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 But I don t have a girlfriend, said Jack.
The wind stirred the man s long brown coat around his boot-sheathed calves.
He narrowed his eyes.  Where is she? he said.
Jack swallowed.  I ve already told you. I don t have a girlfriend.
The man s eyes held a glint of hardness. There was something wrong about the
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eyes, but try as he might, Jack couldn t work out what it was. The man waved
his hand and slowly the ground beneath Jack s feet trembled and rose. Jack
thrust his arms out to retain balance.
The man was grinning now as Jack rose toward him, a slight, sinister grin.
 No! said Jack, fighting against the chill in his chest.
He pushed himself away from the figure, willing himself awake. This is a
dream, he told himself. It has to be.
He forced himself up through the layers of consciousness, floating. The
White-Haired Man s face became less distinct, dissipating in the ether.
 I will find her, said the man.
And Jack woke, the last words echoing inside his head.
He d dozed off after scanning the personnel records for what had seemed like
hours. It was bad enough that he did this stuff for a living without his
subconscious throwing things at him from a tangent. The dream had nothing to
do with what he was working on. At least, he didn t think it did. He pressed
his lips tightly together. He didn t need this.
He looked down at the handipad on the low table in front of him. The
personnel records still sat open. He d gotten maybe two-thirds of the way
through them, and there was nothing to trigger a connection. Even the names
Johnson and Mitch had been constructs of his mind, populating the second-sight
dream with shreds of familiarity. Nothing to go on there. All he was left with
were the snakes. He slotted the card back out of the handipad and, holding the
small, flexible sliver up to the light, turned it around and around in his
fingers, as if he could see through the mysteries it contained to some sort of
truth buried deep within.
When his visitor arrived, Jack had progressed no further. He was still
playing with data cards, sliding them one over the other and watching the
colors while he thought. The two cards had been delivered in the space of a
couple of hours, one Pinpin Dan s, the other containing the personnel records
of the Dairil III mining crew. Separate, unconnected incidences. But nothing
in Jack Stein s life was unconnected. There was always a trailing network of
threads. All he had to do was tie them together.
The personnel records had told him little. Each of the missing crew had a
good share of shady history, lists of trouble, and close scrapes with the
company just the sort to be attracted to a far-flung mining operation where
the pay was reasonably good and they were out from under the watchful scrutiny
of company authority. Not one of the crew had any past connection to
underground organizations or fringe political groups, as far as he could see.
Their past records of employment were a checkerboard of short-hop contracts
and drifting from company to company. Jack wouldn t really have expected
anything more. He slotted the data card back in and started scanning the
records one more time.
 Visitor, said the wall, interrupting his concentration.
 Who? said Jack, thumbing off the handipad and sliding the data cards back
into his pocket and out of sight. He wasn t expecting anyone, apart from the
little clerk from Outreach, but it paid to be sure. The wall lost its drab
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tones as colors bled onto its surface, painting a picture of a short, rotund
man standing outside his door, shifting nervously and checking the corridors
to either side. It was Gleeson, all right.
 Let him in, said Jack, then called out,  I m through here.
Gleeson entered the room just as his simulacrum faded from the wall. Jack
waved him in the direction of a chair.
 So what is it you have to tell me, Mr. Gleeson? And let s face it, I can t
go on calling you Mr. Gleeson. Have you got another name?
Gleeson took a seat and licked his lips nervously before speaking.  Um,
Francis, he said.
 So, Frank, said Jack.
 No . . . Francis, said Gleeson. He scanned the walls, hesitating.
 Francis, then. Look, there s nothing to worry about. This place is as secure
as anywhere else. You can talk. You seemed pretty sure you had some
information for me when we last spoke. So let s stop playing games. What is it
you were so eager to tell me?
 Have you had a chance to look through the personnel records?
Jack nodded, restraining the urge to lift his hand and feel for the card in
his pocket.
 Gilbert Ronschke?
The name had been one on the list.  Yes, what about him? I didn t see
anything particularly interesting, anything particularly special about him.
Should I have?
Gleeson hesitated again.  But Gil was . . . is special. It was supposed to
have been Gil s last contract. He had enough put away to start his own 
Jack cut him off.  What are you saying, Francis?
 You see, it s just that Gil is a friend of mine. A very close friend.
Jack looked across at the little man and considered.  I see.
Gleeson chewed at his lip and wrung his hands. Either he was hamming it up, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]