Crichton, tiny and frail, was sitting in a black leather-and-chrome chair. He waved a clawed hand toward her. “So sorry to have taken so long, my dear. There was some rather extended argument among ourselves about the form that this examination should follow.”
Krysty sat in a straight-backed wooden chair with a padded seat and short, stubby arms, facing her inquisitors.
They numbered nine in total, most of them vaguely familiar from the supper.
She noticed banks of computers all around the walls, making the place look like one of the gateway control centers. There were a number of silver headsets, like crash helmets, with long curling wires leading from them.
“Krysty,” Crichton said gently. “Please pay attention to what I’m saying.”
“Sorry.”
“I was telling you that we have agreed to start with an informal question-and-answer session about your earlier life. See if there are any significant environmental factors that should be taken into account.” He smiled wearily. “But all this is probably beyond your intellect.”
“No.”
“No?”
She shook her head, aware that the sentient, flaming hair was curled defensively around her nape, clinging tightly to her skull. “No,” she repeated.
“Very well. Please respond as quickly as you can to our questions. Don’t bother to try to work out what would be a good or a favored response. You understand that?”
“Of course.”
“Very well. Your first memory?”
KRYSTY HAD THOUGHT that a very old woman on the far right of the line of questioners was sleeping. Her eyes had never opened, her hands folded on the desk in front of her, seeming to be oblivious to the interrogation that had been going on for more than an hour without a break.
Then, reacting like a lizard sensing food nearby, her ancient eyes creaked open and the toothless mouth spoke. “How did you lose your cherry, my dear?”
“That falls into the box labeled my own business,” Krysty snapped.
“Why?” A long finger pointed at Krysty, who noticed that the nail was so uncared for that it had curled in on itself, like horn, the tip almost piercing the flesh.
Krysty considered the question and decided that there wasn’t really a good reason not to answer it. “The blacksmith back at Harmony ville was called Herb Lanning. He had a real good-looking son, Carl. I chose him.”
“You selected him? Isn’t that contrary to the usual way of doing things?”
“My mother raised me to be different. I know what sex can be like in Deathlands. Good chance I might lose my virginity to violence. I didn’t want that. I wanted it to be the way I wanted it. Under my control. Carl was sweet and gentle, and he had a great body. Beautiful muscle definition across chest, shoulders and stomach. Sorry thing was that he only had a brain the size of a horseshoe nail.”
“You raped him?” asked a male scientist at the other end of the row.
“Seduced is so much nicer a word.” Krysty smiled. “It was good for me, and I think it was like an angel’s gift from heaven for him. So, we both got what we desired.”
“You never considered marrying him?” The question this time came from Crichton.
Krysty threw her head back and laughed. “Be like marrying a fence post. ‘Course not. We never did it again, though he kept asking me. Gaia, but he tried!”
Crichton nodded. “I think that we would like to talk about this mysterious power now.”
MILDRED STOOD WATCHING the weather, concerned for the well-being of J.B. and all the others in the hunting party. There had been a very brief snatch of watery sunshine, ten minutes earlier, but that had passed quickly away. Now the dark clouds were so low that she almost felt that she could open the window and reach up to touch them.
The last half hour had been uneventful. She had wanted to try to gain access to the part of the wing where Ryan had seen the faded remains of the sign indicating that there might be a working gateway somewhere inside.
But the sec guards were vigilant, and she’d been lucky not to get caught by them.