The Devil's Eye (18 page)

But it gave me an idea. I had a paper notebook in one of my bags. I dug it out, and began writing a message on each page: HELP. WE'RE PRISONERS ATOP THE PLATEAU. NEED RESCUE. And, as an afterthought: CONTACT ROB PEIFER. REWARD. I signed it with Alex's name. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Giving us another shot. I wish we had some plastic bags around here." I did a search but found nothing. No bags. Also no rubber bands. No plastic containers. No paper clips. In the end I simply crumpled the notes up, sixty-two individual pages, went back out, and walked around the rim, giving them to the wind. "Well," Alex said, when I got back, "who knows?"

The house was comfortable enough. It had an old-world feel, with its fabric chairs and wooden walls. We kept the fireplace going, even though we no longer needed it. The living room had a wall-length set of windows and a mahogany-colored domed ceiling. The kitchen boasted a magnificent view, which included the valley and the mountain. It must have been the tallest mountain on the planet. The furniture was all hand-carved. The chairs and sofa used gold fabric. Metal lamps stood on the tables. Under other circumstances, it would have been a lovely retreat. Except, of course, that you wouldn't want to try skiing, or any other outdoor sport. But for a place to sit by the windows with a good book, it was hard to beat. When I got back from throwing paper off the cliff, I kicked off my shoes and socks and settled down in front of the fireplace again. "Well," I said, "it doesn't look very encouraging out there." Alex gazed up at the domed ceiling. "You don't suppose they have any gravity belts here anywhere?" Ah yes. It was probably a good thing that old staple of fantasy epics had never proven feasible. Drunks at six thousand meters. Not a happy prospect. Although we could have used a couple at the time. "As soon as I get warm," he said, "I want to take a look at the utility shed. Maybe there'll be something useful in there."

The shed was sparse. We found a few spare lighting fixtures, two shovels, some nuts and bolts and nails, a backup calibrator for Kellie, a broken HV, a drill, an ax, thirty or forty meters of cable, two ladders, a box of ceiling hooks, a few flowerpots, two cans of paint, three pristine brushes, and some fishing gear. Fishing gear. We went back inside and debated whether we should disable Kellie. "She's probably reporting back," said Alex. "Disable her, and we still have no guarantee we aren't being watched." Nevertheless, we both felt it would be a good idea to put her out of action. So we asked her whether she could be safely disabled.
"Yes,"
she said.
"Is that what you wish to do?"
"Yes."

"Yes. Nothing personal."

"As you wish."
Her lights went out. I disconnected her power source just to be safe. "Okay," said Alex. "We'll have to assume they're still watching us. You have anything to say you don't want them to hear, we go outside." I looked out at the snow. Somebody was going to pay.

That afternoon, a skimmer came in from the east. It threw a scare into me. I hurried outside. It was a big white vehicle with THE DOWNTOWNERS stenciled across its hull, along with a G clef and a few musical notes. I waved and shouted. It kept going. Then it arced around and started back. I could see the pilot, a male, with a woman beside him. And it looked like two kids in back. I waved some more. "Help!" Alex ran outside and jumped up and down. One of the kids saw me. I watched him push the other one and point in my direction. They laughed. "Yes!" I said. "Alex, we might get a break here." Alex kept waving. I cheered. The pilot was looking at us now. "Help!" The pilot waved back. Hi.
You idiot
.
Can't you see we're out here without any jackets? Freezing?
I squeezed my neck and tried to look in distress. The kids laughed again, and the pilot waved a final time and began to climb. We watched them dwindle and finally vanish.

That night, while Alex paged through Churchill, I sat by the window and looked out at Callistra. Vicki's star. Bright and solid. The anchor of the heavens. It was the kind of star people write fairy tales about. That they take their kids into the backyard to see. Blue and beautiful. A beacon of assurance that all's right with the world.

In the morning, I told Alex I was going out to the utility shed. "Why?" "I want to get a shovel. In case somebody else flies over today, I'd like to be able to make it clear we need rescuing." "How are you going to do that?" "You can help, if you want." "Sure," he said. "We can use an idea or two." We went out to the shed. "I can't just sit around here," I told him, "knowing we don't have any way to defend ourselves, and Agent Krestoff might be back anytime. With Corel. And somebody to stick pins in

our heads." "They don't do it that way." "Good. I'm much relieved." We got the shovels and picked a spot in front of the villa. It was still cold, but not as brutal as it had been. We began moving snow. Alex admitted it was a good idea, and within a few minutes we'd spelled HELP. In very large letters. But it didn't look as if they'd be very visible from the air, so we tore up some bushes and branches and laid them in the letters. When we'd finished, half-frozen, we went back inside. We took the shovels with us. They'd be the weapons of last resort.

