Read Online DS02 Night of the Dragonstar by Thomas F. Monteleone, David Bischoff - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Thomas F. Monteleone, David Bischoff
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exact location of Neville’s house and watching it light up on the screen. Kemp turned off the main boulevard, headed north along a quiet residential street, then left along a narrow road cut into the side of a sheer rock face. The road hugged the side of the cliff, winding and snaking gradually upward, finally opening up on a small plateau topped by a sculptured mound of earth.
Atop this mound was “Neville Base Alpha,” as the estate-fortress of John T. Neville had been named by the well-known author, raconteur, and television personality. He had another home in Manhattan dubbed “Neville Base Beta,” and Phineas assumed that if the eccentric man ever decided to set up a third residence it would be called “Gamma.”
The estate was an architectural dream — the confluence of many planes and angles, great panes of passive solar glass, clerestories, heat stacks, and decks. The main building was surrounded by a moat filled with water and protected by an electrified fence. There was a single entrance, overlooked by a small guardhouse and a single oriental fellow in a security uniform which looked suspiciously like the uniform of the “dreaded Hardji of the planet Darskath.” The Hardji were a concoction of Neville’s, having appeared in one of his most famous tetralogies, The Darskath Interregnum.
Phineas had read that series of novels when he was a young lad in Canada, and he had assumed since then that he had seen the last of the dreaded Hardji — until he pulled up to the guardhouse.
“Colonel Phineas Kemp, IASA. I’m here to see Mr. Neville,” he said casually to the guard, who peered down at him through the black glass of his helmet visor while training what looked to be some sort of disintegrator weapon at his face.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Neville is expecting you. But first I must see some identification.”
Phineas smiled as he reached for his billfold in his breast pocket.
“Easy,” said the Hardji. “Now bring it out reeeeeal slow.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Phineas said, handing over his IASA ID plate, “it’s just my fucking wallet.”
Ignoring the comment, the guard studied his ID, then nodded as he handed it back. “All right, sir. Mr. Neville will be waiting for you on the lower deck. Just follow the drive around to the left and pull up in the space marked Earth Visitors.”
“Right-o,” Phineas said. “Earth Visitors it is.”
Accelerating and cutting hard on the wheel, Phineas moved quickly away from the guardhouse, crossed over the drawbridge and moat, and followed the perimeter of Neville’s house until he found the parking lot adjacent to the lower deck.
As he rolled to a stop, he saw the sliding glass doors open on the lower deck and an odd-looking figure appear. After all these years, he was finally meeting the author who had thrilled and inspired him as a boy. Despite his case-hardened exterior, Phineas felt a surge of emotion race through him, and he would have sworn his heartbeat jumped just a tad.
Stepping from the car, he watched Neville approach. The writer was a tall man with broad shoulders and a moon face. He had a large, loose-limbed frame, and his clothes hung upon him as if they were still dangling in a closet. Neville had long hair that frizzed out in all directions, and his eyes had a bulging, hyperthyroid aspect. He walked with an arm-swinging, rollicking gait that suggested that he had suffered a stroke or two, but there was a free-spirited energy radiating from him like sunlight.
“Colonel Kemp, welcome to Neville Base Alpha!” The writer extended a large, bony hand and shook Kemp’s. There was surprising strength in his grip.
“Sir, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Please, call me Phineas.” He looked carefully at the old man. In one moment Neville looked every bit of his ninety-plus years, and in the next he appeared decades younger. There was a mercurial aspect to him — he seemed to be forever changing.
“Glad to, Phineas. Why don’t we come
Atop this mound was “Neville Base Alpha,” as the estate-fortress of John T. Neville had been named by the well-known author, raconteur, and television personality. He had another home in Manhattan dubbed “Neville Base Beta,” and Phineas assumed that if the eccentric man ever decided to set up a third residence it would be called “Gamma.”
The estate was an architectural dream — the confluence of many planes and angles, great panes of passive solar glass, clerestories, heat stacks, and decks. The main building was surrounded by a moat filled with water and protected by an electrified fence. There was a single entrance, overlooked by a small guardhouse and a single oriental fellow in a security uniform which looked suspiciously like the uniform of the “dreaded Hardji of the planet Darskath.” The Hardji were a concoction of Neville’s, having appeared in one of his most famous tetralogies, The Darskath Interregnum.
Phineas had read that series of novels when he was a young lad in Canada, and he had assumed since then that he had seen the last of the dreaded Hardji — until he pulled up to the guardhouse.
“Colonel Phineas Kemp, IASA. I’m here to see Mr. Neville,” he said casually to the guard, who peered down at him through the black glass of his helmet visor while training what looked to be some sort of disintegrator weapon at his face.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Neville is expecting you. But first I must see some identification.”
Phineas smiled as he reached for his billfold in his breast pocket.
“Easy,” said the Hardji. “Now bring it out reeeeeal slow.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Phineas said, handing over his IASA ID plate, “it’s just my fucking wallet.”
Ignoring the comment, the guard studied his ID, then nodded as he handed it back. “All right, sir. Mr. Neville will be waiting for you on the lower deck. Just follow the drive around to the left and pull up in the space marked Earth Visitors.”
“Right-o,” Phineas said. “Earth Visitors it is.”
Accelerating and cutting hard on the wheel, Phineas moved quickly away from the guardhouse, crossed over the drawbridge and moat, and followed the perimeter of Neville’s house until he found the parking lot adjacent to the lower deck.
As he rolled to a stop, he saw the sliding glass doors open on the lower deck and an odd-looking figure appear. After all these years, he was finally meeting the author who had thrilled and inspired him as a boy. Despite his case-hardened exterior, Phineas felt a surge of emotion race through him, and he would have sworn his heartbeat jumped just a tad.
Stepping from the car, he watched Neville approach. The writer was a tall man with broad shoulders and a moon face. He had a large, loose-limbed frame, and his clothes hung upon him as if they were still dangling in a closet. Neville had long hair that frizzed out in all directions, and his eyes had a bulging, hyperthyroid aspect. He walked with an arm-swinging, rollicking gait that suggested that he had suffered a stroke or two, but there was a free-spirited energy radiating from him like sunlight.
“Colonel Kemp, welcome to Neville Base Alpha!” The writer extended a large, bony hand and shook Kemp’s. There was surprising strength in his grip.
“Sir, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Please, call me Phineas.” He looked carefully at the old man. In one moment Neville looked every bit of his ninety-plus years, and in the next he appeared decades younger. There was a mercurial aspect to him — he seemed to be forever changing.
“Glad to, Phineas. Why don’t we come
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