the kitchen and Sara went to check.
Pepe
He watched her rush away, the peculiar walk. "It was a drive-by?"
Rory nodded and grimaced. "Just off University, student ghetto somewhere. A car door opened and some stranger splashed her with gasoline and lit a match. She heard some people laughing, at least two men and a woman. But she couldn't remember what kind of car it was or tell them anything about the man. I guess that was a year or so before you came."
"Pobrecita," he said, squeezing the lime into his beer.
"People wonder whether it had something to do with the brothers who owned the place originally. But they'd disappeared years before."
"That was back when the gangs were so bad."
Rory didn't use the lime. She brushed off most of the salt and sipped from the can. "A lot of random violence then. People think it's bad now. There were places you just didn't go after dark."
"Still are."
"Claro." She got a pad and stylus out of her bag and turned them on. She drew a row of neat boxes, frowning, and then erased them with her thumb. "I told Deedee and El Chancellor that I'd have some scheduling for them tomorrow morning. But until I hear from NASA and the Cape, everything's kind of moot. Defense, too, in a way. They'll oversee a lot of the funding."
"You mean you don't want to make up a table of organization just to have the government come in and kick it apart."
"Sí. No harm in doing a tentative one, I guess. Who's qualified for what, interested in what. If the feds change it, they change it."
"So where do I fit in?"
"Pretty face." She pretended to write it down. "'Official … pretty face.'"
"How about 'nonadministrator'? I just do the science?"
"Muy buena suerte. You get to help me run this circus."
Pepe shrugged and suppressed a smile:
That's what I'm here for. Eight years of winning your trust, so I can make sure you divine half the truth, the right half.
And the decade before that, studying how to talk, how to think, how to act. Not in Cuba. Learning how to live with this alien food and drink.
In his way, he loved her. But that was of no importance. He knew what his job was going to be, over the next week, the next three months.
"Qué bueno , " he said. "Do I get a pistol and chair?"
"I'll put in a requisition."
A man rushed up to the table. "Professor Bell."
"Yes?" After a moment she recognized him as the reporter from this morning. "Mr. Jordan."
"Dan. Don't want to take your lunch time, but look … they've put me on … God! … soft background, local color. It's not my … it's not…"
"It's not your story anymore."
"That's right. I'm just a local flunky now." He took a deep breath. "What I wanted, wanted to know, is could I get an interview with you and Mr. Bell sometime today, tonight?"
"Sure, sin problema. Just call first, what, eight?"
"Thanks. I've got your number." He looked at Pepe. "Perdón. I'll get out of your hair."
Daniel Jordan
He went back out into the heat and whistled for the camera to follow him. Lots of local color out here by the mercado, but nobody wants to stand in the sun and chat. He moved over to the shade of a pair of trees just past the coffee booth.
People walked by him. It must have been easier in the old days, when you had a big square camera and a human cameraman, a microphone in your hand and wires trailing everywhere. A pain in the ass, actually, but at least people would have to notice you.
"Excuse me, sir." He stepped in the path of a slow-moving, round middle-aged man. "I'm Daniel Jordan from News Seven…"
"Good for you," he said, but stopped.
"I came down to the mercado to ask people's opinions about the Coming."
"That's what they're calling it?"
"Some people, yes…"
"Well, I don't like it. Sounds religious."
"Whatever the name. How do you feel about it?"
"Feel? I suppose it's a good thing. Make contact and all that. Been talking about it long enough."
"You don't feel there's any danger?"
"No, no. We were talking about that at the
Pepe
He watched her rush away, the peculiar walk. "It was a drive-by?"
Rory nodded and grimaced. "Just off University, student ghetto somewhere. A car door opened and some stranger splashed her with gasoline and lit a match. She heard some people laughing, at least two men and a woman. But she couldn't remember what kind of car it was or tell them anything about the man. I guess that was a year or so before you came."
"Pobrecita," he said, squeezing the lime into his beer.
"People wonder whether it had something to do with the brothers who owned the place originally. But they'd disappeared years before."
"That was back when the gangs were so bad."
Rory didn't use the lime. She brushed off most of the salt and sipped from the can. "A lot of random violence then. People think it's bad now. There were places you just didn't go after dark."
"Still are."
"Claro." She got a pad and stylus out of her bag and turned them on. She drew a row of neat boxes, frowning, and then erased them with her thumb. "I told Deedee and El Chancellor that I'd have some scheduling for them tomorrow morning. But until I hear from NASA and the Cape, everything's kind of moot. Defense, too, in a way. They'll oversee a lot of the funding."
"You mean you don't want to make up a table of organization just to have the government come in and kick it apart."
"Sí. No harm in doing a tentative one, I guess. Who's qualified for what, interested in what. If the feds change it, they change it."
"So where do I fit in?"
"Pretty face." She pretended to write it down. "'Official … pretty face.'"
"How about 'nonadministrator'? I just do the science?"
"Muy buena suerte. You get to help me run this circus."
Pepe shrugged and suppressed a smile:
That's what I'm here for. Eight years of winning your trust, so I can make sure you divine half the truth, the right half.
And the decade before that, studying how to talk, how to think, how to act. Not in Cuba. Learning how to live with this alien food and drink.
In his way, he loved her. But that was of no importance. He knew what his job was going to be, over the next week, the next three months.
"Qué bueno , " he said. "Do I get a pistol and chair?"
"I'll put in a requisition."
A man rushed up to the table. "Professor Bell."
"Yes?" After a moment she recognized him as the reporter from this morning. "Mr. Jordan."
"Dan. Don't want to take your lunch time, but look … they've put me on … God! … soft background, local color. It's not my … it's not…"
"It's not your story anymore."
"That's right. I'm just a local flunky now." He took a deep breath. "What I wanted, wanted to know, is could I get an interview with you and Mr. Bell sometime today, tonight?"
"Sure, sin problema. Just call first, what, eight?"
"Thanks. I've got your number." He looked at Pepe. "Perdón. I'll get out of your hair."
Daniel Jordan
He went back out into the heat and whistled for the camera to follow him. Lots of local color out here by the mercado, but nobody wants to stand in the sun and chat. He moved over to the shade of a pair of trees just past the coffee booth.
People walked by him. It must have been easier in the old days, when you had a big square camera and a human cameraman, a microphone in your hand and wires trailing everywhere. A pain in the ass, actually, but at least people would have to notice you.
"Excuse me, sir." He stepped in the path of a slow-moving, round middle-aged man. "I'm Daniel Jordan from News Seven…"
"Good for you," he said, but stopped.
"I came down to the mercado to ask people's opinions about the Coming."
"That's what they're calling it?"
"Some people, yes…"
"Well, I don't like it. Sounds religious."
"Whatever the name. How do you feel about it?"
"Feel? I suppose it's a good thing. Make contact and all that. Been talking about it long enough."
"You don't feel there's any danger?"
"No, no. We were talking about that at the
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