The Zenith Angle - Bruce Sterling [81]
“Wow.”
She sat on the bed demurely and looked down at him with a tender smile. “You know why it’s like that around here? Because it’s still the 1990s up here, that’s why. When DeFanti set this all up years ago, he thought it would be really hard to get any top technical people to live way up here. After all, we don’t even get to have cars . . . So he budgeted us for big dot-com-style perks. Tony would change all that if he could—that guy is such a cheapskate—but that’s the way DeFanti angled things with the feds. So it’s just stuck in cement. Nobody’s got the authority to change any of it.”
“I thought Tom DeFanti went nuts.”
“He did, but that doesn’t matter now. This telescope is supposed to be his monument. He really, seriously wanted it to last for a hundred years. DeFanti was always kind of strange that way, but . . . Derek, this is such a good place. This is just what life was like when people just like us were really happy. The work is challenging. We get creative freedom. They really pay us. It’s a beautiful little campus. The food is fantastic, there’s all kinds of cool hardware, there’s day care . . . I love it up here.”
“That’s great.”
Her smooth brow wrinkled. “Whenever I go out of town, to Boulder or Denver, then I see how bad it’s getting outside. People out there are crazy now. Everyone is completely terrified.”
“It’s not that bad,” Van lied.
“Yes, it is.”
“Yeah, Dottie, you’re right, it is that bad.”
There wasn’t much more to say on that topic. It was too depressing. Dottie arranged the sheets and quilt around him. “Honey, this bed is too small for us. Tomorrow we’ll go down to DeFanti’s ranch. I made us reservations. They’ve got cottages and a hot tub! Is your head any better now?”
“Yeah.” A drink always helped Van with his altitude sickness. Alcohol flushed open important blood vessels inside his skull. Van sat up and pulled his pants off. He’d bought new slacks in order to confront General Wessler, hoping to look more professional. As he dropped them to his ankles, his brand-new knife fell out of his pocket.
Helpfully, Dottie scooped it up. “Is this a new gadget, honey?” It was a fist-sized lozenge the color of soot. She picked at its thumb lever, and a black, razor-sharp serrated blade slid out.
Dottie dropped the knife, scarring the floor. Startled words tumbled out of her. “Oh, honey, this is like some awful thing that people would like murder somebody with!”
“It’s a hunting knife,” Van lied, plucking it up. “Tony always talks about the great hunting up here in the mountains.” Hickok had talked him into buying a tactical SWAT knife at the survival store. The knife was blacker than a Gothic ninja. It featured a carbon-fiber handle and a titanium carbonitride blade finish.
“You got that thing for Tony?”
Van closed the knife and hid it at the bottom of his pack. Van had never mentioned the existence of Michael Hickok to Dottie, because every single thing regarding the KH-13 was so entirely off-limits. A brilliant lie burst out of him. “Nowadays, they never let this kind of thing on airplanes. But I came here by car, so, you know, I’m just holding it.” He sipped more wine.
Dottie’s sweet face clouded. “Why would he want that ugly thing from you? What is wrong with that man? Nothing ever satisfies him!”
Van blinked. “What’s so wrong with Tony?”
“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all, I guess. Except for his nineteen-year-old girlfriend! Derek, he is buying that woman. This Indian movie starlet, this creature with snaky black hair who hangs all over him and has eyes like two headlamps. Does that sound healthy to you?”
Van knew very well that Tony’s girlfriend Anjali was twenty-three, but seeing Dottie’s reaction, he wisely held his tongue about it. “Boy, that’s a big shame.”
“I worry so much about Tony. In all the years I’ve known him, he has never had one stable, adult relationship. That woman is taking advantage of him, I just know it. He is completely besotted.”
Van choked back the urge to snicker. “Besotted”? What kind