seven)
"Are you sure this is the right place?" Ro asked from a dark shadow across the street. She looked straight ahead into a white adobe and wood building with several stories of arched windows. The dainty bits of wrought iron designs here and there made it appear like an old chateau somewhere in France. It was, indeed, Agent West's apartment building in downtown Colorado Springs. Maybe any moment he'd be walking up the avenue and entering through the front door, a greeting touch to his fedora as he passed the pleasantly plump doorman.
An hour had gone by since Zee and she had left Club Pierre. As Ro didn't actually get around to ordering a meal at the club, Zee took her around to a Ground Wire for a chicken salad sandwich and a small rooibos vanilla tea, one of her new favorites. While she ate, savoring every bite and sip, Zee explained the situation to her. Ro, to her credit, listened quietly, likely her mouth too stuffed with food to argue. What she hadn't said was how she'd continuously eaten on purpose, so she wouldn't say all the crazy expletives that'd run through her mind. Zee's yen to "discuss things with Agent West" was the stupidest plan ever, as far as she was concerned. Yet Zee swore Agent West wouldn't do anything to them, especially in lieu of Agent Bennett's dismissive behavior earlier. "West follows and does specifically as Bennett tells him," Zee said, Ro reluctantly agreeing. Then she added her own impression of West's obedience: "He tries to follow whatever Bennett tells him but usually winds up making a mess of it."
Finding West's apartment was easy. It was in his NSA file. Zee read through it quickly at the Ground Wire, Ro reading over his shoulder. The file had West's picture, an amusing image of West in a grand smirk with both his thumps pointing enthusiastically upward. His height and date of birth were depicted. Ro realized for the first time that West was older than she'd supposed, already nearing his mid-twenties. Odd—when he acted no saner than a teenager. She read through his list of NSA promotions, having to ask Zee what a "Level" was.
"To go up a Level," he explained, refraining from excessive detail, "is a great promotion for an agent. West and Lee are both Level Five currently, since only those with Level Five clearance are able to access certain hardware and software necessary for immediate information. It's unusual, though." He paused, Ro picking up on his inability to express what was odd.
"What is? If you say it's normal for agents like them to be a Level Five—."
"It's not that. It's Agent West's file."
Ro shrugged, once again scanning the information. "Looks all right to me. Except I didn't think he was that tall. . . What's wrong with it?"
"It doesn't list anything personal. No relatives. No previous address. No college he attended. It's like he didn't exist before he joined the NSA."
"H'mm," Ro said, eyebrows raised, playfully inquisitive. "Wait, I'm getting an impression . . ." She raised her hands as if all should stop around her. Zee, who'd seen this sort of behavior from her before, tilted into the seat and pursed his lips. "The impression's coming . . . wait . . . yup, there it is . . . The impression is that I don't care about Agent West! Can we please go now?"
Never mind what was or wasn't in his NSA file; Ro was about to get a first-hand look at Agent West, by way of his apartment. Zee nudged her in the side and indicated a figure in a hat, about West's height, heading toward the apartment down the sidewalk.
"Ready?" Zee inquired, merely for the token of caring. Ro knew nothing would've changed if she said "No, I'm not ready."
They dashed across the silent street and headed off West. The agent stopped as soon as he caught sight of them, and stopped humming a light tune. He was unmoved by their presence, almost as if he'd expected them to pop out of nowhere and pounce upon him, unarmed and not in the mood to converse. He tilted the brim down below his thick brows, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"What can I do for you? You want an encore of my musical talent?"
"If you're willing," began Zeta serenely, "I'd like to ask you a couple of questions."
West lifted his chin. Ro saw the whites of his eyes glistening in the poor street lights. "Really? Well, suppose you tell me what it's about first, and then I may or may not consider it. Work begins at midnight, you know. I figured you two would be long gone by now. No, you stuck around." West, drawing out a ring of nickel keys, stepped between them and to the entrance, saying as he went, "Can't say the two of you will win some sort of 'Smartest Renegades of 2042' award. Good evening, Angus." This was to the doorman.
