“Must be inbred.” Ryan had pushed the two beds together and slipped a small sec lock across the inside of the door, giving them a fragile privacy.
“They seem like crazies or stupes?”
“No, and they aren’t really like those weird white-coats we ran into up at Crater Lake.”
“So, what are they doing, lover? What’s their big special secret?”
“Yeah, that’s the rusty nail in the lumber pile. I keep thinking about those days.”
Krysty lay back, sighing. “Sorry, lover. Wave of tiredness came over me. Yeah, the dogs. And don’t forget that poor bastard who looked like he’d been gone over by a mad surgeon.”
“Might not be any connection.”
She nodded, looking steadily into his face. “But there was the last words he said. Dean heard them.”
“Twins.”
“And ‘coning,’ remember? Dean said that the last word of all sounded like ‘coming,’ didn’t he?”
“Moaning? Someone’s name? Going? Could’ve been that. He was trying to say that he was going.”
“Still doesn’t explain him talking about twins, does it? And Dean was certain on that.” She paused. “The dogs were so similar they looked like identical twins, didn’t they?”
“Yeah, that’s true.” Krysty smiled as she yawned.
“Talk can wait. You need some more sleep.”
“I reckon I’ll be back up to about ninety percent by morning, though their mushy food didn’t help. I’d kill for eggs over easy with back bacon and a pile of hash browns in the morning along with a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. And good coffee, hot and strong enough to float a horseshoe.”
“Promise you it won’t be that, lover.” He stood and started to get undressed.
“You turning in this early?”
“I think my own batteries could do with a little recharging, as well. Trader always said that you should take sleep when you want it and you can get it. Or you’ll want it another time and you won’t be able to get it.”
Krysty watched him, seeing the lean, scarred body, with bands of muscle hard across the strong bones, waiting until he was peeling off his dark blue pants, laying them on a chair in the corner, where the Steyr rifle was resting.
“Lover,” she said very quietly.
“Yeah.”
“I’m tired.”
“I know.”
“But not that tired.”
BREAKFAST WAS A GRUEL of watery yellow that the sec man claimed was made from real eggs but had some added goodies, and some white gunge, slightly browned, that he told them was radiated and constituted potatoes, better than they were when they came out of the earth.
The orange juice was nonexistent. Fresh fruit was difficult to keep in the institute for very long. To drink he offered some truly bizarre nut-roast coffee with vile soya milk that stayed in long, circular streaks around the mug.
“Professor Crichton said to tell you that someone would call for you in about a half hour and to ask how the lady was.” He addressed the statement to Ryan.
“She’s sitting right in front of you. Why not ask her yourself?”
“Because they all said she was she had You know what I mean?”
“You mean I’m a mutie?” Krysty sat up in bed, her long flame-colored hair rumbling free over her shoulders. Ryan had noticed how dulled and limp it had become immediately after she’d used the Gaia power and how it was now returned, almost, to its full brightness and glory.
“Yeah, I mean They said you lifted a whole tree that weighed ten tons.”
“Very nearly,” the woman agreed. “And you can go and tell your baron or boss or professor or whatever he calls himself that the mutie lady is feeling herself…” She glanced at Ryan and grinned impishly.
“Cut that. Just report back to him that she is feeling a great deal better and should be able to meet anyone at anytime, anyplace.”
The man nodded and lifted an index finger to his forehead in a salute. Then he turned on his heel and marched out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
IT WAS THE EVER-PRESENT Ladrow Buford who appointed himself as the guide to the party, greeting them out in the atrium at three minutes after nine in the morning, the time checked with a large four-faced digital clock whose numbers had been clicking remorselessly over for the entire life of the Melissa Crichton institute.
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