Текст книги "Cyteen "
Автор книги: C. J. Cherryh
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Текущая страница: 53 (всего у книги 61 страниц)
Denys' fork rattled, another bite. He was visibly upset.
How can I enjoy doing that? My God. He's an old man. What's gotten into me?
Her own appetite curdled. She poked at the salad, extracting a bit of tomato.
She thought about it that night, listlessly dividing attention between a light sandwich Florian had made her, the evening news, and doing a routine entry on the keyboard—which she preferred to the Scriber when she was listening to something: the fingers were output-only, and what they were out-putting was in a mental buffer somewhere. Pause. Tick-tick-tick. Pause. While the visual memory played out lunch and uncle Denys and the logical function worked on the politics of it. Isthere identity? —An eetee kind of question in the first place, never mind that she had eetee feelings about it—she knew how to explain them, in perfectly solid and respectable terms: she was used to deep-study, she could lower her threshold further by wanting to than most people could on E-dose kat, the tapes involved a person identical to her in the identical environment, and the wonder would be if the constant interplay of tape-flash and day-to-day experience of the same halls, the same people, the same situations—did not muddle together in a flux-habituated brain.
Denys understood that, surely, on the logical level.
Peoplesurely understood that.
Damn, shewas not dealing well with that aspect of it. She dealt with massive movements in the populace. Microfocus failed her.
The average, harried, too-busy-for-deepthink Novgorod worker.
Listen and learn, Ari, sweet: ordinary people will teach you the truest, the most sane things in the world. Thank God for them.
And beware anyone who can turn them all in one direction. That one is not ordinary.
People were aware . . . of Reseune's power, of the power her predecessor had wielded.
IN PRINCIPIOwas a phenomenon, Ariane Emory's basic theories and methodologies and the early character of Reseune, set almost within the most educated laymen's grasp, so that there was, in the public mind, at least the glimmering of what no demagogue could have made clear before that book aroused such strange, such universal interest in the popular market.
It had spawned eetee-fringe thinkers of its own, a whole new and troublesome breed who took Emory for their bible and practiced experimental so-called Integrations on each other, in the idea it would expand their consciousness, whatever that was. There were already three cases down in the Wards, Novgorod CITs who had all drug-tripped their way to out-there on massive overdoses, run profound interventions on each other and now outraged staid old Gustav Morley by critiquing his methodology. A handful of admirers had outraged Reseune Security, too, by trying to leave the lounge down at the RESEUNEAIR terminal and hike up toward the House, proclaiming that they had come to see Ariane Emory—with the result that Reseune was urgently considering building a new terminal for commercial flights, fardown from the old one where, in the old days, Family and ordinary through travelers using RESEUNEAIR had once mingled with casual indifference. A handful of would-be disciples had turned up over in Moreyville looking for a boat, until wary locals, thank God, had figured out what they were up to and called the police.
My God, what do I do if Imeet one of these lunatics? What are they after?
It's a phase. A fad. It'll go. If it weren't this they'd be getting eetee transmissions on their home vids.
Whydidn't we see this?
But of course we saw it. Justin saw it. There's always the fringe. Always the cheap answer, the secret Way—to whatever. Novgorod's in chaos, Paxers threatening people, wages aren't rising to meet spot shortages—
Danger signs. People yearning after answers. Seeking shortcuts.
Seeking them in the work of a murdered Special—
In the person of her replicate, as the Nyes fade, as the unstable period after that assassination births more instabilities, elections upon elections, bombings, shortages, and the Child—the Child verges on womanhood and competency in her own right, announcing herself with the recovery of Ari senior's legendary lost notes—
Damn well what I expected Science to understand—
But Novgorod's understanding it at a completely different level . . .
The children of azi's children—the constituency of Reseune: Ari's own creation, no theory in a Sociology computer. It's there. It's ready.
And Giraud, damn him, can't hold on to that seat long enough for me.
"Vid off," she said, and leaned back and shut her eyes, feeling that general pricklishness that meant her cycle was right on schedule.
Tomorrow I should work in, stay away from people.
I hurt Denys today. I Had him, I didn't need to take that twist. Why in hell did I do that?
What am I mad about?
Adrenaline high, that's what's going on. Not mentioning the rest of the monthly endocrine cocktail.
Damn, that was an underhanded shot I took. Denys didn't deserve that.
