James Hogan - Giant's Star

"Thanks." Pacey moved a short distance away to open the envelope in a corner by the Eastern Airlines booth. Inside was a single sheet of paper on which was handwritten:

Important that I talk to you immediately. Am across lobby. Suggest we use your room for privacy.

Pacey frowned, then looked up and from side to side to scan the lobby. After a few seconds he picked out a tall, swarthy man in a dark suit watching him from the far side. The man was standing near a group of half a dozen noisily chattering men and women, but he appeared to be alone. He gave a slight nod. Pacey hesitated for a moment, then returned it. The man glanced casually at his watch, looked around, and sauntered toward the arcade that led through to the elevators. Pacey watched him disappear, and then walked back to where Lyn was sitting.

"Something just came up," he told her. "Look, I’m sorry about this, but I have to meet somebody right away. Give Gregg my apologies, would you?"

"Want me to tell him what it’s about?" Lyn asked.

"I don’t know myself yet. I’m not sure how long it’ll take."

"Okay. I’ll be fine just watching the world go by. See you later."

Pacey walked back across the lobby and entered the arcade just in time to miss a tall, lean, silver-haired and immaculately dressed figure turning away from the reception desk after collecting a room key. The man moved unhurriedly to the center of the lobby and stopped to survey the surroundings.

The swarthy man was waiting a short distance from the elevators when Pacey emerged a minute or so later on the thirty-fifth floor. As Pacey approached him, he turned silently and led the way to 3527, then stood aside while Pacey unlocked the door. Pacey allowed him to enter first, then followed and closed the door behind them as the other turned on the light. "Well?" he demanded.

"You may call me Ivan," the swarthy man said. He spoke in a heavy European accent. "I am from the Soviet Embassy here in Washington. I have a message that I have been instructed to deliver to you in person: Mikolai Sobroskin wishes to meet with you urgently concerning matters of some considerable importance which, I understand, you are aware of. He suggests that you meet in London. I have the details. You may convey your response back to him through me." He watched for a few seconds while Pacey stared back uncertainly, not knowing what to make of the message, then reached inside his jacket and drew out what looked like a folded sheet of stiffened paper. "I was told that if I gave you this, you would be satisfied that the message is genuine."

Pacey took the sheet and unfolded it. It was a blank sample of the pink, red-bordered document wallet used by the UN for confidential information. Pacey stared at it for a few seconds, then looked up and nodded. "I can’t give you an answer on my own authority right at this moment," he said. "I’ll have to get in touch with you again later tonight. Could we do that?"

"I had expected as much," Ivan said. "There is a coffee shop one block from here called the Half Moon. I will wait there."

"I may have to take a trip somewhere," Pacey warned. "It could take awhile."

Ivan nodded. "I will be waiting," he said, and with that, he left.

Pacey closed the door behind him and spent a few minutes walking thoughtfully back and forth across the room. Then he sat down in front of the datagrid terminal, activated it, and called Jerol Packard’s private home number.

Downstairs in the alcove to one side of the lobby, Lyn was thinking about Egyptian pyramids, medieval cathedrals, British dreadnoughts, and the late-twentieth-century arms race. Were they all parts of the same pattern too? she wondered. No matter how much more wealth per capita improving technology made possible, always there had been something to soak up the surplus and condemn ordinary people to a lifetime of labor. No matter how much productivity increased, people never seemed to work less, only differently. So if they didn’t reap the fruits, who did? She was beginning to see lots of things in ways she hadn’t before.

She didn’t really notice the man in the seat that Pacey had vacated a few minutes earlier until he started speaking. "May I sit with you? It is so relaxing to do nothing for a few minutes at the end of a hectic day and just watch the human race going about its business. I do hope you don’t mind. The world is so full of lonely people who insist on making islands of themselves and a tragedy of life. It always strikes me as such a shame, and so unnecessary."

Lyn’s glass nearly dropped from her hand as she found herself looking at a face that she had seen only hours before on one of the charts that Clifford Benson had hung on the wall in Packard’s office. It was Niels Sverenssen.

She downed the rest of her drink in one gulp, almost choking herself in the process, and managed, "Yes. . . it is, isn’t it."

"Are you staying here, if you don’t mind my asking?" Sverenssen inquired. She nodded. Sverenssen smiled. There was something about his aristocratic bearing and calculated aloofness that set him apart from the greater part of the male half of the race in a way that many women would find alluring, she admitted to herself. With his elegant crown of silver hair and well-tanned noble features, he was . . . well, not exactly handsome by Playgirl standards, but intriguing in some undeniable way. And the distant look in his eyes made them almost hypnotic. "On your own?" he asked.

She nodded again. "Sort of."

Sverenssen raised his eyebrows and motioned his head in the direction of her glass. "I see you are empty. I was on my way to have an unwinder myself in the bar. It seems that, temporarily at least, we are both islands in a world of nine billion people-a most unfortunate situation, and one which I am sure we could do something to correct. Would you consider it an impertinence if I invited you to join me?"

Pacey stepped into the elevator and found Caldwell there, evidently on his way back down to the lobby.

"It took longer than I thought," Caldwell said. "There’s a lot of hassle going on at Houston about budget allocations. I’m going to have to get back there pretty soon. I’ve been away too long as it is." He looked at Pacey curiously. "Where’s Lyn?"

"She’s downstairs. I got called away." Pacey stared at the inside of the doors for a second. "Sobroskin’s been in touch via the Soviet Embassy here. He wants me to meet him in London to talk about something."

Caldwell raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You’re going?"

"I’ll know later. I just called Packard, and I’m going to take a cab over to his place right now to tell him about it. I’ve arranged to meet somebody later tonight to let them know." He shook his head. "And I thought this would be a quiet night."

They came out of the elevator and walked through the arcade to where Pacey had left Lyn. The alcove was empty. They looked around, but she was nowhere in sight.

"Maybe she went to the little girls’ room," Caldwell suggested.

"Probably."

They stood for a while talking and waiting, but there was no sign of Lyn. Eventually Pacey said, "Maybe she wanted another drink, couldn’t get served out here, and went into the bar. She might still be in there."

"I’ll check it out," Caldwell said. He about-faced and stumped away across the lobby.

A minute later he returned, wearing the expression of somebody who had been hit from behind by a tramcar while minding his own business in the middle of the Hilton. "She’s in there," he announced in a dull voice, slumping down into one of the empty seats. "She’s got company. Go see for yourself, but stay back from the door. Then come back and tell me if it’s who I think it is."

A minute later Pacey thudded down into the chair opposite. He looked as if he had been hit by the same tram on its return trip. "It’s him," he said numbly. A long time seemed to pass. Then Pacey murmured, "He’s got a place up in Connecticut somewhere. He must have stopped off in D.C. for a few days on his way back from Bruno. We should have picked some other place."