Текст книги "Ancient Shores"

Автор книги: Jack McDevitt

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Pete Pappadopolou had worked in the shipping room of ABC Pistons, Inc., for four years, and had recently risen to his first supervisory position. His marriage had collapsed six months earlier, when his wife ran off with the operator of a beer distributorship, leaving him to care for their asthmatic son.

Pete had worked a second job, delivering Chinese food, to pay for the nurse and associated medical care. He hadn’t been sleeping well. He was depressed, and his life seemed to be going nowhere. He missed his wife, and his doctor put him on tranquilizers. But the promotion came, bringing a sizable salary increase and the promise of more as ABC expanded into allied fields. Moreover, the child’s attacks had begun to lessen in both frequency and intensity. They had turned a corner.

Unfortunately, ABC was going through changes as well. Their expansion was to have been financed by a secondary stock offering. But the value of the company’s stock had plummeted in recent weeks, and the banks, after a long period of watchful waiting, backed off.

ABC found itself with an unexpected surplus of people. The executive suite responded by eliminating eighteen hundred middle-management and first-line supervisory jobs. Pete, who had recently separated from the union in order to move up, discovered to his horror that he had no protection whatever.

On the day before the official notification would have been delivered (the rumor mill at ABC was quite efficient), Pete bought a.38 and used it on his plant manager and a colleague who had been making it clear that he should have got the promotion that went to Pete.

The plant manager, despite being hit six times, survived. The colleague took a bullet in the heart. The company responded by hiring additional security personnel.

James Walker loved solitude. He remembered staring out the windows of the schoolhouse years ago, gazing across snow-blown prairies, imagining himself alone in the world beyond the horizon. He had pictured a place of sun-dappled forest and green rivers and gentle winds heavy with the fragrance of flowers. Where the paths were grass rather than blacktop, and the land was free of county lines and posted limits and tumbledown barns.

Walker listened to his wife, Maria, working in the kitchen, her radio playing softly. A book lay open on his lap, but he couldn’t have told anyone what the title was. Events on the ridge had filled his waking hours since Arky had first called him to report the discovery. Now Arky was dead, and people on the reservation and throughout the area were afraid of the night. George Freewater had told him flat out that something had got loose. “There’s no doubt in my mind,” he’d said.

A jigsaw puzzle lay half done on a table near the window. It was titled “Mountain Glory,” and it portrayed a gray snow-capped peak rising out of lush woodland. A rock-filled stream rushed through the foreground. He had done a thousand such puzzles during his lifetime.

It saddened him there was no wilderness for the Mini Wakan Oyaté like the landscapes on the boxes. He had dreamed all his life that the Sioux would recover their lost world. How this might occur he’d had no idea. But it seemed right that it should happen, and he therefore fervently believed that in time it would.

But the shadows were advancing now. One day soon, he knew, the long night would begin for him. The Sioux had outlived their way of life, had turned it over to the white technicians, who would map everything. That was what he most disliked about them: that they sought to know all things, and did not realize that a forest without dark places has value only to the woodcutter.

Now a road to the stars had opened. From Sioux land. Arky had understood all along, had cautioned him that the Roundhouse might prove far more valuable than any commodity that could be offered in exchange for it. Possibly, the new wilderness was at hand.

The government car drew up outside. He sighed and watched Jason Fleury get out. There were two others with him, but they did not move. Fleury seemed ill at ease.

Walker met him at the door and escorted him back to his office. “I assume,” he said, “you are not bringing good news.”

“No.” Fleury shook his head. “There’s no good news for anyone these days.”

The tribal chairman produced two cups of coffee. “What do they propose to do?” he asked.

“I must ask you first, Mr. Chairman, whether you are taping this meeting.”

“Would it make a difference?”

“Only in what I would feel free to tell you.”

Walker sat down on the couch beside his visitor. “There is no device,” he said.

“Good. I didn’t think there would be.” Fleury took a deep breath. “I hardly know how to begin.”

“Let me help,” said Walker. “You are about to seize our land. Again.”

For a long time Fleury didn’t speak. Finally he cleared his throat. “They don’t feel they have a choice in the matter, sir.”

“No,” said Walker. “I’m sure they don’t.”

“Officially our position is that we are reacting in order to allay panic in the local towns and in southern Canada from the rumors that something has got loose from the Roundhouse.”

“What panic?” asked Walker.

