ENTOVERSE

Which said she was probably a prisoner.

She tried moving and found there was no restraint. But when she got up and crossed the room to try the door, it was locked. She turned to look at the surroundings again, and noticed the standard Jevienese COM panel by the couch, similar to the one she had seen in Baumer’s office. “ZORAC, are you there?” she said aloud on impulse. “Can you hear me?” There was no response. “Channel fifty-six .

Activate channel fifty-six Nothing. She went back to the couch and sat down to try and make something of the panel’s manual controls, but without result. On reflection it seemed a pretty silly kind of hope, anyway.

Then, all at once, the utter isolation of her predicament came home to her. She felt her resolve slipping, and fear taking over despite herself. Suddenly she wanted to be back in Seattle again, among her own things, knowing that familiar places and scenes lay outside the walls. She picked up the blanket and pulled it around her shoulders, knowing that the room wasn’t especially cool, but unable to feel warm. So much for curiosity and an interesting life. If she got back okay after this, she decided, from now on she’d join the local women’s club and get all the excitement she needed from the soaps.

A prisoner, then, of whom? It could only be the Jevienese organi­zation, whatever it was, that Baumer was mixed up with. It was clear now that he had been acting under instructions from them when he called her. Whether he had known their exact intentions or purpose made little difference. She stared at the door and thought of the countless movie sequences she had seen, telling her what to do in this kind of situation: wait behind it for a guard to come in with a tray of food, surprise and overpower him, and then contrive an escape. Simple. Nothing could have seemed more ridiculous.

Then, as if triggered by her very thinking about it, the door opened. For a moment, Gina wondered if she was in a VISAR­ created world for some reason. There would have been no way of telling the difference.

But the person who came in wasn’t a guard with a tray. It was a woman in a loose green trouser-suit gathered at the ankles and

secured in the middle by a wide belt. Her features were loose and fleshy, and her hair was streaked with gray and tied severely behind her head. With her was a shortish man in a straight-cut coat of gray trimmed with blue, whom Gina had no reason to know was Eube­leus’s aide, Iduane.

They stood looking curiously at her for a few seconds. She stared back with what she hoped was a passable ‘imitation of defiant indif­ference; inside, something in her chest was turning back flips.

“So, again you are with us,” the woman said. Her manner was matter—of—fact, dispassionate. “A resetting of the short—term neural circuits. Nothing that you should worry about. You simply lose a few unimportant memories. Some people’s take longer to reintegrate than others.” The words were coming from her mouth. She was speaking her imperfect, accented English naturally, Gina realized.

“How—” Gina’s throat had gone dry. She forced saliva into her mouth and tried again. “How long have I been here?”

“Not long. Under a day, a little.”

Too passive, Gina told herself. She was starting to react submis­sively already. “You’ve no right to keep me for any time at all,” she said, mustering some firmness and straightening up. “I demand—”

“Oh, please not to waste time with the theatrics,” the woman said. “This is not the over legislated USA. Rights are flexible on Jevien. And in any case, it is we who decide what they are.”

“And who, exactly, is ‘we’?”

“We are the ones who ask questions.” The woman pulled over a chair and sat down facing Gina from the far side of the room. The man remained standing. Gina’s impression was that he didn’t speak English. The woman went on. “And the first thing we like to know is exactly who you are?”

“I’m a writer,” Gina replied. “I write books. Is that okay with you?’’

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