Climbing during the off-season was not encouraged. Those who felt the need were required to clear their climbing gear with the Fujiyoshida Police Station. Failure to do so as a tourist would get you kicked out of the country if caught, heavily fined if you were a local.
It was a good idea to bring proper clothing, water, food, and toilet paper.
Assuming you made it to the top, you could visit the shrine, mail a postcard at the post office, and explore the volcanic crater. You could also buy souvenirs, very expensive, and the big show was to watch the sunrise above the sea of clouds that often shrouded the earth below.
Jay had made the climb five times. In VR, that is. He wanted to try it in RW some day. Since meeting Saji, he was no longer worried that the real thing might not live up to the artificial experience.
Saji. Ah, there was something to think about when he got to the top. As he had been thinking about her most of the way up so far.
An old man, white-haired, seventy, darkly tanned, came and sat on the bench next to him. He looked as if he might be Thai. He wore gray wool slacks over waffle-soled hiking boots, a white shirt under a blue Gore-Tex wind- breaker, white cotton gloves, and dark sunglasses. He smiled at Jay.
“Nice day for a climb, isn’t it?”
Jay nodded. This wasn’t a private scenario, but a public one run by Tokyo University. Some, maybe all, of the climbers could be personas of real people. Many of the visuals were lifted right from the net-cams that watched the mountain year-round. “Yes, it is,” he said.
They sat there, not speaking for a few moments, then the old man got up. “Well, that’s enough rest for the wicked. See you around, Jay.”
Jay nodded and smiled, and it was a full two seconds before he realized that the man had called him by name.
“Hey! Hold it!”
But the old man developed a speed and broken-field running ability that would have shamed a star football quarterback on a ninety-yard touchdown run. And he laughed loud and almost maniacally as he did so.
And it seemed to Jay in that moment that it must be somebody who knew him.
But — who?
Jackson and his crew were well away from the ship when Roberto returned from his mission. Jackson had called, was already working using his flatscreen and modem from the helicopter, and obviously feeling much better.
Chance had read about the senator’s accident on the NetNewsNow headline page within an hour of the event. DeWitt would live, but doctors were not sure that he would walk again.
Too bad. But you had to factor that in — you couldn’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.
DeWitt was a fly removed from the ointment.
Now, as she waited for Roberto to arrive at her office — she didn’t want to invite him to her cabin and have him refuse — she considered yet again how she was going to play this.
Roberto wasn’t the brightest bulb on the string, but neither was he stupid. He was cunning, in a sly way, but his view of the world was limited, much more personal than global. She was smarter than he was, she knew it, and manipulation was one of her strengths. She could bend him in her direction. She had the skills.
He smiled when he sauntered into the small office she kept. “Missy. It is done.”
“I heard. As ever, you are a man to be relied upon. Thank you.”
He shrugged.
“Listen,” she said. “I have sent Jackson away.”
His eyebrows went up.
“It was a mistake. You know how I am. I am weak about sex, I crave it. I am sorry. But it was wrong, I admit that. So Jackson is gone; he’ll be working on the train from now on — you never have to see him again if you don’t want. I’ll make it up to you.”
“How?”
“Anything you want.”
He smiled.
She could almost hear the wheels turning in his head. Of course Missy realized her mistake, how could she not? He was much man, while Jackson was a boy, one who diddled computers and did nothing for real. Only a fool would prefer him over Roberto, and Missy, slut that she was, was no fool. This was only right.
“I will think about it,” he said.
She held her smile in check. She had him.
“Thank you, Roberto.”
He would come around.
She watched him stroll out, walking with that cocksure swagger that men of physical prowess displayed, like big cats who could spring at any second, relaxed, but ready, a coiled spring waiting for instant release.
And he really was much better in bed than Jackson.
23
Keller felt better. He knew intellectually this wasn’t altogether realistic, his relief — Santos was as portable as he was, and if he really wanted to come and get him, he could; still, having a thousand miles of space between himself and the killer was better than not. Besides, he didn’t think Santos would do that, come after him. Jasmine should be able to protect him, and certainly she could distract the man if she put her mind to it. She was very talented when it came to distracting men, Keller knew for sure. He’d never been with anybody like her, not even close. She knew things he had never heard of, never imagined. The tricks she could do…
That was the problem. He should have never let himself get into that situation in the first place, but, ah, she was something. How could a normal man refuse? She could raise a cold sweat on a brass monkey, raise some other parts of his anatomy, too.
Still, as soon as he’d climbed onto the copter, Keller had felt as if a great weight had been lifted from him. He was able to get on-line and screw with Jay Gridley some more without looking over his shoulder. To have fun with it.
He leaned back in the first-class seat of the 747 heading for Germany and stared through the window. Dueling with a man like Gridley, that was a civilized way of doing things. You used your skill, your wit, your intelligence. Your opponent appreciated these things, respected them, even if he opposed you. There were rules, many of them unstated but understood nonetheless, and adhered to, proper ways to engage and contend. Civilized men knew these things — they knew how the game was played.
A man like Santos? He appreciated nothing but brute force. Violence. It didn’t matter to him that you were smarter, that you had talent and skill. No, all that mattered to him was the fist in the face, the foot to the crotch. He was a savage, no matter how you cleaned him up and dressed him, a jungle creature with a sharp stick. If you explained this to him, he would laugh. If you protested his lowbrow, knuckle-dragging demeanor, he would kick sand in your face. He would rather hurt people than not.
Keller shook his head. How could you reason with a man like that? You couldn’t. Jasmine wound him up like some demented killing toy and set him loose to do her dirty work. She used money, not to mention her sexual favors, like a carrot to entice a mule into her bidding. You didn’t take a stick to a beast like Santos. He would turn around and rip your arm off if you tried it. The man was an animal, with the morals of a cat. Pure evil, not a whit of guilt, a sociopath.
Still and all, Santos was necessary. CyberNation had to go forward. Whatever means were necessary were justified. Just as abolitionists of a century and a half past had broken immoral laws to help the slaves, so would
