Psychic Killer 3/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Previously:
"We can talk now, he told them. "We're relieved you're here, General Westover. We have a big problem."
"So the pilot of the sled told us," Alan said. He frowned. "Kambuku. I know a Henry Kambuku. He's a psychic on Nova Luna. Any relation?"
"My son," Kambuku said. "The Terran Underground pulled him out of a public execution several years ago. That's why I'm here. I was a pretty successful businessman before. The Underground was able to use my talents on the Maui."
"The Underground never wastes good men," Alan said. "Tell us about the situation."
The limousine moved forward with ponderous grace. Mark hardly noticed, for Colonel Blake had begun to speak.
And now, Part 3:
"As you were told, we've had an attempted murder of one of the members of the conference. Only conference members and hotel staff who are with our organization have access to the sixth floor of the Lanai, but that's where the incident occurred. There was no security breach -- at least, none that I could find -- and we have a limited number of persons here at the moment: the steering committee for the conference. The actual conference doesn't begin for a couple of days. So you see, it's possible we could have a leak here, somewhere. My investigation has been thorough, but I've drawn a complete blank." She stopped.
"What have you done?" Alan asked.
"Well, first, I quarantined the island. The outside world thinks we're having an outbreak of fire itch, and the people here are kept from leaving by the simple expedient of closing down all transportation off the island; we claimed weather conditions that could create a killer storm at any time. We're also jamming local radio transmissions and now that you've arrived, we're taking the Maui out to mid-ocean, to lessen the chances of anybody getting away. However, these are very temporary measures. We must solve this thing, and quickly."
"Colonel Blake has expressed it all in a nutshell," Kambuku rumbled in his deep voice. "Our people are ready to assist you with anything you require. If you need help from the Maui Police, contact Chief Gustenheim, Captain Watanabe or Lieutenant Green of Homicide. The manager of the Lanai is also one of our people and stands ready to assist you with anything you need."
"Sounds good," Alan said. "Who was the intended victim of the attack?"
"Jim Francois -- Colonel Francois. Do you know him?"
Alan and Mark exchanged a glance.
"Psychic," Linley said, thoughtfully. "Yeah, we've met. What did *he* have to say about it?"
Wanda Blake glanced out the tinted window. "We're here. I'll give you the rest of the story once we're inside."
The car had come to a stop before a large, graceful structure. The sign in front of the building announced the Lanai Hotel. Palm trees graced the emerald lawn before it and off to his left, Mark caught a glimpse of a sandy beach and of blue waves beyond. Tiny figures in skimpy swimsuits could be seen and the sound of shouts and carefree laughter reached his ears.
Colonel Kambuku followed his glance. "New Waikiki," he told them. "An exact duplicate of the original on Oahu, on Earth. There are luaus held there every evening."
Linley nodded. He had attended several luaus on New Hawaii a couple of years previously when they had been tracking down a Jil agent, and ended up cracking a drug operation run by the Jilectan Secret Service.
Kambuku shook hands with each of them. "Good luck. Call on my office if you need any assistance. Goodbye."
The chauffeur had already extracted their baggage from the trunk. Mark picked his up as the big car pulled away in ponderous silence. He wondered abstractedly what the staff would think about the condition of his clothing, then dismissed it. He wasn't here for a fashion show. Fortunately, the temperature was high enough that he was not uncomfortable, except for the clamminess of the wet pants and shirt.
They walked up the pebbled way to the entrance of the hotel lobby. Several smiling girls in grass skirts and flowered halters, with garlands of flowers around their necks and flowers in their hair, came forward as they entered.
"Welcome to the Lanai!" they chorused. Mark found a flower chain tossed over his head. Wanda smiled and led them toward the registration desk.
The man behind the desk was a short, very tanned individual with snow-white hair, clad in Bermuda shorts and a loud Hawaiian shirt. His facial structure was one that Mark had learned meant Polynesian ancestry and probably some Asian as well. He smiled at them cordially. "Welcome to the Lanai! Do you have reservations?"
Linley nodded. "Langley, Westley and Paul."
