And Fabian was. She told stories of the ‘fringe people’ that made Don alternately laugh and cry; made outrageous conversation with the waiters who delivered their crisp cooked vegetables, wonderfully flavored with strips of broiled fish and fowl; and ended the evening in reminiscences and general conversation. As they left the restaurant, Don said, ‘Damn, I forgot my bag again,’ and Fabian laughed. ‘You always have, every time I’ve ever been with you, so I picked it up for you. Here.’
And back to her room again, duty done. Same procedure with the purse as last night. It was the first chance she had had.
The note was in the bag. Under the bedcovers she read the tiny letters.
‘Note received. Terree’s brother, Tasmin Ferrence, said to be on way to ’Soilcoast. Has music box. I will contact. Careful.’
And the curvy line that made the signature. Chain, or CHAIN, if one wanted to be accurate. The investigative and enforcement arm of the PEC, that was CHAIN. Donatella spent a futile moment wishing that CHAIN was indeed present on Jubal, in force, rather than merely represented by one fairly powerless former employee.
Back to the note. Careful. What did that mean? Careful. Of course she was careful.
Still, the single word appended to the note made her uneasy. Instead of falling immediately asleep as she usually did – as all Explorers did if they wished to be properly concentrated on each day’s task – she squirmed restlessly in the noisy dark, staring at the lights from the saloon-cum-amusement park across the street. Refracted through the beveled glass of her windows, the lights made red-purple lines across her bed. There were the sounds of a crowd outside, little muffled by the closed windows. The bustle of people moving along the avenue, shouts of revelry and of annoyance, replies, laughing or threatening or haranguing. Like those fanatics. She remembered the burning Crystallite, eyeballs crisping through a curtain of fire, and set the thought aside with a shudder. Think of something else. Think of Link. Link with his face so carefully controlled. No accusations. Not for years. And yet she would be lying to herself if she thought he had adapted. Of course he hadn’t. He was still the same Link, trapped, trapped forever, and she as trapped without him.
If only. If only she had a hundred thousand chits. If only she could get a hundred thousand chits. He deserved it. BDL owed it to him.
She could not rest. She was not even sleepy. If she had been even drowsy, she might not have heard the sound, so tiny a noise, a click where a click didn’t belong.
At the window in the bathroom. Opening on an airshaft, as she recalled. Three stories up.
She did not wait for the click to be repeated. Explorers did not wait. Those who waited, died. Instead, she rolled out of the bed, heaping the covers into a vaguely body-shaped roll behind her, and stood behind the open bathroom door. She had no weapon. A mental inventory of the room yielded nothing of use. The bathroom now, yes. There were useful things there. Spray flasks of various things: dry-wash, antiperspirant, depilatory. She visualized where she had left them, the dry-wash on the edge of the bath, set aside, not useful here in Splash One where there was plenty of water. The antiperspirant was in the cabinet. The depilatory was on the back of the convenience, where she had sat to do her legs and the back of her neck. An almost full bottle.
The click was repeated, this time with a solidly chunking sound as though something had given way. The latch on the bathroom window, no doubt. She began to breathe quietly, deeply. Whoever was breaking in would listen for that. Deeply. Regularly. Breathe.
The figure came through the bathroom door so silently that she almost missed it. Only the movement across the bars of light betrayed it. On feet as silent, she slipped around the door and into the bathroom, feeling for the flask, the barest touch, not wanting to make a sound. She picked it up carefully, her face turned toward the room, trying to see in the intermittent flares of livid light.
The figure was at the bed. It leaned forward, reaching. No knife this time. Something else. A growl, almost like an animal as it realized she wasn’t there. It turned toward the switch, and suddenly the room was flooded with light. The hooded figure spun around, saw her, lunged toward her, and she sprayed the depilatory full in its eyes, falling sideways as she did so.
It made no sound except a gagging spit. It kept coming, blindly, reaching for the place she had moved toward. Bigger than she. Stronger, too, most likely. It was like a deadly game of feely-find. The creature couldn’t see, but it could hear her. She went across the bed in a wild scramble, then out the door into the hall, leaving it open. The stairwell was directly ahead of her. She breathed, ‘No, no, don’t,’ just loudly enough to be heard, then stepped sideways and knelt by the wall. As the maddened figure rushed toward her voice, she stuck out her foot, and the careening shape plunged over it, headfirst down the stairs. Don darted back into her room and shut the door.
The crashing sound brought colleagues and visitors out into the hall. Don joined them, sleepily tying the belt of her robe. ‘What was that noise? Did you hear it? What happened?’ Voices from below were raised in incredulous excitement.
A man. Must have fallen down the stairs. No, a man’s body. He’s dead.
What was he doing in the Chapter House? Did anyone know him?
Why was he dressed that way?
A thief? Who would rob a Chapter House? Explorers didn’t carry valuables.
The excited interchange bubbled on while Don half hung across the bannister, staring at the black lump on the floor below. Someone had removed the mask,
