would happen if—say—you were a world-walker, and you tried to cross over while you were up here?” he asked.
“I’d fall.” Matt glanced at the floor. “How high . . . ?”
“Twenty-fourth floor.” The set of Matt’s shoulders relaxed imperceptibly. Mike had no problem reading the gesture: I’m safe from them, here.
“Would you always fall?” Mike persisted.
“Well—not if there was a mountain on the other side.” Matt nodded thoughtfully. “Might be doppelgangered with a tower, in which case he’d get a bad headache and go nowhere. Or the world-walker might be lying down, in contact with solid object—go nowhere then, too.”
“Do you know if anyone has ever tried to world-walk from inside an aircraft?” Mike asked.
Matt laughed raucously.
“What’s so funny?” Mike demanded.
“You Americans! You’re so crazy!” Matthias rubbed his eyes. “Listen. The Clan, they know if you world-walk from high up you fall down, yes? Planes are no different. Now, a parachute—you could live, true. But where would you land? In the Gruinmarkt or Nordmarkt or the Debatable Lands, hundreds of miles away! The world is a dangerous place, when you have to walk everywhere.”
“Ah.” Mike nodded. “Has anyone ever world-walked from inside a moving automobile?” he asked.
“That would be suicidal.”
“Even if the person were wearing chain mail? Metal armor?” Mike persisted.
“Well, maybe they’d survive . . .” Matt stared at him. “So what?”
“Hmm.” Mike made a mental note. Okay, that was two more of the checklist items checked off. He had a long list of queries to raise with Matt, questions about field effects and conductive boundaries and just about anything else that might be useful to the geeks who were busting their brains to figure out how world-walking worked. Now to change the subject before he figures out what I’m looking for. “What happens if someone world-walks while holding a hand cart?”
“Hand carts don’t work,” Matt said dismissively.
“Okay. So it really is down to whatever a world-walker can carry, then? How many trips per day?”
“Well.” Matt paused. “The standard corvée duty owed to the Clan by adult world-walkers requires ten trips in five days, then two days off, and is repeated for a whole month, then a month off. So that would be one hundred and twenty return trips per year, carrying perhaps fifty kilograms for a woman, eighty to a hundred for a man. More trips for professional couriers, time off for pregnant women, but it averages out.”
“There’s an implicit ‘but’ there,” Mike prodded.
“Yes. Women in late pregnancy with a child that will itself be a world-walker cannot world-walk at all. Or if they try, the consequences are not pretty. But I digress. The corvée is negotiated. To a Clan member, the act of world-walking is painful. Do it once, they suffer a headache; twice in rapid succession and a hangover with vomiting is not unusual. Thrice—they won’t do it three times, unless in fear of life and limb. There are drugs they can take, to reduce the blood pressure and swaddle the pain, but they are of limited effectiveness. Four trips in eight hours, with drugs, is punishing. I have seen it myself, strong couriers reduced to cripples. If used to destruction, you might force as many as ten crossings in a period of twenty-four hours; but likely you would kill the world-walker, or put them in bed for a month.”
“So.” Mike doodled a note on his paper pad. “It might be possible for a strong male courier, with meds, to move, say, five hundred kilograms in a day. But a more reasonable upper limit is two hundred kilograms. And the load must be divided evenly into sections that one person can carry.”
Matthias nodded. “That’s it.”
“Hmm.” An SADM demolition nuke weighs about fifty kilos, but no way has the Clan got one of them, Mike told himself, mentally crossing his fingers. They’d all been retired years ago. If the thin white duke was going to do anything with his nuclear stockpile, it would probably be a crude bomb, one that would weigh half a ton or more and require considerable assembly on site. There was no risk of a backpack nuclear raid on 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, then. Good. Still, if James’s mules are limited like that, we won’t be able to do much more than send a couple of spies over, will we?
“Okay, so no pregnant couriers, eh? What do the Clan’s women do when they’re pregnant? I gather things are a bit basic over there; if they can’t world-walk, does that mean you have doctors—” Mike’s pager buzzed. “Hang on a minute.” He stood up. There was an access point in the EMCON insulated room. He read the pager’s display, frowning. “I’ve got to go. Back soon.”
“About the military—” Matthias was on his feet.