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always treats me as though I were a human being- not like Marcus Pell."
I chewed away on my steak, listening. Something had crossed my mind about this
Threat Watch thing, but there was something else on my mind that drove it out.
"About Patrice," I said when Pat paused for a moment, getting the subject back
to what interested me. "You said I hurt her feelings."
"Well, you did. You shouldn't have said she was 'more or less' me, Dan," Pat
informed me. "Patrice isn't more or less anybody. She's herself. And also me,
of course, but none of us like to be told we're part of a matched set. Even if
we are. It's better if we just think of ourselves as family, isn't it? Saves a
lot of confusion."
But it didn't. Not for me, anyway. Thinking of us as family didn't make it
easier to handle for me, because I had had no experience in that area. I had
never had a family to get used to. No siblings, parents long dead, no one to
call a relative but Cousin Pat. . . and that was in the days when there was
only one Cousin Pat.
The fact was that I didn't have much time to be part of a family, anyway. I
didn't have much time for anything at all. Hilda made sure of that. She came
to collect me right on the dot, hurrying me to my last session of the day,
this one at the submarine.
I guess the talk had made me a little absentminded. We got through the session
at the sub without my noticing anything was wrong-work coming along well,
Wrahrrgherfoozh promising the sub's incoming comm systems would be back on
line in a day or so-and it wasn't until we were in the final talk session
between Hilda and me that I put up my hand to scratch my head and said, "Oh,
shit."
Hilda interrupted herself in the middle of telling me that I really had to
press Beert and the
Docs harder for information to ask, "Now what, Danno?" Then she saw for
herself. "Oh, Christ!
Where's your damn Faraday shawl?"
I said apologetically, "I guess I forgot to put it back on when I was having
dinner. I'm sorry."
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"Sorry!"
"Well, hell, Hilda, I didn't do it on purpose. But look, if I really was
transmitting data to somebody, I've done it, haven't I? So why don't we just
forget about the damn babushka?"
And after a certain amount of chewing me out, she sighed and said, "Oh, what
the hell. Maybe we could."
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
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Naturally, the deputy director blew a fuse. But in the long run he had to
admit that if there was any damage to be done by letting me off wearing the
babushka, it was done already. And that was the way my life went. Debriefing,
translation, more debriefing, more translation . . . and bed.
Apart from the fact that my head was babushkaless now-and that Hilda squeezed
twenty minutes in the next day for me to get a haircut and a beard trim-every
day the same.
It wasn't all that unlike the days when the Christmas trees were pumping me
for everything I knew about the human race.
I did now have better food and a more comfortable bed, and even a little
entertainment. There wasn't much variety to the entertainment, though. Every
morning I turned on the news channels, and every morning the news was the
same. There were stories about plane crashes and stock-market gyrations; there
were senators denouncing the opposition party for not responding to the
Scarecrow threat vigorously enough, and opposition leaders denouncing those
senators for recklessly damaging national unity in this time of crisis. There
were sports scores and weather forecasts and about a million other kinds of
news items that the media thought worth passing on, but there was not ever a
single word of any kind about the captured submarine, the Horch or the
unexpected arrival of another Dan Dannerman.
So security was holding. Whatever the faults of the National Bureau of
Investigation, it was still outstanding at keeping its secrets buried.
There was something else that wasn't there, and when I had a free moment with
Hilda I asked her about it. "Don't they have traffic advisories anymore? I
didn't see anything at all about terrorists on the news."
"Oh," she said offhandedly, "those are last year's worries. The nuts've all
calmed down, now that they've got something else to worry about. We haven't
had a terrorist scare in weeks. Now get a move on, they want us at the
submarine."
That stopped me in midthought. "The schedule says we're supposed to be doing
solo debriefing," I
protested, not liking the sound of a break in the routine.
Hilda wasn't patient. "Let me worry about scheduling, will you, Danno? It's
the submarine now.
They've got the stuff working."
When we got there Hilda waited outside as I climbed up to the sub's hatch, the
linguists trailing as always. As always, the congestion inside the vessel was
acute: all three Docs, the linguists, the technicians and me.
But it was worth the crowding. Wrahrrgherfoozh and Mrrranthoghrow had finally
finished the job of rebuilding the sub's communications for receiving
only-would have had it done a lot faster, Mrrranthoghrow said, sounding
aggrieved, if all those Bureau and UN techs hadn't kept getting in the way.
Well, I couldn't blame the techs for that. It was their best chance ever to
watch people who knew what they were doing in the actual process of repairing
a piece of Scarecrow machinery.
The two Docs had done a good job. The display screen was alight again, with
all its red dots showing the location of every Scarecrow sub. The pattern
wasn't the same as before, as far as I
could remember-I hadn't had time for careful scrutiny in the excitement of
invading the sub-and
Wrahrrgherfoozh confirmed that some of them had changed stations, for what
reason he could not say. More important, the two of them had restored the
message circuits, so that now we could listen in on communications between the
ships. There weren't many of those, though;
Wrahrrgherfoozh informed us that crews were discouraged from talking to each
other except in emergencies. What did come in were occasional bursts of
gibberish which, Wrahrrgherfoozh said, were instrumentation reports that were
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