Tea With the Black Dragon
                             R A MacAvoy

                            (v1.3 cleaned & proofed)




                                 Chapter 1
    Martha Macnamara stood at the Pacific, her toes digging into the froth.
She had come the length of the country in one day's flight, and she had
trouble believing that this was a different ocean.
    “Oh go on, admit it,” she grumbled, kicking the ivory scum from a pile of
kelp. “You're all the same water.”
    Perhaps not. She peered at the line where the iron blue of the sky hit the
soft-colored water. So bare a sky did not shine over Coney Island.
    A gull plunged, kissed the water and veered right and away, all ten yards
from Mrs. Macnamara. Her head rose to follow its flight and her hands
lifted, echoing the bird's gesture. For a moment it seemed her prim figure,
gray suited and graying, would fly away into the west—or north along the
dirty beach toward the Bridge.
    But that was just for a moment, and then the hands touched at the braids
that coiled around her head, braids that threatened to slip over her ears.
    “If you would know the Way,” she recited to herself, “observe the
subtlety of water.” Martha considered these words as she watched the waves
fling themselves roaring onto the sand. What was subtle in such a display of
power?
    With her round blue eyes very calm in her small round face Mrs.
Macnamara watched the ocean. Slowly she smiled.
    Where was Liz now—at work? Should Martha try to call again, or wait
for her daughter to make the move? After all, Elizabeth had set up the
reservation. Martha Macnamara would never have chosen to stay in a place
like the James Herald Hotel. Oh, it was comfortable, doubtless, and the only
person she had spoken to in the hotel—a bartender—had proven friendly;
she had bent his ear for forty minutes at lunch—her dinner, what with the
time change—perched on a red leather stool amid black oak and brass,
rattling on about airplanes racing the sun, and how the violin had evolved
from the viola when Europeans were able to afford carpets and drapes…
But with the price of a night's lodging at the James Herald she could have
bought that bass bow she'd wanted since June.
   Martha could just as well have slept on Liz's couch as spent so much of
her daughter's money. It was all very strange. The smile disappeared from
her lips as she considered how strange. She turned from the water and
ascended the sandy slope.
   “Mysterious meetings in expensive places,” she mumbled as she climbed.
A wealth of sand was trapped in her open-toed shoes. “Intrigue. Suspense…
   “Tune in tonight for shocking revelations!” The sole of her foot gritted
against concrete; she stood on the pavement above the beach, emptying her
shoes. Except for her gray form, unobtrusive as a rock, the beach was empty
on this workday afternoon. Empty and cool. Martha shivered deliciously in
the good wool suit she hadn't been able to wear since May.
   The Great Highway cut between the City and the Ocean, sharp as the mark
of a razor. A young boy ran along the curb, all dressed in white, his feet
making a noise like pigeon wings.
   Thinking of pigeon wings, Martha's spirits lifted once again. It was her
spirits' natural condition, to be lifted. She sprinted across the street in her
cordovan brogues, her pleated skirt flapping, receiving the honks of
motorists with quiet grace. On the far side—the City side— stood the stand
of a pretzel vendor. His teeth flashed at her from a strong, Latin face. She
bought a soft pretzel, decorated it with mustard, and ate it where she stood.
   Three men walked by together, arm in arm in arm, and then a young
woman with bushy hair red as a radish. A bare-chested boy on a spyder bike
did wheelies in the street. Honks again. Martha's approval was limitless; San
Francisco bid fair to being as zany as New York.
   And this was a good corner, probably packed on weekends. Close to
downtown yet in sight of the water. She wished she had brought her fiddle.
How invigorating to sit down next to the pretzel vendor and play a Bach
passacaglia, or maybe a slip jig. Put out the hat. Liz would hate that! Liz
behaved with propriety.
   Martha Macnamara was smiling again. She licked mustard from her
fingers and turned toward the hotel.
   She took the stranger's long hand in her own and shook it. “How
wonderful! You could span way over two octaves!”
   The hand retreated as soon as custom permitted. The owner of it remained
standing, a dark figure in the shadow of a paneled wall. He bowed slightly to
Mrs. Macnamara.
   “ Mayland Long… Martha Macnamara…”The young bartender continued
his introduction. “I thought you two should meet.”
   Both parties stared at him. “Because of the violin,” he explained.
   “But surely you play keyboards,” Martha insisted. “With such a reach…”
   Mr. Long motioned across the white expanse of table, and did not sit
again 'til Martha had lowered herself into the chair opposite. “Forgive the
clutter. I have had a late dinner.” He spoke quietly, as empty plates and silver
were cleared away before him. “Please have tea with me.”
   My, thought the woman to herself. His voice. Lovely English. How
wonderful.
   “I don't make music,” Mr. Long stated. “I merely appreciate it.” He sat in
the shadow of his corner table, gazing across to where she sat touched by a
beam of light. He saw a slim woman of some fifty years. Her features were
small and regular, and her head set well on a slender neck. Her grizzled hair
was braided around her head. The hair and her gray wool suit were back lit,
causing Martha Macnamara to shine about the edges.
   She saw a thin man, dressed darkly, hidden in the dark. The hands stood
out against the white linen. They were very dark also, unusually dark, if this
man were indeed English. She thought of the beautiful voices of the West
Indies. Beautiful, yes, but not correct. Mr. Long's pronunciation was
faultless.
   “But you, madam,” he was saying, “are a creator. I remember you.”
   “I doubt that!”
   “I have a record upstairs in my rooms. A 78. I believe the label is
Seraphim. You play, among other things, the Chaconne from the Partita for
unaccompanied violin 4n D minor, by J. S. Bach. I have never heard that
piece played better.”
   He leaned forward as he spoke. Martha Macnamara saw his face.
   Her new-built conceptions fell apart as she looked at Mayland Long. The
man was Oriental. At least his eyes were. But the rest of him… Too long a
nose. Too much cheekbone. She gave up trying to place his origin.
   “You must be an historian,” she laughed. “How many years has it been
since they pressed 78s?”
   He smiled but did not answer. The tea arrived. Mr. Long poured for her,
then for himself. Ignoring the handle on the white china cup he wrapped his
hand around it. The thumb overlapped the fingers.
   Martha experimented, to see how much other cup her hands would
compass. “Ouch! It's hot!”
   “Do not burn yourself, Mrs. Macnamara,” said Mr. Long. He smiled with
excellent teeth. “I am not an historians—in any organized sense. If you tell
me where to find your latest stereo album or Dolby tape, I will bring my
collection out of the middle ages.”
    Martha smiled in turn—not with the smile of flattery well received, but as
though she were a child who was about to reveal a naughty secret. It was a
smile that made her round face rounder. “Look under the label Ceirnfni
Claddagh. I play fiddle in a Irish-American Ceili band.” Having uttered this,
she sat back, wondering if she had become so jaded with the public life—a
musician's life—that it was now effortless to talk to strange men alone in
strange places. And if she were jaded, then why were Mr. Longs attentions
so pleasant?
    “Thar Ci'onn! How wonderful,” he laughed.
    “Oh. You mustn't call my bluff. I speak very little Irish, though I'm taking
lessons with a Meath man. He says although my spirit is willing, my accent
is very bad. But then music is international, and with a fiddle under my chin
I can't talk anyway.”
    She heard her voice echo through the empty dining room. “And I guess
that's the only time I don't. But Mr. Long, I have to ask. Where are you
from?”
    He glanced into his teacup, then met her blue eyes again. He did not seem
offended. “I was born in China,” he said. “But I am not entirely—Chinese.”
Gripping the teapot around its portly middle, he freshened her cup.
    “What is the name of your ensemble?”
    “It's called Linnet's Wings, after a poem by Yeats.” She sighed. “Actually,
it's a poem Yeats hated…”
    “I know it,” said Mr. Long. “ 'There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a
purple glow, and evening full of the linnet's wings.' He had schoolchildren
prattling that into his ears for twenty years, so his distaste may be
understood.”
    “I've never been to Innisfree,” brooded Martha, staring across the dining
room and into the deeper dimness of the bar. She swallowed a yawn. “I don't
even know if it's a real place.”
    The chandeliers were crystal. The tiny drops sparkled in their own light.
The weariness of a day's flight blurred her vision, and the play of light
reminded her of snow falling into the bright circles of street lights.
    But here in San Francisco there was no snow. Never. Just fog and sea.
How strange. Unreal.
    The voice recalled her. “It is quite real,” the voice was saying. She
focused again. He meant Innisfree, of course. Not San Francisco.
    “You have been to Ireland?” she asked. But she guessed his answer
before he could speak.
   “What did you do there?”
   His eyebrows lifted, and the lean face softened in memories. “I was
looking for something.” There was a silence Martha allowed to grow. Then
he spoke again, with animation.
   “Mrs. Macnamara—it is Mrs. Macnamara, if I remember?”
   “It was.”
   He did not falter. “Mrs. Macnamara, have you heard the story of Thomas
Rhymer?”
   “I know the ballad,” she admitted. “But it's not Irish.”
   “That ballad? No. That is Walter Scott. But the story itself is Irish, I
believe. It was an Irishman who told it to me.
   “Listen!,” he began, and as he spoke he stirred his spoon in his cup with a
silver sound. Mrs. Macnamara noted this gesture with amusement. She was
sure that Mr. Long had not taken sugar.
   “You know how Thomas the Rhymer was taken off by the queen of
Elfland on her horse of the nine-and-fifty bells. How they swam the river of
blood, and how she showed him the roads to heaven and hell, avoiding both
of them to take a third. How he served her seven years in delightful capacity,
and how in the end his poor reward was that he was made incapable of lying.
This much is what got back to Scott.”
   “There is more?”
   “Obviously. The ballad is cut off just where it becomes interesting. It
does not touch on the predicament of a bard bereft of his stock in
trade—flattery. It does not so much as mention the Rhymer's son.”
   Mr. Long straightened in his chair, thereby disappearing into shadow. His
hands touched together and then opened, as though he were releasing a bird
into the air. “Thomas Rhymer,” he stated, “had a son by the queen of
Elfland. The boy was five years old when his fathers term ended and the
Rhymer was sent upon his way.” Mr. Long paused, breathed deeply and
stared into the air above Martha's head.
   “Thomas left, but he came back again, fording the river of blood,
blundering through the tangle of green which hides that road from mortal
eyes. It was not so pleasant a journey for a man alone, but Thomas Rhymer
found his way back to the land of the not-so-blessed and he stole his little
son away.”
   “No. I've never heard this,” whispered Martha Macnamara. “Have you got
the verses?”
   He stopped and drew breath. “There are verses,” he admitted. “But I don't
sing. Humor me.”
   And he continued. “Back in the world again, Thomas Rhymer took to his
trade, and the lad went with him. But fortune no longer smiled upon him.”
   “Because he couldn't lie.”
   “Quite likely, Mrs. Macnamara. And before the year was out, the Rhymer
began to hear the wailing of the Sidhe in the night and he knew he was
hunted.”
   “Oh no!” exclaimed Mrs. Macnamara, finding herself moved, almost
frightened. It was that voice…
   “Hiding the boy at the monastery at Lagan—this was in the days Cormac
O'Dubh was Abbot—he rode off, leading the hunt away. .
   “Crofters heard the racket of his horse's hoofs pass in the early night, but
in the coldest hour they saw the passage of riders who made no sound, a
company with faces like chalk and horses shining without moonlight. This
part of it has been remembered in Lagan Valley from then ‘til now.
   “In the last hour before dawn this ghastly company arrayed itself before
the gates of the monastery, and she who led them threw down upon the grass
the body of Thomas. Knowing she could not storm such a stronghold of the
new faith she offered a trade: her son for the small breath of life she had left
in the father.
   “Cormac himself stood at the gate. He was a burly Abbot. He cried out
that he would pray for souls, but he could not sell them.
   “But out from the gate squirmed the boy himself, and he ran to his father
and knelt beside him. Spurring her horse the queen plucked up her son. In
the same moment Abbot Cormac O'Dubh ran out from the monastery gate
to Thomas Rhymer. Him he took and carried to safety behind the gates.
   “But even this is not the end of the story. For the queen of Elfland, chalk
faced on her pale horse, let out a wail of anger, and she held the boy at arm's
length from her, and she put him down from her horse.
   “ 'He stinks!' she cried. 'He stinks of the dove! My boy, ma'cushia! Heart
of my heart, has been dipped in the filthy bowl!'
   “And all the shining horses reared up and sank into the earth, and the
Sidhe were gone. Because the good Abbot had put the boy beyond the reach
of his mother's people as long as time holds sway. He had baptized him.”
   “Ah! Of course.” Martha hit her palm against the table. “The obvious
solution. I never thought of it. But Thomas Rhymer… he's alive? I mean, he
was alive after that?”
   “He lived. He was a very quiet man in later years.”
   Mayland Long stared into the depths of an empty cup.
   “I believe you have that tale from Thomas Rhymer himself,” said Martha.
“You tell it with such… authority.” She sighed, once more aware of the
time change. While Mr. Long was speaking she had forgotten she was tired.
   “From the Rhymer?” He leaned forward and lifted his eyebrows in mock
wonderment. “How could that be?
   “He was unconscious during the crux of the story. I have the story from
the boy, of course. The Rhymer’s son.”
   “Beautiful boy,” he added, after a moment. “Resembled his mother.”
   Martha blinked twice. The hour and the moment combined to overwhelm
her. Cradling her head in her arms she laughed until she hiccupped.
   “Forgive me—I'm tired. Jet lag. I'd better turn in now. Getting up at five.”
This last word dissolved into a yawn.
   As she pulled herself to her feet Mr. Long rose also. “You will remain
through tomorrow, though?” He spoke with some alarm. “I have not let you
talk about your music. You must join me for dinner.”
   She put her hand to the gray braid above her ear and scratched
thoughtfully. “Tomorrow I'm supposed to meet my daughter. That's why I
flew in. But she hasn't called yet, and I can't reach her. Can I call you
sometime in the middle of the day?”
   “Certainly. My schedule is not crowded; if I am not in my rooms, you can
leave a message at the desk.”
   His voice pulled at her once again as she turned to leave the table. “Mrs.
Macnamara. Why so early? Why five o'clock?”
   “I sit,” she called back. “Zazen.”
   Mayland Long stood alone beside the empty cups. “Zazen?” he whispered
to himself. His dark face was lit with an amusement which grew and
deepened.
   The bartender stopped her on the stair. “Mr. Trough,” she greeted him,
and continued walking.
   “Jerry,” he corrected. “Can you spare two minutes?”
   “Just about,” Martha smiled, and putting the key to her door, she ushered
the young man in.
   Martha’s rooms were not the largest nor the most opulent in the James
Herald Hotel. Had Martha herself made the reservations, they would have
been the cheapest. As it was, she had a bed-sitting room with three chairs, all
of which were too large and too soft to be comfortable and a canopy bed
that dwarfed her.
   Jerry Trough was still clutching a damp bar towel in one hand. He sought
for a place to put it down, rejecting the walnut table, the quilted satin
spread, the brocade seat of a side chair. At last he dropped it to the carpet,
where it lay by an open suitcase which spilled over with white cotton
underwear and paperback books. He cleared his throat.
   “I saw you leave the dining room and wanted to catch you before you
turned in. It's about the man I introduced to you tonight.”
   She turned quickly, leaning her hip against the Chippendale reproduction
dresser. “Mr. Long? Yes, we talked an hour away. What about him?”
   “What did you think of him?” She smiled at the impudence of the
question. “I found him informative and entertaining. Not to mention exotic.
I may have supper with him tomorrow.”
   “Watch out,” mumbled the bartender. “I know. He can be a real—actor,
and all. Loads of fun. He's a friend of mine, too, in a way.” Trough shifted
from foot to foot.
   “Just 'in a way?' “ Her eyebrows lifted interrogatively.
   Trough shrugged. “Okay. He is a friend. But I ask you to be careful,
Martha. I don't think he's quite all there.”
   “Mr. Long?” Her voice rose in consternation. “I've rarely met anyone
more—more there. More present, I mean.” She glared at the bartender. “If
the man is schizophrenic or something like that, why did you introduce me
to him?”
   As though Martha's outrage had shaken the starch out of him. Jerry
Trough sat down on the edge of the bed. His eyes darted about the room and
he laced his hands together. “I told you why Because of the violin. And
because you're a lot alike in other ways.”
   “Oh. I'm a nut too?” Martha’s eyes went even wider, and she put her
hands on her hips.
   The young man sighed and ran his fingers through his curly black hair.
“Of course not. You take me wrong. What I mean is that you both seem to
like… conversation. Have large vocabularies. And you're both alone —you
because you just got here, and he because… he just is.
   “And when I see you get excited about little things. Like the way you
talked about racing the sun in the airplane and almost winning except you
had to stop at the end of the country Well, Mr. Long's like that too; he's got
these old, falling apart books of Chinese poetry he says nobody's ever
translated before, and he brings them to the bar and sets them down and
scribbles in little notebooks. He gets excited about it, but I never hear about
his translations getting printed anywhere, so I don't know…
   “I used to think he was really stuffy until I noticed that half of everything
he said was a pun or a joke. You're somewhere around the same age… I
think…” Here Trough’s words faded. He knew himself to be treading shaky
ground on the subject of age.
   “So I thought he'd interest you—to talk to for a few minutes. But Mr.
Long… I want you to know if you get him drunk,” Trough said, “Old Mr.
Long will tell you that he used to be a dragon. And he's not joking around
when he says it.”
   Martha pushed off from the dresser and came to stand beside the awkward
young man. On her face a triumphant smile was blossoming.
   Trough regarded his own feet as he continued. “He told” me he used to be
ten yards long and solid black, with a head like a chrysanthemum. Not any
other flower—he insisted it was a chrysanthemum. He also thought it was
important I knew that he had had five toes on each foot. As a dragon, that
is.”
   The worry had cleared from Martha's brow. “Oh!” she breathed. “I see.
Well, Jerry, me boy. This night he told me that he was personally acquainted
with Thomas Rhymer.”
   “Or at least knew his son,” truth compelled her to add.
   Trough stared blankly. “And he doesn't?”
   “Not likely. But don't you see where his head is at, when he says things
like that?”
   “No. Where?” She gestured in the air above her head, as though calling
all available Muses to her aid. “Why he's… exercising a scholarly
imagination. He's smashing the world, to recreate it in his own pattern. That
man is an artist, and conversation is his medium. If he appears a bit crazy it's
only because he's too much alone,” she concluded. “I understand him. Or I
think I do. I can't explain any better than that.” Her blue eyes stared at the
carpet, the pile of books, the wet bar towel…
   The bartender stood up. “Still, be careful, Martha. They found a body in
the hall last year, in front of his door.”
   Martha Macnamara took Trough's place on the bed. It bounced. “What? A
body? Whose?”
   “The dead guy was a junkie, I heard. Police record long as your arm. No
loss to San Francisco, I guess, but that was just a freaky way to end him, you
know? No marks, no blood, just his neck bone snapped. Coroner decided he
fell, but why he was there in the first place, and why he should fall so hard
he broke his neck…” Here the bartender stopped portentously.
   “So you think poor Mr. Long is a secret killer, do you? He's part
Chinese—perhaps he knows some deadly Oriental way to kill a man from
behind a wooden door. Perhaps he's the head of a Tong!” Eyes flashing,
Martha rose to her feet.
   “I rather like old Mr. Long,” she stated. “He may tell me that he used to
be a dragon, or will be a dragon come Tuesday next, or that he actually is a
dragon underneath his suit jacket and white shirt-front. I will try to receive
such a confidence in the spirit in which it is given.”
   She paused for breath, and her bright outrage flowed away from her. She
regarded the bartender more calmly. “And I doubt very much that you'll find
me in the hallway outside his door, dead with no marks of violence.”
   Mr. Trough shrugged an ineloquent shrug. “Sure. You're safe, I guess.
Besides, he never drinks much with dinner.” Martha's irritated frown sent
Trough out the door.
   She put her face between the panels of the drape and rested her forehead
against cool glass. Outside the city swept twinkling north and west to the
sea. No snow. Also no fog.
   That little interview had almost ruined her mood. She decided she
wouldn't let it. After all, she was in San Francisco neither to fight nor frolic,
but to talk to Liz, who evidently had problems and wanted her advice.
Martha had been able to give her daughter little enough as a child—surely
she could now spare a week and a little maternal concern. Regardless of
impudent bartenders. Regardless of fascinating men.
   Where was Liz's apartment? San Mateo. That was south. Behind the
hotel. She could not play the game of pretending to locate her daughter
among the lights below.
   Was Liz nervous also? Sleepless? Afraid of the interview for which she'd
called her mother clear across the continent? That would be unlike Liz. She
was probably sleeping soundly, believing her mother was getting in on a late
flight. Or she could be out on a date, or what was most likely of all, at work
amid a clatter of computers. Liz would get in touch.
   She turned from the window and yawned. Her thoughts returned to the
man she had met tonight. What a wonderful voice. Impossible hands. And
that strange hybrid face, falling in and out of shadow.
   It was easier to think of this brief acquaintance than it was to think of her
daughter. Easier and more fun.
   She caught a glimpse of herself in the dresser mirror. One of her braids
was falling over her ear. She shook her head dubiously at her image. She
could not see herself a remarkable beauty.
   Yet Mr. Long—she felt—liked her. He knew who she was. He was
interested to know more. Her gaze searched the mirror.
   So he has an old 78 and a good memory—the mirror told her. And he
likes an audience. Her shoulders sagged as she kicked off her shoes.
   But in five seconds this depression also vanished, swept away in the tides
of Martha's good humor. She threw off the tweed suit and stepped out of her
underwear. Stark naked, she dialed the switchboard and asked for a wake-up
call at five.
   In darkness, leaning against a wall of red brocade, Mayland Long waited
for the elevator. He smiled, and his teeth glinted in the greenish light of the
control buttons.
   Zen… to have come so far, to this stone city where the ocean was on the
wrong side of the sun, to wait and watch himself age with cruel speed,
foreign in form, in speech, in feeling… Here to find again the trace of his
own interminable, floundering search. And in such unlikely shape as that of
Martha Macnamara.
   Ch'an.
   There was that odor about her: not a sweetness, exactly, but a wildness
suggesting breezes that have touched cold water and living wood. The air
surrounding Martha Macnamara was charged with… reality.
Unpronounceable reality: Long could feel her reality against his face like
sunlight or rain. Her every gesture had spoken to him in certainty, yet she
had expressed no opinions, leaving such pronouncements to him.
   Martha had something which drew him to her, like a wondering beast to
the fires of men. She had what he lacked, in her laughter, her simplicity, her
quick passions, her certainty. It was the taste of existence—of being.
   It was the Tao.
   His breath escaped slowly between his teeth. He wanted to see her again,
and feared chance would not allow it. Out of habit he tamped down that
desire, attempting to snuff it before it could do him harm. He would see her
or he would not; pain was irrelevant to the future.
   The elevator shuddered open. It was bright inside, and empty. He stepped
in and pressed the button for the seventh floor. Memories competed with the
drum of the motor.
   Old hands. The smell of rain—the smell of Ch'an. Quiet words in rough
Cantonese. “I am not to be your master. Your master has to be stronger than
you are—has to tell you you are a fool and make you to know it. And make
you feel content in being a fool. How could I do that for you? I'm old. You
are too strong for me; you are full of chi.” The old man had paused then,
huddled against the wind while clouds thickened above them.
   “I will tell you this. Long,” he continued. “Before you find yourself you
will lose your chi. Also you will leave behind you all pride of body, pride of
mind. You will be reduced. Like me.” The old man closed his eyes, and rain
began to beat against his gray, crew-cut hair. He pulled his coat closer.
Suddenly his eyes snapped open and he looked Long in the face.
   “You must leave China. Go across the ocean. There you will meet your
master.” He set down his teacup with a palsied hand. His voice rose, grew
fierce.
   “I tell you this, most honored and impressive visitor. You are a fool, yes,
but you will find the very thing you seek. You will find truth!”
   Mayland Long stepped out of the elevator. The words of the old man
faded. They had been polished by repetition in his mind ‘til they gleamed
gray; links of iron, beads on a chain. They were a string of beads that
   Long told daily, while he waited and studied and thought.
   He yawned and felt for his key. He didn't want to think any more. He'd
rather tell stories to Martha.