Iknow what Ari came to. Her temper, her damnable temper—the anger she was always afraid to let out—
Frustration with the irrational—with a universe moving too slow for her mind—
God, what's going on with me?
She tasted blood, realized she had bitten her lip, and unfocused.
She pressed her hands against her forehead, leaning back in the chair, shut her eyes . . . thinking about that tape, Justin's tape, thinking—
God, no. Not when she was fluxing this bad. Not when she could think of it as surrogate. Leave the damn thing in the cabinet, locked up, safe. Let it be.
It was—oh, God! not for entertainment—
Dammit, Ari, get off it!
Watch the damn fish. Watch the fish procreate and breed and spawn and live their very short lives, back and forth, back and forth in the tank beside the desk.
Sex and death. Breeding and devouring their own young if god did not take precautions and intervene with the net. How long can an ecosystem survive, inputting both the biomass of its own dead and its own births, and the artificial sunlight?
If you put them with big fish there won't be any blue fish at all. .. .
Do you know whether a fish sees colors? . . .
Breathing grew more even. Time reached a slower pace. Eventually she could sigh, bring the emotional temperature down, and postpone thinking. She got up and logged off and went to her bedroom, quietly, not to draw Florian and Catlin's notice.
She just wanted bed, that was all. But she sat staring at the dresser-top corner, where Poo-thing rested, well-worn and disreputable. No condemnation there.
She thought about putting him in the drawer. What if she had brought Justin to her room while he was here; and there was poor Poo-thing to laugh at?
That was the whole trouble—that there were no more games, there was no more give-and-take with friends, no more throwing a dart to see if it got one back, and having uncle Denys come back at her, hard-edged wit, a little sting to put her in her place. She tried to get a rise out of him and there was no bounce-back, no humor, nothing but the wary fencing of an old man who was no longer the power—just the threatened.
Floating-in-black-space.
Welcome to the real world. Poo-thing's worn out. Denys is a scared old man. And you're what he's scared of. People won't argue with you: who wants to lose all the time?
I coulddo any damn thing I want in Reseune. Like take anybody, anything,teach them what I could do—in oneday, I could scare hell out of this place, make them understand I'm holding in—
Everybody'd love me then, wouldn't they?
Poo-thing stared, with wide black eyes.
I ought to take you to work, set you on the desk. You're the best conversationalist in Reseune.
Dammit, someone pull a prank on me, someone make me laugh, someone for God's sake answer me.
I can see all the star-stations, all the azi-sets, the whole thing in slow flux, so damned slow, and so dangerous—
Where's the advice, Poo-thing?
Amy, and Maddy and Tommy and Sam. Florian and Catlin. Justin and Grant. Yanni. And Andy down in AG.
It's talking, fool. The whole universe is talking. Listen and be amazed.
Nelly. Maman and Ollie. Denys. Giraud-present and Giraud-soon-to-be.
The static of the suns.
"... Sera?"
She drew a long breath.
Short-focused again, black-clad figure in the doorway, tall and blond. Worried.
"I'm fine," she said; and discovered her legs asleep. Foolish predicament, gratefully foolish. She rubbed her aching thighs and levered herself up with absolute gracelessness, leaning on the headboard.
When she could stand she went over to the dresser, picked up Poo-thing and put him in the drawer.
Catlin looked at her strangely for that too. But she doubted Catlin had ever understood Poo-thing in the first place.
viii
Punch and sugary cookies. Ari nipped one off the table herself, ignoring the kitchen's more elaborate confections, savored the plain flavor, and took a drink of the green punch which she preferred, thank you, from the nonalcoholic bowl.
A little girl slipped up through the crowd of Olders and snatched a handful; and a second. Fast escape. That was Ingrid Kennart, aged six. Ari chuckled to herself, on a fleeting memory. And frankly could not recall for a second whether it was a flash off some Archive tape or out of her own past.
New Year's, God, of course it had been a New Year's. The music changed, live this year—a handful of the techs had a band, not bad, either. But the glitter was the same. And maman and Ollie—
She caught a flash of silver jewelry out of the corner of her eye and for a second saw a ghost—but it was only Connie Morley, who was tall and thin and wore her dark hair upswept and elegant—
She had a second of triste, no reason, just looked away across the floor where Olders were sitting—Denys: Giraud was in Novgorod this season. Petros Ivanov. Dr. Edwards. He could, she swore, never be Johnto her, no matter how old she got. And old Windy Peterson and his daughter, out dancing, Peterson tryingto learn the new step.
