“But up until a few days ago matters were a lot simpler,” I told Martin, “and then when things began developing fast I was too caught up in them.”
“But all those years . . . those attempts on your life . : .”
I said, “I don’t call home whenever I stub my toe. Nobody else does either. I couldn’t see any connection, all that time.”
But I knew that he was right and I was wrong. Fortunately, Random returned about then.
“I couldn’t quite get her to believe it was an honor,” he said, “but she’ll do it.”
We talked for a while then about more general matters, mostly what we had been doing for the past several years. I recalled Random’s curiosity about Ghostwheel and mentioned the project to him. He changed the subject immediately, giving the impression he wanted to save it for a fully private conversation. After a time, Martin began to yawn and it was contagious. Random decided to bid us good night and rang for a servant to show me to my room.
I asked Dik, who had led me to my quarters, to find me some drawing materials. It took him about ten minutes to turn up everything that I needed.
It would have been a long, difficult walk back and I was tired. So I seated myself beside a table and commenced the construction of a Trump for the bar at the country club Bill had taken me to the previous evening. I worked for perhaps twenty minutes before I was satisfied.
Now it was just a matter of time differential, a thing that was subject to variation, the 2.5-to-1 ratio being only a rule of thumb between Amber and the shadow I had recently inhabited. It was quite possible that I had missed my rendezvous with the nameless housebreaker.
I set everything aside except for the Trump. I rose to my feet.
There came a knock on my door. I was tempted not to answer it, but my curiosity won out. I crossed the room, unbolted the door, and opened it.
Fiona stood there, her hair down for a change. She had on an attractive green evening dress and a small jeweled pin that matched her hair perfectly.
“Hello, Fi,” I said. “What brings you around?”
“I felt you working with certain forces,” she answered, “and I didn’t want anything happening to you before we had our talk. May I come in?”
“Of course,” I said, stepping aside. “But I am in a hurry.”
“I know, but perhaps I can be of help.”
“How?” I asked, closing the door.
She looked about the room and spotted the Trump I’d just finished. She shot the bolt on the door and crossed to the table.
“Very nice,” she observed, studying my handiwork. “So that’s where you’re headed? Where is it?”
“The bar at a country club in the place I just came from,” I replied. “I’m supposed to meet an unknown party there at ten, local time. Hopefully, I will obtain information as to who has been trying to kill me, and why, and possibly even learn something of other matters that have been troubling me.”
“Go,” she said, “and leave the Trump behind. That way, I can use it to spy, and if you should suddenly need help I will be in a position to provide it.”
I reached out and squeezed her hand. Then I took up a position beside the table and focused my attention.
After several moments, the scene took on depth and color. I sank into the emerging textures, and everything advanced toward me, growing larger, crowding out my immediate surroundings. My gaze sought the wall cloak I remembered; to the right of the bar…
9:48.
I couldn’t have cut things much closer.
I could see the patrons now, hear the sounds of their voices. I looked for the best point of arrival. Actually, there was no one at the right end of the bar, near that clock. Okay…
I was there. Trying to look as if I had been, all along. Three of the patrons snapped glances in my direction. I smiled and nodded. Bill had introduced me to one of the men the previous evening. The other I had seen, but not spoken with at that time. Both of them returned my nod, which seemed to satisfy the third that I was real, as he immediately turned his attention back to the woman he was with.