Killing Time

CHAPTER 7

It was cold inside the vessel, a chill made all the more cutting by its contrast to the muggy Florida night and the stale closeness of the visitors' room in the prison. Even before I'd straightened up after landing on the gently heaving deck of the ship, I began shivering; and just as I became aware that I was, the same hand that had guided me through the jump began to rub my back.

"Bit of a shock, isn't it?" said the young woman Eli Kuperman had called Larissa. I stood and looked into her enormous black eyes, which formed such a distinct contrast to the oddly beautiful silver of the hair above and around them; already a bit smitten, I could only nod agreement to her assessment. Unspoken curiosity must, however, have been all over my face — why, I was thinking, would anyone capable of building such a vessel choose to exist in such an uncomfortable atmosphere? — because the woman quickly went on to explain: "My brother's gotten closer than anyone to creating superconductors that can operate at living temperatures — but we still have to keep most of the ship below forty-five Fahrenheit." She tucked her remarkable weapon into a holster that was slung on her left side, gave me that bewitching smirk, then looped an arm through one of mine. "You must try to stay warm, Dr. Wolfe…"

Before I could find the words to ask just where we were, Eli Kuperman stuck his engaging, bespectacled face between us, grinning wide and then tugging at one of the men in coveralls who'd been waiting in the hatchway during our escape. The second man's face was nearly identical to Kuperman's, although he wore steel-, rather than tortoiseshell-, rimmed spectacles: this, apparently, was the archaeologist twin brother of whom Max's Internet search had failed to produce any mention.

"Dr. Wolfe," Eli Kuperman said happily. "I see you've met Larissa already. And this is my brother, Jonah—"

Jonah Kuperman extended a hand, his manner every bit as engaging at his brother's. "Dr. Wolfe, it's a pleasure. We've been looking forward to your coming. Your book's been all the talk aboard ship for the last few weeks—"

"And back there," Eli said, indicating the two men farther along the corridor, "are Dr. Leon Tarbell, the documents expert" — I shook the hand of a small, wiry man in his middle years, whose red eyes glowed hot even when he smiled—"and Professor Julien Fouché, the molecular biologist." At that a well-built, gray-bearded man of sixty or so stepped forward, causing my heart to skip one or two beats: an understandable reaction on meeting a man who not only was one of the seminal minds of our era but was supposed to have been killed in a plane crash four years earlier.

"It can't be," I whispered, shaking his big, very vital hand. "You — you're dead!"

"Not so dead as all that," Fouché answered with a gruff laugh. "A necessary ruse to explain my sudden disappearance. My work with Malcolm and Larissa was becoming quite exclusive, and uncomfortable questions were being asked—"

"All right, gentlemen," Larissa said. "You'll have time for mutual admiration later. Right now we'd better be on our collective toes." The others nodded and began to move purposefully away. "Prep the turret, Eli!" Larissa called after them. "I'll be right up! Leon — we'll want full power for combat maneuvers!"

Leon Tarbell's head reappeared for an instant. " 'Combat,' Larissa?" he asked with a knowing look. "Don't you mean evasive maneuvers?"

Larissa smiled deviously, and then Tarbell dashed off, looking for all the world like one of Satan's merrier minions.

As the men moved to attend to their tasks, each of them began shouting orders and answers, the whole producing an excited and exciting chorus such as might have accompanied the launch of an old seafaring ship. I turned when I heard a slight hissing noise and saw the doorway through which we'd jumped being sealed from above by a hatch that moved quite smoothly, especially given its considerable speed. Once it was in place, some gentle lights came up along the base of the corridor, revealing a surprising sight: rather than the usual plastic and polished metal that one was accustomed to finding in high-tech environments, the walls of the passageways were lined with fine wood paneling, and in every third or fourth panel hung a small painting, elegantly framed and subtly lit.

My mouth fell open. "Beautiful," I whispered.

"Thank you, Doctor," Larissa answered in a charmingly self-involved way, looking down and running her hands along her hips and thighs. Her face dropped a bit when she glanced up and saw what I meant. "Oh. The ship.'" She took my hand again, and we started down the corridor. "Yes, that's Malcolm for you — he adores the incongruous."

"You're not exactly what I would have expected either, Larissa— that is, if I may call you—"

"You may," she answered, striding purposefully along. "Larissa Tressalian, to be exact. You may also remark on the lovely sibilance of the name, through I warn you, it's a pretty stale line." For an instant I attempted to determine why her name, while indeed pretty, had a familiar ring to it; but then I was distracted when she touched the collar of her bodysuit with her free hand, indicating that she was receiving another communication. "Yes, brother dear?… Yes, I'm just taking him to his quarters to — freshen up…" She looked at me in a way that seemed more than a little suggestive; then she suddenly turned away, standing still. "Where?… Land and air units?… All right, I'm on my way to the turret." When Larissa looked at me again her expression had changed: the coy cat had become a gleeful predator. "Freshening up will have to wait, I'm afraid, Doctor." She gripped my hand tighter and broke into a trot. "A different sort of amusement's been lined up!"