The Mandel Files (163 page)

“Bugger,” he muttered. The watcher would have seen Gene Learmount walk from the casino to the station. “Is there another way out of the quadrangle?” he asked the bobby.

“Yes, certainly. If you go into the castle, there’s a goods delivery subway, and a couple of footbridges over the moat.”

“OK. Charlotte, Suzi, and Teresa come with me. The rest of you stay here, but be ready to move.”

They walked out into the open. Greg kept his espersense focused on the watcher, waiting for any sign of alarm, but the man just showed a mild interest in their approach. He carried on filling his net bag with the fruit.

“Tell you, we’re being watched,” Greg said to Suzi.

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “Stud in the red shorts. I clocked him when we came up the escalator.”

“Oh. Right.” He turned to Charlotte who was staring at the watcher. “Don’t be too obvious.”

She grimaced and looked away quickly. “Sorry.”

“This is the way I want you to handle it,” he said. “When we get into the quadrangle just look round and see if you can spot him. Take your time, make certain. If he’s there, point him out to us, and walk over to him, say hello. We’ll be with you the whole time. If he makes a run for it, don’t try and follow. Leave that to Suzi and me.”

“Thanks,” Suzi muttered.

“Teresa, you stick with Charlotte the whole time.”

“Yes, sir.”

His cybofax bleeped when they were twenty metres from the drawbridge.

“Got another one for you,” Lloyd McDonald said.

“Oh, Christ, now where?”

“Sports arena. There’s a tennis exhibition tournament this week; the Jerome Merril and Lemark Pampa match. One of my people has seen a couple of Celestials talking to some spectators.”

“OK, same procedure. Keep them under observation until we get there.”

“Affirmative.”

The castle really was made out of stone, one-metre cubes of a rusty-brown colour that had been quarried out of the asteroid somewhere. Greg had been expecting jazzed-up composite.

The quadrangle had three levels. A sunken corner given over to an ornamental water garden, the main lawn with several large brass and granite freeform sculptures from the organic school, and the beer garden running along one side, overlooking the other two. Greg squashed a groan when he saw the second bobby sitting at one of the tables, diligently observing the people threading their way round the sculptures.

Greg spotted one of the girls straight off, a smiling blonde in a halter top and long swirling skirt.

Teresa Farrow nudged Charlotte, and nodded to a man coming up from the water garden. He was about sixty, a thick sheaf of leaflets was sticking out of an open belt pouch. Greg wrapped his espersense round him, finding a peculiar mix of alertness and satisfaction.

“That’s not him,” said Charlotte.

“Shit,” Suzi said. “You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Greg felt something being thrust into his hand, dry and light, cylindrical. He closed his fingers round it instinctively.

When he turned, there was a slim Oriental girl standing behind him, wearing a black string vest tucked into cutoff jeans.

“Your future lies among the stars. I hope you’ll join us tomorrow,” she said, deeply serious, then smiled and walked away.

He followed the denim-painted backside as she walked through the archway towards the drawbridge.

“Just your type, huh?” Suzi asked. She was smirking lecherously.

“Committing her to memory, that’s all.” He looked down at what she’d given him. It was one of the leaflets, rolled up.

Tomorrow a new dawn will rise.

Tomorrow the road to the stars will be thrown open.

Tomorrow man will not be made in God’s image.

Tomorrow our suffering and fear will end.

Tomorrow we will no longer be alone.

Tomorrow the Earth will be cured.

Tomorrow we shall be free.

Tomorrow is now.

Join us in Tomorrow.

The Celestial Apostles will hold a Blessing.

Ushering in the age of Redemption.

The All Saints Church Hyde Cavern.

Noon Tomorrow.

All Welcome.

Greg showed it to Suzi. “Yeah, very deep,” she said. “I didn’t know copywriters ran away to be Celestials when they grew up.”

“Tomorrow, Clifford Jepson is officially going to announce atomic structuring to the world,” Greg said.

She sniffed, and read the leaflet again.

“Some of those connotations are pretty strong,” he said.

“Could be,” Suzi admitted grudgingly. “You want to snatch one of them and run your word-association gimmick?”

“No. They’d all go to ground, and we can’t afford that if I’m wrong.” He folded the leaflet and stuck it in his jacket pocket. “Come on, let’s go see the tennis match.”

