“Who are you? Where’s Leo?”
“Kennilworth Troon, at your service. Or, I suppose it would be more precise to say, at Leo’s. I’m representing him. You could say, as a kind of attorney.”
“Whatever this is, I don’t want any part of it.” Elaine’s reaction was automatic. What she meant was that she didn’t want to be involved in anything deeper than she was in already. Before she had registered any conscious decision, she had turned and started opening the door. And then she stopped. He had called no warning, done nothing to stop her. She could sense him watching her. If she had been happy with the existing situation, she wouldn’t be here. If Troon’s appearance meant there was a way to change it—for better or worse as the case may be—there was only one way she was going to know. His manner was telling her that she was the one who stood to be affected. It was up to her. She closed the door and turned back. Troon waved again at the chair, still smiling, as if he had been waiting for her to arrive at the inevitable for herself.
“Would you like something?” he asked again as she sat down. Elaine shook her head. “Probably best. I’d imagine you’ve had enough stimulants and depressants today already, one way or another. It’s the stress of these situations, you know. Plays havoc with the nervous system.”
Elaine’s faculties were regrouping after her initial confusion. “What kind of attorney are you?” she demanded. “Who ever heard of meeting for business in a place like this?”
“The owner is an old friend of mine. I can recommend him personally if you’re ever interested in getting a good deal from inside the trade. You’d need to know how to bargain, though.” Troon looked around. “Actually, you’re right. It was something of a psychological ploy, I suppose. You’d hardly have expected Leo to suggest some public place, would you?”
How much did this man Troon know? Where did he fit in? Elaine couldn’t even begin framing guesses. “Where is Leo?” she asked again.
Ignoring her question, Troon recited, “Elaine Lydia Corley. Current residence, 14B Watergardens, Embarcadero. Profession, nursing practitioner with a specialty in neural physiology.” The clear blue eyes fixed on her, losing a shade of their playfulness. “Just the person who’d know how to resuscitate a body from stasis suspension and substitute one that was past caring; also, how to tell a monitoring computer to carry on reporting what it’s supposed to be seeing . . . if anyone should want to do something strange like that. But there’s no saying what some people might get up to, is there?”
Cold, clammy feelings slithered down Elaine’s spine. Knots tightened in her stomach, and for a moment she thought she was going to be physically sick. When she tried to lick her lips, she found that her mouth had gone dry. She opened her purse on her knee, rummaged for the tube of “tigers,” and shook one of the yellow-and-black capsules into her palm. Troon unfolded from the chair and walked across the office to pour a cup of water from a dispenser by the window. He was tall, powerfully built, but moved lightly with catlike economy of effort. Elaine popped the capsule into her mouth and took the cup when he offered it, but her hand shook, spilling some of the contents. Troon took the cup from her and held it while she sipped and swallowed. She nodded in acknowledgment. He set the cup down on the desk, went back around to the other side, and sat down.
“Also, the professional working partner of Henry Balmer,” he resumed as if nothing had happened. “You know, I’ve always been fascinated by hypnosis. Can it really do all the things you hear about—deaden pain, make people ten times stronger, enable them to recall things they thought they’d forgotten? It’s supposed to be capable of doing the opposite, too: people can be made to forget a whole chunk of their life, just on experiencing a posthypnotic trigger . . .” Troon shrugged, as if trying to think of an example. “Maybe a graphic design that they’ve been programmed to respond to. Do you think it’s possible, Elaine? Can Henry do things like that?” He paused, pointedly. “Or could the popular beliefs be overrating things a bit? Might it not work as well as it’s supposed to sometimes?”