Maddy Strassen was beautiful, really beautiful in silver-blue satin—no shortage of partners for her or 'Stasi, her faithful shadow. And Amy Carnath—Amy was out on the floor with a very correct, very confused-looking young azi who was, however, doing quite well with the step—blond, crewcut, and terribly handsome: Security, stiff as they came when Amy had gotten her hands on him, but loosening up a bit, to the amusement of all of them and the evident disquiet of Amy's mother. The lad was Alpha, and social as far as Green Barracks went—yes, sera! with a real snap in the voice. Quentin, his name was: Quentin AQ-8, who just mighthave ended up being Contracted to House Security or RESEUNESPACE, or outside, if any of a small handful of qualified agencies had wanted to pay the million and a quarter for his Contract, for an azi who had to be Supered directly from Reseune, and whose reflexes were dangerously fast. Quentin AQ would have found himself in someone's employment in another year.
Quentin was, Florian and Catlin reported, a very happy, if very overanxious young man. And Amy was—
–in love, probably described it. At least it was a very healthy dose of infatuation, which made Amy Carnath insist Quentin was her partner, Quentin was going out onto the floor, fashions and customs changed, and people were forgetting whythe old rules existed with the earliest azi: it had gotten to have completely different reasons, and it was going to stop. The youngers did it at their parties; the Olders could just accept it, so there: thus Amy Carnath.
Florian,Ari had said then, so Amy and Quentin were not out there alone.
And after a while there were a few others.
But mostly Florian and Catlin shadowed her very closely, and Florian refused 'Stasi with an earnest: I'm terribly sorry. I'm on duty.
That was the way the world changed. In the House, Florian and Catlin were shadowing her with the attention they had used in Novgorod.
No relaxing. No let-down.
The Novgorod authorities were scared out of their minds about the New Year's crowds and the chance of an incident.
Hell of a thing. The Paxers were notAri's design, she was more and more convinced. A cultural inheritance, an ugly little side-trip in the independence-prioritied mindsets that had founded Union. The grandsons and granddaughters of rebel scientists and engineers—blew up kids in subway stations, and wanted to run the government.
They talked about potential Worms in Justin'sdesigns twenty, thirty generations down. Union had a few after three generations, real serious ones, and she was scared going into a controlled situation like New Year's with Family and staff, with Florian and Catlin to watch with a trained eye for anything Unusual. To have a Novgorod citizen's choice—kilometers of walking in ped-tunnels or twice daily percentaging the headlines and the mood of politics to decide whether to risk a ten-minute subway ride—not mentioning the chance of some ordinary z-case putting the push on you for your keycard– hellof a way to live. But Novgorod citizens hated the idea of a master-system for keycards: a danger to their freedom, they argued.
They had, she thought, a higher anxiety threshold than she did; but they were holding their own, that was the good part, hell with the Paxers, people held on; and she, Ari Emory, she followed the situation and wondered if there was perhaps merit in the idea of a major program to buy-off thousands of military azi still rejuvable, bring them back to Reseune for re-training, exactly the way they had done before she was born—
No question then of the bad precedent of having armed troops keeping order in Novgorod, but a loan of a civilian agency from Reseune Administrative Territory to the municipality of Novgorod. If these were the times they lived in, as well have a response for it, if it meant enforcement standing line-of-sight in every ped-tunnel and subway in Novgorod.
Manpower was the original reason Reseune existed; and she was working out the proposal to land on Denys' desk. And expected Denys to say no. Reseune was making profit again and Denys was determined to hold the line against what he called her out-there ideas.
She sighed, watching uncle Denys from across the room, and seeing a tired lump of a man who had some very strange turns: who had, she had discovered it in Denys' Base in the House system—a huge volume of unpublished work that she ached to talk with him about, work on inter-station economics that was bound to cause a ripple when it did come to light. . . shedid not understand it, but it was very massive and very full of statistics; a huge work on the interaction of economics with the Expansionist theory of government that was absolutely fascinating; a massive study of the development of consumer society in azi-descended population segments, including specific tracing of psychsetted values in several generations of testing; a study of replicate psychology; a history of Reseune from its inception; and work on military systems, of a kind that looked very much like Giraud's work—until she put her finger on the telltale phrases and turns of speech and realized to her shock that Giraud did not write the things published under Giraud's name. They were Denys' writings. And this secret store of them, this absolute treasure-house of ideas, —kept in Archive? Never brought forward, just meddled with from time to time, adjusted—an enormous work-in-progress, from a man so obsessively retiring that he maneuvered his brother into a Special's status so that Giraud could have the reputation and do the public things, while Denys stayed in the background, appearing to devote himself exclusively to administrative work and the day-to-day decisions and approvals for R&D and implementations.
