Tintagel (14 page)

The generator would keep the party on its feet for some time to come. Lanier admired Shaughnessy's skill in arranging his life in such a way as to always be able to survive in the highest style. If the whole Aspen area lost its power, Shaughnessy would be able to light up the night as long as his propane held out. Expensive as it was, Shaughnessy, he knew, could easily afford it.

The roof itself was more like a patio. Winter plants of various kinds grew from large pots. The roof was enclosed by a small railing at which people leaned with their drinks. Spaced here and there along the railing were carefully arranged bonsai and occasional pieces of sculpture.

A waiter came up with another tray of drinks. Lanier took one, but swiftly dumped it out into a planter, retaining the ice only. Alcohol had to be kept at a minimum. Tonight was strictly business.

Returning to a bathroom on the second floor, he managed to refill his glass with water, washing out what remained of the booze. He was careful not to offend those who could only have a high time when everyone was drinking.

He decided to avoid the shrill sounds of the jazz band, so he retreated to the first floor where it was much calmer, comparatively speaking. Rounding a corner after pausing for an awkward spell of small talk with a minor actress, he entered the large living room.

And there she was.

Whether Ellie Estevan had been here all the time, or had just arrived, he couldn't tell. But Shaughnessy and a couple of others stood around her, laughing and talking. Ellie Estevan merely looked on passively, smiling when the conversation turned her way.
Those eyes
, he thought as he watched her. Her hair was just a tad longer than it had been in
From Earth's Center
. But it framed that innocent expression, the pale skin of her face. Her eyes were like pools of glacial runoff, reflecting a calm Arctic sky. Not cold, but shimmering and alive. As the cliché goes, she was much more real and attractive than in her movies.

She wore a long coat made of soft leather, quite expensive, and beneath her coat were brown slacks that only hinted at her true form. Her blouse ruffled at her throat, and she wore a small, delicate pair of earrings that dangled like lanterns in the light.

Her smile pulled people in around her, though most everyone at the party was acting cool and detached, as if her presence were nothing to get upset about. He decided then that she had just arrived.

He leaned against the paneled wall and sipped his water and ice, with its half-moon of lime, and watched.

With a sudden turn of his head, Burton Shaughnessy pointed over to Lanier and gestured. "Hey, Frank. Over here!"

Somewhat embarrassed, Lanier stood away from the wall and tried to ignore the people staring at him. Shaughnessy was laughing. Lanier came over unhurriedly as if Ellie Estevan were just another individual to be introduced at the party.

"Frank, this is Ellie Estevan. I wanted you to meet her."

With one large hand, he presented Ms. Estevan. Then he said a curious thing. "She's got your eyes. I'll bet you're brother and sister." He laughed at his joke.

Lanier flushed slightly that the comparison would be such an intimate one. But he thought,
Well, cowboy, you're not a clown after all
.

"Yes," Lanier thought quickly, jumping into the mood of the moment, "we're from the same litter."

That took everyone by surprise. Shaughnessy clapped him on his back like a football coach, laughing.

Ellie Estevan smiled delightfully. She said, "Meow," looking up at Shaughnessy, then over at Lanier.

Jesus
, he thought as a wave of electricity circled up his spine like a hawk lifting on a heat thermal,
who is this woman
? That this person had become one of the highest paid, most successful actresses in the movie industry was no mystery at all now. Her eyes seemed to flash across his mind, almost as if he were totally composed of glass.

"Well," Lanier opened, "
I am
glad to meet you. I'm Francis Lanier."

He extended his hand, and when she took it, gently, shaking it, he thought his arm would melt off. "But you can call me Frank, if 'Francis' makes you feel as funny as it does Burt here."

"Glad to meet you," she said somewhat musically as if her words were threaded with notes rather than meaning.

Lanier, not used to socializing, suddenly came up without anything more to say.

But Shaughnessy dove right in. "Well, hey folks, we can talk over dinner. We got some stew and cornbread and some ribs and some other garbage I had 'em make. Let's go on out back." He pointed off to their right, to the side of the house where people were coming in and out with paper plates, foraging beans into their mouths.

