“Another one of life’s great lost opportunities,” Al mourned.
“Do you suppose you could rein in your libido just long enough to find me some information about this Leap?” Sam asked, dripping sarcasm. “For starters, who was that woman?” It never hurt to verify his data.
“Another one of life’s great lost opportunities,” Al repeated. “Sam, how do you do it? Leap after Leap? All these women, throwing themselves at you, and you just. .. you just. .. .” He was practically in tears.
“Al, is Tina on vacation or something?” Sam asked.
“How did you know?” Al asked, his eyes glittering suspiciously.
“You’re just being a little more Al than usual, that’s all. Look, she’s gone now. Would you mind coming back to earth long enough to find out what I’m supposed to be doing here? Or is that too much to ask?”
“What? Oh, yeah.” The focus of his distraction having left his direct line of vision, Al managed to pull himself together long enough to look at the handlink. He had to wipe the sweat off before he could read the pattern of blinking lights.
“Uh-hmmm.” He cast a furtive glance at Sam. Sam folded his arms and waited, none too patiently. “Well. It seems there’s a ninety-eight-percent chance that your visitor was Rimae—er, Rita Marie Hoffman, the lady who owns the bar. I guess they call her Rimae. There’s a ninety-nine-percent chance that she’s having a—uh—relationship with Wickie.”
“I’d say so,” Sam agreed dryly. “Unfortunately, I’m not Wickie.”
“But you could be,” Al began. Sam raised his eyebrows. “Oh, all right. Ziggy says he hasn’t quite figured out what you’re supposed to change.”
“What about those kids up the mountain?” Sam suggested. “Does Ziggy know anything about them?”
“Hey, there’s an idea.” Al tapped in a series of codes. “Ouch. Not good.”
“What is it?”
Al pursed his lips. “Well, during the ski season most of those kids spend their free time working at the slopes. But in the summertime, there isn’t much going on in Snow Owl, so—”
“So they get together out on the mountain and they drink.”
“And they drink,” Al said. He paused. Al knew quite a bit about drinking for entertainment, and what the consequences could be. Sam thought the Observer could probably see a lot of himself in the restless teenagers.
“So what else should I know?”
Al drew in a deep breath and let it out again. “Wickie’s the bartender at the Polar Bar—”
“You told me that already. Unfortunately, I don’t know anything about bartending.”
“I could probably help you out on that. Anyway, he’s the bartender. He’s been here for the last couple of years. He does odd jobs for the boss lady.” He raised one eyebrow meaningfully. Sam groaned and started taking off his shirt, flexing the shoulder he’d carried the keg on and rubbing at the sore spot.
If he ever got home again, Sam promised himself, Al Calavicci was going to pay for a lot of things. The process of Leaping knocked random holes in an otherwise photographic memory; he depended on Al for information about large chunks of his own past, varying from Leap to Leap. But if there was any justice in the universe at all, his Swiss-cheesed memory would let him remember all the times Al, who liked to pretend that he had the morals of the average goat, had gleefully tormented him about his encounters with women who thought they were dealing with husbands and lovers, not a time-lost quantum physicist caught in an experiment gone, as Al had once put it, “a little ca-ca.”
“Could we get back to business, please?” he said through gritted teeth.
He could have sworn that bushy eyebrow couldn’t possibly get any higher. That would teach him to swear, no doubt. “If you don’t mind . ..” he emphasized, rotating his right arm.
“Well, depends on the business, I guess, but since the lady has left. . .” Al sighed. “Ziggy says”—the Observer cocked an eyebrow at the handlink—“there’s a forty-three-percent chance Wickie’s gonna get fired in the next few days.” He cast an appraising eye over Sam, now stripped to his briefs and going through some stretching exercises in an effort to loosen up tight muscles. “For non-performance of duty, the data says.”
He was going to hang Al Calavicci from the highest yardarm, Sam promised himself. If the Navy wouldn’t loan him a yardarm, he’d build one himself. He continued the stretches, not giving the hologram the satisfaction of a response. It was a good thing Wickie was in good shape; the kinks came out pretty easily. On the other hand, it was taking some effort to work up a sweat.
It was taking a lot of effort to ignore the smell of lilacs still lingering in the air, and the memory of the woman standing there, with the shirt hanging open. He pushed himself harder.
“But you—or Wickie, anyway—continue to stay in Snow Owl. So you must still be performing some duties,” Al went on, all cherubic innocence. Sam gritted his teeth and reached up to put his palms flat against the ceiling.
“Let me guess,” he said. “Ziggy doesn’t really have the slightest idea what I’m supposed to be doing here. Forty-three percent is practically nothing.”
“Nope, Ziggy has no idea. But I do.”
“Enough already, Al. Knock it off. I know what you think, and I’m really not interested. Give me the background, okay?”
Al conceded, and adopting a much more businesslike tone, continued, “Rita—Rimae—Hoffman’s been divorced seventeen years. She’s got an adopted son, Davey, nineteen, who works in the bar. He’s mildly retarded. And a niece, Bethica, just turned eighteen—Ziggy says Bethica’s the one who was involved in the wreck that may or may not happen on Monday, by the way. Bethica is Rimae’s brother’s daughter. Her parents died when she was three— she’s lived with Rimae ever since.
“Rimae’s had it rough, but
