snapped like a twig.
The club-holder was starting to rise when the Owl By Night crushed him from existence. Master Tye would have scolded Helen for using that Owl—
The man still alive joined his fellows in death three seconds later. Again, the Scythe; and again, the Scythe.
When it was over, Helen fought for breath. Not because she was winded, but simply because her mind was reeling from the destruction. She had practiced those maneuvers a thousand times—for years, now, against padded and armored opponents—but had never really quite believed—
Nausea came, was driven down. Rage and terror also. She fought and fought for her center.
Kevin
When Usher let himself into the hotel room in the Loop which Victor had rented for that night, the young SS officer was asleep. Seeing Cachat’s fully-clothed form lying on the room’s only bed next to Ginny, Usher grinned. The first night Victor had rented a hotel room for his new “debauched habits,” he had insisted on sleeping on the floor.
Usher glanced at the table in the room. Clearly enough, Victor and Ginny had spent the previous evening playing cards. If Kevin knew his wife—and he did—Ginny would have teased Victor by suggesting a game of strip poker. Seeing the lay of the final hands, Kevin’s face twisted into a moment’s derision.
But there was no real sarcasm in it. And, as his eyes moved back to the sleeping form of the young officer, Kevin Usher’s expression took on something which might almost be called paternalism. In truth, in the past few days, he had become quite fond of Victor Cachat. He even had hopes of awakening the wit which he was certain lay buried somewhere inside that solemn young soul.
Kevin’s method for teaching that lesson was abrupt and effective. After Victor lurched upright, gasping and wiping the glassful of cold water off his face, he stared bleary-eyed at the culprit. Next to him, Ginny murmured something and rolled over, her own eyes opening more slowly.
“Up, young Cachat!” commanded Usher. “The game is afoot!”
As usual, the classical allusion went right over Victor’s head. Kevin snorted again.
“You’re hopeless,” he growled. Kevin pointed an accusing finger at his wife. Ginny, like Victor, had been sleeping in her clothes.
“I’m not a cuckold
Victor scowled. “That wasn’t funny yesterday either, Kevin.” Then, seeing the grin on the citizen colonel’s face, Victor’s eyes widened.
“Something’s happened. What?”
Kevin shook his head. “Not sure exactly. But Gironde just called and told me Manpower’s headquarters suddenly came alive last night. Busy as ants in the middle of the night they are, over there. I’ll bet damn near anything Durkheim’s scheme just fell apart at the seams.”
Confused, Victor shook his head. “Citizen Major Gironde? He’s in the SS. Why is he calling you? And what’s he doing watching the Mesans anyway? Durkheim assigned him to—”
He clamped his jaws shut, almost with a snap. Kevin smiled, and sat down at the card table. “Good, lad,” he murmured. “Remember: the map is not the territory. The file is not the man.”
Victor replied with a murmur himself, quoting one of Kevin’s own maxims: “ ‘And there’s nobody easier to outmaneuver than a maneuverer.’ ”
“Exactly,” said Kevin. His eyes went to the only window in the room. It was a small window; grimy as only a cheap Loop hotel window ever gets. The view beyond was completely obscured, which was not the least of the reasons Kevin had insisted on a hotel in the Loop. Windows which can’t be seen out of can’t be seen into either. Not, at least, without specialized equipment.
Of course, the SS detachment on Terra
“Dollars to donuts,” Kevin mused, “the girl escaped. I can’t think of anything else right now that would stir up Manpower’s headquarters. Not in the middle of the night, anyway.”
Victor was confused again. “What are ‘dollars’? And ‘donuts’?”
“Never mind, lad,” replied Kevin, shaking his head. “Are you ready?”
Classical allusions might have been above Victor’s head, but the last question wasn’t. Instantly, his face was set in stone, hard and firm as unyielding granite.
By now, Ginny was lying half-erect on her elbow, her cheek nestled in the palm of her hand. She gazed up at Victor’s face admiringly. “Anybody ever mention you’d make a great poster boy for an SS recruitment drive?”
Ginny’s repartee usually left Victor confused and embarrassed. But not this time.
Hard; firm—unyielding as granite.
Durkheim
Durkheim was awakened by the insistent ring of the communicator. Silently, he cursed the Mesan idiots who were careless enough to call him at his own residence. Granted, the communicator was a special one, carefully scrambled. Still—
He only spent a few seconds on that curse, however. Soon enough, he had other things to curse the Mesans for—and not silently.
But he didn’t indulge himself for very long in that pointless exercise. For one thing, the Mesan on the other end was indifferent to his outrage. For another, Durkheim himself had always understood that his plan was too intricate to be sure of success. So, from the very beginning, he had designed a fallback.
After breaking off his contact with the Mesan, Durkheim spent an hour or so staring at the ceiling of his bedroom. He didn’t bother to turn on a light. He found the darkness helpful in concentrating his attention, as he carefully went over every step of his next maneuver.
Then, satisfied that it would work, he even managed to get some sleep. Not much, unfortunately. The problem wasn’t that Durkheim couldn’t get to sleep—he’d never had any trouble doing that—but simply that he had to reset the alarm to a much earlier hour. He would have to be at work by the crack of dawn, in order to have everything in place.
