'Well, that ends now. You've interfered in my business for the last time.'
'Your business? I thought you were a humble employee for Oceanus, Dr. Barker… or should I call you Toonook?'
Barker removed his glasses and stared at Austin with pale-gray eyes. The moving colors played across his ashen features as if pro- jected on a screen. 'Who I am is not important. What I am has a di- rect bearing on your future. I am the instrument of your death. Turn around.'
Austin glanced over his shoulder. Two swarthy men stood behind him, blocking the way. They had closed the door to keep the other guests out. Austin wondered which would offer him the better chance, pushing Barker through the display glass or bulling his way between the men at the door. He had already decided he didn't like either option and was groping for a third, when there was a knock at the door and MacDougal stuck his head in.
'Hey, Kurt,' he called out. 'I'm looking for Charlie Gleason. Sorry to interrupt you.'
'Not at all,' Austin said. MacDougal wasn't the Seventh Cavalry, but he would do.
The guards looked for direction to Barker. He replaced his sun- glasses, gave Austin his glacial smile and said, ' 'Til we meet again,' and made for the door. The guards stepped aside to let him through, and a second later, all three men were lost in the crowd.
Austin's reunion with MacDougal didn't last long. As they merged with the crowd, Mac spotted a senator who was a friend of the Smith- sonian, and he dashed off to collar him for funding. Austin mingled with the other guests until he heard an announcement saying that the dogsled races were about to begin. He was heading back to the ro- tunda when he caught a glimpse of chestnut hair cascading to bare shoulders. Therri must have felt his attention. She turned and glared in his direction. Then she smiled.
'Kurt, what a nice surprise,' she said. As they shook hands, she eyed him from head to toe. 'You look quite handsome in your tuxedo.'
Austin hadn't expected the friendly greeting after the acrimony of their parting exchange on Roosevelt Island. 'Thanks,' he said. 'Hope it doesn't smell too strongly of mothballs.'
She adjusted one of his lapels as if she were his prom date. 'You smell quite nice, as a matter of fact.'
'The same thing that attracted you. I'm sure it didn't escape your attention that these displays are the property of Oceanus.'
'That's the main reason we're here.' Therri glanced off to the side of the rotunda, where Ben Nighthawk stood. He looked uneasy in his black tuxedo, unsure of what to do with his hands, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. She waved him over.
'You remember Ben,' Therri said.
'Good to see you again,' Austin said, shaking hands. 'Nice tux.' 'Thanks,' Nighthawk said, without enthusiasm. 'It's rented.' He glanced around at the other guests. 'I'm a little out of my element.' 'Don't worry,' Austin said. 'Most of the people who come to these receptions are here for the food and the gossip.'
'Ben agreed to escort me,' Therri said. 'Marcus thought Ben's memory might be jogged by something he saw.' 'Has it been?'
'Not yet,' Therri said. 'What about you? Have you learned any- thing?'
'Yes,' he said with a tight smile. 'I've learned that you don't lis- ten to warnings of possible danger.'
'That's ancient history,' Therri said, like someone trying to be patient with an annoying child. Austin took in the challenging gaze and decided he was wasting his breath trying to change her mind.
'I'm on my way outside to see the dogsled races,' he said. 'Would you like to join me?'
'Thank you,' she said, hooking her arm in Nighthawk's. 'We were headed that way ourselves.'
A guide directed them outside. Traffic on Madison Drive had been stopped to allow spectators to cross to the National Mall. It was a beautiful night. Lit by floodlights, the red sandstone turrets of the Smithsonian Castle were clearly visible across the eight-hundred- foot width of greensward. Toward the Potomac, the plain white spike of the Washington Monument soared into the night sky.
A large section of open grass had been marked off with yellow po- lice tape and was brightly illuminated by portable lights. Inside the enclosure, orange pylons were arranged in a rectangle. Hundreds of reception guests in evening attire, and passersby attracted by the lights and crowd, ringed the perimeter. A few National Park Service uniforms could be seen. From the other side of the racecourse, where several trucks were lined up, came a sound like a kennel at feeding time. Then the excited yelps and barks were drowned out by a male voice on the public address system.