He didn't bat an eye. "Ah, yes, for the business convention on Sixth." His fingers tapped the buttons on the computer next to him. "We'll have someone to carry your bags right away." He placed three rings on the desk. "Your pass rings. They ensure that no one but conventioneers have access to the sixth floor, ensuring complete privacy." His expression was bland. "I am Christopher Pahaui, the manager, and your host during your visit. If you have any problems, please let me know." He gestured. "The tennis courts are to the rear and there are gymnasiums and hot tubs on every floor. Each gym is fully equipped, including anti-grav swimming pools. And New Waikiki Beach is accessible almost from our doorstep." He smiled blandly at them, and said in a softer tone, "Be sure you wear your rings at all times. If you don't, an alarm will sound if you try to exit on Sixth. If you need help, call Security; they'll be there in seconds."
"Thanks," Mark said.
The man's expression didn't alter from its jovial grin. "We're relieved you're here," he said. "Ah! There they are!"
Mark turned. Bellhops had materialized from nowhere. They seized the baggage and headed for the lift, the three visitors following in their wake. More girls in grass skirts appeared and more chains landed around Linley's neck. The tallest of the ladies put her arm around him, smiling, and there was the beep of a camera.
"Compliments of the Lanai Hotel, sir," she told him, flashing a white smile. "Welcome to New Hawaii."
"Thanks." Mark looked her over appreciatively. Alan and Lyn, he saw, were almost up to their eyebrows in flower chains.
"Quite a welcome," he muttered to his partner as they were escorted toward the lifts.
"Custom," Alan said, removing a chain of flowers. "It dates back to the original Hawaii, centuries ago."
"I sort of like it," Mark said, glancing back at the young women as he boarded the lift. "Sure beats the Wambari's welcoming ceremony."
"What do they do?" Lyn asked, curiously. The lift moved upward.
"Well --" Mark recalled the day, years back, when he had first set foot on Wambar. "First, they make you drink this nasty concoction -- sorta has the aroma of rotten fruit. I dunno how they can like it."
"Yuk!" Alan said.
"Yeah. An' then you get a ceremonial foot bath. They rub your feet with warm mud and then wash 'em in the hot springs."
"My goodness!" Lyn said.
"Yeah. I like the Hawaiian custom better."
Wanda chuckled throatily. "Me, too. I have also been to the Wambari's home world."
The lift slid to a gentle halt on the sixth level and the doors moved smoothly aside. They stepped out into a thickly carpeted hallway.
"This way." Wanda led them down the air-conditioned corridor to room 622. The bellhops followed with their luggage and one ran ahead to open the door for them. They were ushered inside a large, beautifully furnished chamber.
"Dr. Paul's room is next door," Wanda said, glancing at Lyn.
The bellhops out in the hall were opening the door to Lyn's room. Lyn followed them in. Mark and Alan waited patiently as the men who had accompanied them rushed around the room checking the facilities to assure themselves that all was satisfactory, then Alan tipped them liberally and closed the door behind them. Almost at once, there was a tap on the connecting door and Alan opened it to admit Lyn.
"They're gone," she said, unnecessarily.
Mark grinned at her. "C'mon in, sweetie. You look cute with all those flowers all over you."
Lyn made a face at him as she pulled off several of the flower chains. "Thanks a heap, you big goon."
Wanda Blake sank into a chair and took a sheaf of paper from her briefcase. "This is a summary of the incident and a report of my investigation."
"Okay." Linley went to the window. "D'you mind if I open this?"
"The rooms are air conditioned," Wanda said.
"I like fresh air," Mark explained. "Got used to it livin' on Nova Luna -- all those plants an' no pollution. To a kid from Shallock, it's pure heaven."
"I suppose it would be," Wanda agreed. Linley was pushing at the window control. "Damned thing's jammed." He pressed the lever again, then gave up. "Forget it."
"These rooms are regularly used for conventions," Wanda said. "Apparently, the hotel management has a hard time keeping up with the damage caused by exuberant conventioneers. They particularly mentioned it to me when I reported my closet door latch broken. Let the manager know and I'm certain they'll fix it for you."
"Thanks," Mark said. "Look, we're wastin' time. I'm gonna change in the bathroom. Go ahead with your report. I'll tellya if I miss somethin'."
"All right, Colonel." Wanda shuffled papers a moment while Mark rummaged in his suitcase, looking for clothes. He removed several items and retired to the bathroom, leaving the door open a crack so he could hear.