Fleury smiled, an attempt to break the tension. It didn’t work. “It is true that people are frightened, Chairman. Surely you know that?”

“Give it a few days and it will go away of its own accord.”

“No doubt. Nevertheless, there’s been a death, and there’s political pressure. The government has no choice but to act. It will take over Johnson’s Ridge and temporarily administer the property until we can be assured the situation is stabilized.”

“And when will the situation be considered ‘stabilized’?”

Their eyes locked. Walker could see that Fleury was making a decision. “What I have to say may not be repeated outside this room.”

“It will not be, if you wish.”

“That moment will come when the port and the Roundhouse have been destroyed.”

“I see.”

“There will be an accident. I don’t know how they’ll arrange it, but it’s the only way out.”

Walker nodded slowly. “Thank you for your honesty,” he said. “I must repeat, Johnson’s Ridge belongs to the Mini Wakan Oyaté. We will resist any effort to take it.”

“Try to understand,” said Fleury. “There are forces at work now over which no one has any real control.”

The chairman felt as if he were caught in the gears of a giant clock. “Jason,” he said, “I understand quite well. But I am being asked to choose a reservation for my grandsons when they might have a wilderness. Rather, your people need to put aside their fear. There is nothing destructive in the Roundhouse. The difficulties now besetting the larger world stem from ignorance. And fear.”

Fleury’s eyes were bleak. “Many of us sympathize with your position. You have more friends than you know.”

“But none who are prepared to come forward.”

Fleury struggled with his words. “Chairman, the President counts himself among your friends. But he feels compelled, by his duty to the nation, to take action.”

“I am sorry,” said Walker, standing up to signal an end to the conversation. “I truly am.”

“Chairman, listen.” A note of desperation crept into Fleury’s voice. “It’s out of your hands. The court order has already been issued. It will be served on your people within the hour.”

“On the tribal council?”

“On your representatives at Johnson’s Ridge.”

“Adam will not accept it.”

“That’s why I’m here. To explain what’s happening. And to ask for your assistance. We will pay ample compensation.”

“And what would you offer me in exchange for the future of my people? Keep off the ridge, Mr. Fleury. It belongs to the Sioux. We will not surrender it.”

Max picked up his phone. It was Lasker. “Listen, Max,” he said, “there’s something you ought to know.”

“You sold the boat,” Max said.

“Yeah. Listen, they offered a lot of money, Max. More than I’ll ever need.”

“It’s okay, Tom.”

“I don’t know if it’s going to have any kind of impact up there. I was afraid—”

“Where’s the boat now?”

“They’re outside loading it onto a trailer.”

“Wells?”

“No. It’s government money. These guys are from the Treasury.”

Deputy U.S. Marshal Elizabeth Silvera served the court order on Adam Sky. She was in her late forties, tall, rangy, impersonal. Her black hair was just beginning to show streaks of gray.

She was accompanied by Chief Doutable.

Adam’s office in the security station was small and cramped. Its walls, which until yesterday had been bare save for a tribal drum and a framed picture of his wife, were now covered with weapons. Bows, antique rifles, Adam’s old service revolver, whatever he’d been able to find had been put on display.

Silvera extracted a document from her jacket. “Mr. Sky,” she said, “A federal court order requiring that this premises, the Roundhouse, and everything in it, save personal property, be remanded into the custody of the federal government.

“The action is necessitated,” she continued, “because the area has been determined to be a public hazard.”

When the security chief made no move to accept the court order, she laid it on his desk. “You have until midnight tonight to comply.” Her tone changed, as if she were offering friendly advice: “The sooner you clear the site, Mr. Sky, the better it will be for all concerned.”

“We won’t be leaving,” Adam said coolly.

She met his eyes. “You don’t have that option. You can’t defy the court.”

“This is our property. If you come back to take it from us, come armed.”

Silvera’s eyes hardened. “I am sorry,” she said. “You have until midnight.” She turned, walked to the door, and paused. “Under the circumstances I should remind you that resisting a federal court order is a felony. I have no discretion here, Mr. Sky. I have no choice but to enforce the order. By whatever means necessary.”

Walker had been waiting for the call from Adam. When it came, he listened intently to the security chief’s narrative. When he asked for instructions, the chairman hesitated. “Adam,” he said, “how far are you prepared to go?”

“I do not wish to accept this.”

“Are you prepared to defend the ridge?”