"'Evening, Mr. West. Have a nice time out tonight?" Angus the doorman went about his job. He held the door ajar while nearly toe-and-toe with West.
"Fine enough. How's the wife?"
"Well as ever, I thank you." Angus cocked his head in the direction of Ro and Zeta. "They going in with you, sir?"
West stuck a hand in one pocket, surveying them, wondering what he should do about them. He didn't really know what to do. It wasn't as though Marcia or James were around to tell him what to do. But he would follow Bennett's example from earlier: It was a day off for the agents, and West had four hours and forty-five minutes to himself. Finally, he angled inside the foyer. "Hurry up if you're coming. The sooner we talk, the sooner I can enjoy the rest of my quiet evening."
Once gathered in the elevator together, West leered at them covertly. "I moved into this place because it's all about the low-tech, perfect for the kind of hobbies I have, as you've seen, but it doesn't have metal detectors. You're not carrying any weapons, are you, Zeta?"
Zee shook his head. "Only a soldering gun."
"Then I know who to call if I need metal work fixed. What about you, Ro? You know, a weapon, aside from your mouth."
Emitting attitude crossed between resentment and over-confidence, West decided Ro was a weapon wholly on her own, needing no embellishments of blaster fire or hydraulic pellets.
She peered at him haughtily out the corner of her eye. "I guess everyone has a side of themselves they keep hidden, West."
"And for good reason," he added. "How touché of you, Miss Rowen."
West couldn't wait to reach his apartment. He was relieved just to cross the threshold. He told Ro to shut the door behind her, which she did, while he stepped inward removing his hat and jacket. The effects were thrown into the first chair just on the other side of the foyer, past the coat closet. He smoothed down hair that wouldn't stay flat, a cowlick on the back of his head that sprouted out wildly, and turned to them, Ro and Zeta. They were standing in his home. The white light overhead poured down on them. Ro's blonde hair glowed in a corona. Zee, back to his dark hair and violet coat, appeared distinguished and imposing.
Zee, as West hoped, began the conversation. "I came to ask you something."
"Splendid. I love questions from dangerous and wanted fugitives. Ask away, pal. Then you can leave." Watching Ro every other syllable, West saw her sneaking around the dining room, observing the art he had on the walls, the black and white photographs of Chicago through the ages, of jazz musicians he'd admired since childhood. And, quite suddenly, West realized Ro was the first girl to see his apartment since Marcia's one and only visit back in October, not long after they met.
You really need to get a life, Orrin, he told himself. And stop talking to yourself. Now what's Ro looking at? Can't she sit still? Shh, I think Zeta's going to ask his question . . .
"I went to the Club Pierre tonight thinking I may get to have a word with the scientist Irving Houston," started Zeta.
Orrin stuck his thumbs at the base of his suspenders. "Sounds familiar. He's the patriarch of the Houston clan, isn't he?"
"You'd have a better grasp on that than I would, Agent West."
"What's Irving Houston to you? So he's a scientist, big deal. So's my dad. Have you got a point, Zeta, or is this just mindless robot rambling?"
"Only this, West: Irving Houston worked on the Eta Project."
The color drained significantly from West's cheeks. His thumbs fell from his suspenders and bounced at his sides like dead weight. "Oh."
Ro saw Zee's expressionless face and knew how important this meeting was to him. She doubted West would be able to help. The best thing West had done was show her a little more dimension to his character, and that was hardly necessary. Zee mentioned how long the Eta Project had lasted, details that Ro might've heard before but had siphoned due to disinterest. But West was interested, particularly when Zee made his final claim.
"I've wondered if you've heard anything in the NSA, West, anything from some of your handlers or assistant directors, maybe from The Generals, about the coincidental deaths of twelve Infiltration Unit Project scientists. Have you?"
"Heard anything?" counter-questioned West, now so deflated in ego and energy that he sunk to the arm of the couch.
Zeta nodded patiently.
"No," West replied, adding a negative shake of his head that went on long after the word had died.
Ro looked at Zee. He felt her presence and returned the significant look. Ro made motions with her eyes to the door, indicating that she wanted to leave. She gave a little jump when tinny music began out of nowhere, a jazz tune that wound up coming from West's mobile. He read the number's identification.
