Cyteen

iv

It was a hike from the hospital over to the House itself, a long round-about if the weather made it necessary to go through the halls and the tu

He had gotten it down. He was not sure it was going to stay there. It had been worth everything to have Grant able to sit up and laugh—they had let him free to have his supper and Grant had sat cross-legged in bed and managed the dessert with some enthusiasm. Even if the nurses said they were going to have to put the restraints back on when he was alone for the night. He would not have left for the night at all, and Ivanov would have let him stay; except he had an appointment with Ari, and he could not tell Grant that. Late work at the lab, he had said. But Grant had been a hundred percent better when he had left him than when he had come in, quickly exhausted, but with liveliness in his eyes, the ability to laugh—perhaps a little too much, perhaps a little too forced, but the way the eyes looked said that Grant was back again.

Just when he was leaving the mask had come down, and Grant had looked sober and miserable.

"Back in the morning," Justin had promised.

"Hey, you don't have to, it's a long walk over here."

"I want to, all right?"

And Grant had looked ineffably relieved. That was the good in the day. It was worth everything he paid for it. He felt for the first time since that day in Ari's office, that there might be a way out of this.

If—if Ari had enough to keep her busy, if—

He thought of Grant and Ari, Grant already on the edge of his sanity-Grant, who had the looks, the grace that every girl he had ever known had preferred to him—

He waded through tape-flash that diminished only to shameful memory, through a muddle of anguish and exhaustion. He was not going to be worth anything. He wanted to go somewhere and be sick—he could call Ari and plead that he was sick, truly he was, he was not lying, she could ask him the next time he—

O God. But then there was the agreement that let him get to Grant. There was the agreement that promised Grant would be free. She could mindwipe Grant. She could do anything. She had threatened Jordan. Everything was on him, and he could not tell Grant, not in the state Grant was in. He took in his breath and slogged on down the path that led around the corner toward the main door—a jet was coming in. He heard it. It was ordinary. RESEUNEAIR flew at need, as well as on a weekly schedule. He saw it touch down, walking along by the gravel bed and the adapted shrubbery that led to the front doors. The bus started up from in front of the doors and passed him on its way around the drive and down toward the main road. On its way to pick up someone on the jet, he reckoned, and wondered who in the House had been downriver in all this chaos.

He walked in through the automatic doors, using his keycard in the brass slot, clipped the keycard back to his shut and headed immediately for the lift that would take him up to his apartment.

Phone Jordan first thing he got in and tell him Grant was better. He wished he had had time to call while he was in the hospital, but Grant had not wanted him out of his sight, and he had not wanted to upset him.

"Justin Warrick."

He turned and looked at the Security guards, putting their presence together with the plane and the bus and instantly thought that some visitor must be coming in.

"Come with us, please."

He indicated the lift buttons. "I'm just going up to my room. I'll be out of here."

"Come with us, please."

"Oh, damn, just use the com, ask your Supervisor— You don't touch me!" As one of them reached for him. But they took him by the arms and leaned him up against the wall. "My God," he said, u

They wrenched his arms back and he felt the chill of metal at his wrists.

"Hey!"

The cuffs clicked shut. They faced him about again and walked him down the hall. He balked, and they jerked him into motion, down the hall toward the Security office.

God. Ari had filed charges. On him, on Jordan, Kruger, everyone involved with Grant. That was what had happened. Somewhere she had gotten the leverage she wanted, something to silence them and bring everything down on them; and he had done it, he, thinking he could deal with her.

He walked where they wanted him to go, down the hall and into the office with the glass doors, where the Supervisor sat. "In there," the Supervisor said with a wave of her hand toward the back of the office.

"What in hell's going on?" he demanded, trying bluff in the absence of everything else. "Dammit, call Ari Emory!"

But they took him past steel doors, past the security lock, put him in a bare, concrete room, and shut the door.

"Dammit, you have to read me the charges!"

There was no answer.

v

The body was quite, quite frozen, fallen right at the vault door, mostly prone, twisted a little. Surfaces in the vault still were frost-coated and painful to the touch. "Patch of ice," the investigator said, and recorded the scene with his camera, posthumous indignity. Ari would have resented that like hell, Giraud thought, and stared at the corpse, still unable to think that Ari was not going to move, that stiff limbs and glazed eyes and half-open mouth were not going to suddenly find life. She was wearing a sweater. Researchers would, who worked in the antiquated cold-lab: nothing heavier. But no cold-suit would have saved her.

"There wouldn't have been any damn patch of ice then," Petros muttered. "No way."

"She work with the door shut?" The investigator from Moreyville, smalltown and all the law there was for a thousand miles in all directions, laid his hand on the vault door. It started swinging to at that mere touch. "Damn." He stopped it with a shove, balanced it carefully and gingerly let go of it.

"There's an intercom," Petros said. "That door's swung to on most of us, sooner or later, we all know about it. It's something in the way the building's settled. You get locked in, you just call Security, you call Strassen's office, and somebody comes down and gets you out, it's no big thing."

"It was this time." The investigator—Stern, his name was—reached up and punched the button on the intercom. The casing broke like wax. "Cold. I'll want this piece," he said to his assistant, who was following him with a Scriber. "Does anyone hear?"

There was no sound out of the unit.

"Not working."

"Maybe it's the cold," Giraud said. "There wasn't any call."

"Pressure drop was the first you knew something was wrong."

"Pressure in the liquid nitrogen tank. The techs knew. I got a call a minute or so later."

"Wasn't there an on-site alarm?"

"It sounded," Giraud said, indicating the unit on the wall, "down here. No one works back here. The way the acoustics are, no one could figure out where it was coming from. We didn't know till we got the call from the techs that it was a nitrogen line. Then we knew it was the cold-lab. We came ru