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turn it off like you said to do."
"I saw Quadrill. Use it. Nick. It's on now. Giving me a lot of
pain."
"I know, I'm sorry, honey," apologized Nick. "But my guy was calling
me from the shuttle on his way home here. Maybe, you know, it could be
I didn't hear him all that good."
"When's he Going to be in GLA. Nick? He's got to bring it to. Me so
I can stop. These goddamn headaches."
"Listen, Yedra. Tell me where you are."
"At the beach. Because I like to walk. Along here." "Where, honey,
which beach?" "By Johnny's new club."
"I'll contact Johnny and tell him to come down there and get you. Can
you hold on?"
The pain took her over and she couldn't talk anymore.
"Go over that again, lady," he requested of Lana Chen.
"All right, this disc is the only headgear our customers will need."
She was standing at the front of the meeting room with a small grey
disc held between thumb and forefinger. This' Il give you a better
look at it."
Lana placed the disc on a small projection stage, and a large
holographic image of it formed over the center of the meeting table.
Mrs. Dooley, frowning and with her head cocked to the right, studied
the projection. "What about the Brainbox every Tekkie has to hook the
headgear to?"
"We've succeeded in making that superfluous," put in Marriner,
smiling.
Lana continued, "You'll notice a tiny clip at the back of the disc.
That allows you to----"
"Where?" asked Macri. "I don't see any--"
"That little silvery dingus, schmuck," said Anzelmo, pointing at the
floating hologram.
"Oh, yeah, there it is."
"You attach the disc to your hair," explained Lana, placing the
demonstration disc over her ear, "and that provides sufficient contact
with your brain." Mrs. Dooley asked, "And, I believe you told us
earlier, there are no Tek chips needed either?"
"They're no longer necessary," answered Marriner, his smile
broadening.
"I came into this project late," said Macri, "and I guess I'm not too
bright in some areas. But it seems to me that this is going to put Tek
cartels like mine out of business."
"It puts," Giford corrected, "our major competitors out of business,
old man."
On a small table next to the projection stage rested a small portable
computer. "From now on," said Lana, moving closer to it, "anyone who
has access to one of these can have access to Tek."
"So long as," added Marriner, "they deal with our consortium."
Anzelmo turned his chair to get a better view, resting one hand on his
knee. "How does that headgear connect with the computer?"
"Anytime you're within five feet of a terminal, you can become
connected," answered the Chinese woman. "You activate the whole
operation verbally, reciting a series of pass codes and then ordering
whatever kind of Tek illusion you want to enjoy."
Macri was frowning. "I don't quite comprehend how the money gets from
them to us," he admitted. "Can you, slow, explain exactly--"
"Emergency! Security emergency!" announced the trio of voxboxes
floating up near the ceiling.
Marriner jumped up, glancing at Lana. "Any idea what the hell is--"
"Rodriguez is on his way here," she replied, tapping at the voxbug in
her left ear. "He says-No, I'm losing him."
A different voice from a different voxbox said, "Ramon Rodriguez
requesting entry."
Anzelmo pushed back further in his chair and, with considerable effort,
stood up. "You promised us complete security for this meeting,
Marriner," he said, upset. "But instead we get bitches from Newz and
now--"
"Rodriguez can enter," said Marriner toward the ceiling.
A wall panel slid aside and the slick, handsome man came hurrying in.
He moved to Marriner's side and reported in a low voice, "There may be
some kind of bomb aboard the Movie Palace."
"May be--or is?"
"Well, we better assume there is."
"And how the hell did it get past our security checks?"
"I don't know that yet," admitted Rodriguez. "But I think we better
assume it is here--because Austin Quadrill has a reputation for being
able to plant a bomb just about anywhere."
"Austin Quadrill?" said Anzelmo, shuffling over to them. "Is that son
of a bitch here?"
"Well, he is--he was," answered Rodriguez.
"Which is it, asshole?"
Rodriguez took a deep breath before answering, "He got aboard somehow
and we think he planted a bomb before he was killed."
"Shit," said Marfiner, taking hold of the handsome man by both
shoulders. "What the hell are you telling me now?"
"It's a sort of screwed up chain of events," he admitted, and
ran his tongue over his upper lip. "Jake Cardigan is on the Movie
Palace, too, and it's his notion that--"
"That's wonderful," said Anzelmo, dropping both hands to his sides. "We
got a flapping mad bomber who does most of his work for my bitter
enemies--assholes like Johnny Trocadero and--"
"That's who Cardigan suspects is behind this whole mess," offered the
uneasy Rodriguez.
"And as the frosting on the whole mess," the old Teklord went on, "we
got operatives from the frigging Cosmos Detective Agency crawling all
over the damn satellite."
Marriner let go of Rodriguez and stood back. "I want to talk to
Cardigan," he said quietly.
"We have to find him first," answered Rodriguez even more quietly.
"You had a nice little chat with the bastard," suggested Marriner,
"then let him go on about his business."
"He says he can find the bomb Quadrill planted," explained Rodriguez.
"And we only have about two and a half hours to---"
"Why did you let him get away from you?" said Marriner. "We've got
our own bomb experts. I don't need--"
"I didn't have that much choice. He knocked me flat on my ass and when [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]