"What worries me, among many things, is that the Ethical hasn't visited us again."
Jill sat upright.
"Could Piscator be an agent?"
Cyrano stopped walking, lifted his shoulders and eyebrows, and spread out his extended palms upward.
"Unless he returns, we may never know."
"Purposes, cross-purposes, counter-cross-purposes. Wheels within wheels within wheels," Jill said. "Maya lowers seven veils of illusion between us and them."
"What? Oh, you are referring to the Hindu concept of illusion.''
"I don't think Piscator was an agent. If he had been, he wouldn't have said anything to me about his suspicions that something dark and secret was going on."
A knocking on the door startled them.
"Captain! Greeson here, head of Search Group Three. All areas in this section except for the chart room have been searched. We can come back later."
Jill, rising, said, "Come on in."
To Cyrano she said, "I'll talk with you later. There's so much to puzzle out, so many questions."
"I doubt I'll have any answers."
62
Three twenty-four-hour periods had passed.
The dead had been buried at sea, their cloth-wrapped bodies resembling Egyptian mummies as they were tilted outward through an aperture. As Jill stood in the klieg-lit fog and watched the corpses slide, one by one, through the arch at the base of the wall, she calculated the time of their fall. It was not callousness which made her indulge in the mental exercise. It was habit, and it was also a barrier against the horror of death.
Death was for real now; the hope of resurrection in this world was gone. Death seemed even more all-present and always threatening in this place with its cold, wet winds and dark, swirling clouds. She only had to walk a few paces into the mists, and she would be out of sight and sound of all living beings and their works. She could not see her feet or the metal on which she walked.
If she went to an aperture and stuck her head out, she could not even hear the cold, dead sea crashing against the tower. It was too far away. Everything was too far away, even if it was only a few meters distant.
It was truly a wasteland. She would be glad when she could leave it.
So far, Piscator had not come back. She did not think it likely that he would. Under no circumstances would he willingly have stayed so long in the tower. Either he was dead, hurt badly, or held prisoner. In any event, those on the outside could do nothing for him, and the proposed seven-day wait now seemed far too long. Therefore, Jill had announced to the crew that the airship would leave at the end of a five-day period.
They received the news with evident relief. Like her, their nerves were pulled tightly, overtightly, on a rack. So much so that she had been forced to change the four hours of guard duty at the dome to two. Some of the guards were hallucinating, seeing ghostly forms in the fog, hearing voices coming from the corridor. One man had even fired at what he thought was a huge form running at him from the mists.
The first search of the ship had found no bombs or transmitters. Fearing that the crew might not have covered every square centimeter, and also wanting to keep them busy, she ordered another search. This one was extended to the outside surface of the dirigible, too. Men went to the top and prowled the walkway, shining their lamps alongside it. Others swept their lights across the exteriors of the tail structures.
No bombs were located.
Jill was not relieved. If Thorn had planned from the beginning to hide explosives, he could have placed some inside a gas cell. If he had, he had thwarted them, since there was no way they could get into the cells without releasing the irreplaceable hydrogen. It was true he'd need a transmitter, but that was a small object. It could even be disguised as something else.
This thought set off a third search in which every small mechanical or electrical device aboard was inspected to make sure that it was indeed what it appeared to be. All were what they were supposed to be, but the idea that there could be a disguised transmitter added to the general nervousness.
Of course, as long as Thorn was kept inside the sick bay, he could not get to a hidden transmitter. A lock had been installed on the door to sick bay, and there were always two guards on the inside and two outside.
Jill talked to Cyrano about another problem.
"Sam's going to be bloody furious when he hears that he can't do anything if he ever does get here. There's no way he can get to the top of the tower from the surface of the sea. And if he did achieve the impossible, he still could do nothing to get in.
"It's possible that one or more of his crew might be able to enter the tower, if he could get to the top. But even then, what guarantee is there what happened to Piscator wouldn't happen to them?"
"Whatever that is," Cyrano said gloomily. He had been almost as fond of the Japanese as he was of Firebrass.
"Did Firebrass tell you, too, about the laser hidden on the Mark Twain?"
Cyrano came alive. "Aha! What a stupid man I am! The laser! Yes, Firebrass told me about it, of course. Would he tell you and not me? I should hope to kiss a pig under its tail he would not!"
"Well, it's possible that this metal might resist even a laser beam. But we won't know unless we try it, will we?"
The Frenchman swiftly lapsed into gloom.
"But what do we do about the fuel situation? We cannot fly to Clemens' boat and get the laser and return here and then get back to Parolando or the boat. We do not have enough oil for that."
"We'll get the laser from Sam and then go to Parolando and make some more oil and then come back here."
"That will take much time. But it is the only thing to do. However, what if that hardheaded Clemens does not let us use the laser?"
"I don't see how he could refuse us," Jill said slowly. "That is the only means we have for getting into the tower."
"Ah, yes, true: But you are saying that logic will sway Clemens. He is human, which means that he is by no means always logical. But we will see."
Jill was so on fire with this idea that she saw no reason in waiting for Piscator any longer. If he were hurt or held prisoner by some mechanical device or by living beings, he wasn't going to be gotten free without the laser.
First, though, Thorn had to be questioned. After ordering Cop-pename to wait until she had returned, she walked down to sick bay with Cyrano. Thorn was sitting up in bed. His right leg was enclosed by a shackle attached to a chain, the other end of which was locked to the frame of the bed.
He said nothing as they entered, and Jill was also silent for a moment as she studied him. His thick jaw was locked; his chin, even more outthrust; his dark-blue eyes, half-lidded. He looked as stubborn as Lucifer himself.
She said, "Do you want to tell us what this is all about?"
Thorn did not reply.
She had made sure that he was to be left ignorant of the crash of the helicopter until she told him.
"We know that you set off that bomb. You murdered Firebrass and Obrenova, everybody on the chopper."
Thorn's eyes opened fully, but his expression did not change. Or was that a slight smile at the corners of his lips?
"You're guilty of premeditated murder. I can have you shot, and I may do it Unless you tell me everything."
She waited. He glared steadily at her.
"We know about the little spheres on the forebrains of Firebrass and Obrenova."
That had pierced him, had struck something sensitive. His skin paled, and he grimaced.
"Is there a sphere on your brain?"
He groaned, and he said, "I was X-rayed. Do you think Firebrass would have taken me along if there had been one?"