“And you say you don’t remember anything after you sent your wingman
back?”
“Nossir, not a thing.”
“Perhaps this will refresh your memory,” the man in the flight suit said.
He leaned forward and handed Gilligan a folder.
Here it comes, Gilligan thought as he opened the folder. Then he looked at
the photograph.
“Nossir,” he said, fighting to keep his composure. “I’m sorry. This
doesn’t look familiar to me at all.”
The picture was obviously the result of a lot of work with an image
processor. The image had long, thin wings and a small tail set at the end
of a tapering, torpedo-shaped fuselage. Just forward of the wings was a
central turret with what was obviously intended to be a sensor array. The
wings and body were marked with what were clearly intended to be
phase-array antennas. On top of the wings were heavily baffled intakes for
jet engines buried in the body. The tail showed additional inlets for
cooling air to dilute the jet exhaust coming from the shielded tailpipe.
The man with no insignia frowned. “Pity. Some of the details are
conjectural and we were hoping you’d be able to fill them in for us.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t remember anything like this.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter much. Aviation Week ran that picture in last
week’s issue.” His face showed he didn’t care for that at all. “We know
now the thing isn’t Soviet, so in the next week or two the Japanese or the
South Koreans or the Israelis or whoever the hell else really did build it
will let the information leak out.” He shook his head. “It’s a small
world, Major, and you can’t keep secrets long.”
“Yes sir,” said Major Mick Gilligan, thinking of another World entirely.
“It is a very small world.”
Forty-eight: WINNERS AND LOSERS
The now-useless computer sat in a cellar at the Wizard’s Keep. The pieces
had been unpacked and set together in a pale imitation of a working
system. It looked strangely out of place in the low room with the beamed
ceiling and the rough masonry walls.
Wiz was sitting at the console with his back to the door, idly tapping on
the keyboard with one hand.
“What are you doing, love?” Moira asked as she came up behind him.
Wiz shook himself out of his reverie and stood to kiss her.
“Just thinking,” Wiz said after the kiss. “When I was back in Cupertino I
dreamed of having one of these things all to myself. Now I’ve got one and
it won’t work here.”
“I wonder if it is worth keeping?” Moira said with a housewife’s
practicality.
“I wouldn’t feel right throwing it away. Maybe we can find a use for it.”
“As a haven for gremlins, no doubt.”
“I don’t guess the gremlins are interested in machinery that doesn’t
work.”
“Just as well,” Moira said. “Else there would not be a moment’s peace.”
They stood arm in arm looking at the computer for a while.
“Well,” Wiz said heavily. “At least that’s over.”
“Not quite, mortal.”
Wiz and Moira whirled. There stood the elf Lisella.
Lisella smiled, cold and beautiful as the full moon at midwinter. “I mean
you no harm, mortal. I come with a message. Duke Aelric bids you to him.”
Moira moved in front of Wiz like a terrier protecting her master.
“Why does not the duke deliver his invitation himself?”
Ice blue eyes locked onto flashing green. “Because he is dying, Lady.”
Duke Aelric lay on snowy linen in a cavern with softly glowing walls. He
was so still and composed that at first Wiz thought they were too late.
But as they approached he turned his head toward them.
“So Sparrow, we meet again.” His voice was as firm as ever but he sounded
weary, as if tired out by a great exertion.
“Yes, Lord,” Wiz said numbly. Even this close he could not see a mark on
the elf duke, but his normally pale skin was now almost chalk white.
“I wanted to see you once more to thank you. You have performed a great
service for the whole World, including the ever-living.”
“We almost screwed it up, Lord.”