studio.
Buick leaned against a window-ledge and stared into the night through wrought iron scrollery that encircled the stars in its tendrils. On the parapet below, a silhouette stood guard by the shadowed disk of a great gong, ready to take up the alarm at the first sound of the watchtower bells. Buick drew the folds of his robe tighter about his chest, shivering in the chill air. He knew that in a very real sense these rooms were a prison; the guard outside was his jailer. In spite of the victory feasts and elegant words of praise, Buick no longer trusted the Grand Dragon. The charm and flattery did little to conceal the manipulations of court politics. His power strengthened Kodak’s position and, for the moment, he was esteemed and honored. But the very nature of his strength made him a potential threat and Buick had heard enough of Brotherhood intrigue to know the fate of those who stood in the way of the Grand Dragon’s ambition.
He must never relax his caution. He slept alone; the light-that-never-dies always ready in his hand. He bolted the heavy door to his rooms at night and was pleased with the thought that the same bars which kept him in also served to keep potential assassins safely out. Tomorrow, the servants who brought his meals would sample the food before he touched it. Kodak had his loyal tasters; why shouldn’t the Firechief be accorded a similar honor? Before the morning was out, the entire Brotherhood would hear the story. What better way to serve the Grand Dragon notice that he was prepared for treachery?
The man lying on the ledge under the taut spread of camouflage netting paid no attention to the sunrise. He was not the sort to be distracted by natural beauty. His mind never strayed from the job at hand. That was the secret of his success. He wore a skin-tight, one-piece survival suit, the kind used in space, and by aquanauts, thousands of feet below the ocean surface. His lithe, muscular build suggested a man of action. In the center of his forehead swelled the slight subcutaneous bulge of an implanted mini-probe.
The man was busy with his equipment. He was a professional and didn’t waste time. He adjusted the image on the portable viewscreen. It showed an empty stretch of road, three kilometers distant. No sign of his client yet. A turret-lens mounted in his orbiting rocketsled kept watch automatically. He checked the road below again through his magnascope. The angle was perfect, thirty-eight degrees. The range was seven-hundred meters. One of the minidisplays on his console showed a six kph increase in wind velocity, coupled with a twelve degree directional change from S-SW toward due South. The man checked these figures with his calculator and a new trajectory was plotted. The calibrated knobs on the telescopic sights were adjusted accordingly. At that moment, the viewscreen showed a lone rider approaching at a fast trot.
The man settled his shoulder comfortably behind the tripod mounted weapon and rested his cheek against the wooden stock, squinting through the 10x scope, but not yet touching the foregrip or the trigger. The strangest thing about this assignment was the weapon: a regular museum-piece. The man believed every assignment was strange in its own way. This was as close as he came to a philosophy. Either it was plastic surgery and play-acting, or he had to do something freakish, like use a knife or even his hands. It didn’t matter. He would use a boomerang if the pay was right.
The antique ballistic weapon had been issued to him along with his instructions, but he took it in stride like a pro and spent two full days practicing on the desert until, at this range, he could put ten rounds cleanly through the center of a target and cover them all with a playing card. A glance at the viewscreen showed the client at the mouth of the canyon and the man double-checked the wind velocity. He rubbed his hands and waited, watching the bend in the road far below.
A rider came into
Buick leaned against a window-ledge and stared into the night through wrought iron scrollery that encircled the stars in its tendrils. On the parapet below, a silhouette stood guard by the shadowed disk of a great gong, ready to take up the alarm at the first sound of the watchtower bells. Buick drew the folds of his robe tighter about his chest, shivering in the chill air. He knew that in a very real sense these rooms were a prison; the guard outside was his jailer. In spite of the victory feasts and elegant words of praise, Buick no longer trusted the Grand Dragon. The charm and flattery did little to conceal the manipulations of court politics. His power strengthened Kodak’s position and, for the moment, he was esteemed and honored. But the very nature of his strength made him a potential threat and Buick had heard enough of Brotherhood intrigue to know the fate of those who stood in the way of the Grand Dragon’s ambition.
He must never relax his caution. He slept alone; the light-that-never-dies always ready in his hand. He bolted the heavy door to his rooms at night and was pleased with the thought that the same bars which kept him in also served to keep potential assassins safely out. Tomorrow, the servants who brought his meals would sample the food before he touched it. Kodak had his loyal tasters; why shouldn’t the Firechief be accorded a similar honor? Before the morning was out, the entire Brotherhood would hear the story. What better way to serve the Grand Dragon notice that he was prepared for treachery?
The man lying on the ledge under the taut spread of camouflage netting paid no attention to the sunrise. He was not the sort to be distracted by natural beauty. His mind never strayed from the job at hand. That was the secret of his success. He wore a skin-tight, one-piece survival suit, the kind used in space, and by aquanauts, thousands of feet below the ocean surface. His lithe, muscular build suggested a man of action. In the center of his forehead swelled the slight subcutaneous bulge of an implanted mini-probe.
The man was busy with his equipment. He was a professional and didn’t waste time. He adjusted the image on the portable viewscreen. It showed an empty stretch of road, three kilometers distant. No sign of his client yet. A turret-lens mounted in his orbiting rocketsled kept watch automatically. He checked the road below again through his magnascope. The angle was perfect, thirty-eight degrees. The range was seven-hundred meters. One of the minidisplays on his console showed a six kph increase in wind velocity, coupled with a twelve degree directional change from S-SW toward due South. The man checked these figures with his calculator and a new trajectory was plotted. The calibrated knobs on the telescopic sights were adjusted accordingly. At that moment, the viewscreen showed a lone rider approaching at a fast trot.
The man settled his shoulder comfortably behind the tripod mounted weapon and rested his cheek against the wooden stock, squinting through the 10x scope, but not yet touching the foregrip or the trigger. The strangest thing about this assignment was the weapon: a regular museum-piece. The man believed every assignment was strange in its own way. This was as close as he came to a philosophy. Either it was plastic surgery and play-acting, or he had to do something freakish, like use a knife or even his hands. It didn’t matter. He would use a boomerang if the pay was right.
The antique ballistic weapon had been issued to him along with his instructions, but he took it in stride like a pro and spent two full days practicing on the desert until, at this range, he could put ten rounds cleanly through the center of a target and cover them all with a playing card. A glance at the viewscreen showed the client at the mouth of the canyon and the man double-checked the wind velocity. He rubbed his hands and waited, watching the bend in the road far below.
A rider came into
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