“Yes. I’d prefer not to. But I don’t think we have a choice.”

“But,” said Walker, “armed resistance will not produce a victory.”

“Then what do you suggest? That we give in again?”

“The real question is whether we can find a way to keep our hold on the wilderness world.”

“If the federals are prepared to come against us in force, I think not.”

“So,” said Walker, “we can take our money and end it here. Or we can fight with no hope of victory.”

“Yes,” said Adam. “Those seem to be our choices.”

The chairman glanced around his office. The walls, the battered windows, even the fireplace seemed somehow mementos of captivity. “I agree. We must fight.”

“Will you send us help?”

“I will come,” he said. “But the police will not be so stupid as to allow your brothers and sisters to join you. Talk with those who are with you. Find out who will stay.”

“I will talk to them now,” said Adam.

“Good. I’m on my way.” He hung up and stared at the phone.

It rang again.

He picked it up. “Hello?”

An unfamiliar voice asked to speak with James Walker.

“That’s my name.”

“James, I’m Walter Asquith. I’ve heard what’s been happening.”

“I don’t think I know you.”

“No matter. I know you. Listen, not everybody in this country’s getting stampeded. I thought maybe you could use some help.”

As Asquith talked, Walker recalled one of Jason Fleury’s remarks. You have more friends than you know.

“And you are all going to stay?” demanded April.

“Yes,” Adam said. “We will defend the ridge.”

Max was shocked. “Does the Chairman know about this?”

“The Chairman ordered it.”

“My God, Adam,” he said, “you’re talking about shooting it out with United States marshals?”

“That’s crazy,” said April. “You’ll all wind up dead. What we need to do is talk to a lawyer.”

“I don’t believe,” said Adam, “that talking to a lawyer would accomplish anything. Anyway, it’s not my decision.”

Her eyes got very wide. “Adam,” she said, “the Chairman would not ask you to do any such thing. There’s a misunderstanding here somewhere.”

Adam showed no emotion. “You can ask him when he comes,” he said.

Max could not believe he was listening to this conversation. “What do you think this is,” he demanded, “some sort of kids’ game? You can’t tell the federal government to take a hike.”

“We’ve had some experience doing just that,” said Adam.

“Like hell. Your grandfather, maybe. Not you.” He looked through the window at Dale Tree, who was talking with a group of visitors. “Or anybody else here, for that matter.”

Adam looked directly at Max. “We are now at a point where we have to ask ourselves what we really stand for. Everything is about to happen again, Max. We’re not going to allow that. If we have to stand our ground and make them kill us, then that is what we will do.”

29

Where can I go

That I might live forever?

–Omaha poem

“Testing, one, two,” said Andrea.

“That’s good.” Keith sounded excited. “Listen, we aren’t going to lose you up there tonight, are we?”

“I hope not.” Andrea thought she sounded confident. Completely in charge.

“Okay,” said Keith. “We’re doing a special lead-in, and we’ll be cutting away to the network before we actually go over to you. So you’ll be on right from the top.”

“Good.”

“As far as we can tell, you’ll be the entire media show. No one’s being allowed up the road.”

“Well, I guess this is my night to become famous.”

“I hope so. And listen, Hawk, take care of—” Static erupted.

Andrea switched to her alternate frequency. Same problem. The sons of bitches were jamming her. Unbelievable.

She picked up a telephone. And waited for a dial tone that never came.

Joe Rescouli had been driving for almost twelve hours when he and Amy and his sister-in-law Teresa turned north onto Route 32 to travel the last few miles to the Roundhouse. They had come from Sacramento and had covered the ground in three days. Teresa was a particle physicist. Although Joe wasn’t sure precisely what that meant, he knew she had a good job and did not have to work hard. He admired that. “She gets paid for what she knows,” he’d told his friends down at the bottling plant. Joe, on the other hand, had never seen a day when he did not have to slave for every nickel.

Teresa had talked for months about nothing but the Roundhouse, and her enthusiasm had so overwhelmed Joe and Amy that when she started thinking about flying up here to visit the site, they’d all wanted to come, and it was a lot cheaper to drive.

So they were here, and Teresa was saying how she thought they should stay on the ridge until it got dark so they could see the structure glow. Amy was all for it. Amy was always in favor of anything her sister wanted to do. Joe understood that his wife entertained more than a few regrets about her marriage. She never said anything, but he could see it in her eyes. Had she not married Joe, she might also have been working at a place like Triangle Labs, with her own office and a doctorate and a sense of really going somewhere in the world.