"I first heard of the incident about 1820, day before yesterday," Wanda began. "The steering committee had finished for the day and the members had gone their separate ways. I was called from my room, where I was changing for dinner, by a security guard, and told to go to the hotel dispensary. Colonel Francois was there, being treated for a needle beam wound on his left shoulder. I got there a few minutes later. Jim wasn't seriously hurt -- the beam had barely creased his shoulder -- but he was shaken up. He said he'd been waiting for the lift on Sixth, intending to take a short dip in the ocean before dinner, when he'd suddenly gotten the distinct feeling of danger. He ducked instinctively and a needle beam just missed his head. It drilled a hole in the wall just behind him. He dived for cover -- the intersecting hallway -- scrambled across the floor on hands and knees -- and the second shot creased his shoulder. He got a glimpse of movement at the intersection in the hallway to his right, then he ducked into the other hallway and tried to identify his assailant telepathically -- but he couldn't. There was nothing there."
Mark emerged from the bathroom, buttoning his shirt. "You mean, the guy was already gone?"
"I asked that, too," Wanda said. "He says he thinks his assailant was still there; the sensation of danger had not faded at all. But, he thinks the fellow was shielded."
Alan said something under his breath. Mark inhaled, deeply. "Go on."
"As you probably know," Wanda said, "Jim Francois is an excellent psychic. He sensed a presence, felt the danger ... but couldn't identify even the species of his assailant." She turned a page. "There was a security check made at once, of course. No unauthorized person was on Sixth when the attack took place, and all access rings were accounted for, even the ones in the manager's possession and on the personnel at present -- then, I mean -- on duty and in possession of rings."
"All the employees, except two, who were off duty at the time, have unshakable alibis," she continued. "Of the guests, however, only four have any sort of alibi at all. Admiral Weaver was eating dinner in the Molokai -- that's the Polynesian restaurant you saw, downstairs -- with his wife, and watching the fire-dancers with Thurmond Osgood III and his confidential secretary, Henry Meeks."
"Thurmond Osgood III?" Mark said, unbelievingly. "Who's he?"
"Thurmond Osgood III," Wanda said, her expression never altering, "is the eldest son of Senator Thurmond Osgood II from Bellian. He is the Assistant Chief of Logistical Support from Terra, here to give a lecture on the proper utilization of, and accounting for, funds and equipment during operations of clandestine nature."
"Sounds absorbin'," Linley said, unenthusiastically.
"Such accounting is serious business, Colonel," Wanda said, straight-faced. "The wrong form filled out can tie up a department for days, and Mr. Osgood's confidential secretary has informed me that a minor crisis has developed in TMI's Logistics Support Division, due to the carelessness of certain field agents with issued equipment."
'Probably me and Alan again,' Linley thought, disgustedly. 'Damned bean-counters are always on our cases about something or other.' He had once remarked to his partner that it was his opinion that those characters in Logistics wouldn't care if the Underground lost the war, as long as their damned inventory tallied...
"Of course," Wanda continued, a twinkle in her eye that told Linley how closely her opinion paralleled his, "Mr. Osgood and Mr. Meeks, until a few days ago, were not involved with our branch of TMI. They were cleared for Need-to-know about forty-eight hours ago and were indoctrinated after arriving on the Maui. It's all in my report. They had no connection with the Underground previous to that."
"I see," Linley said. "So it ain't -- isn't -- likely they could've had much to do with this, an' they're in the clear, anyhow. Who's this guy they were with -- Weaver?"
Alan spoke unexpectedly. "Vice Admiral Michael Weaver, Mark, Terran Space Corps, Retired. He's now Chief of Special Operations of Terran Military Intelligence. In other words, he's the man who conceived and implemented the Terran Underground."
"Oh." Mark was impressed in spite of himself. "The Big Boss, himself."
"Yes," Alan said, smiling a little.
"I'm lookin' forward to meetin' him."
"I love your accent, Colonel Linley," Wanda Blake said, suddenly. "Funny, it wasn't so noticeable when I first met you."
"Uh --" Mark felt his neck turning red. "I'm tryin' to get rid of some of this accent of mine -- make myself less obvious on planets of the Confederation. It works okay for awhile, but sometimes I forget."