'Welcome to the Denizens of the Frozen North exhibition, ladies and gentlemen,' the announcer said. 'You're about to see the most exciting part of the show, the dogsled competition. This is more than a race. The contestants, from two different Inuit communities in Canada, will demonstrate the skills needed to survive in the Arctic. The hunter must speed to the kill and use his harpoon with unerr- ing accuracy. As you know, we don't have much snowfall in Wash- ington this time of year.' He paused, to allow for the laughter. 'So the racers will have wheels on their sleds instead 'of runners. Enjoy the show!'
Figures milled around the trucks, then broke into two groups,
each pushing a sled toward an opening in the taped enclosure. The sleds, one bright blue, the other fire-engine red, were brought to the starting point and placed side by side. The wolflike sled dogs were taken from the kennel trailers and hooked into their harnesses.
Excited by the prospect of a run, the huskies grew more agitated. The barking reached a crescendo as the impatient dogs pulled against their harnesses. The nine-dog teams, with eight in pairs and one as leader, exerted an amazing amount of muscle power when harnessed together. Even with the brakes set and handlers holding on, the sleds inched forward.
Two men, the drivers obviously, detached themselves from the others and climbed onto their sleds. A second later, the starting gun went off. The drivers shouted commands, the dogs dug their paws in, and the sleds took off like twin rockets. The dogs immediately went into an all-out run. Unsure of the conditions on the grassy course, the drivers slowed slightly as they came into the first turn. There was some skidding, but the sleds came out of the turn side by side and stayed neck and neck into the second curve, successfully navigating it.
The sleds were moving at full tilt again as they raced toward the spot where Austin stood behind the yellow tape, next to Them and Ben. The drivers urged the dogs on with loud kissing sounds. In def- erence to the mild evening, the drivers were not dressed in hooded fur parkas, instead wearing skin pants tucked into their boots. Sweat glistened on their bare chests.
The sleds were modified tube steel rigs like those used to train dogs when there is no snow for the runners to glide upon. Steel mesh platforms about six feet long and more than a yard wide nestled be- tween four rubber airplane tires. The sleds were steered by a small wheel at the top of a vertical tube frame. The drivers stood with feet placed on narrow side extensions that flanked the main platform, bodies hunched over the steering posts to cut wind resistance and lower the center of gravity. As the sleds flashed by with whirring wheels, the faces of the drivers were only a blur.
The racers were still abreast as they came into the third turn. The red one was on the inside. Looking for a gain, the driver tried to cut the turn tightly. But the sled caught an edge, and the wheels on the other side lifted off the ground a few inches. The driver skillfully compensated with the weight of his body and a touch of the brake, and the wheels slammed down again. The blue-sled driver took ad- vantage of the lost gamble. He could have gone wide, but he finessed the turn with admirable skill and gained a quarter of a length in the straightaway.
The crowd was cheering madly, and it went wild when the blue sled increased the lead to half a length. Another few feet and the blue sled would be able to pull over in front of the red one, blocking the way and controlling the race. The blue driver kept glancing over his shoulder, looking for an opportunity. He got his chance in the fourth and last curve.
The leading sled, on the outside, came into the turn at a perfect speed and angle to put him completely ahead of the other racer. But the red sled suddenly veered to the right, and its front wheel caught the leader's rear-left tire. The blue sled fishtailed from the impact, and the driver fought to bring it under control. The dogs sensed the whiplash about to take place and tried to compensate by pulling harder, but the centrifugal forces acting on the light vehicle proved too potent.
The blue sled went up on two wheels and flipped. The driver went airborne, like a circus performer shot out of a cannon. He hit the grass hard, rolled several times and lay still. The dogs kept run- ning and dragged the sled on its side until they could pull it no far- ther. Then they began to fight among themselves. The handlers ducked under
