only translated across two kilometres and we-"
Patricia interrupted. "You're going to have to confirm the event with a retrospective dynamic-field analysis. Kramer can't hack it and we must confirm Felice's excursion. Listen to me, Alex!" Her anxiety flamed out at him. Her mind displayed the terrible possibility. "We think Marc's still alive inside the CE rig. But the scanner's nearly burnt out and we have no conscious communication from him. We don't dare open the armour-"
Manion nodded. His smile was gone. "Until you confirm that the person inside is Marc Remillard. Yes. An interesting point."
They entered the observatory at the same time that Peter Dalembert and Ragnar Gathen were hustling Helayne Strangford out. Steinbrenner handed over the docilator.
Helayne's powerful, crazed mind latched onto Manion.
"Don't help them, Alex! Let Marc die in that damned cerebroenergetic enhancer of his! Then we'll be sure that the children aren't-"
The voice fell abruptly silent. Patricia urged Manion inside.
It was dark with the dome closed, the temperature at least ten degrees cooler. Only a handful of the senior Rebels remained.
In the centre of the chamber was the hydraulic lift cylinder with the recliner carriage lowered. On it, gleaming under a small spotlight but opaque to the mind's eye, was a mass of black cerametal armour. Alexis Manion shrugged free of Castellane and approached the sinister form.
"So you miscalculated again, did you?"
The display screen and the loudspeaker that normally provided communication with the hidden CE operator remained mute. Manion strolled to the vital-signs monitor and studied the readouts, then looked over the offerings of the crippled brainscanner. There was no identifiable pattern to the subperceptual emanations coming from the bulky mass of armour, only the assurance that inside, someone or something was alive.
"Are you Marc Remillard in there?" Manion inquired archly.
"Or little Felice?"
"That's what you're going to find out for us, Alex," said Jordan Kramer. He stood at the main console of the computer with Van Wyk dithering behind him. The Keoghs had finally arrived with the first-aid unit. Warshaw helped them to position it next to the carriage.
"You'd trust me?" Manion swept the minds of his fellow magnates with a mocking fillip. "Marc didn't. That's why he zombied me."
Gerrit Van Wyk said, "We have to trust you, Alex. Analysing this damn event is beyond my competence, or Jordy's. Only you can tell us whether Felice jumped back to Europe after she zapped Marc. If she's still here-if she subsumed Marc and we open that rig and let her out-she could wipe out Ocala!"
Manion hummed "Here's a How-De-Do." He frowned as he examined a screenful of dubious probability graphics prominently labelled: EVENT UNCONFIRMED.
"Whoever is inside that armour," Patricia said, "is gravely injured. If you force us to let Marc die, then I'm going to kill you, too, Alex."
"Perhaps I'd be grateful, Pat."
Kramer held out the command mouthpiece. "We know you care deeply about the children, Alex. Marc wants to save them, but we don't know what his plans are. Without him, we have only one option to prevent the reopening of the time-gate. An ugly one."
Suppose I lie to you about the analysis?" Manion retorted.
"Let Felice cook our collective goose if she's in there? Then I'd be certain that the kids get their chance."
The frustration and fury of the other ex-conspirators impinged on the mental screen of the dynamic-field specialist. Uselessly.
Van Wyk's control, always precarious, began to falter. His mind cried out: He might lie he might! He did before we never twigged when he & kids planned damned Feliceploy firstplaceSuddenly weary, Manion said, "Oh, shut up, Gerry." He took the computer microphone from Kramer's hand and began to speak rapidly.
The others fell back. Psychic tension drained away, leaving dullness leavened by faint hope. As the multicoloured probability edifices formed and
Patricia interrupted. "You're going to have to confirm the event with a retrospective dynamic-field analysis. Kramer can't hack it and we must confirm Felice's excursion. Listen to me, Alex!" Her anxiety flamed out at him. Her mind displayed the terrible possibility. "We think Marc's still alive inside the CE rig. But the scanner's nearly burnt out and we have no conscious communication from him. We don't dare open the armour-"
Manion nodded. His smile was gone. "Until you confirm that the person inside is Marc Remillard. Yes. An interesting point."
They entered the observatory at the same time that Peter Dalembert and Ragnar Gathen were hustling Helayne Strangford out. Steinbrenner handed over the docilator.
Helayne's powerful, crazed mind latched onto Manion.
"Don't help them, Alex! Let Marc die in that damned cerebroenergetic enhancer of his! Then we'll be sure that the children aren't-"
The voice fell abruptly silent. Patricia urged Manion inside.
It was dark with the dome closed, the temperature at least ten degrees cooler. Only a handful of the senior Rebels remained.
In the centre of the chamber was the hydraulic lift cylinder with the recliner carriage lowered. On it, gleaming under a small spotlight but opaque to the mind's eye, was a mass of black cerametal armour. Alexis Manion shrugged free of Castellane and approached the sinister form.
"So you miscalculated again, did you?"
The display screen and the loudspeaker that normally provided communication with the hidden CE operator remained mute. Manion strolled to the vital-signs monitor and studied the readouts, then looked over the offerings of the crippled brainscanner. There was no identifiable pattern to the subperceptual emanations coming from the bulky mass of armour, only the assurance that inside, someone or something was alive.
"Are you Marc Remillard in there?" Manion inquired archly.
"Or little Felice?"
"That's what you're going to find out for us, Alex," said Jordan Kramer. He stood at the main console of the computer with Van Wyk dithering behind him. The Keoghs had finally arrived with the first-aid unit. Warshaw helped them to position it next to the carriage.
"You'd trust me?" Manion swept the minds of his fellow magnates with a mocking fillip. "Marc didn't. That's why he zombied me."
Gerrit Van Wyk said, "We have to trust you, Alex. Analysing this damn event is beyond my competence, or Jordy's. Only you can tell us whether Felice jumped back to Europe after she zapped Marc. If she's still here-if she subsumed Marc and we open that rig and let her out-she could wipe out Ocala!"
Manion hummed "Here's a How-De-Do." He frowned as he examined a screenful of dubious probability graphics prominently labelled: EVENT UNCONFIRMED.
"Whoever is inside that armour," Patricia said, "is gravely injured. If you force us to let Marc die, then I'm going to kill you, too, Alex."
"Perhaps I'd be grateful, Pat."
Kramer held out the command mouthpiece. "We know you care deeply about the children, Alex. Marc wants to save them, but we don't know what his plans are. Without him, we have only one option to prevent the reopening of the time-gate. An ugly one."
Suppose I lie to you about the analysis?" Manion retorted.
"Let Felice cook our collective goose if she's in there? Then I'd be certain that the kids get their chance."
The frustration and fury of the other ex-conspirators impinged on the mental screen of the dynamic-field specialist. Uselessly.
Van Wyk's control, always precarious, began to falter. His mind cried out: He might lie he might! He did before we never twigged when he & kids planned damned Feliceploy firstplaceSuddenly weary, Manion said, "Oh, shut up, Gerry." He took the computer microphone from Kramer's hand and began to speak rapidly.
The others fell back. Psychic tension drained away, leaving dullness leavened by faint hope. As the multicoloured probability edifices formed and
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