James Hogan - Giant's Star

Pacey stood up and grasped it firmly. "We will. And things will be better," he said.

"I hope so." Sobroskin released his grip, turned, and began walking away along the side of the lake.

Pacey’s fingers tightened around the package as he stood watching the short, stocky figure marching jerkily off to keep its appointment with fate, possibly to die so that children might laugh. He couldn’t let him, he realized. He couldn’t let him walk away without knowing. "Mikolai!" he called.

Sobroskin stopped and looked back. Pacey waited. The Russian retraced his steps.

"The battle was not lost," Pacey said. "There’s another channel to Thurien operating right now . . . in the United States. It doesn’t need the relay. We’ve been talking to Thurien for weeks. That was why Karen Heller returned to Earth. It’s okay. All the Sverenssens in the world can’t stop it now."

Sobroskin stared at him for a long time before the words seemed to register. At last he moved his head in a slow, barely perceptible nod, his eyes expressionless and distant, and murmured quietly, "Thank you." Then he turned away and began walking again, this time slowly, as if in a trance. When he had covered twenty yards or so he stopped, stared back again, and raised his arm in a silent salutation. Then he turned away and began walking once more, and after a few steps his pace lightened and quickened.

Even at that distance Pacey had seen the exultation in his expression. Pacey watched until Sobroskin had vanished among the people walking by the boathouses farther along the shoreline, then turned away and walked in the opposite direction, toward the Serpentine bridge.

Niels Sverenssen’s million-dollar home was situated in Connecticut, forty miles from New York City, on the shore side of a two-hundred-acre estate of parkland and trees that overlooked Long Island Sound. The house framed two sides of a large, clover-leaf pool set among terraced banks of shrubs. A tennis court on one side and outbuildings on the other completed the pool’s encirclement. The house was fashionably contemporary, spacious, light, and airy, with sections of roof sweeping in clean, unbroken planes from crest almost to ground level in some places to give the complete structure the lines and composition of an abstract sculpture, and drawing back in others to reveal vertical faces and slanted panels of polished brownstone, tiled mosaic, or glass. The imposing central structure rose two levels and contained the larger rooms and Sverenssen’s private quarters. One wing fell to single level and comprised six extra bedrooms and additional living space to accommodate the guests of his frequent weekend parties and other functions. The other was two-storied, though not as high as the central portion; it contained offices for Sverenssen and a secretary, a library, and other rooms dedicated to his work.

There was something odd about the history of Sverenssen’s house.

Lyn had flown up to New York accompanied by one of Clifford Benson’s agents, who had introduced her to a local office of the CIA to examine their records for additional information on Sverenssen. It turned out that his house had been built for him ten years previously by the construction division of Weismand Industries, Inc., a large, diversified corporation. The company was a builder of industrial premises, not private dwellings, which was no doubt why they had called in several outside architects and designers as consultants. What made the project even stranger was that Weismand was based in California; why would Sverenssen have used them when any number of qualified firms existed in the area?

Further checks revealed that Weismand Industries stock was held mainly by a Canadian insurance consortium that was closely linked to the same British banking fraternity that, along with its French and Swiss connections, had launched Sverenssen’s spectacular career upon his sudden return from obscurity. Had Sverenssen simply been repaying a favor, or were there other reasons why he felt it necessary to build his house using a company with which he had close, and presumably confidential, connections?

Lyn asked herself the question again as she reclined in a bikini on a chaise by the pool and studied the house through the intervening flower beds and shrubs. Sverenssen, wearing sunglasses and clad in a pair of scarlet bathing trunks, was sitting a few feet away at an umbrellaed table drinking iced lemonade and talking with a man he had introduced as Larry. A blonde named Cheryl was basking face-down and naked on another chaise a short distance away, while two other girls, Sandy and Carol, were laughing and shouting in the pool with a Mediterranean-looking character by the name of Enrico. Sandy was topless, and the object of the mкlйe in progress was evidently to render her bottomless as well. Another couple had been around earlier, but had been gone for the last hour or so. It was Friday afternoon, and more people were expected to arrive as the evening wore on, plus a few the next morning. Sverenssen had described the occasion as "a pleasant get-together of some interesting friends" when Lyn called him on Thursday morning.

The only thing that seemed even slightly unusual about the house was the office wing, she decided as she looked at it. Sverenssen had stressed that it was not open to visitors when he showed her around earlier. That seemed reasonable enough, but something was different about it, she realized. This part of the building wasn’t built to the same airy and open design as the rest of the place, with yards of plate-glass windows and sliding glass doors that led through to the inside. Instead it was solid, with small windows set high off the ground. They looked thick and seemed more suited to keeping sunlight out, along with everything else. As she looked closer, she was sure that what had seemed at first to be ornamental trim across the windows was in fact carefully disguised bars guaranteed to exclude any possibility of entry-not just by burglars, but by a tank. There were no doors to the outside at all; the only access to the wing was from inside the house. If she hadn’t been looking specifically, she would never have noticed it, but the office wing, beneath its veneer of tiled designs and paint-work to match the rest of the house, was virtually a fortress.

The noise from the pool rose to a crescendo that culminated in a shriek as Enrico emerged from a flurry of water and bodies waving the lower half of Sandy’s swimsuit triumphantly over his head. "One down, one to go," he yelled.

"Not fair!" Sandy screamed. "I was drowning. That’s an unfair advantage."

"Carol’s turn," Enrico shouted.

"Like hell," Carol laughed. "That’s inequality. Sandy, give me a hand and let’s get the bastard." The commotion started all over again.

"It sounds as if they could use some help," Sverenssen said, turning his head to look across at Lyn. "Go ahead and join in. There aren’t any restrictions on how you enjoy yourself here, you know."

She let her head fall back on the raised end of the chaise and forced a smile. "Oh, sometimes spectator sports are just as much fun. Anyway, they seem to be managing okay. I’ll be the reserve division."

"She’s being smart and saving her energy," Larry said, speaking to Sverenssen and sending Lyn a broad wink. She did a good job of pretending not to notice.

"Very wise," Sverenssen said.

"The real fun starts later," Larry explained, grinning. Lyn managed a half-smile, at the same time wondering how she was going to handle that. "We’ll find you lots of new friends. They’re great people here."

"I can’t wait," Lyn said drily.

"Isn’t she charming," Sverenssen said, glancing at Larry and looking approvingly back at Lyn. "I met her in Washington, you know-a most fortunate encounter. She has people that she visits here in New York." It made her feel like a piece of merchandise, which was probably a pretty close assessment of her situation. She wasn’t especially surprised; if she hadn’t been prepared to play along for appearance’s sake, she wouldn’t have come in the first place.