"Understandable," Wanda said. "You were doing fine for a while there. Anyway, back to my report. As I mentioned before, there are a number of people without alibis." She glanced at her notes. "Colonel Quade, Colonel Terrence, and Colonel Finnar all claim to have been at the luau on the beach -- but not together. Colonel Tang Fu was in the hot tub on this floor -- alone. Colonel Baker was reading in his room -- ate dinner there, too. Colonel Dean was coming down with a cold and had eaten dinner alone in his room and gone to bed early. All of them have submitted to mind probes and come up clean. So have the two employees who lack alibis. Henry Meeks, Osgood's secretary, is a natural shielder, but he has an alibi, since he was with his boss and the Weavers when the attempt took place. Of course, with the others, there's always the chance of selective shielding." She looked directly at Alan. "I'm told that psychics with power packs are better at detecting selective shielding than ordinary psychics."
"Not always," Alan told her, ruefully, "but there are a few tricks we can try. What else have you done, so far?"
"I've run background checks on the entire hotel staff," she told him. "Very little has turned up, though. Ditto on the guests. There have been a few minor violations of local laws, and a couple of tie-ins with big-time crime, but no-one with any reason to shoot at Colonel Francois -- at least, nothing obvious. All but one of them have alibis, anyhow, and the one that doesn't, I probed without his knowledge. He's clear, and anyway, he didn't have access to Sixth."
"Might check him out, anyway," Mark said. "What's his name?"
"Stanley Fiske."
Alan looked at Mark. "Oh, really?"
"Yes. Do you know him?"
"Mark had a short acquaintance with him at the dock," Lyn said. "That's how Mark got wet. He was trying awfully hard to leave the island. Claimed he had a business meeting he had to attend. Maybe we ought to do a closer check on his background."
"But, he didn't have access to Sixth," Wanda said.
"A Jil agent might find a way," Lyn said. "Maybe he found out what this 'business conference' really was, thought Colonel Francois had seen him and tried to silence him."
"I suppose it's possible," Wanda said, doubtfully. "I'll put a tail on him."
"Good idea." Alan stood up. "I'd like to see where this all happened."
"Certainly, General." Wanda also rose. "Follow me."
**********
Chapter Four
They left the room, turned left and proceeded down the hall to another intersecting one. Linley recognized the corridor as the one they had arrived in by lift. There, six meters to the left and across the hall, were the elevators. Wanda pointed.
"Jim was standing right there in front of the lift doors when he got his warning precog. The movement he saw was at the corner, there --" She altered the direction of her finger to an intersecting corridor another six meters past the lifts. "And here --" she indicated without touching it, the pinpoint hole in the wall with faintly charred edges, "is where the needle beam hit."
"Of course, that doesn't mean a heck of a lot." Alan examined the hole only a few centimeters above his eye level, then sighted toward the corridor intersection and walked a careful straight line to the spot where Francois had seen movement. "Okay, he must have fired from this point." Alan sighted backward at the hole and then turned to the doors on either side of the hallway. "Are either of these rooms occupied, Colonel Blake?"
"That's Colonel Dean's room to your left," Wanda said. "And the one across from it is Osgood's."
"Which is Francois' room?"
"That one." Wanda pointed. "The one beside Dean's."
"I see. Had Jim been to his room after the meeting was over for the day?"
"Very briefly, to put on his trunks and pick up a towel. As I said, he was going to take a swim before dinner."
Alan nodded, beginning to run his fingertips over the wall beside him. He frowned, a look of distaste on his features. Linley's partner, in addition to his more standard abilities -- empathy, telepathy, clairvoyance, telekinesis and precognition -- possessed three less common ones: the ability to control another mind -- within certain limits, of course -- teleportation of small objects, and lastly, psychometry -- the ability to sense historical events and emotions that were now past. Those emotions had to be fairly strong ones, to be sure, but if Alan were in a location or in possession of an object associated with such feelings, the ability often gave him valuable clues as to what had really happened. Lyn, a strong psychic with a unique talent of her own, but no psychometrist, appeared unaffected by the location.
Alan compressed his lips as he touched the walls, the floor, and stepped around the corner.
"Hostility," he muttered. "Violence. Anger." He straightened up and turned suddenly toward the door of Osgood's room. Resting both hands on the panel, he closed his eyes. Mark put one hand on his shoulder, functioning in his role as power pack.