"It's Marcia," he announced.
Ro shifted weight from one foot to the other, back and forth. Zee's presence a mere six feet away began to feel like sixty. They'd lingered in Colorado too long as it was . . .
West answered the phone, and the jazzy tune stopped. "West here . . . Hello, Lee. Yeah, yeah, just dandy . . . No, not a whole lot at the mo . . ." His hazel eyes widened and he shot a hand into his hair. "You want to WHAT? Of course I'm not going . . . I don't care if it is . . . Well, no, actually . . . I can't go . . . No, Lee, I'm serious . . . I can't go . . ." Observing his crowd, West fought for a means to explain how busy he was without giving anything away. "It's not that I don't want to go, I just can't . . . I'm occupied . . . Doing what? Uh. Er. Do you mind if I not tell you? I'm afraid of ruining certain good impressions you may have of me . . . Ha-ha, very funny . . . Yes, all right. I'll be here . . . Right . . . Right . . . Be careful . . . Laters."
The phone was dropped to the center of the coffee table just in West's reach. He rubbed his face and yawned noisily.
"She's going up to Bennett's to talk to him about something." He watched them watching each other cautiously. "Not about you two, not directly, although direct approaches to any subject is one thing Bennett and Lee have in common, believe it or not. She wants to ask him . . . I don't know . . . Something that couldn't wait until later."
Zee didn't ask what Ro wanted to ask: Why didn't Lee just call Bennett on the phone and ask him? That was the obvious thing to do. But perhaps Bennett, being off-duty until midnight, as West had said, wasn't answering his phone.
"Where's he live?" asked Ro, unable to ask anything else.
"Bennett?" West lolled back into the deep couch and proceeded to roll up his sleeves. "He lives south of Denver. Why? Not thinking of going up there, are you?"
Ro snorted a laugh. "No . . . I was just . . . Trying to imagine Bennett having a life."
"Well, good luck. It's not at all what you think it is, Rowen," chided West in his best cool tone, at least a few degrees cooler than Ro's. "Agents never are what you think we are." He held Zeta's stare. The atmosphere had gone stale between them. "Sorry I can't help you, Zeta. If I feel like scoring suck-up points with Bennett or my director maybe I'll mention this coincidence of yours at the next briefing. But you'd better hope that if I do you haven't been anywhere near one of those dead scientists around the time they met mortality. Is that clear?"
There was no response from the synthoid. The silence spoke the terms of agreement.
West's golden eyes hardened to stone. "Forgive me if I don't show the two of you out."
That was, of course, the last personal thing Ro and Zeta ever heard from Agent West. That was, of course, the last time Agent West wanted to say anything to Ro and Zeta that could be construed as personal.
— —
Thankfully, the moment he stepped in the door, James heard the bustling of a busy party, saw ahead of him the white shirts and black vests of catering servers, and knew he could slip away into the recesses of the house without being seen. He needed to change his clothes, make sure he didn't have to shave, and conceal his resentment, all in a span of roughly five minutes. It was the latter movement he was afraid would take longer than time allowed. On the seventy-minute ride home, Jo stayed in the forefront of his mind, overpowering meeting Zeta and Rowen in the most public of places and refusing to do a thing about it. Jo was the one in his thoughts. His resentment to her was unfairly brusque. He reasoned himself out of it for about ten minutes, only to lose his grip on justice, and again screaming to her in his head that this was unfair, that she had no right to play him like a fool . . . Forget the fact that he deserved it. She was the one in the wrong. She was the one . . .
"Oh, James, are you home, finally?"
He'd just rounded the corner from the kitchen to the little hallway. Jo stood in front of the spindle-legged stand to his right, an arched passage that opened into the living room. Twelve pink roses were being arranged in a crystal vase by a cheerful Jo. She ignored him and went about party business, humming again, like he'd heard her that morning.
"Yes," he nodded vaguely, giving her a hard stare she pretended not to feel, "I'm home. Finally."
Jo ceased humming to explain the roses. "The Millfords brought us these. Aren't they lovely? I know just where to put them."
