Part 19 (1/2)
Flickering flames, familiar surroundings, comfort food . . . she plopped back into her arm chair. Cultural force-feeding notwithstanding, she really did know her immersion in Krulchukor social structures and conventions was invaluable. It had to be, didn't it?
Think, woman.
She found a memory instead of a thought: Kyle dismissing her plot summaries as ”Chick flicks on steroids.” Real helpful.
Or was it?”It's only a movie.” Those were among Swelk's first words to Kyle. Only a Krulchukor movie. A movie directed by Rualf, as were, supposedly, all the films Darlene had been lamenting. What sense did the coming apocalypse make as a Rualf film?
More, even, than Revenge of the Subconscious, the film in which humanity was unwillingly starring would have spectacular visual effects. Wide distribution of Galactic orbs finally made sense-no self-respecting Krulchukor movie could get by on explosions. It needed pathos. Heads of state and their orbs would be vaporized when the missiles. .h.i.t . . . but the troupe could continue scanning orbs in the countryside. Plenty of poignancy and social interest as chaos and fallout spread.
It was a stunning insight. s.h.i.+vering, Darlene reclaimed the afghan earlier cast aside. She knew there was something else here, some other implication waiting to be recognized.
When it finally came to her, she actually clapped her hands in glee. * * *
Britt was the product of old money and a multigenerational tradition of public service. His mother was a past national-society president of the DAR. A deep social chasm separated the landmark Arledge mansion from Darlene's humble home.
When enlightenment struck, well past midnight, she didn't hesitate to drive over. Time truly was of the
essence.
”It's all right, Bill,” Britt told the Secret Service agent who answered her knock. Instead of the silk pajamas and velvet smoking jacket she'd envisioned, her host wore a plaid flannel s.h.i.+rt over cargo pants.
She must have looked surprised. ”And I put them on one leg at a time.”
He led her into a sitting room, then cut short her nervous visual search. ”No orbs in the house. No
gadgets in this room that could possibly be tapped. Daily bug searches. What can I get you to drink?”
”Nothing, thanks.” Darlene was glad he had a fire going. His burnt real logs. She stood by the hearth, arms outstretched to warm her hands. ”You know that tea party we're planning for a few days from now?
”I think I know an easier way for the partygoers to get in.”
CHAPTER 26.
Rualf rapped confidently at the cabin door behind which, he had good reason to suspect, the captain was asleep. One extremity of his raised limb held an ornately carved flask; a second extremity clasped matching goblets.
”What is it?” Grelben's voice was groggy and abrupt, as if to disprove the cinematic convention that all s.h.i.+ps' captains woke instantly.
”I have good news, Captain.” Excellent news. Long-awaited news. ”And some vintage k'vath to toast it.”The door swung open. Grelben's posture of annoyance vanished as he noticed the near-legendary label on the bottle. ”Come in.”
”It has been a long road.” Rualf carefully decanted two servings of the foaming green elixir. ”Here is to the next road. To the road home, and wealth at our journey's end.”
One eye widened in curious suspicion. ”You seem to be leaving out a few details.”
”May I use your computer?” Receiving a grunt of a.s.sent, Rualf continued. ”Intercepts file for the American president. Conversation tagged 'almost there.' ”
The hologram that leapt into being featured two familiar humans. The office where they met was, as if a
parody of Krulchukor perfection, oval in shape. ”The President and his chief advisor. Watch.”
”This must be held in absolute confidence, Britt,” said the President. He sat behind a ma.s.sive desk, his image clearly captured by an orb. A scrolling ring of text interpreted the facial expression and stance as denoting extreme levels of tension and weariness. Swelk's artificially intelligent translation program continued to learn. ”There's something I need done that requires the utmost discretion. You'll get lots of opposition, but I trust you to make it happen anyway.”
”Of course, Mr. President.”
The President waved one of his freakish upper limbs. The translator called the gesticulation dismissive.
”It's just us, Britt, and we've no time for formality.”
”Fine, Harold. What is this about?” Curiosity and worry, speculated the text caption.
”Art and history. It's about culture. It's about preserving our heritage.”
”I have to say, Harold, this is rather mysterious.”
”Watch,” interjected Rualf. ”I could not have scripted this moment in a million years.”
The President swiveled his chair to look out the window behind his desk. The orb lost its direct