It was already getting dark in the shadow of the ridge, and a fierce wind beat against the ancient Buick. He knew about the hairpin access road and didn’t much like having to navigate at dusk with this kind of wind blowing. But the sisters were excited, so there would be no peace until they’d seen what they’d come to see.

“There,” said Amy.

A board had been erected by the side of the highway. It had a big yellow arrow on it, and it said The Roundhouse. But someone had drawn a line through the middle of the sign and printed Closed on it.

“That can’t be,” said Teresa. “It’s supposed to be open until sundown.”

Just around the bend they came across the access road, but it was blocked by a barrier. A police cruiser was parked to one side, and a line of cars was being waved on. Joe eased in and rolled down the window. A policeman gestured impatiently at them.

“What’s wrong, Officer?” Joe asked.

“Please keep moving, folks. It’s shut down.”

“Okay,” said Joe, trying to hide his gratification. “What time does it open in the morning?”

“It won’t. It’s closed permanently.”

“Closed permanently?” said Teresa. Joe could hear the disbelief in her voice. “Why? Officer, we’ve come a long way.” Her voice was getting shrill.

“They don’t tell us much, ma’am. The courts have ordered it shut down. Safety hazard.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll have to ask you to move on.” He stepped away, waiting for them to pull out. Another car drifted in behind them. The policeman sighed.

At that moment a black 1988 Ford, coming from the north, pulled up to the barrier. The driver was alone. An elderly Indian, Joe thought. Then he watched indignantly as they opened up. The Ford went in, and the roadblock was replaced.

“Hey,” said Teresa. “What’s going on? How come he got in?”

“Official vehicle,” said the cop.

Joe glared, but the cop didn’t seem to care. He looked at Joe and pointed to the highway. “Somebody’s going to get a letter,” Joe said, then rolled up the window and hit the gas.

Walker had anticipated trouble at the blockade. All the way over from the reservation, he had been certain they would deny him entrance. Maybe even arrest him. But they had let him through. And as he started up the access road he understood. He was old, and they were hoping he could rein in the more aggressive spirits at the Roundhouse. In any case, wherever he was, they did not see him as a threat.

Cautiously he negotiated the curves, noting a liberal supply of police scattered along the road. The trees thinned out after a while, and he emerged finally on top of the ridge. There were only a half-dozen cars parked in the lot.

The Roundhouse glistened in the fading light. It spoke somehow to the spirit. Its lines were curved and uncluttered, and he knew that its designers had loved the world as it was then, as it still was on the other side of the port. He would have liked to speak with those who had traveled so far to sail virgin seas. It seemed almost as if they had known what the condition of the Sioux would be and had left the woodland as a gift.

Adam stepped from the security hut and waved.

Walker parked the car and got out. “Good to see you, Adam,” he said.

“And you, Chairman.” Adam started to say something but hesitated.

“What is it?” asked Walker.

“The site is not easily defensible. Not with a handful of people.”

“Would you prefer to withdraw?”

“No,” he said. “I am not suggesting that.”

A helicopter drifted in low and kicked up dust from the excavation ditches. “Photo recon,” said Adam.

Walker nodded. “They’ve sealed off the access road. What are you suggesting?”

“That we take the initiative. That we not wait for them to hit us.”

“And how would you do that?”

They’d reached the security station and hesitated by the door. “We could start by dropping a few trees on the access road. That’ll at least slow them down.”

“There are police stationed along the road.”

“I know,” said Adam.

And Walker understood. The police did not look as if they believed any serious deployment by the defenders would take place. This was, after all, an area where people traditionally did not shoot each other. A simultaneous series of ambushes could clear the road. And a couple of well-positioned snipers might hold it if some trees were dropped. It might work. “No,” he said.

“Chairman, we cannot sit here and simply wait for the attack to come.”

“And if you kill a few policemen, do you think the end will be any different?”

Anger rose in Adam’s dark eyes. “If we are to travel beyond the great river, we should not go unescorted.”

“No,” Walker said again. “Spill blood once, and there will be no end to it until we are all dead. I prefer a better outcome.”

“And how do you hope to arrange a better outcome?”

“I’ve been in touch with well-placed friends. Help is on the way.”

“Well-placed friends?” Adam smiled. “When have the Sioux known such friends?”

