Vickers (Corp.s.e.)

"I expect you're wondering what this is all about."

"I'm curious."

"I just wanted to make sure that we had a little privacy."

"So what's wrong?"

"Not so much wrong, more interesting."

"So what's interesting?"

"There was another murder here last night."

"There was? Nobody tells me. I seem to be the forgotten man of profesional assassination."

"I did it."

"An official murder or a piece of your own moonlight?"

"Oh, it was quite official. A security officer called Hodding. They told me that he was a Red spy and he had to go."

"Hodding?"

"That's right."

Fenton was half gri

"And Hodding was a Red spy?"

"That's what they said."

"Do the Reds have spies anymore?"

"He didn't look terribly Red. Looked more corporate to me. Also, he said the strangest thing before I shot him."

"Yeah, what?"

"When I got there, he was in the shower. A real Psycho job. Real Alfred Hitchcock. I ripped back the shower curtain and straight away he knew what I was at. He couldn't have missed, really, since I was holding this damn great automag in my fist at the time and pointing it straight at him." Fenton seemed to be enjoying himself. "He holds out his hands in front of him and says 'No, no, not me, it's Vickers that you want.'"

Despite Fenton's deadpan, almost humorous delivery, it was about as bad as it could get. Still, Vickers tried not to react.

"What did you do then?"

"I shot him. Then I walked away, pausing only to call the clean-up crew."

"What did you think he meant by 'it's Vickers you want'?"

Fenton gri

"I spoke to him once."

"Yeah, I saw you."

"He seemed to think I was still working for Contec."

"And are you?"

"Does it look like it?"

"It could be hard to tell who you're working for."

"I'm working for Lloyd-Ransom except that I don't think he trusts me enough to give me anything to do."

Fenton didn't say anything. He went right on steering the golf cart, staring straight ahead. Vickers knew that he had to ask the question.

"Do you think anyone heard what he said? Apart from you, that is."

A slow smile spread over Fenton's face. He waited a few seconds before he answered. It occurred to Vickers that Fenton might be taking him somewhere to kill him. Fenton laughed as though he knew what Vickers was thinking.

"Worried?"

"I'm always worried."

"I don't think anyone heard him. The shower was ru

There was another pause. Again Fenton laughed.

"What's the matter? You trying to figure out a diplomatic way to ask me if I've told anyone?"

"Have you?"

"Not yet."

"Do you intend to?"

"I don't know. I don't think so."

"Why not? Fingering another Red agent would be automatic brownie points."

"That's if brownie points are all you're after. The way I see it, there's too much bullshit down here for me to put all of my eggs into one basket. You know what I mean?"

"I think so, but maybe you'd better go on so there's no room for a misunderstanding."

Fenton snorted and shook his head.

"I like you, Vickers, I really like you. None of us know what we're getting into down here and I reckon you'd be a useful man in a tight spot. Even more useful if you owed me a considerable debt of gratitude."

"And are you going to let me owe that debt of gratitude?"

"I figure it's my best bet. It's not only that I like you, I also don't trust Lloyd-Ransom."

"So what am I? Your ace in the hole?"

"Something like that."

"I suppose I should thank you."

"It wouldn't hurt."

Vickers knew that Fenton had him right in his pocket.

"I thought I had more class than this."

"Ain't nothing classy about sitting on your own each night, reading a book and swilling scotch until the words all blur. It also ain't classy to be horny and not do nothing about it. All it is, is stressful. You hear me?"

"He could have a point there."

The three of them stepped onto the escalator that led down into the bright, smokey, jostling clatter of the handlers' messhall.

"Jesus, it looks like a prison break. You'd expect them to start banging their tin cups on the tables."

"Some nights they do."

"Jesus."

"Survivors can't be choosers."

"That's the new saying, right?"

Eggy had persuaded Vickers and Parkwood to accompany him on one of his now almost nightly visits to the handlers' quarters. According to Eggy, Fenton was already up there. They had taken a little persuading, but after a while a certain boredom with the monotony of the bunker's routine had won out and they'd followed him to the elevators feeling like guilty schoolboys on their way to the wrong side of the tracks. When Debbie learned of the intended venture, she'd first of all come on disgusted and then shut herself in her cubicle. It had increased the feeling that they were acting cheap but, their minds being made up by then, her reaction didn't deter them.

Vickers wasn't quite ready for the noise, the brightness and the crowding. Although they complained about the smallness of their group quarters on the lower level, they were, in comparison, luxuriously spacious. The handlers' messhall did look like something out of a prison movie. There was the same stark institutional functionality even though, in this instance, the function was fun. The flourescent plates were too hard and bright. They made everyone look pale and tired. The roar of rowdy, alcohol conversation fought with the throb of loud pressure pop and was then thrown back by the flat metal walls and ceiling that added a harsh, unattractive ring. By far the worst, however, was the crowding. There was a claustrophobic desperation to the way that the people crushed in together, laughing and shouting and drinking, teeth and smiles and eyes that kept looking and searching, trying to find a getaway from the knowledge that they were huddled in a hole in the ground while the world above them tried to end itself. And so many women, most of them extremely attractive. Women in uniforms, women in coveralls, women in bright civilian casuals, women in little more than their underwear. Over on the far side of the hall, three women were dancing on a table, bare breasted, lewd and drunk, encouraged by a chorus of catcalls, whistles and cheers. Vickers spotted Eight-Man shouting and laughing at the dancers but there was no sign of Fenton.

"You're damn right, survivors can't be choosers."

Eggy led the way, elbowing through the crowd toward where a line of women dispensed drinks across a stainless steel, cafeteria style counter. Eggy had clearly cut a wide swath up here in the handlers' section. A quite formidable number of women smiled, giggled, greeted, kissed him or made obscene suggestions. Eggy responded to it all as if it were no more than his reasonable due. Vickers and Parkwood also came in for a good deal of attention. The phrase "new meat" seemed to precede them across the hall. There were appraising stares and a few soft touches. Fingers briefly fondled their sleeves or brushed their thighs. Someone stroked Vickers' hair and he even felt a deft exploratory hand slide quickly between his legs. With the odds stacked five to one against them, these women didn't mess around. The crowd generated its own heat and Vickers was starting to sweat. Cramming people in like this was insane. If they ever did seal the bunker there was no way that people could survive years of this and still be anything like intact. Lloyd-Ransom couldn't seriously be thinking he could solve all of his inmate psychological problems by fear and assassination.

Eventually they reached the bar. Parkwood tried to order Joh