He gawked at her, unable to decide what to do. She picked up the vase to be carried into another part of the house. James reached out for her arm, stopping her.
"I called you this afternoon," he started weakly, "but you didn't answer your phone."
Her gray-green stare was unreadable. She might be a worthy liar, for all he knew of her, only he'd never thought about it much before, never having had a reason to consider it. "I was playing tennis with Bonnie until three. Then we had a late lunch—"
"You can't have played tennis until three. I talked to Jimmy. He said he saw Bonnie earlier, at home, and you weren't with her. Where were you, Jo? I tried calling," he said again, hearing the desperation in his own voice, "where were you?"
Jo began to understand how deplorably intense this conversation had grown. She flicked his hold away, face reddening. Her deep eyes pooled. "And where were you all the times I've tried calling you, James? Huh? Where were you? I've had a more meaningful relationship with your secretary than I've had with you in the last year. I can't believe you even have the nerve to ask me about my private business."
"Since when . . . when did we start having private business, Jo? When did we stop having one life?"
"You should ask yourself that."
This was the part he knew would come since he bothered bringing it up. Its inevitability made the appearance a disappointment. He traipsed down the hallway and into the bedroom, quietly shutting the door. For a moment, he leaned his back into it, sighing. Fifteen years to the day he'd been married to Jo, the upright judge's daughter, but never had James hated her more—hang her aristocratic family connections, hang that she was mother of his only child, hang it all . . . He despised her because he could not figure out the proper way to love her anymore. Maybe if they hadn't moved to Colorado . . . Maybe if he hadn't taken the Zeta case . . . Maybe if he'd never . . .
Never mind, he thought. Just never mind. It's business tonight, Jim. You put on a nice, clean shirt, you go out and smile at everyone and remark about how lovely it is that Jo is as lovely as ever . . . and no one will be any wiser. Except you. You'll know.
The nice, clean shirt had just been pulled on when Jo opened and closed the door. He didn't say a word, only went about his business, one button after another.
"Look, James," she started, fidgeting babyishly, "I don't exactly know when all of this began between us—"
"Funny, I don't think I've forgotten. Wasn't it fifteen years ago? We were a lot younger then." He flashed her a smile. "Probably too young. But, oh, aren't we sensible now!"
"James," she drawled in a painfully slow way, "I meant . . . this . . . This! The insinuations. The arguments. You never being home—."
"What I'm more curious about," he paused to hunt for his favorite tie, a tenth anniversary present from Jo, "is when you stopped caring that I am never around. That's really what I'm interested in."
She winced and crossed her arms, all granite and coldness, all of her faraway. "A while ago . . . long enough that I figured you'd never get around to noticing."
A hiss of anger whispered through him. He was so infuriated and hurt and humiliated that he felt five years old, unable to understand where his wife's hatred and callousness had come from. Had she always been like this? Hadn't she ever been sweet and considerate, respectful of his feelings as well as respectful of their marriage?
Briefly, James entertained the idea of shutting himself off emotionally, to be the epitome of agent. But he couldn't do it. He didn't want to. The anger felt liberating. The hurt, however, would take getting used to.
He stepped to her and took her shoulders, biting on his lips until the first wave of pain and hope evaporated. "I have never meant to intentionally hurt you, Jo."
"Watchword: Intentionally," she snapped back. "Unlike you, James, I have planned meticulously each and every piece of pain I may have given you over the last year—and rejoiced in it! Haven't you noticed? Haven't you cared? At first I thought I was doing it just to see if you would notice me, but you didn't. And then I enjoyed it. It was all about justice, you see. I only noticed you when you noticed me, and never a bit more. Wasn't that ingenious of me?"
"Where were you earlier, Jo?" he pleaded, giving in to the anguish by falling to the edge of the bed.
She laughed darkly, in the back of her throat. "Oh, wouldn't you like to know! And wouldn't I like to tell you! But I don't think I will. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a party to host. I intend to enjoy an evening with my friends. I don't care what you do, James, but you're not taking this away from me."
