SEVEN

Almeida took a chair. Nurses passed to and fro beyond the open door of the otherwise private hospital room.

'A pity you killed him,' he said.

'I'll have nightmares the rest of my life,' she answered dully.

He patted her hand, which lay lax on the bed coverlet. *No, you won't,' he said. 'You're too sensible.

You took a bad shock, and rest and tranquillizers are prescribed. However, I'll bet they discharge you inside a week. In fact, no one here cautioned me about avoiding excitement. That animal was overdue for killing. Don't waste sympathy on his hypothetical deprived childhood. Spend your goodwill on the billions who need and deserve it. Don't worry about legal complications, either. Your case has been closed. Not that it was ever really open. An Orthian defending herself against a murderer from the Underworld—the matter could've been a lot less clear-cut and the authorities would not have cared. They remember the revolutionary era.'

'I've been told. But thanks.' Yvonne stirred. 'I don't feel too unhappy at the moment,' she said. 'Nor happy. My emotions are flat. Drugs, I know. In an intellectual way, I wonder what will come when I'm released and the drugs wear off.'

'You'll see the incident in perspective and start enjoying life as before. Your therapist promised me on his reputation you would. He's handled really tough cases, Yours is practically routine, about on a par with a sensitive person who's witnessed a nasty accident.'

'Well, maybe. I do plan to move. Not because I'm scared but because that apartment will always be where the thing happened.'

'Sure, we approve. We'll help you find an address that can be kept confidential till this trouble's been disposed of. That's why I said, pity you killed the swine. We could've got a lead. Might've had to narcoquiz, which would mean we couldn't prosecute afterward, but our real interest is naturally in who hired him and why.'

'Have you any clues?' Yvonne asked with a flicker of interest.

'Well, an identification. Never mind the name. A known gunman, though he'd escaped conviction for murder; the time he served was for lesser offences. The police are checking his associates. Military intelligence and the FBI are co-operating, plus following separate lines of investigation, which is why I keep saying "we".'

'On my account?' Yvonne shook her head. The gesture felt odd on a pillow. 'The hirer must be simply a… madman. He probably believes the Sigman has designs on humanity.'

'I hope that's true.' Almeida's expression bleakened and his voice turned cold. 'Bad enough if so. The Underworld's mercenaries don't come cheap. Your attacker was no chance-picked thug, he was a professional of gang war and criminal commando, almost a soldier. We've established that through our informants.'

'Do you know how he got into the conurb?'

'Not for certain. He may have strolled into the public section, as if to buy something, and kept mingling with legitimate people in restaurants, stores, twenty-four-hour bars, that kind of place, till gossip told him you'd returned and he slipped on his fake uniform in a lavatory booth. If he acted cool, he'd've had a good chance of walking right by the elevator guard for the residential levels. But I suspect, instead, a front man rented an apartment in advance where he could den. We're checking on recent tenants, especially those who haven't been at home lately. Takes time, given the large and mobile population.'

Almeida's scowl grew darker. 'If a foreign power is out to do you in, Yvonne, hoping to delay our rapport with the Sigman, we're worse off,' he continued. 'They have agents in our ranks—well, seeing we have agents in theirs, I'd be surprised to learn different—and maybe they'll manage to keep track of what we're doing.'

'Oh, Andy 1' she said. 'That's paranoid. How could I be worth a great country's attention?'

'You're being reasonable again,' he chided. 'The fact is, here and there various governments contain para-noiacs.'

Yvonne was faintly surprised that she chuckled. 'Who are out to get me.'

Almeida sighed. 'Let's not argue. Will you agree your safety is desirable?'

'I won't live under constant guard. You don't know how I've always pitied the White House family.'

'I can guess.' Almeida eased a bit and spoke around a slight smile. 'Forcing you into a real nervous breakdown won't help us. And you could well be right, that this was a wild one-shot attempt. Would you consider taking a vacation in a safe spot for, m-m, two-three weeks or a month? Meanwhile we'll carry on our manhunt. If we don't succeed, we'll anyway have time to work out security measures that won't intrude on your private life.'

