Free Strings by Dave Duncan Page B

in obvious relief and vanished before she could change her mind.
    Finally Pandora could relax. The deed was done, the booty on its way, and dawn breaking. Today was going to be busy but joyful. The viewing, cutting, editing, blocking—and above all, the rescheduling. She would be co-copting everyone down to the garage flunkies, graciously acknowledging congratulations from members of the board, bumping Furless Frankie right off prime time…
    Oh, bliss!
    She decided that for once Eccles Pandora Pendor might just eat a hot breakfast, and damn the diet. She headed for the bedroom to freshen up and change.
    “Call from Dr. Frazer Franklin,” the com announced.
    Pandora stopped with one foot in the air. What could possibly be inspiring F.F. to be awake at this time of day?
    Worry?
    And why would he be calling her? Could it be a surrender? The white flag? She could think of nothing that he could have left to lay on the table. By tomorrow she would be the unquestioned queen of WSHB News. Frankie was going to be back doing cook shows. She would pick up a Pulitzer and the Nobel Prize for Espionage and crush his skull between them.
    On the other hand…
    On the other hand the timing was suspicious as hell. The codes would have kept the Institute out, but of course Razy-Frazy Frankie had friends in high places in WSHB. He might have been monitoring her com all night. So he called her now , right after Klaus did?
    Pandora backed up, made one more check of that adorable reflection, and said, “ Accept !”
    And right behind the window was the famous elm desk, in the exact center of Frankie’s opulent and garishly overdecorated office. Behind the famous desk was the famous face. Despite the barbarous hour, he was as smartly dressed as always, freshly shaved and dangerously confident. The deep tan was likely newly touched-up, and so perhaps was the trace of scarring on the cheekbones, the mark of the manly type who spends too much time outdoors. F.F. never went outdoors. His blond hair was most artfully coiffured—of course. Leaning expensive sleeves forward, he was wearing Grave Concern, one of his most effective expressions, normally reserved for minor flooding, or discouraging news on the latest disease.
    “Good morning, Panda dearie.” He knew how she detested that name.
    She registered Bright Amusement. “Hello, Frank. You’re up early. Bladder trouble again?”
    “Well, I’m a little concerned. Have you completed those negotiations you were fretting about?” He had switched to Polite Interest Only, but he knew the answer. He even knew she knew he knew the answer.
    “Oh, those?” She shrugged a Little Importance. “Yes, all done.”
    “Ah.” He conveyed Trace of Regret. “How soon would you be able to actually use any of the stuff?”
    Pandora fanned through a dozen scenarios in her mind. She could not quite discount the possibility that F.F. or someone in his faction might try to intercept Klaus. It would be treason, of course, but internal gut-spilling could sometimes be carried beyond proper limits. Some things should not be done inside the corporate family, but sometimes some things were.
    So don’t answer the question.
    “Oh, we’ll have to decide that at the conferences later today. I’m sure I can count on your cooperation…”
    He raised an exquisitely manicured hand. “But the deal is complete? The money is gone? It’s too late to back out now?”
    Pandora felt the ice of terror meet the fire of fury, and did not know which one was going to win. It was like having dangerous revelations emerge during a live interview. Automatically she assumed a Mild Distaste.
    “What are you getting at, Frankie?”
    Frazer’s infinitely spurious face wore an expression that could only be classed as Pontifical Infallibility. “The news conference. It’s set for noon. I plan to attend, of course.”
    Ice won in a landslide. Pandora’s hand found the back of a chrome and cryspex chair, and she deflated onto it.