Inherit the Earth - Brian Stableford [57]
“I’m going back to Los Angeles as soon as I can,” Damon said quietly. “Maybe you ought to come with me. The people who took Silas might have designs on you too. Interpol can offer you far better protection on the mainland than they can in a desolate and underpoliced spot like this.”
“I can’t possibly go to Los Angeles,” Karol said mulishly. “I’ve got important work to do here.”
I have work to do too, Damon thought. I know what skills it took to put that tape together, technically and in terms of its narrative implications. Through Madoc I have access to some first-rate outlaw Webwalkers, including Old Lady Tithonia herself. I can get to the bottom of this, if I try hard enough, no matter how insistent Karol and Eveline are in trying to keep me out of it. Maybe I can get to the bottom of it sooner than Interpol. Maybe I can get to the bottom of it quickly enough to take a hand in the game myself.
That bold and positive thought was, however, quickly followed by a host of shadowy doubts. Perhaps he could get to the bottom of the matter faster than Interpol—but might that not be exactly what Operator 101 wanted? Why would the mysterious Operator bother to push a note under his door unless he was intended to take a hand in the game? What, exactly, did the writer of that note want him to do? Might he not be lending unwitting assistance to the persecutor of his foster parents, collaborating in the assassination of his biological father’s reputation? Rebel though he certainly was, did he really want to take his rebellion to the point of joining forces with his family’s enemies—and if not, how could he be sure that he wouldn’t do so simply by uncovering the truth?
The night air was surprisingly cold, given that the day had been so hot. The wind was brisker than it had been earlier, and it had reversed its direction now that the sea was warmer than the land. The palm trees planted in a neat row in the forecourt of the hotel were waving their fronds murmurously.
Once he was back in his room Damon tried to book a seat to Honolulu on the first flight out in the morning, but it wasn’t scheduled to leave until eleven and he didn’t want to wait that long. He called Karol to ask about the possibility of arranging a charter.
“No problem,” Karol said, showing evident relief at the thought that he wouldn’t have to face any more of Damon’s questions. “Name your time.”
Damon was tempted to name first light, but he was too tired. His IT was supposed to have the capacity to keep him going for seventy-two hours without sleep, if necessary, but when he’d tried to use the facility in the past it had brought home to him the truth of the adage that the flesh was not the person. His mind needed rest, even if his body could be persuaded that it didn’t. Whatever faced him tomorrow, he wanted to be fully alert and mentally agile.
“Make it eighty-thirty,” he said.
“It’ll be waiting,” Karol promised—and then added: “It will be all right, Damon. Silas will be okay. We all will.”
Even though he knew full well that the promises were empty, Damon was glad that Karol had taken the trouble to make them.
Eveline Hywood wouldn’t have bothered—or, if she had, would certainly have affected an infinitely more patronizing tone.
“Sure,” Damon said. “Thanks. I’m sorry I got under your feet—but I’m glad I came.”
“So am I,” said Karol—and he might even have meant it.
Thirteen
K
arol Kachellek took time out from his busy schedule to drive Damon out to a small private airstrip near the southeastern tip of the island. Damon couldn’t help thinking, churlishly, that the gesture had less to do with courtesy than a keen desire to see the back of him, but there was no hostility in his foster father’s manner now. The Eliminator broadcast had knocked all the stiffness out of the bioscientist, who was visibly anxious as he bounced his jeep over the potholes in the makeshift road. Damon had never seen him so obviously distressed.
“Bloody road,” Karol complained. “All it needs is a man with a shovel and a bucketful of gantzing