Greg rode the escalator out of the Slatebridge Park station into another of the ubiquitous rotundas. There was a police sergeant waiting for him, Bernard Kemp, whose stomach was bulging over the regulation belt holding his shorts up. Greg was glad to see him, obviously an old hand. His phlegmatic greeting made a pleasing change from his colleagues’ breathless enthusiasm.

Slatebridge Park was the ninth sighting of the afternoon. After the casino there had been the tennis match, an orchard, a beach, shopping arcade, another beach, a gallery—Hyde Cavern seemed to be suffering from a plague of Celestial Apostles, all of them distributing the same leaflet advertising the blessing ceremony. “They’ve never been this blatant before,” Lloyd McDonald said. “It’s almost like they don’t care about stealth any more.” And after Slatebridge Park there were another two sightings waiting to be investigated.

The visibility of the Celestial Apostles was worrying him.

He was sure the Dolgoprudnensky would have agents up here. Would they connect the leaflet with the alien? His intuition was mercifully silent. They couldn’t have found Royan or the alien yet. But not even Royan could hide for ever. He was growing increasingly aware of how finite New London really was. And the Dolgoprudnensky had a four-day lead.

Greg looked over Bernard Kemp’s sagging shoulders at the Globe. It was an open-air amphitheatre, cut into the side of a hillock, circled by a lonely rank of fluted Greek pillars. Tiered ranks of stone seats looked down on a simple open circular stage; the only backdrop was the long still lake at the foot of the small valley.

About a quarter of the seats were filled. Three actors in white togas were on the stage. Greg was too far away to hear the dialogue, but guessed at Julius Caesar.

Bernard Kemp used his police-issue cybofax to verify Greg’s card, something none of the other bobbies had done.

“Company man?” the sergeant said sourly.

Greg recognized the mind tone, resentful and weary. Bernard Kemp wasn’t a man who enjoyed his beat being interrupted for political reasons. Greg felt a degree of sympathy. As a policeman Kemp was infinitely preferable to André Dubaud. Pity he himself was the irritant. “Not quite, no,” Greg said. “But it’s a good enough description. So where’s our man?”

Bernard Kemp stabbed a thumb at the Globe. “Annoying the audience. There’s a couple of them in there. My partner’s watching.” The thumb moved, lining up on the pillars at the top of the seats. “Their look-out is skulking about up there.”

A black woman in an Indian poncho was sitting with her back to one of the pillars, her knees drawn up to her chin. The position gave her an excellent view over the surrounding parkland.

Bernard Kemp was the first person to spot a watcher. Greg wasn’t surprised.

They walked up the slight incline to the amphitheatre. Greg detected the stirrings of alarm in the black woman’s mind as she saw the group of them. She climbed to her feet, brushing grass from her poncho.

Charlotte stood on the side of the seats, looking round the audience. She blinked, leaning forwards. “It’s him.” She sounded dubious. “Really.”

Greg looked at the man walking up one of the aisles. Charlotte had been generous when she said he was in his late fifties, Greg put his age closer to sixty-five. Other than that he fitted her description: rotund, thinning hair drawn back into a pony-tail, albino skin. He was playing the joker, handing out the leaflets with a bow, smiling broadly, mocking himself. The technique was good, people took the leaflet without protest.

“All right,” Greg said. “Charlotte, you lead. Just walk over to him. Teresa, keep an eye on the watcher.”

Charlotte started to thread her way along the seating. It wasn’t quite the surreptitious approach Greg had wanted, too many heads turned to follow Charlotte’s progress. When they were halfway towards him, the Celestial caught sight of her.

Greg watched the emotions chase across his mind, the surprise that came from recognition, interest then concern. When he caught sight of Greg the concern tilted into agitation. Resignation was last, after he’d looked round, sizing up his chances of making a run for it. He gave a half-hearted shrug, and stuffed the leaflets back in a satchel.

The black woman by the pillar had disappeared by the time Charlotte reached him.

“Hello again, Charlotte,” the old man said. “I didn’t expect to see you up here again so soon.”

Charlotte gestured awkwardly, not saying anything.

“Good afternoon to you,” he said as Greg stepped into the aisle. “You’ll be wanting a leaflet?”

Greg grinned. “Thanks, I’ve already got one.” Charlotte had been right about the warmth of his smile.

