“Then tell me quickly — what happened to Uri?”
“He’s safe, and out of the country. Thanks to you.
She pulled him close and hugged him, giving him a warm and lingering kiss. But when his arms went around her as well she wriggled free and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Take the armchair,” she said. “We need to talk. First.”
“Well, as long as you say first. Would you start by telling me just who you are and how Orla got into my sister’s house.”
“It’s the best cover we have, so I don’t jeopardize it by using it too often. We’ve done a lot of favors for the Irish government; this is something they’ve done in return. Absolutely solid identification, birth, school records, the lot. All with my fingerprints and details. It was when we were running your records through the computer to see how to contact you again that the bells began to ring. Orla Mountcharles did go to Roedean, some years after your sister. The rest was easy. I boned up on the school, saw some friends of friends of friends, and was invited to join the bridge club. The rest was as natural as the law of gravity.”
“I know! Expose Liz to a new girl in town, hopefully with fairly good looks, but preferably with good connections, and the trap is instantly sprung. Home and dinner with little brother. But isn’t it damn risky with the keen nose of Thurgood-Smythe sniffing the air?”
“I don’t think it sniffs quite as well in the cloister of his own home. This is really the safest way.
“If you say so. But what makes you think my clothes are bugged?”
“Experience. The Irish have a lovely collection of intelligence devices. Security builds them into belt buckles, pens, the metal spines of notebooks, anything. They don’t broadcast but record digitally on a molecular level to be played back later. Virtually undetectable without taking to pieces every item you possess. Best to think you are bugged at all times. I only hope your body is still all right.”
“Want to find out?”
“That is not what I meant. Have you had any surgery or dental work done since you came back from Scotland?”
“No, nothing.”
“Then you must still be clean. They have put recording devices inside bridgework, even implanted them in bones. They are very skilled.”
“This does very little for my morale.” He pointed to the bottle of Malvern water on the nightstand. “You wouldn’t have a drop of whiskey to go with that, would you?”
“I would. Irish, of course, Paddy’s.”
“I’m acquiring the taste.”
He poured one for each of them, then dropped back into the deep chair. “I’m worried. As much as I love seeing you — I don’t think there is anything more I can do for the resistance.”
“It will be difficult, but not insurmountable. You remember I told you that you were the most vital man we had.”
“Yes. But you didn’t say why.”
“Your work on the satellites. That means you have access to the orbiting stations.”
“It does. In fact I have been putting off a trip for some time now. I have to examine one of the old comsats in situ, in space and in free fall. Everything will change when we bring it down to Earth, to the lab. Why is this important?”
“Because you can be a contact with the deep spacers. Through them we have opened lines of communication with a number of planets. Not perfect, but improving. And there is a revolt brewing already, the miners on Alpha Aurigae Two. They have a chance of success if we can get in contact with them again. But the government is aware that trouble is starting out there and Security has clamped a lid on everything. There is no way of getting a message to our people on the ships from Earth. You should be able to manage it on the station. We’ve worked out a way…
“You’re frowning,” Jan said softly. “‘When you get all worked up like this you frown. You will get wrinkles if you keep it up.”
“But I want to explain…”
“Can’t it keep, just for a little bit?” he asked, taking her hands in his, bending to put his lips on her forehead.
“Of course it can. You are absolutely right. Come, cure my wrinkles,” she said, pulling him down to her.
Seventeen
Sonia Amarigho was ecstatic next day when Jan told her that he felt it was time to examine the satellite in space.
“Marvelous!” she said, clapping her hands. “It just floats up there and no one has the intelligence to poke in the nose at the circuitry and see what has gone wrong. I get so angry I want to go myself.”
“You should. A trip into space must be something to remember.”
“Memories I would love to have. But this ancient machine does not run so well.” She patted her ample bosom somewhere in the region of her heart. “The doctors say the acceleration would not be good for my tick-tock…”
“I’m so sorry. I’m being stupid, I didn’t know.”
“Please, Jan, do not apologize. As long as I stay out of spaceships they say I will live forever. It is enough that you will go and will make a much better job of it. When can you leave?”
“I must finish the circuit that I’m in the middle of now, the multi-resonant repeater. A week, ten days at the outside.”
Sonia was sifting through the papers on her desk and extracted a gray UNOSA folder which she flipped through. “Yes, here it is. A shuttle for Satellite Station leaving on March twentieth. I’ll book you a place on it now.”
“Very good.” Very good indeed. This was the shuttle Sara had told him to be sure to be on, so that the schedules would mesh correctly.
Jan was whistling when he went back to work, a bit of “Sheep May Safely Graze.” He became aware of the irony of the title and his present condition. He wasn’t going to graze safely anymore — and he was glad of it. Ever since the beginning of surveillance he had been over-careful, walking on eggs. But no more of that. Seeing Sara, loving Sara, had put an end to that period of formless fear. He would not stop what he was doing just because they were watching him closely. It would make the work more difficult but it would not stop it. Not only would he work with the resistance, but he would do a little resisting on his own. As a specialist in microcircuits he was very interested in seeing just what sort of devices surveillance had come up with.
So far he had been unsuccessful. He had bought a new notebook to replace the one he had sawn open, then obtained a replacement ID card for the one inadvertently destroyed. Today it was the turn of his pen, the gold pen Liz had given him for Christmas. A good place for a bug since he usually had it with him. It was up his sleeve now, slipped there when he was pretty sure no optic pickups were on him. Now he would try a little skilled dissection.
A quick circuit check showed that the instrumentation on his bench was still bug free. When he had first started this unapproved research problem he had found out that his multimeter electron microscope and all of his electronic instruments were tapped and reporting to a small transmitter. After that he used the optical microscope, and saw to it that a short circuit of 4,000 volts went through the transmitter. It had vanished and not been replaced.
The pen disassembled easily enough and he examined each part carefully under the low power microscope. Nothing. And the drawn metal case looked too thin to hold any components; he put a few volts through it as well as a quick blast of radiation for the printed circuitry just in case lie was wrong. He was about to reassemble it when he realized that he had not looked inside the ink refill.
It was messy but rewarding. He rolled the little cylinder about with the tip of one ink-stained finger. As thick as a grain of rice and perhaps twice as long. Using the micromanipulators he dissected it and marveled at the circuitry and electronics. Half of the bug was powerpack, but considering the minimal current drain, it should run six months at least without recharging. A pressure microphone that used all of the surface of the ink supply as a sound pickup, very ingenious. Discrimination circuits to ignore random noise and put the device in the recording mode only for sounds of the human voice. Molecule-level recorder. Transponder circuit that, when hit with the right frequency signal, would broadcast the stored memory at high speed. A lot of work had gone into this, just to eavesdrop on him. Misapplied technology, which was the history of so much of technology. Jan wondered if the pen had been bugged before Liz had given it to him. Thurgood-Smythe might have arranged it easily enough. She had given him the same kind of pen for Christmas and he could have exchanged one for the other.