From the first moment, the Khal was every bit as colorful and riveting as Marissa’s description had prepared him to expect. The clear brown eyes seemed to emit a light that was not of the screen. The expression on the aged yet ageless countenance was infinitely deep and all-seeing. Already, Hamilton felt as if his thoughts were being read like words on a poster. “I thought I might be hearing from you,” he said. “Your name was given priority status.”
The Khal nodded, as if that were indeed what he had been wondering. “A wise decision. And first, allow me to add my congratulations to all those that have been heaped upon you. May your charming daughter and her husband live lives that are long, happy, and prosperous.”
“Well, thanks.” Hamilton eyed the figure with a mixture of awe and curiosity. As with Marissa, an inner part of him rejoiced at finally finding what was surely the doorway to Truth that he had always known existed; at the same time, he was wondering through habit what might be the best way to get this guy on the payroll. “She showed me your gift. It’s splendid—so unusual. We have it on display at the reception.”
“A modest token. I am honored that you are pleased.” The Khal looked aside, as if checking for anyone who might overhear. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial note. Instinctively, Hamilton leaned closer to the screen. The Khal went on, “But I must also speak of more serious things. Heed the warning that was given through me. Your agents here on Mars scoffed when the seer who is with Professor Hashikar and the scientists at Tharsis tried to tell them. The doctors at Lowell will have no more success than Farquist had. This plague is not of their ken.”
Hamilton was startled. “How did you know his name—and that they were being taken to Lowell? I’ve only just found out about that myself.”
The Khal looked at him in a way that said he shouldn’t need to ask. “I want you to know this in advance. You have detractors there who demand proof. So that you can allay their doubts—and also any that you yourself may still be harboring—your agent, Banks, has been selected as a demonstration that these events are being driven by powers beyond the reach of all the specialists and their equipment. From him and him alone, the affliction will be lifted. When these words come true, then all will believe.”
“You can really do this?”
“Not I. The powers of old, for which I am merely a conduit to the present time.”
“Of course.”
Hamilton realized that he had actually spoken reverently.
* * *
Thornton Velte got a call shortly afterward from a youngish man with a stubbly chin and a mop of black hair, who said he was a doctor with the emergency team at Lowell entrusted with Justin Banks and his companions. He understood that Velte was Bank’s superior at Asgard. He was sorry to interrupt Velte at a wedding, but this was a medical matter. Velte said he understood. Could Velte authorize the transfer of company medical records for the individuals involved? Of course, Velte agreed—although it seemed a little strange, since Banks could just as easily have instructed that himself. Maybe the disease had progressed, and Banks was more incapacitated than Velte had realized. The doctor went on to ask some routine questions, which irritated Velte because it seemed they were questions that could more easily have been asked of those on the spot. Also, he got irritated at the doctor’s tendency to mumble. Velte had to press his face close to the screen to make out what he was saying.
* * *
Deirdre, Hamilton’s older, recluse daughter, didn’t attend but sent a message of congratulations from her religious retreat out in the Belt. Achilles, the playboy son, received a call at a mobile bar by the poolside, where he was cavorting with a couple of the bridesmaids. It was from a good-looking woman with long, black hair and a sultry voice who said she was from the Mars office of a spacemobile rental company based in the Jovian system, and had a query concerning a reservation he had made for the following month. Achilles was puzzled, since he couldn’t recall any such reservation, and getting testy because she had somehow bypassed the incoming filters, and this was eating into his fun time. Wasn’t this Mr. Achilles Glider . . . ? No, Gilder. Yet she seemed to have his account number and ID code. The woman could only apologize, presume there had been an unprecedented mix-up somewhere, and promise to straighten things out. Achilles wouldn’t need to do anything if he heard no more, she assured him. By that time he had been on the line for over four minutes.