Make yourself inconspicuous, he told himself angrily. Stop drawing attention to yourself. And still the police were conspicuous by their absence.
He found himself standing outside a fast-food emporium and staggered in.
“What would you like, sir?” inquired the pert young woman standing behind the counter. The restaurant was almost empty. It was too early for the evening rush. That suited Eric just fine.
He scanned the menu, hardly seeing it. “Quiche Lorraine looks okay. And a salad please.”
“What kind of dressing on your salad, sir?”
“I don’t care … bacon, I guess.”
“That’ll be just a minute, sir.” He stood waiting for the order, took it to a back booth, and tried to act like any other diner.
Grasping a fork, he picked at the quiche. It was flat and spiceless but it didn’t matter. He hardly knew what he was eating. He wasn’t tired and he didn’t seem to be hurt. That was more than could be said for the two men who’d tried to abduct him.
That was what it amounted to, wasn’t it? Kidnapping? They weren’t police, and they’d tried to force him to go with them. Sure, kidnapping. So he’d broken the arm of the one questioning him, snapped it neat as a match at the elbow. The bigger one he’d thrown through the ceiling. Sure he had.
He put a hand to his forehead, felt the beads of sweat. He stared at the quiche as though an answer might lie hidden there, or among the mushrooms and imitation bacon bits on the salad. Jupiter bits, like his hamburger. There was no enlightenment there. Only cheddar.
Not funny, he told himself. How had he done it? Because it unarguably had been done. He’d done it. Thrown him through the ceiling, and Johan was no featherweight. He couldn’t remember the action, only the result.
Staring down at his left arm, he flexed the fingers, made a fist. No sign of abnormal muscularity. Nothing to attract the attention of a football scout. Had he been an athlete at one time? Not that he could recall. Hadn’t he played some football in high school? He was shocked to realize that he couldn’t remember. In fact, he suddenly couldn’t remember attending high school. It seemed he couldn’t remember anything beyond ten years back.
He started to tremble. Gradually the older memories came back. Momentary amnesia, induced by shock?
What’s happening to me?
He became aware that two older women seated at a table across the room were staring at him. As soon as he noticed the attention, they turned back to their coffee.
Resolving to hide his expression if he couldn’t alter it, he stared at the table. Charlie Was right, more right than he suspected. There was something seriously wrong with him. His next thought was for a doctor, but what kind of doctor? What would a doctor make of his story? How would he respond to Eric telling him he’d thrown a hundred-kilo assailant through a solid ceiling?
There had to be an explanation, of course. Had to be. There were plenty of stories of mothers lifting automobiles off pinned children and ninety-pound weaklings shoving boulders off trapped skiers. Ordinary people performing extraordinary feats of strength. Adrenaline could work miracles. Sure, that must have been what it was.
Suddenly he felt a lot better, found he could taste the food. He took a forkful of salad. Sure, that was it. A sudden surge of adrenaline. That exceptional strength that buoys people in moments of unusual stress.
With that put temporarily aside, he found himself able once again to consider something he’d forgotten. What had they wanted with him, those two? Badly enough to take him forcibly. What was there in Polikartos’s files worth killing him for?
With a start of remembrance he recalled Johan’s words. “It’s him.” That suggested that they’d been waiting for him, Eric Abbott, specifically. But why? How did that tie in with Polikartos’s death? It seemed certain it must.
Information. Someone wanted information. Lethal information. Polikartos had warned him to stay away from the woman. Lisa Tambor. Don’t bother with it, he’d told him. Leave it alone.
Would they come after him? He looked anxiously toward the street, inspected the restaurant. He was alone except for the two old ladies and one man in an electrician’s suit eating in a far booth. Johan and the questioner had come alone, then. What would happen when they reported to their superiors that their plans had gone awry? Badly awry. What would they do next?
The only satisfaction he could draw from the whole experience was the thought of how his two assailants were going to explain the escape of their quarry.
Quarry. What an odd way to think of oneself. That was a word used only in cheap novels, and he dismissed it instantly. He could not bring himself to think that way. He was Eric Abbott, designer for Selvem, Inc. Not a quarry. To his considerable surprise he found he was no longer afraid, only more curious than ever.
Someone was very protective of Lisa Tambor. Though he’d seen her only once, and briefly, he could understand that. But this protective? It made no sense. What it made was a puzzle. Eric had always enjoyed puzzles. It was one of the reasons he was such a fine designer. He was nearly as adept at the practical aspects of engineering as the theoretical.
The attack on him, Polikartos’s death, the mysterious girl, her unknown protectors: he never could stand to leave a puzzle unsolved. But he was going to have to be more careful, more discreet, from now on. He’d pricked someone’s attention with his innocent inquiries, and they’d responded with a sledgehammer. Yes, he’d have to be much more cautious from now on.
Well, he could be clever, too. As fear and confusion began to recede, he felt some of his initial excitement returning. If he couldn’t outwit a bunch of common thugs, he didn’t deserve his ranking as a problem solver.
As for Hong Kong, Selvem would just have to get along without him. His presence at that conference was more important to his future than that of the company. His absence would raise awkward questions, but he could cope with those.
He’d been challenged, and he wasn’t the sort to run from a challenge. Let them send others like Johan and the questioner after him. They wouldn’t find him. Not at work, not at home. He’d stay one step ahead of them until he found out what he needed to find out, until he’d met the girl who’d captivated him so thoroughly. Then he’d likely disappear. Having nothing more to guard against, they’d probably leave him alone.
He dug into his early supper with new enthusiasm.
VI
Froelich drummed his fingers on the arm of the couch and tried to keep his eyes from the steadily changing seascape that occupied the far wall. As usual, Oristano’s office was an island of peace and tranquillity in the Colligatarch Complex, a mirror image of the Chief Programmer himself. Despite what they’d been told, he could see no outward difference in Oristano, could detect no ruffling of that grandfatherly exterior.
Dhurapati sat in the other chair, her white duty suit immaculate, diffused light setting the small ruby in her nose asparkle. She looked as confused as Froelich felt. It was good to know he had some emotional company.
“I’d like some details,” he murmured.
Oristano laughed softly. The Third Programmer’s first request was always for more information. “I’d like some myself, Emil. So would the machine.”
“What I don’t understand,” Dhurapati Ponnani said in her diminutive but unwavering voice, “is why it refuses to implement extraordinary security procedures if it thinks there’s an extraordinary threat.”
“I tried to explain,” Oristano replied patiently. “It is so uncertain about the precise nature of the threat, where and when it will manifest itself, that it believes implementation of unusual procedures could be more damaging than helpful. It doesn’t want to alarm whoever’s behind this.”
Froelich shrugged, the soft flesh of his shoulders and upper arms quivering. He was fond of fried foods, wurst, and dark beer. He coped by taking no exercise whatsoever. All his muscle had gone to his brain.
“I’m not going to argue with the machine, but you must understand our feelings, Martin. On the one hand we have this melodramatic threat, on the other a refusal to do anything about it.”
“Not ‘anything.’” Oristano gestured at the sheaf of printouts each of them had received. “Those are the measures.”
