* * *
Several minutes later, a woman who looked uncannily like the one who had called Achilles was put through to Mervyn Quinn, the handsome, superstar groom of the occasion. She had told the staff member filtering calls that she was a director with one of the major media networks focusing on the event, and she seemed to have the right credentials; but once connected, she confessed to him with a beguiling charm that she represented a fan group of over a million members and had “cheated a little” to ask for a few words on this big day that they were all sharing from afar. Mervyn’s vanity was as massaged by the thought of a million idolizing fans as major network coverage, and he spoke for a full six minutes.
* * *
The same “doctor” from Lowell called one of Hamilton Gilder’s vice presidents, whose name was Slessor Lomax, asking the same kinds of questions as he had put to Thornton Velte, but this time about the military contingent that had been taken to Lowell along with the Zorken group. Lomax was mystified because it was the kind of information that should come from the mercenary organization that employed them, not from Zorken. It seemed to take the doctor an inordinately long time to grasp the point, whereupon he hung up with apologies.
It had been Slessor Lomax who first proposed and later ordered the use of military force at Troy.
22
A scream pierced the night, coming from the lakeside chalet in the grounds of the Constellation Suites, where the bride and groom were staying. Apprehensive domestic staff fluttered around the door, while behind them, guests who had been awakened or in the vicinity looked on. Word went around that a doctor had been called and was on the way. The head steward strode forward brandishing a master key, but just then the door opened and Marissa appeared in a pink velvet robe. Normally calm and controlled, she could only indicate the direction behind her with frantic nods of her head, at the same time gnawing her knuckle distraughtly. “It’s Mervyn! He’s got it! It’s here! Oh, my God . . . !”
While one of the night maids guided Marissa back to a chair and tried to calm her down, the head steward went through to the bedroom suite, followed by several of the guests. They found Mervyn Quinn staring, horrified, into the mirror wall behind the gilded bathroom sink and vanity unit. His face was sickly yellow, showing hints of a greenish tint in places.
“Where is he? What’s going on?” a voice demanded from the hallway outside.
“The doctor and a nurse are here,” someone announced.
“We should call Hamilton,” one of the guests said.
* * *
“Huh . . . ? Wha . . .” The call note from the comset by the bed dragged Hamilton Gilder up from the depths of a sleep fortified by copious administrations of champagne and century-old brandy.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Gilder. This is Dr. Dante, duty physician at Constellation Suites. We have an emergency, I’m afraid. It concerns your son-in-law, Mr. Quinn.”
The news brought Gilder abruptly back to wakefulness. “Mervyn? What’s happened?”
“He’s feeling nauseous and has a facial discoloration. My first guess would be that he might have eaten something that disagreed with him, but Ms. Gilder insists that it’s some kind of plague. To be honest, it’s her that I’m more worried about.”
“Marissa?”
“She’s very disturbed.”
“I’ll be right over.”
Gilder cut the connection, swung himself out of bed, and hurried through to the dressing room to pull on some pants. He grabbed a shirt and detoured back via the bathroom to splash water on his face. As he straightened up to reach for a brush to run through his hair, he froze at the sight of the face peering blearily back at him from the mirror.
“Jesus Christ!” he breathed, staring disbelievingly.
* * *
Thornton Velte was still up, drinking with a group of cronies in the subdued light of an alcove outside the ballroom. In a visit to the men’s room, someone had remarked that he was looking a bit pasty, but Velte dismissed it with a laugh and the comment that none of them was getting any younger. By the time he wandered out to get some air in the new light of Asgard’s dawning sun, his condition had advanced several hours. A fellow guest gasped at his appearance and took him back inside to see himself in a mirror. Stunned but still rigidly disbelieving, Velte made his way with a couple of attending colleagues to the medical room, where they found Mervyn and Hamilton suffering from the same affliction. Minutes later, a gibbering Achilles Gilder called in from his own suite, whence his ladyfriend of the evening had just fled in terror. Slessor Lomax joined them within the hour.