Part 18 (1/2)

JULIAN WATCHED THE RAIN for about twenty minutes and decided it was not going to let up, so he splashed on home through it. Of course, it stopped when he was half a block from the apartment.

He locked the bike up in the bas.e.m.e.nt and sprayed the chain and gears with oil. Amelia's bike was there, but that didn't mean she was home.

She was sound asleep. Julian made enough noise getting his suitcase to wake her.

Julian? She sat up and rubbed her eyes. How did it go with- She saw the suitcase. Going somewhere?

North Dakota, for a couple of days.

She shook her head. Why on earth ... oh, Marty's freaks.

I want to jack with them and check for myself. They may be freaks, but we may all be joining them.

Not all, she said quietly.

He opened his mouth and shut it, and picked out three pairs of socks in the dim light. I'll be back in plenty of time for the Tuesday cla.s.s.

Be getting a lot of calls Monday. The Journal doesn't come out till Wednesday, but they'll be calling everybody.

Just stack 'em up. I'll tap in from North Dakota.

Getting to that state was going to be harder then he thought. He found three military nights that would zigzag him to the water-filled crater Seaside, but when he tried to reserve s.p.a.ce he was informed by the computer that he no longer had a combat flag, and so would have to fly standby. It predicted that he had about a fifteen percent chance of making all three flights. Getting back on Tuesday would be even more difficult.

He called Marty, who told him he'd see what could be done, and called back one minute later. Give it another try.

This time he got all six flights booked with no comment. The C for combat had been restored to his serial number.

Julian carried his armload and the suitcase into the living room to pack. Amelia followed him, shrugging into a nightgown.

I might be going to Was.h.i.+ngton, she said. Peter's coming back from the Caribbean so that he can do a press conference tomorrow.

That's a change of heart. I thought he'd gone down there to avoid publicity. He looked up at her. Or is he coming back mainly to see you?

He didn't exactly say.

But he is paying for the ticket, right? You don't have enough credit left this month.

Of course he is. She folded her arms on her chest. I'm his coresearcher. You'd be welcome there, too.

I'm sure. Better that I investigate this aspect of the problem, though. He finished packing the small suitcase and looked around the room. He stepped over to an end table and picked up two magazines. If I asked you not to go, would you stay here?

You would never ask me that.

That's not much of an answer.

She sat down on the sofa. All right. If you asked me not to go, we would fight. And I would win.

So is that why I don't ask you?

I don't know, Julian. She raised her voice a little. Unlike some people, I can't read minds!”

He set the magazines inside the suitcase and carefully sealed it shut, thumbprinting the lock. I really don't mind if you go, he said quietly. This is something we have to get through, one way or another. He sat down next to her, not touching.

One way or another, she repeated.

Just promise me that you won't stay permanently.

What?

Those of us who can read minds can also tell the future, he said. By next week, half the people involved in the Jupiter Project will be sending out resumes. I'm only asking that if he offers you a position, don't just say yes.

All right. I'll tell him I have to discuss it with you. Fair enough?

That's all I ask. He took her hand and brushed his lips across her fingers. Don't rush into anything.

How about... I don't rush and you don't rush.

What?

Pick up the phone. Get a later flight to North Dakota. She rubbed the top of his thigh. You're not going out that door until I convince you that you're the only one I love.

He hesitated and then picked up the phone. She knelt on the floor and started unbuckling his belt. Talk fast.

THE LAST LEG OF my flight was from Chicago, but it overshot Seaside by a few miles so we could get a glimpse of the Inland Sea. Sea is a little grandiose; it's only half again as big as the Great Salt Lake. But it's impressive, a perfect blue circle sketched inside with white lines of wakes from pleasure craft.

The place I was headed was only six miles from the airport. Taxis cost entertainment credits but bikes were free, so I checked one out and pedaled there. It was hot and dusty, but the exercise was welcome after being stuck in airplanes and airports all morning.

It was a fifty-year-old building style, all mirror gla.s.s and steel frame. A sign on the frizzled lawn said ST.BARTHOLOMEW'S HOME.

A man in his sixties, wearing a priest's collar with everyday clothes, answered the door and let me in.

The foyer was a white box devoid of ornament, except for a crucifix on one wall facing a holo of Jesus on the other. Uninviting inst.i.tutional couch and chairs with inspirational literature on the table between them. We went through double doors into an equally plain hall.

Father Mendez was Hispanic, his hair still black, his lined dark face scored with two long old scars. He looked frightful, but his calm voice and easy smile dispelled that.

Forgive us for not coming out to greet you. We don't have a car and we don't go out much. It helps maintain our image of being harmless old loonies.

Dr. Larrin said your cover story contained a grain of truth.

Yes, we're poor addled survivors of the first experiments with the soldierboy. People tend to shy away from us when we do go out.

You're not an actual priest, then.

In fact I am, or rather, was. I was defrocked after being convicted of murder. He stopped at a plain door that had a card with my name on it, and pushed it open. Rape and murder. This is your room. Come on down to the atrium at the end of the hall when you've freshened up.

The room itself wasn't too monkish, an oriental carpet on the floor, modern suspension bed contrasting with an antique rolltop desk and chair. There was a small refrigerator with soft drinks and beer, and bottles of wine and water on a sideboard with gla.s.ses. I had a gla.s.s of water and then one of wine while I took off my uniform and carefully smoothed and folded it for the return trip. Then a quick shower and more comfortable clothes, and I went off in search of the atrium.

The corridor was featureless wall along the left; on the right were doors like mine, with more permanent nameplates. A frosted-gla.s.s door at the end opened automatically as I reached for it.

I stopped dead. The atrium was a cool pine forest. Cedar smell and the bright sound of a creek tumbling somewhere. I looked up and, yes, there was a skylight; I hadn't somehow been jacked and transferred to somebody's memory.