After a few seconds she nodded. 'Okay. My therapist does advise a trip. Mind you, no secret agent tagging along and staring at me. The mere possibility of there being one would drive me off the track.'

'I was afraid you'd say that.'

'Who knows, given peace and quiet, I might get a few fresh ideas. Have you a suggestion?'

'Yes,' Almeida said promptly. 'In fact, I've already arranged it, subject to your approval. I'll know you're safe, if you observe a few sensible precautions, and you'll know I can't have planted a bodyguard on you—not in such a close-knit, stiff-necked outfit. The Long Serpent.'

'The what?'

'Flagship of a sea gipsy fleet, currently in mid-Pacific. She takes occasional passengers, in delightful accommodations, lots of fun—if and only if the admiral approves of them. In your case, he fell over himself to issue an invitation, soon's I called him. We can flit you there secretly.'

Yvonne frowned. 'Sea gipsies? I'm afraid I'd feel uncomfortable among Byworlders.'

'The Vikings aren't, especially, in spite of their flamboyant name,' Almeida assured her. The most eccentric, gaggle of ocean wanderers is nowhere near as far gone as the Amazons or the Creative Anachronists or—well, a lot of self-styled Orthians, too, considering what odd little businesses they're apt to run. The sea has less tolerance for peculiar behaviour than the land. Besides, it takes considerable capital to build a ship of the kind required, let alone a fleet. The Vikings keep no particular religion or social ideology or what-have-you. They're mostly a bunch of hard-headed Norwegians who decided that for them there was more freedom and elbow room and probably more income on the water than on the land. I'm sure you'll enjoy them. And you'll be safer than any place this side of Apollo Station.'

Yvonne yielded. 'For that long a speech, Andy, you deserve to win.'

The big news broke the day after Skip had talked to Keough. 'This changes every configuration,' the Tuatha chief said. 'Stick around a while. I might wangle you a direct interview with Dr Canter.'

She had become the obvious target, especially after the general nature of her idea was described. It tied straight into Skip's hypothesis, convincing him he was right. Nevertheless, the owners of impeccable credentials were standing in kilometres-long lines—thought his metaphorically slanted mind—for a short visiphone conversation. What priority would a broke twenty-two-year-old drifter be assigned?

'Patience, son,' Keough advised. Tm making calls halfway 'round the world in both directions on your behalf. Not telling what your idea is. You've earned the right to spring that, and besides, you make it more convincing than I could. I only say you're worth listening to on the Sigman matter. You know, I never stopped to figure till you pointed it out, how many channels to how many offices I've got. My name's good among a hundred scientific and engineering leaders, and a percentage of 'em owe me favours. Chances don't look too bad. So, as I'd tell a Japanese about to commit hara-kiri, contain yourself.'

Skip did, that first tremendous week, largely by wangling a temporary pick-and-shovel job which cast him into sleep each evening. The next several days, with nothing but rehash on the 'casts, were more difficult. When the announcement finally came that Yvonne Canter had sought seclusion after an assassination attempt on her, he tossed on his bunk the whole night. Next morning, red-eyed and tangle-haired, he bulled his way past underlings to Keough.

The chief was in the headquarters shack. The sophisticated gear of communication and computation stood incongruous against plain plastiboard walls and windows filled by a mountain. A breeze gusted through, bearing odours of pine, noises of machinery. Keough glanced from his desk. 'Hullo,' he said.

'You're early. Sit.'

Skip slumped into a chair. 'You heard, sir?' he mumbled.

'Yeah. 'Right after the event. You know now they suppressed the information till they got things squared away.

But my tentacles reach into the Denver police lab.'

'And you didn't tell me?' Skip lacked the strength to feel indignant. 'Well, this closes the direct route.

Could you please start me on a new heading?'

'Contrariwise,' Keough said, 'you should consider it a lucky break, far's you're concerned.'