                                 Chapter 2
   The James Herald Hotel stood on a high slope of Nob Hill. The sea wind
broke upon it like the Pacific broke over the shore rocks that were visible
from the hotel's upper windows. It was built of brick, but its ground floor
was encased with brass and varnished teak. All its myriad windows were
shining. The James Herald was not the oldest of the great San Francisco
hotels and it was not the largest. It was, however, old enough and large
enough. In Martha Macnamara's opinion, it was quite expensive enough,
also.
   The cut glass doors to the dining room stood open. An August evening
light, admitted through the tall leaded windows beyond, filtered into the
hallway where she stood. The angles in the glass doors cut the light sharply.
The crystal chandeliers, too, sparkled painfully sharp and exact this evening.
Tiny pendants emitted a spectrum of color. They would provide her no soft
visions of snow tonight.
   She sought around the room, among the glistening white circles of linen,
looking for a man alone. There were few of those; the Crystal Room was
not a place where one ate alone.
   Yet he did. Mr. Long lived at the James Herald Hotel and took his meals
in the dining room. Both these things were very strange. Martha could bring
to mind places in San Francisco where she would rather eat—Henry
   Africa, where the window was gilt with the motto Vive la mort, vive la
guerre, vive la legion etrangere, and young men, brittle and elegant, stood
warily around the door, or the fast-food stall in Japantown, where the
cookies were pressed in the shape of a fish. And Martha had only arrived in
the city yesterday. Eating in the Crystal Room's icy splendor every evening
didn't say much for Mr. Long. Where was he, anyway? Had she been stood
up twice in one day?
   As she passed between the glass doors, a dark shape welled out of the
shadows. “Ah!” she began, but it was not Mayland Long, but the Maitre d'.
“I'm just looking for someone,” she explained, as the man bowed stiffly
from the waist, like a bird. She restrained an impulse to return the bow.
   “Mrs. Macnamara?” he addressed her. “Please come with me.”
   She followed, her eyebrows drawn down and together. Martha
Macnamara did not like being known to people whom she did not know. It
made her feel unpleasantly like a child. She contemplated asking the Maitre
d' his name, but if she did that she was certain he would give her his first
name alone, and she would then have to insist he call her Martha. And she
did not really want to be called Martha by this man, who would then
continue to call all other customers by their surnames. She remained silent.
   Mayland Long sat at a table beneath a window full of sky. It was a very
good table, and its desirability impressed upon Martha that Mr. Long was a
wealthy man.
   He rose from his seat as he saw her approach, and he too bowed to her.
Mrs. Macnamara lost all restraint. Placing her palms together she bowed in
turn. The Maitre d' held her chair.
   She greeted him with a smile. “Wonderful weather, today,” she began.
“Clear and crisp.”
   Affably, he nodded. “Of course. The rainy season hasn't started yet.”
   “Did I scandalize the poor man with my gassho?” she asked, as soon as
they were alone.
   He responded slowly, as though she had broached a subject of some
depth. “Scandalize? How can one scandalize a maitre d'hotel? Such a man
has seen it all before. And if one did succeed in subjecting him to scandal, I
don't believe his face would express his condition. Did you intend to
scandalize Jean-Pierre?”
   The voice was the same. Her memory had not added quality. “No. But I
can take only so much bowing before I bow back. Is he really Jean-Pierre?”
   He considered the question. “To the best of my knowledge he is.
Jean-Pierre Burrell. Father of five. Canadian by birth. I believe he has
managed the floor in the Crystal Room for over ten years.”
   Mr. Long leaned back in his chair and regarded his dinner companion.
Sunlight fell slanting across his face.
   His eyes, she thought. Last night she had seen them as solid black-brown.
Chinese eyes. Today they were not opaque. Light entered the iris and was
trapped in it, glowing. Almost amber, like the sun through a beer bottle.
   And he was letting her see him—hands, face and all. He did not court
mystery. Martha was very glad of this; she had no patience with mystery.
   “I am very sorry your daughter failed to show,” Mr. Long continued, as he
looked in turn at Martha. She was wearing a plain blue dress and her eyes
were blue. Sunlight or moonlight, Martha Macnamara's eyes were always
blue. “Is this something one can expect, with her?”
   A frown imprinted itself on her round, innocent features. “No. Not at all.
Liz is very—reliable. Almost too much so. She wants things done right. She
keeps all her shoes in the pockets of a big plastic bag hanging in her closet.
And she believes in independence for women.”
   She stared at the menu with sightless eyes. “That's why we don't get
along, I guess.”
   Mr. Long smiled slowly. “You don't approve of your daughters views,
Mrs. Macnamara? I would have thought a lady of such independent spirit…”
   She waved his words aside. “Oh, no. I approve of Liz. I wouldn't dare do
otherwise. It's she who disapproves of me.”
   His eyebrows drew together. “Then I am at a loss. Please explain.”
   She drew a deep breath as her fingers played with her water glass. It was
cut crystal, of course.
   “Liz disapproved of my cutting off my—my musical career to raise a
child.”
   Delight etched Mr. Long's lean face. “A child? Do you mean Elizabeth
herself?”
   “Exactly. She feels she is a sort of involuntary accomplice in my
oppression. And, she feels I caved in, when I should have fought.”
   “How should you have fought?” He leaned forward, hands wrapped
together on the table.
   He can't be more than sixty, considered Mrs. Macnamara. Probably
younger, though it's so hard to tell with Eurasians. Too young to retire. Too
young to live in a hotel and eat in the Crystal Room every night.
   “I should have continued in the job I was educated for, playing Bach and
Berlioz in long dresses. I should have left her with a nanny, or even had an
abortion, though that was a very different story in those days.
   “At any rate, she is sure I shouldn't be wasting my time playing fiddle in
an Irish band, touring about and sleeping in the living rooms of friends. Not
at my age.”
   “And what age is that?” he asked blandly. A challenge hid somewhere
within the question, and his brown eyes hid within their creases.
   Easily she answered, “I'm fifty. How old are you?”
   Mayland Long threw back his head and laughed. His teeth were large and
very white against his skin. “Older than you are, Mrs. Macnamara. And more
vain. I won't answer that question just now.”
   Then he leaned forward again. His elongated fingers stretched across the
menu he had not opened. He touched her pink hand for just a moment: “But
I think it would be wonderful to fiddle with the Linnet's Wings and sleep
wherever one finds oneself. At any age.”
   She found herself saying, “Then why not do it, Mr. Long. I know you're
not a musician. I don't mean that. I mean… Why do you live here, in this
beautiful, boring hotel? And why do you eat… here? In the Crystal Room.
Every night. When you are…” she finished with quiet intensity “… who you
are.”
   He drew back, his two hands flat on the tablecloth. I have offended him,
thought Martha. She watched.
   “And who is that?” he asked softly, but he gave her no time to answer.
“There is time,” he continued, in the same tone of voice: softly, very softly.
“There is time for the James Herald, too, in a long life. Sometimes one must
wait for things.”
   Wait for what? she thought, but did not continue her attack. “Forgive me
if I was out of line. I spoke on impulse.”
   The light was failing outside. The chandeliers cast haloes against the
beamed ceiling. Mr. Long nodded. “Impulse or instinct. I am not offended,
Mrs. Macnamara.”
   She did not quite understand. She opened her menu and stared, seeing
nothing.
   “There is something marvelous in formality,” she murmured. “Greetings.
Bows. And surnames.” She gave up searching among the cuts of beef and
lamb. She looked at him again. “But I'm a poor peasant, really. I can't be
Mrs. Macnamara for more than a half hour at a time before I get giddy.”
   She found herself saying the words she had swallowed earlier in front of
the Maitre d'. “Please call me Martha.” Then she quailed before his silence,
realizing she could no more call this man by his first name than she could
fly.
   “I don't ask the privilege in return,” she qualified. “Especially since you
admit to being older than me.”
   It was his turn to concern himself with a water glass.
   He held it up to the last light of day “Why? Am I so stuffy, Martha?”
   “No. Not stuffy,” Her forehead creased. She searched for the word.
“Intimidating.”
   “But not too intimidating to have my ear twisted for living in a
comfortable 'hotel. For dining at the same place nightly.” He lowered the
crystal to the table. The corners of his mouth turned upwards.
   “There are very few people who call me by my given name. I don't know
why that should be, but it's true.”
   “Isn't that the way you want it?”
   He shook his head. The smile widened. “I… don't have an opinion on the
matter. And you…” He adopted the imperturbability of a stage Chinaman,
“Must decide for me what I am to be called from this moment toward. And
where I—,”
   The waiter interrupted, letting Mrs. Macnamara blush in comparative
privacy. She chose the lobster. Given the choice, she almost always picked
the lobster. Mr. Long asked for rock cod. Rock cod was not on the menu,
but the waiter merely nodded and inquired about the wine.
   It was dark out now. The window was shiny black, and whatever crisis
had been approaching had passed away with the waiter. Mr. long was eager
to talk about Buddhism. Martha tried to listen, but her mind drifted back to
Liz. She vacillated between being annoyed with her daughter for this
cavalier treatment and being very anxious for her. Being annoyed was by far
the most comfortable feeling.
   “I used to have quite a collection of the commentaries of Nagarjuna,” he
began. “Are you interested in the Indians?”
   She shook her head and hurried to swallow a bite of romaine. “I have no
head for philosophy. I get confused.”
   He lay down his knife and fork neatly. Martha withstood five seconds of
silent scrutiny. “I see,” he said finally. “Zen.”
   “Whatever word you like. I sit still, or I try. Truth is what is important,
and writings just… catch me by the heels. I think Bodhidharma has the right
attitude, to sit for nine years facing a wall. Truth!” she sighed, gesturing
helplessly. Her fork clinked and rolled into her salad bowl.
   “He fascinated me,” admitted Mr. Long. He stared over his shoulder into
the black glass. “I used to watch him from where he couldn't see me. Or so I
thought.”
   “What was this?” Martha groped, her mind skipping tracks as she listened.
   “Bodhidharma. Sitting by the rock wall of a cave, in Honan. Sometimes
he sat in fall lotus, but more often he tucked under his right foot.
Sometimes he wrapped a blanket around him, and the snow would make a
mound over his head.
   “But it would burn off. The snow—or rain, as the season
dictated—would melt and turn to steam and the blanket would smell of
scalded wool. That is probably what called the man to my attention first.
Burning off the snow “ Mayland Long opened his eyes very wide as his gaze
slid from the window to the intent face of Martha Macnamara. “I was not
always—subtle—you know. That comes with age, if we are fortunate. But
two things I have ever respected are warmth and the ability to sit still.”
   Martha listened to him speak. She had a peculiar skill at listening which
was in no way to be confused with an aversion to talking herself. Her
listening had an intensity which reached out into the speaker and eased the
meaning from him, which knitted word to word beyond the first mere intent
which called him to speak. She listened—as she moved—with grace.
   And she noticed, in passing, that Mr. Long had scarcely touched his wine.
   “I don't know where the story began that the man called Bodhidharma was
a frog-faced ogre. He was a small man—an Indian, of course. But he was
quite courteous.
   “Courteous to me, at least,” he added. Then there was silence between
them till the gentle pull of Martha's listening was felt again.
   “I waited for him to speak.” He chuckled and touched the bright blade of
the butter knife. “I did not cut off my arm to impress him. I don't know who
it was who did that, if indeed that story is not pure fabrication. I merely
waited to be noticed. All the winter and most of spring.
   “I waited…” Mayland Long's head rose up and his eyes met that peaceful,
blue, inescapable listening. “I have been waiting so very long, Martha,” he
said.
   She only nodded.
   Once again they were saved—or lost—by the arrival of the waiter bearing
the entree. The placing of the dishes entailed a certain amount of bustle.
   Plates were lifted and lowered. Silver winked in the light and the knives
made a sweet tinkle against one another. Behind all this Mayland Long sat
patiently still, having uttered a confession, and having that confession erased
by events. His face was touched with loss.
   On the other side of the mild turmoil sat Martha. Her smile grew as the
waiter receded. It was a smile which committed Mayland Long to nothing,
welcoming all.
   He glanced down at his plate. The fish filet was wound around itself,
skewered and dusted with paprika. The potatoes came out of a pastry gun.
“When must you leave?” he asked.
   Martha stared with true interest at her lobster. It was enormous and red.
She realized the depths other folly then, and wished for a bib.
   “I will leave when I find her,” she spoke with a grim determination which
owed something to her feelings concerning the dead crustacean before her.
   “Then I may arrange to have her kidnapped.” Mr. Long spoke quietly,
almost to himself. Martha, attacking a bulbous scarlet claw, seemed not to
hear. “Where does she live?”
   “Umph! This is impossible,” Martha muttered, as a steak knife slipped in
her now-greasy hand. “I'm not fit for this sort of establishment. Don't they
believe in using nutcrackers, Mayland?”
   “Allow me.” He pulled her plate to the center of the table, where with his
fingertips he curled the shell back from the meat as though it were paper.
“There is no delicate way to eat a lobster.” In this manner, the new intimacy
of his given name passed without comment.
   “Where does she live, your daughter?”
   Martha sighed, picking at her food. “I don't know,” she admitted. “She
used to work for FSS, in San Mateo, or so she told me. I called them. The
switchboard said there was no one by the name Macnamara.”
   Mayland Long's eyebrows lifted, and his eyes glittered with a harder sort
of light. “Ah!” he said. “We have a puzzle. Tell me, Martha, what does
Elizabeth do for a living?”
   Martha swallowed a bite of lobster. It was very good, but it was a Maine
lobster and not native to this seacoast at all. It arrived by plane, as did
Martha. Perhaps the same plane.
   “She's a systems analyst. FSS stands for Financial Systems Software. She
went to Stanford in math.” She was reminded that her dinner companion was
Chinese by the fact that his face, open so recently, had gone completely
unreadable to Martha. She watched and waited.
   “A systems analyst? Umm. Systems analysts rarely call their parents from
across the country with mysterious problems. Still more rarely do they
disappear. It is not part of the technical mentality to disappear. How will
you go about finding her?”
   Martha Macnamara's unobtrusive chin attempted to assert itself. “I will
start by renting a car and buying an area map. I will drive down to Financial
Systems Software. If they cannot or will not help me I proceed to Stanford
University and seek out Auld Acquaintance. Hers, not mine. If I fail there, I
try an old address I have. She moved about six months ago and was staying
with a friend from college while she tried to buy a condo;
   I have that girl's number, but no one ever answers there.”
   She shook her head admiringly. “Just think of it! She's not twenty-five yet,
and buying a condo. Without help, of course—I don't have a nickel.
   “If that doesn't work, and she hasn't called in a few days, then I go to the
police.”
   He paused before speaking. “Is it so serious?”
   “She told me she was in trouble. She said I was not to know where she
lived because she was… nervous… about somebody. What am I to think? A
pesky boyfriend? Bills?
   “I don't know what to think,” she concluded.
   Mayland Long folded his hands together. “No use to draw conclusions
amid such a lack of data.” He regarded nothing, intently.
   “Martha—what do you know about your daughter's line of work. About
computers?”
   “Me? Why, nothing. They send bills. They eat my little bank card and give
me money—when they're working.”
   “Then, may I be permitted to assist you?”
   She started in surprise. “Help me find Elizabeth? That would be too much
to…” Her face lit in wonder. “Do you mean that you know about
computers, too, as well as Ireland and China?”
   He shrugged. His shoulders were thin beneath his excellently fitted suit
jacket. “A language is a language.”
   Mayland Long entered his suite of rooms and closed the door behind him.
The sitting room was neat and sparsely furnished, with a pair of wing-back
Queen Anne chairs set beside the bay window, a sofa of similar design
before the swept and evidently useable fireplace, and a single table of black
lacquer work standing between the two chairs. On this table lay an oilcloth
pad, and upon that rested a hot plate, a red kettle and a jade-green teapot.
The striking feature of this room was its walls, which were covered floor to
ceiling with books. Wherever space and the angles of the room permitted
stood high, heavy book cupboards, some with glass doors. Elsewhere single
shelves were drilled into the plaster, and atop all, near the high ceiling, piles
of books ascended, stacked flat.
   The books in Mr. Long's room were a motley crew, being old or new,
soiled or stiff and clean, composed in equal numbers of leather binding and
bright paperback.
   There was one other object of note in this idiosyncratic chamber, and that
was a bronze statue, one meter high, which sat on a shelf at eye-level: a
lacuna in the wall of' books. It was the figure of a Chinese dragon. The
creature sat up on its hind legs, in a manner reminiscent of the caterpillar in
Alice. It held in its left hand a tiny and exquisite teacup, and in its right a
saucer. Its tail curled around in front, like a third hand, and held open a
book. The entire statue was brassy black except for the eyes, which were
polished and lacquered and shone like gold.
   Mayland Long paced to the low shelves beneath the window. Searching
through the row of books, his hand reached out and began to harvest. First
he found the three volumes of Knuth's The Art of Computer Programming,
Principles of Compiler Design, and the Conference Proceedings of the Third
West Coast Computer Faire. Then, rising with this armload, he made his
way to a large, slotted magazine rack, whence he plucked out Dr. Dobb's
Journal of Computer Calisthenics and Orthodontia.
   He lowered this accretion of technical expertise to the seat of one of the
chairs and, picking it up by the carved wooden arms, so as not to damage the
Turkish rug, he placed it next to the other chair, on which he sat.
   A tall lamp stood beside him; he snapped it on. He grunted briefly as he
opened Knuth, vol. I, Fundamental Algorithms: a happy little sound, full of
contentment.
                                 Chapter 3
   With reddening fingers Martha pried apart the loops other key ring and
forced the keys of the rental car upon it. She had reached the landing
between the third and fourth floors and stopped to breathe for a moment
before continuing her ascent. She wondered what sprite had tempted her to
hoof it from the lobby to the seventh floor, where Mayland Long resided.
Surely it was not the spirit of physical fitness. Health trailed along in Martha
Macnamara's wake; she had never turned to pursue it.
   She snorted as she recognized her motive. She was visiting a man's rooms
alone, and so had unconsciously avoided observation. What an absurd right
hemisphere you have, she railed at herself. Nasty half-brain. Sneaky and
absurd… Serve it right to climb the rest of the way.
   She stood at the top. “There,” she mumbled to herself. “See what you
made me do?”
   The plain iron sign read seventh floor. She leaned against a newell post
cast in the shape of an acorn, feeling the heat in her face. She stepped
through the fire door into the hall.
   Here, somewhere along the maroon turkish-patterned runner, was where
the body was found. The junkie. With his neck broken. She ought to ask him
about that story— get it over with and out of her mind.
   Lifting her hand to knock on the door marked 714 cost a great effort of
will. She stared at the shiny brass numbers. Heavy. Solid. 7-1-4. Her face
was still hot; he would think she were blushing. Perhaps she was. Definitely
she would not ask about the body.
   She listened for movement within and heard nothing. Then the door softly
opened, revealing Mr. Long. He balanced a cup on a saucer in his left hand.
In the morning light he looked thinner and less exotic. Standing in
shirtsleeves between Martha and the window, he seemed very slight indeed.
   “Looking for bloodstains?” he asked gently, smiling. He laughed at her
reaction. “Forgive me, Martha. That unfortunate accident is our one piece of
notoriety at the James Herald. Everyone who speaks to Jerry Trough finds
out about it.”
   “Did you see the body, Mayland? It must have lain just outside your
door.”
   He shook his head. “No. I slept through the entire incident. I had been out
late the night before, you see, and only woke when the police started
knocking on doors. Couldn't help them.”
   She stood in the doorway, blinking all around at the book-lined room.
Mayland Long lifted his suit jacket from the closer of the two wing-back
chairs and gestured her to sit.
   She noted the teacup, and the fact that his shirt cuffs were not buttoned.
“Sorry. I guess I'm on time.” She snorted in self-deprecation as she lowered
herself into the delicate chair. “Unforgivable, really. You become so used to
people being twenty minutes late that you tack that time onto the real time
you want them to be there and then someone like me comes along and ruins
everyone's schedule. It's because I'm so literal minded.”
   “Never apologize,” said Long. “Especially not for punctuality. I was not
underway as early as you this morning, but that ought to give you cause for
resentment, not me.” He placed the saucer and cup neatly on the floor, atop
the second volume of Knuth. “I have only just gotten out of the shower.
   “Please pour yourself a cup of tea while I finish straightening up. It is not
black but Chinese,” he added, and knelt beneath the window, paging books
carefully into their shelves.
   It was the tea, she discovered, which was not black but Chinese. Smelled
like peaches. Tasted slightly salty. As she sat, craning her neck to stare all
around, she began to swing her legs. The chair was too high for her. It made
her feel like a little girl.
   So did all this room, so old looking—old mannish looking, really, but in
such good taste. And almost oppressively neat by her standards. Having a
few books scattered across the floor proved the rest weren't just
book-binding wallpaper.
   Martha Macnamara was resigned to being too early. She sat swinging her
stockinged legs while her toes brushed the subtle cream and maroon pattern
of the rug.
   Mayland Long did not mention that he himself hadn't shut eye the past
night, and if weariness caught him as he squatted on the floor, slipping Dr.
Dobb's between Donleavy's and Forbes September 4th issues, that drowse
might hav6 been merely the effect of the first sunlight, which struck
suddenly through the morning haze and threw him into a sort of peaceful
trance. His amber eyes lidded over and his hand was slipping down the slots
of the rack when he heard Martha gasp. Then his head moved quickly.
   “That is Oolong,” he stated.
   The half empty cup and saucer rattled in her lap. “No,” she whispered
eagerly. “The statue! That magnificent statue!”
   He turned back to the window, brushing invisible dust from his trouser
knees. “Yes. It's called Oolong.” His perfect voice had sunk to a mumble of
disinterest and Mayland Long stared out into the sky, caught by some pattern
of sun and mist.
   “Is that the name of the piece, the sculptor, or the dragon who posed for
it?”
   Motionless, he answered, “Any one you please,” and he yawned an
enormous yawn, with his tongue curling up like that of a cat. But when he
turned again toward her there was crispness and decision in his attitude.
   “Now, my dear lady, I have done with dawdling and we may off.”
   “Ah. Okay.” She deposited her white cup on the oilcloth beside the green
teapot and the red kettle. Puzzled, she lifted the lid of the pot and the smell
of leaves leaked out. She was sure that tea was Oolong. Both the tea and the
statue were named Oolong? The tea, the statue and the dragon? The word
swelled in her mind, assuming awful proportions. Perhaps if she asked him
the name of the black lacquer table here, he would state, “Oolong” again.
She had once had a Master like that; no matter what the question was, his
answer had been, “Dust on the floor.” After a year of that she had rebelled,
shouting, “There's nothing in you but 'Dust on the floor!'“ That had turned
out to be the proper response; from then on they'd gotten along famously.
   She met Long's challenging eyes with a greater challenge. “Oolong,” she
announced. “The tea, the statue, the dragon—and you too. The same word
can do for all.” And she laughed, till the bare shock in his face drained the
humor away.
   “I'm not insane, really,” she explained carefully. “That was just a little
Zennie joke. Very little. And now, Holmes! The hunt's afoot! Or the game's
up, or… something…” She preceded a thoughtful Mayland Long out the
door.
   “When Thou hast done, Thou art not done, for I have more,” he
announced, sinking back into the upholstery of the passenger seat. Brown
fingers, seemingly by themselves, sought out the handle of the door and
swung it closed.
   Martha was a bit dejected, having drawn a blank both at FSS and
Stanford. What was worse, Judy Freeman, Liz's school friend and Martha's
best hope, had moved to Seattle months previously.
   She started the engine of the silver Mercury Zephyr and lurched into first
gear. Her passenger was unaffected by the jerk; he had had his arm braced
against the dash. It was not the first lurch of the day.
   “Done? Oh yes. Donne. That's John Donne, isn't it? Punning as usual.
When I was first at school, everyone was mad about Donne. Now dropped
like a stone. Sign of the times, I guess.”
   Mayland Long cast a cold eye in her direction. “You insist on dating me,
madam.”
   With complete frankness she said, “Yes. I would love to. Hate mysteries,
and you insist on being one. But I like Donne. '… outside that room. Where
I shall be Thy music, I pause to tune my instrument before…' or something.
But tell me, Mayland. What is the More? I find the only child of my flesh
has no job, no friends, no forwarding address. She had grown into a positive
nonentity, if that is not too much of a paradox. How do we find her?”
   Long glanced at her face and read her concern. He didn't reply
immediately. The date palms of Palm Drive passed by the windows of the
car: tall ones and .short ones, the sick and the healthy, dead nubs and
towering majesties. He peered through them at the road ahead. “Please turn
right on El Camino,” he said.
   “Yes sir.” She did so.
   “You'll find her, Martha,” said Long quietly. “You always find the thing
you look for in the last place you look.”
   Laughter caught her unaware. She shifted lanes. “My! Look at these
bicyclists! How pretty they are. All blond. And such muscles. Stanford has
always had good-looking students; just the opposite of Columbia. I wonder
if one still has to send a picture along with the applications?”
   He let her prattle unimpeded while a few blocks passed, then spoke
sharply. “There's a parking spot. On the right.”
   She pulled into it. “Are we there? Where?”
   “At a shop called Friendly Computers,” he replied, striding purposefully
across the street.
   “Friendly computers? What kind are those?”
   “We're about to find out, Martha. Please do not become a traffic
statistic.” And he took her elbow and maneuvered her into the doorway of
the shop.
   The little shop was filled with magazines and television screens, which
Liz had once told her mother were properly called cathode ray tubes. The
walls were tacked with bright posters and diagrams, all meaningless to
Martha's uneducated eye. The place gave forth an air of sophisticated clutter.
Behind the single counter a young man sat, holding what appeared to be a
walkie-talkie. As she glanced at this fellow, something prodded her in the
ankle. It was a toy race car. She lifted her foot out of the way and the little
thing nudged obstinately against her other ankle. It seemed to be alone.
   “Want to try?” The young man smiled at her.
   “To work the car?” she asked incredulously “I can't. I never could.
Machines.”
   He held the box under her nose. “Say 'forward.' “
   “Forward?”
   “Again, without the inflection.”
   “Forward,” said Martha Macnamara. Then the words “right,” “left,”
“stop” and “reverse” were elicited from her. Finally he placed the box in her
hands.
   “Now what?”
   The young man beamed with pride. He was blond. Good looking.
Probably a Stanford student. “Now you tell the unit what you want the car
to do.”
   Martha knew she was the butt of a joke. She waited for the laughter to
start. She glanced at Mayland Long, who watched her with noncommittal
interest. No one would dare shove a walkie-talkie at him and tell him to say
“forward,” “right,” “left,” “stop,” and reverse.” A shame, too. Probably do
him good.
   She cleared her throat. “Turn right,” she commanded. The car sat.
   “Perhaps it has to be moving, before it can turn,” suggested Mr. Long.
   She tried, “Go forward.” The tiny vehicle trundled across the carpeting
and butted itself against the leg of a table.
   “Far out!” she cried with instant enthusiasm. “Oh wonderful!” She
commanded a right turn, a left, and then produced series of jolting jerks
reminiscent other encounters with the Mercury's clutch. In fascination, she
withdrew to a chair placed before a multi-colored terminal display, where
she continued her monologue of limited vocabulary.
   Mayland Long turned to the shop man. “Modistics?” he inquired.
   “Mostly. I took the i.d. plate off the box because I made some changes
inside. How'd you guess?”
   The older man shrugged his shoulders. “I have seen it advertised.”
   “Oh? Byte or Kilobaud?” The young man's eyes were calipers. He judged
his customer closely, according to criteria known only to himself.
   “Both,” answered Mr. Long. “But that was in the May issues. I remember
reading that the speech recognition response was inadequate. That it was
easily confused by labials, in fact.”
   A fat man in a white shirt walked through the door. He ignored Martha
and her car and they ignored him. He proceeded to the magazine rack, where
he planted himself.
   “S'true I made mods. Added a laser-cut filter, and a routine to cancel
noise. Least mean squares.”
   “You are Fred Frisch?”
   He had a sizable blond moustache. He pulled on it now. “Yeah. Have I
met you somewhere?”
   “No. But I have met you.” Mayland Long's well-tuned voice slid from
polite impersonality to something a shade warmer. He lounged against the
counter. “In the pages of Dr. Dobb's. Your article on financial system for
the home computer, with a sample 8080 implementation. Interesting!
Almost wasted, really, such elegant algorithms for a 16 K machine…”
   Mr. Frisch responded to this praise. He straightened. His silky moustache
whuffed. His hands worried a black power cable into circles on the dusty
counter. “Did you try it?”
   Long's eyes shifted only slightly. “Alas, I don't have CPM,” he demurred.
The fat man by the magazine rack dropped a well-thumbed copy of Byte
back into its slot, sighing deeply.
   “Oh. Well. There's that,” Frisch admitted. “Interrupts would have made it
run quicker, but so many people have CPM.”
   “You went to Stanford, I imagine,” said Mayland Long, as he stared down
at the floor, where the toy car was careening in circles around his legs.
Martha Macnamara showed quite a skill.
   “How'd you know? It wasn't in the article, was it?” asked Frisch.
Immediately he answered his own question. “No. They print only your name
and address: no biography. I remember that because I got letters for months
after, wanting me to send free tapes.”
   “But you acknowledged the assistance of a Professor Carlo Peccolo for
certain of your ideas. And Professor Peccolo has published in EDN, where a
biography did accompany his article. How would you have received his help
if you were not a student of his? Since he teaches at Stanford, it must be
that…”
   Fred Frisch cut in. “Oh sure. I see now. I thought for a moment you did
auras, or like that.”
   Mr. Long let his toe down upon the hood of the irritating race car, which
protested like an angry bee.
   “But I suppose Liz Macnamara might have told me who you were,
without my chance reading.”
   He shot a look upward and locked eyes with Frisch. “How'd you know I
know Liz?”
   “You were in the same department. You are of an age.”
   “Who are you?” countered Frisch. “You work with Liz?”
   “No.” He slipped his hand into his upper jacket pocket, as though to
produce a card. Failing to find one, he patted the two side pocket, while
furrowing his brow. Finally he spoke again. “Forgive me. My name is Long:
Mayland Long. I know very little about Miss Macnamara. I am trying to
learn more.”
   “You're a headhunter?” Fred Frisch spoke with the politeness of
contempt. Mr. Long exposed his large straight teeth in a laugh.
   “A job recruiter? No. Hardly. I represent a more personal interest.” His
voice dropped almost to a whisper. “The lady with the talent for driving is
Elizabeth Macnamara's mother.”
   Frisch peered covertly at the top of Martha's head and at her obliviously
hunched shoulders. The control box dangled unnoticed from her wrist, for
she had discovered the more adult fascination of computer checkers.
   “Why doesn't she ask her daughter herself?” he muttered uneasily. “I
hardly know Liz.”
   “Elizabeth has disappeared, Mr. Frisch.”
   Frisch blinked at the word. “Disappeared? Jeez.”
   “Mrs. Macnamara lives in New York, and so she's slipped out of touch
with Liz, who seems to have quit her job and moved from her last known
address. We do not know who her friends are.”
   “I'm not the one to ask,” said Frisch, for Long's ears only. “Liz's a bit of a
pushin' baby, if you know what I mean.”
   Dryly, Mayland Long admitted he did not. “I've gathered the impression
that Miss Macnamara is a rather ambitious young woman and she keeps to
herself. Is that what it is to be 'a bit pushin' baby?' “
   Frisch sighed and shrugged, with a half-smile that was one-quarter
apology. “Not quite. She can be friendly when she wants to. When she thinks
a guy might be… good for her career. She got along with Peccolo.”
   Mr. Long's eyes widened. Frisch hurried to explain “She was his
T.A.—teaching assistant, you know? They were very chummy, for a while.
But it didn't last.”
   “Why not?”
   The blond fished with one hand ‘til he snagged the back of a high stool
and pulled it under him. Once seated, he remained in thought for a count of
five. “I think it was this way. Liz wants to be a manipulator—the kind who
controls. Peccolo is that kind. Much better at it. He used her when it was
supposed to be the other way around. She put in a lot of hours on the
machine for him—designing his lessons, cleaning up his math… Peccolo is
a good teacher, fine organizer—all that jazz…” Frisch, who had been
talking to the glass counter top, suddenly sought out the other's eye. “But
Liz has the technical brain. She's real good.” The gaze slid away again. “Too
bad technique ain't everything.”
   The dark man smiled slowly. His fingers drummed on the glass. “You've
knocked heads with her? Don't worry about offending me; I've never met the
young lady.”
   Frisch shuffled in place, embarrassed. “Well—no. Not me. I avoided Liz,
you see, so I wouldn't.”
   “Do you think Peccolo would know where she is now?”
   Fred Frisch shrugged once again. “Better than I,” he said. “What's your
part in this. Detective?”
   Mayland Long laughed. Martha looked up. “Worse and worse! I'd rather
be a headhunter!”
   Frisch looked unconvinced.
   “Mrs. Macnamara doesn't speak the jargon, you see, and my field is
languages.” Long found Martha standing beside him. Gently he took the
controls of the racer from her hand and returned the box to Frisch.
   “That fellow went to Stanford, didn't he?” asked Martha, as she was
propelled across the busy street.
   Mayland Long, in a graceful inversion of traditional politeness, waited
for her to let herself in the driver's side, then swung around the front of the
car and waited for her to reach over and unlock his door.
   “So you were listening?” he replied, once in the quiet of the closed car.
   “Oh no. I heard you say 'modistics' and immediately tuned out the
conversation, since I would not be able to understand a word. I knew the
fellow was from Stanford because he was blond, and there was a bicycle
locked to the post outside.” Her voice trailed off. She was thinking of
something.
   “Well, however you came upon it, the supposition is correct. He is a
Stanford alumnus, and knows your daughter slightly.”
   Martha nodded. “Only slightly?”
   “He has given us another name. Perhaps a more important one. Back to
campus,” he commanded, and the car lurched obediently forward.
   “Mayland—,” she began, as she found a space in the flow of traffic,
entered and took it with unexpected competence. “I enjoyed myself back
there. I think I missed my calling in life.”
   The dark man smiled and his arm, braced against the dash, relaxed to the
seat. “You should have been a computer engineer?”
   “Sweet Jesus, no! I should have sold toys.”




