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want to observe-when I am in my home, you see," she added,
half-apologetically, "I become very Ukrainian."
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She beamed at the woman who had resignedly hurried into the kitchen, and was
returning with a tray. Which contained-
"Bread and salt," Rosaleen said proudly. "It is what we do to welcome friends.
And who could be closer friends than we, who lived in such proximity for so
long? Eat a little, please. Then we can talk."
"No," Pat said suddenly.
Rosaleen paused with the tray in her hand to look at her. "No?" she repeated.
"No, we are not the ones who were in captivity with you, Rosaleen. We're the
ones who were returned to Earth. And Dan is still a spook for the Bureau."
"Yes," Rosaleen said placidly. "I am aware of that." She set the tray down
before them and retired to sit down. "Excuse, please, the fact that I am quite
old and still a bit tired."
"You don't understand!" Pat said. "We aren't here just because we're your
friends! We're here because this man has been ordered-"
Prison Cells from Space?
A source close to Sen. Eric Wintczak (D-IL) reports that the National Bureau
of Investigation has identified a number of extraterrestrial technologies
which it proposes to adapt for use in its own system. One is a sort of
energy-field containment device to hold prisoners in an escape-proof cell
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while jailers and others can pass freely in and out, another is a way of using
devices similar to the implants taken from the returnees to tap into the
actual thoughts of the subject-a sort of mind control with unimaginable
consequences for civil liberties.
-Washington (DC) Times-Post
But Rosaleen raised her hand to stop her. "My friends have told me about his
orders, Pat, dear.
They were given to him by some higher-up spook by the name of Brigadier Hilda
Morrisey in the
National Bureau of Investigations headquarters in Arlington, Virginia. This
Brigadier Morrisey is afraid that I will give information away that the United
States wishes to keep for itself, and so she has ordered young Dannerman here
to come to my home and kill me." She sighed, shaking her ancient head. "I was
going to ask you about that. But won't you for God's sake please sit down and
eat some of the damn bread and salt first?"
Pat Adcock did as she was told. She didn't do it right away. She had expected
a lot more to happen after what she had said-something drastic, maybe.
Certainly something. At least some kind of startled outburst from Rosaleen,
perhaps some violent action from one of the zek children. What she had not
expected was to discover that everyone present knew more about Dannerman's
mission than she had.
"Eat," Rosaleen repeated testily, and so she ate. The bread was heavy, dark
chunks cut from a round loaf; the salt wasn't the sort of thing you shook onto
your French fries in America, but coarse crystals. It occurred to Pat that
maybe there was something in the salt or the bread, some mood-altering
chemical, maybe something like the date-rape stuff she had been warned against
in college, something that would turn them into mere putty in the hands of
these young Ukrainian zealots. But Dannerman seemed to have no such fears. He
was chewing doggedly away on the tough bread, and she could read nothing from
his expression. Nor did Rosaleen's guards reveal anything, except perhaps mild
annoyance at the ritual. Then Rosaleen sighed.
"All right," she said, "now that we've all had a chance to settle down, would
you like to explain yourself, Dan?"
He swallowed the last chunk of the bread. Then he said, "Sure. But I want you
to do something first. Will you ask your friends to put their guns down?
Better still, give them all to you-you do know how to use them, don't you?"
"Why should we do that?" the one named Vassili demanded suspiciously.
Dannerman shrugged. Rosaleen studied him for a moment, then spoke. "Let's do
as he says, Vass.
Give me yours and pile the rest of them in front of me."
Vassili looked rebellious, then complied. Pat, trying to guess what Dannerman
had in mind, had a sudden thought. "Be careful! He's got a bomb-bugger, too!"
Dannerman gave her a curious look, but slowly, carefully, tugged at the
waistband of his trousers, revealing the little holster. "That's right. I want
you to take this one, too, and give it to
Rosaleen. Then we should all back away and give her a clear field of fire."
"And at whom should I fire, Dan?" Rosaleen asked, sounding amused.
"Why, that's up to you. You see, you're right. I did get orders from Hilda
Morrisey, and they were
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file:///F|/rah/Frederik%20Pohl/Pohl,%20Frederik%20-%20Eschaton%202%20-%20The%2
0Siege%20Of%20Eternity.txt to keep whatever information you have about
Scarecrow technology from falling into the hands of the Greater Ukraine
terrorists. The guys," he amplified, "who already stole the bug that was in
the other Rosaleen. They think you can help them take it apart."
"Me? I can't."
Dannerman nodded. "I don't think you could, either. But they don't know that."
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"So you were going to shoot me with that thing?"
"That was one of Hilda's options," Dannerman admitted. "It wasn't mine. I was
pretty sure you'd agree to be rescued. That radio you took away from me? It's
to call a plane to pick us up. Then the three of us, you and me and Pat, will
fly to Vienna and then to the States. The Bureau can keep you safe there."
"Safer than I am here with my friends?" Rosaleen asked skeptically.
"Well, yes. A lot safer. You see, at least one of your friends is a
terrorist."
Of course, that really hit the fan. All four of the zek children were shouting
at once-mostly in
Ukrainian, but Pat didn't need a translator to get the gist. The big one,
Vassili, was standing up and pleading with Rosaleen. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]