Jo was at the door when it suddenly dawned on him to explain. "I'm leaving again at midnight. . . . Business."
"Well," her pretty smile worked like a lancet in his gut, "with any luck, the party won't be over by then, and you can slip out without any trouble."
She was no farther than a step into the hallway when the doorbell rang. Thinking it to be a late-arriving guest, Jo went to answer. James sat there seconds longer, ruminating on the awful facts, the even worse situation, before realizing he was fully dressed and prepared as he'd get to meet the crowd. On his feet, he froze at the new arrival in the doorway.
"Marcia?"
It was Marcia, and James was sure the night had just sunk from Unbearable to Positively Apocalyptic. But, no, he couldn't wholly think that. Marcia, at least, didn't turn against him with claws and knives, even if she was set to leave in less than ninety days, to go some unimaginable distance from him. If he didn't know any better, he could easily start believing he had bad karma where women were concerned. His mother, Jo, Marcia, even Ro to a certain extent . . . He silently thanked whoever was in charge that he'd been spared daughters.
"I'm sorry to bother you, sir—." The words failed of their own volition when he neared, waving a hand.
"Don't call me sir right now, would you? I can't put up with any of your pretentious crap right now, Lee. Come on, let's go outside. We can't talk in here." Actually, they could've, except he happened to know it'd be darker outside, in the back garden, and Marcia's vigilance wouldn't effortlessly pick up the emotional strain seeped into his features. He liked the idea of giving Marcia a challenge worthy of her cleverness. Marcia already had enough clues that his marriage was . . . what word to use? There were too many, and he decided to drop the subject. If he thought of it any further, then Marcia would know what word to use, what word he couldn't think of . . . and then where would he be?
The garden was dimmer, not to mention swarming with many dozens of people he didn't know, including a string quartet. Even his backyard was transformed into a magical, fairy-lighted land, heavily drenched in the scent of roses and champagne, wealth and pretenses. He dragged Marcia towards the fence, the top lined in white twinkle lights, the bottom hemmed in yellow tea roses, their perfume nearly overwhelming to the senses.
"Now," James made an opening gesture, "what are you doing here?"
"You wouldn't answer your phone."
James cursed under his breath. "I forgot, I turned it off earlier, after I told Jo I was on my way home. It must be important, Lee."
"Depends," said a steady Marcia. "I'm not here to question your ethics, James; I've done that already. If anything," a tiny grin escaped, "I was proud of your behavior toward Ro and Zeta tonight. It was certainly surprising. Refreshingly so."
"I don't deserve praise or respect from you, Lee. If it wasn't for you, I would've brought them in tonight. I'd still be sitting in my office celebrating with The Generals and Wellington and Hattie, and probably you. But, no, I can't, because I have the most ethical of agents on my team. And I like it that way. She keeps me in line."
Marcia's cynical look silenced him. "I hope that whoever takes my place will be more to your taste, as far as morality is concerned."
"I get the impression," he began boldly, "that we're no longer talking about Zeta and Rosalie Rowen."
"Maybe not." Marcia glanced away for a moment, collecting the turbid ends of disjointed thoughts. "But they're why I'm here."
"Ah-ha, I see. You drove all the way up here just to tell me what you wouldn't say at the club tonight?"
It wasn't a shock that he'd figured it out. He was a handler for his intelligence, for thoroughly knowing the methods of his agents.
"Well," he urged, "go on. I'm not having a particularly wonderful evening, so if you could keep this brief and direct, I'd appreciate it."
Marcia stood 'at ease' and tried to follow orders. "Out of respect for you and your methods, James, I still conclude that you had a specific reason for letting them go free tonight. You're hoping they'll lead you to their cause, the reason why they're doing this, to a specific person, or a place, or a thing. It isn't just enough that Director Wellington and The Generals want Zeta returned, is it? No, you want to figure out why Zeta keeps running. That's what's really important. And that's why you asked Ro all those questions tonight. You thought she'd give you a clue, to keep the cooling chase hot. But I don't suppose she gave you a clue, did she? At last, proof that Ro is as bright as I've been trying to tell you she is. . . . Was this direct enough for you, sir? I'm done. Enjoy your party."