                                  Chapter 4
   “I'm sorry. I haven't the least idea,” said the professor. He leaned back in
his leather chair until the springs creaked; his pale fingers drummed against
the mahogany desktop. It appeared that the conversation was over early.
   Martha frowned. Her blue china eyes shone like beads. Mr. Long and she
had spent the last half hour being wonderfully lost among the Spanish red
sandstone buildings and the dusty live oaks of Stanford campus. They had
stopped to nose into the chapel, with its gold murals and gaudy, loud,
Victorian glass, and had known the satisfaction of excoriating the place
together. Now it was getting hot and she was tired. Peccolo's attitude was
no help.
   Mayland Long drew breath slowly and spoke. “I believe she assisted you
in your researches until quite recently…” His calm had an edge on it—an
edge which told Martha she had better bite her tongue and leave this matter
to him. It spoke another message to Dr. Peccolo.
   “Recently? No. Not at all. She's been gone almost two years, now.” He
pulled himself erect again and focused over the expanse of the desk at Mr.
Long. Dr. Peccolo was a much heavier man than the Eurasian, fair and
stocky.
   “Let me tell you something about graduate students, Mr.—uh—Long. By
the way, are you in the legal profession?”
   The answer was dry. “Not exactly.”
   “Graduate students. They come and go. Very fast. MS is two years work.
A doctorate… well, Elizabeth Macnamara was not headed for the doctoral
program. She worked for me: grading papers, coding, handling technical
correspondence. I've had two students—one per year—in that position since
she graduated. No reason I should keep in touch. I'm sorry.”
   The last two words alone were addressed to Martha Macnamara, who sat
to one side of the two men, between a wooden table piled high with
printouts and a neat glass case containing, among other objects of interest, a
diploma from Massachusetts Institute of
   Technology, a certificate of merit from Advanced Micro Devices, and a
gold urn on a marble base with the words DENVER INVITATIONAL 1959
engraved upon the side. She burned with the desire to know what sort of
invitation Dr. Peccolo had received from Denver in 1959. She heard his
words only distantly.
   Mayland Long did not allow the interview to slip from him. “Liz
Macnamara was one of the more useful finds among this flowing river of
students, was she not?”
   Color deepened in the professors flat face and the muscles along his jaw
gained sudden prominence. “Just how do you mean that?” he growled. His
right hand plucked up a rapidograph pen and closed to a tight fist around it.
   Mayland Long retained advantages of pigment and breeding. If this
sudden confrontation roused him in any way it was not for the world to
know. “I had heard that Miss Macnamara was quite an apt student. And
diligent. Not all apprentices are like that, unless things have changed since I
was young.”
   '^She was quite competent for the sort of work I had her doing,” admitted
Dr. Peccolo, with no great grace. “Which was, as I told you, coding and
correspondence. She had marketable skills—at least marketable today, in a
society where demand has outstripped the supply of technical expertise, in a
computer ghetto like the Santa Clara Valley… I helped her to develop these
skills, and I paid her while I did so. I helped her find her first job, with Floyd
Rasmussen at FSS, and I advised her against leaving it, when she came to me
for advice. She has no cause for complaint.”
   Mayland Long regarded him abstractly. “The young woman is not
complaining,” he reminded the professor. “She is missing. So she came to
you for advice, before leaving FSS?”
   Dr. Peccolo nodded once. “It was the last time I heard from her. Over a
year ago. She had this idea of going into consultant work. I told her you
don't consult until people are banging on your door. Until you have a
reputation.”
   “You consult, I imagine, professor.”
   “I have a reputation.”
   Mr. Long folded his hands amicably. “Her talents were nothing special,
then?”
   Dr. Peccolo stood up, nearly tipping his chair backwards. “I'm sure we are
all rather special,” he stated. “To our mothers.”
   Martha stood also, thrusting herself out of her chair with her arms.
Slowly she raised her hands to her hips and faced him in this manner. She
smiled at the professor who loomed over her. She began to laugh.
   “I know how irritating Liz can be,” she said at last. “But you shouldn't
have let her get to you this way. Envy makes big men look so silly.”
   Mr. Long was still seated, part of his face hidden by the church steeple of
his fingertips touching together in front of his mouth. He watched with
interest, perhaps with amusement, as Dr. Peccolo took two steps away from
Martha Macnamara's mirth and flailed behind to catch the falling chair.
   As Martha sailed out the office door, Mayland Long rose sinuously to his
feet, not touching the arms of the chair. His eyes were caught briefly by the
angry glare of Peccolo's, but slid off toward the diploma case. “Denver,
1959,” he mused. “Chess?”
   The answer was grudging. “Softball.”
   Mr. Long nodded, thanked the professor for his time, and closed the door
quietly behind him.
   “Isn't this interesting?” Martha peered owlishly around her at the table of
tinned biscuits, the hand painted linen clan map of Scotland, and the black
maw of the fireplace, which emitted a pleasant cold draft into the room.
“The London Tea House. Actually it reminds me more of Kent. What do
you think?”
   Mayland Long's scrutiny was more circumspect. “I have no objections.
Kent will do. Or Sussex. It might even pass for Cornwall. Any shire,
borough, or city except London might have germinated such a flower as
this.”
   Outside the row of glass doors the California sun was shining on tiered
pots of geraniums. A young woman passed, wearing a light cotton pinafore
and sandals. An immaculate blond toddler clung to her hand. Light from the
windows of the passing cars flashed and glinted on the walls in the tea shop.
Observing the street outside, Martha thought not of England, but of the
Italian Riviera, which she knew only through pictures. Her gaze slid to her
companion.
   His improbable hands were cupped in the air before him. They steamed.
Martha Macnamara was not surprised, for she had seen the blue-patterned
Royal Doulton teacup disappear into his clutch.
   She was tired and a little depressed, and so felt it incumbent upon her to
cheer up Mr. Long. She grasped her own bottle of stout around the neck and
held it up. “See that?” She pointed at the tiny, intricate harp on the label.
“The original is about 750 years old. It lives at Trinity College in Dublin.”
   “I see.” Mr. Long spoke mildly, but his forehead pulled into faint
wrinkles and his eyes hooded over. He sighed before he spoke.
   “My dear lady,” he began. “I'm sorry our soundings this morning have not
been… productive.”
   Her eyes widened in opposition to his. “Speak the truth with me, please.
They have been very productive. Merely not reassuring.”
   “We haven't found your daughter. In fact, we have run out of leads.”
   “We have some history, Mayland! We know she intended to consult—go
freelance. We have found two people who have been involved with
Liz—one still involved enough to be touchy. In fact…” Here Martha raised
her head to heaven. She was a vision in blue with rosy cheeks. “… if we
only had Carlo Peccolo tied in that pig skin chair of his, and one hot poker
apiece…”
   Long grinned, showing his teeth. “Then how would we dispose of him?
We couldn't very well let him go, and I, for one, have lost my taste for long
pig. Still, I agree that Dr. Peccolo is a well of information not wholly
emptied.” He regarded his cup a while, as though it were the well in
question.
   “No matter. There are other ways to go about things.” He raised his hands
to his mouth and drained the cup.
   In this action, his eyes were lowered, his face half hidden. Martha watched
and she saw the West melt away from him in the simple intentness of tea.
She reminded herself that this man had no business to be here with her this
day, engaged in tedious toil, fencing words with unamiable people,
measuring miles of hot pavement in search of a young woman he probably
had no interest to meet.
   She remembered further, distantly, as though out of a story read in
childhood, that Mayland Long was a rich man.
   She shook her head in dismissal. He told wonderful stories in a
wonderful voice. That was far more important. He tended to drowse in the
light of the sun—she had seen that twice today: once by the window of his
apartment, and once in the car. She recalled his words— “I have always
respected warmth and the ability to keep still.” Perhaps he was drowsing
now, behind the empty cup, as his elbows rested on the table and the quiet of
mid-afternoon filled the shop. He was a man. He got tired. He could be hurt.
She thought about that last one: he could be hurt.
   Suddenly the specter of parting sprang up her mind, forbidding as the
shadow of an axe. She started, and the brown eyes caught her motion. He
had not been asleep.
   Martha spoke. “I will be concerned when I can do something about this.
When my concern will be useful. And I will reach that point. I'm going to
find Liz.”
   He nodded, accepting her certainty. “Perhaps it's time for the police to
help.”
   “No. Not yet. I don't feel that.” She pursed her mouth, seeking the words
for explanation. She raised her glass and took a long swallow of the black
beer. “You see, Liz has never feared God or the devil. When she says she
might be in trouble, well, I don't know with whom. God or the devil.”
   “Are the police one of the above?” he inquired, bringing one arm up to
rest along the chair back. “Would she have called you into the mess if she
were in trouble with the law?”
   “I doubt it, Mayland. But I've got another reason for hesitating.” Martha
frowned, trying to explain. “When Liz was nine she was picked up on
Riverside Drive by a policeman who thought she looked lost. She wasn't, of
course; we lived in a building right around the corner on West 106th. But
Liz didn't tell him that. She thought it was none of his business. She spent
three hours in the station and never told them who she was or where she
lived. Complete stonewall, and just because she was angry. And she didn't
call me, either, though the officers would have been glad to let her use the
phone—I only found out about it when she didn't come home for dinner and
I called the police. That's the kind of person she is.
   “Liz's held a grudge against blue uniforms ever since. She wouldn't thank
me if I reported her missing.”
   Long shrugged. His suit jacket rustled, dry as paper. “Then our next step
must be to question Floyd Rasmussen of FSS. He may know something
about this consultant work she planned.”
   “I'm going to do that in the morning,” Martha said, rummaging in her
purse. “Perhaps I can .arrange to meet him for lunch.”
   “It might be easier if I call, arranging the meeting on some technical
pretext.” He broached the subject warily.
   The large floral purse shut with a snap. “No, Mayland. I think you'd better
not go any deeper into this.”
   The dark face drew back. The long hands flattened on the table. “I admit I
have intruded into affairs which are not my business, my dear… Martha. But
you've convinced me there's an element of danger in this.”
   Her head bobbed forcefully. The gray braid threatened to slide. “Yes.
That's exactly why I want you out of it.”
   His expression went blank—as blank as it had been when she teased him
about the word “Oolong.” Then Mayland Long laughed, a low rumble which
ran along the walls of the room, echoed in corners and tangled among the
legs of the wooden chairs. The cashier in the corner raised her head. When
the laughter subsided, a wide smile remained.
   “You are concerned about me? About my respectability perhaps? My
personal safety?”
   Martha Macnamara's nostrils flared. She thumped her bag heavily. “Why
not? Are you superman? Do you know everything?”
   The smile faded. “No. I am not. I do not. I am only Mayland Long, and as
I have said before you must tell me what I am to do, and how I am to live
my life properly.”
   She looked sideways at him, waiting for the punchline.
   “Shall I go back to my rooms in the James Herald Hotel and sit there with
the pot and the kettle, many books and a bronze dragon, stepping out only to
visit Barnes and Noble, and to dine on white linen in the Crystal Room?”
   She opened her mouth but did not speak.
   “I'll tell you plainly, Martha, I came to San Francisco waiting for
something to happen. Something that was— predicted—for me years ago in
Taipei. A sign. An awakening. It is rank superstition on my part to believe in
this, perhaps, but as a result of this prophecy I have changed my living, my
language, my…” His words died away and his fingers drummed the table
top. “I have changed in many ways.” His eyes met hers briefly, then slid
away. “It is hard to change when one is old. It's almost easier to give up and
die. Almost.”
   “Do you know how to give up?” asked Martha quietly.
    “No.” He smiled ruefully and his eyebrows rose like wings. “Is that
something I must learn?”
    He gave her no time to reply. “But you mustn't expect me to behave like a
Westerner, Martha, just because I speak the language. Nor like a… man of
the present.”
    Martha leaned forward, peering left and right in conspiratorial fashion,
wearing a small, round, Buddha smile. “My dear Mr. Long,” she whispered,
“I expect everything and nothing of you. And I wouldn't be surprised if you
rose from this table and flew off among the hanging geraniums. I would
assume you had a reason.
    “And I assume you had a reason to come to San Francisco, and a reason
to park yourself at the James Herald. If you came on the strength of a
prophecy, well then, you're working with clearer goals than most people.”
    She drew back an inch, but her gaze didn't waver. “What are you
seeking?”
    Mayland Long lifted his head and as he spoke the light struck his face,
turning his eyes oak yellow. “Among other things—truth.”
    “Among other things!” Martha folded her hands. “What else is there?”
    He mimicked her gesture, laughing. “Don't ask me such a question! I have
never been good with paradox. Isn't it enough for you that I've revealed the
core of superstition that lies at the heart of this man in a business suit? But I
will share with you a thing I have learned—that I am learning even now. I
discover that waiting may be accomplished in divers ways. And stillness has
many… appearances, as does warmth. Your own sort of stillness, for
instance, Martha, can be full of movement, like a tree full of birds. Yet I see
it as stillness. And your warmth… Well, that is marvelous, like the color of
your eyes.”
    She exclaimed involuntarily. “My eyes? Marvelous?”
    “Certainly. Blue is a cold color, yet the brighter the sun shines, the more
blue is the sky.” He paused, regarding her blue eyes, her blushing face.
    “Martha, I am through sitting passive. Realization is not a dove to be
coaxed to the hand. It will find one or it will not.
    “Besides—what if my chance for understanding has come and gone,
unrecognized? What if signs and events of all colors and meaning: joys,
sorrows, wonderments— have passed by and are lost because I have been
too busy looking for a box with the label 'truth' on it? I want to help you
find Elizabeth—not because I am altruistic, but because I am curious and
alone. I like puzzles and I enjoy your company I think I can be useful, if you
will allow me to be.”
    She put her hands to the sides of her round head. “I don't understand half
what you're saying. And what can I answer? You're using my own
arguments against me!”
   He shrugged, and the fabric of his suit jacket rustled dryly. It was silk.
“You can agree to a collaboration. Together we will find your daughter.”
   She touched his hand.
   Martha parked in a lot a quarter mile away from the hotel, where the
parking was cheaper. They began walking.
   San Francisco was ten degrees cooler than the peninsula, though the same
dry, Italianate sun shone. A large gull flew past them along Van Ness,
strafing the cars. Having just crossed Turk Street, Mayland Long spied
something on the sidewalk and bent to pick it up.
   It was a red rose bud, its petals disarranged, the stem half torn through
where a pin had pulled out. He grunted and smoothed it out as though it
were wrinkled cloth. “The rose,” he announced. “Loveliest and most
formidable of flowers. Arms of York and Lancaster. In medieval times,
symbol of Jesus. Always, it has meant, beauty, love, peace…”
   He presented the bud to Martha Macnamara. It lay resting on his long
fingers until she scooped it up. She sniffed it and held it up in the light.
   “Symbol? What's a symbol? This is a rose.” She smiled and walked on.
   The moment rang for Mayland Long—rang as though the entire sky had
become a gong and Martha Macnamara had struck it. He stood still, while
the gray stone city reeled about him.
   The four words echoed in his head. “This is a rose.” The simple, dumb
truth of them announced the universe.
   And he stood there for an endless moment—perhaps two or three seconds
by the clock—a thin man in a dark suit, rather old, rather elegant, rather
frail, rubbing his thumb along the length of his hand and feeling the memory
of a rose.
   Then he moved quickly, his eye fixed on the receding blue dress. She
knew who he was. She had shown him his own face, reflected in all creation.
But did she know who she was? Standing alone and perfect, or standing by
him—did she know what she was to him? He snaked forward along the
crowded street, burning with a desire to tell her.
   Martha Macnamara reached the corner just as the walk sign lit. She did
not seem to realize she had left her companion behind, nor that she had
redeemed his life. She stepped into the street. A bus pulled into the
crosswalk behind her, concealing her from Mayland Longs sight. A black
Lincoln stopped at the corner parallel to her path, then turned right into the
crosswalk.
   The light changed as Mr. Long reached the corner. He raised his eyes over
the roofs of the cars, seeking the blue dress along the next block.
   She was not there. Martha Macnamara was nowhere along the street
between Mayland Long and the James Herald Hotel. Nor was she in the
lobby.
   Nor in her room.
   She was gone.




                                 Chapter 5
   The early sun pried silently into the window. It counted the books in
Mayland Longs sitting room. The black statue against the side wall drank in
the sun's light, reflecting it only through the eyes.
   One of the two armchairs in the room had been turned toward the bare
window; the chair was dull gold. So was the skin of the man asleep in that
chair, his head resting in the angle of the wing-back. The dark silk
suit-jacket he had worn the day before was thrown across the chair arm; one
empty sleeve dragged upon the wooden floor.
   In sleep, Mr. Long’s strange hands and features asked no explanations.
They merely were: facts of nature like tangled tree roots, like the face of a
tiger, like the odd, water-washed stones on the cold beach visible from his
high window.
   The edge of bright light finished with the bookshelf and crawled across
the carpet to the chair. It touched his face and hands, and the sleeping man
relaxed into it. His head slipped against the fabric and his eyes cracked open
to receive the dazzle of sunlight. He blinked. Yawned. Twisted left and right
in the chair. Finally he peered behind him at the still, uncluttered room, as
though it could tell him why he found himself in the sitting room, fully
dressed.
   Then he remembered, and with the arrival of memory his hands groped
for the chair arms. The padded wood protested with small creaks.
   Yesterday evening had been the phone call to the San Francisco police.
The polite, endlessly repeated explanation of who he was, who Martha
Macnamara was, and why he believed she had met foul play. He had not told
them all he knew, because it had been necessary to balance his concern—no,
give it its true name—his fear for Martha against the woman's own
determination not to involve her daughter with the police. He could only
repeat that Mrs. Macnamara had been walking along Van Ness with him, and
had vanished at the corner of Fell Street. That she had not yet returned to her
room, though she was still registered at the James Herald Hotel, that the
desk clerk had not seen her.
    That she had been worried about something.
    It was hardly a compelling story. It -carried the implication that Mrs.
Macnamara had dropped out of sight to avoid him, and his call to the
authorities further intimated that he was the sort of importunate busybody a
person might well want to avoid.
    The officer had told him that they would have to wait at least a day before
they could regard the woman as missing. The policeman had taken down
name and address.
    He had realized the uselessness of the attempt then, and had tried no
further to interest the police. He knew the disparity between his voice and
person; if his words could not convince, then his face and form would be of
no help.
    Besides, if Martha Macnamara had been killed by whoever it was who
snatched her up—no one in the bus, surely. The black Lincoln?—then she
was dead, and neither police nor power could bring her back.
    And if she was alive, spirited away somewhere, then she was kept alive
for a purpose, and would doubtless remain that way until the purpose was
fulfilled. In that case, the police were still not much help, but another power
might be. Without conscious arrogance Mayland Long applied that title to
himself. Another power.
    And he was sure with a granite certainty that Martha Macnamara was not
dead. He would know if she were.
    For if she were dead, then hope was dead, and his own existence turned to
ashes.
    And, looking at the gray, waking city, the quiet mirror of the bay, the
jangled mirror of the sea, he did not feel dead nor burnt out. He felt—he
turned the unfamiliar emotion over in his mind with intellectual curiosity,
trying to identify it—he felt angry.
    He rose from the chair and brushed at the crumpled jacket without seeing
it. He was trying to remember the last time he had felt anger. Three years in
San Francisco. One in Kyoto. Before that, Taipei—two years. There came
grief and loss. Even fear. Anger? No. No one to be angry at, that evening in
Taipei. Not even himself.
    And before Taipei there had been no need at all for anger.
    He stopped this raking of memory No need. He knew what anger was. It
was hot.
    Like Carlo Peccolo, Floyd Rasmussen was a fair, stocky man, but there
the resemblance ended. Peccolo kept his credentials under glass, while
Rasmussen had a wall stuck full of clippings from the Sunday funnies,
along with three Kliban cats. Peccolo was sober, but Rasmussen laughed.
He rattled the windows with his laughter. He laughed when Long introduced
himself. He chuckled at the name of Dr. Peccolo. He let loose gales of
laughter when Mr. Long brought forward the subject of Liz Macnamara, and
with his wiry yellow beard and wiry yellow hair spreading out from his face,
Floyd Rasmussen was the image of some Aztec sun god, graved in gold.
   “Liz? She's done work for me. I hope she will again, though the money
she's asking now… Oh Lord, yes, I know Liz Macnamara. That's like asking
me how well I know Blanco, my cat. Liz is a warrior, bright, spunky,
ambitious. She brought life to RasTech…”
   Coolly Mayland Long wondered how much more life the company called
RasTech could bear. Floyd Rasmussen seemed to fill all available comers
with his own vital substance. Mr. Long pulled at the tiller of the
conversation.
   “Bright? Then you would say her level of technical ability was above
average?”
   “Average? You can hardly use that word in the same breath as Liz
Macnamara. She's original; Sound. Big systems, little systems, software,
firmware, pc layout… Just give her a handful of bipolar visi chips and stand
back. She can even, occasionally, meet a deadline. And I don't say that for
most of my friends!”
   This last admission dissolved into dull rumbles. Floyd Rasmussen
beamed at Mr. Long.
   The office did not contain a desk. Rasmussen worked from a drafting
table set against one wall. There was thus no barrier between the booming
geniality of the president of RasTech and the fastidious composure of his
guest. Mayland Long did not feel that the advantage was his.
   “Then, it was not out of line for her to set herself up as a consultant—to
go free-lance?”
   The big man snorted. “What else should she do? Give half her salary for a
benefits package and insurance, and the other half to Uncle Sugar? She's
gone the smart way. consulting.”
   Long prodded patiently. “Even at her age, without contacts? Dr. Peccolo
believed…”
   “… in Santa Claus. He doesn't like knowing a young whippersnapper he
was supposed to be teaching actually had more on the ball than he did.”
Rasmussen's furry eyebrows pulled together and his mouth pursed.
   “Carlo's a friend of mine. Hurts me to say it, but he's not that good,
technically.” His voice expressed no great pain.
   Mayland Long digested this—both the words and the manner. “Tell me,
Mr. Rasmussen. Just what did Elizabeth Macnamara do for you at FSS
which convinced you to hire her services here, in your own company?”
   “Eh?” Rasmussen stopped to think. A few moments of silence leaked into
the office.
   “She did lots of things. An interface board for teller's terminals: Z80
based. An accounts receivable package in 6502 assembler. Half a bank
security system…”
   “Half a bank security system?”
   Rasmussen grunted and shrugged. “We only got the contract for half.
Works that way a lot. Maybe their guy quits in the middle of the job and they
don't want to train a programmer from scratch, or… Well, lots of things.
Then, let's see—she wrote a disk controller for our own use.” Rasmussen
stopped. He crinkled little eyes behind sandy lashes. It was difficult to tell
what color those eyes were.
   “ 'Zat the kind of thing you want to know?”
   Mayland Long detached his gaze from the man and swept it once around
the square, unsubtle room. One wall was orange; that was the one dotted
with comic clippings. One wall was stenciled with a single, diagonal black
stripe, dipping left. Against that wall stood a model of a sailing boat, white,
gleaming, intricate, its spiky rigging echoed in the tines of a set of deer
antlers hung above. The carpet was looped in orange and green. The plastic
chair he sat on was yellow.
   Mayland Long, in his quiet gray suit, felt like a quote taken out of
context.
   “Yes, Mr. Rasmussen, that is part of it. And, since you do not have a
current address or phone number for the lady, I shall have to be satisfied
with that much.” He rose to his feet.
   Rasmussen heaved his own bulk off the drafting stool. “She'll call me
once she's settled in her new place. It always takes a month or so to let
people know when you've moved. That's a real problem when you're
self-employed. I know. Been there.”
   He reached out to shake Mayland Long's hand. Shaking hands was a ritual
Floyd Rasmussen practiced whenever he could, and somehow his guest had
begun their conversation without it. He succeeded in grabbing Long's
unresisting hand now, but there was something wrong in the gesture. This
was not the usual wrongness which accompanies shaking hands: cold, wet
palm, no strength in the grip, or too much. The hand he commandeered was
dry and warm. It held his own securely, without squeezing the knuckles
together. The wrongness was in the shape of it.
   He dropped his eyes from the dusky face, but the hand had been
withdrawn. Mayland Long was speaking.
   “You have not asked what my interest is in Miss Macnamara. Aren't you
curious?”
   Rasmussen looked up in surprise. “Your interest? You're looking to use
her, right? But you weren't sure she was the engineer you needed. Peccola
gave her sort of a lukewarm recommendation and you wanted a second
opinion?”
   Mayland Long smiled. It was not an English smile, but a Chinese smile.
“Very close. I have need other, and am interested to know what she has been
doing. I worry I may not find her in time.” He turned to leave.
   “Well, I wouldn't worry,” boomed Rasmussen down the hall. “Don't…
commit yourself to anything yet. She'll show.”
   Mr. Long found himself on Mathilda Avenue, feeling the even, flat,
shadeless street and the reek of traffic as a relief after the force of
Rasmussen's joviality. He fingered the keys of his own car, a small green
Citroen. He sifted among Rasmussen's words. Gold and dross: how to tell
one from the other? Turning the ignition key, his face meditative, he felt for
the anger he had found within himself earlier.
   It was still present, and it retained the same size and shape. Good. If he
was to be angry, Mayland Long wanted that anger to de dependable.
   Today there was no buzzing robot-car on the floor of Friendly
Computers. Instead, Fred Frisch was involved in a lengthy discussion with a
boy who appeared both too young and too poor to have business there. The
subject of the dialogue was breadboards, a large assortment of which lay
scattered across the counter. At least half the display machines along the
wall were running, some throwing fantasies of color over their screens,
while others flashed words. One unit emitted a monotonous beep, beep,
beep as images of tiny rockets exploded into flame.
   Mr. Long did not attempt to interrupt the conversation, but sat down in
the same chair that Martha Macnamara had graced the previous morning.
The repetitive, multi color display on the nearest video screen caught his
interest. Mayland Long's experience with computing was as extensive as the
books in his library and existed on no other level. He pressed the return key
tentatively.
   The display vanished, leaving in its place a list of available games and
instructions for invoking them. He conjured up something called simply
Life.
   The resultant display was impressive. Small cells of white grew over the
screen from dots of his placing. These expanded like lichen, and like lichen
died away in the middle. Mr. Long grasped the mathematics of it, and also
the metaphor. His eyes watched tiny colonies grow, proliferate, compete
with one another for space, fail through mysterious inner processes, die…
Like societies of men.
   It was a game he was quite familiar with, watching mankind from a
distance: civilizations, tribes, individuals… As always, he felt a desire to
interfere.
   He focused on one white speck, no different from any of its fellows. It
was one of the rare stable ones, situated in a small pulsing colony. It might
continue forever, or at least until the next power failure.
   But wait—no. At the far edge of the screen a small, odd-shaped colony
was moving sideways. A glider. It left the screen at the right and re-entered
from the far left. Its path was going to impact the pulsar in… how many
moves?
   Mayland Long worked the puzzle in his mind. He saw each move that
would bring the attacker toward the small colony. He constructed the
impact, and saw in foresight the end of that tiny dot of light, no different
from any other on the screen.
   He sat motionless and watched, his eyes black, his face impassive. But a
moment before the glider intersected the stable colony, his hand struck the
keyboard of the computer, freezing the action.
   “Live,” he whispered to the dot of light.
   He heard movement behind him. Frisch stood there, dangling a green
plastic board from his nervous hands. “Ever play that before?” he asked.
“Life?”
   Long looked around him at the empty store. “Not this…
implementation.”
   “I suppose everyone's got one,” the young man admitted. “But this one's
faster. Most of them are written in BASIC. Would you believe that?”
   Long did not answer. He stretched out an arm, found another plastic tub
chair and pulled it into position beside his own.
   Obediently, Frisch sat. “You haven't found her, I guess.”
   Mayland Long smiled ruefully. “Progress has been retrograde. I have now
lost the mother.”
   Frisch stared. “Maybe she gave up and went home.”
   “If she did, she left her luggage behind.” Long's gesture made circles in
the air.
   “Mr. Frisch…”
   “Fred.”
   “Will you answer me a few more questions? I realize you're busy and I'm
a bother…”
   Frisch bit his lower lip and pulled on his moustache. “I'm not busy,” he
admitted. “And I don't mind talking. But as I said yesterday, I don't really
know Liz.”
   “These are technical questions. You see, I value the breadth of your
interest. You understand both methodology and personality. I imagine you
know Floyd Rasmussen.”
   “RasTech,” answered Frisch promptly, responding to the flattery with
innocent eagerness. “I don't know him, though. Just about him.”
   “Go on, please. I know him, you see, but do not know about him.”
   The young shop owner took a deep breath. “Rasmussen. He's a mover.
Sharp. Not a technical man, but a great entrepreneur. He's made a lot of
money.”
   “On his own?”
   Frisch nodded affirmation. “He's started half-a-dozen firms in the last ten
years.”
   “Then why was he working for FSS in the position of department
manager last year?”
   “Oh, he's lost a lot of money, too. His last couple of ideas went bust:
small business systems.'“ Frisch began intensive demolition work upon his
moustache, his eyes puckered, staring through the blank window of his shop
at the street beyond.
   “But I don't think he was personally hurt either time—just the
stockholders. Only I imagine it's hard to find any more capital after two
Chapter Elevens.”
   “Evidently he has managed,” interjected Mr. Long. He sighed and
murmured, “Interesting.
   “Tell me… Fred. Why would a bank want to hire an engineer to write half
a security system?”
   There was no hesitation in Fred's reply. “So the right hand won't know
what the left hand is doing. It's often done that way. Like for the little plastic
cards they use nowadays. You know? Supposedly no one knows the
algorithm by which the card code is evolved out of the account number, or
the customer’s name. That's because two programmers wrote it. Each
knows half.
   “A bank'll go to a lot of trouble to randomize the choice, hiring one man
on this end of the country and one in New York, taking two or even three
programmers out of different segments of the field—industry, research,
schools.”
   “Have you ever been involved in such a project Fred?”
   “No, not me.” He shook his head, releasing his moustache from its
duress. “That's big league stuff. They don't look for a hacker with his head
full of new ideas and his heart among the hobbyists.”
   Frisch frowned as he spoke, but his eyes remained vague, reflecting the
sky through the window: detached, speculative, feeling his grievances
against the world only superficially. He was very young. Mayland Long
found him interesting. His own brown eyes, watching Frisch, were anything
but vague.
   “But Peccolo has done security. He contracted for one while I was at
Stanford. I remember. It was for North Bay Savings.”
   Long stirred in his chair. “While you were at Stanford. That must
be—oh—two years ago, then? You've not done badly, being only two years
out of school. This shop filled with expensive toys, contacts in all fields of
electronics…”
   Frisch linked his hands together behind his head and cracked all his
knuckles at once, exhaling loudly through his moustache as he did so.
“Well, I guess not. This shop? Yeah, it's something.”
   The young man got up and regarded the row of screens before him. Some
of them were dusty. Some dotted with fingerprints. He turned to the wall of
esoteric journals, and the counter filled with boxes of components, spools
of bright ribbon cable, and small chips laid like dead roaches on their backs,
brass legs sparkling under glass. “Seems I never sell anything, though. I just
have interesting conversations.”
   Long laughed at Fred Frisch and then, unexpectedly, he bowed to him,
hands together across his middle, thumbs lightly touching. “May you have
many more such,” he said, his accent shifting slightly from Oxford to the
East. “And may they be of equal value to the people with which you have
them.”
   He took his leave. As the door closed behind him, Fred Frisch leaned over
to the console and hit the return key. The program resumed, the glider
touched the small pulsing colony, and one particular dot of light went out.
   No one saw who cared.