Maybe this assignment wouldn't be so hard after all, he thought, hopefully. Alan seemed quite interested in Osgood's room. Maybe this guy was their man...
Except that he had a foolproof alibi.
Alan removed his hands from the door and shook his head.
"Something seems wrong," he said indecisively, "but I can't tell what it is."
"Somethin' weird about this Osgood guy?" Mark asked.
Alan hesitated, looking uncertain. "I'd like to meet this man, Colonel Blake."
"I'll arrange it, sir ..."
She broke off as a door down the hall opened and two persons emerged.
They were a man and a woman, Mark saw, the woman holding the arm of her companion. She was slim and straight, perhaps in the middle of her second century, with greying hair and a trim figure, but it was really the man who caught Mark's attention.
Almost matching Linley, himself, in height, the newcomer was a hard, well-muscled individual with a hawk-nose and piercing dark eyes. The sort of guy, Mark thought, who probably started each day with fifty pushups and a cold needle shower. He saw Alan and his two female companions snap to attention. Of course. This must be Michael Weaver, himself.
Mark also came to attention as Weaver and his companion stopped beside them. He smiled, and some of the hard lines in his face smoothed out with the action. "At ease, gentlemen."
Mark relaxed, very aware of the other man's scrutinizing gaze upon him.
"General Westover, Colonel Linley and Colonel Westover. I see you already know who I am."
"Yes, sir," Alan said.
Weaver turned to the woman beside him. "This is my wife and right hand man, Anna Weaver."
Alan was smiling. "I've seen your picture, ma'am, at Space Academy -- only you were Captain Svensdottir then. The Captain of the 'Venture'." He glanced at Mark. "The 'Venture' was the first interstellar ship to voyage beyond Earth's solar system to Alpha Centauri. They discovered Midgard and later made contact with the Arcturians. That was just before we met the Jilectans. She's an Admiral now."
"Retired," Anna Weaver said cheerfully, "and working for the Terran Underground. I must say, in its own way, it's as exciting as being the Venture's captain. But, goodness! -- it seems such a long time ago!"
"Almost a century," her husband said. "Although that was maladroit of me; it dates us both. I fear ..." he looked sharply at Alan, "that I've seen your picture, too, General Westover, under less flattering circumstances. But then, a man is often known for the enemies he makes." He chuckled suddenly. "You should be proud of the ones you've acquired."
Alan turned bright red. "Always my fame precedes me."
Anna Weaver laughed softly, then sobered. "My husband and I will cooperate completely with your investigation, of course. We want to solve this ... mystery as fast as possible." She glanced quickly at Wanda. "No offence, Colonel Blake -- after all, you haven't the resources of an Armageddon Team."
Wanda smiled faintly. "No offense taken, ma'am. I'm the first to admit I'm in over my head on this one."
Alan interposed diplomatically. "We'll do our best, but we'll need Colonel Blake's help, certainly. She has the connections around here."
"Well, we're relieved you're here," Weaver said. "This whole situation is damned uncomfortable -- oops, sorry, dear."
Anna frowned. "Really, dear ... and with ladies present, too."
"I'm used to it," Lyn said. "Mark is from Shallock, after all."
Mark grinned, but said nothing, resolving to be extra-careful of his language around the female Admiral Weaver.
Alan interjected, "We'll need to talk personally with each person who has access to Sixth. We'll also need a schematic of this floor, with everyone's rooms marked."
"I'll have it for you by dinnertime," Wanda said.
"And," Weaver interposed, "I'll order everyone to be ready for interviewing at General Westover's convenience."
"Thank you, sir." Alan glanced at his chronometer. "Since you're available, perhaps we could talk with you and Mrs. Weaver now, if it isn't too inconvenient. I need to build as accurate a picture as I can of what was going on at the time."
Mild surprise flickered across the Admiral's face, but the next instant he was nodding. "Of course, General Westover. Our room will be the most private."
They followed the two leaders of their organization back down the hall to their room.
It was a large and luxurious apartment, as Linley had expected, with soft, deep carpeting and all the comforts suited to its occupants. Weaver gestured them to chairs and seated himself beside his wife on the sofa. Wanda Blake also sat down in a carven rocking chair in one corner.
