“Colonel Byron?”
“He’s the man. You said you’ve worked with him recently?”
“Oh, yes, splendid chap.”
Chavez had a chuckle at that one. “He doesn’t like Rainbow all that much. We stole some of his best people, you see.”
“And gave them practical work to do.”
“True,” Chavez agreed, sipping his coffee. The rest of the team appeared then, dressed as their commander was, in semi-military casual clothes. Sauntering into the coffee shop, they spotted their boss and came over.
It was about four in the afternoon in Kansas. The morning ride had left Popov sore in unusual places. His hips especially protested the way they’d been used earlier in the day, his upper legs held out at an unusual angle. But it was a pleasant memory for all that.
There was nothing for Popov to do here. He had no assigned work, and by lunch he’d run out of things he could conveniently explore. That left television as a diversion, but TV was not one of his favorite things. A bright man. lie was easily bored, and he hated boredom. CNN kept repeating the same stories on the Olympics, and while he’d always enjoyed watching that international competition, it hadn’t started yet. So, he wandered the corridors of the hotel, and looked out the huge window-wall at the surrounding countryside. Another ride tomorrow morning. lie thought, at least it got him outside into pleasant surroundings. After over an hour’s wandering, he headed clown to the cafeteria.
“Oh, hello, Dmitriy,” Kirk Maclean said, just ahead of him in the line. Maclean wasn’t a vegan either, the Russian saw. His plate had a large slice of ham on it. Popov remarked on that.
“Like I said this morning, we’re not designed to be vegetarians,” Maclean pointed out with a grin.
“How do you know that is true?”
“Teeth mainly,” Maclean replied. Herbivores chew grass and stuff, and there’s a lot of dirt and grit in that kind of food, and that wears the teeth down like sandpaper. So they need teeth with very thick enamel so they won’t wear out in a few years. The enamel on human teeth is a lot thinner than what you find on a cow. So either we’re adapted to washing the dirt off our food first, or we’re designed to cat meat for most of our protein intake. I don’t think we adapted that fast to running water in the kitchen, y ‘know?” Kirk asked with a grin. The two men headed off to the same table. “What do you do for John?” he asked after they’d sat down.
“Dr. Brightling, you mean?”
“Yeah, you said you work directly for him.”
“I used to be KGB.” Might as well try it on him, too.
“Oh, you spy for us, then?” Maclean asked, cutting up his ham slice.
Popov shook his head. “Not exactly. I established contact with people in whom Dr. Brightling had interest and asked them to perform certain functions which he wished them to do.”
“Oh? For what?” Maclean asked.
“I am not sure that I am allowed to say.”
“Secret stuff, eh? Well, there’s a lot of that here, man. Have you been briefed in on the Project?”
“Not exactly. Perhaps I am part of it, but I haven’t been told exactly what the purpose of all this is. Do you know?”
“Oh, sure. I’ve been in it almost from the beginning. It’s really something, man. It’s got some real nasty parts, but,” he added with a cold look in his eyes, “you don’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs, right?”
Lenin said that, Popov remembered. In the 1920s, when asked about the destructive violence being done in the name of Soviet Revolution. The observation had become famous, especially in KGB, when occasionally someone objected to particularly cruel field operations-like what Popov had done, interfacing with terrorists, who typically acted in the most grossly inhuman manner and . . . recently, under his guidance. But what sort of omelet was this man helping to make?
“We’re gonna change the world, Dmitriy,” Maclean said.
“How so, Kirk?”
“Wait and see, man. Remember how it was this morning out riding?”
“Yes, it was very pleasant.”
“Imagine the whole world like that” was as far as Maclean was willing to go.
“But how would you make that happen . . . where would all the farmers go?” Popov asked, truly puzzled.
“Just think of ’em as eggs, man,” Maclean answered, with a smile, and Dmitriy’s blood suddenly turned cold. though he didn’t understand why. His mind couldn’t make the jump, much as he wanted it to do so. It was like being a field officer again, trying to discern enemy intentions on an important field assignment, and knowing some, perhaps much, of the necessary information, but not enough to paint the entire picture in his own mind. But the frightening part was that these Project people spoke of human life as the German fascists had once done. But they’re only Jews. He looked up at the noise and saw another aircraft landing on the approach road. Behind it in the distance, a number of automobiles were halted off the road/runway, waiting to drive to the building. There were more people in the cafeteria now, he saw, nearly double the number from the previous day. So, Horizon Corporation was bringing its people here. Why? Was this part of the Project? Was it merely the activation of this expensive research facility? The pieces of the puzzle were all before him, Popov knew, but the manner in which they fit was as mysterious as ever.
“Hey, Dmitriy!” Killgore said, as he joined them. “A little sore, maybe?”
“Somewhat,” Popov admitted, “but I do not regret it. Could we do it again?”
“Sure. It’s part of my morning routine here. Want to join me that way?”
“Yes, thank you, that is very kind.”
“Seven A.M., right here, pal,” Killgore responded with a smile. “You. too, Kirk?”
“You bet. Tomorrow I have to drive out and get some new boots. Is there a good store around here for outdoors stuff?”
“Half an hour away, U.S. Cavalry outlet. You go east two exits on the interstate,” Dr. Killgore advised.
“Great. I want to get ’em before all the new arrivals strip the stores of the good outdoors stuff.”
“Makes sense,” Killgore thought, then turned. “So, Dmitriy, what’s it like being a spy?”
“It is often very frustrating work,” Popov replied truthfully. “Wow, this is some facility,” Ding observed. The stadium was huge, easily large enough to seat a hundred thousand people. But it would be hot here, damned hot, like being inside a huge concrete wok. Well, there were plenty of concessions in the concourses, and surely there’d be people circulating with Cokes and other cold drinks. And just off the stadium grounds were all manner of pubs for those who preferred beer. The lush grass floor of the stadium bowl was nearly empty at the moment. with just a few groundskeepers manicuring a few parts. Most of the track-and-field events would be here. The oval Tartan track was marked for the various distance and hurdle races, and there were the pits for the jumping events. A monster scoreboard and Jumbotron sat on the far end so that people could see instant replays of the important events and Ding felt himself getting a little excited. He’d never been present for an Olympic competition and he was himself’ enough of an athlete to appreciate the degree of dedication and skill that went into this sort of thing. The crazy part was that as good as his own people were, they were a lot the equal of the athletes-most of them little kids, to Ding’s way of thinking-who’d be marching in here tomorrow. Even his shooters probably wouldn’t win the pistol or rifle events. His men were generalists, trained to do many things, and the Olympic athletes were the ultimate specialists, trained to do a single thing supremely well. It had about as much relevance to life in the real world as a professional baseball game, but it would be a beautiful t ping to watch for all that.
“Yes, we’ve spent a good deal of money to make it so.” Frank Wilkerson agreed.
“Where do you keep your reaction force?” Chavez asked. His host gestured and turned.
“This way.”
“Hey, that feels good,” Chavez said, entering the fine water fog.
“Yes, it does. It reduces the apparent temperature shout fifteen degrees. I expect a lot of people will be coming here during the competition to cool down, and as you know, we have televisions to allow them to keep current on he goings-on.”
“That’ll come in handy, Frank. What about the athletes?”
“We have a similar arrangement in their access tunnel and also the main tunnel they will use to march in, but out in the field, they’ll just have to sweat.”
“God help the marathon runners,” Chavez said.
“Quite,” Wilkerson agreed. “We will have medical people out there at various points. The extended weather forecast is for clear and hot weather, I’m afraid. But we have ample first-aid kiosks spotted about the various stadia. The velodrome will be another place where it’s sorely needed.”