I hobbled into the washroom, filled the tub with hot water, climbed in, and sat there until I got some feeling back. That night I made us a hot supper. First cooking I'd done in a long time. We had meat loaf with a garlic flavor, a green vegetable, and mashed potatoes. Potatoes had originated on Earth, had spread across the worlds of the Confederacy, and had even made it to that far-off place. It was a good meal. That night we settled in again to watch news accounts from around the world. People in places we'd never heard of were arguing about the cost of education. Others were angry that their neighbors were buying things like skimmers in other areas instead of shopping locally. Townspeople in a place named Shay Gaionne objected to ordinances requiring better maintenance of houses. Juvenile delinquents were a problem in some areas. And gangs. A large city on a coast somewhere was trying to decide whether gambling should be allowed near churches. Still others complained about the quality of entertainment. There were reports of another incursion by the Mutes.
"They fired on a Coalition patrol boat,"
said the reporter.
"Fortunately, there appear to have been no injuries."
"What do you think, Alex?" "About the attack? I don't believe it. The Mutes are nowhere near here." The Coalition government was entering its political season, and there was an ongoing debate about banning involuntary mind wipes. Some candidates called it murder; others insisted it constituted a fresh start for people they referred to as psychologically disabled. Alex fell asleep during an interview of a long-winded legislative candidate. I watched for a few minutes. Then I shut it down, turned off some of the lamps, and took a seat by the windows. The world beyond the pale illumination cast by our lights was utterly dark. Callistra must have been in a different part of the sky. Or maybe it was cloudy. At night, you never could tell. There was nothing out there, no sign of an aircraft. No artificial lights anywhere. I rearranged the cushions and decided they smelled vaguely of pine. I wondered about Ben and asked myself what he might be doing at that moment and whether he ever thought about me. He'd always maintained that Alex was deranged and that I shouldn't be working for him. Sitting in the villa on that night, wondering when the bad guys would come to get us, I suspected he might be right. A lineal block. The prospect of losing part of myself, of going back to Rimway after they'd taken my freedom of action from me, drove me into a rage. I promised myself I wasn't going down without a fight. I would at the very least take out that nitwit female agent. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to have an idea locked away, a memory that was still there but that I could not act on. They had done it to Vicki, and she'd become so desperate that she'd gone on to a complete mind wipe. Get rid of it. Get rid of everything she remembered about her life. What a price to pay. What was it about? ULY447? The Calient mission? And a religious service that just didn't matter anymore?

Alex woke me early next morning. "Got work to do." "What?" I said. "What is it?" I remembered the sign in the snow.

"Did somebody come?" "No. The wind filled it in during the night." "Oh." "I don't think it had much of a chance anyhow. We don't get a lot of traffic here." "It was worth a try. So what's the work we have to do?" "Get dressed," he said. "I'll show you." He leaned back and smiled. "Agent Krestoff and the mad doctor could come at any time. We want to be ready." Twenty minutes later I went downstairs into the living room and found the extension ladder leaning against one wall. Snow had been tracked through the doorway when he brought it in from the shed. "Problem?" I asked. "No. Why?" "The ladder." "No. No problem." He was standing by one of the windows. The sun was just climbing into the sky. "This place makes me dizzy," I said. "Of course." He pointed at the tree that hung out over the edge of the precipice. "Look," he said. "Yeah. It's hanging on for its life." "Doesn't it give you any ideas?"

We plowed back out into the snow. "I don't think there's an imager anywhere inside," he said. "I've gone over the first floor pretty thoroughly. They might be able to hear us, but I doubt they're getting a picture." "Okay." He opened the door to the utility shed and picked up the ax. I laughed. "They're going to have guns," I said. "I doubt we'd have much chance with that." "That's true, Chase. But we're low on firewood." "Ah." "I'm going to get some." "Good idea." "Meantime, I want you to paint the living room." "Paint the living room?" "Yes. I'll explain later." "Alex-" "Trust me." "This is why the extension ladder's in there." "Of course." "You want me to paint the ceiling, too?" "No. You won't have to do that." "Then we've got the wrong ladder." I indicated the step ladder. "This is the one we want." "We might need both." I picked up one of the paint cans. "It's frozen." "It'll thaw." "You know, working with you can be frustrating at times." "You've said that before." "Okay. What color did you want me to use?" There were two cans. The labels described them as forest green and sunrise gold. "Gold," he said. "Do the gold." "Okay." "I'll be in to help in a few minutes." "All right." "I put some cable inside, too. By the fireplace. We'll want to paint them also." "We want to paint the
cables
?"

"Of course." "They get the
green
paint, right?" "Nope. Same color. Gold."

