An hour later, Malcolm and his fiancée escorted the newly arrived team members down into the vault beneath the house, where a perfectly ordinary wooden door halfway across a perfectly standard Victorian cellar opened to reveal a massive steel door that slid open on pneumatics. Beyond this lay a brightly lit computer center and modern infirmary. The scholars greeted one another excitedly, then immediately fell to squabbling over theories as well as practical approaches to research, while the newly arrived reporters busied themselves testing their equipment. Technicians nodded satisfactorily at the quality of the images and sound transmitted by cable from the carefully disguised receiving equipment on the roof of the house above this bubble of ultra-modern technology.
While the scholars and journalists worked, Margo quietly brought Malcolm up to date about events on the station. The news left Malcolm fretting, not just because the station was in danger if the riots continued, but because there was literally nothing he could do to help search for Ianira or her family while trapped on this side of the Britannia Gate. “I’ve heard about the Ansar Majlis,” Malcolm said tiredly, rubbing his eyes and the bridge of his nose. “Too much, in fact.”
“You had friends on TT-66, didn’t you?” Margo asked quietly, laying one gentle hand on his sleeve.
Malcolm sighed. “Yes. I’m afraid I did.”
“Anyone . . .” she hesitated, looking quite abruptly very young and unsure of herself.
Malcolm stroked her cheek. “No, Margo. No one like that.” He drew her close for a moment, blessing Kit for sending her here. He’d have to turn around and send her into danger out on the streets, he knew that, it was part of the dream which burned inside her and made her the young woman he loved so much; but for the moment, he was content merely to have her close. “Just very good friends, guides I’d known for years.”