Besides bringing up a kid for a few years—letting herinto that intense privacy, hosting birthday parties and putting up with Nelly and two junior Security trainees—while writing these things that never appeared, only grew and grew.
Strange man, she thought, objective about Denys for the first time in her life. Willing to take on Giraud's replicate—oh, yes. Beyond any doubt. And facing Giraud's death with—not quite grief: a sense of impending catastrophe.
No difficult question at all why Denys had been so willing to take her in, why he had thrown all Reseune into turmoil to recover Ariane Emory's abilities for Reseune: Denys was brilliant, Denys had the old problem with Alphas—that lack of checks, lack of boundaries, that floating-in-black-space problem, that meant no minds to bounce off, no walls to return the echo. Denys was brilliant, and quite eetee and self-defensive: and incapable, perhaps, of believing his work was finished—hence the perpetual adjustments. A mind working on a macro-system that only kept widening ... a perfectionist, with the need to be definitive.
No need of people at all. Just a student of them.
And facing death—Giraud's and his own—with incredulity. Denys was the center of his own universe, Giraud his willing satellite, and of course Denys was interested in psychogenesis, Denys was so damned interested he had almost lost his balance with her, Denys wanted immortality, even without personal continuance—and she had only to hold out the promise: if Giraud was essential to the universe—who more than Denys?
She turned, set the cup on the edge of the table, and started, expecting the person behind her to be Florian, about to take the cup; but it was Justin; and she was chagrined in that half-second, at being that on-edge, and at being caught being foolish.
He took her hand, said: "I think I remember how," and offered the other hand.
She stared at him, thinking: How much has he had?and lifted her hand to his, fingers locked in fingers, the two of them moving out onto the floor to an older, slower number. He hadbeen drinking, probably no few drinks, but he moved with some grace, surely as aware as she was of the fact other dancers broke step to gawk at them, that the music wobbled and recovered.
He smiled at her. "Ari never danced. But her dinners were always good for a week of office gossip."
"What in hell are you trying to do?"
"What I'm doing. What you did—with Florian—and young Amy. Good for you. Good for you, Ari Emory. Damned right. —I thought—a little social rehab—twice in a night—figuring you have a sense of humor—"
Other dancers were in motion, recovering their graces. And Justin's smile was thin, deliberately held.
"You're not in some kind of trouble, are you?"
"No. Just thinking—I've lost a big piece of my life—staying inconspicuous. What the hell. Why not?"
She caught a glimpse of Denys' chair, near the door. Vacant.
And thought: God. Where are the edges of this thing?
The music finished. People applauded. She stared a second at Justin, a second that felt all too long and public.
I've made a serious mistake.
Cover it, for God's sake, it's like the Amy/Quentin thing, people will take it that way with cue enough—
She walked with Justin hand-in-hand from the floor, straight for Catlin. "Here's the one to teach you the new steps. She's really amazing. —Catlin, showJustin, will you?"
As the band started up again, and Catlin smiled, took Justin by the hand and took him back to the floor.
Grant—was over by the wall, watching, with worry evident.
"Florian," she said, "go ask Grant what the hell Justin's up to."
"Yes, sera," Florian said, and went.
Denys was gone from the room. So was Seely.
Justin's linked himself with me—publicly. Not that everyone didn't know. But that I let it go—that, they'll gossip about.
She looked to the floor, where Justin made a brave and even marginally successful attempt to take up on Catlin. And to the corner of the room, where Florian and Grant were in urgent converse.
Denys—walked out.
Florian came back before the end of the dance. "Grant says: it's CIT craziness. I had no notion of this. Grant asked your help but he says if he intervenes it may be public and tense. He says Justin's been on an emotional bent ever since he and Grant went back to their own residency—Grant says he's willing to speak to you about it, but then he said: Sera intervened: ask sera if this is the result of it."
Ari frowned. "Dammit."
"Maddy," Florian said.