Alan spoke quietly. "Admiral, first of all, I'd like you to tell me what you did the evening of the attempted murder. Please be as detailed as you can." He added, with a disarming grin, "You have alibis; I know you can't be the person we're looking for, but I'll be matching the stories together, looking for discrepancies, anything that might give us a hint of who it is. Please leave your shields down. While you talk --" he flushed, slightly, "I'll be looking for additional details even you might not be aware of. I won't look at anything in your mind not connected with this incident -- I swear it."
"No need to." Weaver smiled, a little dryly. "Your ethics are well known, General. Very well."
"Okay." Alan's flush had not quite died away. Mark knew how he felt. It was a little like peeking into someone's bedroom window and witnessing a scene not intended for spectators. With enemies, that wasn't important. With allies, it was another matter altogether. Still, it had to be done and both the Weavers knew it. "Please start when the planning conference broke up. What did you do?"
"We came back here," Weaver said. "To dress for dinner. About 1800, we took the lift down to the Molokai -- the Polynesian restaurant you saw off the lobby downstairs, no doubt. As we entered, we saw Thurmond Osgood III and his secretary, Mr. Meeks, waiting to be seated. Thurmond invited us to dine with him and we accepted. That was about 1810 to 1815, about the time the attempt on Jim occurred, we estimate. We went in to dinner and about fifteen or twenty minutes later, we received a message from Colonel Blake about the event."
Alan's face was intent as he listened to the Admiral's recital. "You're certain, sir, that neither Osgood nor his secretary left you during this time -- say, to visit the restroom or make a phone call?"
Weaver thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No, they were with us the entire time." He looked at his wife. "Do you remember either of them leaving, dear?"
"They were with us the whole time," Anna Weaver said, definitely.
Alan turned to Colonel Blake. "I don't suppose Jim was able to say exactly when the attack occurred?"
"He left his room at 1807 and waited several minutes for the lift," Wanda said. "He looked at his chronometer just as he left. But, of course, he couldn't give the exact moment of the attack. He was rather occupied just then."
"Naturally," Alan said. He frowned.
"Of course," Wanda said, suddenly, "I haven't been eliminated as a suspect, either. I know I was alone in my room during the attack, but *you* don't know that."
"I know," Alan said. "Right now, I'm still in the information-gathering stage. I have no suspects -- or, maybe everybody without a firm alibi is equally suspect. We'll just have to narrow it down."
Linley offered no comment. Alan had changed, he reflected, from the scared, green kid he had met nearly fifteen years before. He was now an assured, competent man and if he had been in the Viceregal Patrol, he would have been one of their best Strike Commanders -- as Linley had been -- except for his empathic talent. That was his weakness and, conversely, his peculiar strength. Mark still saw it emerge, now and then, but, on the whole, it was now under control. Alan used it, but was no longer used by it.
He could only admire his partner for that. Mark had learned the hard way what it meant to be an empath. That was one of his talents, too, on the infrequent occasions when he became a psychic. He hoped that some day he would be able to control the ability as well as Alan and Lyn did.
"I guess that should do it," Alan said. "For now. I'll probably want to ask more questions after I've heard the others' stories." He started to rise.
Weaver rose, too. "It's almost dinnertime, General. Will you and your companions join us?"
Alan looked surprised and glanced at Lyn, who smiled and nodded. "Thank you, Admiral, we'd love to."
"Is the Molokai all right? The food is excellent."
"I've never tried Polynesian food," Lyn said.
"You'll love it!" Anna Weaver said, enthusiastically. "I don't think I'll ever get tired of it. I must have gained five pounds in the last three days."
"Just what I need," Lyn said, putting her hands on her hips. "I'm afraid the last baby utterly ruined me."
"You look lovely as ever, dear," Alan said.
"I'm fat as a pregnant popo!"
"Then you must have been very skinny before," Anna Weaver said, chuckling. "It took me ten years to get my figure back after my last child. How many children do you have?"
"Three," Alan said. "Two boys and a little girl."
"Psychics?" Weaver inquired, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes."
"Good. I hope you have a dozen more." He grinned. "Can't have too many Westovers."
Mark kept a straight face as both Lyn and Alan went scarlet.
"Shall we go?" Weaver continued, controlling what Mark was sure was a grin.
Linley rose, too. "I oughtta wash up."