                                 Chapter 6
   There were clouds toward the north, over the city. These darkened the
rear-view mirror, while Mayland Long drove into the late afternoon sun.
They reminded him that autumn was approaching: autumn and the rain.
   He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His left arm lay along the sill
of the open window. His bare hand sprawled out over the dark green enamel
of the car door: too dark for the sun to burn.
   Fire was Mr. Long's chosen element; he had no sympathy with the rain.
Yet he knew water was preordained to win, in the end. In mans end, at least.
No vault or sepulcher could keep out the damp forever, and even ashes
dissolved. But if he stared at the mirror with a bleak eye, driving south on
Alma Street in the dusty shade of trees, it was not such philosophical
speculation which disturbed him.
   He parked out of the line of sight of anyone coming from or going
toward RasTech, and strolled down the street. Mathilda Avenue was wide
and choked with traffic. The earth around it—like the entire Valley—was
flat and dry, only partially won from desert. In Long's eyes it was an
unworthy victory, too. The cheap concrete architecture depressed him; it
seemed to spring out of nowhere, like the sudden idea of some
not-very-imaginative child: all boxes and cylinders, not even colored with
crayon.
   Each bare-fronted building had its tiny, begrudged rectangle of green and
a huge parking lot. The only other shrubbery on the street consisted of the
occasional ivy bed, and a few sapling olive trees which struggled for life at
the corner, where the words Sunnyvale Industrial Park were engraved on a
sign cut from an immense slice out of a redwood tree. RasTech itself was
featureless as a shoebox, except for heavy concrete buttresses along the side
of each window and which made a sort of porch before the front entrance.
   This landscape offered very little concealment to a man seeking
concealment—especially a man as distinctive in appearance as Mayland
Long. Nonetheless he concealed himself,- standing motionless in the
afternoon shadows cast by the overhang of the entrance. Behind him rose the
slab wall of the building. To his left was the lintel of the doorway. In front
of him, further obscuring him from sight, stood a lattice overwhelmed by
mounds of Algerian ivy. His clothes were dark; so was he. The shadow
slowly grew.
   People issued from the building—it was nearly five o'clock. RasTech
employees accounted for only a fraction of the workers who dashed out or
paused on the walk before the door, expanding in the open air for a moment
before confronting the traffic. Long searched them all from the darkness; his
eyes were very good.
   He waited for Rasmussen, knowing he might well have a long wait. He
wanted information from the president of RasTech, the last known employer
of Elizabeth Macnamara. He did not think he would obtain that information
by asking the man. He planned to follow him.
   Mayland Long was tired. Save for those few hours in the chair early in the
morning, he had been awake for three days. He was also hungry, having
neglected to eat since the previous day's lunch with Martha Macnamara.
   He had no patience for the way his body clamored to be fed, two or even
three times a day.
   Sleep, however, he took seriously. He liked to sleep, and he would have
to sleep tonight, or his mind would begin to fail. He told himself as much
and continued his watch.
   Three women came out of the door, dressed in tight trousers, talking in
Spanish. He followed their conversation with half an ear. A man came out
alone: too thin to be Rasmussen. Then a young woman appeared. She let the
door slam behind her and stood hesitant on the stoop.
   She was tall and blonde, dressed in tailored navy blue gabardine. She
turned her head left and right, as though she could not remember where she
had parked her car. Mayland Long took a step out of the shadow and froze.
   Beneath the smooth grace of hair, above the strong jawline, she had the
blue eyes of her mother. She was taller, yes. Larger of bone. Most probably
Martha Macnamara had never been this beautiful.
   Nor, probably, had she ever been so quietly terrified. The face Mayland
Long saw in profile was white and sweating, concealing a sick fear. The
perfect lips trembled. Seeing this in a reflection of Martha, whose listening
had pulled from him more than he had believed himself to know, who had
said, “This is a rose” and thereby cracked all the barriers in his life, his
abiding anger flared. One hand clutched at the redwood grating before him.
Wood crumbled.
   She headed for the street, her foot stumbling once on the concrete stair.
She wound through the crowded parking lot, among cars that honked and
bulled their way toward the exits. She climbed the grass edgeway and was at
the street.
   Mayland Long followed. He abandoned the shadow, fading unnoticed
through the crowd of loungers at the door. He pursued Liz Macnamara at a
distance. She stopped by a white Mercedes and stepped out to the driver's
side. Standing a distance away, he smiled, imagining Martha behind the
wheel of that car. Then he turned back the way he had come.
   She bolted the door behind her and leaned against it. Immediately the
shaking grew worse. She bit her lip until she had her body in control again.
   Hearing the sound of the fountain in the courtyard, she strode over to the
living room window. With repeated thumps of the heel of her hand, she
forced the sash open.
   Cool air stole into the room, smelling of water. The pampered grass of
the central court waved silver and green. There were gulls in the fountain;
she heard the smack of their wings.
   Liz had heard a story about geese being used to keep watch in some
country; warning of invaders. Where was that—Greece? Would these gulls
cry out if one of the condominiums were invaded? She peered down at the
sidewalk that wound through the grass below, and at the shingles of the
wall. Finally she turned away from the window.
   Mumbling to herself, she pushed open the bedroom door and pulled off
her suit. This she hung on a wooden hanger, with a care born out of habit.
She pulled a pair of blue jeans out of the dresser drawer and put them on,
along with a French T-shirt. Then she flung herself across the bed, trying to
cry. Huge, painful sobs sounded for five minutes, wracking her body, while
the bed dandled and rocked her. Abruptly she gave up the effort, for no
matter how she wailed, her eyes remained dry. She could not cry for her
mother. She could not cry for herself.
   Suddenly she jackknifed from the bed. Had she heard something? For
almost a minute she stood listening. But why would they want to break in
on her? They knew the thing they wanted was not there. And they knew
better than to touch her personally.
   She sighed silently. Hysteria was no use; she had to think. She brushed her
hair back with her fingers. Her hands were large boned, her arms long. The
only thought that occurred to her was that she wanted a drink. Barefoot, she
paced into the kitchen.
   She could reach the high cupboard easily. For years mother had depended
on her to fetch things like the meat chopper from the cabinet on top of the
fridge. Now her fingers closed on a dusty quart bottle of Teachers and
brought it down. Setting it on the butcher-block table, she opened the china
cupboard, where the tea cups hung in rows from little hooks, and picked out
a pebble bottomed tumbler. She poured and downed the shot without
tasting; Liz didn't really like Scotch. She poured another and stared at it.
After five minutes she capped the bottle and headed for the sink to dump the
tumbler. She heard a step behind her.
   The only thought she could muster was that the geese had let her down.
But they weren't geese, of course. They were gulls. She swiveled and raised
her slim right arm. With excellent aim, she threw the bottle of Teacher's at
the sound.
   And stood staring at the apparition in her kitchen: an elegant, swarthy man
with black hair and a gray suit, whose hand wrapped around the sloshing
bottle. Who smiled and said diffidently, “Thank you. Usually I use a glass.”
   Liz's lungs filled with air, but the scream never arrived. “Shit!” she cried
instead. “Who the hell are you?”
   He stood for a moment, brow furrowed, holding the bottle of whiskey. It
was as though her question required some thought. “I am… not an enemy.
Miss Macnamara. In fact, I am probably the best hope you have.”
   “Who are you?” she repeated in a small voice—a child's voice. Then
stronger. Angry. “Who are you? Rasmussen never said…”
   “Rasmussen? No, miss. I do not represent the interests of Floyd
Rasmussen.” Calmly, he set the bottle back on the table, while his eyes
followed her closely.
   Her hands clenched repeatedly. “Then who? Where'd you come from?
How'd you get in here?” Liz Macnamara stalked closer, stiff legged,
amazement and outrage overcoming her fear.
   The man, by contrast, leaned insouciantly against the table, rolling the
bottle from hand to hand. “My name is Long—Mayland Long. I am sent by
your mother to find you.”
   She took one more step forward, a cry escaping from between clenched
teeth. She grabbed at 'Mr. Long's sleeves, caught one brown hand and held it.
“Then she's all right. He lied? She's not being held…”
   Her words slowed and stopped, as she glanced down at the dark fingers
clutched in her own. She stared at the hand, puzzled.
   Long sighed. “She is not all right at all. She has vanished, and if you have
been told that she is being held somewhere, it is probably not a lie.”
   Two seconds worth of hope died in the young woman's face. Without
another glance at Long, she walked into the living room and sat down on the
bright, chrome framed sofa. Jaw clenching spasmodically, she stared out the
window. He, meanwhile, made a quick circuit of the room, drawing the
drapes. Lacy panels of fiberglass filtered the light, concealing them from the
outside and casting a pattern of brilliant squares against the stark white
walls. In the dimness Long was nearly invisible, but the woman's skin shone
like blue glass. Wind blew the drapes about, sending the dappled wall into a
star dance.
   Long sat down beside Liz Macnamara. “Elizabeth. Your mother is taken
but she is not dead. We've got no time to brood.”
   Her eyes shocked open. She stared at the strange face so close to her own.
“Oh hell!” she whispered. “I can't believe this is really happening.”
   Hers was a strong face, smooth and lean featured. A Viking face.
Suppressed fury sharpened its lines. “I did this to her… I did.”
   He raised his eyebrows as he settled himself cautiously into the
ultramodern foam sofa. “Yes, I rather think you did,” he agreed, his voice
terribly gentle.
   He turned to her in the dimness, with no sound except the rustle of silk.
“You have been playing with the big boys, Miss Macnamara.”
   These words pierced through Liz's funk. Her jaw tightened and she pulled
herself up. “What do you mean by that crack? Why shouldn't I 'play with the
big boys?' “
   He folded his hands on his knee and considered. “No reason at all. But in
this particular sort of game one does not call on one's mother when things
go badly. You see?”
   Liz Macnamara dropped her eyes. “You're right. How can I explain? It
felt like a nightmare, you see, and mother was always so good with
nightmares. My mother has the power to put perspectives right… She's
so—so confident. I thought nothing nasty could touch her.”
   Then, abruptly, her hands clenched. “You can't know about this. Not
unless you're from them: from Rasmussen or Threve. But I don't know why
they sent you. What more can you want from me? I'll get the letter
tomorrow; the banks are already closed today.”
   Mayland Long drank in this assortment of information. “Your mother
also shifts mood like that: floats like dust in the air and then comes down
with a great crash. I had thought this was part other spiritual attainment, but
perhaps she was born that way.”
   He met the confused stubbornness in Elizabeth’s face and sighed. He let
his eyes wander through the starkly furnished, expensive rooms.
   Liz Macnamara's home was sharp angled, glacial pale. The walls were
neither ecru, dove nor cream but a white so pure as to shimmer with blue.
On the bare, bleached oak floor were scattered cobalt Rya rugs, like holes in
smooth ice. On a table in the dining ell rested a tray of Swedish glass,
glinting smooth and colorless.
   Long's brow darkened. “What can I say that will convince you? Let's
see… You don't get along with your mother. She irritates you. Makes you
feel vaguely guilty. You believe she has abandoned her true life's work as a
concert violinist.”
   Her face remained frozen. “You got that from Rasmussen. I told him all
that a long time ago.”
   He sighed, raised his hand to the side of his head, and scratched his ear
with one elongated finger. Liz Macnamara stared at that finger, fascinated.
   “Did you tell him also that your mother wakes every morning at five to
do zazen? That she appreciates the poems of John Donne? That she can
listen to… a person… until truth comes out of him? Sometimes it's a truth
that never was truth before?”
   Liz's jaw worked. She sorted the words Long spoke so diffidently. Her
eyes sought reassurance in his impassive face.
   “Do you even know these things about her?” His voice sank away.
   There was silence in the room. Suddenly Liz Macnamara got up and paced
to the window. The drapes swirled about her as she peered out at the gulls in
the shower of the fountain.
   “How did you get in here?”
   He hesitated before answering. “Through that window. “
   “Here?” She leaned out. “It's ten feet from the ground,” she accused. “The
wall is shingle.”
   He sighed, as though he were being compelled to speak on a subject he
found in poor taste. “Only the top six feet are shingle. The foundation is
brick.” He shrugged off the doubt in her eyes, obviously irritated. “Believe
what you will. I'm here. And I'm here for a reason. As of yesterday, my goal
was merely to locate you. Miss Macnamara. I promised your mother I would
help her. Now you must help me find her.”
   Mayland Long raised himself from the couch, frowning; in the soft depths
of foam his thinking was hindered.
   He strode across the room and sat down in a white wicker chair. His back
was straight. His fingers thrust among the twisted reeds. “It is time for you
to tell me what you know,” he announced.
   Elizabeth Macnamara sat in the shadowed room, looking at the wall. “I've
been robbing a bank.”
   “I guessed as much.” His voice reflected a dry triumph.
   Her head spun toward him. Her hair made a dim halo around her face.
“You guessed? How… how did you? What kind of detective are you? From
the police?”
   The complexity of her mistake amused Long, but the woman did not see
his smile. “No, miss. I'm not from the police. Your mother didn't want to
call the police.”
   Liz settled again, but wary as a bird. “How did you find out, then? Do
you know how I did it?” It was difficult to see Long in the dark. He sat very
still.
   “I believe I do. You wrote half of a bank securities package for North Bay
Savings, while you were at FSS. What the bank did not know was that you
had assisted Dr. Peccolo of Stanford to design the other half.”
   Liz shook her head violently. “Assisted, nothing. I wrote the whole thing.
He said it would be valuable experience for me.”
   “Was it?” asked Mayland Long. His teeth glimmered briefly.
   Elizabeth let out a shuddering groan. As she turned from Long to the
window she seemed to gather the stray light around her. Outside the gulls
keened.
   “Shit! Lies lead from one to the other. That was Carlo's lie—that he had
done the system. It was the first bit of rottenness in this whole mess. I'd been
dating him almost all of my second year in grad school—on the sly, of
course. He's married. But I broke with him while I was doing the security
package. I realized he was using me, and it just stuck in my craw, you
know?”
   Long didn't answer. She continued. “And how he used me! I thought
Carlo was a wizard in the beginning. My— my mentor! He said he would
take care of me, lead me to the top. I wanted to be a wizard too.”
    She snorted. “I was a real innocent.”
    “A wizard,” Long echoed, thoughtfully. “Odd word to use in connection
with computers. I've always found there to be so much… flimflam about
wizards, and I can't see how one could get away with that in computer
engineering. But perhaps that's my own innocence. At any rate, if the
masters of your art are called wizards, then I'm sure you deserve the name.”
    She recoiled, shaking her head.
    “I've heard about you from all sides. Miss Macnamara. I'm told you are
very good at what you do. And meeting you, I now know two computer
wizards.” Long chuckled at his private joke.
    She fought against vanity and curiosity both. “I don't know what you
mean,” she answered, sullen. “I told you I'm not…”
    “I don't mean anything,” Long murmured. “Go on. You never mentioned
to anyone you had done Peccolo's work for him? Not even when you were
so—bitter?”
    “He knew.” The words were a hiss. Liz took two steps toward Long's
chair, placing herself between him and the fading light of the window.
Though her figure was a mere silhouette against the dusk, the smugness in
her voice was unmistakable. “I knew he knew. And he was never sure
whether I had told anyone. I let him sweat it.”
    Mayland Long stirred in his chair. “A subtle vengeance.” Her words were
dry and dispassionate. “But you told Rasmussen.”
    “Yes. I had to. When Floyd assigned me the bank job last winter, I told
him why I couldn't do it. He was marvelous about it! He patted me on the
back for my integrity, and went away. I thought it was all okay, and he'd get
somebody else to write the code, but he came back the next day and said he
had no one else who could handle the project and the department couldn't
afford to lose the contract. And he said that the fact I told him I'd done the
other half proved more than anything else could that I could be trusted with
the responsibility. He said the only real safeguard in life was personal
integrity. North Bay trusted FSS and FSS trusted me. We used to joke about
it, while I was blocking out the program, about the power I had over the
little sidewalk tellers: how I could make them spit twenty-dollar bills all
over Oakland at exactly twelve noon some Saturday. Now the federal
insurance agency would rise or fall by my design. How a wrong branch
would send bureaucrats out of tenth-floor windows. I felt like really hot
stuff,” she whispered. “It was a great couple months.”
    Liz took the stuff of the drape in one hand. She leaned against the wall,
head drooping.
    “And I designed a really good piece of software. Nobody could have
broken it. Except me.”
    One dark hand snaked out; Mayland Long turned on a lamp. In the soft
yellow light Liz Macnamara looked lovely. The length of her arms and legs
emphasized the slender fragility of her body. Her hair was like a sheet of
glass, falling over her eyes. The taut, strained hands which wrung the fabric
of the drape, however, were those of her mother, square and ordinary.
    Long broke the silence. “Tell me about your father, Miss Macnamara.”
    She raised her head. Blinked. “Why? I haven't seen him in almost twenty
years. It's not relevant to this.”
    His hands wove into their characteristic steeple pattern. “I reserve the
right to ask irrelevant questions. Even impudent ones. You, of course, don't
have to answer.”
    “My… my father is named Lars. Neil Lars. I refuse to use the name. He
was a wind. Still is, probably, if he's still alive.”
    “Pardon? He's a what?”
    Liz gestured vaguely. “A wind. He plays winds. Flute, mainly, but also
piccolo, some oboe, clarinet. He ran off when I was a little kid. He's not
involved in this.”
    “Are your parents divorced?” pressed Mr. Long stubbornly.
    “Yes. Mother divorced him in absentia. Abandonment. He took all her
money when he left. She used to say it was all 'gone with the wind.' “
    He nodded. “That seems in character. Tell me more Miss
Mac—Elizabeth. Was your father a tall man? Fair? Large boned?”
    She nodded, mystified. “He was a huge, gorgeous Swede. He knew it,
too.”
    “Why has your mother never remarried?” Longs eyes caught the light
suddenly, gleaming like brass.
    Liz shifted, foot to foot. “I don't know. Too busy, I guess. I'm glad she
didn't. All the men she knew were losers, and her music is more important…
Why do you ask?”
    Long smiled at her confusion. “I want to know everything about your
mother. It may help us locate her. But I interrupted a very interesting story.
You wrote the second half of the security program and gave it to
Rasmussen.”
    She nodded. “Then he asked to see a listing of what I had done for Carlo.
Said he wanted to see what kind of criticism the old fool had made.
    “I wasn't supposed to have one—a printout of the code—but I did. I kept
it to spite Carlo. It was a mess; no structure, no comments. That's not my
style, but I was being tricky when I wrote the thing, you see, because I knew
I wasn't going to get credit for it. Carlo couldn't understand what was in it.
No one could but me, I think. But he didn't have time to write it over, so he
had to trust me that it worked.”
    “You are subtle,” Long broke in. “And it was that incomprehensible
listing you gave to Rasmussen?”
    “Yes. I told him why I did it that way. He loved the joke. I thought. It was
his idea to stick a wrench into the program to see if anyone would notice.”
    “What sort of wrench?”
    Liz wandered over to the couch. She plucked up a tasseled pillow and
hugged it to her. “I created a phony account number which bled the bank of
a thousand dollars a month. Rasmussen said we would just sit back and
watch it get bigger and bigger until someone finally noticed. There was no
theft involved, at this point. We didn't take the money. We just let it sit.”
    “And it was never noticed?”
    Elizabeth raised her eyes from the pillow. “Doug Threve noticed. He
worked for data processing at North Bay. He found the dummy account, but
he's no engineer, couldn't get to the code to find out what was going on. He
came to see Rasmussen, and I guess Floyd let the cat out of the bag.”
    “Did Threve… see the humor of the situation?”
    Without warning the pillow went flying across the living room. It
knocked an Escher print to the floor. “Did he? Hell! Goddamn, we were all
such good friends! Threve, Rasmussen and Macnamara. Jolly bank robbers!”
    She stood with her hands clenched uselessly in the air.
    Her hair covered her face like a veil. Mayland Long cleared his throat.
    “Herkneth, felowes, we thre been al ones, Lat ech of us holde up his hand
til oother, And ech of us bicomen otheres brother.”
    These words recalled her from the tempest of her thoughts. “What did
you say?”
    “I quoted Chaucer. A bad habit, quotes.”
    “It sounded like Dutch.” Elizabeth shuffled across the room to the fallen
picture. There followed the plink of broken glass.
    He measured her mood carefully before continuing.
    “But I interrupted again. Another bad habit of mine. Am I to assume that
it was Mr. Threve's idea that you three share the profits from this small
bloodletting of North Bay Savings? He supplied credentials for the false
account? Under whose name?”
    “The name was Ima Heller.” She spoke with distaste. “Rasmussen picked
it—that's his kind of humor.”
    “That's the name on your mailbox,” commented Long.
    “Right. That's the name under which I bought this condo. Out of my
account at North Bay. I've been Ms. Heller a lot, lately. Since the account is
in a woman's name, we needed a woman to make all the personal
appearances. And to take all the risks, of course, but I didn't realize that until
later.
   “Can you believe I went along with that?” Her words gritted. “A name
like Ima Heller?” She stood cupping broken glass in her two hands.
   Long regarded her from behind his hands. “How can I doubt you, when
you speak with such sincerity?” He met her angry gaze and held it, smiling.
   “Well, that was only the beginning. We emptied the account and went out
on the town. Had a lot of fun. It wasn't serious then.
   “I showed Threve what changes to make in the code to rake off more. We
created phony corporation accounts.”
   She approached the chair where he sat, swimming in shadow. The jagged
glass in her hands sparkled as though she were holding diamonds. “In the
past year we have pulled out of that bank two million dollars. I never
decided to do it. I was still thinking whether it was right or it was wrong and
I had done it. I can't even tell you why!”
   “Elizabeth,” said Mayland Long. “You've cut your hand on the glass.”




                                  Chapter 7
   Liz Macnamara thrust one hand beneath the running faucet. The water
flowing down the drain was tinted pink. “The letter?” she echoed. “I did that
when things began to go wrong, about a month ago.”
   “How did things begin to go wrong?” Mayland Long stood behind her in
the kitchen. Absently he hefted the bottle he had left on the table. Golden
liquid swirled about the sides. Elizabeth noticed.
   “Oh! I'm sorry; I've forgotten all my manners. Can I get you a drink?”
   “That's because I came in through the window. The formalities don't
apply to visitors who come in through the window.” A smile crept across
his lean features: not a Chinese smile, but a very English smile, shy and
diffident. “I believe I would like some of your excellent Scotch.” The
whiskey lapped and spattered within its confines of glass. “Isn't it lovely?”
mused Long, “like bottled sunshine. And I do usually take it in a glass these
days.”
   “Oh God, don't remind me. I might have killed you.”
   Long shook his head. “Not so easily as that.”
   She took the bottle from his hand, fetched another glass from the
cupboard, and filled it for her guest. This homely task brought others to
mind.
   “What about food? It's dinner time. I've got some cold barbequed chicken
in the fridge…” She opened the refrigerator door. “And French bread. And
cake.”
   “You are very kind,” sighed Mr. Long. He eased himself into a
spindle-back kitchen chair and rubbed his face with both hands. His
fingertips were hidden in his black hair. Then he sighed again and held the
Scotch up to the light in contemplation.
   “This matter of the letter at the bank,” he reminded her. “When things
began to go wrong…”
   The plate she lay in front of him he recognized as Arabia china, from
Finland. It was white as a northern winter, and at its edge ran a bold blue
band. Long murmured to himself, “White plates and cups, clean gleaming,
ringed with blue.” The rest of the poem flashed unbidden through his mind,
until he came upon the lines “the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss of blankets … Sleep…” His
eyes closed against the sight of red-stained chicken and the tawny length of
bread crust.
   Liz Macnamara stood attentive beside him, her own plate in her hand.
“What did you say? After you asked me about the letter—was that Chaucer
again?”
   Long snapped awake. “Forgive me. No, it was Rupert Brooke, and I
wasn't aware I was speaking aloud. I want to hear about the letter.” He
rubbed his fingers into his eye sockets, as though to punish his eyes for their
treachery, and blinked a few times, focusing vaguely on the chocolate cake
that sat on a doily in the middle of the table. Next to the cake lay an elegant,
formidable knife with a rosewood handle and a blade five inches long.
   Mayland Long was very much aware of the knife. He wondered that the
young woman would trust him so much as to leave a weapon in his reach,
when not a half hour ago she had been convinced he was an enemy. Did she
leave it there as a test, having a gun concealed on her person? Did she
assume fatalistically that if he were going to attack her he would have
brought weapons of his own?
   Long peered out of the corner of his eye at her as she sat down: tall, hard
faced, ramrod straight. Was she the kind of cool gambler to whom the
placement of a cake and a cake knife might be a move in a game of strategy?
   When she had been duped by Peccolo, she had revenged herself quite
creditably; the professor was still stinging from that. Long knew from
personal experience. Yet within a year of that episode, she had allowed
herself to be manipulated and badly used by Rasmussen. A smile twitched
across Long's features. He saw Liz Macnamara as an eaglet, its first
pinfeathers protruding through the coat of down. She was half pathetic, half
dangerous, awkward and breakable at this stage in her life but promising
power to come. That was, of course, if she survived.
   And her survival had become Long's responsibility, somehow. He
watched her and wondered what it would be like to be the father of a child.
   She began to speak. “There's going to be an audit. Next week. Threve got
scared. I don't know why; he'd been telling me all along that he could keep
us bulletproof. Anyway, instead of laying low, they started tapping the bank
really heavily. No more individual withdrawals. It was all dipping into the
corporation accounts. Hundreds of thousands of dollars at a time. And daily.
I complained. I said they were making sure we couldn't survive the audit.
And Rasmussen said then I ought to keep my mouth shut, because my part
was done. Ima Heller wasn't necessary any more. And he said it wasn't any
fun having a nagging broad around.” She finished the sentence in steely
composure. The chicken wing in her hand snapped in two. “Floyds always
been a walking pork roast!”
   Immediately she shot a guilty look at Long. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to
offend you.”
   “Why would I be offended?” he replied. “I too have noticed the porcine
element in Mr. Rasmussen's physiognomy. And character. On top of that he
has an unpleasant laugh. Pray continue.”
   “Well, I wrote this letter and left it in my safe deposit box. Explaining all
I've told you. I gave the key to Ellie Haig, of Surber and Haig. She's my
lawyer. I call her every Monday, to check in. If I should miss a call she opens
the box, where I left the letter in an envelope addressed to the police.”
   “I see. And you told Rasmussen about it.”
   “It was my trump card. I thought he couldn't touch me as long as I had
that letter.”
   Long nodded. He tore a sheet from the roll of towels and fingered it
absently. “It seems a sound idea. Why did you feel it necessary to call your
mother?”
   “I was frightened!” She shuddered. “As soon as I mentioned the letter,
Threve got… ugly.”
   Neat black eyebrows shot up. “You could have simply left town.”
   “And wound up in prison, as soon as they audit the bank. I'm the obvious
suspect. I mean, as soon as the police squeezed Carlo, he would squeak.
Then it would all be over for me. Not Doug or Floyd, just me.
   “Oh, I should have gone to the police myself, I know. Confessed the
whole thing,” she said in a rush. “But I kept hoping I would find a way to
make it right, first. I haven't spent that much of the money, you see—not
like Floyd, who bought a yacht, or Doug with his Cessna and constant
partying—and by working a few years I could make it up. I'm afraid of going
to prison.”
   “You don't sound like a person who is afraid,” remarked Long.
   Stern blue eyes met his. “I know. I don't know how to show I'm afraid.
Never have. I can be scared green about something—like now—and I come
across as pissed off.”
   Liz scowled, tearing skin from the bone of the wing. “Sorry if my
language bothers you. I can't think straight.”
   “No sort of language bothers me,” he answered, “unless it's dull. But you
looked quite frightened. Miss Macnamara, the first time I saw you.”
   “In the kitchen? Well you spooked the sh—you really startled me, there.”
   “No. I first saw you outside Rasmussen's office, about an hour ago. I
followed you home.”
   She stared a moment. “What were you doing at RasTech?”
   His answer came slowly, as finger by finger, he toweled the grease from
his hands. “I was standing in the shrubbery, waiting for events. I expected the
evening would produce Floyd Rasmussen. Instead, it has produced you.
That was a change for the better, Elizabeth.”
   “Liz. And if I looked bad, the reason was that Floyd had just told me
Threve had picked up my mother, and if I didn't go with him to the bank
tomorrow morning”
   Liz paused and took a deep breath. Her hands clenched together, blotched
salmon and white. “They'd kill her.”
   Long's brown face remained impassive. He looked down at the remains of
the meal. “Tomorrow morning,” he said, and sighed. “I didn't know we had
so little time.”
   “How did you think your mother's presence would neutralize a major
felony, not to mention two major felons?” His words were mild—merely
curious, and he did not look at Liz Macnamara as he spoke.
   “If you knew my mother you wouldn't ask that question. But I didn't
expect her to… neutralize the crime. I just wanted her to know all about it
before I gave up and went to the police. I knew she'd stand by me. At first I
was going to fly to New York and talk to her, but I had a hunch that my
leaving town would put the wind up Floyd and Doug, and they'd be gone
when I went to the police. That would have taken a lot of the impact out of a
voluntary confession, you see. If it was found that my partners had already
run out on me.” The young woman shivered. “When I called Mother last
week I didn't know what—monsters—those two were.”
   “Not monsters, Elizabeth,” he murmured. “Merely thugs.”
   “Anyway, I decided that if I were going to dump the bad news on Mother,
I'd treat her as well as I could in the process. It was kind of silly, really,
because my mother doesn't care whether she sleeps on satin pillows or
gunny sacks. Maybe I did it for my own sake, to salve my conscience, but I
sent Mother two thousand dollars and told her to fly out first class. I made a
week's reservation at the fanciest hotel I could find. In the City, I mean, not
down here. I didn't want her too close to Floyd or Doug. I told her that I had
to talk to her. I didn't tell her I was afraid.”
   “You didn't have to,” said Mayland Long. The gentleness of his words
caught her attention and she stared at him.
   Food and drink had worked their magic on Mr. Long. His face flushed
gold. His eyes glistened with lights of the same color. His left hand arced
out in an involuted gesture, as though he followed threads in a tapestry only
he could see. She followed his motion.
   “Your mother can read signs in the air,” he said. “The winds talk to her.
She knew there was something very wrong with you and that is why she…
let me help her find you.” He let his gesture hang in the air. His eyes saw
memories: a blue dress, a blue eye.
   Liz Macnamara's eyes perceived an odd and unexpected beauty in the
man's words and in the man. She blinked away the tears that terror alone had
not brought forth.
   He rose with boneless grace. His eyes were narrowed. He was thinking,
Liz Macnamara stared up at him. “Where did she find you?”
   “On a shelf,” he answered, preoccupied. “I owe my involvement in your
trouble to that gift you sent Marth—your mother.”
   She shook her head, not comprehending how a few thousand dollars
could command the man before her. “Just get Mother away from those two
and I'll work the rest of my life to pay you. I'll give anything. Do anything.”
   He became aware she was speaking. His gold eyes searched her face,
puzzled, not following her words. A huge yawn caught him unaware. He
shot a glare at the bottle, and he leaned one elbow on the refrigerator door.
   “All I need,” he said, “is a dark corner. And I only need it for a few
hours.”
   “You need what? Why?”
   He yawned again. “Because I'm tired. Too tired to think properly. It has
taken a number of days to find you, Elizabeth, and I haven't slept much in
that time. I have work to do tonight. It is a task important to our purpose,
and best accomplished after nightfall. Between then and now…”He stepped
forward, resting his hand on the back other chair, “I must sleep. And since I
haven't the time to drive to my rooms in San Francisco, I am asking you to
put up with me.”
   “Of course.” Liz Macnamara pushed herself away from the table. “But
not in a corner. Please. Give me a minute to straighten up the bedroom.”
Dropping a rumpled paper towel into the wastebasket, she left the room.
   He stared at the bed in horrified fascination. “I… I have heard of them, of
course, but…”
   Elizabeth dropped a hand to the undulating mattress, as though quieting a
huge beast. “It's just a waterbed. It's really comfortable. Not cold at all.”
Seeing his expression unchanged, she half-smiled. “Don't be afraid.” She left
him, closing the door behind her.
   He was dubious but also very weary. Mr. Long undressed, folded his
clothes, and gave himself to the embrace of the waves.
   Liz spent the next two hours seated at the kitchen table. Her mind raced
wildly, without traction. At nine she cracked the bedroom door to wake Mr.
Long. The vertical thread of light happened to fall over the form on the
sheets. He was bronze, like a statue, and his skin appeared as tight to the
body and as hard as the finish of a bronze statue. He lay sprawled with the
dramatic indifference of a statue, also. One arm was tossed up in line with
the lean torso, and the back-tilted head repeated the angle. The other arm, the
left arm, was flung outward, and the fingers grasped air. There was passion
in the pose: passion and a quality of abandonment quite foreign to the
presence who had shared her meager dinner.
   And it was this attitude, more than the fact that the sleeper had thrown off
the sheet and lay naked in the light, which impelled Liz Macnamara to close
the door again and knock.
   “Thank you,” Mr. Long said, stepping out of the door fully clothed. “I'm
surprised. I didn't really expect to fall asleep on that contrivance.”
   He glanced behind him at the digital clock, which shone its red numbers
silently beside the bed. He felt in his pocket for keys. “Please do me one
more favor. I need addresses for both Rasmussen and Threve.”
   Her first attempt at a reply choked her. “Do you need to see them?
Tonight?”
   “I do. But it is not necessary for either of the gentlemen to see me. I want
someone to lead me to your mother. Miss Macnamara. It has to be tonight.”
   She took a step forwards. “I'll come too.”
   Long frowned. “It has taken me three days to find you, Elizabeth. If I lose
you again…”
   “You won't. I want to go with you. I can't take sitting here alone.” She
was two inches taller than Long. Her frosty eyes bore a challenge. “Why
should you go out and I stay here?”
   “I think it likely Rasmussen or Threve will call to check up on you
tonight. If you are not home they may think you have abandoned your
mother and run off. Or they may believe you are out to work them mischief,
as indeed you would be. Either way I think they will react by killing their
hostage.”
   Liz's teeth ground together, but she made no answer. Instead she
blundered about in a desk drawer for paper and pencil.
   As she wrote she was speaking. “There. Rasmussen lives in Santa Clara.
Big house: he used to be married. Threve has an apartment. I drew maps.”
   He took the paper and looked at it for twenty seconds. Then he put it
down. “Burn this,” he dictated. “And close your address book. Under no
circumstances must your colleagues find out you've seen me.”
   Liz Macnamara was staring at Long's shirt. Her eyes held sudden doubt.
“You're going burgling like that?”
   His left eyebrow rose. “What exactly do you mean, Elizabeth, 'like that?'
“
   “That shirt almost glows in the dark.”
   Inspiration hit Liz Macnamara. Inspiration and the memory of a very thin
dark body on the bed. “Wait here,” she commanded. “Don't go away.”
   She returned in two minutes, to find Mr. Long sitting obediently where
she had left him. Instead of jeans she was wearing a mint green satin
dressing gown. Green was a color that suited her very well.
   She carried a bundle. “Here,” she announced. “These are… more
appropriate, I think. The sweatshirt is gray, and blue jeans don't stand out in
the dark.”
   He rose and said “No.” He said it with great authority.
   “Yes. It's my mother,” she replied.
   His face was unyielding.
   “What if you have to climb a fence? What if you have to run? If Threve
or Rasmussen catch up with you and shoot you, or hit you on the head or
something—well that's a pretty high price for both of us to pay for your
vanity.”
   “Vanity?” echoed Long. His eyes flashed yellow.
   “Vanity,” she insisted, as the clothes slipped from her arms and tumbled
to the floor. “Please. For my mother's sake.”
   Mayland Long folded before the urgency in her voice. “You are so much
like your mother,” he sighed, stooping to retrieve the outfit. “And I… I am
not at all what I was at the beginning of the week.
   “They will not fit,” he predicted, as he vanished again into the bedroom.
   “They do fit,” she crowed in triumph.
   “I admit it,” replied Long. He was a very different seeming man, in faded
jeans and a sweatshirt.
   He did not look so old, since age generally follows on tailoring. He did
not look so terribly well bred, since class follows the same rules. Most
obviously, he did not look half as self-satisfied as he had before.
   His left hand pulled at his right sleeve, which was too short for his arms.
   “I think you look fine!” she stated, surveying all she had done to Mr.
Long. “And now there's nothing white about you.
   “Oh! I'm sorry.”
   He laughed. His teeth denied her words. “What would you have done had
I had the coloring of Mr. Rasmussen? Or your own fairness,” he added, his
gaze halted on the young woman's face.
   “Shoe polish,” she replied, smiling for the first time since he had met her.
   He transferred his wallet to his jeans pocket. “Ah! While I remember,
Elizabeth.”
   “Liz.”
   “Liz. Yes. You are supposed to surrender that letter tomorrow. Don't.
Create a copy and give Rasmussen that.”
   “That can't work. I thought of it already Rasmussen knows I wrote the
letter on an 8080 text processor at RasTech. I can't get back to copy it
without being seen.”
   He was stopped by this, and stood motionless for half a minute. “Then I
have to return by dawn tomorrow. If I haven't found your mother yet, I'll
have a copy of that letter for you to surrender.”
   “How will you do that?”
   “I'll print one,” he replied confidently.
   “You… know how to use the system?”
   His gesture was reassuring. “That's no problem. But if dawn comes and I
fail to show…”
   “No!” she cried out. Then she spoke more reasonably. “What do I do if
you fail to show?”
   “Go to the police.”
   “But they'll kill her! Threve said if the police showed up anywhere
around…” She put her hand to her mouth and bit down, so that she would
not start shaking again.
   Mayland Long stepped closer. One hand against her yellow hair pulled her
head gently to his shoulder. He could feel her body tremble. Slowly and
clearly he whispered in her ear. “Elizabeth, these men intend to kill your
mother. Only if there is no one left alive who knows, can they escape
suspicion.”
   The trembling died away. She mumbled something that was lost into the
fabric of Long's shirt.
   “I didn't hear that,” he whispered, suddenly conscious of her hair against
his face and her warm, moist breath on his neck.
   Liz Macnamara took one step back and stood alone. “I said I know. They
intend to kill mother as soon as they can kill me. And they'll do that as soon
as they have the letter. I'm not even sure she's alive now. I asked to hear her
voice and Floyd said later.”
   “She's alive,” said Long. “I'm sure of it.”
   She didn't ask him to explain his certainty. “But what shall I do till you
come back? To help, I mean.”
   He smiled. “Sleep, if you can. If not, then drink Scotch. Or pray. Survive
in your own way; I can't know what's best for you, Elizabeth.
   “ 'Til morning,” he concluded, bowing slightly. He flicked off the light
and pulled wide the courtyard window. Cold mist from the fountain blew in
with the breeze. There was no sound from the gulls asleep in the grass.