“Ah well. I’ll be going, then.”

“I’ve come all the way from Earth just to see you,” Greg said.

“What, this little sack of skin and bones?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sure you must have the wrong person.”

“No.” He was aware of the people sitting by the aisle watching him. “You want to go somewhere where we don’t disturb people?” He pointed to the top of the amphitheatre.

The old man glanced round with pointed slowness. “Well now, what do you say, Charlotte? Should we stop distracting these good people from this rather mediocre performance? I could never resist the wisdom of a pretty girl.”

“Please,” Charlotte said quietly.

“Ah, now that’s the word to use. Please.” He began to walk up the slope.

Greg saw Rick, Teresa Farrow, Jim Sharman, and Bernard Kemp walking up the side of the seats to meet them at the top.

“Is that a member of the constabulary I see?” the old man asked.

“Yes,” Greg said.

“Am I to be taken away in chains, then?”

“Not unless I tell him to,” Greg said lightly.

The Celestial shot him a fast appraising glance, then squared his shoulders and carried on. Suzi gave an evil chuckle.

“The look-out scooted,” Teresa Farrow said when Greg reached the top of the hillock. “Do you want her back?”

“No. Not important.”

“All this effort,” the Celestial said. “I’m quite flattered.”

“Want to tell me your name?” Greg asked.

“I’ll show you mine if you show yours.”

“Greg Mandel, Mindstar Captain, retired.”

“By all that’s holy, a gland man.”

“No messing.”

“The name is Sinclair, for me sins. Pleased to meet you there, Captain Greg.” He stuck out his hand.

Greg turned to Bernard Kemp. “Thanks very much for your help. We’ll take him from here.”

“I figured you might,” the sergeant said. He paused. “Sir.” He adjusted his cap, taking his time, then walked back down the aisle.

Greg just heard him mutter: “Glory boys.”

Sinclair’s smile was fading as they all looked at him, he dropped his hand back to his side. “Ah well, I had a grand run. Not that it particularly matters any more, of course. Not after tomorrow.”

Greg realized the light was dimming. The idea was perturbing, it had remained constant the whole time they’d spent chasing round Hyde Chamber after the Celestials; an eternal noon, casting virtually no shadows. He looked up, round, instinct calling him to the southern endcap a couple of kilo-metres away.

The waterfalls had gone. Instead, six huge plums of dense snow-white vapour were shooting out of the openings in the rock. They swept across the sky, heading towards the northern endcap, already several hundred metres long, twisting round the lighting tube like bloated contrails from an acrobatic display team.

“What the hell is that?” he asked.

“Hyde Chamber’s irrigation system,” Melvyn said. “They turn it on every other night, once in the early evening, and again just before dawn.”

“You mean it rains in here?” Suzi asked.

“Yes. The lighting tube’s infrared emission is turned off, and the cloud condenses, just like on Earth. It’s a whole lot cheaper than laying down a grid of pipes and sprinklers, and it flushes any dust away as well.”

Suzi squinted up at the clouds. “I’ll be buggered.”

Greg watched the head of each plume mushroom out, merging into a broad puffy ring. The cavernlight had changed subtly, he could feel it on his upturned face, it was still as bright, but the pressure of warmth had gone from the rays. A second, identical band of cloud was reaching out from the northern endcap.

He shook off the distraction, and told Sinclair: “I need to know about the flower you gave Charlotte.”

“Ah, well now, you see, that’s a private matter, Captain Greg. A very delicate matter, to be honest. I’d be betraying a trust.”

“Tell him,” Suzi said. “He’ll only rip it bleeding from your mind, otherwise.”

What was left of Sinclair’s smile became fixed.

“Julia Evans and I know Royan sent it,” Greg said. “We just want to know where you got it from.”

“Is that true what your charming companion just said?” Sinclair asked. “About minds and blood, and other things ladies shouldn’t know about?”

“I can if I have to,” Greg said. “Although there’s no physical pain involved. But I’d rather not. How about you?”

“Julia Evans?” Sinclair asked. “Julia Evans sent you here looking for me?”

“That’s right. The very same Julia Evans who tolerates you and your mates running about like mice, stealing her food. Now I think it’s about time you started paying her back for that kindness. Not to mention Charlotte here, who was nearly killed because she took the flower down to Earth.”