They followed Shaughnessy outside.

Lanier had originally planned to avoid the dinner that Shaughnessy was going to provide, so he had eaten in Aspen before coming out. Now he was stuck with the obligation to eat again. He
did
look forward to the conversation. At least the listening part. He wasn't at all adept at small talk; he would have to let things take their natural course. Too, he wasn't the main attraction. Ellie Estevan was here, and it was very apparent that all eyes were on her and no one else.

Off to the side of the mansion was a large lawn that held tables and chairs, and somewhere in the dark were the ruins of a croquet set that someone had taken out earlier in the afternoon when the party was just getting under way. A large bronze sundial brooded at the very center of the lawn. Pine trees enclosed the entire area, and in the chill air the smells of the barbecue rose and drifted sweetly about them like ghosts. Lanier admired Shaughnessy. His imperial style was such that Lanier was convinced that in a former life Shaughnessy must have been a sultan.

They clustered around the long buffet table that was heaped with a pleasant assortment of steaming dishes. Ellie Estevan, he observed casually, moved among everyone quite comfortably, helping herself to the various vegetable dishes. She ate no meat.
Another plus
, Lanier thought.
She knows how to take care of herself
.

He wondered about the food itself. Shaughnessy could easily afford homegrown or pure foods, and as he sampled the baked beans, Lanier made a mental note to ask him about it sometime. Most food was either ersatz or hydroponic. What with chemical sprays, hormones, nutritional additives the government was allowing, it was no wonder to him—or anyone else—that various cancers and protein deficiencies were showing up in the children of this generation, and their parents as well.
But a man's got to eat
.…

Following an impulse to stay near Shaughnessy, Lanier moved around the buffet table. He felt it easier to be near someone he knew than to fend his way among the people he knew only by reputation. He didn't want to appear any more awkward than he already did.

But Shaughnessy, attracted to Lanier in his own way—and it could have been the eyes—motioned for Lanier to join him at his side.

A low table had been set up, and around it were eight or so foldup chairs. On the backs of the pale canvas chairs, Shaughnessy had the names of famous Hollywood directors stenciled. Lanier thought it kinky and somewhat indulgent, but a man of Shaughnessy's disposition could do anything he damn well pleased. And besides that, everyone thought that it was cute.

Shaughnessy got
SHAUGHNESSY
. Ellie Estevan got
HITCHCOCK
. Lanier got
KUROSAWA
. The others who had joined them around the table were
DE MILLE, HAWKS, HERZOG, OZU,
and
WERTMULLER
.

Like kids sitting in magic chairs at dinner
, he thought.

The sweet aromas of the barbecue floated about them. They talked and gossiped. Lanier, for the most part, listened. But so did Ellie Estevan.

With a mouthful of potato salad, Shaughnessy said, "Hey, Frank. Tell us about that thing with the President. That must have been interesting. I've never met her. Met everyone else in the damn world, but not her." He proceeded to chomp busily.

Lanier hovered over an ear of corn, taken off guard.

"Well, we had a conference." He took sonic time to wipe a touch of butter from his lips with his napkin. "It wasn't anything much. She wanted to meet me and my staff."

Ellie Estevan looked across at him. "That must have been exciting."

Lanier was surprised, but he followed her lead, careful not to betray too much. "Not really. It was just politics, which I try to avoid when and where I can." He grinned at her.

Shaughnessy burst out, "Good man! Good man! They're all a bunch of shysters. Can't run the country for shit."

The tiny freckles beneath Ellie Estevan's eyes stood out in the light of the torches Shaughnessy had the help install that afternoon.
Those eyes
.…

"What line of work are you in, Frank? Do you live in Aspen?"

He reddened. He hadn't expected so direct an approach, and now that his profession was supposed to be common knowledge, he felt very uneasy talking about his work.

Again, Shaughnessy to the rescue. "Frank here's a Stalker, believe it or not."

Everyone looked at him suddenly, pleasantly surprised.

"Oh, really?" Ellie said with interest. She seemed taken somewhat aback. She recovered quickly.

