His monitor studied him for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right. I apologize for the interruption. Are you sure the key’s still there?”
He knew it was still in the building. As for the location of that room he saw…he hadn’t been able to pinpoint it exactly. “I’m sure it’s there,” he answered truthfully, mentally crossing his fingers that they wouldn’t push him for the location. He elaborated more, hoping it would satisfy them that he knew what he was talking about. “I see the same long dark shaft. Same enclosed tunnel and space. I sense the point of entry to that place in a very high-up location.”
“So the key’s still up at Weber’s office somewhere then?”
“I don’t know who Weber is but yes, the key is around there,” he hedged.
“You’d better be right, 51,” his monitor warned. “Now, what could we do to help you get back into RV mode? The drug’s still good, right? You’re feeling the beginnings of downtime, right?”
“Oh no, I’m okay, sir,” he said, “but I need to go to take a piss, splash some water on my face.”
“We don’t have the time for that,” the other man said impatiently. “I thought you psychics could control things like that.”
“I’m not a psychic, sir,” he told them, feeling somewhat indignant. What, did they think he was just someone they picked up from the Yellow Pages? “I was being trained in surveillance when I was reassigned by the director. I don’t have any psychic abilities at all. We’re specially trained for—”
“Oh, cut the crap. Just get back into whatever you want to call it. You’re a trained professional, right? You can suck in that piss for a while longer. Go on, 51, show us your tricks.”
He didn’t care whether this guy was one of his monitors or not. His attitude was pissing him off. A monitor was supposed to be the guiding hand, a person he could trust to help him if he encountered problems while remote viewing, and this man just wanted to use him.
Fine. He had been desperate to help because he wanted that drug so much, but now that he had some, he felt he was in control again. He could play them the way they played him; he could withhold information from them until absolutely necessary. Why not? The idea was brilliant! That way, he could get more of the serum because they would want him to help them.
Ignoring his pressing hard-on, he took in a deep breath and focused inward. He’d just have to figure a way to get off while he was in the ether.
Switch to Channel Three. Set programming time. Set channel.
Timer on. Record.
“I’m ready,” he said.
“We’ll talk quietly, 51, promise,” the first agent, the one who seemed to be more understanding, said. “What do you see?”
Hot damn. The key’s coordinates weren’t the same. It was being moved! “I’m zooming in,” he said. “Many people milling around the ground floor. I have to concentrate on which ones are your targets. Give me a few minutes.”
“Good. We know they have operatives watching on the perimeters. We’re keeping our eyes on them. We need to know which exit point they’re taking so we can mount a surprise attack of our own.”
“Okay,” he said.Change channel. Change channel.
He was back in that vaultlike place where the electronic key exchanged hands. Except that this time, the two men who were working on them were dead. He didn’t move nearer. He could feel emptiness in them—no energy. One was lying on the floor. The other was sitting down, hands tied, a piece of tape hanging off the side of his mouth.
He hovered closer to the one in the chair. This one was recently dead, the last one to go. There was still a little energy left but he was careful not to go too near and touch it. Out of curiosity, he had done it once before. He shuddered at the memory. No, that kind of energy wasn’t beautiful.
However, this man was probably the last to see what had happened to the electronic key and he needed to touch something close to him that he’d used prior to death. The chair? No, too close.
The blinking light from the intercom on the desk. Someone was trying to contact him and from the looks of it, he had probably been trying to be rescued…hmm…when he was interrupted by his killer. Well, too late for him. The last thing he touched was probably the button answering the intercom. Where was it?
He hovered closer, warily, making sure he didn’t get too close. He saw the electronic pad dangling by its wires on the side of the desk toward the dead man. Slowly, carefully, he reached out and touched each of the buttons on it.
He withdrew his hand quickly. Death energy. Yeah, the man was talking into the intercom when he was interrupted. But he didn’t understand German, so he had no idea what the words yelling in his mind were about. And he didn’t particularly care. He’d caught the image of a hand pulling the key out of the decoding device.
Record.Where was it? He saw stairs. Someone was moving it up…no, down a long flight of steps. Many, many flights. A stairwell. He would go there.
Change channel.
Monotonously running down flight after flight of stairs freed Helen’s mind to quickly review what had taken place. She was totally focused on the exercise at hand, very aware of each turn of the stairway, yet a part of her appeared to be observing herself. The more she hurried, the more cut-off that part seemed to be.
She found herself thinking calmly, as if she was not running at all. It had to do with the serum, of course. She was injured. The drug was somehow kicking in.
The serum had an unusual dichotomy. On one hand, it impeded sensation. Helen couldn’t feel any pain, even though she knew, from the way her right leg wasn’t properly supporting her weight, that she was hurting. On the other hand, it didn’t totally block out all emotions. Her usual warped sense of humor was still there. Also, she had reacted to Number Nine’s presence quite strongly.
