?”
“Information confidential below Grade Three,” System told them.
“See? You’ll have to ask it yourself.”
“ What grade am I ?” Cedric inquired.
Through the bones of his skull came a spectral reply: “Four.”
“What did it say?” McEwan asked innocently.
Cedric might be dressed as a two-meter leprechaun, but he was not green enough to answer that query—not after Bagshaw’s careful hint. “Nine,” he lied. “ What’s my work ranking ?”
Again the hollow voice echoed in his head, creepy but quite distinguishable—and completely unbelievable.
“Eight,” he told the waiting men. He might have hidden his shock from McEwan, but Bagshaw was appraising him with eyes like awls.
“Where now, Sprout? Hotcakes, bacon, steak, coffee, toast, eggs—or Grandma?”
Cedric shrugged sadly. “What big teeth you have.”
“Right!” Bagshaw wheeled and headed off along the corridor. Cedric followed blindly, wondering if this was a test, wondering again what was in store for him, and totally unable to imagine what sort of job he could handle that would require a Grade One ranking on System.
8
Nauc, April 7
HASTINGS WILLOUGHBY HAD not ridden in a percy since being blown up in one, back in 2036. On that occasion his leg bones had been reduced to gravel and later replaced by synfab, but he had not felt right down there since. He rarely traveled at all anymore, and when he did he preferred a cavalcade of armored Caddies. In any case, other people usually came to call on him. He was Secretary General.
Any message from Agnes carried supreme priority, and that morning he had been awakened at dawn to receive one. It had come in one of their private codes, a code simple enough to require only a pocket computer. Even the smartest Systems still had trouble with homonyms, and the text he finally deciphered said merely, “Cum heer gude noos.”
Come here—good news? Come, hear good news?
It had taken even Willoughby some time to work that out. Only when his regular early-morning briefing told him of the media reception she had scheduled for noon did he understand. She wanted him there, but she was not about to tell him why. The cloaking-and-daggering might be to tell him that it was important without saying so over a public com. Or she might be playing some sort of double game.
Even God would never guess at what devious mischief Agnes might get up to. Willoughby ranked her as one of the greatest schemers the world had ever known; he felt privileged to have worked with her for so many years, and the thought of observing her in action just one more time was irresistible. Moreover, in an odd sort of way he still felt affection for Hubbard Agnes Murray. No one else had ever bested him at bedroom politics. Certainly no one else could summon him like a whistled dog, as she still could.
Within seconds of receiving enlightenment, therefore, Willoughby had made his decision, summoned transportation, and canceled a dozen scheduled commeetings. He chuckled when he saw the squad of bleary, half-shaven, half-zipped bulls that gathered to escort him. One of the prerogatives of power had always been the right to rattle one’s subordinates. Some men took it as a duty.
His Caddy had hardly crossed the outermost mine field before he began to have second thoughts. Cold introspection soon told him he was indulging in self-deception. He was not rushing to Agnes’s side to assist her, nor out of old friendship, nor—truly—to observe her in action one more time. He was going there in the hope that she had found a lifeboat and would make room in it for him. He should have called her first and argued. To seem too eager might arouse her suspicions.
He was old and tired, and he needed solace. Folly, folly! No one appealed for help to Hubbard Agnes. She despised weakness. If she concluded that he had become too feeble to be a reliable ally, she would turn on him herself. Possibly she already had, and he was heading to his own
“Information confidential below Grade Three,” System told them.
“See? You’ll have to ask it yourself.”
“ What grade am I ?” Cedric inquired.
Through the bones of his skull came a spectral reply: “Four.”
“What did it say?” McEwan asked innocently.
Cedric might be dressed as a two-meter leprechaun, but he was not green enough to answer that query—not after Bagshaw’s careful hint. “Nine,” he lied. “ What’s my work ranking ?”
Again the hollow voice echoed in his head, creepy but quite distinguishable—and completely unbelievable.
“Eight,” he told the waiting men. He might have hidden his shock from McEwan, but Bagshaw was appraising him with eyes like awls.
“Where now, Sprout? Hotcakes, bacon, steak, coffee, toast, eggs—or Grandma?”
Cedric shrugged sadly. “What big teeth you have.”
“Right!” Bagshaw wheeled and headed off along the corridor. Cedric followed blindly, wondering if this was a test, wondering again what was in store for him, and totally unable to imagine what sort of job he could handle that would require a Grade One ranking on System.
8
Nauc, April 7
HASTINGS WILLOUGHBY HAD not ridden in a percy since being blown up in one, back in 2036. On that occasion his leg bones had been reduced to gravel and later replaced by synfab, but he had not felt right down there since. He rarely traveled at all anymore, and when he did he preferred a cavalcade of armored Caddies. In any case, other people usually came to call on him. He was Secretary General.
Any message from Agnes carried supreme priority, and that morning he had been awakened at dawn to receive one. It had come in one of their private codes, a code simple enough to require only a pocket computer. Even the smartest Systems still had trouble with homonyms, and the text he finally deciphered said merely, “Cum heer gude noos.”
Come here—good news? Come, hear good news?
It had taken even Willoughby some time to work that out. Only when his regular early-morning briefing told him of the media reception she had scheduled for noon did he understand. She wanted him there, but she was not about to tell him why. The cloaking-and-daggering might be to tell him that it was important without saying so over a public com. Or she might be playing some sort of double game.
Even God would never guess at what devious mischief Agnes might get up to. Willoughby ranked her as one of the greatest schemers the world had ever known; he felt privileged to have worked with her for so many years, and the thought of observing her in action just one more time was irresistible. Moreover, in an odd sort of way he still felt affection for Hubbard Agnes Murray. No one else had ever bested him at bedroom politics. Certainly no one else could summon him like a whistled dog, as she still could.
Within seconds of receiving enlightenment, therefore, Willoughby had made his decision, summoned transportation, and canceled a dozen scheduled commeetings. He chuckled when he saw the squad of bleary, half-shaven, half-zipped bulls that gathered to escort him. One of the prerogatives of power had always been the right to rattle one’s subordinates. Some men took it as a duty.
His Caddy had hardly crossed the outermost mine field before he began to have second thoughts. Cold introspection soon told him he was indulging in self-deception. He was not rushing to Agnes’s side to assist her, nor out of old friendship, nor—truly—to observe her in action one more time. He was going there in the hope that she had found a lifeboat and would make room in it for him. He should have called her first and argued. To seem too eager might arouse her suspicions.
He was old and tired, and he needed solace. Folly, folly! No one appealed for help to Hubbard Agnes. She despised weakness. If she concluded that he had become too feeble to be a reliable ally, she would turn on him herself. Possibly she already had, and he was heading to his own
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