steel-mesh fence, lay the parking lot.
Sonntag, Mai 2, 1937—2147 CET
A t first the city could not be seen, its environs hidden by a dense blanket of rain-swollen clouds, then the Oberon penetrated the overcast and suddenly Frankfurt appeared as a sprawl of urban light, its luminescence divided into unequal halves by the serpentine trail of the River Main. The infrared scopes picked out the most prominent landmarks: the high Gothic spire of St. Batholomäus Dom, the banks and office buildings of the central financial district, the immense shell of the Hauptbahnhof train station.
“Over there.” Standing next to Metz in the control room, Franc pointed to a small, irregular blotch of darkness just northwest of the Cityring, the narrow greenway that surrounded the oldest part of the city. “Near the Alte Oper . . . see it? That’s the Rothschild estate. Put us down there.”
The pilot peered at the screen. “No way. Too small, and way too close.” He pointed to a larger park several kilometers farther away, at the edge of the city just north of the Goethe-Universität. “I’d rather set down there. Less chance of being spotted.”
“That’s the botanical garden. You know how far we’d have to hike to get from there to the Frankfurter Hof?”Franc shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. So long as we’re in chameleon mode, no one’s going to see us. The streets are nearly vacant this time of night.”
“So you take a long walk.” Metz remained unconvinced. “An old man like you needs the exercise.”
Franc scowled. He was still getting used to his changed appearance. Now the apparent age of sixty, he had thinning gray hair and a slight paunch around the middle, along with an unaccustomed set of wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. Although his nanoskin disguise wasn’t uncomfortable—it was his own epidermis, after all, reshaped at the microscopic level to provide a living mask—the period outfit he wore was nearly unbearable: a stiff black tuxedo with archaic tails over a cotton dress shirt and white tie. The sort of thing a gentleman would wear to the Sunday night opera in a European city. For all intents and purposes, he now resembled John Pannes, the American businessman whose place he would soon take aboard the Hindenburg.
“The farther we have to walk, the more likely we are to get into trouble. Just put us down there, all right?”
“Well, but . . .” Metz shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
“Good.” Despite his anxiety, he found himself eager to leave the Oberon. He was getting tired of quarreling with the pilot. “Give us about ten minutes. I’ll go check on Lea.”
He left the flight deck, walked down the passageway to the monitor room. The hatch was shut; he slid it open, and was immediately greeted by an outraged scream:.
“Franc! Knock first, for God’s sake!”
“Entschuldigen,” he murmured, grinning despite himself. Lea had apparently just emerged from the replication cell. The cylinder rested on one side of the compartment, steam rising from its open hood. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Sorry. I just don’t . . . like the way I look, that’s all.”
No wonder Lea was embarrassed; although he had seen her nude many times, as the forty-five-year-old EmmaPannes she looked completely different. The replication cell had added about ten kilos of artificial flesh to her body, giving her larger breasts, broader hips, a little more roundness to her tummy and thighs. Emma Pannes wasn’t an unpleasant-looking woman, but she certainly didn’t possess Lea’s svelte figure.
“You better get used to this,” he added as he gallantly turned his back. “We’re an old married couple from Long Island, remember?”
“Never mind.” Behind him, he heard the rustle of fabric as she began to get dressed. “Have we made contact with the Miranda? ”
“Vasili spoke with Hans about ten minutes ago.” Although Franc kept his back to her, from the corner of his
Sonntag, Mai 2, 1937—2147 CET
A t first the city could not be seen, its environs hidden by a dense blanket of rain-swollen clouds, then the Oberon penetrated the overcast and suddenly Frankfurt appeared as a sprawl of urban light, its luminescence divided into unequal halves by the serpentine trail of the River Main. The infrared scopes picked out the most prominent landmarks: the high Gothic spire of St. Batholomäus Dom, the banks and office buildings of the central financial district, the immense shell of the Hauptbahnhof train station.
“Over there.” Standing next to Metz in the control room, Franc pointed to a small, irregular blotch of darkness just northwest of the Cityring, the narrow greenway that surrounded the oldest part of the city. “Near the Alte Oper . . . see it? That’s the Rothschild estate. Put us down there.”
The pilot peered at the screen. “No way. Too small, and way too close.” He pointed to a larger park several kilometers farther away, at the edge of the city just north of the Goethe-Universität. “I’d rather set down there. Less chance of being spotted.”
“That’s the botanical garden. You know how far we’d have to hike to get from there to the Frankfurter Hof?”Franc shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. So long as we’re in chameleon mode, no one’s going to see us. The streets are nearly vacant this time of night.”
“So you take a long walk.” Metz remained unconvinced. “An old man like you needs the exercise.”
Franc scowled. He was still getting used to his changed appearance. Now the apparent age of sixty, he had thinning gray hair and a slight paunch around the middle, along with an unaccustomed set of wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. Although his nanoskin disguise wasn’t uncomfortable—it was his own epidermis, after all, reshaped at the microscopic level to provide a living mask—the period outfit he wore was nearly unbearable: a stiff black tuxedo with archaic tails over a cotton dress shirt and white tie. The sort of thing a gentleman would wear to the Sunday night opera in a European city. For all intents and purposes, he now resembled John Pannes, the American businessman whose place he would soon take aboard the Hindenburg.
“The farther we have to walk, the more likely we are to get into trouble. Just put us down there, all right?”
“Well, but . . .” Metz shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
“Good.” Despite his anxiety, he found himself eager to leave the Oberon. He was getting tired of quarreling with the pilot. “Give us about ten minutes. I’ll go check on Lea.”
He left the flight deck, walked down the passageway to the monitor room. The hatch was shut; he slid it open, and was immediately greeted by an outraged scream:.
“Franc! Knock first, for God’s sake!”
“Entschuldigen,” he murmured, grinning despite himself. Lea had apparently just emerged from the replication cell. The cylinder rested on one side of the compartment, steam rising from its open hood. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Sorry. I just don’t . . . like the way I look, that’s all.”
No wonder Lea was embarrassed; although he had seen her nude many times, as the forty-five-year-old EmmaPannes she looked completely different. The replication cell had added about ten kilos of artificial flesh to her body, giving her larger breasts, broader hips, a little more roundness to her tummy and thighs. Emma Pannes wasn’t an unpleasant-looking woman, but she certainly didn’t possess Lea’s svelte figure.
“You better get used to this,” he added as he gallantly turned his back. “We’re an old married couple from Long Island, remember?”
“Never mind.” Behind him, he heard the rustle of fabric as she began to get dressed. “Have we made contact with the Miranda? ”
“Vasili spoke with Hans about ten minutes ago.” Although Franc kept his back to her, from the corner of his
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