think it would be even odder if I were to greet Ms. Mitchell in my customary get-up these days.”
“What’s that mean?” “Did you notice Randolph Mays with you on Helios ? No? I’m not surprised.”
“Mays?” asked Marianne, perking up.
“Would you like to know how Randolph Mays managed to get himself comfortably ensconced in the Interplanetary Hotel for two days during which all the rest of you have been detained in quarantine?”
“Sir Randolph Mays is in our hotel?” Marianne asked.
Blake was still ignoring her, fixing a stern eye on Haw-kins and barely restraining himself from tapping a forefin-ger on the tabletop. “Mays has contacts, informants, friends in places high and low. He knows customs types and hotel managers and maitre d’s and all that sort, knows what they like, which is clean money—which he’s also got. The man’s not just a fatuous old Oxbridge don, Bill, to whom the BBC mistakenly offered a pulpit from which to spout bull. He’s a damned good investigative reporter, stalking history on the hoof. And we have the misfortune to be his quarry of the moment.” Blake reached for the sliver of paper covered with handwriting that indicated his and Lim’s bill. “Luke and I have already had lunch. If you wouldn’t mind carrying on with Marianne here, Bill . . . I mean . . .”
“Quite, delighted to,” Hawkins said quickly, before Blake could make it worse. “Assuming that’s all right with you, Marianne.”
Two bright red patches had appeared high on Marianne’s cheeks. “Why waste another minute on me? I’m capable of looking after myself.”
“Marianne,” Hawkins said fervently, “I can think of nothing I would rather do—much less need do— than spend the next few hours in your company.”
“Catch you at the hotel in the morning, then.” Blake had already stood up. He looked at Marianne, his eyes unfocused. “Sorry, really I am. This way it works out for everybody.”
Lim followed Blake to the counter. “Did I hear you say you were paying, my friend?” He was talking to Blake, but he couldn’t resist a final, over-the-shoulder leer at Mar-ianne.
Hawkins watched them go. “Extraordinary!” He seemed genuinely astonished. “Before today I couldn’t have imag-ined Redfield behaving in other than the most exemplary fashion. Perhaps things aren’t going well for him—Forster seems to have put the fear of God into him.”
“He was certainly being obscure,” said Marianne.
“Yes, as in some cheap spy novel. When really, there’s no mystery. The professor plans a thorough exploration of Amalthea. I know he counted on acquiring an ice mole—a mining machine—here on Ganymede. That must be Item A.”
“Item A, Item B. Worse than this menu.”
Hawkins took the hint. “May I order for both of us?”
“Why not? If we were in Manhattan, I’d do the same for you.”
But Hawkins paid no attention to the menu. Instead he absently studied the fish swimming in the huge aquarium. “I suppose Item B would be a submarine.”
“What would Professor Forster want with a submarine?”
“Only guessing.” He waved for the waitress. “Those gey-sers, you know . . . could be that under the ice, there’s liquid water. Well , let’s see what this place has to offer.”
Marianne glanced toward the doorway through which Blake and his friend Lim had disappeared into the throng. Depending on one’s mood, all this could be viewed as intensely mundane or intensely exciting. Why not hope for the best? Marianne moved perceptibly closer to Hawkins.
If anyone had said to Marianne that she might someday blossom into an intellectual, she would have been shocked; she thought her own record of academic failure proved nothing but the opposite. But in fact she had a powerful hunger for information, a powerful attraction to schemes of organization, and a sometimes too-powerful critical sense that kept her hopping from one such flawed
“What’s that mean?” “Did you notice Randolph Mays with you on Helios ? No? I’m not surprised.”
“Mays?” asked Marianne, perking up.
“Would you like to know how Randolph Mays managed to get himself comfortably ensconced in the Interplanetary Hotel for two days during which all the rest of you have been detained in quarantine?”
“Sir Randolph Mays is in our hotel?” Marianne asked.
Blake was still ignoring her, fixing a stern eye on Haw-kins and barely restraining himself from tapping a forefin-ger on the tabletop. “Mays has contacts, informants, friends in places high and low. He knows customs types and hotel managers and maitre d’s and all that sort, knows what they like, which is clean money—which he’s also got. The man’s not just a fatuous old Oxbridge don, Bill, to whom the BBC mistakenly offered a pulpit from which to spout bull. He’s a damned good investigative reporter, stalking history on the hoof. And we have the misfortune to be his quarry of the moment.” Blake reached for the sliver of paper covered with handwriting that indicated his and Lim’s bill. “Luke and I have already had lunch. If you wouldn’t mind carrying on with Marianne here, Bill . . . I mean . . .”
“Quite, delighted to,” Hawkins said quickly, before Blake could make it worse. “Assuming that’s all right with you, Marianne.”
Two bright red patches had appeared high on Marianne’s cheeks. “Why waste another minute on me? I’m capable of looking after myself.”
“Marianne,” Hawkins said fervently, “I can think of nothing I would rather do—much less need do— than spend the next few hours in your company.”
“Catch you at the hotel in the morning, then.” Blake had already stood up. He looked at Marianne, his eyes unfocused. “Sorry, really I am. This way it works out for everybody.”
Lim followed Blake to the counter. “Did I hear you say you were paying, my friend?” He was talking to Blake, but he couldn’t resist a final, over-the-shoulder leer at Mar-ianne.
Hawkins watched them go. “Extraordinary!” He seemed genuinely astonished. “Before today I couldn’t have imag-ined Redfield behaving in other than the most exemplary fashion. Perhaps things aren’t going well for him—Forster seems to have put the fear of God into him.”
“He was certainly being obscure,” said Marianne.
“Yes, as in some cheap spy novel. When really, there’s no mystery. The professor plans a thorough exploration of Amalthea. I know he counted on acquiring an ice mole—a mining machine—here on Ganymede. That must be Item A.”
“Item A, Item B. Worse than this menu.”
Hawkins took the hint. “May I order for both of us?”
“Why not? If we were in Manhattan, I’d do the same for you.”
But Hawkins paid no attention to the menu. Instead he absently studied the fish swimming in the huge aquarium. “I suppose Item B would be a submarine.”
“What would Professor Forster want with a submarine?”
“Only guessing.” He waved for the waitress. “Those gey-sers, you know . . . could be that under the ice, there’s liquid water. Well , let’s see what this place has to offer.”
Marianne glanced toward the doorway through which Blake and his friend Lim had disappeared into the throng. Depending on one’s mood, all this could be viewed as intensely mundane or intensely exciting. Why not hope for the best? Marianne moved perceptibly closer to Hawkins.
If anyone had said to Marianne that she might someday blossom into an intellectual, she would have been shocked; she thought her own record of academic failure proved nothing but the opposite. But in fact she had a powerful hunger for information, a powerful attraction to schemes of organization, and a sometimes too-powerful critical sense that kept her hopping from one such flawed
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