                                 Chapter 8
   Martha Macnamara awoke with a miserable aching nose. It felt as though
it had been stuffed for two weeks straight. Her hands were cramped; she
must have been lying on them. There was something else bothering her as
well; it took her a few confused minutes to figure out what that was.
   “Oh!” she cried out. “I have to go to the bathroom.” She opened her eyes,
and the results were so unpleasant she closed them again. The ceiling had
looked so ugly, and it swept by with unsettling speed. The spinning ceiling
was mere dizziness, of course, like the time she had had her wisdom teeth
pulled. And the ugliness must be a result of nausea; dizziness and nausea
always went together.
   But why was she nauseated? Why dizzy? And why couldn't she place that
ceiling she had glimpsed, with its acoustic tile and round fluorescent lights?
   Where was she? Where should she be?
   Not at home; her own ceiling was plastered, with a crack through it like a
lightning bolt, and the fixtures wore white paper lanterns. Besides, Martha
knew she was not at home; she was staying at the James Herald Hotel.
Which did not look anything like this. Those ceilings were arched, and the
picture moldings were impressively Corinthian.
   She felt so awful that maybe she was in a hospital. Yes. She had passed
out on the street. Someone in a black car had spoken her name…
   And now she just had to go to the bathroom, dizzy or not. She pulled her
eyes open.
   How very odd. She was stretched out flat on a table. Brightly colored
lengths of wire were wrapped around her wrists, tying them together in front
of her.
   “Out that door and to the left,” said a voice. She searched for the speaker.
   He sat sprawled in a white director's chair, amidst a clutter of magazines.
He was a small man whose dark hair was carefully slicked back and curled
about the ears. He wore a wine-red shirt which hung open, revealing a gold
medallion. His belt was wide and black, his trousers white. His voice
matched his appearance perfectly.
   Martha tried to sit up; it was a hopeless effort.
   “I can't do anything without my hands.”
   He stared insolently and flung another magazine to the floor. He lounged
across the barren room toward her. In his hands were black steel dikes, he
snipped through the skinny windings on her wrists.
   “Try to run and I'll break your leg,” he said, as she slipped off the wooden
table. “There's nowhere to go, anyway.”
   He was quite correct. The tall, barnlike room had no windows and only
two doors. One of the two was green metal. It had a key lock and a hole
beneath where the doorknob had once been. The other door stood open, and
as Martha passed through it, leaning on the doorsill for support in her
vertigo, she saw that it led through a short hall to two other doors. One of
them was identical to the door in the large room, except that it had a knob
on it. The other door was wood.
   She turned the knob on the green door. It was locked. “Other door,” came
the voice behind her. It was a nasty voice, the sort of voice which might
make a child cry, hearing it say “other door” in that sneering fashion. It was
the sort of voice that would want to. Martha turned and passed through the
wooden door.
   “You are very mistaken in this,” repeated Martha. “No one I know has
more than four hundred dollars in the bank.”
   “The less I hafta say, the better off you'll be,” grumbled her captor, as he
rummaged around on the floor. He had leafed through all his magazines
while his prisoner was unconscious, not reading them, but reading the
captions on all the pictures and spoiling the interest of them, and so now had
nothing to read.
   “You've said that twice in the last hour, and you must know by now it
doesn't shut me up.”
   He raised his eyes. “Less you say, happier I'll be,” he added.
   Mrs. Macnamara sat only a few feet from his chair. A small pile of
discarded magazines kept her from the chill of the floor. Her feet were
folded on her thighs in the full lotus posture. She had spent a large part of
the day in this position, and now daylight was fading from the crack beneath
the green door. Had it been just one day since the trip to the Valley and the
lunch in the tea shop with Mayland Long?
   She remembered the car, and how a man had leaned out, smiling, and
taken her hand. She remembered the open door. The yank on her arm. The
hankie with its operating-room stink.
   That was how she got her nose burned, she decided. Ether, or chloroform,
or whatever.
   Had no one seen this? Where was Mayland? He'd been right beside her.
He just found that flower, and given it to her. So very romantic, but silly,
too, in his dignified, almost pedantic manner. Had they snatched him too?
Had they killed him? The thought was unbearable.
   And what about Liz? A spasm of fear nearly cut off Mrs. Macnamara's
breathing. Liz was the hub around which all this mystery revolved. Though
Martha Macnamara pleaded ignorance of the affair, pretending to assume
she was being held for ransom, she knew that her capture was tied in with
her daughter's trouble. Oh Liz, Liz! What had she done to herself?
   And what a silly grief it would be to her to find that her mother was
kidnapped, just because she had called her for help. Or that her mother was
dead.
   The floor glinted with brass snippets. Huge soft dust kitties rolled
ponderously whenever the man threw a magazine.
   Except for the table on which Martha had awakened, a dirty white
refrigerator, and the director's chair—also white, also dirty—the room was
empty. No sound leaked in from the outside world.
   Martha felt despair well up from her chest to her throat. She let it sit
there, paying attention to her breathing instead.
   The first drops of rain spattered against the windshield. Long had been
expecting them since the wind turned from the north. The wet air summoned
a host of visions to his mind—the bare, black cliffs in the rocks above
Taipei. Old eyes filmed with blue, and a mouth of bad teeth, rudely
laughing. Laughing at him, while the rain came down. He shook his head
against these inchoate memories.
   The freeway was quiet, at 9:45 on this Thursday evening, but it was
treacherous with the first rain of the season. He kept the speedometer
hovering around seventy-five. The neon signs of bars and cheap motels
sparkled by, diffracted in each clinging drop.
   He believed that Martha was not dead. He believed this strongly, but it
gave him no feeling of security, because it was a belief not under his
control. If suddenly that belief went out, like a candle—a candle in the
rain…
   He hit a pothole, skidded across the lane and recovered automatically. His
conviction that Martha was alive was not a feeling like his anger, which he
could test and find durable. It was rather a gift from outside, and Long had
never trusted gifts.
   Pink billows of oleander filled the median strip. Long's thoughts drifted
to Liz Macnamara. He relived his interview with her: her courage and her
terror, her sudden shifts of mood, the remarkable concessions he had found
himself making to her.
   She was like her mother, yes, but much stormier. And at the same time,
more fragile. He remembered her head on his shoulder, her hair against his
face. He was disturbed, not by the incident, but by his reaction to it.
   But mankind had always been like that, turned off its course by a step, by
the turn of a mouth, by a covert glance, or scented hair. Should he be any
different? His teeth ground together as he considered; was he any different?
He was alone with the hiss of Wet tires on wet concrete.
   He turned off both engine and lights on Dover Park Avenue, and he
coasted to a stop by the curb.
   The world was gray and insular, filled with rain. His excellent hearing
listened for more. He heard televisions. The thin voice of public
entertainment floated from house after house as he walked. The same two
speakers, repeated endlessly. No conversation. No music.
   Rain beaded on his heavy black hair and in his eyelashes. It was not so bad
to be wet, while the weather was warm.
   Rasmussen's neighborhood was new; it lacked streetlights. Mr. Long
passed down the street invisibly, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by
the rain.
   The house took shape from the grayness. It sprawled on a low hill, set on
a corner a little apart from its neighbors. A board set on a spike by the street
announced the address.
   The sloping yard had been sodded quite recently. The scars between the
strips had not healed; they bled red clay. No garden, outcrop nor tree
interfered with the sweep of lawn to the house. The doorway was flat
against the wall of the house, and that wall itself was white stucco. The
windows were dim, but somewhere within the shell of the house at least one
light was lit. Gazing along the prospect of the sidewalk, his sigh melted into
that of the rain.
   The back of the house was much like the front, except that from there the
light was brighter.
   Mayland Long squatted down, resting his palms on the glistening
sidewalk. For thirty seconds he tested the silence. Then he stepped onto the
grass.
   The thick plush of root and blade was reassuring, almost intoxicating to
his hands as he half-crawled up the slope toward the house. Fearing his
silhouette against the bright wall he lowered himself flat upon the grass and
began a slow circuit of the house.
   The wall he had approached was broken by five windows. The middle one
was frosted glass: obviously the bathroom. Three of the others were tall
framed and clear. Bedrooms? The one at the rear of the house emitted a
faint yellow glow. It was wider than the rest. He guessed it to be the kitchen.
   This wall faced a side street, and beyond, a low growth of scrub which
had stolen back land the builders had ravaged and left. He stood, peering
through the rain runneled glass of the rightmost window.
   It was a bedroom, but unused by the look of it. The mattress on its
Harvard frame lay gleaming in the night. A small bureau stood against the
far wall. No mirror. Once it had been a boy's room, perhaps.
   The window frame was new, and bore a bolt lock. He looked beyond the
window and through the room, to where a door stood open, revealing a hall
with staircase. Across the hall from the bedroom door was the living room.
He caught his breath with a small, satisfied sound. On the far side of the
parlor, against the opposite wall of the house, stood a pair of french doors.
   He dropped once more to the ground and began to crawl toward these.
   Beneath the kitchen window he paused to listen. There was no television
to be heard. No movement at all. A cat murred once, perhaps next door.
   When he came to the patio which opened out from the french doors he
took off his shoes, and wiped the mud from his hands onto the grass.
Neither the knees of his jeans nor the front of his sweatshirt had gotten
muddy.
   He stood at last, examining the parlor from around the edges of bright
print curtains. The furniture was all a set: of pine, heavy and crude. Some
pieces of it still wore strips of bark. The head of a deer hung on the left hand
wall, its idiot gaze fixed on the stones of the fireplace. Beneath it stood a
spindle-sided magazine rack, empty.
   The door was locked with a bolt like that on the bedroom window. But
the door was made of small panes of glass held in place by wooden
mullions. With his fingertips he peeled one of these strips away, and then
another. After the third minton was removed, a rectangle of glass slipped
into his hand. He reached in and slid back the bolt.
   He stood dripping in the silent room. It was warm in the house, and as he
ran his hand through his head, releasing a spatter of drops, he realized that
his few hours sleep had not sufficed. He was still weary.
   And he had so much to do. Since it seemed Rasmussen was not receiving
this evening, he had to gain what information he could from the house itself.
He needed to find the address of the place where Martha was being held. He
needed to find it tonight, before Threve and Rasmussen got their hands on
what they thought was Liz's letter, and both women's lives became
superfluous to their plans.
   If he could not find the information here, then he must go to Threve’s
apartment and try again. But that would require time and risk. He felt
pressured on both counts.
   He began with the room he was in, working with quick eyes in the
dimness. The barbaric furniture held few drawers or hiding places. The
mantel was bare. Rasmussen's house seemed much neater than his office.
Perhaps the man had a housekeeper.
   A sharp hiss announced that he was not alone in the room. He swiveled
from the waist, very fast, to confront the outrage of a startled white cat,
which stood frozen on the stairs, tail stiff and bristling. It snarled at the
intruder and lifted one snowy forepaw, displaying its armament.
   For an instant cat and man faced one another, the lean rigidity in the
posture of the one reflected in that of the other. Then the man relaxed. He
sank down on one knee and averted his eyes. A throaty trilling filled the
room: a soft, comfortable cat-sound.
   The thrashing of the cat's tail subsided. Pink-rimmed ears unfolded. The
white cat stalked closer.
   Long centered his small noise deeper in his throat. It became a purr. It
ceased. As the cat reached him, he extended his hand—felt it butted by the
blunt, white skull.
   “I have no argument with you, little warrior,” he whispered, as brown
eyes lost themselves in green.
   At that moment the room was blasted with light. The white cat leaped
straight into the air as Mayland Long spun about and froze, staring straight
down the barrel of a twenty-two rifle. It might have been the cat that hissed.
   Martha wanted to ask the fellow about Mr. Long, but it was possible the
kidnapper hadn't noticed Long, and any mention of her companion might
imperil him. Liz, she assumed, was already neck-deep in this.
   The man in the red shirt was peering into the ancient refrigerator that
stood against one wall. Martha noticed he had a dust mark on the seat of his
white trousers shaped like an upside-down heart. There was a rattle of beer
cans.
   She realized she was very thirsty. “Can I have a beer?” she asked.
   “No,” he said, surly. He didn't look at her.
   This small nastiness roused her. “Why the hell not? You've got a whole
six pack.”
   “They're mine. I don't want to waste them.”
   Hearing these words, Martha felt a cold certainty that the little man
intended to kill her.
   She was afraid of dying. She believed anyone who claimed not to be was
either a liar or had never been close to death. But her fear was of
manageable size; she could endure it.
   If Liz were to die, however, at the age of twenty-four, bright and strong,
having known so much hardship and so little fun in her short life… Martha
knew that she herself was being kept prisoner as bait in some sort of trap for
her daughter. She refused to be so used. She would die first. Or kill.
   Settling again into the lotus pose, her bound hands resting on her lap, she
stared about her at the dirty, depressing room, empty as a dry skull. The little
kidnapper returned to his chair, a bottle sweating in his hand. He belched
loudly.
   It was hard to believe that just yesterday (or was it now the day before?)
she had sat across the table from Mayland Long, the two of them pretending
that the world was essentially civilized and had been created for the sake of
play. Theirs had been expensive play, too. She recalled the dazzling
chandeliers of the James Herald Hotel. She recalled Mayland Long's strange,
mutable eyes.
   Better to die tonight, having known him, than to have died alone last
week in New York, in the August stink and heat.
   And even if she died tonight. Even if he were already dead… the fact that
he had lived and been who he was: elegant, diffident, kindly, with his funny
hands and gorgeous rich voice. That meant something. That they had met
meant something, too: dying now could not erase that.
   Martha's thoughts sank to the bottom of her mind, leaving it attentive and
quiet. The kidnapper stared at her with distrust upon his features. Her
stillness frightened him.




                                 Chapter 9
   “Why, it's Mr. Long,” boomed Rasmussen, smiling hugely. “What a
surprise! And looking like something the cat dragged in.”
   He received no answer. “Couldn't you guess I'd have an alarm system
rigged up in this house?”
   Long was a moment in replying. “I didn't take that into consideration, Mr.
Rasmussen. I confess I've underestimated you.” Wet, ill-dressed and
preternaturally calm, he regarded the threatening gun.
   “May I stand up?”
   The big blond stared over the scope sight. At a range of ten feet, the sight
was more of a hindrance than a help.
   “Why not?” He moved back a few steps, to prevent Long from slipping in
beside the gun barrel. “And then you can tell me what you're doing in my
house. Besides breaking the law, of course.”
   Mr. Long climbed to his feet. His movements reflected the stiffness of
age. “We both know very well,” he began, “that I am looking for Elizabeth
Macnamara.”
   “I told you yesterday I don't know where she is.” Rasmussen's voice
sharpened.
   Long's remained quiet. “Obviously I did not believe you yesterday.”
   The rifle moved a bit, as Rasmussen perfected his aim. Through an effort
of will. Long kept his eyes not on the trigger, but on Rasmussen's ruddy
face.
   “Obviously.” Rasmussen was silent for a moment as he considered the
situation. Then the mask of amiability disappeared from his face. Long saw
and understood.
   “Whatever pay you got, buddy, it wasn't enough.” muttered the blond.
   “Did you call the police when the alarm sounded?” Long stalled, shifting
his weight to one foot. “Or do you plan to present them with a fait
accompli: the corpus of one aging burglar.”
   The muzzle of the gun followed his movement efficiently. “I haven't
called yet,” mumbled Rasmussen. “Maybe I will later. I haven't decided
what's the cleanest way out of this.”
   Rasmussen found his grin again and put it on. “You know, fella, you're
totally in the wrong, being found in my living room like this. In the legal
sense, I mean.”
   Mayland Long lifted his eyebrows; his eyes were opaque. “The legal
sense? Would you care to discuss others?”
   The smile stuck to Rasmussen's face, quite irrelevant. “You put me in
this position,” he growled, his full cheek against the black metal of the rifle.
“And now I have to do this. I really hate it.”
   He breathed in slowly, then let half the breath out and pulled the trigger.
   The rifle coughed, but Long was not standing before it. Rasmussen's
exhalation had been as much of a signal as the dark man needed. He moved
with the abruptness of a startled lizard, sideways, sailing three feet above the
carpet, and he vanished up the stairs.
   Rasmussen cursed and followed. On the landing he hesitated, peering into
the unlit reaches above. His left hand fumbled in his trouser pocket with a
clip of twenty-two shorts.
   The second floor of the house was a single large chamber, originally an
attic. At each gable end were semicircular windows of leaded glass. The
only other openings were skylights, set high in the roof. In the center of the
floor stood a velvet couch and loveseat. Against the wall was a heavy liquor
bar of oak and brass. Beneath the far wall, under a window gleaming red and
gold, sat an enormous pedestal bed. A comer of the room to the right of it
had been enclosed to create the bathroom.
   Long took this all in as he leaped out from the stairwell. The bathroom
was a trap: no way out. The bar might conceal him, but its confinement
would also hold him helpless. The carpet was white plush. With the lights
on, Mr. Long would stand out like a sparrow in the snow.
   The lack of windows was the worst part of it; there was no escape from
this place. He heard Rasmussen's feet upon the stairs.
   There was a small door set into the left-hand wall. It was less than four
feet high and very narrow. He darted toward it, pausing only to plunge his
fingers into the dryboard of the wall and yank out the light switch.
   In the still darkness behind the wall he picked his way. This triangular
space had no flooring; support beams alternated with soft, treacherous strips
of insulation. He sank again to hands and feet and crawled away from the
entrance.
   The passage ended above the stairwell. It turned no comers. There was no
exit. He turned around and waited.
   Rasmussen's progress was unmistakable; Long could hear the weight of
his passing in the creak of the support beams. He stood above the stairs, put
his hand to the wall and cursed aloud. The rifle shifted against the man's
shoulder, Rasmussen, too, began to wait.
   Mr. Long was no claustrophobe. This musty hole comforted him, and he
weighed his alternatives.
   Up until now his choices had been forced. He had headed for the stairs
because they were dark. Had the rifleman been fool enough to stand closer
to his intended victim. Long would have gone for his attacker. As it was, he
had had to slink into this blind hole, lacking other concealment.
   But his enemy was at a small disadvantage, now, with no light available
except that of the drizzling heavens. If he attempted to pursue Long behind
the wall, this disadvantage would become severe. If Rasmussen stumbled
into the darkness, the game would belong to Long.
   The biggest danger was that the man might find some sort of light. But it
was doubtful he kept a flash in the master bedroom, and if he went
downstairs to fetch one, that would give Long valuable time.
   Time not to escape this house but to change the balance of power.
   Old instincts awoke in Long's memory: old and no longer quite familiar.
He knew what it was to hunt. He also remembered, though less well, what it
was to be hunted. His lips shrank back from his teeth.
   Rasmussen put his back to the wall. He was very close. Long, hearing the
scrape of his shirt, considered breaking through the flimsy wall. and taking
Rasmussen by the throat. He decided against this because it was more
important to question the rifleman than to kill him.
   Rasmussen edged by. Eight feet from the small door he stopped. The
muted smack of a twenty-two cartridge cut the silence. Another. Rasmussen
was methodically piercing the shadows with bullets.
   One shell buried itself in the wall behind the bar. One cracked tile. One
glanced off metal and sang down the stairway.
   And then five bullets in quick succession slammed through the flimsy
panels of the little door. The smell of powder cut into the air. Rasmussen
inserted a new clip. The door was jerked open.
   Standing just outside, Rasmussen shot diagonally into the corridor, first
left, then right. Long dared not move.
   Then the gunman stepped off the floor, giving his weight hesitantly to a
beam.
   A shot into the wall behind Long sent a shower of ' powder around his
head. Rasmussen raised the barrel of the gun above his head and brought it
down on the other side of the narrow passage. He fired and turned again.
   Long moved toward him. His face was only inches above the insulation,
fine as angel hair.
   This methodical attack was original and deadly. Long had depended on
fear of discovery to make his opponent stingy with his fire. But the spit of
this rifle was hardly louder than the pre-recorded violence emitted from the
TVs along the street. It would be lost in the rain. If this continued, he would
inevitably be hit.
   But there was a weakness in Rasmussen’s strategy; he had to divide his
time between the left and right passage. During those moments Long
crawled toward Rasmussen.
   The air sparked by his left ear. The noise of the shot was deafening. Then
Rasmussen turned and he was free to move. The rifle swung back and Long
froze again. Twice more and he would be able to touch Rasmussen. The
bullet hit Long in the right shoulder and smashed his collarbone. Passing
through flesh it buried itself in the wooden frame post beside him. White
teeth flashed in dumb shock.
   He felt his right hand slide from its grip on wood. It caught against
splinters as it fell, and came to rest finally in the bed of insulation. The arm
was useless; it had been taken from him and replaced with a focus of
astounding pain.
   Instinct alone kept Long quiet. He shifted his weight to the left and
brought his right leg forward. He had no choice but to attack now, before
Rasmussen had time to turn and fire again: little hope, but no choice. Long
lifted himself from the beam and stood swaying. Measuring the distance, he
crouched to spring.
    But Rasmussen stood motionless, his rifle pointed at the ceiling. His head
was tilted, listening.
    Long heard the noise too. It came from outside the passage—from the
bathroom. He identified the sound with no trouble.
    Rasmussen turned, nearly losing his footing. He bulled his way through
the narrow door. Long recognized this as his moment.
    He recognized it, and yet he did not attack. He tapped his bottled anger,
commanding it to flare up, heat his nerves, impel him with the certainty of
violence—the single-souled violence of a wounded beast which fuels
ferocity with pain. -
    There was no response from within. Merely the recognition. And the pain.
    It might have been the ignominy of his condition— wet, ill from lack of
sleep, dressed like a sidewalk tramp and barefoot—which blocked his
response. It might have been the blood which even now filtered through the
gauzy fiberglass and spread a sad pink stain through the plaster of the child's
empty bedroom below. It might have been that civilization had penetrated
too deeply into him.
    It might have been that he was old. Long slunk out from the passage
behind Rasmussen and faded down the staircase. He heard three shots, and a
high-pitched yowl cut off. He heard Rasmussen's cry of frustration and rage.
He opened the trench door quietly and stooped for his shoes, clenching his
teeth around a groan.
    He had known it was the cat.
    The rain had slowed. A few stars burnt through the cloud. Mayland Long
wove into the scrub wood across from Rasmussen's house. He put his back
to a tree and waited for Rasmussen to come out.
    For nothing had been changed by this little pas de deux. Long still had to
find Martha Macnamara. Rasmussen must lead him to her. With his quarry
escaped, the man would have to move.
    Liz was still safe, since Rasmussen didn't know Long had found her. She
would remain safe until the banks opened tomorrow. Martha must be alive.
He could say no more.
    Chill seeped out of the earth and air. It invaded his anatomy. Blood and
water mixed beneath the tree where he sat.
    Why had he failed himself? He felt he had reacted in a manner alien to his
own nature, and he was very familiar with his nature; it had been with him a
long time. He ought to have taken Rasmussen as soon as the man's back was
turned. Had he killed the man it would have been unfortunate, but
understandable. That was proper behavior, with logic and the fire of the
beast in harmony. Instead he had run away.
   Tentatively, he sorted his feelings. Was he ready to confront Rasmussen
again, if need be?
   Where was his anger?
   He was rewarded for his probing with cold, deadly pain. His vision swam
with meaningless stars. His ears filled with a pounding, like surf. Mayland
Long passed out under the weeping trees.
   Martha had not noticed the box before. It lay hidden amid a pile of trash
the small man had accumulated during the day: candy wrappers, soda cans,
broken cigarettes. He pulled it out now, brushing the ash from the black
plastic grill on the top of it.
   She stared grimly at the cassette recorder. She knew what it was for and
she had guessed events would come to this.
   A magazine jacket covered with print caught her desperate eye. “Dr.
Dobb's” she chirped. “I know someone else who reads that.”
   His eyes held only boredom and contempt. His fingers fiddled with the
machine. He drew the microphone out of its compartment and plugged it in
the back of the box.
   “Now, lady. It's time for you to talk to your daughter.”
   She regarded him with birdlike intensity, her blue eyes unblinking. His
own face flushed, heavy and sullen.
   “Just tell her you're all right. Tell her to do what we say.” He pressed the
record and play buttons.
   The whirr of the moving tape was the only sound in the room. Martha
Macnamara's small mouth was pursed. With her round face and tangled
braids she was the image of rebellion.
   He stopped the tape. Smacked her backhanded across the face. Rewound
and started again.
   “Talk,” he grunted. She stared at nothing, across the room.
   The man hit Martha three more times. The last time he hit her, he used his
fist. “Talk!” he bellowed. His voice cracked. The tape reached its end and the
machine snapped off.
   Martha Macnamara abruptly began talking. “You spend a lot of money on
your clothes,” she observed, through cracked lips. “But you don't know how
to put them together. With white trousers you should not wear a bright red
shirt. Except in Italy, maybe…”
   His finger jabbed the rewind. He stood looking down at his captive,
grinding his teeth. He kicked her. Kicked her again, just below the
wire-bound hands.
   “Ow, owww, owww!” shrieked Martha Macnamara. “Yow Owww!” She
cried out once for every kick, loudly and with great animation. He pressed
record once more, and the tape filled with wordless howls and yelps.
   The small man turned away, purple faced. He leaned against the wall,
slicking back his hair, and stood in unconscious parody of Michelangelo's
David. He did not see Martha stagger to her feet, pluck up the recorder by
the mike cord, swing it around her head, and send it crashing against the
back of his neck.
   He tottered and fell, but as the machine was made of light plastic, he did
not lose consciousness. As Martha bent over him, scrabbling through his
pockets for the keys and dikes, his arms shot up and grabbed her by the
throat.
   “I'll kill you, you bitch!” he roared. The woman's head snapped back and
forth as he shook her and squeezed. Her face was mottled, under the bruises.
   The green door suddenly opened and the small man looked up into small
eyes set in a huge head, a head gold and spiky as an Aztec platter.
   “Jesus Christ, Threve, what'd you do that for?” gritted Floyd Rasmussen.




                                Chapter 10
   Mayland Long woke under a cold clear sky. With an agony of effort he
pulled himself to his feet. A cautious walk down the sidewalk in front of
Rasmussen's house told him the man had made his escape, for the lights
were all out and the french door closed once again. Around the square
where Long had removed the glass the injured wood gleamed white.
   He didn't curse himself for his body's latest failing; he merely proceeded
down the street toward his car, each step premeditated, slowly…
   Long felt about as sick as a man can be, still standing. Wet cold ate into
his lungs; his breath steamed. He cradled his right arm in front of him. A
dull pounding in his ears had haunted him through dreams into miserable
wakefulness. Its dull thunder confused him, though he knew it was his own
heartbeat.
   Worse than the cold, worse than the confusion, almost worse than the
lancing pain in his shoulder was the thirst. If he could find water, he could
bear the cold and the pain.
   Oily puddles in the road tempted him. Had they been deeper he might
have bent to drink from them. If he were able to bend. The car. Was there
water anywhere in it? Perhaps in the washer reservoir.
   But no. That water would be mixed with antifreeze. Thoughtfully he
regarded the dark houses he passed. Water in the garden faucets? In the
green plastic hoses coiled in the grass? His steps slowed—stopped.
   He didn't dare. If he were caught, found by some insomniac householder,
staggering blood-soaked and frozen among the dahlias, or if there were a
dog… He could go without water. For a little while.
   The Citroen gleamed under starlight. He found his keys, but his hand was
not steady and he had difficulty unlocking the door. He pulled it open and
sank into the tan leather seat. Wherever he touched it, the leather darkened:
brown with water, russet with blood.
   In the comfort of the car he rested, until faintness rose up from his chest
to his throat and threatened to drown him. Words echoed in his head. Tinny,
removed, without meaning… “In order to become what you are not, it is
necessary to go by a way in which you are not.”
   Whose words? Who had said that? Long's distracted mind pursued the
question. Donne? No. Not like Donne. They were from a poem of Eliot's.
Or… were they the Formosan's? The old man in the rain. Rain again…
Whatever, they made no sense. Didn't help at all. Never had. Words.
   What would help? He needed… rest. There were so many miseries,
crowding him close. Pain, thirst, cold, worry, loss. It hurt to think. It hurt to
breathe.
   Failure.
   Suddenly it occurred to Mayland Long that he didn't know what to do
next. He couldn't remember. Staring into the darkness, broken only by the
pale arc of the steering wheel before him, he shuddered.
   It was rest he needed, he told himself. He would regain both memory and
strength if he could rest. Where to look for it?
   Long could not recall his childhood, nor any time he was under the care
of others. He had not been ill in many years. He conjured up a vision of his
sitting room like an animal yearning for its den, yet there was nothing within
those book-lined walls that had the power to comfort him now. Nothing
called to him but sleep.
   Blankness soared toward him on owl's wings.
   His eyes opened and his head jerked up. He remembered his
commitments. Both to Martha Macnamara and to Elizabeth, he had made
promises. Because he was born in China, he had a great respect for
promises. Because he had always kept them. Long believed most strongly in
his own promises, and knew that a promise he did not fulfill would fulfill
itself upon him. Live or dead, no creature might escape the unfolding of its
own actions.
   He turned on the engine.
    And the heat.
    Elizabeth's bedroom was green. The bedside lamp gave off a gauzy light,
like filtered sunlight falling on the forest floor. The lamp, the table beneath
it, the dresser, the standing cheval mirror—all were of golden oak. The
bedroom was just the way she wanted it. It was one of the few things in her
life that were just the way she wanted.
    She sought solace in that room, beneath the rumpled covers of the great
waterbed. As she had assured Mr. Long, the bed was quite warm. Within her
was the additional golden warmth of Scotch. She hugged her down pillow.
    Her mind revolved endlessly on one question. How had she gotten
involved in this horror? The question had become a ritual exercise, for she
already knew the answer: it was a union of philosophy and greed.
    What made transfer of property sometimes morally justifiable and
sometimes theft? Mutuality was a good criterion. When one took and gave
nothing, that was theft. But the bank might take one's car away, when one
was down on one's luck and needed the car most. That was lawful behavior
on the banks part, but was it morally justifiable? And if transfer of property
could be justified, was it the idea of transfer, or of property itself which sat
at the root of the problem?
    Pragmatism was a sword that cut through such knots; an action was to be
judged by its consequences alone. Liz had been introduced to the philosophy
as a penniless freshman in college and had lived by it. There was nothing
wrong in a deed which hurt no one and did the doer much good.
    Liz's sophisticated robbery was of that kind. No one was hurt but the
federal insurance agency, and Liz's own situation was marvelously
improved. Of course, if everyone followed her lead, the bank would break
and individuals would be hurt, but everyone was not robbing the bank. Only
Liz Macnamara was robbing the bank and now that she was a bit older and
no longer penniless, that suited her quite well.
    The problem was that Floyd Rasmussen was not a philosopher, but a
crook. He was a man of quick changes. He loved his cat and all Disney
movies. He also shot things for fun: deer, quail, even wildcats. Floyd turned
on and off like a faucet which was levered by his own self-interest. She had
liked Floyd in the beginning, though never quite enough to go to bed with
him, as he had wanted. Now she wanted to see him dead.
    And Threve? Thinking about Threve, Liz clutched her pillow
spasmodically, hiding her face in white cotton. Threve was the devil himself.
Without Threve, Rasmussen would be no threat to her, but Rasmussen
himself was afraid of Threve.
    Why? He wasn't much to look at. He was much shorter than Liz, and he
dressed like a gigolo, raising eyebrows in the expensive places where he
liked to spend his time. Being in Threve's company had been purgatory for
Liz, but she had not dared avoid him, for fear of his temper. The three of
them had been locked together in bonds of mutual guilt, in which
camaraderie soured into distrust.
   She had spent much of her life in the company of people she didn't like
and wasn't able to avoid. Her mother's friends, for example.
   She remembered her early years with glass clarity. Her father had
disappeared when she was six. For years she carried the notion—picked up
God knows where, certainly not from her mother—that he'd been taken
bodily into heaven. Mother had let her believe this; it was only when she
discovered, overhearing a phone conversation, that he had cleaned out the
savings before he left that she realized the truth.
   Then came mother's odd jobs, playing Mendelssohn and Wagner for
weddings. Cole Porter at the occasional bar mitzvah. Night and Day,
Lohingrin, Miss Otis Regrets… Liz couldn't listen to any of them without a
shudder. In no sort of music could she find pleasure.
   Mother had to work nights, too, playing bass at the jazz cafe, and came
home in the early morning, her clothes smelling of smoke and beer.
Sometimes, when the babysitter didn't show, she had to go with her mother,
and curl up on the table in the pantry off the kitchen, where the Chinese
dishwasher would babble interminably in Cantonese, in which every syllable
sounded like a threat to the child.
   She held none of this against her mother. Mother had had no choice. She
had worked like a dog, with help from no one.
   The terrible, hurting love Liz felt for her mother welled up in her until
she could hardly breath. That was why she couldn't be near Martha
Macnamara: why she'd fled the length of the country to go to college and
stayed away ever since. Mother was a noble cause continually being lost. Liz
gasped and the bed rippled under her like a warm, maternal bosom.
   Their years of life together had been marked by the constant parade of
stray people through their apartment: fruitarians, musicologists, women
with shaved heads and men with politics. These were all friends Mother
picked up along the way, indiscriminately—or chosen according to
standards known to no one else in the world but Mother. There was the fat
woman who had told Liz to call her Bagheera, who slept on the zabutons in
the dining room for a week every summer. There was big, smelly piper
named Hamish who insisted on making his instrument imitate a squealing
pig, thinking to amuse the little girl. Once, half by accident, she had referred
to him as Anus, causing her mother to drop a plate of tomato slices on the
kitchen floor. The memory nudged Liz into smiling.
   The one characteristic shared by all Mothers friends was that they were
irresistably attracted to Mother. They came for her sudden blue flashes of
insight, when she would lift her head and point, speaking a few words to
prove she did understand what the speaker had been saying in an hours
confused, monotonous monologue— bursting the confusion with an arrow
of pure good sense.
   They came for the curve of her mother's neck and her grace of movement.
They came for lessons, arrangements, transpositions, hamburgers… They
came with broken dreams, with fiddles unstrung, without carfare home…
   Without exception they took more than they gave, and Mother, who was a
real musician—a professional, and a real spiritual expert—a human being,
allowed them to play their games around her as if she were blind to them.
   Liz's fists balled up in anger at people.
   And Stanford she had found to be filled with the same sort of
self-involved zanies. They dressed badly, their rooms reeked of dope, and
they babbled interminably. She had found that her fellow students were
friendliest when they were about to borrow money from her. In that
freshman year she had learned to protect herself from leeches: deadbeats,
grabby dates, “friends” who only wanted to crib her papers. She became very
good at it and soon had few friends of any sort.
   She'd envied the students in business administration. They got up in the
morning at reasonable hours, dressed as well as their purses permitted, and
studied with moderate diligence, knowing it would pay them in the end. Of
course, these were a different breed, and in a way a lesser breed, for Liz was
an engineer. But she followed the regimen as closely as her thirsty mind
permitted.
   When she had money, she would be able to call bullshit bullshit. When
she had money, her mother would have time to be a real musician again—in
concert halls instead of bars.
   The contrast between the dream and reality drove a single cry from her
throat. She flung herself to her feet.
   There, in front of her eyes, lay Mayland Long's clothes, folded neatly.
These were the only reassurances she had that the strange man had really
been there—was actually out somewhere in the night trying to find her
mother.
   She touched the white shirt. By the dry, smooth feel of it, it was silk. The
suit, too: raw silk, undyed. She called an image to mind and saw him again,
standing composed and still in the doorway of the kitchen, holding the bottle
aloft, like a lantern.
   His manner, too, had been dry and smooth. She had fallen apart in front of
him—a thing she had not done before any human being since cowing to
Stanford. She had offered to give him everything she had, and had meant it.
She still meant it—money, reputation, flesh, future—all of it would be a
good trade for the life other mother. And he had turned the conversation
gently aside.
   She had the feeling that Mr. Long had refused her merely because he had
all he could want or need already. It was all just the way he wanted it.
Clothes, manner, confidence.
   Yet this was the man Martha Macnamara had hired for a few thousand
dollars. To risk his life. Of course he liked Mother. That was clear from the
way he spoke about her. But everyone talked that way about Mother. Liz
accepted that as her mother's due.
   In the corner of her eye she saw movement—herself in the standing
mirror. She did not like her body. It was awkward, and the bones were too
big. She turned back to the folded shirt.
   It was silk. It gave her hope.




