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Time passed slowly, but she was happy enough to sit beside him, letting her mind go desert blank.
Then one of the Inadin produced a flute. A second found an intricate xylophone of wood and gourds, bound with leather.
He tapped it experimentally, tightening a cord, while a third reached inside his robe. He tugged a leather thong-at the end was a pocket synthesizer.
The man with the flute opened his veil; his black face was stained blue with sweat-soaked indigo dye. He blew a quick trill on the flute, and they were off.
The rhythm built up, high resonant notes from the buzzing xylophone, the off-scale dipping warble of the flute, the eerie, strangely primeval bass of the synthesizer.
The others punctuated the music with claps and sudden piercing shrieks from behind their veils. Suddenly one began to sing in Tamashek. "He sings about his synthesizer,"
Gresham murmured.
"What does he say?"
I humbly adore the acts of the Most High,
Who has given to the synthesizer what is better than a soul.
So that, when it plays, the men are silent,
And their hands cover their veils to hide their emotions.
The troubles of life were pushing me into the tomb,
But thanks to the synthesizer,
God has given me back my life.
The music stopped. The camp refugees clapped a little, then stopped, confused. Gresham glanced at his watch, then rose to his feet, lugging his camera. "That's just a taste of it," he told Laura. "They'll be back for more, later-and bring their families I hope...."
"Let's do the interview."
He hesitated. "You sure you're up for it?"
"Yeah."
She followed him to another tent. It was guarded by two of the Inadin Tuaregs and heaped with their baggage. There were carpets underfoot and a battery, a spare one from the buggies. Hooked to it, he had a keyboard and screen-a custom model with a console-of hand-carved redwood.
Gresham sat cross-legged before it. "I hate this goddamned machine," he a
"Gresham, where's your makeup case?"
He passed it to her. Laura opened the hand mirror. She was so gaunt and thin-a look like anorexia, rage turned help- lessly in on itself.
The hell. She jabbed her fingertips in powder, smeared her hollow cheeks. Somebody was going to pay.
She began rouging her lips. "Gresham, we have to figure how to hustle those Azanians. They're old-fashioned, fu
"We don't need them," he said.
"We do if we want to reach the Net! And they'll want to see the tape first-they'll learn everything."
He shook his head. "Laura, look around you."
She put down the mirror and humored him. They were in a . dome. Fabric over metal ribs and chicken wire.
"You're sitting under a satellite dish," he told her.
She was stu
"How the hell else do you touch the Net from the middle of the Sahara? The coverage is spotty, but during the right tracking times you can make a pass."
"How can you do that? Where does the money come from?" An awful thought struck her. "Gresham, are you ru
"No. I used to deal with them, though. All the time." He thought about it. "Maybe I should start my own haven now.
The competition's down, and I could use the bread."
"Don't do it. Don't even think it."
"You must know that biz pretty well. You could be my adviser." The joke fell completely flat. He looked at her, meditatively. "You'd come right after me, wouldn't you.
You and your little legions of straight-arrow corporate people."
She said nothing.
"Sorry," he said. "It hardly matters at the moment... .I wouldn't want to send this tape to a data haven anyway."
"What do you mean? Where would you send it?"
"To Vie
To shut me up, they might try to hunt me down and kill me, but I've gotten pretty good at avoiding that. With any luck they'd buy me off instead. Then leave me alone-the way they've left Mali alone."
"That's not enough! Everyone must know. The whole world."
Gresham shook his head. "I think we could hustle Vie
She held the mirror-to her face. "I'm sorry, Gresham. I simply, truly don't care about Vie
"I don't live in your world," he told her. "Too bad if that makes me sound crass. But I can tell you this much-if you want to go back, and be-who-you-are, and live your cozy life in that whole world of yours, you'd better not try to kick its jams out. Maybe I could survive a stunt like that, ducking and dodging out here in the desert, but I don't think you could.
The world doesn't give a shit how noble your motives are- it'll roll right over you.. That's how it works." He was lecturing her. "You can hustle-cut a corner here, a corner there-but you can't tackle the world...."
She examined her hair in the mirror. Wild prison hair.
She'd washed it in the Azanian camp and the dry heat had fluffed it out. It stood up all over her head, like an explosion.
He kept after her. "It's no use even trying. The Net will never run this tape, Laura. News services never run tapes of terrorist hostages. Except for Vie
"You took tape of that nuclear test site, didn't you?" she said. "You can tag it on to my statement. Let's see 'em refute that one!"
"I'll do that, certainly-but they could refute it anyway."
"You've heard my story," she told him. "I made you believe it, didn't I? It happened, Gresham. It's the truth."
"I know it is." He handed her a leather canteen.
"I can do it," she told him, feeling brittle. "Tackle the world. Not just some little corner of-it, but the whole great grinding mass of it. I know I can do it. I'm good at it."
"Vie
"It's go
"It's too big for me to hold anymore," she said. "I've got to tell it. Now. That's all I know." At the sight of the camera, something was rising up within her, adrenaline-wild and strong. Electric. All that fear and weirdness and pain, packed down in an iron casing. "Put me on tape, Gresham.
I'm ready. Go."
"You're on."
She looked into the world's glass eye. "My name is Laura
Day Webster. I'm go
She became pure glass, a conduit. No script, she was winging it, but it came out pure and strong. Like it would carry her forever. The truth, pouring through.
Gresham interrupted her with questions. He had a prepared list of them. Sharp, to the point. It was like he was stabbing her. It should have hurt, but it only broke open the flow. She reached some level that she'd never touched before. An ec- stasy, pure fluid art. Possession.
She couldn't keep that edge. It was timeless while she had it, but then she could feel it go. She was hoarse and she began stumbling a little. Sliding off at the edges, passion slipping into babble.