“Possibly longer than you think, Adam. It may be that you have simply not recognized them.”

They went into the security station. Little Ghost and Sandra Whitewing got to their feet. Both looked calm. Little Ghost was in his late twenties. The chairman knew him, had always worried about his future, because Little Ghost had a wife and two sons but no job. Today it looked as if that would no longer be a matter for concern.

And Sandra, who had once come to him for help when her father drove his car into a gas pump. Her dark eyes shone, and it struck him that she was extraordinarily lovely. Somehow, over the years, he had failed to notice. Too busy negotiating his own narrow track through the world. Pity.

She worked in a restaurant that catered to reservation visitors. He had heard that she was engaged to a white man, a carpenter or an electrician or something, who lived in Devil’s Lake. She was not yet twenty-one. He considered ordering her off the ridge but knew that would be unfair, both to her and to her brothers. She had chosen to make her stand, and he could not deprive her of that privilege.

Weapons were stacked around the room. M—16s. At least they had some firepower.

“We also have a hand-held rocket launcher,” said Adam. “They will not take us without paying a price.”

“Who else is here?” asked Walker.

“Will Pipe, George Freewater, and Andrea are in the Roundhouse. Max and Dr. Cannon haven’t left yet, but I’m sure they will do so shortly. They’re with visitors.”

“There are still visitors?” asked Walker, surprised.

“Three from the last tour.”

He lowered himself into a chair. “We need to talk about the defense.”

The door opened, and Max came in. “I wouldn’t have believed this was possible,” he said apologetically. “I’ve been trying to call Senator Wykowski, but it looks as if the lines are down.”

Walker smiled. “They don’t want us talking to anyone,” he said. “But I don’t think it matters. We are way beyond senatorial intervention.” The chairman felt sorry for Max, who seemed to be a man uncertain of purpose. Courage is not easy to summon when one is at war with oneself.

He looked through the window at the sunset. It saddened him to realize he might not see another.

April was talking with the departing researchers, wondering whether they would be the last to have crossed to Eden. They were Cecil Morin, an overweight, softlooking middle-aged bacteriologist from the University of Colorado; Agatha Greene, a Harvard astrophysicist who had been overcome by the wonders of the Horsehead; and Dmitri Rushenko, a biologist from SmithKline Beecham Pharmaceuticals.

“I’d like to move over there,” said Greene.

“Is it true,” asked Morin, “that the government is about to take this place?”

April nodded. “Apparently so.”

Morin shook his head sadly. “God help us all.”

Rushenko opened the door to his car. “You’re in the right, you know.” His accent was New York. Long Island, she thought.

“We know.”

“I hate to think of the port in the hands of the government,” he continued. “Damned shame. I wish I could help.” He got into his car and started the engine.

“Well, I’ll tell you something,” said Greene. “If the decision were mine, they’d have to take it from me.”

April held the door while she got in. “We intend to stay,” she said, using the pronoun figuratively, for she had no intention of staying. But it felt good to say so. “And you’re welcome to stay with us, Agatha, if you wish.” She intended it as a joke or bravado or something and immediately felt embarrassed by the woman’s confusion.

“I would like to, April,” the astrophysicist said. “I really would. But I have a husband and a little girl.” She blushed.

The others said nothing.

April watched for her chance to talk privately with the chairman. He was out with Adam and the others, bent into a severe wind, touring the mounds of earth that rose around the rim of the excavation pit. Those mounds, she gathered, would constitute the first line of defense.

“Max,” she said, “why are they doing this? What’s the point?”

Max was coming to hate the Roundhouse and everything associated with it. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe it’s a cultural thing.”

She knew Max was waiting anxiously for her to agree to leave. He’d warned her that going down the access road in the dark past nervous police entailed risks.

It was dark now.

“I hate to leave them here,” she said, initiating another cycle of the conversation they’d been having over and over for the last hour.

“So do I.”

“I wish there were something we could do.”

“Why do they insist on doing this? There’s nothing to gain.”

At eight o’clock they killed the security lights, but the churned-up ground was still visible in the glow from the Roundhouse. “Too bad they can’t throw a tarp over that thing,” said Max.

When the chairman left Adam and retreated to the security station, she judged the time was right. “Max,” she said, “let’s go talk to him.”