"Oh?" The Admiral glanced at his wet hair.
Mrk ran a hand through the damp, blond waves. "I got pushed in the drink when we arrived," he explained. "Haven't had a chance to do more than change clothes."
"I'll have to hear that story." Weaver gestured to a door. "Bathroom's right over there."
Alan and Mark both headed for it. Linley heard Lyn speaking to Anna again as they entered, exchanging small talk. Her voice was cut off as the door closed.
Linley turned on the water and picked up the soap. "Well, what do you think?" he asked, careful to enunciate each syllable clearly.
"Of Weaver and his wife? I like them. Very intelligent people. Weaver sort of reminds me of you, Mark -- or maybe what you *will* be in a century or so."
Mark felt pleased. "Thanks."
Alan grinned at him through suds. "Tough as nails."
"But underneath it all, a sweet, glowin' gentleman."
"Exactly. He likes Lyn's legs," Alan added, cheerfully. "That was right there on top. I couldn't miss it, hard as I tried."
Mark raised an eyebrow. "A man after my own heart," he commented.
Alan dried his face and hands. "You ready?"
"As I'll ever be." Mark replaced the towel. "Why do you suppose he asked us to dinner, anyway?"
"He's curious," Alan said. "He's heard a lot about us and wants to see for himself what we're like." He opened the door. "It's all yours, dear."
"Thank you." Lyn went past him into the bathroom. The door closed.
Mark noted that Wanda Blake had vanished.
"She went to get the diagrams you requested," Weaver said, in answer to his question. "Colonel Blake hates Polynesian food. She said she'd join us later." He glanced around. "Here's Colonel Westover now. Shall we go?"
The hallway was quiet as they left the Weavers' rooms. Later, when the conference was in full swing, it would be anything but quiet. As they approached the lift, Mark saw two figures coming toward them. He recognized both, instantly. Alan lifted a hand in greeting.
"Ed! Terry!"
Ed Quade, CO of the Underground station in the Riskellian city of Loquin -- masquerading as the Chelari Bar and Grill -- grinned broadly, his teeth gleaming whitely against his dark skin. Quade was a tall, handsome black man with prematurely greying hair. He and his companion both came to attention at the presence of the Weavers. Admiral Weaver motioned for them to relax and Alan extended a hand.
"Hi there, Alan -- oops, sorry, General Westover!" Colonel Torquil Terrence grabbed his hand and slapped him on the back, knocking him forward a step. Ed Quade was shaking Mark's hand.
"Great to see you, Mark! Impersonated any Jils, lately?" Quade was referring to an occasion some years before, when he had assisted Linley in the impersonation of a Jilectan noble. Linley's blond hair, blue eyes and two-meter height, plus high-heeled shoes and various other accoutrements had rendered the disguise possible.
Linley laughed heartily. "Nope. Once was plenty. Howya doin' Ed?"
"I take it you're acquainted," Weaver said, dryly. "Would you two care to join us for dinner?"
Quade and Terrence accepted, quickly. At that instant, the lift doors slid open and the group boarded. Quade spoke.
"Excuse me, Alan, but I don't believe I've met the young lady."
"Neither have I," Terrence said.
"Oh, pardon me." Alan took Lyn's hand. "This is Lyn -- Colonel Westover -- my wife. Lyn, these are Colonels Ed Quade and Torquil Terrence -- Terry to his friends. They're both base commanders from Riskell."
The lift came to a gentle halt and the doors opened. They exited, Quade speaking. "You're Alan's psychic partner?"
Lyn smiled. "Yes."
"I've known your husband for some years," Quade said. "May I call you Lyn?"
"Yes, please," Lyn said. "All Alan's friends are my friends."
They entered the Molokai. It was a charmingly decorated room with flickering lamps that gave a semblance of torchlight, and gaily plumed, imitation tropical birds. There was a firepit in the center of the room and a row of Polynesian dancers on an elevated platform. The strains of Hawaiian music filled the air. A pretty girl wearing a grass skirt, abbreviated halter and a large hibiscus in her dark hair, came forward to greet them.
"Table for seven?" she inquired.
"Yes, please," Weaver said.
"You're part of the convention on Sixth, aren't you?" The girl glanced at his ring. "This way, please."
**********
(tbc)