When he'd weighed as much of these accusations as possible, he pivoted and blindly called out. Marcia angled to him and waited, uncomfortable and agitated. He covered the ground between them and cleared his throat.
"I don't suppose there's an act I could commit, a sentence I could say, to make you reconsider your request for transfer?"
She granted him a half-second of seeing the inside of her, the disturbances he'd caused her, mirroring his own hurt and anguish of the night. Then she gave a shake of her head, breaking the enchantment, and the veil was back in place. "I can't reconsider. You know I can't. Please don't ask me about it anymore."
He let her go, unable to find an excuse to hail her back. Somehow saying "Don't go" seemed juvenile and indiscreet. As Marcia returned inside the house, Jo came to him. Her look was no less steely than it'd been, but he sensed her interest in Marcia.
"Friend of yours, James?" Jo drummed her lacquered nails along a champagne glass, partly as a tease since she knew her husband to be a teetotaler. "She's very pretty, in a kind of noticeable way."
Without a look to Jo, he parted his way through the crowds and to the gloomy quiet of his upstairs office. He stretched out on the couch, glanced at the clock, and told himself to wake up in three hours and twenty-six minutes. It'd be zero hours then. It'd be tomorrow. He'd be back at work, not to endure a whole day off again for another long set of months.
Wishful thinking, Jim. Very wishful thinking.
Whatever made him do it, James was glad he brought out his mobile. He went through the 'Missed Calls' list, and saw all of Lee's incomings:
18:31 – Lee, Marcia
18:45 – Lee, Marcia
18:52 – Lee, Marcia
19:06 – Lee, Marcia
19:14 – Lee, Marcia
19:47 – Lee, Marcia
20:01 – Lee, Marcia
20:19 – Lee, Marcia
Seeing this made him smile. He deleted all the missed calls. Ankles crossed, he put a free hand behind his head, feeling untraditionally relaxed. A number stored in speed-dial was sent ringing through the secure line.
Then, all at once, there she was. "Agent Lee."
It took three second for him to speak. "Hello, Marcia."
Another moment of considerable pause. "What's wrong, James?"
He'd miss this, phoning up Lee and just having her know, without his having to say anything, that something was wrong. How were they, he and West, supposed to go on without her? How as he, as a person, as James Bennett, supposed to go on without her? Uncomfortable with his own thoughts, he coughed anxiously.
"You do realize, Lee, that I will never be able to ring up West like this and chit-chat with him."
"No, I don't suppose you could," she said, almost laughing. "What do you want to chit-chat about?"
"Nothing. Isn't that was chit-chat is? Nothing? Where are you, anyway?"
"Driving home. I just passed E-470."
"Ah. Tell you what. Take 83 south, and you'll run into an inconspicuous tavern. Go inside. Have yourself a drink, NSA style, and wait for me to show up."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because we'll head down to Agent West's. We'll drag him out of his jazz haven by the tips of his suspenders. By midnight, I want us back in the office and tracking Zeta."
"But what about your party?"
"It's not all it's cracked up to be."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"I don't know. Do you want to hear about it?"
She didn't answer immediately. James sat upright on the couch.
"Just wait till I get there, Marcia," he said. "Then I'll tell you all about it. It's been one very strange day."
"And not quite over yet."
"Don't remind me. I have a feeling the last few hours will be the best part. I'll get back to what I know . . . I don't think I know how to be idle very well."
"None of us do, James; no agent does," said Lee, sighing it out morosely. "I see the place you mentioned. I'll get us a table for two. All right?"
"All right." He disconnected, the lights on the phone leaving him in big blank room. Once he was out of the house he felt his spirits improving, as he headed toward something he understood without difficulty or consternation.
— —
On a high hillside north of Garden City, Kansas, Ro perched on the warm hood of the car and looked out beyond the country lane and into the empty horizon, and up into the wide sky full of bright stars. Out here, there was no one, just a lot of corn, maybe some sunflowers, and a whole swarming metropolis of insects. Ro swatted another off her arm. Not too far in front of her, through a grove of trees and underbrush, Ro spotted Zee's quick, lithe movements. She smirked on one side of her mouth.
