Jason Frost - The Warlord

"But California as an island?" Annie shook her head. "Disneyland wouldn't stand for it."

Eric returned with steaming coffee, handed a cup to Trevor and one to Annie, and sat down. "What do you think, Trevor? Do you personally, in your expert opinion, think we're in for another major quake?"

Trevor blew a wisp of steam from his coffee, sipped, set the cup down. "Well, if we consider what we know about moonquakes, volcanic seismicity in the Galapagos Islands, solar flares-"

"This isn't Channel 7, Trevor," Maggie sighed. "Just answer the damn question."

"I can't. Not the way Eric wants me to. Probability dictates that we won't have another major quake for a while, perhaps years."

"But?" Eric prompted.

"But, personally, I suspect we will. If Gribbin and Plagemann are right, solar activity and the alignment of the planets suggest we're in for more activity. Much more."

Annie pushed her coffee away. "Then how come you're still here? Why haven't you moved back east like a lot of others?"

"Where to? Another university? I've taught here for more than thirty years. I have no family and all my friends are here, so why should I fight the floods, tornadoes, blizzards and hurricanes that the rest of the country faces. Besides, even if a really major quake hit, one bigger than the San Francisco disaster, chances are I'd still live. I've done everything to my house that can be done within my modest means, and I've stored food and water to last for several months. I hope you've done the same."

"Food, water, clothing. The works."

"And a weapon, my boy," Trevor warned with his pipe stem. "People can get very ugly under pressure. Very ugly indeed."

"Yes," Eric nodded. "So I've heard."

"Professor Ravensmith's office?" she asked.

The History Department Secretary looked up, smiled with her recently capped teeth, then studied the woman's reaction for any sign of recognition that the teeth were capped. When there wasn't any, she lifted the brush from the Liquid Paper she'd been applying to the typos on Dr. Dees' application for sabbatical leave, and pointed it down the corridor. "Make a left at the end of the hall. He's three doors down, right next to the drinking fountain."

"Thanks," Tracy Ammes said, chewing nervously on the unsharpened end of a Staedtler Mars-Lumograph 3H pencil as she searched. When she spotted the drinking fountain with several wads of variously colored gum huddled around the drain, she took a deep breath and tugged on her jacket. "What the hell are you doing here, Tracy?" she asked herself for the fifth time since parking her car.

The door to his office was closed, but there was a narrow strip of glass along one side of the doorway, so she strolled casually by and glanced in. He was sitting behind his desk, talking to a young girl. Tracy ducked past the glass before he saw her. Okay, Trace, get a grip now. You're not some pimply teenager. You're a goddamn grown-up, making a living, voting the straight Democratic ticket, with your own Visa card and gynecologist and everything. Now act like it.

She hurried past the glass strip, stopping in front of his door. A lanky boy ambled by with a briefcase in one hand and a Frisbee in the other, gave her an appreciative look, took a drink out of the fountain. Then, still staring at Tracy, he picked up one of the wads of gum near the drain and popped it into his mouth. "My girlfriend's," he explained. "She leaves it here every day for me. Like a token, you know."

Tracy smiled weakly and nodded. He bounced off down the hall chewing vigorously.

She tapped the pencil against her teeth, glanced at her watch. How much longer? She leaned her head over and peeked through the glass quickly before pulling back. They were laughing. The young girl had red-and-white-striped athletic shorts on that were slit on the side so the frilly edge of her pink panties was visible. She also had a tight T-shirt on, though Tracy didn't know what she was advertising since only the back was visible from here. But her goddamn blond hair was permed, that was certain. Big billowy Farrah-Fawcett curls. Didn't the little twerp know they were out of style? Tracy bit down hard on her pencil and felt her teeth sink into the soft German wood. She plucked the pencil from her mouth, but tasted the flecks of blue paint on her tongue. "Shit!" she said, just as the office door was jerked open and Eric was standing six inches from her. She froze, her tongue still hanging out as she tried to scrape the paint chips off.

"Hello," he said.

"Ahlo," she replied, her tongue still out. Then she recovered, pulled it back in, tugged her suit jacket and skirt, and offered her hand. "Hello, Mr. Ravensmith," she said in as formal a tone as she could muster. "You probably don't remember me-"

"Of course I do, Ms. Ammes," he smiled. "Are you here to see me?"

Careful, Trace. "Well, I was in the area anyway, but I did have some business to discuss."

"Business? That's mysterious." He opened the door further and waved her in as he spoke to the young student. "See you Thursday, Serena. And I want that paper rewritten by then. No excuses."

Serena smiled, revealing a blue wad of gum clamped between her perfect teeth. "Okay, Mr. R."

Tracy watched her walk out, her long trim legs unconsciously gorgeous. Not a ripple or dent or stretch mark in sight. Tracy hated her.

He offered her the seat next to his desk as he sank into his own desk chair and swiveled toward her. He checked the big clock on the wall behind her.

"Am I keeping you from something?" she asked. "I should've phoned for an appointment, I know, but this was just a spur of the moment thing-"

"No, no. No rush. I have to drive into L.A. today to, uh, purchase some equipment. But there's still plenty of time."

''Good. I mean, as long as I'm not keeping you."

He smiled. "So what brings you down to the hinterlands of Orange County? Another trial?"

"No. They just announced this morning that it'll be another two weeks before they repair the courthouse enough to start trials again. But that's not all I do."

"Oh?"

She looked at him, those reddish-brown eyes kind of coppery this morning, like the bottoms of her Revere-ware pans. He had a little smile on his lips that made her even more nervous. Was he laughing at her? Did he know that she'd been thinking about him since their last meeting? That she'd been searching for an excuse to see him again for almost a month? Maybe he was smiling because he didn't find her attractive. She wasn't his type. Didn't like red hair, green eyes. Maybe her tweed suit was too severe, too dykish. He probably liked them soft and pliable. No, she'd done her research on him at the news station, and on his wife, Annie. She was beautiful and tough, smart as they come, but with a no-bull approach. Hell, the two of them would probably be great pals. Under different circumstances.

But why even think such thoughts? She hadn't come down here to steal a husband away, or even start an affair. She had her own boyfriend-there's that awkward high school word again-lover back in Santa Monica. And they were pretty damn happy together. All things considered. She'd just wanted to, well, see Eric Ravensmith again, if for no other reason but to get him out of her mind.

He was leaning forward now, his hand reaching out for her face. My God, Trace, my God. What to do? She hadn't expected anything to happen. Her heart swelled in her chest like an inflatable raft trapped in a cupboard.

"Hold still," he said, his fingertips touching her lips. "Got it!" He pulled his fingers back and showed her a fleck of blue paint from her gnarled pencil. "Bad habit, chewing pencils," he laughed. "I used to suck on pens in high school until I got a mouth full of ink one day." He flicked the paint chip from his finger.