Free Watson, Ian - Novel 10 by Deathhunter (v1.1) Page A

should decide to build alchemical apparatus to transmute lead
into gold. It was the direct opposite of everything the Houses stood for.
                 ‘When
Nathan catches nothing in it, obviously we’ll be home and dry. Still . . .
                 ‘I’m
treading on eggs,’ he thought. And, for some perverse reason — perhaps because
Resnick was so fatuously and politically anxious
to conclude this sorry episode serenely — ‘I want to.’
                 ‘They
robbed meoi something too,’ thought
Jim. ‘They robbed me of the chance of navigating the Ocean of Unity , when Mike Mullen imitated death all too
well in Gracchus, and genuinely died . . .’
                 Should
he convey Officer Bekker’s greetings to Resnick ?
                 “I’d
like you to take on a few other cases,” went on Resnick, before Jim had time to
decide. “There’s a young kid — she’s just eleven — who was transferred from the
Hospital yesterday. They diagnosed leukaemia. The white
blood-crab. Needs sympathy, but she’s well-adjusted.”
                 Jim
nodded.
                 “And a middle-aged woman with severe heart disease. She’ll
be glad to go. And a farmer who developed multiple sclerosis. He’ll be retiring. No problem. Three or four others, too, including a couple of
voluntary retirements — you won’t have any trouble there. So you’ll still be
able to focus upon Weinberger.”
                 “I’ll
focus on them all,” said Jim firmly. “Everybody’s death is equally precious.”
                 “Of course.”
                 “Chow
time!” called a cheery voice. Marta Bettijohn came bustling through the
junipers. “You mustn’t let your trout get cold!’’
                 Both
Mary-Ann and Alice Huron became tipsy later on, largely because Noel Resnick freshened their drinks in a lordly manner.
                 By
now the cirrus clouds were thickening in a darkening sky. The air grew humid.
The breeze was freshening to a wind from off the water. Battery lamps were brought from the chalet and
switched on.
                 The
two women, one tall, one small, linked arms , confusing
their glasses.
                 “ The day is over, perfect day,’ ’’ Alice sang out in a maudlin way. She blinked down
at Mary-Ann; perhaps there were tears in her eyes.
                 Perhaps
there were tears, too — of sentiment — in Mary-Ann’s.
                 “ ‘Now the day is over,’ ’’ Mary-Ann recited, but then she
forgot, or swung off course. Her voice was slurred. Glancing up at the sky,
where dark horses’ manes blew out below the first cold prickling stars, she
found confused inspiration. “Now the day is over, nightmares drawing nigh . .
.’’ She giggled.
                 A
few spots of rain struck the party, and hissed on the hibachi.
                 The
party broke up.
                 Only
when a dozen or more people had crowded into the one minibus and it was moving
off with Marta Bettijohn at the wheel beside him, did Jim realize that Resnick
and the other minibus — and the two tipsy women — had stayed behind. As their
own minibus departed, lights blinked on in the chalet then cut down to chinks
as shutters were closed against the storm which might soon break: against the
hot stabbing electricity of the sky.
                 Crowding
Jim’s other side was Claudio Menotti, who hummed to himself more noisily than
the electric motor. Jim leaned against Marta. He nodded back towards the
chalet.
                 And
quoted, humorously, “ ‘Too much in love with easeful
death’, eh, Marta?’’
                 “I
hate those morbid old poems,’’ she said sharply. “I’m glad nobody spoils their
minds with them any more.’’
                 “But
didn’t