sitting before the guidance panel,
and beyond them the decaying malls and decrepit housing developments of
suburban Florida spread out before us. I began to move forward with
trepidation; and then the man on the left spoke, cheerfully enough but without
facing me:
"Dr. Wolfe! Excellent, you
managed to escape Larissa—which is far more, I suspect, than our pursuers will
do."
And then he turned, or rather the
entire seat he occupied did: for it was in fact a wheelchair, one that even in
the near darkness I could see contained not the formidable physical specimen
I'd anticipated but a frail, somewhat pitiable form that did not seem to match
the vibrant voice it produced.
"I suppose I should offer
you some melodramatic welcome," the voice continued in the same amiable
tone. "But we're neither of us the type, eh? No, I suspect that what you'd
really like is some answers."
CHAPTER 9
"My name's Malcolm
Tressalian—did my sister manage to relay that much to you, or have you endured
uninterrupted flirtation since you came aboard?"
"Yes—I mean no—I mean, she
did—"
Tressalian laughed and rolled
closer to me, his face becoming fully visible for the first time. "You
must understand that she almost never takes any interest in men—but when she
does, my God ..." I smiled at this statement, though I was paying more
attention to his face than to his words. The features were not unlike
Larissa's— handsome in a fine-boned way—and the hair was the same silvery
color. The eyes, however, were quite different, being of a peculiarly light,
rather otherworldly blue. Yet there was something far more important than any
of this in the face, a look I had seen many times in children who'd served
harsh prison terms, as well as in schizophrenic patients who had lived for too
long without treatment:
It was the imponderable depth
brought on by compressed, relentless mental and physical torment, a brand as
unmistakable as any birthmark.
"And I do apologize,"
Tressalian continued amiably, "for the way you were brought aboard."
As he said this he shifted into position to try to stand up, something that he
apparently felt it was important to do at that moment, given the pain that it
evidently caused him. He reached for a pair of aluminum crutches that were
mounted on either side of his chair, clipped them to his upper arms, and then
managed to get to his feet. I didn't know quite what move to make to assist
him, especially since I guessed that he desired none; and indeed, once upright
he looked very pleased that he was able to approach me and shake hands on his
own. "However," he continued, "I'm sure you appreciate that we
couldn't just leave you behind to suffer a fate like Mr. Jenkins's." His
expression grew earnest. "I trust Eli expressed his condolences—let me
add my own. It was a sickening thing to do, even for that unkillable beast we
call Central Intelligence."
"Then it was the
government," I said quietly, Max's face flashing across my mind for an
instant.
Tressalian nodded
sympathetically. "The pair of you were getting too close on the matter of
John Price's death."
"The matter of his
death?" I asked carefully. "Or the matter of the images he'd tampered
with?"
Tressalian's smile returned.
"The two are one, Doctor—surely you've guessed that much. Your death,
however, would have caused an inconvenient public stir. Still, had you
persisted they would almost certainly have found a way to quietly eliminate
you."
"But why?" I asked
involuntarily. "What the hell is going—"
I was cut off by the man seated
at the piloting console, who spoke in a steady yet forbidding tone:
"Larissa's preparing to engage. They're within range, and she's routed
helm control to the turret station."
Tressalian sighed, though his
concern did not appear deep. "Well, Colonel, since that leaves you with
nothing to do for the moment, come and meet Dr. Wolfe."
The man at the now-usurped
guidance panel stood up, and even before he turned I could see