                                 Chapter 11
   The small cities of the Peninsula followed one another along the freeway.
Mayland Long drove, his headlights cutting through a fog of pain. His single
useable hand clutched the bottom of the wheel. The left arm lay limp, the
hand resting on his thigh. At a dip in the road it shifted. This hurt so his grip
on the wheel slid, and the Citroen veered across two lanes. Fortunately, his
was the only car on the road.
   The Rengstorff exit loomed ahead. He took the curve slowly, but was
forced nonetheless against the door of the car. Wheels scraped gravel. The
left side of the car dipped as it left the pavement, but he threw himself
against the wheel and found the road again.
   The Southern Pacific Railroad track rattled beneath his wheels. Only the
forgiving suspension of the Citroen made the jolting bearable. He turned
right on University Street and glided the car to a dark stop.
   The building in which Threve lived sat amid grubby wooden houses like a
stork in a pond full of ducks. The high-rise sparkled in the dim moonlight;
its concrete facing had been mixed with glass. It was a white, impregnable
virgin of a building, having no windows on the ground floor.
   Long skirted the ghostly walls, treading the grass of its tiny lawn.
Wearily, he leaned against the bole of a small olive tree, his shape hidden by
moonlight among silvery leaves. He no longer felt the cold.
   There were two doors set into the rear face of the building. One of these
was glass, and possessed a splendid brass lock. The other was steel, with a
lock to match. Mr. Long walked up to the glass door.
   He needed his good hand, which had been supporting his wounded left
arm. He forced his left hand into his jeans pocket.
   Mr. Long knew a bit about metals. He believed he could force the
aluminum frame of the door, even if the lock was too strong. Yet he
stopped with his fingers wrapped around the door-pull, remembering his
error at Rasmussen's house.
   He investigated the other door. It smelled of garbage. This lock could not
be forced, and though the idea of dismantling it appealed to Long's
curiosity, he had neither tools nor time.
   He turned the doorknob tentatively and the door opened. A wad of ancient
gum was blocking the bolt hole.
   He found himself in a reeking chamber full of trash. He picked up a black
plastic bag—one that upon inspection seemed less noisome than the
rest—and proceeded through the inside door.
   Threve's apartment number was 10-10. Long took the elevator; he could
not have climbed the stairs. It was empty, and when the box stopped, he
cradled the soft package against his chest and stepped into the hall.
   “Stop!” cried the voice of a woman. “Hold it!” She wore nurse's whites.
The “it” she referred to was the elevator. Mayland Long squeezed his burden
higher, obscuring his face, and propped the door with his foot.
   She had red hair. She smiled. “Thanks,” she continued in more
conventional tones. “Sorry 'bout the noise. I forget other people sleep
nights.” The doors closed and the kindly face vanished into the depths.
   “Do they?” whispered Mr. Long to the empty hall.
   Threve's apartment was at the end of the hall. Beside the door Long
dropped the small bag of trash; its function was fulfilled.
   Speed was essential now, not stealth. Mayland Long meant to see Mr.
Threve and to be seen by him. In heat of rage or chilly wet night, he would
get answers from the hoodlum.
   The door jamb of 10-10 snapped with a single explosive crack. He
stepped in and pulled the door closed behind him.
   The apartment was empty. He crept from the front room to the bedroom.
He kicked open the door to the miniscule bathroom. Nothing. Finally he
entered the kitchen, put his mouth beneath the tap and drank. He was a long
time at it.
   Now what? Should he wait for the unpleasant Mr. Threve to return? He
could not wait long, for it was after midnight, and there was the matter of
the letter to be accomplished…
   He busied himself as productively as he could, searching through
Threve’s belongings. Prying into the private affairs of others had always
been one of Mr. Long's deepest interests, and now it served to distract his
mind from his body's calamity.
   Under the telephone in the bedroom he found an address book, old,
spine-broken and filled with scraps of paper. He carried it out to the front
room and began sifting through it, while listening for sounds from the
elevator.
   The oldest entries, judging by the fading of the ink, were of places in
Detroit. Other cities were represented, notably Austin, Texas and Baton
Rouge. Evidently, Mr. Threve was a traveler, and had only recently arrived
in California. That was a help, for it reduced the number of relevant entries.
   He sat upon a boxy white sofa beneath the large window of the living
room. He read by the light of the full moon.
   He placed his finger upon a promising scrap of paper, then started at a
glimpse of movement at the far end of the room.
   He stood up and walked toward a figure which walked toward him. It was
a shadowy man dressed in shapeless clothes, one hand stuck insolently in a
pocket.
   The entire wall of the room was covered with mirror panels. The image
jumped and danced at the intersections of the squares. He stood respectfully
in front of the image, as though he were waiting for it to speak to him, as
though the faceless, sullen figure knew something he did not. His right hand
folded the address in two and stuffed it away. The image then appeared with
both hands in pockets, or possibly chained behind its back. It stood with its
head down; a prisoner awaiting sentence. This sad figure was no one he
knew.
   Outside the broken door his odorous camouflage was waiting. He picked
up the garbage bag and headed for the elevator. He knew his appearance
would not stand up to much scrutiny; the rusty stains on his gray sweatshirt
covered half its surface. The shirt was stiff and stuck to his back. He could
smell the drying blood.
   He was very warm, and with warmth came the desire for sleep. This
desire was mitigated by the distant white dazzle of the moon. He heard the
pounding again, but it seemed too slow to be his heartbeat. It was too much
like the sea.
   The engine turned over and the fan blasted hot air against his face. He
turned it off.
   He'd been driving all day and night, it seemed. He would need gas soon.
He was losing his taste for driving.
   The address in his pocket was not far: just across the line into Sunnyvale.
He drove down the empty El Camino, straight at the moon.
   The building was nothing more than a concrete shed, surrounded by
gravel. The immediate area was zoned for industry, and was desolate by
night. The words Rasmussen Mas were painted in orange letters across the
front wall, but it appeared the place had passed beyond that particular
incarnation. Mallow and dock grew among the stones of the parking lot, and
the shriveled heads of chickweed made a desolate border beneath the wall. It
seemed to be one of Rasmussen's earlier miscalculations—if in truth his
bankruptcies had been accidental.
   No cars were to be seen. The two doors of the building were green steel.
There were no windows.
   No noise leaked out, even when he put his ear to the metal. He sighed and
leaned against the door, summoning what remained of his strength.
   There were tracks in the gravel, from a vehicle which had driven right up
to the door and backed away again. No telling how long the tracks had been
there.
   The factory was a fortress, but Mr. Long was not overawed by fortresses.
He closed his eyes, seized the knob, and pulled.
   The knob came out in his hand, trailing its tarnished entrails. The sliding
bolt fell into the round hole the knob had left, and the door creaked open;
the deadbolt had not been set.
   He stepped into a wide empty room, lit only by the light emanating from a
gaping refrigerator. The room held one wooden table, gouged and solder
stained, a filthy white folding chair and a litter of magazines. Approaching
closer he found in one corner more magazines that had been arranged into
three piles, one pile four inches high and the other two consisting of one
Playboy and one Dr. Dobb's each, with the computer journal on top. These
three piles made a triangle eighteen inches on a side. Next to this formation
was the sad carcass of a tape recorder, smashed. Within it he could see a
small white cassette tape. Mayland Long would have given much to know
what was on that tape. He put it in his pocket.
   Prowling the perimeter of the room, he came to the open refrigerator. He
felt within it.
   The shelves were still cold. His breath drew in in a long hiss.
   Continuing his investigation, he found the bathroom by the back door. He
entered and turned on the light. The bottom of the sink was damp.
   On the bathroom wall, amid graffiti in English and Spanish, someone had
drawn a large red circle. It began and ended at the top. It was a fat, open,
hearty circle, drawn in fresh lipstick. In Zen Buddhist tradition it meant
nothing. Literally nothing—zero, Mu, the Void. To Mr. Long it meant quite
a lot.
   He staggered into the yard, scattering gravel. He leaned his back against
the door of the car. Trying to untangle his keys from the cassette tape, he
dropped both on the roadway. He stooped for them, and found himself on
hands and knees on the concrete, overcome by the knowledge of failure. He
cried out, a thin, wordless, wail.
   Too late… Too slow… Too late…
   Breathing raggedly, he found the keys, the tape. He climbed to his feet and
stood motionless for sixty seconds.
   He got in the car.
   The knocking continued. Fred crawled out of bed, dazed. The clock said
2:45.
   This was a real bitch.
   He slept in his b.v.d.'s, and wearing nothing else he stood by the door.
   “Whozat?” he croaked, his voice breaking in the middle of the compound
word.
   “Frisch? Fred. It's Mayland Long. I hope you remember me.”
   Had Frisch forgotten the name, he could not have forgotten the voice. He
wrestled with the lock and flung the door open. Long stepped in.
   “Forgive me. I am aware of the hour. I have come because I need your
help, Fred. Both the Macnamara women are in terrible danger, and I know
no one else to whom I can go.”
   Frisch blinked and stared. “You're white as a sheet,” was all he found to
say. “Sit down.”
   “Am I?” whispered Mr. Long, obeying. “How odd. I thought there was
nothing white about me.” Suddenly he started up again. “I will ruin your
upholstery.”
   “Too late for that,” mumbled Frisch. “Years too late.” He squatted on the
floor next to Long, taking the blood stiffened fabric in his hands.
   “What in hell happened to you?”
   The wounded man gently pulled the shirt out of Frisch's grip. “I've been
shot in the shoulder. Please don't.”
   Frisch sat back on his haunches. “You gotta go to the hospital, man. I'll
drive you.”
   “No. I don't have the time. Martha Macnamara has been kidnapped by men
who intend to kill her. I must forge a letter on a RasTech text processor—an
8080—and hand it to Elizabeth before tomorrow morning.”
   “You can't do anything if you bleed to death,” insisted Frisch, letting the
rest of the statement slide by him. He dropped his hands to his knees and
stood up. He headed for the bathroom.
   “The bleeding has stopped, I think,” replied Mr. Long. “And I cannot use
the machine at all, which is why I came to you.”
    Frisch came back with a pair of shears. He knelt again beside Long. The
heavy blades sliced through the fabric of the sweatshirt.
    “I was a boy scout. Got a first aid merit badge.” He cut from the
waistband to the neck while the older man watched. Silver blades gnashed
together, but slowly their bright surfaces grew dull, as though with rust.
When Frisch began snipping through the left sleeve, Long gasped and
swayed. Frisch apologized, but kept cutting.
    The cloth at the top of the shoulder was stuck to the wound. Frisch cut
around it, and the remains of the gray ,'Sweatshirt fell to the cushions of the
chair. ,' Fred Frisch whistled. “Oooh, man. You ought to see your side.”
    “I can do without.”
    Frisch dropped his scissors on the worn carpet. “Who shot you?”
    Long leaned back. “Floyd Rasmussen. With some sort of hunting rifle.”
His eyes glittered. He rubbed at them. “I didn't know a gun could make so
little noise.”
    Mr. Long was not really white, but he was decidedly gray against Frisch’s
decrepit green recliner chair. His eyes fell shut. He heard Frisch in the
distance, along with the sound of running water.
    “It is hot in here,” he observed. “I imagined the rain would cool the air.”
    Agony struck him in the shoulder, worse than the pain of the bullet. Long
grabbed at the source of it.
    Frisch gasped and cried out. A steaming cloth dropped onto Long's lap.
    “Leggo!” cried Frisch. “Let go. Please! You're breaking my arm!”
    Astonished, Long released him. “I'm so very sorry,” he said. “I didn't
know what you were doing.”
    The young blond flexed his fingers doubtfully. “Good God, Mr. Long.
Where did you develop a grip like that?”
    “I didn't develop it. Holding on comes naturally to me.” He tried to smile.
“But I won't do it again, I promise.”
    Frisch soaked the cloth again. “It's going to hurt just as bad,” he warned
his patient. He lowered the washcloth onto the filthy wound.
    As he had promised. Long did not attack Frisch. He passed out.




                                Chapter 12
   Fred continued soaking the wound in warm water laced with Betadine. At
length the mangled scrap of fabric came off. The exit hole of the bullet was
black and ragged, though it had not adhered to the shirt. He put his hand
behind Long's back and eased the man forward, propping him with a sofa
cushion.
   With every unconscious twitch of his patient Fred flinched. The tendons
along his forearm still hurt when he clenched his hand. Jeezus what kind of
grip this guy had… Must have been adrenaline, like with the little kids who
pull cars off their mothers…
   He ought to call the police. This guy was in no shape to tackle anything
more tonight. Kidnapping. Attempted murder.
   Maybe this Mr. Long was simply a lunatic. Maybe the story he told Fred
at the shop was sheer gas—after all, the woman who came with him, with
her ballerina hair, the one he said was Liz Macnamara’s mother, hadn't
followed the conversation. And she had seemed a bit happy herself.
   But who shoots a lunatic in the shoulder? And from above. Top down.
Was Rasmussen sitting in a tree when he shot Mr. Long?
   He did not really doubt his visitors story. He only wished that he could.
And he thought he really ought to call the police.
   What he did instead was to dribble hydrogen peroxide into both bullet
wounds. He winced as he watched the stuff foam. Long's lips pulled back
from his teeth but his eyes did not open. He noticed the teeth—white,
perfect and heavily rooted. He always noticed teeth; he had spent four years
in orthodontia.
   He went rummaging through the medicine cabinet. Not finding all he
wanted, he proceeded through the kitchen drawers. Finally he raided his tool
box.
   The red wounds he covered with gauze pads, which he attached by
adhesive tape. The damaged arm he bent at the elbow and lay flat against his
patients stomach, securing it with duct tape wrapped around the body
   He stepped back and examined his handiwork.
   Serviceable. No design award, but the guy looked better than he had
before. Except for his color, which was bad.
   With a great deal of trepidation, he bent down and raised Mr. Long, one
hand under the knees and the other at the shoulders. The task was far easier
than he'd feared. Mr. Long was very light.
   Maybe he had hollow bones. Why not? He looked strange enough in other
respects. Those hands, for instance.
   Maybe he was an extraterrestrial, passing for human. An extraterrestrial
detective. From Fomalhaut, maybe. And Rasmussen was the most-wanted
criminal in this arm of the galaxy. He liked this idea. He could relate to it
more easily than that of someone kidnapping Liz Macnamara. Or was it her
mother that was kidnapped?
   He lowered Long to the carpet, gently. Next he yanked all the back
cushions from the couch and stuffed them under his patient's knees. He
wondered if Long were a marathon racer and that was why he was so light
and strong. He himself jogged.
   He went into his bedroom and pulled the blanket off the bed. Kneeling
beside the sick man he hesitated, blanket in hand. He put his hand on the
tight dry skin of the man's forehead.
   Jeez, he was hot… Really burning up. He didn't need a blanket; he needed
icepacks.
   He needed a hospital. Fred wavered in indecision while his hand—which
was like all of him, rather chilly in the air of night—moved to the back of
Longs neck. He felt tension harden the muscles before he saw the brown
eyes open.
   “How did I get here?” Mr. Long inquired mildly.
   “Oh. Well, you looked kinda bad, and I remembered from boy scouts
'Face red, raise the head. Face pale, raise the tail.' “
   “A useful maxim, but inelegant,” the dark man whispered. Long looked
about him, noticing the shabby furnishings, the worn rug, the piles of
incomprehensible electronics equipment gathered in the corners of the room
like dust kitties and sharing the surface of the single table with two pears
and a loaf of Orowheat Brand bread. None of the machines seemed to be in
working order, judging by the bouquets of bell wire and brass popping from
the tops or seams, the black holes where knobs should have been, the green
boards protruding at odd angles from the frames…
   “What time is it?” Long asked. Among all this mechanical litter, there
was no clock to be seen.
   Fred trotted into the bedroom. “Three-twenty,” he called back. When he
returned to the living room Long was standing.
   “I have no more time, Fred. I thank you for what you have done. Will you
also do what I asked of you?”
   Under the intensity of Long's gaze Fred was aware of his near-nakedness.
He shifted from one bare foot to the other. “Can't we call the police?”
   “When we have the letter we can call the police. The letter may become
my bargaining power with Rasmussen and his colleague. I found where they
were keeping Martha Macnamara, but they had moved her before I arrived.”
   “That might mean… that… I mean…”
   “That she is dead? It might, but I don't think so.” Long did not explain
farther. Instead he added, “I have no way to find her. I don't believe the
police would be in a better state. Only Rasmussen or Threve can lead me to
Martha now, and I may need that letter for bait. If you don't want to become
involved I will return to Elizabeth's apartment and waylay the hoodlums as
they arrive.”
   “You will? You can barely stand up!” cried Frisch.
   Mr. Long's lips parted with a trace of a smile. Frisch glimpsed those teeth,
and with a chaining of memory he touched his aching right arm.
   “Acrobatics may not be necessary,” said Long. “But I can't blame you for
not wanting to… to delve into this affair. It is dangerous and of disputable
legality. And you have already ruined a night's sleep to help a man who has
no claim upon you…”
   “Wait a minute. I never said I didn't want to help you with this letter
business. All I'm saying is…” Fred looked about him. His blond moustache
whuffled with the force of his thoughts. His hands lifted from his sides and
slapped down again, helplessly. “… is… Let me get some clothes on. That's
all.”
   “Some car!”
   May land Long accepted the tribute with a nod. “There are not many of
them in California. Never until tonight have I been so glad of the automatic
transmission. “ He lowered himself slowly into the drivers seat. He was now
wearing a red flannel shirt of Fred's, soft and blouselike, which fit easily
over the taped arm. The empty sleeve was tucked into the waistband of his
Levis. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
   “I look like a one-armed lumberjack.”
   Fred had remained standing by the door, leaning into the open window.
“No way,” he stated. He sought for words to explain how very difficult it
would be for Mr. Long to look like a lumberjack. “No way,” he repeated.
   “Maybe I better drive, huh?”
   “No,” said Long. The word came out sounding like the answer to a
question rather than the blunt refusal it was. He waited for Frisch to get in.
   “So tell me,” urged the young man. “What's the story? Why is Floyd
Rasmussen going around kidnapping people and zapping them with guns?”
   Long told the story. He told it not from the viewpoint of his own
involvement, but chronologically, beginning with the affair of Carlo
Peccolo and Liz Macnamara and her subsequent disillusionment, and
leading up to the finding of the smashed tape recorder and the circle on the
wall of the bathroom. He spoke so that Frisch should know the sort of
trouble he was purchasing, but in his words the explanation became a tale of
blood and betrayal.
   Frisch sat gaping when Long was done. “Jeezus. What made Liz do such a
stupid thing?”
   Long grunted and licked his cracked lips. “I believe she wanted to become
a wizard. That is what she said, at least.”
   “Oof!” Frisch stretched in his seat and cracked his knuckles behind his
head. “Everyone wants to be a wizard. Every engineer, that is. Goes with
unicorns and dragons: but with technical people it's particularly wizards—a
secret fantasy that lies behind all the pin diagrams. It's really silly, don't you
know? Wizards! But engineers can be really naive about themselves; they
think because they can design a pc board and it's right and it works, that
everything they do or believe is going to be just that right. Better than what
the nerd on the street does or believes. That's where wizards come in. Secret
ways. Secret knowledge. Not bound by ordinary rules. Liz is a little bit like
that, isn't she?”
   Long smiled ruefully. “She did want to be a wizard,” he admitted. “So
unlike her mother.”
   Fred nodded his understanding. “I myself try not to… not to take myself
too seriously, you know? But I get into it too: working at night, with all the
colored lights blinkin', and the machine responding to my commands.
   “It's all a power trip, man.” Frisch settled into himself, chewing on his
moustache as the car sped on. The moon was now directly overhead.
   Long's voice broke the stillness. “I see. That explains wizards. What about
unicorns?”
   This question was not easy for the engineer to answer. “I dunno. I heard
they were symbols of virginity, hundreds of years ago. Nobody I know goes
in for virginity.”
   Long laughed, and bright wheels of pain formed in his shoulder. His mind
was clouding over. He sought to keep Frisch talking. “Dragons?”
   “Power.” Frisch spoke with decision. “Raw power.”
   “Is that all?” asked Mayland Long. “Is that all there is to dragons?”
   “Isn't that enough? Terror on bat wings. Fire and cold stone. Gold and
jewels in heaps. Raw power!” He paused for only a moment. “Watch out
when you meet a guy on a dragon trip!”
   Mr. Long spared a moment from the road to glance at Fred Frisch, who
sat, hands laced behind his neck, pale hair waving to his shoulders.
   That rosy face shone like an angel's in the moonlight. He was no more
than a boy. Long felt himself buffeted by the cruelties of time. He spoke.
   “In China, it was different. I think. Chinese dragons were not always such
brutes. They lived for centuries, and had a certain reputation for wisdom.”
   Frisch brought his hands down. “Didn't they eat people?”
   Long grinned. “At times. And at times people ate dragons. Powdered
dragon's blood has been known to bring a man back from the edge of death.”
   Frisch looked doubtfully at Mr. Long. “Are you… Chinese?” he asked.
   “More or less.” Long strangled a yawn, afraid how the movement would
affect his shoulder. His face was hot and dry. His lip was bleeding.
   “The Chinese imperial dragon has five toes to a foot. All others have
three or four.”
   “Why's that such a difference?”
   “It makes it much easier for him to turn the pages of books. To write
letters to his friends,” answered Mayland Long. “Don't laugh. It is true.”
   To their surprise the building which housed RasTech was lit and open. A
small circle of men squatted on the front stoop, drinking soda and tossing
pennies. Long and Frisch hesitated at the foot of the walk.
   “This is an additional complication,” whispered Long.
   “I guess somebody in there works three shifts. 'Can't believe it's RasTech.
Those guys look like Mexicans. Probably they do parts assembly.”
   “One of them is Mexican born.” The sick man spoke absently “The rest
seem to be from the Central Valley, by their accent. But their presence, and
that of the guard in the lobby, forces me to rethink our strategy I'd planned
to break the lock.”
   “Well, now we won't have to,” replied Fred Frisch, and he skipped
buoyantly toward the door.
   Mr. Long followed.
   The guard was tan faced, portly and balding. As the two entered he put
down a Harlequin romance. Fred was a vision of blond innocence. He sailed
to a stop before the guard and, leaned over the desk.
   “I'm supposed to meet Floyd Rasmussen here,” he said. “I'm a little late.”
   The fat man blinked. His English was not too good.
   “No Mister Rasmussen here. Not in the night. Come back tomorrow.”
   Fred ran his hand through his hair. “We have to boot up the system.
Comprende? Boot up the system?”
   “Do you want me to translate?” murmured Long in Fred's ear.
   “No,” answered Fred in the same tones. “I want him to stay confused.”
   The guard cleared his throat and glanced wistfully at his book. “Booting
is not my business. Come back” tomorrow.”
   “But if we don't boot the system right now, it's going to get hot for us.
Overheat. Muy caliente and a lot of money.”
   The guard’s pudgy face creased with worry, but he shrugged. “I cannot
boot; What can I do?”
   “You have the keys, I know. Let us in so we can do it.”
   The guard blinked resentfully. “I cannot do that,” he stated. “It is not
permitted.”
   Fred ran both his hands through his hair and his moustache bristled like a
live thing. “Have you ever seen a computer crash?” he demanded. “It's
horrible. All over the floor! It will put Rasmussen out of business.”
  Unhappily, the guard stood. He looked vaguely around, as though the
corners of the lobby could give him some advice. He put his hand into his
baggy uniform pocket and pulled out a ring of keys.
  “You come,” he commanded, with great bitterness. “When you leave, I
have to search you.”
  “Fair enough,” said Fred, as the private door opened before them. Long
withheld comment.




