Unfortunately, the bolt of plasma fired from below when the flyer was twelve miles north of the city came from a weapon that wasn’t Terran, and the radars on Hyadean vessels fitted for Earth duty were designed only to look for missiles. It hit the flyer dead center, vaporizing it instantly.
CHAPTER ONE
ROLAND CADE STOOD on the boat dock at the rear of his waterfront villa on an inlet at Newport Beach, taking a moment off from the preparations inside the house to enjoy the cool air and admire the embers of a flaming California sunset. Lights were beginning to show from the other homes across the narrow waterway and among the moored boats, reflecting off the barely rippling surface. A mild breeze brought the aroma of steaks being barbecued somewhere. On the inland side, clouds of starlings were rising and wheeling in their last sortie of the day. For some people, life was good.
Warren Edmonds, the skipper of Cade’s ninety-foot motor yacht Sassy Lady, appeared on the foredeck and came down to join Cade on the dock. He was wirily muscular, with lean features that a shock of black hair receding at the temples seemed to throw into hard-lined relief. Edmonds had managed boats large and small, corporate and private, from Seattle to San Diego. He ran a number of enterprises of his own—some of which were quasi-legal at best—which Cade didn’t ask about, hence working for Cade suited him. And Cade’s numerous legal contacts and acquaintances who owed him favors could be useful at times.
“Everything set and standing by, if we decide to go,” he told Cade. Given the balmy condition of the evening, Cade was considering moving the party out onto the water later if the general mood so inclined.
“Did Henry bring out the extra case of Chardonnay?”
“Yes, it’s in the cooler.”
“No sudden changes expected in the weather?”
“I checked about fifteen minutes ago. It’s gonna be calm like this all night, somewhere in the low sixties. Maybe a little cloud tomorrow. Nothing that’ll change your day.”
Cade showed his palms. “The gods are smiling, Warren.”
“I guess we must have done something right lately.” Edmonds sighed in a way that said he couldn’t think what, but to make the best of it. “Did their flight get out on time—with all the trouble in Washington earlier?”
“The Web said it did when Luke checked, just before he left to go meet them. I don’t think Andrews was affected. Vrel would have let us know by now if there were any changes. . . .” Cade looked back as Henry’s voice called from the house to see if he was out there. “Uh-uh. You can’t hide anywhere. It sounds as if all’s in order out here. Carry on, Chief.”
“You bet.”
Cade walked back along the short path past shrubbery and flowers losing their colors in the fading light. The white-haired figure of Henry, the house steward, wearing a maroon jacket and tie, was peering from the doorway of the glass-shuttered patio. “Norman Schnyder and his associate are here—Anita Lloyd. Julia and Neville are talking to them now. Also, the catering people have started setting up.” That was in case Cade wanted to check anything personally before it got too late to change. Henry had been with Cade long enough to know his ways.
They crossed the patio and passed through a sun lounge with cane furniture and potted plants to the central area of the house, where staff from the catering company handling the buffet were arranging tablecloths and unpacking dishes. While Henry bustled off to attend to something else, Cade ran an eye over the linen, satisfying himself that it was properly pleated and pressed, examined the china and silverware for quality, and looked inside the ice chest containing the marinated crab claws and Oysters Rockefeller to verify that the serving shells were real and not ceramic. Finding nothing amiss, he contented himself with straightening the slightly crooked bow tie of one of the servers, winked at him with a mild “Tch, tch,” and went through to the sitting area of paneling and leather upholstery surrounding the bar. Neville Baxter, a businessman from New Zealand, who had arrived early, stopping by at the party to say his farewells before going back in the next few days, was sprawled in one of the easy chairs, a foot crossed over the other knee. He was florid-faced, beefy, and jovial, tonight sporting a lightweight cream jacket and scarlet crimson shirt, open-necked with a riotous silk cravat at the neck. Norman Schnyder and Anita sat nursing drinks on the couch opposite him. Julia must have gone off somewhere to attend to some detail—ever the conscientious hostess.