the room was silent. “I don’t really trust you,” Sands told him at last. “I don’t suppose that comes as a surprise.”
“Not really,” Everly said, again without irritation or defensiveness. “In your position, I wouldn’t trust a lot of people, either. Soulminder is the kind of prize that makes grown men salivate down thousand-dollar ties. You’re soon going to have people trying their damnedest to beg, buy, cheat, or steal it out from under you. If they aren’t doing it already.”
“You sound as if we’re going to be under siege,” Sommer said, his throat suddenly tight.
Everly shrugged. “Actually, it’s not quite that bad. You hit the ground running, with a nuke-sized blast of instant publicity that caught everybody flatfooted. That, plus the floodlit microscope you’ve been living under since then, will have scotched all the more overt snatch schemes, at least for the moment. If we move fast—and if we’re lucky—we can get the lid screwed down tight before anybody gets any quiet espionage schemes going.”
“And if you’re one of those quiet schemes?” Sands challenged.
Everly looked her straight in the eye. “If I am,” he said, equally bluntly, “I already know enough about your setup to break in and steal Soulminder out from under you.”
He shook his head. “I can’t prove I’m on your side, Doctor. But somewhere along the line, you’re going to have to trust someone . If you don’t, you’ll lose by default.”
Sommer stole a glance at Sands. Uncertain eyes, tight mouth … but behind it all, a grudging but growing acceptance. “Adrian?” she asked tentatively.
And behind the word was capitulation.
Sommer took a careful breath. Sands was not, he knew, simply being paranoid. This was nothing less than a win-or-lose throw of the dice … and if Everly wasn’t what he claimed to be, then he and Sands had just lost everything. “Well, Mr. Everly,” he said, fighting against a tremor in his voice. “Welcome to Soulminder.”
Behind the hum of the computer’s cooling fans, Sommer could hear that the singing from the TV had ended. Hunching forward, he wrapped himself closer about the keyboard, hoping that maybe Sands wouldn’t notice that he wasn’t paying attention.
It was a futile hope. “Adrian!” she called, turning up the TV’s volume a couple of levels. “Come on—he’s ready to start spouting.”
Sommer straightened with a sigh and turned to look. On the screen a scrubbed and brushed and impeccably dressed middle-aged man was just stepping up to the pulpit, his face ablaze with righteous fervor. “God bless you; God bless you, my friends,” he said, the fervor in his voice exactly in tune with his face. “Release your spirits to hear the Word of the Lord.”
Sands turned to glance at Sommer. “Come on , Adrian,” she called again, more emphatically this time.
“I’ve seen all I want to of the Reverend Tommy Lee Harper, thank you,” he sniffed. But even as he said it he found his eyes attracted almost irresistibly to the man on the screen. By anyone’s definition of charisma, Reverend Harper definitely had it.
“Hey, this was your idea, remember?” Sands reminded him tartly. “Know thy enemy, and all that?”
“I meant to keep tabs on people like Harper through the web and news channels,” Sommer retorted. “Not in person. Or whatever this is.”
“Quiet,” she shushed him.
With a sigh, Sommer got up and rolled his chair over, and resigned himself to the inevitable.
It was, he had to admit, an electrifying performance. The Reverend Harper was almost a caricature—or cynic’s portrait—of a TV evangelist: slick without appearing too Hollywood, dogmatic without overt smugness, careful of appearances, and adept at measuring the direction of the social winds. He’d been on the national scene for barely six months, but in that time he’d already established himself as one of the dominant figures of the new breed who were beginning
“Not really,” Everly said, again without irritation or defensiveness. “In your position, I wouldn’t trust a lot of people, either. Soulminder is the kind of prize that makes grown men salivate down thousand-dollar ties. You’re soon going to have people trying their damnedest to beg, buy, cheat, or steal it out from under you. If they aren’t doing it already.”
“You sound as if we’re going to be under siege,” Sommer said, his throat suddenly tight.
Everly shrugged. “Actually, it’s not quite that bad. You hit the ground running, with a nuke-sized blast of instant publicity that caught everybody flatfooted. That, plus the floodlit microscope you’ve been living under since then, will have scotched all the more overt snatch schemes, at least for the moment. If we move fast—and if we’re lucky—we can get the lid screwed down tight before anybody gets any quiet espionage schemes going.”
“And if you’re one of those quiet schemes?” Sands challenged.
Everly looked her straight in the eye. “If I am,” he said, equally bluntly, “I already know enough about your setup to break in and steal Soulminder out from under you.”
He shook his head. “I can’t prove I’m on your side, Doctor. But somewhere along the line, you’re going to have to trust someone . If you don’t, you’ll lose by default.”
Sommer stole a glance at Sands. Uncertain eyes, tight mouth … but behind it all, a grudging but growing acceptance. “Adrian?” she asked tentatively.
And behind the word was capitulation.
Sommer took a careful breath. Sands was not, he knew, simply being paranoid. This was nothing less than a win-or-lose throw of the dice … and if Everly wasn’t what he claimed to be, then he and Sands had just lost everything. “Well, Mr. Everly,” he said, fighting against a tremor in his voice. “Welcome to Soulminder.”
Behind the hum of the computer’s cooling fans, Sommer could hear that the singing from the TV had ended. Hunching forward, he wrapped himself closer about the keyboard, hoping that maybe Sands wouldn’t notice that he wasn’t paying attention.
It was a futile hope. “Adrian!” she called, turning up the TV’s volume a couple of levels. “Come on—he’s ready to start spouting.”
Sommer straightened with a sigh and turned to look. On the screen a scrubbed and brushed and impeccably dressed middle-aged man was just stepping up to the pulpit, his face ablaze with righteous fervor. “God bless you; God bless you, my friends,” he said, the fervor in his voice exactly in tune with his face. “Release your spirits to hear the Word of the Lord.”
Sands turned to glance at Sommer. “Come on , Adrian,” she called again, more emphatically this time.
“I’ve seen all I want to of the Reverend Tommy Lee Harper, thank you,” he sniffed. But even as he said it he found his eyes attracted almost irresistibly to the man on the screen. By anyone’s definition of charisma, Reverend Harper definitely had it.
“Hey, this was your idea, remember?” Sands reminded him tartly. “Know thy enemy, and all that?”
“I meant to keep tabs on people like Harper through the web and news channels,” Sommer retorted. “Not in person. Or whatever this is.”
“Quiet,” she shushed him.
With a sigh, Sommer got up and rolled his chair over, and resigned himself to the inevitable.
It was, he had to admit, an electrifying performance. The Reverend Harper was almost a caricature—or cynic’s portrait—of a TV evangelist: slick without appearing too Hollywood, dogmatic without overt smugness, careful of appearances, and adept at measuring the direction of the social winds. He’d been on the national scene for barely six months, but in that time he’d already established himself as one of the dominant figures of the new breed who were beginning
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