thought, to use his radar to spot the point of origin of all the bullets coming at him.
“Any questions?” Zappa asked.
Modular Man tried to think. “I suppose not. It seems straightforward enough.”
Zappa turned to Vidkunssen. “Give Modular Man the photo file and an interpreter to tell him what he’s looking at.”
There was a knock on the door, and an aide reported that Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Powell was calling from the Pentagon.
The conference seemed to be over.
“It’s insane.” Cordelia had flatly said. They were sitting in the clinic cafeteria, sipping tea and contemplating the green and orange institutional walls. Finn had left them and gone about his business. Wyungare and Cordelia had been allowed space to contemplate their plan of action.
“That’s the point,” said Wyungare. “It’s not insane. It may well be that a healer can help.”
“You ought to hear the rumors out there,” said Cordelia. “I think something big is going down, huge trouble. More trouble than an army of healers could cope with.”
Wyungare shrugged. “No shame in trying, even if failure follows.”
Cordelia giggled. “That sounds like a fortune cookie.”
“It is. I received it at a Chinese restaurant in Sydney the night before I left for America.”
The woman reached across the table and took his hand tightly. “Understand something, ma chér. I know how well you can handle yourself. I haven’t forgotten Uluru and our little adventure with Murga-Muggai. You’re so damned competent. But you’re a healer, and I suspect there’s going to be a lot of firepower cut loose if you end up trying to contact Bloat out at the Rox.”
Wyungare wrapped her hands in his. “I am more than a healer,” he said. “I am a warrior and a magician. I’ve got some resources I can draw upon.”
“I know,” she said. “But I just don’t want you to die.”
“And neither do I wish that.” He deliberately smiled at her, trying to relax the tension he felt in her muscles and saw in her face. “Trust me to know what I’m doing.”
“And do you?” she said unexpectedly.
He was honest. “No.” He added, “But I can vamp like crazy.”
That made her laugh. The laughter trailed off uncertainly and died, “Is your mission worth death or worse?”
“Worse?”
“I think there are fates even more terrible.”
“I think you’re right,” said Wyungare. “And my answer is yes.” She put his hand to her lips and lightly kissed it.
“Do you want to get some idea why?”
Cordelia looked at him questioningly, then said firmly, “Yes.”
“And, if all goes well, would you like to visit your uncle?”
“You mean back at the room?”
“I mean your uncle Jack — not his avatar.”
“Yes,” Cordelia said. “Please. Yes.” Her fingers squeezed like steel.
Jay Ackroyd’s office was a fourth-floor walkup on 42nd Street, half a block off Broadway in a sleazy section of town that matched, Ray reflected, the P.I.’s personality perfectly.
There were a couple of derelicts hanging around the building’s entrance, but they took one look at Ray’s snarling countenance and decamped without begging for change. Ray stepped over the snoring pile of rags in the foyer and went up the steps grumbling to himself. He didn’t mind the fact that there was no elevator, but he wished that the stairway wasn’t so damn filthy. He could hardly wait for the splendor of Ackroyd’s office.
The frosted glass on the top half of the office door said JAY ACKROYD in a solid, block-letter arc. Spelled out below that in slightly smaller but just as solid letters was DISCREET INVESTIGATIONS.
Ray opened the door, and stopped, surprised.
The reception room was small, but since there was little furniture, it wasn’t exactly cramped. An almost bare desk sat next to one wall. There was a telephone answering machine on its freshly dusted surface. Sitting in a chair behind the desk was a blond, inflated plastic doll with a
“Any questions?” Zappa asked.
Modular Man tried to think. “I suppose not. It seems straightforward enough.”
Zappa turned to Vidkunssen. “Give Modular Man the photo file and an interpreter to tell him what he’s looking at.”
There was a knock on the door, and an aide reported that Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Powell was calling from the Pentagon.
The conference seemed to be over.
“It’s insane.” Cordelia had flatly said. They were sitting in the clinic cafeteria, sipping tea and contemplating the green and orange institutional walls. Finn had left them and gone about his business. Wyungare and Cordelia had been allowed space to contemplate their plan of action.
“That’s the point,” said Wyungare. “It’s not insane. It may well be that a healer can help.”
“You ought to hear the rumors out there,” said Cordelia. “I think something big is going down, huge trouble. More trouble than an army of healers could cope with.”
Wyungare shrugged. “No shame in trying, even if failure follows.”
Cordelia giggled. “That sounds like a fortune cookie.”
“It is. I received it at a Chinese restaurant in Sydney the night before I left for America.”
The woman reached across the table and took his hand tightly. “Understand something, ma chér. I know how well you can handle yourself. I haven’t forgotten Uluru and our little adventure with Murga-Muggai. You’re so damned competent. But you’re a healer, and I suspect there’s going to be a lot of firepower cut loose if you end up trying to contact Bloat out at the Rox.”
Wyungare wrapped her hands in his. “I am more than a healer,” he said. “I am a warrior and a magician. I’ve got some resources I can draw upon.”
“I know,” she said. “But I just don’t want you to die.”
“And neither do I wish that.” He deliberately smiled at her, trying to relax the tension he felt in her muscles and saw in her face. “Trust me to know what I’m doing.”
“And do you?” she said unexpectedly.
He was honest. “No.” He added, “But I can vamp like crazy.”
That made her laugh. The laughter trailed off uncertainly and died, “Is your mission worth death or worse?”
“Worse?”
“I think there are fates even more terrible.”
“I think you’re right,” said Wyungare. “And my answer is yes.” She put his hand to her lips and lightly kissed it.
“Do you want to get some idea why?”
Cordelia looked at him questioningly, then said firmly, “Yes.”
“And, if all goes well, would you like to visit your uncle?”
“You mean back at the room?”
“I mean your uncle Jack — not his avatar.”
“Yes,” Cordelia said. “Please. Yes.” Her fingers squeezed like steel.
Jay Ackroyd’s office was a fourth-floor walkup on 42nd Street, half a block off Broadway in a sleazy section of town that matched, Ray reflected, the P.I.’s personality perfectly.
There were a couple of derelicts hanging around the building’s entrance, but they took one look at Ray’s snarling countenance and decamped without begging for change. Ray stepped over the snoring pile of rags in the foyer and went up the steps grumbling to himself. He didn’t mind the fact that there was no elevator, but he wished that the stairway wasn’t so damn filthy. He could hardly wait for the splendor of Ackroyd’s office.
The frosted glass on the top half of the office door said JAY ACKROYD in a solid, block-letter arc. Spelled out below that in slightly smaller but just as solid letters was DISCREET INVESTIGATIONS.
Ray opened the door, and stopped, surprised.
The reception room was small, but since there was little furniture, it wasn’t exactly cramped. An almost bare desk sat next to one wall. There was a telephone answering machine on its freshly dusted surface. Sitting in a chair behind the desk was a blond, inflated plastic doll with a