"Yes." He tried to sound noncommittal, evasive, tying to hide his discomfort.

"You must be rich," she said, glowing. Everyone giggled. So did he. She smiled at him playfully.

"I could be richer than I am now," he began, "but most of what I get goes into work for the Syndrome." Then he grinned. "When I do work for the government, though, I really stick it to them. As I said, I hate politics and politicians."

At that moment he noticed something a little unusual. Everyone seemed to be pondering him with an air of respect, something no one else at the table generated. Ellie Estevan surveyed him closely.

"Are you a modern or classical Stalker?" she asked.

Lanier couldn't have been more startled at her question than if she had dropped a rock onto his plate.

"A modern," he said, leaning back in his chair, setting down his fork. "You know about Stalking?"

Shaughnessy and the other guests brightened, looking at one another curiously. "Say," he said, "what's this about modern and classics?"

Now there was a common bond of some kind between Ellie Estevan and Lanier. He folded his arms, considering her.

"It's strange that you should know about it at all. The whole thing is a secret for the most part."

Everyone looked on.

Ellie said, "I met a man from Trinidad, Colorado, when I was filming in England a year ago. He was a classical Stalker working for British Intelligence. He was on loan from the State Department."

Lanier tried to think.
Who could that be
?

"Say, what gives? Fill us in." Shaughnessy was like an eager child listening to a fairy story.

Lanier returned to his plate of beans and ribs, speaking as he ate. "Oh, it's practically nothing. There are just different kinds of Stalkers for different kinds of music. Some specialize in baroque and classical music, and others do jazz and rock and roll for those really far gone. Then there are those like myself who do modern classical music."

Ellie Estevan, spoon in mouth, being playful, said, "That guy I knew was mostly Mozart and early Beethoven. Said he wouldn't touch anything beyond Beethoven's
Second Symphony or Fidelio
."

"Opera," Lanier remarked. "He's a brave man."

Shaughnessy asked, "And you do modern music? That's rare, isn't it?"

"No, not really," Lanier began. "Modern music was the best thing when the Syndrome hit because, since the middle of last century, few people became acquainted with what was going on in the world of serious music. Therefore, when the Syndrome struck, the only music that could be tolerated was music no one knew. So most of my patients have gone under at unusual performances of modern music, music that nevertheless hit them the right, or I should say the
wrong
, way."

Ellie seemed to squirm in her chair. "Are you a musician?"

"No. My father was, though. He taught himself piano, and when I was growing up, he used to buy me scads of classical records. Then, over the years my tastes changed and I began to look up obscure composers of modern music and found that a lot of it was actually quite beautiful."

He paused. He hadn't really thought about all of this for years, and wondered what harm it would do if he told them any more. But he knew he had a friend in Shaughnessy. He hoped that the other women assembled around the table wouldn't blab to the scandals. But this business was like politics. Everything was in the public domain.

Ellie Estevan, though, was genuinely intrigued. "So that's where the new movie music has come from. I don't bother myself with these things, you know."

"Right," Lanier said. "And there are hundreds of thousands of recorded and unrecorded pieces of music for concerts and movies, and no one knows about them, virtually. Most of the composers I know about ended up becoming professors of music in universities, since the record companies couldn't make any money off anyone except Tchaikovsky and Beethoven. They just faded away in their tenured positions."

He looked Ellie in the eyes. A slight surge of energy shimmied up his spine. A warm glow radiated beneath his heart, a lightness. The power in her eyes mesmerized him. And he knew that, like so many millions of her rapturous fans, he could very easily fall in love with someone like her. Just for those eyes.

He turned away.

The conversation shifted among the other guests assembled around the table, and Lanier began considering everything the media had said Ellie Estevan was, and put all of those things up against what he could see right before him. Soft chords of a melody began running through his mind as he watched her chat with Shaughnessy or the ladies beside her. They all seemed to be friends. He fell back to a recollection from some time ago. It was the time he had gone under when the Syndrome first struck. There had been a woman quite like Ellie Estevan in his life. She had special eyes and a special way of smiling that made his life all alone a Hell.