short black curls and the shadow of a heavy beard on his cheeks. He wore only a towel around his waist, so Priest could see that he had broad, well-muscled shoulders and a flat belly.
They must have made a handsome couple
.
As Melanie reached the top of the stairs, Michael said: “I’ve been very worried—where the hell have you been?”
Melanie said: “Can’t you put some clothes on?”
“You didn’t say you had company,” he replied coolly. He stayed in the doorway. “Are you going to answer my question?”
Priest could see he was barely controlling his stored-up rage.
“I’m here to explain,” Melanie said. She was enjoying Michael’s fury.
What a screwed-up marriage
. “This is my friend Priest. May we come in?”
Michael stared at her angrily. “This had better be pretty fucking good, Melanie.” He turned his back and walked inside.
Melanie and Priest followed him into a small hallway. He opened the bathroom door, took a dark blue cotton robe off a hook, and slipped into it, taking his time. He discarded his towel and tied the belt. Then he led them into the living room.
This was clearly his office. As well as a couch and a TV set, there was a computer screen and keyboard on the table and a row of electronic machines with blinking lights on a deep shelf. Somewhere in those bland pale gray boxes was stored the information Priest needed. He felt tantalized. There was no way he could get at it unaided. He had to depend on Melanie.
One wall was entirely taken up with a huge map. “What the hell is that?” Priest said.
Michael just gave him a who-the-fuck-are-you look and said nothing, but Melanie answered the question. “It’s the San Andreas fault.” She pointed. “Beginning at Point Arena lighthouse a hundred miles north of here in Mendocino County, all the way south and east, past Los Angeles and inland to San Bernardino. A crack in the earth’s crust, seven hundred miles long.”
Melanie had explained Michael’s work to Priest. His specialty was the calculation of pressure at different places along seismic faults. It was partly a matter of precise measurement of small movements in the earth’s crust, partly a question of estimating the accumulated energy based on the lapse of time since the last earthquake. His work had won him academic prizes. But a year ago he had quit the university to start his own business, a consultancy offering advice on earthquake hazards to construction firms and insurance companies.
Melanie was a computer wizard and had helped Michael devise his setup. She had programmed his machine to back up every day between four A.M . and six A.M. , when he was asleep. Everything on his computer, she had explained to Priest, was copied onto an optical disk. When he switched on his screen in the morning, he would take the disk out of the disk drive and put it in a fireproof box. That way, if his computer crashed or the house burned down, his precious data would not be lost.
It was a wonder to Priest that information about the San Andreas fault could be kept on a little disk, but then books were just as much of a mystery. He simply had to accept what he was told. The important thing was that with Michael’s disk Melanie would be able to tell Priest where to place the seismic vibrator.
Now they just had to get Michael out of the room long enough for Melanie to snatch the disk from the optical drive.
“Tell me, Michael,” Priest said. “All this stuff.” He indicated the map and the computers with a wave of his hand, then fixed Michael with the Look. “How does it make you
feel?”
Most people got flustered when Priest gave them the Look andasked them a personal question. Sometimes they gave a revealing answer because they were so disconcerted. But Michael seemed immune. He just looked blankly at Priest and said: “It doesn’t make me
feel
anything, I use it.” Then he turned to Melanie and said: “Now, are you going to tell me why you disappeared?”
Arrogant
They must have made a handsome couple
.
As Melanie reached the top of the stairs, Michael said: “I’ve been very worried—where the hell have you been?”
Melanie said: “Can’t you put some clothes on?”
“You didn’t say you had company,” he replied coolly. He stayed in the doorway. “Are you going to answer my question?”
Priest could see he was barely controlling his stored-up rage.
“I’m here to explain,” Melanie said. She was enjoying Michael’s fury.
What a screwed-up marriage
. “This is my friend Priest. May we come in?”
Michael stared at her angrily. “This had better be pretty fucking good, Melanie.” He turned his back and walked inside.
Melanie and Priest followed him into a small hallway. He opened the bathroom door, took a dark blue cotton robe off a hook, and slipped into it, taking his time. He discarded his towel and tied the belt. Then he led them into the living room.
This was clearly his office. As well as a couch and a TV set, there was a computer screen and keyboard on the table and a row of electronic machines with blinking lights on a deep shelf. Somewhere in those bland pale gray boxes was stored the information Priest needed. He felt tantalized. There was no way he could get at it unaided. He had to depend on Melanie.
One wall was entirely taken up with a huge map. “What the hell is that?” Priest said.
Michael just gave him a who-the-fuck-are-you look and said nothing, but Melanie answered the question. “It’s the San Andreas fault.” She pointed. “Beginning at Point Arena lighthouse a hundred miles north of here in Mendocino County, all the way south and east, past Los Angeles and inland to San Bernardino. A crack in the earth’s crust, seven hundred miles long.”
Melanie had explained Michael’s work to Priest. His specialty was the calculation of pressure at different places along seismic faults. It was partly a matter of precise measurement of small movements in the earth’s crust, partly a question of estimating the accumulated energy based on the lapse of time since the last earthquake. His work had won him academic prizes. But a year ago he had quit the university to start his own business, a consultancy offering advice on earthquake hazards to construction firms and insurance companies.
Melanie was a computer wizard and had helped Michael devise his setup. She had programmed his machine to back up every day between four A.M . and six A.M. , when he was asleep. Everything on his computer, she had explained to Priest, was copied onto an optical disk. When he switched on his screen in the morning, he would take the disk out of the disk drive and put it in a fireproof box. That way, if his computer crashed or the house burned down, his precious data would not be lost.
It was a wonder to Priest that information about the San Andreas fault could be kept on a little disk, but then books were just as much of a mystery. He simply had to accept what he was told. The important thing was that with Michael’s disk Melanie would be able to tell Priest where to place the seismic vibrator.
Now they just had to get Michael out of the room long enough for Melanie to snatch the disk from the optical drive.
“Tell me, Michael,” Priest said. “All this stuff.” He indicated the map and the computers with a wave of his hand, then fixed Michael with the Look. “How does it make you
feel?”
Most people got flustered when Priest gave them the Look andasked them a personal question. Sometimes they gave a revealing answer because they were so disconcerted. But Michael seemed immune. He just looked blankly at Priest and said: “It doesn’t make me
feel
anything, I use it.” Then he turned to Melanie and said: “Now, are you going to tell me why you disappeared?”
Arrogant
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