Which was a better idea than she had, fluxed as she was. "Maddy," she said. "Go." Dammit, dammit! He's pushing, damned if this is innocent. Denys was here, the whole Family watching—
She took a deep breath. No more easy course. He's no kid. Denys isn't. Now they're not dealing with me as a kid either, are they? Grant thinks this is an emotional trip– or that's what Justin's told Grant to say.
Damn, I should haul him in for a question-and-answer on this little tricky damn, I should.
And he'd never trust me, never be the same Justin, would he?
Catlin and Justin were leaving the floor. Maddy Strassen moved in with Maddy's own peculiar grace, said something to Catlin and appropriated Justin's arm, walking him over to the refreshments while the band took a break; and 'Stasi Ramirez was moving in from the other side.
Thank God.
She drew quieter breaths, sure that Denys had his spies in the room, people who would report to him exactly the way things went.
Like Petros Ivanov.
Which could only help, at this point.
Grant—stayed as unobtrusive as Grant's red-haired elegance could ever be, over in a corner of the room, having a bit of cake and a cup of punch. And talking to young Melly Kennart, who was twelve. Completely innocent.
Maddy partnered Justin through two dances. Ari took the second one with Tommy Carnath, who was looking a little grim. "Patience," Ari said, "for God's sake, we've got a problem."
"He's the problem," Tommy said. "Ari, he's moving on you. Your uncle's mad."
If Tommy saw it, so did a lot of other people.
And nothing could cover it. All she could do was signal she was not responding to the overture.
Embarrass him and send him off? He was vulnerable as hell to that. Laying himself wide open to it. Betting his entire career and maybe his life on that move, and notstupid, no, no way that a man who had run the narrow course he had run all his life suddenly made a thorough break with pattern on a flight of emotion. No matter if he was drunk. No matter what. Justin hadthought about what he was doing.
And put her on the spot. Support me in front of the whole Family or rebuff me. Now. I'll kill him. I'll kill him for this.
ix
"Ser Justin's here," Florian said, via the Minder, and Ari said, without looking up from her desk:
"Damn well about time. Bring him to the den. Him,not Grant."
"Grant's not with him," Florian said.
Florian had not let him in yet: the Minder always beeped in her general area to let her know when an outside access opened. It did then; and she waited to finish her note to the system before she stirred from her chair, told Base One log-off, and walked down the hall to the bar and the den.
Justin was there, in the room that held so many bad memories—walking the narrow margin behind the immense brass-trimmed couch, looking at the paintings. While Florian waited unobtrusively by the bar—unconscious echo on Florian's part: he and Catlin had never seen the tape.
She chose this place.
Favor for favor.
"I want to know," she said, to his back, across the wide expanse of the wood-floored pit, "what in hellyou hoped to accomplish last night."
He turned to face her. Indicated the painting he had been looking at. "That's my favorite. The view of Barnard's. It's so simple. But it affects you, doesn't it?"
She took in her breath. Affects you, indeed. He's Working me, that's what he's after.
"Grantasked me for help," she said. "You've got himscared. I hope you know that. What are you trying to do? Unravel everything? It's damned ungrateful. I kept Giraud off your tail. I kept you out of Detention. I've taken chances for you—What do you expect I should do, shout across the room? I do you a favor. I do every damn thing I can to help you. What do you do for me? Push me in public. Put me in a situation. I don'tthink I'm that much smarter than you are, Justin Warrick, so don't tell me you were just going from the gut. I'll tell you you wanted me in a corner. Back you or not, on your damn timetable; and if Tommy Carnath saw it and Florian saw it and 'Stasi Ramirez saw it, you tell me whether Yanni Schwartz or Petros Ivanov or my uncle missed it."
He walked around the edge of the pit, to the front of the bar.
"I apologize."
"Apologizewon't handle it. I want to know—simply and clearly—what you want."
"You can always ask that. Isn't that the agreement?"
"Don't push me. Don'tpush me. I'm still trying to save your butt, hear me?"
"I understand you." He leaned against the bar and looked at Florian.
"Florian."
"Ser?"
"Scotch and water. Do you mind?"
"Sera?"
"My usual. His. It's all right, Florian." She walked down the steps and sat down on the couch, and Justin came down and sat. Put his elbow on the couch-back in the same way as all those years ago, unconscious habit or scene-following as deliberate as hers ... she did not know. "All right," she said, "I'm listening."
"Not much to say. Except I trusted you."
"Trustedme! —For what, a damned fool?"
