screwed up, let the nitrogen boil off. It’s just horrible, thinking of Uncle Solly ending that way, Is that murder, do you think?”
“Defrosting someone who could potentially be revived? In some kind of potential way, maybe.”
“Well, I think someone should pay.”
There really wasn’t anything for Bernal here. He thought Yolanda was right about why Spillvagen had sent him. He’d just wanted to yank Yolanda’s chain.
He started to get up. “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time. . . .”
“Wait, wait. Hand me that computer.” She flipped open l the laptop and, after a few clicks, opened a photo. She held it on her lap, forcing him to lean over her to look at the picture. It showed solemn people sitting in folding chairs, with some pictures of rockets taking off on easel stands behind them. Bernal pretended to examine it as if it was important.
“That’s the funeral,” she said. “Uncle Solly’s. See all his friends.” She shook her head, and there were tears in her eyes. “Even that lady from that other company, the space probe place, she came by. Nice of her. One space nut honoring another.”
He should have seen it right away A blond head popped out of the group of faces. Here, too, her vaguely distracted expression made her look like she wasn’t a part of what was going on around her.
“This one?” He pointed to Madeline Ungaro.
“Yes. That’s the one. She wasn’t invited, but who was going to keep her out? It’s not like you had to show ID or anything.”
“I’m glad you remembered this.”
“I lose a lot of stuff, nowadays. You’re lucky my days are empty enough that it was worth my remembering.”
For a moment, she looked bleak. Bernal admired her romantic melancholy, her knees, and her use of the gerund.
10
The road went around a field, past an old farmhouse, over a slight rise, and down into a patch of woods. Ahead, the trees opened out on a power line right-of-way. One arm out, one akimbo, pylons carried their delicate triple skein of high-voltage power off toward Boston. A track down the slope marked where mountain bikers and trail runners found their entertainment.
Bernal pulled the van into a spot under an overgrown hedge, at the location Muriel had specified in her note, and waited. He was a bit early. He’d grabbed some Inidian takeout and settled himself into Ungaro’s lab. He had decided to make that his base of operations here in Cheriton. His plants in Boston would just have to rely on his downstairs neighbor’s services for a few more days. If anything happened, he figured, it would happen here.
After about ten minutes, headlights played across him. He sat still, waiting for the car to pass. Instead, the car cut in ahead of him and parked a dozen yards or so farther up.
_______
The Plymouth Voyager had its parking lights on, organic ambient music with instruments from a dozen tribal cultures playing soothingly. Scorch marks had been painted on the side, as if it had recently endured reentry.
Bernal walked up to them. “Glad you guys could make it tonight. My name’s Bernal. I’m a local.”
Two long-haired men in microfiber windbreakers peered around the back of the van. They had already set up cameras and netlinks, and one had optic cable looped over his shoulder. Brightly colored fast-food wrappers, souvenirs of their road trip, drifted out onto the gravel as they yanked out more equipment. One of them knelt and shoveled everything back into the car.
“Hey.” The driver, a girl with a square jaw but surprisingly beautiful lips, swung open her door. “My name’s Oleana. These guys are Len and Magnusen.” The two men nodded, but didn’t say anything. “Len’s from Baraboo. I’m from LaCrosse. Magnusen here’s a bit of a ringer: New Ulm, Minnesota.” Magnusen nodded again, embarrassed. “Hesketh is supposed to be along pretty soon. That your understanding too?”
Hesketh? “Pretty much.”
On the back of Oleana’s
“Defrosting someone who could potentially be revived? In some kind of potential way, maybe.”
“Well, I think someone should pay.”
There really wasn’t anything for Bernal here. He thought Yolanda was right about why Spillvagen had sent him. He’d just wanted to yank Yolanda’s chain.
He started to get up. “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time. . . .”
“Wait, wait. Hand me that computer.” She flipped open l the laptop and, after a few clicks, opened a photo. She held it on her lap, forcing him to lean over her to look at the picture. It showed solemn people sitting in folding chairs, with some pictures of rockets taking off on easel stands behind them. Bernal pretended to examine it as if it was important.
“That’s the funeral,” she said. “Uncle Solly’s. See all his friends.” She shook her head, and there were tears in her eyes. “Even that lady from that other company, the space probe place, she came by. Nice of her. One space nut honoring another.”
He should have seen it right away A blond head popped out of the group of faces. Here, too, her vaguely distracted expression made her look like she wasn’t a part of what was going on around her.
“This one?” He pointed to Madeline Ungaro.
“Yes. That’s the one. She wasn’t invited, but who was going to keep her out? It’s not like you had to show ID or anything.”
“I’m glad you remembered this.”
“I lose a lot of stuff, nowadays. You’re lucky my days are empty enough that it was worth my remembering.”
For a moment, she looked bleak. Bernal admired her romantic melancholy, her knees, and her use of the gerund.
10
The road went around a field, past an old farmhouse, over a slight rise, and down into a patch of woods. Ahead, the trees opened out on a power line right-of-way. One arm out, one akimbo, pylons carried their delicate triple skein of high-voltage power off toward Boston. A track down the slope marked where mountain bikers and trail runners found their entertainment.
Bernal pulled the van into a spot under an overgrown hedge, at the location Muriel had specified in her note, and waited. He was a bit early. He’d grabbed some Inidian takeout and settled himself into Ungaro’s lab. He had decided to make that his base of operations here in Cheriton. His plants in Boston would just have to rely on his downstairs neighbor’s services for a few more days. If anything happened, he figured, it would happen here.
After about ten minutes, headlights played across him. He sat still, waiting for the car to pass. Instead, the car cut in ahead of him and parked a dozen yards or so farther up.
_______
The Plymouth Voyager had its parking lights on, organic ambient music with instruments from a dozen tribal cultures playing soothingly. Scorch marks had been painted on the side, as if it had recently endured reentry.
Bernal walked up to them. “Glad you guys could make it tonight. My name’s Bernal. I’m a local.”
Two long-haired men in microfiber windbreakers peered around the back of the van. They had already set up cameras and netlinks, and one had optic cable looped over his shoulder. Brightly colored fast-food wrappers, souvenirs of their road trip, drifted out onto the gravel as they yanked out more equipment. One of them knelt and shoveled everything back into the car.
“Hey.” The driver, a girl with a square jaw but surprisingly beautiful lips, swung open her door. “My name’s Oleana. These guys are Len and Magnusen.” The two men nodded, but didn’t say anything. “Len’s from Baraboo. I’m from LaCrosse. Magnusen here’s a bit of a ringer: New Ulm, Minnesota.” Magnusen nodded again, embarrassed. “Hesketh is supposed to be along pretty soon. That your understanding too?”
Hesketh? “Pretty much.”
On the back of Oleana’s
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