Rising Storm

this would be a very brief report. *We have a lead on von Rossbach,* she said. *It's possible he's in New Mexico.*

*The Blackhawk, did you acquire it?* Clea sent.

'Where did you take your degree?' Colvin asked.

*It will be delivered tomorrow,* Alissa said. *I can have a team in New Mexico well before tomorrow evening.*

'I had an unusual upbringing,' Clea said to Colvin. 'My uncle was a genius and

educated me himself, more or less in isolation, in Montana.' She shrugged, which did interesting things to her dress. 'Consequently I lack a degree, I'm afraid. But perhaps because of that, I feel I'm more creative than a lot of scientists and engineers who have a hard-and-fast 'field,' or 'discipline.' ' To Alissa she said, *Excellent. Keep me informed. But I want you to stay in Utah.

Send no more than four Terminators. We need to keep some for backup.*

'Understood,* Alissa responded. *I'll keep you informed. Out.*

Alissa hopped down from the chair, folded her hands under her chin with her shoulders high, and spun in sheer delight, her golden locks floating in the still-cool air of the new Utah headquarters—underground, of course. The area had many abandoned mines.

The regulators worked overtime to deprive her of this natural high, and unlike Serena, she resented the interference. She had reason to feel good and wished she could enjoy it.

Then she dropped her hands to her sides. It was gone; her brief celebration was over.

Well, it is more efficient, she thought, and began to plan what weapons the Terminators should take.

BIG BEE DINER, NEW MEXICO

An hour and fifteen minutes later a plump, middle-aged man ambled into the diner and took a seat at the counter. He took a menu out of the holder and smiled politely at the waitress, who smiled back.

'Coffee?' she asked.

'You bet,' he said.

He'd checked the place out when he walked in. It was deserted except for the help and him. The only cars in the lot probably belonged to the waitress and the cook; the surroundings were bare cow-salad-bar for miles in every direction. She came back and poured a rich-smelling brew into a white mug. He took a sip and his brows went up. She grinned.

'Better'n you expected, right?'

'Yes, ma'am.'

She leaned her arms on the counter and got comfortable. 'We drink it ourselves, so we figger we might as well get the good stuff. Would you like somethin' else?

We close in a half an hour,' she said apologetically.

'How's your apple pie?'

'Good,' she said, straightening. 'Ice cream?'

'Please.' He turned to look around the deserted restaurant. 'Y'know what,' he said as she placed the pie before him, 'I was asked to come in and talk to some guy who called to report seeing somebody on Crimefighters.' He shook his head.

'He would have been here about an hour ago.'

She placed an elbow on a napkin holder, rested her head on her fist, and looked at him like she was the tiredest woman in the world. A silent moment passed

while the agent took a forkful of pie and ice cream, making a pleased 'mmph!'

sound. Then a little frown crinkled her forehead.

'Yeah,' she said, making up her mind. 'That'd be Waylon Bridges.' Her lips drew back in a sneer. 'He made a big deal about this number he'd written down, got real snarky about it.'

Lifting another forkful of pie, the agent looked at her and asked, 'Know where I can find him?'

She looked away and shook her head slightly. 'No. I dunno where he lives.' She chewed her lower lip, then looked at him. 'But tomorrow, I think I know where he'll be.'

She told the agent that Bridges thought of himself as a wheeler-dealer who liked to have meetings with shady characters in an out-of-the-way spot down the road.

'I saw him talking to somebody in the parking lot earlier and then they drove off, so that probably means they'll be meeting him there tomorrow night.' She shrugged. 'I think he thinks it's this big mystery nobody knows about, but everybody does. He always does the same thing.'

'How come the cops don't pick him up?' the agent asked.

She shrugged. 'No law against talkin' to people in a parking lot or meeting up with 'em in the desert. Anyway, whatever he's up to, I don't think it's very important or they would do something.'

'Could you draw me a map?' the agent asked.

'Sure.' She shrugged again, but looked a bit unhappy. 'You won't tell him I told you?'

He grinned. 'It won't even come up,' he assured her. 'But even if he asks, I won't say.'

She grinned, too, and began to draw. Serve Bridges right for being such a cheap, snarky bastard. Dud tippers never had any luck. Not if she had anything to say about it.

NEW YORK

'… an organic whole,' the sculptor proclaimed. 'And so I've named it Venus Dancing. Because with every passing day it will change, never remaining the same from sunrise to sunset.'

The audience applauded politely as Hill tugged on a cord and the silky covering slid aside to reveal a gleaming silver object over fifteen feet tall on its contrasting pedestal of bronze. The pedestal was also a circular bench, molded in such a way that it seemed to flow into the different color of the sculpture itself.

Venus Dancing was triangular in shape and pierced here and there on its surface with round holes of various sizes. Loops of the silvery substance flowed away from the sides of the sculpture in a way that suggested vibrations. As the members of the audience watched, the material—now freed from its protective shroud—reacted to the cooler air, changing shape, changing texture to become sharper-edged, the loops more angular.

The crowd 'oooh'd' its approval and moved closer. The heat of their bodies

softened the outlines of the lower half of Venus Dancing, bringing forth spontaneous applause.

Clea, looking on and applauding with the rest, suddenly found a business card in front of her face. Startled, she turned to find Roger Colvin giving her a very serious look.

'Call me,' he said. 'I think we've got a lot to discuss.'

She took the card and smiled. 'I'll do that,' she promised.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

MONTANA

'So that's all that was taken?' Sergeant Purdee asked suspiciously, looking around the little store and sniffing. A smell like bad meat lingered in the air, faint but definite enough to someone who'd been raised on a farm. Purdee shrugged mentally; he wasn't the health department.

'That's it,' the manager of the Quickmart said.

He was a middle-aged man wearing his pajama top as a shirt. Not unreasonable after being dragged out of his bed at three A.M. in response to a police call informing him that his store had been the target of a break- in.

'Here we go,' the manager said. He pressed a button and the cloudy, jerky security tape began to play. The store's glass door burst open and a big man in a gimmee cap, hunting jacket, and sunglasses entered. He paused in the doorway, looking around, then he headed down one of the aisles.

Purdee noticed that the man's head never stopped moving, like a searchlight, almost mechanical. Something about him tickled the sergeant's memory. 'Why would somebody break in and just take baby food?' he asked.