"It was just—there. That's all. What would I do? Work in your wing, be your partner another twenty years till Denys dies? Keep my head down and my mouth shut and attend all those damn parties, twenty lousy years of going through every social function, all the department functions, everything—with every CIT in the House feeling like he has to explain himself to Security or your uncle if he's spotted talking to me? Hell of a life, Ari."
"I'm sorry," she said shortly. Which was true: she had had a dose of it too, in growing up; and she had seen it happen to him and felt it in her gut. "But that still doesn't say why you did it. Why you had to wait for a damned sensitive time—I just got things smoothed over with Denys, I justgot things settled, and you throw me a move like that."
"Sorry," he said bitterly.
"Sorry?"
"Times are always sensitive– Always. It's always something. I'm cut off from my father again, dammit, because of Giraud. I've got your word he's safe. That's all I've got."
His voice wobbled. Florian set the whiskey down by his hand, on the shelf behind the couch, and ghosted her direction, putting the vodka-and-orange by hers.
"Which," he continued, after a drink, "I don't doubt. But that's why. Others do doubt my father's safety. Giraud is one. So damned easy to have an incident—a confusion on the part of some poor sod of an azi guard—isn't it? Terrible loss—a Special. But as you say —Giraud's dying. What can he care? You underestimate him—if you think he's not going to try to be rid of my father—except—except if he finds things aren'tsettled at Reseune, and I'm a threat he can't get at. Next to you. Thenhe'll doubt. And Giraud, scheming bastard that he is, —never makes precipitate, reckless moves. Iwant his attention. I want it on me until he's dead. It's that simple."
It made sense, it made a tangled, out-of-another-mindset sense, if you were Justin Warrick, if you knew Giraud, if you had no power and nothing to bluff with except Ari Emory and a potential for trouble.
"So," he said, "I just—saw a chance. I didn't thoroughly plan it. I just saw what you did with the Carnath girl—Amy—and thought—if you blew up, well, maybe I could patch it. If you covered me—it'd get to Giraud. Maybe it'd look like more than it was and worry hell out of him. I'm sorry if it's fouled youup; but I doubt it has; fouled up your plans to keep me pure in Security's sight, maybe; worried Denys, I'm sure; —but messed up anything for you, personally, —I very much doubt it."
"Nothing like the mess you've made for yourself."
"Good. On both counts."
"You're a damned fool! You could tellme, you know, you could trust I can keep an eye to Jordan—"
"No, I can't trust that. I can't trust that, when you're notin contact with the military, when you're notin Giraud's position and you're not in Denys' chair either. I can't depend on your knowing what they're up to, I'm sorry."
He didn'tknow Base One's extent. Had no idea. And there was no telling him. Not on any account. She sipped her vodka-and-orange, set it down and shook her head.
"You could at least have consulted me."
"And put you on your guard? No. Now done's done. I'm being honest, since you've asked. I'm asking you one more thing: run a probe if you like, but don'tgive the tape to Denys."
"Who said I did?"
"I don't know. I just have my suppositions what would appease Denys. Don't give this one out. It can only harm my father. It sure won't make me look any better to either one of the Nyes."
"Except if I don't they'll be sure I'm going along with what you did."
"So you are turning the tapes over."
"The ones I admit to running. I've never let them have Ari's notes on you. I've never shown them what I did to settle some of the damage Ari left. The unresolved stuff. I've never shown them the little intervention that lets you be here, this close to me, without sweating."
"Without worse than that. Without much worse than that. I'm still getting tape-flash now and again. But most of the charge is gone. I only remember—at much more distance than I've ever had—or I never could have done what I did at the party; never could have come here; never could have contemplated—my real plan for irritating Giraud."
"That being?"
"Going to bed with you."
That jolted, hard. It was so matter-of-fact she was half embarrassed, only dimly offended at first blink.
"Not," he said, "that I thought of doing anything you hadn't flatly asked me—once and twice, and recently. Make you happy—make Giraud quite, quite unhappy. And not in a way that could hurt you ... I never wanted that. To be honest, I wasn't sure I could. So I just—took a different course when it offered itself, that's all. I hope I don't offend you. And I wouldn't mention it, except I'd rather explain it with my wits about me, thank you, where I can at least string things together in my own defense. So there you are. That's why."
It was a deliberate move that made it psychologically harder for her to insist on a probe . . . quieten things down: defuse the situation. And tell enough of the truth to make everything reasonable.