Max had lost all hope of making anybody see reason. To him, Adam Sky and his people, who had once seemed so rational, had been transformed into a band of fanatics who were ruled by ghosts of lost battles and ancient hatreds. The prospect of telling a federal court and a police force to kiss off was utterly foreign to Max’s nature.

Walker seemed cheerful enough when they caught up with him.

“Chairman,” April said with her voice fluttering, “don’t do this. You can stop it.”

Walker smiled warmly at her. “Are you still here?” he asked.

The wind ripped across the escarpment and hammered against the building. “We don’t want to leave you here.”

“I’m pleased to hear that,” he said. “But you can’t stay.” The exchange caused Max’s pulse to miss a beat. He had no intention of getting caught in the crossfire.

“There’s no reason to do this,” April said. “It won’t change the result.”

Walker stared at her. “Don’t be too sure.” He looked away, up at the moon, which was in its third quarter, and then out over the river valley, dark except for the distant pools of light at Fort Moxie and its border station.

“You can fight this in the courts,” said Max. “I would think you’d have a good chance of getting it back. But if you put up an armed resistance—”

Something in the old man’s eyes brought Max to a stop.

“What?” said April. “What aren’t you telling us?”

“I have no idea what you mean, young lady.” But he couldn’t quite get the coyness out of his voice.

“What?” she said. “You’ve got the place mined? What is it?”

The helicopter was back. It rolled across the center of the escarpment.

Walker looked at his watch.

“The rational way is through the courts,” she said. “Why aren’t you going through the courts?”

The question hit home, and Walker simply waved it away. He didn’t want to talk anymore. Wanted her to leave.

“Why?” she asked. “Why won’t the courts work? You think the fix is in? Something else?”

“Please go, April,” he said. “I wish there were a better way.”

April’s eyes widened. “You think they’re going to destroy it, don’t you? You don’t think the courts would be able to hand it back.”

The chairman stared past her, his eyes fixed on the sky. Then he turned on his heel and walked out the door.

“My God,” she said. “That can’t be right. They wouldn’t do that.”

But they would have to. As long as people believed the advanced technologies existed, that they could eventually surface, they would continue to work their baleful effects on the world at large. There was only one way to neutralize the Roundhouse.

“I think,” said Max, “he’s right. It’s time for us to clear out.”

April stood hesitating, dismayed. Terrified. “No,” she said. “I don’t think it is.”

Max’s heart sank.

“I’m not going,” she said. “I’m not going to let it happen.”

Brian Kautter was the commissioner of the Environmental Protection Agency. At eight-thirty, tracked by TV cameras, he walked into the agency’s press room. There was more tension in the air and more reporters present than he had ever seen. That meant there had been a leak.

Kautter was a tall, congenial African-American. He hated what was happening right now, and he resented being part of it. He saw the necessity of the president’s action. But he knew this was one of those events that would dog him through the years. He suspected a time would come, and very soon, when he would wish with all his heart for the capability to come back and relive these next few minutes.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I have an announcement to make, after which I will be happy to take questions. We have become increasingly concerned with the dangers inherent in the Roundhouse. Your government, as you know, has taken no official position on whether there actually is a bridge to the stars. But enough evidence is in to allow us to conclude that the land on the other side is most certainly not terrestrial.

“That brings up a number of disquieting possibilities. There are already stories that something has passed into our world. We do not know what this something might be, nor do we believe there is any truth to the account. But we cannot rule it out. Nor can we be certain that such an event might not happen in the future. There are other potential hazards. Viruses, for example. Or contaminants.

“In order to ensure the general public’s safety, EPA has requested and received a court order requiring the owners of the artifact to submit it to government inspection and control. I repeat, this is only a temporary measure and is designed purely to avert local hazards.” Kautter looked like a man in pain. “I’ll take questions now.”

Maris Quimby from the Post: “Mr. Commissioner, have the Sioux agreed to this arrangement?”

Kautter shook his head. “Maris, a federal court order does not require anyone’s consent. But to answer your question, I’m sure they’ll see the wisdom of the action.” He pointed at Hank Miller, from Fox.

“Isn’t it a little late to worry about bugs? I mean, if there’s anything dangerous over there, we can be reasonably sure that by now it’s over here.”

“We don’t think there’s any real reason to worry, Hank. Our action in this regard is purely precautionary.”

When he was finished, he went back upstairs to his office and opened the bottle of rum he kept stashed in his supply cabinet.

30

Courage is worth nothing if the gods do not help.