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Authors: Paul Preuss
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from the prophetae .”
“Which is?”
“That’s not for free.” His face had hardened again; this time the simple truth. “Are you on the team or aren’t you?”
And that’s why the uniform. R & R was over, the whistle had blown, back to the game. She sighed tiredly. “Send me in. . . . Coach.”
PART TWO
THE SIGN OF THE SALAMANDER
VI
Blake woke up in his London flat feeling as clear-eyed and peppy as he had for months—since before he went underground in Paris, since before he chased Ellen to the moon, since before he went to Mars. Since before the last time he’d slept in this, his own bed, in fact. Which did not necessarily mean he was in good health. Somebody had shot him full of anti-hangover serum.
He jumped out of bed—he was wearing pajamas , for Pete’s sake; he never wore pajamas, although his mother kept giving them to him for Christmas—and went into his bathroom.
Hmm, only a day’s growth of beard. Odd. The back of his hand—he must have scraped it somehow— was shiny with new skin. Had the same Somebody used Healfast on him?
He ran his chemosonic shaver quickly over his cheeks and chin and throat and splashed his face with lime-scented aftershave; he probed his teeth with his ultrasound brush and ran his tongue over their polished surfaces, then slid a comb through his thick, straight hair and grimaced at his freckled face in the mirror.
For the first time on months Blake experienced the pleasure of having a full wardrobe open before him. He pulled on snug flexible cords and chose a loose black softshirt from his dresser. His watch and commlink and I. D. sliver were neatly laid out on the dresser top—even his black throwing knife. What must they have thought of that, whoever they were?
He slipped his bare feet into rope-soled navy blue Basque slippers. He didn’t plan to go anywhere for an hour or two—not until he’d reacquainted himself with his home, not until he’d let the memories filter back. That was one of the little problems with anti-drunk drugs—they tended to block recent memories, at least until they wore off.
His sunny little kitchen was spotless, dustless, everything put away. Somebody had been over the place and wiped it clean—not his charlady; he didn’t have one—and there was more food in his refrigerator than he could recall leaving there. Fresh, too.
He was hungry but not famished. On the gleaming gas range he made a two-egg omelet with herb cheese and ate it at the beechwood table overlooking his tiny brick-walled garden and those of his neighbors. The eggs disappeared fast; he followed them with a glass of orange juice he’d squeezed himself and a cup of French-roast coffee. His home was London, but he was still an American; no beans on toast for his breakfast, and he wanted something stronger than black tea to start his day.
The phonelink chortled, but he heard the click as he picked up the kitchen extension. Wrong number? Or Them, checking.
He took a second cup of coffee into the living room and sat contemplating the clear autumn sky through the branches of the big elm outside his window. The leaves were falling and the branches glistened in the low sun; sunlight brought out the rich blues and burgundies of the kilim on the floor and illuminated his floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, filled with rare printed books. The bold black Picasso minotaur in the alcove, the warm Arcadian Poussin watercolor over the desk, reassured him that he was home.
Another sip of coffee. A tiny headache had started throbbing in his right temple. Memory was creeping back.
Night. An ivy-covered granite wall, lit by brilliant spot lights. Was he climbing on it? Yes, he was inching across its face toward . . . Ellen’s window . . .
Window glass splintered and sprayed across the kilim. But this was real time! Blake reacted to the crash before he knew what it was, diving and rolling through the door into the hall.
A dragon’s exhalation of flame spurted
“Which is?”
“That’s not for free.” His face had hardened again; this time the simple truth. “Are you on the team or aren’t you?”
And that’s why the uniform. R & R was over, the whistle had blown, back to the game. She sighed tiredly. “Send me in. . . . Coach.”
PART TWO
THE SIGN OF THE SALAMANDER
VI
Blake woke up in his London flat feeling as clear-eyed and peppy as he had for months—since before he went underground in Paris, since before he chased Ellen to the moon, since before he went to Mars. Since before the last time he’d slept in this, his own bed, in fact. Which did not necessarily mean he was in good health. Somebody had shot him full of anti-hangover serum.
He jumped out of bed—he was wearing pajamas , for Pete’s sake; he never wore pajamas, although his mother kept giving them to him for Christmas—and went into his bathroom.
Hmm, only a day’s growth of beard. Odd. The back of his hand—he must have scraped it somehow— was shiny with new skin. Had the same Somebody used Healfast on him?
He ran his chemosonic shaver quickly over his cheeks and chin and throat and splashed his face with lime-scented aftershave; he probed his teeth with his ultrasound brush and ran his tongue over their polished surfaces, then slid a comb through his thick, straight hair and grimaced at his freckled face in the mirror.
For the first time on months Blake experienced the pleasure of having a full wardrobe open before him. He pulled on snug flexible cords and chose a loose black softshirt from his dresser. His watch and commlink and I. D. sliver were neatly laid out on the dresser top—even his black throwing knife. What must they have thought of that, whoever they were?
He slipped his bare feet into rope-soled navy blue Basque slippers. He didn’t plan to go anywhere for an hour or two—not until he’d reacquainted himself with his home, not until he’d let the memories filter back. That was one of the little problems with anti-drunk drugs—they tended to block recent memories, at least until they wore off.
His sunny little kitchen was spotless, dustless, everything put away. Somebody had been over the place and wiped it clean—not his charlady; he didn’t have one—and there was more food in his refrigerator than he could recall leaving there. Fresh, too.
He was hungry but not famished. On the gleaming gas range he made a two-egg omelet with herb cheese and ate it at the beechwood table overlooking his tiny brick-walled garden and those of his neighbors. The eggs disappeared fast; he followed them with a glass of orange juice he’d squeezed himself and a cup of French-roast coffee. His home was London, but he was still an American; no beans on toast for his breakfast, and he wanted something stronger than black tea to start his day.
The phonelink chortled, but he heard the click as he picked up the kitchen extension. Wrong number? Or Them, checking.
He took a second cup of coffee into the living room and sat contemplating the clear autumn sky through the branches of the big elm outside his window. The leaves were falling and the branches glistened in the low sun; sunlight brought out the rich blues and burgundies of the kilim on the floor and illuminated his floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, filled with rare printed books. The bold black Picasso minotaur in the alcove, the warm Arcadian Poussin watercolor over the desk, reassured him that he was home.
Another sip of coffee. A tiny headache had started throbbing in his right temple. Memory was creeping back.
Night. An ivy-covered granite wall, lit by brilliant spot lights. Was he climbing on it? Yes, he was inching across its face toward . . . Ellen’s window . . .
Window glass splintered and sprayed across the kilim. But this was real time! Blake reacted to the crash before he knew what it was, diving and rolling through the door into the hall.
A dragon’s exhalation of flame spurted
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