the blue zenith.
Three years ago he’d seen the plans. For two years Alex had been looking at the restaurant itself. He’d eaten here; he’d loved the way the elevator took him into the sky… and still he hadn’t known it for what it was. Now he remembered the Barsoom Project’s discussion of bridges to the planets. The Tower of Night had been a Beanstalk all along.
By now Dream Park’s special guests were used to the sight of the Ambassador, and barely noticed his passing. All things considered, he was one of Dream Park’s less startling sights. Even on the reduced schedule demanded by the Barsoom Project, there were still enough KaleidoKlowns, dancing ‘Toons, and multispecies street vendors to steal the thunder from a mere six-foot-five Lunarian.
“A strange girl,” Arbenz said finally. With savage satisfaction Alex noted that Arbenz had finally broken into a sweat. “I met her only briefly. Apparently she and Charlene are quite close. No one was hurt?”
“No one. What I want is to go back over the threats that were made against you.”
Arbenz hadn’t looked tired until Griffin said that. “The usual. They consider the Barsoom Project an abomination, the desecration of the heavens. Even the name ‘Falling Angel’ has been considered demonic. It is an absurd pseudo-fundamental Moslem view of the world. People are being exploited for personal gain.”
They had reached the Tower of Night. They entered the elevator. As the door closed, Dream Park vanished.
Outside the clear-plastic windows was burnt-umber sand and a pink sky shading to black. Dead, waterless, almost windless; a dust storm receded toward the too-close horizon.
“You said personal gain. Who stands to gain by scaring you off? Or killing you?”
“Considering the number of contracts that are at stake, I’d consider that question unanswerable. And I surely don’t understand why an imaginary monster should have attacked my niece, and missed!”
Alex nodded reluctantly. He didn’t either.
The elevator rose rapidly. The tiny Martian spaceport town dropped away at fantastic speed, and even without the accompanying sense of acceleration, his stomach flopped and gurgled. He gulped as Mons Olympus rose over the horizon with thin clouds streaming from its shallow flank at two levels, then shrank to become a bump on a shrinking sphere.
If Charlene Dula had been killed out, where would she go? Someplace unprotected?
If the terrorist had missed Charlene, he must be a fool. But fool enough to think that Marty would stay in the Game with Charlene out?
“Mr. Ambassador, has your niece ever been named directly in one of these threats?”
“No. But indirectly, yes, and a kidnap attempt was made on Mitch De Camp’s boy.”
“Dr Camp’s the President of Falling Angel.”
“Correct.”
Alex closed his eyes, reviewing the information. When he opened them again, Mars was a beach ball held at arm’s length, and the Beanstalk span stretched below them like a tightrope across the Abyss. “All right. Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“Not really,” Arbenz said. The elevator came to a halt. “And now I must ask you to excuse me. There are appointments waiting.”
The inner door opened. Beyond was conversation and sanity, the smell of food, and the feel of solid ground.
“Thank you for your time,” Alex said, and shook the long, broad hand that Arbenz extended to him. “Ah… I think I’ll come in for a moment. I need to check on some things.”
“By all means.”
The door hissed shut behind them.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Eviane shielded her eyes, guarding them from a killing glare. Far away, across a vast blue-white sheet of ice, their destiny waited. Now it seemed like nothing so much as an empty plain, but she knew: in her heart she knew.
Her pack was heavy against her shoulders, but her heart was light: for the first time in many months…
Years?
Ever…?
Inwardly, she shuddered. Why didn’t her memory reveal other friends, other lovers? It was all a mist. Perhaps she had taken a blow on the head.
(No, that’s not it, a voice whispered. And the voice was disturbingly familiar. She could almost, but not quite, remember the name that went with the voice. Almost. It wasn’t the first time that the voice had spoken to her, but the sound of it was growing more and more welcome, like an old friend…)
Max adjusted the strap on his pack, and looked down at her, one massive arm resting on her shoulder. It was a comforting weight, and she took unutterable comfort from his nearness.
Last night… last night. The panic had been there, as if he really were her first lover. She had been prepared to hide it, as she would hide her fear before a battle, but it hadn’t been like that at all.
He had been so gentle with her that her panic had fluttered and receded as his hands, those large, clumsy- looking, powerful, gentle hands, somehow did their magic. His hands were so strong. She thought that he could mold rocks the way children use modeling clay. But last night he had treated her with such consuming tenderness that she had finally dug fingernails into his neck, bitten his shoulder, hissed and whimpered until he had treated her like a woman, not an overgrown child.
And panic turned into something else, something that was desperate for human contact, something that used him and welcomed his use of her. What started out as a cry of loneliness became a scream of triumph. Both of them, together, howled against the wind, and laughed, and laughed, and touched.
She grinned, thinking how it must have sounded on the other side of the rock. At least nobody had come to the rescue.
Afterward they just held each other and whispered in the darkness of the ice cave. No talking about the past. No talking about the future, when the Cabal had been defeated (Max had said: “When the Game is over.” Men. Even in the direst of circumstances, they somehow still believed life was all a big game). Just the kind of talk that two strangers make, when the roar of their glands has momentarily subsided, and the flesh is cooling, and the wonderful, terrifyingly intimate afterglow is erasing the barriers between them. In those times lovers talk, speak quickly, say anything to keep that space open as long as possible, knowing that too soon it will iris closed.
Or, in other times, times that she dimly remembered, during those same moments partners sometimes turned away, lit cigarettes, rose to fetch drinks, visited the bathroom. Succored every bodily need except intimacy. Fought like demons to keep the moment from becoming too intimate, as if intimacy was the most terrifying thing in the world.
And, Eviane reflected, perhaps it was.
There were gentle clouds on the horizon. The twelve other Adventurers stood assessing the coming challenge, measuring each other for strength and weakness. Charlene and her escort Hippogryph were only a few steps away. Soon, Eviane thought, she and Max-
(She liked the sound of that. Eviane and Max. Just like a real couple. Just like a normal, healthy…
(Eviane and Max. Why didn’t that sound quite right? As if there was someone else in the loop. Did she have a rival? She looked around herself in the group. No, there was no one else her man was interested in. She knew.)
Charlene Dula broke the spell. She angled over to Eviane. Her slender face was still a little slack with sleep. A light breakfast hadn’t dispelled the dreams completely. She stood four inches taller than any of the others, and was starting to carry the extra height and weight more comfortably. Whatever aches and pains she had started with, her body was making the necessary adjustments.
