How had he known? Some faint hint of smoke in the air nobody had caught? Some frightened animals in the woods whose fear had been powerful enough so that he could somehow sense it? He had pondered it but never came up with an answer that satisfied him. More important than how was that he had done it. Some intuition had told him Death was near, and he had had enough sense to go with it.
Similar things had happened in various firefights and patrols since, though nothing quite as dramatic as the Australian event, and when he had felt the cold touch of it on his shoulder, he had harkened to it. More times than not, such actions had saved his life.
There was no enemy in sight here, but he felt the fear. The only cause he could figure was the scientist. Nobody else knew what he was doing, and the man certainly had something to hide. It didn't make sense, not with Bascomb-Coombs giving him a bloody million and making him a kind of partner in the scheme, but who else could it be? And in truth, he hadn't seen the money stacked up neatly on a table somewhere, had he? It was all electronically vouched for by the Indonesian bank, and normally that would have been enough, but Bascomb- Coombs was owner and operator of the world's nastiest computer, wasn't he? Surely he could fool somebody not computer-savvy enough to know the difference, if that was his wish.
Why would he wish to do that?
Peel did not have a clue, but something was lurking out there, and he did not wish to become its victim. Best he take steps to find out, and best to be quick about it, too. And if it was Bascomb-Coombs, well, all his genius wouldn't stand up to a knife between the ribs or a bullet to the back of the skull. When push came to shove, the sword was a much better weapon than the pen, no question.
Peel walked toward the train station, feeling a bit better now that he was taking action.
Chapter 29
Sojan Rinpoche was coming to see Jay. He was coming here, to his apartment, in the flesh, and Jay was more than a little nervous.
The advantage of VR was that you could craft your image into anything you wanted. True, Jay tended to look like himself in a lot of scenarios because it was more trouble than it was worth to create a persona to impress somebody. Well, okay, so he touched himself up at the edges, maybe, he looked a little taller, more muscular, had lines that were a teeny bit sharper, but not so much you couldn't recognize him in RW if you met him. After you had been a player for years, you more or less disregarded what you saw when it came to other players in VR, anyhow. You'd meet them off-line in some RW conference or whatever, and you couldn't quite reconcile the real person with the net persona. A lot of times, they would build an image that looked totally different but not bother to change their voice, and hearing them speak from a completely unrecognizable body was weird. Or they'd change the voice but not the face, and that was strange, too.
Truth was a very subjective thing in virtual reality. The term itself was almost an oxymoron.
Saji had told Jay on the net that he was going to be in D.C. for a couple of weeks and asked Jay if he wanted to meet in real time. Jay had agreed, though he had a few reservations. Saji had saved his butt, no doubt about that, and he owed him BTDS — big-time-damn-sure — but there was that little gnawing worry that the real Saji might not jibe with the virtual version. Buddhists had dealt with illusion a long time before computers had been invented, and maybe he'd look like Saji and maybe he wouldn't. Sometimes, you hated to meet somebody for whom you had great respect, for fear the reality wouldn't live up to your imagination. Once, when he'd been a kid, Jay had happened across the host of a television show he'd loved. On the air, the guy had been smiling, avuncular, the kind of man kids wanted for a father. He'd been Jay's hero. The show host had spotted Jay, and the first words from his sweet lips had been, 'Jesus, who let that little dickhead in here?'
So much for childhood heroes.
Jay had killed the tiger, but compared to what he still had to do, that was the easy part. Now he was hunting tyrannosaur, he was stalking a dragon, and he was gonna need a bigger gun. And more nerve. Saji was going to make him spill his guts about it, about how he felt, and that wasn't gonna be fun, either. In some ways, that was scarier than the thunder lizard. Who was it said the unexamined life wasn't worth living? Plato? Aristotle? Yeah, maybe so, but if you spent too much time digging into your own psyche, it got spooky. Maybe the over-examined life wasn't worth living, either.
In Betty Bacall's throaty, sexy tone, the house computer said, 'Jay, you have a visitor.'
Saji was here.
He was ready for anything. Jay took a deep breath and went to the door. Opened it.
A petite, short-haired brunette woman in blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and cowboy boots stood there. She looked to be about twenty-five, maybe five feet tall even in the boots, and had big dimples around a beautiful smile. She could have been Tibetan, he supposed, but there didn't seem to be any Oriental cast to her features.
'Hello, Jay,' she said.
Well…
'Saji,' he said. It was not a question. Son of a bitch. Not only was Saji a
Son of a bitch.
'Telephone call for you, sir,' Applewhite said. He came into the room carrying the instrument. 'A gentleman by the name of… Pound-Sand, milord. He says you were expecting his call.'
Goswell paused and looked through the tubes of the shotgun he had been cleaning. Pound-Sand? He didn't know anybody named that, did he? Did anyone? Someone was pulling Applewhite's leg, surely? He blew hard through one of the barrels, causing a hollow, hooting sound, and lint from the cotton cleaning patch to float out into the room and drift downward in the rays of the afternoon sun.
'He says he was told to call by an old gentleman fond of Cuban cigars.'
Ah.
'Hello?'
'Lord Goswell?'
'Yes, it is I.'
'A moment, please, sir.' The voice seemed cultured enough, some education and decent background in it. There came an electronic tone from the other end of the connection. 'Excuse the delay,' the man said. 'One cannot be too careful, can one?'
'You just did a voice analysis?'
'Yes, my lord. And the line is secure, our conversation is quite scrambled. I trust no one is listening in on an extension on your end?'
Goswell nodded to himself. Good show. He said, 'No, we're alone, Mr. — ah, Pound-Sand.'
The man chuckled. 'I hope you'll forgive me the little joke, my lord. Sir Harold has indicated that you have something of a delicate problem?'
'I'm afraid so, yes.'
'Would you like this problem resolved temporarily or permanently?'
'Permanently, I'm unhappy to say.'
'I shall attend to it immediately.'
'You'll need particulars.'
'Just the name will be sufficient, my lord. I can determine the rest.'
Goswell grinned. Capital!
He gave the killer Peel's name.
'Thank you, my lord, I'll take care of it. Good-bye, then.'
Goswell hung up the phone. No discussion of money or tawdry details. How wonderful. He felt better. At