                                Chapter 13
   In Rasmussen's office, lit only by window light, the model of the ship cast
complex shadows on the floor. Fred bent to marvel at the miniature while
May land Long perused the wall of yellowed comic strips, studying the
tastes of this man who had come so near to killing him.
   He liked Hagar the Horrible, evidently, and a strip titled Garfield.
Anything by Kliban. Anything with cats.
   Long remembered the wretched cry of the white cat in the bathroom. The
cat had betrayed him to Rasmussen—by accident, of course. He had, in turn,
caused the cat's death.
   Also by accident.
   Rasmussen's taste was pedestrian—nothing in the decoration of this wall
exposed the humorist as a murderer. Rut then, Mayland Long could also
laugh. And kill men.
   He leaned against the wall, waiting for Frisch to be done. It was hard to
stand. Swallowing, too, was becoming difficult.
   “This is a beauty. You like boats?” called Fred.
   “No.”
   The weariness expressed in a single syllable brought the young man out
of his reverie.
   “Sorry,” he said, peering through the dark. “I'll look for the system now.”
   Mr. Long followed Fred Frisch from room to room, searching for
anything which resembled a microprocessor with printer connections. It was
not easily found. After a few minutes. Long realized his efforts were
hindering the search. He returned to the reception room and sank into the
secretary's swivel chair.
   At least with the lights out one did not notice that the walls were orange.
The flat telephone console was green, however, as was the terminal screen at
the secretary's desk. Evidently this was a “paperless” office, such as Long
had read about in the pages of EDN magazine. That meant that all
correspondence was stored on disk and sent to the printer as copies were
desired.
   He tried to call Fred; his voice failed him. On the second try he
succeeded.
   Frisch appeared. Long pointed to the box in front of him. “Is this a
microprocessor?”
   Fred smote his forehead with the heel of his hand. “What a jerk I am!
Here I am, clawing my way through the back labs looking for something
esoteric and here it is.
   “Sure. The box is a Vector—that's 8080 all right, and the rest of the
system… well I don't know.”
   Long eased out of the chair. “I had hoped you would know.”
   “Nope.” Fred explored the desk with nimble fingers, searching for the
various power switches.
   “Will you be able to use it?”
   “Dunno that either,” grunted Fred, offhand. A fan began to whirr. After
five minutes he succeeded in lighting the screen with gibberish.
   A harsh, rattling sigh reached Fred's ears. He swiveled in the chair.
   What he saw broke through his concentration. Long was crouching on the
carpet behind the desk. His knees were up and his head rested between them.
His usable arm encircled his legs and his left hand hung limp, trembling
visibly.
   With a squeal of chair wheels, Fred got up. He stepped awkwardly over to
Long and laid his own hand on the glossy black hair. “Don't worry,” he said.
“When I said I didn't know how, that didn't mean I couldn't learn. I'm pretty
good at this impromptu kind of thing. And you know what they say. 'If you
know what you're doing, it isn't research.' “
   Long lifted his head. His eyes were faceted with gold. Fred smiled.
   “Ignore my noises. It's only that I'm losing my voice,” rasped Long.
Suddenly his eyebrows lifted and he added, “Mr. Frisch, you are stuffed like
a sausage full of little sayings.”
   Fred laughed. “Surprise you to learn that I've read Don Quixote, too. I
always thought I'd make a good Sancho Panza.” He brushed off his knees
and returned to the console.
   “Actually, I'm not entirely your typical North Californian, with head
carved out of redwood burl. You know, 'Nuke the Whales' bumper sticker,
doing yoga suspended in a vat of blood-temperature salts.” Fred typed as he
talked, trying to establish some sort of rapport with the green box.
   “I'm not even from California. But then who is? I'm a good half-Jewish
boy from Shaker Heights, Ohio. I've been afraid to tell my friends here, but I
don't believe in reincarnation.”
   Fred scowled and backed his chair away. “This isn't working. I don't think
the bootstrap is in ROM at all. Who, this day and age, would be so clunky as
to…”
   His quick eye covered the desk, the table set against it, the file cabinets
along the wall. Finally he noticed a box the size of a toaster covered by an
embroidered cozy which read “Bless this Mess.” With a flourish he yanked
off the cover, revealing a paper-tape reader with a neat row of spools built
into the front.
   “White ribbons! What a sight. Now we're cookin' with gas.” He held up
to the light three of the wound tapes. He chose the smudgiest and inserted
that into the machine, nudging on the power and the read switch.
Immediately the strip of paper tape shot through the slit in the machine and
appeared at the other side. Fred waltzed back to the chair in time to receive
the message PANDEMANIC WORD PROCESSING SYSTEM FILE
MANAGER AND EDITOR PROGRAM v. 1.0. Without pause words
INPUT TIME AND DATE (24 HR CLOCK) AS FOLLOWS:
MM,'DD,'YY,'.HH,'MM.
   Fred crowed his triumph, then settled down to interrogate the system.
After a few minutes, he turned to find Long sprawled on the floor, asleep.
   “I wish I didn't have to wake you, friend,” he muttered. “You've had just
as hard a time as a man can take. I think your line of work must be all nails
and no shoe leather. But then, that's the way it is for most people, I guess.
Too much silly work, dull or dangerous, and not enough dough. I'm damn
lucky for a punk kid.”
   Fred swiveled back to the screen. “Maybe I don't have to wake you up,
yet. Le'me see if I can find the library, here…” He typed a few questions and
the answers pleased him.
   “I run, you know,” whispered Fred to the sleeper. “More to clear my head
after work than for macho. I go from the park by Menio City Hall down
along the tracks to Stanford. Down by the railroad bridge there's a tree that
Palo Alto was named for: 'the big stick.' Everybody around here knows
about that tree, but no one stops to see it—at least I never see anybody there
but me. I'm not a very type-A guy, you know? Not driven. I stop and touch
the tree every time I go by, and if I'm winded I give it a big sweaty hug and
lean against it a while. It's the oldest live thing around here. Must be five
hundred years.”
   Another flurry of key-strikes and the screen filled with print. Fred
scrolled it slowly.
   “I don't have a philosophy about it, or anything like that, but I think
there's a peace around old things. You can feel it. If you get close, you can
share it.”
   “To be old is not always a guarantee of peace,” answered a dry, snakeskin
voice behind him. Startled, Fred spun around.
   “I'm sorry. I was mostly talking to myself,” he said. Mr. Long was
attempting to sit up. His face was pale and brilliant. Fred leaned over to
forestall him.
   “Not yet. Give me a few more minutes. But we're in the groove, here, so
you just rest. I'll wake you if I need you.”
   He returned to his work. Almost immediately he found what he had been
looking for. He cuffed the console affectionately.
   “Besides, I meant really old things—not old as a man can get old, but old
like a tree. Hundreds of years.”
   “I am a very old worm,” sighed Mayland Long, his fevered eyes gazing at
the ceiling. “I have been searching for an illusive nothing called truth. Now I
think I would settle for sleep, if I had the choice.”
   Fred had been following with half an ear. He worried he would have to
carry Long back to the car. “For a worm, I'm sure you'd be positively
geriatric. But forty-five, fifty, whatever—isn't what I'd call old. And you're
perfectly welcome to catch some zees now, Mr. Long. We're safe, and the
machine is eating out of my hand.”
   He hit carriage return, and the discreet hiss of an ink jet printer sounded
in the comer of the office. He rose, stretched, and cracked his knuckles.
   Next to the printer stood a coffee vending machine. Fred dug into his
pocket for money. He returned to Mr. Long with a steaming plastic cup in
his hand.
   “Here you go. Empty calories.” He proffered the cup. “Say. I don't know
what to call you. I mean, I can call you Mister Long all the livelong night,
but it feels awkward, not knowing the rest. Is Long your Chinese name?”
   Mr. Long sat up and reached for the cup. His hand shook as he took it.
After the first sip he blinked in surprise. “What is this?”
   “Cocoa.”
   “Ah.” Long held it in both hands. “My—Chinese name is simply Oolong.
I use a first name, which is a Latin translation on the original. Or it was; it's
been corrupted through the years.” He coughed, and chocolate splashed on
the rug. Fred steadied the cup with one hand.
   “Translation. That's interesting. What does the name mean, then?”
   Mayland Long smiled at Fred. “I hesitate to tell you, after our
conversation in the car. Oolong has two meanings. It means a kind of tea,
and it means black dragon. But I assure you, Fred; I did not name myself.”
   Fred hit his forehead once again. “I gotta big mouth. Forget what I said in
the car. I don't know beans about China. Drink.”
   Fred tore off the listing and began to read. His interest grew. Long stood,
using the wall for support. “What is that?”
   “The letter.”
   The dark man walked slowly over, his brow furrowed… “I don't
remember dictating it. Have I been so ill…”
   “It was on disk,” replied Fred Frisch. “She left it sitting in the secretary's
library and no one thought to look. Not even the secretary.” He handed the
scroll of paper to the other, commenting, “It's fascinating. She names dates,
places and amounts of withdrawal. She's got an orderly mind.”
   Long read. He nodded in agreement.
   “Liz and I were in all the same classes when we were frosh. I had this
huge crush on her,” Fred blurted.
   Mr. Long looked up from the page he was reading. “I see. She didn't
return the sentiment?”
   “Naw. She was after bigger fish.”
   “She told you so?”
   Fred scratched his head. He blushed. “I never told her about it. No use.”
   Long regarded him intently. “So that's why you agreed to help me.”
   The blond youth returned the stare. “No. No, I don't think that's why. I—I
think I mean don't you think I'd do it just because…”He broke off and began
the ritual of powering down the equipment.
   May land Long finished the letter in silence.
   The guard patted each of Frisch's pockets before standing aside. Then he
approached Long, who stared down at the fat man from infinite heights. “Yo
no tengo nada,” he said.
   For five seconds they locked eyes. “Lo creo,” muttered the guard finally,
and he ambled back to his desk and to romance.
   The sky had returned crystalline while Frisch was working. A late night
wind struck their faces and made streamers of their steaming breaths. Mr.
Long inhaled deeply.
   “I feel tremendously better, Fred. The cocoa was a saving grace.”
   Fred Frisch strode ahead and reached the Citroen before Long. He stood
with legs braced in front of the driver's door. “Let me drive.”
   Mr. Long shook his head. “This car is very complex.”
   Frisch stood firm. “Remember me? I'm the quick study.”
   “Don't you trust my driving?” Long's voice was lightly ironical.
   Frisch's answer was not. “No. You're sick, and there's enough danger in
this whole business without me worrying about going into the median strip
or ending my life plowing into the front grill of someone else's
Volkswagen.”
   Long extended the keys to Frisch. “You're right, of course.” He walked
around the car.
   Fred Frisch felt obscurely guilty as he studied the instrument board. The
automatic hydraulic suspension levitated the body of the car as the engine
caught; Fred had heard about the strange Citroen suspension, but this was
his first experience driving it. At least the controls appeared familiar. He
played out the clutch gently, experimenting.
   Mr. Long loosened his grip on the dash. “You are a quick study,” he
commented. “I expected rather a rougher start.”
   Frisch shrugged. “Where do we go now?” he asked.
   “We?”
   “Of course we. You don't think I can go back to sleep after all this, do
you Mister Dragon?”
   Long's smile grew and deepened into laughter. “Fred! Have you such an
appetite for adventure? But I forget— I'm talking to a young man. Let's
return to your apartment, for now. I must make a telephone call.”
   “To call who?”
   “I will tell you when we get there.”
   Fred looked at the clock. “It's just after four. You say Liz is safe until the
banks open?”
   “I hope so. Until Rasmussen and Threve believe they have the
incriminating letter, they dare not kill the daughter.”
   “But what about… Mrs. Macnamara?”
   Mr. Long's answer was slow in coming. “She is in terrible danger. The
only reason they have for keeping her alive is that she can be used to
pressure the daughter. If they believe this is not necessary, or if Martha
refuses—has refused—to be so used, then they can be expected to kill her.
And after they are done with her, they must kill her. She is a curious, sharp
woman who has probably seen at least one of them face to face. How can
they let her live?”
   Fred's face clouded over, remembering the blue dress and the graying
hair, and how the little voice-operated race car made circles on the floor. It
was the sort of happening he fostered in his shop. That's what the shop was
for: friendly computers. Friendly people.
   “Can't the police help?” he asked.
   “How? Tell me how, Fred, and I will show up on the precinct house
doorstep with you. I cannot find Rasmussen or Threve…”
   “Threve I never heard of. What does he look like?”
   “Like Satan himself, I gather. Elizabeth fears him more than she does
Rasmussen. Other than that, I know only that he is rather short and dresses
loudly. “I believe he drives a black Lincoln. At least I suspect such a car was
involved with the kidnapping, and I didn't see it parked at RasTech. With no
more information than this, can the police find Martha Macnamara? That is,
can they find her in time? I am sure they would eventually turn up the body.”
   Frisch shuddered. “Jeez! Do you get hardened to things like this?”
   “Do I?” inquired Long. “The longer one lives, the more one sees, it is
true, but I don't feel hardened. Quite the contrary, in my youth I was far
more… brutal.”
   “Then you're in the wrong line of work,” insisted Fred. “No offense. I
think a guy who could thrive in such a slimy world, with fraud and
criminals, always a bit to the windward of the law… he'd have to be kind of
a snake.”
   Long leaned over curiously. “What are you talking about, Fred. Which
world is this?”
   “I mean the world of the private investigator. Or police investigator. Any
detective.”
   “Ah.” Mr. Long digested this, and began again to laugh, ignoring the
lancing pain in his shoulder, “You believe I'm a private detective.”
   “You're not?” Fred's eyes darted wildly from the road to the smiling, tired
face beside him. “Then what—who are you? How'd you get involved in
this?”
   Mr. Long sighed. “Starting with what I am: my field was languages, but I
am now retired. Who is equally easy to explain. I am a friend of Martha
Macnamara's. How? Easiest of all. I promised her I would find her daughter.
So you see. You have been aiding a bumbling amateur to trespass and steal
documents. Have you second thoughts?”
   Fred was staunch. “Jeez, no. I'm glad. I mean, there's something seamy
about carrying the banner for money. But, Martha. Mrs. Macnamara. I'm
really sorry. She seemed like a fine lady.”
   “No eulogies yet, please,” growled Long. “I don't believe her to be dead.
Allow me that.”
   The car glided to a stop in front of Frisch's duplex. He left it double
parked. Both men got out.
   Fred felt the keys of the car being pried from his hand. Half-embarrassed
at his earlier show of force, he let them go and fumbled for his door key.
   With the front door open, he turned to perceive that Mr. Long was not
with him, but was unlocking the Citroen from the driver's side. Fred
sprinted across the lawn.
   “What're you doing?” he protested. “Trying to chuck me?”
   “Yes, Fred. That is exactly it,” Long admitted, gently fending the young
man off. “I had hoped you would not be so quick.”
   “You can't do it. I won't let you go alone!”
   Long placed his right hand on Frisch's shoulder. It was an affectionate,
avuncular gesture and Frisch found he could not move at all. “You can
hardly stop me, Fred.”
   Fred fought against Long's grip. Defeated, he tried words again. “If you
leave me behind, I'll call the police.”
   The dark man turned his face away and the hand slipped off. “I can't
prevent that,” he admitted. “Not without harming or detaining you. And I
won't do that.” He slid into the seat.
   Fred wedged himself between the door and frame. “But you need me.
There are two baddies, and you have only one arm.”
   “Acrobatics may not be necessary,” repeated Mr. Long.
   “But they may. I may make a little bit of difference. Maybe the difference
between saving a life and… and not. I may be very important.” The young
blond clutched at the door. His pale hair gleamed under the streetlight.
   “You are very important, Fred,” whispered Mayland Long. “And that is
why I will not take you any further into this.”
   With a slow, irresistible pressure, he forced Frisch out into the street.




                                Chapter 14
   Martha Macnamara's universe was compassed by the groan and creak of
wood, and by the chill of wet air. Had she been able to think, her very
sickness might have convinced her she was still alive. She was denied that
comfort, being barely conscious, and her thoughts were bound up with a
rhythmic rise and sinking. The beat was molto lento, and she should be
doing something in time with it. What?
   That question gnawed at her. She tried breathing in time with the
measure—no go. You can't force your breathing, she reminded herself.
What then—sing? She couldn't remember a song as ponderous as the rhythm
the world now kept, and she couldn't find her mouth anyway.
   Neither could she find her hands, so she couldn't play the fiddle.
   The staccato beat of footsteps superimposed itself over the slow rocking.
She attended to the footsteps. Good.
   Percussion rounded out the work nicely. Someone was taking care of
things. Martha was content.
   He was driving on the reserve tank. That was unfortunate, but not to be
helped, at this hour of the morning. Perhaps he could siphon gas from
Elizabeth Macnamara's car.
   As he had told Fred, he was feeling much better. This hideous night was
falling behind him.
   Something else, too, was falling behind: a danger or misery he could feel
but to which he could put no name.
   Perhaps it was despair.
   He had partially fulfilled his promises, but promises were no longer the
only things keeping him alive.
   He felt the pressure of the sun's approach, as it ate up the night to the east.
In two hours it would rise over California. The sun had always been a great
source of comfort to him.
   Yet he owed his increase in strength not to the slow roll of time, but to
the spontaneous kindness of Fred Frisch. Except for the young engineer, he
would probably not have survived. He felt the wonder of that charity
shimmering within his mind.
   Long could be compassionate, in his dry, reserved fashion. He had once
or twice donated his varied and considerable strengths to the service of
others. But he had rarely been subject to the compassion of mankind. He had
rarely needed it.
   And Frisch's response to a man who was almost a stranger went beyond
casual kindness. He had given up sleep and ruined his furniture. Long
injured the mans arm, and still he continued to help him. He risked jail. He
offered to risk his life. How could Long comprehend such kindness, let
alone pay it back? Like music, Frisch's gift to him could not be translated
into terms of gain or loss. Nor was it subject to reason. It had no meaning
but that of its own existence.
   Idly, because he was a methodical creature who did think in terms of gain
and loss. Long began to tally the losses and gains of the last few days: loss
of power. Loss of blood. Loss of new hope.
   Loss of certainty.
   On the credit side was only this encounter with an absurd young man who
gave up a night's rest for Mayland Long. Who performed the onerous duties
of a nurse. Who lent him a shirt.
   Who dared place his hand on Longs head, and tell him it was all okay.
   With a ledger like this, Mr. Long wondered, why did he feel so much
stronger, now, driving toward the dawn?
   The Citroen darted onto the freeway and he was pressed against the back
of the seat. This was the last short step of the nights journey—to Elizabeth
Macnamara’s apartment. It would be profoundly anticlimactic if he ran out
of gas.
   The chill of the air prophesied fog later, but now, in the last hours of
night, the sky was sharp and clear. He shifted in the seat, and his flannel shirt
stuck to the leather upholstery, glued with drying blood.
   At least this shirt was the right color.
   He left the freeway and zagged right onto Middlefield. His arm was numb
to the turn. Passing by Liz's condominium he noticed a single light shone
yellow. He turned the corner and parked along a side street. He wondered if
the car would start again. No matter. He would not be driving again soon.
   A stone tower obscured the light of the stars. He had parked in front of a
church. He was a connoisseur of all stone architecture, and churches in
particular were his passion, but this edifice was disappointing. It was
obviously new, and the stone was merely veneer. TRINITY PARIS read the
signboard. A pale phantom H in the varnish at the end of the word marked
where the brass letter had been lost.
   He stood on the cold grass and yawned. “De profundis clamor ad te,” he
growled to the cross on the empty tower—,”Out of the depths a call to you.”
He was not certain to whom he was speaking. The effort made him cough.
He moved away from the street, crossing through the churchyard.
   The direction of his progress was against the clock, or widdershins. To
cross a churchyard widdershins is not auspicious, as he knew, but in the
churchyard of Trinity Parish no one was buried. All the ground was paved
over by concrete.
   Behind the church lot stood a hedge of yew. He passed through the omen
of its furry branches and found himself beside a noise of waters. The
fountain was lit from below, and its shower sprang up in an arcing circle to
fall again with silver lights upon the backs of sleeping seagulls.
   Cold spray beaded on his face. He stepped among the gulls, who stood on
one leg or with head under wing, and they did not stir. He circled the
fountain, avoiding light, and reached the white stone walk which wound
between the gleaming buildings. No sound came from within the
condominiums, not even the mumble of television. He came to Liz
Macnamara’s residence and stood beneath the window he had climbed
through earlier in the evening.
   Had it been just this evening?
   The window was still open. Good. Had Elizabeth closed it he would not
have been able to make the ascent. Not with one arm.
   Drink, sleep or pray, he had said. According to your nature. What was
Elizabeth's nature? He would discover something of it soon.
   He leaped lightly against the wall, wedging his left foot into the crack
between two foundation blocks. Before his impetus failed he kicked
upwards and grabbed the window sill with his good hand. The off center
support disturbed his balance and his left side struck the wall with a dull
thump. Pain tightened rather than loosened his grip, and he swung up
through the window. He rolled head first into the room, favoring his
wounded shoulder, and came to rest flat on his back on the plush carpet.
   Liz Macnamara was awake. She sat curled on the sofa, as he had seen her
before, and her face was white and frightened, again as before.
   But her hands and feet were bound with tape and her mouth covered with
a length of it. The terror in her eyes was immediate and deadly, for Floyd
Rasmussen had one hand wound into her yellow hair and a squat black
pistol pressed against the side other head. His small, colorless eyes regarded
Long. The wounded man lay still as a bronze statue.
   “You shook my confidence earlier tonight, fella,” remarked Rasmussen.
“But at this distance I think I can't miss. Her, that is.”
   Long's eyes met Elizabeth's, and found within them an endless apology.
   “Why? What is the purpose of this?” asked Long. His seemingly casual
attempt to rise was checked by a movement of the gun. “I know about your
financial enterprises, but between theft and murder there is a certain
difference… They are crimes of different quality.”
   Rasmussen relaxed onto the couch, holding Liz's hair in a brutal fist.
“True, but that bridge has been crossed,” he stated. “Not by me, but that
doesn't matter now.”
   The young woman's eyes closed in sick grief. Long's face was
expressionless. “Mrs. Macnamara is dead?”
   “My—partner—couldn't use her. He lost his temper.” Rasmussen's words
were resentful.
   “Are you sure?” pressed Long. His frown was vaguely puzzled.
   “Beat her up and throttled her,” snapped Rasmussen. “I walked in just too
late. Face all black and limp as a fish. Ugly.” Liz Macnamara reeled and
sagged in his grip. He ignored her.
   “How unfortunate for all concerned,” whispered Long.
   “Yeah. I hadn't intended to kill anyone. I only wanted to keep Lizzie here
incommunicado for a few weeks while I cleaned things up and got out. But
life doesn't work right; Lizzie wrote a terrible letter and then she called her
mother. And Doug, my partner: he's a vicious little asshole and he blew the
simple job he was supposed to do. But all that's put me in a bind. So did
you, leaving blood all over my house. Now I've got to get rid of both of you
before I split.”
   “Where are you going?”
   Rasmussen snorted. “Why should I tell you?”
   “Because it doesn't matter,” answered Long gently, looking away from
Elizabeth’s face. “If you're going to kill us it can't hurt you to tell.”
   He stared through the darkened dining area, where the Swedish glass
shone like an assembly of ghosts. There was no sign of a struggle in the
immaculate decor. The security chain on the front door hung unbroken. But
then, Liz Macnamara had thought herself safe.
   The white tape concealed half her face, but Long saw that Liz's jaw was
clenched. Her blue eyes stared straight ahead of her. She. appeared hard and
angry. Remembering the words she'd spoken the previous evening. Long
thought she was probably very much afraid.
   The big man shrugged. “Okay. I got a yacht—the Caroline—remember
the model in my office? And Threve's got a Cessna, hangared out in Marin.
We'll be in Mexico this afternoon, and Sao Paulo tomorrow. Even with
their inflation, two million dollars tax free makes it worthwhile learning
another language.”
   “Why not simply leave us tied, then?” inquired Long, dispassionately.
“You will be safe by the time we can free ourselves.”
   “Oh will I?” Rasmussen's voice was thick with sarcasm. “Fella I don't
believe it. I saw what you did to the light switch in the bedroom, and how
you tore apart the door. With the amount of blood you left in my
plasterboard you ought to be dead—I've gutted enough deer to know how
much a body holds.”
   “Then you must know I'm not about to dismember any more doors,”
sighed Long. Regardless of Rasmussen's gun, he sat up. “Not tonight.”
   “I don't know that at all,” the blond man growled. He wound his fingers
more tightly in Liz Macnamara's hair. “You're one weird cat. I don't know
what it is: meditation, karate, hypnosis—but I have no idea what your limits
are. I don't trust you. Also, you made me kill Blanco. I don't like you.”
   Mr. Long's smile expressed reciprocity. “But Miss Macnamara—you
know she is no yogic adept. You needn't kill her.”
   Rasmussen laughed. Her head was twisted around by his beefy hand.
“Liz? Liz has been living dangerously for months now. She's been having
qualms of conscience. Besides, I know little Lizzie here. She carries a
grudge. She'd follow me to hell, she would, simply to help the devil stoke
the coals.”
   He sighed. “No. I'm not up for leaving behind either bodies or witnesses.
Not after what Doug did.”
   Long's eyebrows rose. “How will you avoid that?”
   “Simple. We're taking you along. On the Caroline. Part way.
   “Get on your feet.” He stood up, dragging the young woman with him.
She thrashed against him, screaming muffled curses, but without her arms
she could do nothing. Long regarded him without moving.
   “Why should I cooperate with you?” he asked. “You offer me no
incentive.”
   Rasmussen smiled and prodded the barrel of the gun against Liz's temple.
“You'll do what I say because while you are alive there's a chance you might
find an opportunity to get away. It's that simple. Of course I got no intention
of giving you that opportunity, but you've got to bet the team you're on.”
   Long stood. The two men confronted one another in the yellow lamplight.
“Do you think you could shoot the both of us before I could reach you?” he
asked mildly.
   “I don't have to,” answered the heavy man, and his laughter rumbled
through the rooms. “If you had the guts to sacrifice little Lizzie you would
have gone for me long ago. That much we know about each other, Mr.
Long. You know I'm able to kill her. I know you're not. That's why I'm the
one in power.”
   Long's armour of composure broke momentarily at Rasmussen's last
words, and a fire neither subtle nor civilized shone out of his narrow eyes.
The burly blond flinched. He gestured with the gun.
   “Walk. Out the back way, through the garage.”
   The fire vanished as though the furnace door had slammed shut. Long
turned and preceded Rasmussen through the length of the house. They
passed through a door in the kitchen.
   The garage was so clean and empty as to appear unused. There were no
cardboard boxes stacked against the wall, no broken Venetian blinds. Not
even a stepladder.
   Liz Macnamara had no old possessions: nothing of the sort one can't use
and refuses to throw away. Until recently, she had been accustomed to
owning nothing.
   Within the garage the Mercedes sat in solitary splendor. Rasmussen
tossed the keys to Long.
   “Open the trunk,” he commanded. Mr. Long did so.
   “Get her in.”
   Long stood motionless, keys in hand. “No.”
   Rasmussen's hand slid from Elizabeth's hair to her throat. It slowly
tightened.
   Liz opened her eyes wide as the pressure grew, but she did not look at
Mayland Long. Her breath whistled in her nose and then that noise ceased.
   “Stop,” said Long. “There's no need for that.”
   Rasmussen was smiling broadly. He loosened his grip as Mr. Long bent
to help to ease the bound woman into the trunk of the Mercedes. In a single,
smooth motion he whipped the pistol around and struck Long on the back of
the head.
   The trunk door slammed shut on both his captives. “Goddamn,” he said to
himself. “Let's see what hypnosis can do about that!”




