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deity. His black haft, perfectly trimmed, caught the recessed light from
above, shining and healthy. Nakamura's face was smooth of expression. His
black eyes glittered.
Oranson wondered how he did it. He knew the man had not slept for almost two
days, yet he appeared as fresh and rested as a child awakening from a nap.
Nakamura held a low, thick-walled tumbler of Swedish crystal, filled with a
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pale, amber liquid.
"Come here, Fred. A drink? Scotch?" He gestured with the glass. Oranson shook
his head.
"No, thank you."
Nakamura shrugged. "Coffee?"
"Yes, please."
Nakamura made a soft, clicking noise with his tongue and teeth. The domestic
computer which monitored his office picked up the command, and within a few
seconds a very handsome Oriental male, no more than eighteen, entered the
office from a side door bearing a silver tray crowded with pot, cream, sugar,
cups and saucers.
"Over there, Jimmy," Nakamura said. The young man wordlessly poured two cups
and placed them on a low, teak coffee table which fronted on a small grouping
of leather chairs and sofa against the far wall of the office.
"Sit down, Fred," Nakamura said. The Japanese perched on the edge of one of
the chairs, alert as a bird. Oranson sat on the sofa. As he lifted the coffee
to his lips, his eyes snagged on the rocky shadows of Nakamura's meditation
garden, now completely restored beyond the office area. He catalogued the
shadows for an instant, thinking of teeth, then set down his cup.
"What's going on, Shag?" he said mildly. He knew the signs. Something had
Nakamura keyed as tight as a lawyer's heart.
Nakamura took a sip of the coffee and chased it with a heavier swig of the
scotch. Oranson glanced at Nakamura's desk and saw a bottle of Glenmorangie
single malt Scotch there, half empty, the cork off. Yet Nakamura appeared
completely sober.
"I have ... sources of information other than your own. I've always assumed
you knew that."
Oranson remembered the white-haired killer Nakamura had conjured out of
nowhere, the scarred man who had nearly tortured him to death. "I knew that,
Shag."
"Good. I have received an interesting piece of data."
"What is it?"
"Luna, Incorporated, is presently without the services of its Artificial
Intelligence."
Oranson stared at the table, stunned. The implications were enormous. Finally
he looked up. "We aren't ready yet," he said.
Nakamura smiled whitely at him, and once again Oranson thought of teeth. "We
have to be," Nakamura said.
* * * **
Dawn burned a thin red line across the leaden flatness of the winter lake.
Chicago loomed gray and cold in the thin light. Oranson was exhausted, but
Shag seemed full of unquenchable energy.
Oranson watched the smaller man as he stood at the edge of the balcony,
beneath the branches of an orange tree. The tree was incongruously bright and
green against the drab background of the skyline, flourishing in the
artificial micro-climate Shag had caused to be created on the balcony.
Ancient kings, Oranson thought, had never dreamed such power.
Nakamura had paused for a few moments, "to refresh himself," he told Oranson.
Oranson wondered what his boss thought about, during those times he needed an
interval of solitude. Whatever it was, he always returned as buoyant as
another man after eight hours of sleep.
Oranson scanned the room tiredly. He'd removed his suit coat and rolled up his
sleeves, and knew he looked wrinkled and
sweaty. It didn't matter. Nakamura didn't pay him to win beauty contests.
Long, wrinkled sheets of printout were strewn across every flat surface. Every
screen in the room was revealed and lighted. The overall effect was of some
bizarre television store that had accommodated a tickertape parade. Nakamura
had worked with frenzied intensity for the past four hours. Just before he'd
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adjourned to his balcony, he'd looked up with bright black eyes and said, "I
think it can be done. Close, but if nothing else comes up, we can pull it
off."
Oranson thought about that and wondered if, for the first time in his long,
carefully planned struggle, Nakamura might not be going to the well one too
many times.
"Fred. Wake up."
Oranson jerked his head up. He'd dozed without realizing it. Nakamura had come
back into the room, looking fresher than ever.
"Breakfast? Stimulants? You need something, Fred. I want you alert. The timing
on this is crucial."
Oranson nodded slowly. His head ached and the surface of his eyeballs felt raw
and abraded. "Breakfast," he said. "And coffee.
Gallons of it. Uh -- one thing else."
Nakamura had turned toward his desk. Now he turned back. "What?"
"It's time for my ... treatment. Overdue, actually." Oranson wondered why he
felt ashamed when he said it. Then he wondered why Nakamura's face went blank
and empty at his words. Could it be that his master felt shame, too?
"Oh. By all means, go. I'll have breakfast served here when you return."
Oranson nodded and rose unsteadily. Nakamura made no move to help him. His
thought processes were dim and slow, the leading edge of inevitable
dissolution. My brain is dissolving, he thought.
One more thing I owe him for. He knew he should hate Nakamura for what he'd
done to him, but he didn't. All he felt was a long, foggy somnolence. He
wondered what it would be like, to know emotions again.
He left the office. Maybe it was better this way. Despair was an emotion, too.
His own suite of offices was on the same floor as Nakamura's. He entered and
strode quickly across the anteroom, deserted now in the early morning, its
light thin and eerie. Beyond, however, the warren which fronted his own
private office buzzed with activity. He saw one big monitor which showed a
scene that was evidently shot from a helicopter. The picture bounced too much
for it to be a spysat.
He recognized the setting; the world headquarters of the New Church in San
Francisco. The shot tightened suddenly on a flock of copters whirling in for
landings on the rooftop, like great, ungainly insects settling to feed.
The faces were more than familiar. Tired as he was, he checked the ID number
at the bottom of the screen and walked to the man monitoring the current
broadcast.
"What's the Church Council up to?" he asked.
The technician, a big, easygoing man whose name Oranson could never remember,
glanced up.
"I dunno," he said. "No warning. They arrived all at once and went into their
chamber immediately. We haven't been able to penetrate the chamber itself, but
we may pick up something from one of our moles."
Oranson nodded thoughtfully. What did this mean?
"Keep me posted," he said. He walked away, turned down a corridor, and entered
his own office. He seated himself behind his utilitarian desk, punched in a
code, and waited for the sleepy medic to answer the phone.
His back ached. His brain was turning to mush. All the symptoms.
The doctor appeared, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Oranson stared at him. "I'm
ready," he said.
The doctor blinked. "Now?"
"Now."
He switched off the screen and leaned back. Some day it would all end. He
wondered how he felt about that.
Then he realized he didn't feel anything.
"Mr. Oranson," the voice repeated, softly, insistently. "Sir, wake up."
Something prodded his shoulder lightly. He opened his eyes, but it took a
moment for his vision to clear. Must be slipping fast, he thought groggily. He
couldn't have sneaked in like that, otherwise.
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