By the end of the day, the living room looked resplendent in its new coat of gold paint, as did the cables. We spent the evening and most of the night getting set up. At one point, we heard a skimmer pass overhead, and our hearts sank. I ran outside and, when I saw it wasn't the government vehicle, I waved like a crazy person. But I don't think they saw me at all. We were up early next morning to begin working on the overhead. I began to think we might actually have a chance to pull it off. But the final preparations were difficult, and I spent a lot of time on the extension ladder, inserting ceiling hooks into the overhead dome, stringing cable, attaching and finally loading the blankets. When I'd finished, I climbed down and put the ladder back in the shed. Then I went back inside, glad to feel the warmth again. Alex walked me right back outside. "We need to get them in the middle of the living room," he said. "That shouldn't be hard." We went back onto the deck and looked inside through an open door. Speaking barely above a whisper, he said, "They'll need a table to do the procedure." "The lineal block?" "Yes." There were two side tables, a coffee table, and a dining table. "We don't want them using the dining table," he said. Absolutely. It was out of the target area. "When we go back in, we'll pile dishes on it. Glasses. The toaster. Laundry. Hardware. And anything else we can find." "Okay." He looked around the living room. "Let's give them the coffee table." "It's not exactly in the target area." "I know. And you're right." He thought about it. "Okay, we can load that up, too. That leaves one of the side tables." "Isn't it going to be a little obvious if you pull one of them out into the center of the room?" "Get the chess set," he said. He removed a lamp from the side table and pulled the table into the target area. Then he put the chessboard on it and set up the pieces to create a game in progress. We took the two chairs from the dining table and put them on either side. When it was finished, he looked around the room. He didn't say anything, but he looked happy. We went back outside. "Anything else, Alex?" I asked. He studied me and bit his lower lip. "Can you cut your hair a little shorter? To look like Krestoff's?" It would take more than cutting it shorter. Krestoff was sporting a local style that apparently emphasized taking advantage of wind resistance. "Sure," I said. "Do it." He sighed. "Pity we don't have some dye." "So I could go blond?" "Yes."

"I don't think I have the right complexion for it." "In the dark, nobody's going to notice." After that, it became just a matter of waiting. That, of course, is when you start worrying. "You know," I said, "maybe they're just going to leave us here. Or maybe they're hoping we'll try to climb down and get ourselves killed." "No," said Alex. "If they'd wanted anything like that, they'd have pushed us off themselves. They would not be happy trying to explain how we turned up dead. Or missing. And for another thing, they don't know whether other people are aware why we came here." He kicked off his shoes and propped his feet on a stool. "The last thing they need is for something to happen to us."

We'd expected Krestoff to return within a day or two. But the days passed, and the skies remained empty. We saw a few aircraft, though they were too far or too high after that first time for us to have any realistic chance to signal for help. It presented a problem. We couldn't risk having them arrive, say, in the middle of the night. Or slip in when we were watching the HV and not paying attention. If they took us by surprise, our escape plan would evaporate. So we set up a system. Twelve-hour watches during which one or the other of us was constantly on the lookout. We rearranged the furniture and relaxed as best we could, with one of us always posted by the window or the front door. What do you do with your time when you know somebody's coming to pick apart your brain? For me, it was mostly watching stuff that didn't require my paying attention. Comedies where people fell down a lot and thrillers that were mostly chases. And light reading. Material that didn't require emotional input. I had no emotions left. We took our meals together, and in the early evenings we sat around the living room with the lights about halfway down. Alex was reading
Their Finest Hour
. He had the book on the coffee table and turned each page cautiously. He'd stop occasionally to read me a passage. He especially enjoyed doing Churchill's lines for me:
Never before in the history of human conflict
... And,
Victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory however long and hard the road may be
... "I wish we had him here," he said. "Which side was he on?" Alex rolled his eyes. "The civilized side." He grew thoughtful. "It's a pity they didn't have avatars. He was too early." On the ninth day, a monster storm hit and left us buried in snow. We opened the door when it was over and had to climb a snowbank just to get outside. I hoped that maybe Peifer would discover we'd gone missing and would be hot on the trail. But that was a long shot. When I mentioned it to Alex, he asked how Peifer could possibly track us to that lonely outpost. Since it was election season, we got to watch the various candidates going on about how they'd make life better for the world. Everybody made it a point to take a stand against the Mutes. They differed, of course, on the details. Some wanted to bring in the Confederacy. But the Confederacy wasn't all that popular on Salud Afar, where it was seen as a distant power that, given the chance, would happily make off with the world's resources. I got the impression politicians on Salud Afar made it a habit to run against the Confederacy, to paint it as a threat. Other news was generally inconsequential: the unexpected death of a well-known one-time beauty queen, the scandal caused by the discovery that a former world-class athlete was a bigamist, a show-business celebrity arrested for obscene behavior. Another entertainment icon was being accused of having thrown his wife down a staircase. He claimed someone had broken into the house and done the deed. There were reports of still another brush with Mute ships.
"No shooting this time,"
said a young, enthusiastic male journalist,
"but these incidents are becoming increasingly numerous. It looks as if we'd better prepare for the worst."