                               Chapter 15
   The solid thud of the trunk lock closed them both in darkness. Long
groaned and eased his wounded side away from contact with the wall. His
free hand sought and found Liz Macnamara's face. He pried the tape from
her mouth, then began to free her hands.
   “I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I'm so very sorry.”
   “For what?” The bands of tape peeled away with difficulty; she
swallowed a cry of pain.
   “For what?” Long repeated. “It's I who have failed you, it seems, having
entered the scene in the guise of a rescuer and succeeded only in adding to
the defeat.”
   Her hands now free, Liz began to work on the bindings on her legs.
“Floyd showed up about two hours ago. I let him in. I was sure he wouldn't
risk… Oh hell!” Her voice began in outrage and faded.
   “He told me you broke into his house, looking for me. I knew you were
looking for Mother, of course. He said he shot you, and that you'd run off
into the woods to die like an animal. He said his ceiling was soaked in
blood.”
   The thunder of the engine starting delayed his reply. Acceleration pushed
the prisoners against the back wall. The air was close and sour with metal
and gasoline. “He hit me. That much is true, at any rate.”
   “Are you badly hurt?” Her hands blundered through the darkness. Found
him.
   “It's bandaged,” said Mr. Long. One slim hand touched his injured
shoulder. He enclosed it in his own hand and put it gently aside. “We have
other things to worry about, now.”
   “I'm sorry,” Elizabeth repeated helplessly. “If I had not gotten involved
with Rasmussen in the first place…”
   “If any one of an infinite number of events had not happened in their
sequence, the present would be a different place.” He yawned. The trunk was
getting warmer.
   “Elizabeth, blame is a useless gesture. Regret is worse. Yet I regret that I
am so weak and weary I may not be able to break the lock of the boot.”
   As he spoke his fingers tapped against metal, seeking the point of
attachment.
   “Break the lock? Of course you can't. It's steel.”
   “I can do a few parlor tricks,” Long said drily. “Even against steel. But
now…” He flattened his hand against the top of the rear wall of their prison.
   “Ugh! I have nothing to brace against.”
   “Here.” She put her back to the far wall and her hands pushed against the
middle of his back.
   “I think your bones would give before the steel lock,” said Long, and at
that moment the car turned right, rising onto two wheels, and the two of
them were flung sideways and into one another's arms.
   The intimacy was involuntary, and lasted only as long as the turn that
caused it. When it was over the dark air was filled with silence. Then Long
began to laugh.
   It was a heavy, deep, spontaneous laughter, incongruous in a man so
slight and lean, impossible from a man so injured. Mr. Long's laughter was
like the cool thunder of a summers afternoon and Liz Macnamara found
herself smiling in the middle of her dread.
   “Ah! Elizabeth. It's a very odd thing, to be a man.”
   His words challenged her and she found herself replying, “I've often
thought so myself, but of course my knowledge is secondhand.”
   Without warning Long slammed the palm of his hand against the trunk
lid. The lock snapped and a crack of light penetrated their prison. “Easier
than I expected,” he said.
   Elizabeth wasted no time in compliments. She peered through the crack.
“We're on 280,” she stated. “Going north.”
   “Where is the Caroline docked?”
   “North Beach. The marinas down here couldn't accommodate her.” She
settled back. “What are we going to do?”
   Pushing with his feet against the trunk wall. Long edged closer. “We wait
for an opportunity to jump.”
   “Out of a moving car?”
   “When it stops, preferably.” She saw a gleam of teeth in the darkness.
   “You've never driven with Floyd Rasmussen,” she retorted, feeling stung.
Remembering the earlier interchange, she added, “What did you
mean—when you said wasn't it funny to be a man?”
   For a moment he did not respond, but rolled from his side to his back and
lay staring at the metal ceiling. “I was referring to the species, not the sex. A
man is an unusual being. He is capable of tremendous precision of thought.
What is more, he creates—languages, philosophies, poetry… In short, he is
the paragon of the animals. Yet he is so eminently—what is the right
word?—distractable. During the most concentrated moments he may—no
he will—float off like a butterfly and scatter all he has gained. Yet this is
not a flaw in man, I think. This is what makes him man. And I must believe
there is a value in that.”
   “Are you talking about me, or mankind in general?” she asked in a small,
hurt voice.
   He turned toward her. “I am talking about myself, Elizabeth.” Seeing
doubt in her face he continued, “You see, I have always been a collector—a
hoarder of other people's ideas. I was not creative by nature. Not—
distractable. It wasn't in me. But lately I have learned what it is to be human.
Learned, but not understood. It seems to involve a great deal of misery
crammed into a very short lifetime.”
   His voice was urgent, almost demanding, as he looked into Liz's eyes.
“Why is that?” he asked.
   “You're asking me?”
   “Why not you, Elizabeth? You are human. Also, you may be the last
person I will be able to ask.”
   She smiled and touched his face. “You should have asked my mother. I
think she knew the answer to that.”
   “Ah, but I wasted my time in lesser matters. Though perhaps she told me
after all.” He shook his head. “I wish I could think more clearly.”
   “Your eyes,” she whispered suddenly. “They glow in the dark.”
   “I wouldn't know about that.”
   She kissed him. “They do. How did Mother find you?”
   Slowly he drew his head back. “We were introduced by a bartender at the
James Herald Hotel—the fancy place you yourself paid for, Elizabeth. I live
there.”
   “Is that how you find clients? Through the bartender?”
   He stared a moment, uncomprehending. “Elizabeth. Do you also think I'm
a professional detective?”
   “You're not?” Liz Macnamara hit her head against the trunk lid. “Then
what are you?”
   Mayland Long sighed and smiled. “I am a friend of your mother's. I have
no profession at all, merely sufficient money to live in comfort.”
   Being the person she was, Liz Macnamara cried, “To live in comfort!
That's all I've ever wanted! How'd you get it?”
   He hesitated. The tiny space echoed with road noise. “Out of a hole in the
ground,” he said finally.
   “Oil?”
   “No, Elizabeth. Gold.”
   “Oh! How free you must be.”
   She heard her own words. “I'm sorry. More sorry than I can say The finest
thing in my life was Mother, and because of me she's dead.” Long shot a
glance at her, frowning, hut he held his tongue. “And you…”
   “I am not dead yet,” he replied, with a touch of acid. “And in no case do I
wish to be added to your list of guilts. I have lived a long time,
Elizabeth—longer than any creature on this earth can expect to live. These
last years I have spent waiting for the fulfillment of a prophecy.”
   “A what?”
   “A prophecy And it has been fulfilled. I don't understand the sense of it,
but then it was never said that I would understand—only that I would meet
one who could show me the truth, and by that all I possessed I would lose.”
   Liz's eyebrows drew together. “What? Who was that, who could show
you the truth, and take everything away…”
   “Martha Macnamara showed me a rose.” His words were quiet, almost
drowned in the rumble of the engine. His face was turned slightly away.
   She stared. “Are—were you in love with my mother?” Elizabeth
whispered.
   The word struck Long by surprise. “In love?” He considered it.
   “Yes,” he answered. “Your mother was the end of my waiting. But even
had she not been a master of truth, had she only been the musician, the
person she was…”He shook his head vainly “But that's all one. Yes, I am in
love with your mother, Elizabeth. Even now.” His hands laced together over
his face, concealing all but his black unreadable eyes.
   “I…”
   “And if you say you are sorry once more I may throw you out of the car.”
He turned his attention to the passing scenery.
   “He's running the lights,” observed Mr. Long.
   “That's what I meant, about Floyd's driving. He never obeys the rules if he
thinks he can get away with it. And he always speeds.”
   “We're now on Nineteenth Avenue, Elizabeth. Perhaps if I prop the boot
open you can roll out at a corner.”
   “He'll see!”
   “All the better. In order to prevent us, he would have to stop the car, and I
am confident I could delay him while you run.”
   “My legs are both asleep. To the knees.”
   Long laughed again; as though all of time were before him, as though the
day were bright. “We're a pretty pair,” he said. “Three arms and two legs
between us. Still, it can't be helped. Let's see how the fellow responds.” He
snapped the trunk open.
   The answer was swift. The Mercedes shot forward as Rasmussen trod the
accelerator and Long was nearly flung onto the pavement. He gripped the
weather stripping and pulled himself back.
   “Well, now we know,” said Liz bleakly “Would you rather break your
neck or be drowned?”
   “Such a limited choice!” cried Mayland Long. He sat upright, stretching
his back with relief. The wind wake blew his black hair around his face.
“Our hand is played, child. Sit here with me a while.”
   Liz Macnamara straightened painfully, propping the trunk open with one
hand. She sat beside him. He put his arm around the young woman's
shoulder, perhaps for support. Nineteenth Avenue shot away beneath them;
streetlights, signs and automobiles fading into the past. The streetcar tracks
beat against the wheels of the Mercedes. Rasmussen cut through the empty
street at sixty miles per hour.
   “There's a man—walking!” Liz waved her free hand and cried for help.
The small figure vanished behind them. Rasmussen responded to her noise
with a quick fishtail—left, then right across the lanes. The metal wall
cracked her in the ribs.
   “Goddamn him!” she shrieked, tears of anger in her eyes. Mr. Long's hand
tightened reassuringly on her shoulder. His hand was warm.
   “Why didn't you show up fifteen years ago,” Elizabeth lashed out. “We
needed you.”
   He drew back to look at her: perfect features, angelic hair, eyes like the
sea. “You are a beautiful woman, Elizabeth. Like a painting, which is beauty
of color, and like a sculpture, which is beauty of form. But you are alive,
and have a beauty of movement which is more than these. Perhaps it is the
beauty of music.”
   Before she could respond he added, “Do you remember Fred Frisch?”
   “Fred? Of course I remember Fred. Class clown. We sat in the same
classrooms for four years. Got the same grades, too, I think. How do you
know Fred?”
   He yawned and settled her against his good shoulder. “I met him a few
days ago, while we were looking for you. This past night he… he kept me
alive, I think.”
   “Fred?” she repeated helplessly. “Fred?”
   “I like Fred Frisch,” said Mr. Long.
   This same Fred Frisch was sitting at his kitchen table, scrubbing
blood-stained chair cushions. They really were ruined. He drizzled peroxide
over the rusty blotches. It made a satisfactory hiss and bubble, but lifted the
green dye from the ancient satin. By now the cushions were soaked through
with his various attempts at cleaning. Probably they would mildew.
   Fred sighed. He dropped the cushion, sighed again, dropped the pinkish
rag and sighed once more. He did not know what to do.
   He was gifted with a quick mind and a very simple emotional nature. He
wanted to be loyal to Mr. Long. He was in awe of the man, who could
endure such sickness and pain without breaking. Who managed to appear
decisive in the middle of delirium. Who lay in this tatty living room so very
close to dying—close as a military spec., was the way Fred put it—and
spoke considerately, with impeccable manners. Who apologized to Fred for
holding his arm too tightly.
   And Jeez, that arm still ached.
   He would have liked to be like Mr. Long, but he knew the stuff he
himself was made of. He was just Fred, and the best he could do was to be
loyal, and not blow the other man's game.
   He stared at a cobweb high in the corner by the window and wondered
whether being Chinese helped.
   He carried the cushions back to the chair. Have to remember not to sit on
them the next few days, till they dried. There, on the bright fabric where the
seat cushion would rest, sat a small white cassette tape.
   The story came back to him: the smashed recorder and the circle on the
bathroom wall—which sign he would not have understood had not Long
explained its Buddhist significance. This was the tape from the kidnappers
hole. He picked it up by one corner, as though it would bite. He took it to
the kitchen.
   He had four tape recorders in his small apartment. One took large tapes
only and two did not work at all. The remaining unit had a bum recording
head, but played back reasonably well. He dragged it from its place in the
pile and plugged it in by the toaster. He rewound the tape and played it.
   After a few minutes his shaking hand slammed down on the eject key.
“Oh Jeezus.”
   The cries, the curses, punctuated by the thud of something hard against
flesh… This was concentration camp stuff. This was murder.
   The image of Mrs. Macnamara filled his mind—her old-fashioned braids,
the bird-tilt of her head as she followed the toy car over the carpet. Her
round, blue eyes, like Liz's eyes.
   The face became Liz Macnamara's, delicate alabaster yet flushed with
anger as she turned to counter some frat boy's silly cut. The memory was
brief; it lasted as long as the action it recorded—Liz was most easily
remembered in action.
   Could she be dead? And her mother? Was this voice on the tape the voice
of a dead woman—dying even as the tape ran? Fred's imagination quailed
and the images faded into darkness.
   He shuddered, and the table rattled in sympathy. He saw Mr. Long—the
Black Dragon—as he had lain on the living room rug, unconscious. Here
was another one who might be dead now. Or soon.
   But the eyes in his memory opened. Brown eyes, heavy lidded, looked out
calm and focused. They held Fred in place as though he were a rabbit.
   No. The young man shook his thick pale hair. No sir, loyalty was one
thing but life was another. Lives.
   Fred hit rewind. He picked up the recorder with tape inside and snatched
up his keys. As he locked the door behind him he rehearsed the story he had
to give the police.
   “The sea,” whispered Mayland Long. “I smell it. And listen!”
   “I don't hear anything but the car,” Liz responded. “And I smell gas
sloshing out of the tank. He's taking comers like a madman.”
   He drew her close to him, his single hand gripping her canvas belt. A
screen of laurel appeared at the left, very close to the car. The leaves rustled
in the breeze—a sea breeze, foretelling the dawn. “It is time for you to leave
us,” Long announced. “Please double tie your belt, so that it doesn't come
loose.”
   Mystified, Liz complied with his order. “What do you mean—time for me
to leave? We're going too fast, still. And what about you? I'll bet you could
survive jumping a lot better than I could.”
   The pressure against her waist increased. She was lifted from the sheet
metal. “Ouch! Please! You're twisting me all around. What are you doing?”
   “I'm sorry,” said Mr. Long, in unconscious parody of Elizabeth herself.
“But it is difficult with only one arm.”
   “What is?” she began, as the Mercedes, following the angle of the road,
went into a hard right turn. In answer, Long braced his feet against the right
wall of the trunk and flung his companion out of the ear and into the
shrubby trees.
   Her shriek of surprise faded—like all else—into the past.
                                Chapter 16
   The drive leading to North Beach Marina cut through an immaculate
lawn. The Mercedes careened into it, skidding on gravel. The sky above the
ocean was clear and black; the moon was setting, tinged mustard yellow. To
the east, however, where the far shore of the Bay lay hidden, the darkness
was dull and linty, and the stars were fading. As the Mercedes' nose dipped
down toward the piers, its lights flashed three times.
   Rasmussen maintained his breakneck speed along the straight entryway,
then jammed the brakes. Before the car had stopped moving he was out the
door and running. He dropped to one knee behind the open trunk, bracing
his pistol with his forearm.
   A smaller shape sprinted up the road to join him. In the distance, dogs
began to bark.
   “All right, folks. Get out here, now!” snarled the big blond. Threve,
standing beside Rasmussen, hissed, “What the hell happened, Floyd? You
got Liz in there?”
   “No. Just me,” answered Long, climbing wearily to his feet. He ignored
Rasmussen to consider Threve.
   Threve glared in turn at Long over the gleaming barrel of an automatic.
   The prisoner spoke. “We haven't been introduced. My name is Mayland
Long. I know that your name is Threve. And I'm told that you are a
murderous thug.” His words were easy, urbane, almost cordial. “I've come
to make sure it is true.”
   Threve inched closer to Rasmussen. “This is—is this the weird guy?”
   Rasmussen nodded. “Where’s Liz?” he snapped.
   “Far away,” Long answered placidly. He lifted his head to the breeze. The
moonlight shone on his glossy black hair.
   Rasmussen's teeth ground together. “Then she's dead,” he stated. “I didn't
slow down under fifty the entire trip.”
   “Why the hell didn't you lock the goddamn trunk?” roared Threve, stung
by the prisoners attitude and furious at Rasmussen as well. The chorus of
barking rose with his voice.
   Rasmussen divided his attention; he trusted neither man.
   “I don't think she was injured,” said Long. “She landed in a bush.”
   “Shit! You said you had her, Floyd! How the hell did you let her get
away?”
   Floyd Rasmussen did not answer. He locked eyes with Long, who smiled
grimly. “Why her and not you?” Rasmussen asked.
   Mr. Long turned his face to the water. “I came to see Mrs. Macnamara.
'Til I find her, my business with you isn't done.”
   “It is, because you are,” growled Rasmussen, shifting his grip on the
black pistol. His eyes were doubtful. “Hell of a price to pay.”
   Long smiled. “You don't even know what I'm buying.”
   The dogs were silent suddenly; perhaps their master had come out to hush
them. Only a chorus of crickets sounded at the edge of hearing, like the
blood pounding in Rasmussen's ears. The pistol didn't waver, but he stared
warily at Long, afraid that his prisoner had plans that he, Rasmussen, did not
understand.
   Threve answered for Rasmussen. “Wings and a halo, that's all. Plug him,
Floyd, and let's get out of here. If that bitch gets to the police…”
   Rasmussen hesitated, gazing into pale brown eyes under the light of a
gold moon.
   Douglas Threve was a less complicated man and so less vulnerable to
doubt. He cursed and raised his own weapon slightly. Without warning
Long struck him in the chest and knocked the small man over the gravel
path. Threve's pretty automatic went sailing into the brush of the hill. Long
rolled onto his back and grabbed Threve by the throat.
   The small man's shout of surprise and rage was cut off cleanly. His hands
clawed vainly at Long's face. Threve's heels kicked against the gravel.
   As soon as Long moved, Rasmussen was free of his paralysis. He leaped
for the struggling pair and swung the butt of the pistol at Long's head. The
first blow caught his victim on the right shoulder.
   Long dropped Threve, and he turned upon Rasmussen a glare of enduring,
patient hate. The blond raised his pistol again, and Long's hand rose toward
this other enemy in what seemed to be as much a gesture of malediction as
an attempt at defense. His fingers were spread wide, and in the moonlight
his hand looked like the talon of some gigantic raptor. Rasmussen
remembered the odd grip of Long's hand on his own and he shuddered, not
knowing what it was that he fought. But the pistol in his hand was falling,
and it caught Long above the temple.
   “See?” hissed the blond at his partner, who lay dazed at the edge of the
path, gulping air. “Who's a fool? I told you about this guy.”
   “Shoot him now,” gagged Threve. “Shoot him or I will.” »
   “With what?” Rasmussen stuffed his pistol in a jacket pocket. “We don't
need more noise.” He straddled Long and tore open the front of his shirt.
The hunter examined Long's bandages. “So that's where I got him. He was
crawling toward me in the dark, like a big lizard. I wonder if he did this
himself. I don't see how.”
   Rasmussen brooded. “I don't like that. He can't have gone to the police, or
they'd never have let him go in a condition like this. But it means he had
help, somewhere.”
   From his other pocket Rasmussen pulled a short skinning knife and a roll
of adhesive tape. He cut away Fred Frisch's handiwork and bound Long's
two hands together, winding tape from the wrist halfway up to the elbow.
   “Shoot him already,” insisted Threve, trying to stand.
   “No shooting. I could cut his throat here and now, if I wanted. In fact he
may be dead already. Ought to be. But I tell you Doug, this guy's like a
snake. No matter what you do to it, it'll wriggle till nightfall.”
   Threve sneered. “It's already nightfall. It's almost dawn,” he answered
sourly. “What are we gonna do about it?”
   Rasmussen smacked his hands on his thighs and stood.
   “We're going to do what we planned. Dump them both off the Farallons,
tied to concrete blocks. Live or dead, this guy can play with the lobsters.”
   “Help me carry him,” grunted Rasmussen, bending to lift. “No. Never
mind,” he reconsidered, feeling the lightness of the burden. “You get ready
to sail.” He started toward the water, plodding awkwardly, the limp form of
his prisoner over one shoulder. Clouds of dust rose like smoke with every
shuffling footstep.
   “I lose my gun and you start giving orders, huh?” rasped Threve. He
touched his bruised neck gingerly.
   Rasmussen sighed. “You want to tote him?”
   Threve spat onto the dry road. “I had to carry the mother.”
   “You wouldn't have, if you hadn't beat her to death. Or strangled her.”
His steps echoed on wood.
   Threve swallowed his rage, stalking ahead along the pier.
   The Caroline was a beautiful ship, even with all sails tightly furled. She
was five tons of teak, trimmed in brass, and though she was primarily a
sailing ship, she had the power to drive fifteen knots in calm seas.
   The night was failing when Long opened his eyes. The first cries of gulls
broke through the deep cough of the engine. His head hurt and his vision
was blurry.
   He regarded his arms, wound in a tube of white tape. Any attempt to pull
them apart sent intolerable pain shooting up his left arm and shoulder. He
tried to pull his feet under him and found they were also bound— tied with
wire to a large concrete block.
   Next to him lay a bundle in a green oilcloth tarp. It was also tied to the
block. After a moments confusion he knew what that bundle had to be. He
sat up and looked closer at it, forced finally to believe. Thoughts resounded
through the hollows of his skull. He listened to them without interest.
    So he was like other men in this way too. He believed what he wanted to
believe: what he felt he had to believe. Until, of course, time slammed him
into the meaningless truth. Martha was dead and he was going to die. Even
without these men and their absurd, murderous thievery, he would die soon,
for he was old and his search was over,
    He'd found what he sought. Truth. He had no questions any more. It was
not what he wanted, said a small voice within him, but it was what he'd
chased so long.
    The little man by the cave in Honan must have been mad, to appear so
happy. Knowledge, of the truth led only to despair.
    He extended his hands and raucous, lancing pain mixed into the cries of
the gulls. He pulled the oilcloth gently away from Martha, Macnamara's
face.
    That face was lacerated and bruised purple, and about the nose and mouth
were marks like sunburn. Her long hair, grizzled brown and white, lay
tangled over her forehead. He brushed the hair away.
    “Ah, Martha,” he whispered. “I can't believe three days was enough.”
    He stroked the sad, mottled face. “I had a question to ask. I'd saved it for
centuries. When I met you I wasted my time with play, and I did not ask it.
No matter.” He swallowed painfully. “The play was more important.”
    The Caroline dipped into a wave as it left the shelter of the Bay and cut
into the Pacific. Long raised himself up and peered west, into the wind.
    So this was the rapprochement with the sea he had avoided for so long.
Waves slapped the wood, sullenly. Long still did not understand water.
    He'd traded his future for the chance to say good-bye to a woman who
was already dead. That farewell had been important. But why?
    Was anything important, here on the edge of the irremedial loss? Cold air
filled his lungs. His breath steamed. He heard the two men moving about in
the bow of the boat, but he did not take his eyes from the sea.
    The horizon to the right and behind him was streaked with brilliance. The
near side of each wave glistened. He sat in a quiet which was divorced from
both pain and joy. Even his curiosity had left him.
    Gaunt black rocks broke through the waves in the distance ahead. A few
ships dotted the water far from shore.
    He took one of Martha's cold hands in his own and looked again at her
face.
    Suddenly he started, held his breath, and leaned toward her. Again he saw
the small cloud of white fog dissolve against the green tarpaulin. He lifted
her head on his hand and whispered, “Martha?”
    Blue eyes opened, brighter than the dawn sky. They wandered unfocused.
“Who?”
    “M-Mayland Long,” he whispered, stumbling over his own name.
    Her hands floundered in the tarp, like those of a baby in swaddling. “Oh!”
Like a baby, her eyes were blue and vague. “I've… I've been so worried.
About you.”
    He stripped away the oilcloth, shaking her gently to keep her awake.
“There is something I must ask you,” he began.
    With great effort, she raised her head. “About Liz? My daughter. Did you
call the police?”
    She lifted herself further, grimacing. “What's wrong with your hands?”
Martha blinked and began to look around her.
    “Your daughter is safe, I trust.” He spoke eagerly, his voice unsteady. “I
left her in a bush. I haven't called the police, although Fred may have. Must
have, by now.
    “But hear me, Martha. What I want to say, is that I love you. Is that all
right with you?”
    Martha Macnamara took in all this without blinking. Her smile was a
painful, cracked thing. “Of course, Mayland. I'm delighted to hear it,
because I love you.” She tried to laugh and collapsed to the deck in
dizziness. “Couldn't you tell?”
    He closed his eyes and gave a sigh that was half a growl. In one fluid
motion he got to his feet. The wire around his ankles restrained him, and he
suddenly remembered their perilous situation. Carelessly, he reached down
and snapped the wire.
    Mayland Long smiled, and the red sun broke over the hills to the
southeast. His lips drew back from his teeth and he held his bound arms out
before him. White tape caught the new light and his bronze skin glowed. He
threw back his head and laughed—a laugh neither English nor Chinese, but
filled with glad thunder. The tape gleamed ruddy in the sunlight, and as he
strained against it it fell away like charred paper.
    His injured arm fell to his side. The right hand he extended, impossible
fingers spread wide, as though he would grab the sun. All pain and weakness
were gone, drowned in a flood of simple joy.
    He heard running footsteps and turned. “He sure ain't dead!” shouted
Douglas Threve, who stood before Long holding a heavy steel wrench. “I'll
fix that!”
    Long dodged the blow smoothly and struck Threve's arm. The wrench
clattered on the deck.
   Long struck again. His fingers closed around Threve's neck, thumb
pressed under the chin. He lifted Threve quickly, and with the motion one
makes to flick open a cigarette lighter. Long snapped the man's neck. He
tossed the body aside.
   Floyd Rasmussen stood before him, braced against the cabin wall. The
barrel of the pistol that he held was shaking.
   Long caught his eye. “You know better than that.” He spoke gently,
chiding. He heard behind him Martha crawl out of her rutch of oilcloth.
   Rasmussen licked his lips and slid down against the wall. “God! Can't
you be killed?”
   “Oh yes,” answered Long. “But not disposed of. If you kill me you will
have me with you forever.”
   “Hypnosis,” stated Rasmussen without conviction.
   “No one has been killed, here, except this man. Who is my responsibility.”
Long's voice was measured and reasonable. It held the blond man pinned
against the wall. “Now you have the opportunity you thought was lost
forever. No past murder forces you to shoot. If you do, it will be a fresh
decision, and will seal your future once again.”
   Waves slapped against the pilotless craft, turning it out of its course.
Wind whistled in the rigging.
   “No one is dead? The mother…” Rasmussen looked wildly about. Long
stepped aside to reveal the empty wrappings. “She is risen. She is not here,”
he whispered.
   Rasmussen dropped the gun and put both hands to his head. Instantly
Long dived for the cabin wall and brought Rasmussen down. The big man
clawed ineffectually against the single lean brown hand which closed upon
his throat. He gasped and choked. Long's face was set and deliberate. He
reached his thumb under Rasmussen's jaw.
   “Oolong. No.” Martha Macnamara spoke with authority. “All you said to
him is true. I don't want you to carry him as a burden for the rest of your
life.”
   He raised his face to hers. His eyes flared yellow: feral, merciless. Her
own eyes were half closed in a puffy face.
   “It'll be nothing new to me.”
   “No!” she repeated, unwavering. Blue eyes and gold eyes met: two colors
of flame. “Everything is new, forever,” she stated. “It is always the first
time.”
   The gold eyes dropped and the black head bowed. Martha’s hands went
gingerly to her head. She winced, groaning.
   Mayland Long cleared his throat. “Then, Martha, I suggest you search Mr.
Rasmussen's pockets for the adhesive tape he carries… And there will be a
small hunting knife by it. Be careful.”
   She bound Rasmussen while Long held him down by the neck, feeling
panic pulse beneath his hand. When Martha was done they both stood and
walked to the stem.
   “Can you handle a boat?” inquired Martha.
   “Not at all,” was the prompt answer.
   Her broken lips tried to smile. “I can't believe there is something you can't
do.” Her hands sought out a tangled, fallen braid and began to work it free.
   “I have avoided travel by water,” answered Long, as a swell pitched the
Caroline sideways.
   “Because of another prophecy?”
   “Because I get sick,” he replied. Only a narrow band of dark iris was
visible as a smile spread from his eyes to his mouth. “And because I'm afraid
of water. Can you, Martha? Handle a boat? The question is of more than
academic interest.”
   She shrugged. Her blue dress was creased and stained. It had lost half its
buttons. “I can turn the wheel.”
   Liz Macnamara sat at the sergeants desk as the officers of the day patrol
came on duty. She was acutely aware of her dishabille. The sergeant himself
sat in another room, behind a glass door, talking on the phone. He had been
in there for the last ten minutes.
   She heard that door open. “Miss Macnamara,” he began. “That's
M-a-c-n-a-m-a-r-a?”
   “Yes, yes! You have all that.”
   “Don't get excited. Miss.” He picked up a pencil and bounced the eraser
end a few times against the desk blotter.
   “What do you mean?” Liz wailed. “They've killed my mother! They're
going to kill…”
   “Mr. Long. Mayland Long, M-a-y-1-a-n-d,” interjected the sergeant. His
eyes were sleepy, his girth considerable.
   “Yes, that's his name.”
   “And your mother's first name is Martha?”
   “Oh God, yes, what of it? Do something.”
   “We have,” the policeman said. “Two days ago a Mr. Mayland Long
reported your mother missing. He didn't have anything more for us to go on,
so there wasn't much we could do, but an hour ago a kid walked in on the
Palo Alto police with a crazy story about this man Long. And a tape. Since
then all the departments on the Peninsula have been on the alert. 'Course, we
hadn't thought to check the Bay until you came to us with your information.
Miss Macnamara.
   “Thrown into a tree?” He dropped the pencil.
   The young woman before him wriggled in her seat. There was a leaf
sticking out of her hair, a long slender leaf like a donkey's ear. Her arms
were scratched and that bathrobe deserved an R rating.
   The sergeant was a fan of old movies. He couldn't decide whether Liz
Macnamara looked more like Marlene Dietrich or Greta Garbo, but despite
her tangled hair and grease smears she sure looked like something.
   “Tree or bush. A laurel. In Golden Gate Park. What does it matter?” Liz
folded her arms tightly, hugging herself.
   “I'm sorry about your mother,” the sergeant said.
   Liz nodded miserably.
   “And considering what you've said about your relationship with these two
kidnappers I think you need a lawyer.”
   “Hell with that,” moaned the young woman. The sergeant’s mouth
twitched sympathetically.
   “Still, there's not much more I can say to you until you're represented by
counsel…”
   At that moment the outer door opened and Fred Frisch walked in,
carrying his tape recorder and tugging on his moustache. Seeing Liz, he
escaped the guiding hand of the officer who had brought him in, and he
picked his way among the desks to her.
   “I'm sorry, Liz,” he began. “I tried… I mean, do you remember me at all?”
   She stood, examining him closely. Loose jointed, with limp blond hair,
and eyes like a Bassett Hound: was this the fellow who had saved Long's
life? “Of course, Fred. Mr. Long talked about you tonight. He said you…
kept him going.”
   “You've seen him since? Is he…”
   She shook her head. “I'm afraid they've killed him by now. They killed my
mother.” She sagged back into the chair. “And it's all my fault.”
   Fred swallowed. “Hey. It's not that way. I know all about it. I found your
disk file at RasTech and printed it.”
   She glanced up in amazement and Fred shifted from foot to foot. “He
wanted me to. Mr. Long—the Black Dragon.”
   “The what?”
   Ignoring the sergeant behind his desk, Fred dragged a chair across the
floor and sat. “His name is really Black Dragon, in Chinese. I really admire
the guy, you know?”
   “He liked you,” responded Elizabeth, blinking away tears.
   “Did he say that?”
   “Yes, and that he loved my mother. But they're going to kill him. Even he
thought so, when he threw me out of the car.”
   “I don't know,” said Fred, frowning and blowing out his moustache.
“He's a hard man to kill.”
   Liz turned to him with the dawning of real curiosity. “Have you always
had that moustache?” she asked.
   “Hummm,” snorted the sergeant behind his desk.
   Martha held the glossy, many-spoked wheel, leaning against it. The fat red
sun had climbed a few degrees into the sky, and she had turned the nose of
the Caroline toward it. Daylight touched the cold water, making the air
milky with fog.
   Mayland Long stood beside her with a glass of water in his hand. She
started, for she had not heard him approach. Gratefully, she took the glass
and drank from it.
   “Oh yes, that's better,” she said. He stood behind her and said nothing.
   “Talk to me, Mayland. My head hurts.”
   His answer came slowly. “I can't think of anything to say.” With great
care he ran his finger through her loose hair, combing it. Martha's battered
features eased into a smile. “I can't braid it for you without my other hand.”
   “That feels wonderful,” she murmured, peering into the pale obscurity at
small dark shapes that had not been there a minute ago. Were they rocks?
   She shivered. “I think I've been cold forever.”
   “There I can help,” chuckled Mayland Long, and he put his arm around
her waist as he pressed her body against his.
   “Oh my!” she exclaimed. “You're a furnace!” She touched his bare arm
wonderingly. It was smooth, with no trace of the sticky tape. It radiated heat.
He bent his face over hers. It, too, was very warm.
   “So hot! You've used yourself up,” she said.
   He raised his head and stared out. “No, I'm not quite used up. But I
thought I was, early this morning.” Frowning, he added, “My understanding
was… imperfect.” A movement on the water distracted him.
   “Look.” She did so. One of the dark shapes in the fog had become a boat,
a Coast Guard cutter. It veered by the bow of the Caroline, which bobbed in
the faster boat's wake.
   Mr. Long strode to the stem to turn off the engine, that being the only
action in their power to assist the boarders, while Mrs. Macnamara
smoothed her dress. With old-fashioned courtesy and a certain degree of
self-satisfaction, they welcomed their rescuers aboard.
                            Chapter 17
  The door opened to Martha's triplet knock. In Long's sitting
room rain beat against the windows, but a tall lamp was lit, and
soft light drew a circle around the antique gold chairs.
  “I just called the hospital and they said you checked out.
You weren't supposed to do that; the doctors said you weren't
ready.”
  Mayland Long smiled quietly, almost shyly, at Martha and
ushered her in. Except for the cotton sling around his right
arm, he looked as he had a week ago: a slight Eurasian man of
indeterminate age, whose dark features faded into the shadows
of the room.
  “They didn't like their test results,” he stated. “I didn't like
their tests. We were, neither of us, happy about the other, so I
came home. Have you seen Elizabeth today? Have they set
bail?”
  Martha sank into the nearest of the chairs. “She's out on her
own recognizance, because she turned herself in, I visited her
this morning, before the rain started. That young man was
there—the one with the talking car—I mean the car you talk to.
  “I hope Liz won't have to go to prison.” Martha's small jaw
was set and her forehead creased with worry. “But I think the
judge will be lenient, under the circumstances.” Her face in the
lamplight showed every trace of the mistreatment she had
suffered. She smiled a round-faced smile as he pulled his chair
beside her and took her hand in his.
  “How long have you been… a human being?” she asked
him.
  He glanced from her face to the gray world outside. “Less
than a week, I think.”
  She snorted. “You know what I mean.”
  He looked back to her. “Six years ago I found an old man in
the hills outside Taipei. He was a master of Tao: not my
master, he informed me, but nonetheless he was very wise.”
  Martha Macnamara frowned. “Tell me. I don't approve of
mysteries.”
  Long looked down at his hands. His lean face expressed
doubt. “What do you know of dragons, Martha.”
  “ 'How many times,' “ she quoted, “ 'have I entered the cave
of the green dragon!' “
  He turned halfway, and looked away from the brooding
weather. “Delusion. Yes. But I don't speak of a green dragon,
but a black one.”
  “An imperial dragon?” she questioned in turn.
  He turned full toward her. “So you know about the dragon
of five fingers?”
  She laughed at the eagerness in his words. “Oh, I've been
around the block once or twice. The black dragon is a scholar.
He was claimed as the ancestor of every ruling family of
China. The black dragon lives forever.”
  He met her eyes as he added, “But I will not.”
  Martha's chin rose and she spoke with conviction. “Living
forever,” she began, “is what makes all dragons delusion,
whether they're green, red or black. Life is a moment long, no
more. If you hold on to it, you're lost!”
  Gently he withdrew his hand and lay it on his lap. He leaned
back in the chair and closed his eyes to the light.
  “I hold on to everything,” he remarked. “I always have.”
  “Back when you knew Bodhidharma?”
  “Yes, Martha.” His eyes opened and one neat brow went up.
“Did you think I lied to you?”
   “And the son of Thomas Rhymer? The fairy host?” she
pressed him.
   “I did not claim to be an eyewitness to those events. I just
repeated the story as told.” He smiled broadly
   “Meeting the man who sat in front of a wall—the one you
call Bodhidharma—changed a life which till then had been
devoted to the traditional pursuits of dragons”
   “Which are?”
   “Mmph! Scholarship, calligraphy, collecting objects d’art…”
   “That's all? Sounds pretty thin.”
   “Also devouring oxen, tigers, and occasionally people.” His
smile remained intact.
   “Better… I wouldn't mind living like that,” said Martha.
   “Yes, it is agreeable, on the surface. But I developed a
fascination for man—tiny, helpless, short-lived creature that he
was—because he created the beautiful things I could only
copy. And hoard. Dragons, you see, are not very creative. We
have never been great painters or poets, but instead great
collectors. I wished to know what it was that gave man the
power to do what he does—to paint, to write poetry, to sit for
nine years facing a wall…” His words trailed off.
   “Bodhidharma told me, Martha, that he was seeking truth. I
thought about that for quite some time. I went from teacher to
teacher. At first my quest was to find out what there was in
man to make him act so strangely: to desire an abstract nothing
with a passion that should be reserved for gold. But eventually
I came to see that I would only find out the truth about man by
finding man's truth itself!”
   Long's right hand played with the whistle of the teapot. His
teeth shone and his opaque eyes were dancing. “Dog breeders
grow to look like dogs,” he said. “And slowly, over centuries, I
became like the creature I studied, growing apart from my own
kind.
  “If I met a dragon now, I'd have nothing to say to him!”
  “Cats don't like cats,” interjected Martha.
  Mayland Long shot one mischievous glance at her and was
obliged to look away. He was grinning hugely,
  “I have spent decades in frozen caves in what is now Nepal,”
he announced. “I have coiled by stone beehive cells in
Leicester. I have corresponded with the Dean of St. Paul's. Not
the present dean, of course…”
  “Of course not. You mean Donne.”
  He grunted assent. “The men I sought were those who
seemed to have found what Bodhidharma found beneath the
cave wall. That indescribable formless whatever… truth!
Around me my kind faded. I hardly noticed. Dragons are not
social by nature. (I am the exception.) My interest—my
obsession—kept me alive. But I did not find truth,” he
concluded, without irony.
  Martha Macnamara lay her hands against his face. “Don't
you know that you yourself are the truth walking?”
  He kissed the palm of one hand, then the other. “A dragon
cannot make sense of such a statement,” he said.
  “But now…”
  The moment's silence was filled with the sleepy drone of the
rain. The circle of light was small.
  “I know,” he began slowly, “that you are my master.”
  She laughed. “If you insist. But I would rather be your
mistress.”
  “That too.”
  Thunder rolled in the distance. Mayland Long turned to the
window. He walked over and pressed his hand against the
glass. “It rarely thunders in California. The night I lost—that I
became a human being—it crashed incessantly.
   “I had heard about a Taoist teacher who was very wise. His
name was Yung Chung-jo; he was a retired military man.
When I found him he was sitting on a bare hilltop, wearing his
tattered old dress uniform. He had come there in order to die.
   “He was not afraid. I coiled about him and shielded him
from the rain.
   “I told him about my search, where it had begun and where
it had led me. I told him what scriptures I had read, and in
which transcriptions, for I had learned all the major human
languages to aid me in my task. I listed the names of all the
teachers I had had previously and repeated the advice they had
given me. I wanted to be clear and exact with Yung, because I
had failed with so many before.
   “And the old man laughed at me—he laughed as I think only
the Chinese can laugh, when they mock a person. It's terrible,
the way they can laugh. It can reduce one to…”He glanced
toward Martha and continued gently. “You are laughing at me
now, Martha. That's all right. I know what sort of fool I am.”
   “Then he told me he was not destined to be my master,
because he was dying. He said my master would be one who
had more chi—more strength—than I. And he foretold that
when I met my master, all I had gathered would be taken from
me.”
   “He sat in the rain through the night, while I slept coiled
about him. In the morning, when I awoke, I looked like this,
and in my arms I was holding a dead dragon.”
   “It must have hurt, to become human,” she whispered,
holding out her hand to him.
   Mr. Long came back into the light. “It still hurts,” he said.
   Lightning snapped in the sky and again thunder rumbled.
“What shall I do, Martha? Where shall I live? How shall I
spend my time?”
   Martha Macnamara took a deep breath and sat straight in the
chair. She was wearing her respectable tweeds. “I am not the
Queen of Elfland,” she began.
   “You are more beautiful, Martha. And you possess more
chi.”
   She ignored the interruption. “But if you come with me I will
treat you better than she did the Rhymer.”
   He pulled her to her feet and kissed her, slowly and with
great concentration. Their hands were bathed in yellow light.
Their faces, above the lamp, were shadowed. “Still,” he
whispered in her ear, “he came back with truth on his tongue.”
   She giggled. “It doesn't belong there.”
   “Then what will my mistress teach me?” He kissed her
cheek, the corner of her eye, her forehead…
   Martha Macnamara took a step back and looked up at
Mayland Long. “Why, to play the piano, of course!” She held
up his dark slender hand. “How wonderful!”