Free The Atrocity Archives by Charles Stross Page A

between 1933 and 1945), and entered via the arrival
hall at San Francisco Airport.
     
    Which is how I find myself
watching the pelicans on the pier at Santa Cruz, sipping my beer
sparingly, waiting for Mo to manifest himself, and trying to figure out
just why a British academic should be having so much trouble coming
home as to need our help—not to mention why the Laundry might be
taking
him seriously.
    I'm not the only customer in the bar, but I'm
the only one with a beer and a copy (unopened) of Philosophical
Transactions on Uncertainty Theory lying in front
of me. That's my cover; I'm meant to be a visiting postgrad student
come to talk to the prof about a possible teaching post. So when Mo
walks in he should have no difficulty identifying me. There are six
professors of philosophy at UCSC: one tenured, two assistant, and three
visiting. I wonder which of them he is?
    I glance around idly, just in case he's already
here. There are two grunge metal skateboard types in the far corner,
drinking Bud-Miller-Coors and comparing body piercings; the town's
swarming with 'em, nothing to take note of. A gentleman in a plaid
shirt, chinos, and short haircut sits on a bar stool on his own, back
ramrod-straight, reading the San Jose Mercury News. (That dings
my suspicion-o-meter because he looks very Company in a casual-Friday
kind of way—but if they were tailing me why in hell would they make it
so obvious? He might equally well be an affluent local businessman.) A
trio of nrrrd grrrlzz with shaven scalps and unicorn forelocks compare
disposable tattoos and disappear into the toilet one by one, going in
glum and coming out giggly: must be a Bolivian marching powder
dispenser or a mendicant sin-eater or something in there. I shake my
head and sip my beer, then look up just as a rather amazing babe with
classic red hair leans over me.
    "Mind if I take this chair?"
    "Um—" I'm trying desperately to think of an
excuse, because my contact is looking for a single man with a copy of PTUT on the table in front of him. But she doesn't give me time:
    "You can call me Mo. You would be Bob?"
    "Yeah. Have a seat." I blink rapidly at her,
stuck for words. She sits down while I study her.
    Mo is striking. She's a good six feet tall, for
starters. Strong features, high cheekbones, freckles, hair that looks
like you could wrap it in insulation and run the national grid through
it. She's got these big dangly silver earrings with glass eyeballs, and
she's wearing combat pants, a plain white top, and a jacket that is so
artfully casual that it probably costs more than I
earn in a month. Oh, and there's a copy of Philosophical
Transactions on Uncertainty Theory in her left hand, which she puts
down on top of mine. I can't estimate her age; early thirties? That
would make her a real high-flyer. She catches me staring at her and
stares back, challenging.
    "Can I buy you a drink?" I ask.
    She freezes for a moment then nods,
emphatically. "Pineapple juice." I wave at the bartender, feeling more
than a little flustered. Under her scrutiny I get the feeling that
there's something of the Martian about her: a vast, unsympathetic
intelligence from another world. I also get the feeling that she
doesn't suffer fools gladly.
    "I'm sorry," I say, "nobody told me who to
expect." The local businessman looks across from his newspaper
expressionlessly: he sees me watching and turns back to the sports
pages.
    "Not your problem." She relaxes a little. The
bartender appears and takes an order for a pineapple juice and another
beer—I can't seem to get used to these undersized pints—and vanishes
again.
    "I'm interested in a teaching post," I find
myself saying, and hope her contact told her what the cover story is.
"I'm looking for somewhere to continue after my thesis. UCSC has a good
reputation, so … "
    "Uh-huh. Nice climate too." She nods at the
pelicans outside the window. "Better than Miskatonic."
    "Really? You were there?"
    I must have asked too eagerly