'What?'

'I know where she is. I can put you there.'

The word was like a thunderbolt. Skip could merely gape.

Keough looked stern. 'I will, provided you make some promises. If you break them, you'll be kicked out so fast your guts will wrap around your tonsils; and I'll make a point of roasting you over a radioactive fire afterward. That woman's had a very foul experience, right on top of several days that must have drained her to the bottom. She is not to be pestered. Let her take the initiative. If you can't make her do that, come back here and we will begin over.'

Skip swallowed. Tiredness dropped away beneath a quickening heartbeat. 'Y-yes, sir-1 promise.'

Keough relaxed. 'I figured you would. And I figure you can be trusted. I've been asking around about you, here and there. Okay. A good many years back, before I became boss of this tribe, we were working on the Great Barrier Reef of Australia. You may recall they had an international crash project to save it. Among the collaborators, for shipping and their special expertise, was a fleet of Norsky sea gipsies. I got friendly with a skipper who's since risen to admiral, and we've kept in touch. I mentioned your problem to him. The chances there looked faint. However, what the hell, why not invest a few minutes?

'My long shot paid off. He called me yesterday evening. Wasn't supposed to, but he'd given no oath, and when the American agents tried to browbeat him into accepting one of theirs aboard in disguise, he got his back up. That's an independent bunch of bastards. He knew I'd be discreet and that I wouldn't have sponsored you for no reason.

'That's where she is, Skip. In the middle of the Pacific Ocean, loafing towards Maury Station and Los Angeles, which last is where she gets off.'

'And you'll flit me?' Skip breathed.

'Uh-huh. By the way, when he called me the admiral was undecided whether to admit you or not. I promised you'd tickle his crew's fancy. They don't see many amusing newcomers en route. That turned the balance, so don't let me down. What I'll actually do is give you a plane ticket to Hawaii and money to hire a private 'copter from there, plus modest expenses on board.'

'I… don't know how to thank you, sir.'

'Well, a cliche like that is not the way,' Keough grinned. 'Remember me when you're rich and famous.

Seriously, I believe you're on to something important and the sooner you're given a hearing, the better.'

Skip sat quiet a while. Finally he ventured, 'I'd never have expected her to take refuge in the Byworld.

From what the news accounts said, she's kind of, uh, spinsterish, in spite of having been married. Is that why they chose the fleet—for a hidey-hole nobody'd guess at?'

'Who says all the sea gipsies belong in the Byworld?'

'Why, isn't that what the word means? People who've left the conventional way of the Ortho but not gone into crime like the Underworld? I haven't made it to any argonaut community myself, but I've read and heard—like one of them belongs to the Mormon Revivalists, another to the Free Basques—'

Skip's recollection trailed on: You have your ships built, nuclear-powered, loaded with the materials re-use equipment developed for bases on the moon and Mars, able to keep the sea indefinitely.

You fish; harvest plankton; process water for minerals; weed for food and fabric; prospect the bottom for ore and oil, maybe under contract; do tramp cargo carrying; whatever's handy. Your brokers ashore haul away and sell what you've produced, buy and haul back what you need.

You've registered your ships in a primitive country with bribable rulers; you take out nominal citizenship there yourself; the rulers pass laws which make your group, for practical purposes, a sovereign state that can do anything it wants, provided it stays within international waters and international law about stuff like navigation and conservation… Hey, what marvellous luck! I get to see Yvonne Canter and a gipsy fleet!

Keough's words reduced his excitement a fraction: 'The Vikings are different. Sure, they fly the Pasalan flag, but just to get out from under the welfare state at home. They consider themselves the repository of the old-fashioned Northern virtues.'

'For which they stand four-squarehead,' Skip chortled. He bounced to his feet. 'Whoo-ee! I'm really on my way? Wow and yow!' He flung the door open and cartwheeled forth across the ground. He returned in a minute, playing 'Sweet Betsy from Pike' on a harmonica snatched out of his pocket.