'We'll try you out,' said the little round man. 'A little package needs to be picked up in Chicago and taken to Amsterdam. The people you meet there will have one for you to bring back. They'll give you instructions on where it has to be delivered.'
'All right,' Burt had said.
And now here he was, on time. He was mostly delighted with the way things were going. He had an overnight bag. He had in his wallet, for the first time in his life, the photo-embossed plastic card that was his passport-produced for him, by methods he hadn't inquired into, and forwarded to him, the day after he had agreed to take this job. His things, removed from Breathing Space this morning, were now in a left-luggage facility at O'Hare, and there they would stay for at least several days. Everything was going well, and Burt was in high spirits… but there was one thing very wrong. The man he had been sent here to meet, the one making the delivery of the package intended for Amsterdam, was very late. Was this some kind of test, to see if Burt had enough patience? Or was it just an accident? No telling. Burt waited. He had a magazine rolled up under his arm, but he had read it three times now. He let his eyes rest again on Day and Night, and once again wondered about the penguin…
Until he saw the hat. He had seen Shriner's headgear before, on occasion, when he was young. Now he saw one all bright with gaudy embroidery across the lines of polished wood benches in the waiting room, on the head of a man who had to be about six feet six, a man booming out jovial laughter at something a shorter man walking next to him had just said. They paused together in the aisle between the rows of benches, looking up at the clock and checking their watches.
And after that it all happened very fast. The man in the Shriner's fez-and very strange it looked, contrasted with the ordinary business suit-came wandering over to the magazine stand, and put down his own overnight bag next to Burt's. He browsed the magazines for a moment, bought a copy of Field and Stream, and bent down to pick up his bag again, looking at the cover. Then he strolled off to rejoin his friend, and the two of them vanished out one of the side doors, toward the corridor that led to the suburban trains.
Except that he was carrying Burt's bag, and had left his own.
After a little while, as the clock chimed the quarter- hour, Burt picked up the bag and slung it over his shoulder, unzipping the top of it to put his magazine away. As he did, he saw inside it the yellow jiffy-bag which he had been told to expect.
And that's all there is to it…
He let out a long breath. This was it at last, the real start of the change in his life-the change that in a few years would see him and Wilma settled down, safely past the discomfort and mutual misunderstandings that seemed to be getting into things at the moment. They would get married, and buy a house, and start a family… one that would be nothing, nothing at all, like the one Burt had grown up in.
But that would come later. Right now, time to leave. He had an hour before the check-in time for his flight.
But Burt did one last thing before he left the station. Casually he walked to that far door, over which the big clock was mounted, and had a good long look up at it. The door itself was impassable now, walled up with marble that matched the walls. This seemed to have been done in the last century, maybe during a renovation of the station. But Burt's attention was elsewhere. From right underneath the clock, he could see that the sleepy-faced statue of Night was holding, not a penguin, but an owl. It appeared, though, to be an owl carved by someone who had never seen one before, which explained its rather strange shape.
Burt sighed. Funny, he thought, I kind of liked it better as a penguin. I bet Wil would have liked it, too…
Smiling, Burt headed out of the station, making his way to the Metro line that went to the airport. It was going to be a long flight to Amsterdam, and he was planning to enjoy every minute of it.
Chapter 7
Megan woke up earlier than she normally would have, even after the talk with Leif. Her anxiety wouldn't let her sleep. As a result, she found her mother in the act of getting ready to leave for the airport-heading off for some meeting in New York that couldn't be conducted virtually. Megan often wondered what went on at these, for whatever else seemed to be going on at work, the Time staff seemed to go out of their way to get together physically once a month for the 'screaming sessions' her father had mentioned to her in passing. Her mother always came back from these meetings looking energized and cheerful, almost younger than she had when she'd left; but on the mornings of departure she was always grim, and she barely looked up when Megan came into the kitchen in a desperate search for caffeine.
'I hate these early mornings,' her mother said to the air. 'I went freelance to avoid these early mornings. I am supposedly still freelance. Why, then, does it appear to be five-thirty in the morning?'
'Six,' Megan said. 'The Earth rotates, Mom.'
'Six! Oh, heavens, where's the cab?'
'It'll be here, Mom,' Megan said, putting the heat on under the kettle. 'By now Kevin knows better than to be late.'
'But what if they don't send Kevin?'
The kettle started whistling almost immediately. Meg made tea and watched her mother take what appeared to be the third or fourth inventory of her coat and briefcase. As she straightened up from this, someone honked outside the house, and Meg's mother grabbed coat and briefcase and headed for the door.
'Whoa!' Meg said, picked up her mother's reading glasses from the table, slapped them into their case and handed them to her mother.
'I hate this,' her mom said. 'Hate it. Remind me to resign.'
'Resign, Mom.'
'Right. Bye bye, honey, have a good day. Better than mine, I hope.'
'Bye-bye, Mom. You'll feel better in a while.'
'From your mouth to the Deity's ear, daughter of mine,' her mother said, heading out the door.
'Tear 'em a new one, Mom!' called a voice from the front door.
'Arrrgh,' Megan heard her mother say as she got into the cab. Chuckling, Megan closed the side door, hearing Mike do the same at the front.
She got some sugar for her tea, then went into the den and settled herself in the implant chair. A few moments later she was standing by her desk in her workspace, holding the mug of tea and looking around to see if there were any new virtmails. Nothing. Damn. Suppose he doesn't… Suppose he changes his mind…
But there was no point in worrying about it right now. 'Manager…' she said to her workspace.
'Here, Megan.'
'Link to Leif Anderson's space.'
'That link is already active. He has been waiting for you.' The doorframe appeared on the floor of her amphitheater. 'Please go through.'
Megan went through into the ice cave. It was brighter. The earlier lighting must have been twilight, she thought. As she stood there, looking around her, a figure moved in the depths of the cave, down by the ice-Edsel, and came toward her.
It was Leif… she thought. He looked pallid and worn. His hair, normally a surprisingly fiery red, looked dull and tired. He looked thin, and there were shadows under his eyes. Even his skin tone looked bad-it looked looser than usual, somehow. Megan sucked in breath. 'Leif? Are you sick, are you coming down with something? What's happened to you?'
He grinned at her and straightened up. 'Makeup,' Leif said. 'If anyone wants to meet me in the nonvirtual mode, I don't have to be afraid of looking too good.'
'Boy, you're right about that,' Megan said. 'You look like death warmed over.'
'Good,' Leif said. 'Naturally, in Breathing Space, I'll wear a seeming that matches this one fairly closely. It might look a little better, to maintain the illusion… Most people who look this bad would try to improve their looks a little while virtual. But out in the real world, this'll fool a surprising number of people. My mom's taught me a lot about stage makeup… and even in broad daylight, there's a lot you can get away with if you really know your own