"Are you chasing lightning bugs again, Zee?"
"Sure," came the answer, in the voice of a young child, the holomorph of Zee that was just a little boy. "It's fun, Ro."
"Yeah, yeah," muttered Ro, and then continued on so he wouldn't hear, "I'm sorry I ever introduced you to it." She slapped her shin, wondering if now she was imagining bugs on her when there weren't any. This was why she didn't enjoy country life. It was kind of the bugs to remind her. "Hey, Robinson Crusoe, what time is it?"
"Dunno," said kid Zee. Another leap, and another lightning bug caught and escaped.
"I really hope he's not eating them." She heard his footsteps in the dark, as he made another lunge to snag an unsuspecting lightning bug. "Well, could you find out? I'd like to know how soon Bennett's going to be hopping down our bunny trail."
Along the road's pebble-strewn shoulder, Zee came running to her. His hands were stretched out in front of him, cupped but with small slivers between his fingers. He shoved the bundle in front of her, pleased, smiling. "I finally caught one, Ro, look!" The lightning bug chose that moment, as if on cue, to burst into a soft yellow-green glow.
"Great," said Ro, carefully choosing how much sarcasm and how much enthusiasm to exude. "I'm so glad this world has bugs with glowing butts for you to chase. Sure puts my life into perspective. What's the time, Zee?"
Now he answered automatically, because he forgot not to. "Zero-oh-two hours."
Ro had adapted to this former government agent's overuse of metric time. She knew two minutes after midnight when she heard it. "Bennett will be preparing the team again. It's Sunday. Their day off's over."
Zee's hands lifted into the air, and he held the bundled prize close to the end of his nose until the signaling light turned on and off one last time. Then his fingers broke apart, and he waited, with the patience of one who didn't understand time, for the bug to take flight off the tip of his childish finger. Ro observed him, her own sense of patience oddly matched to his; she knew she ought to feel more uptight, more anxious to get as far away from Colorado as possible. The atmosphere on that country road, the sweet scent of dew on corn, the monotone chorus of insects, were natural events creating a relaxing opus. She did not even mind the burst of bright magenta and blue light that came over Zee when he switched into his more adult shape. His radiance dimmed, except for this other-worldly sheen, as though he always stood in a patch of moonlight. He took a spot next to her on the hood of the car, and wound his gaze through the ropes and tangles of stars high overhead.
"Did you know, Ro, that in the southern hemisphere you can see different stars, and see constellations you never can see up here? I find that fascinating. I think I should like to visit the southern hemisphere someday."
"Zee?"
He determined that she would tell him to stop talking. "I'm sorry. I'll stop talking."
"No, that's not it. . . What's going to happen now?"
"About what?"
"The scientists . . . I don't know . . . What if they really are being meticulously killed off?"
"We'll keep an eye on them. If anything does happen to some of the others, then it may prove more than a coincidence. There's really nothing else we can do."
"You don't think Agent West will actually tell Bennett what you said, do you?"
"That is up to Agent West. I have no power to stop him." Ro's concerned face brought him a touch closer to fathoming the mystery of human misery. He did find Ro confusing, for all her contradictions, but he found her capacity of strength and perseverance as fascinating as all the constellations in all hemispheres. He squeezed her across the shoulders to bring energy back into her. "I don't know what's going to happen, Ro. For now, I suppose we'll keep going day to day," he paused and surveyed the environs, "and from night to night, like we've been doing. If we think of something else to do to help the scientists, then we'll do it—if it comes to that. We're better off helping each other."
Ro leaned into the hood and folded her hands behind her head. After ruminating on these postulations carefully, trying unsuccessfully to push out the thoughts of the evening, Ro knew he was right. "Well, Zee, I guess we'll have to just keep dancing." She felt a conciliatory pat on her ankle.
"Yes, Ro, we'll have to keep dancing."
So much for sentimentality, Ro thought. "Hey, Zee, what's that bright reddish star up there?"
"Which?"
She pointed, like it would help. "The one sort of over the tree top right in front of us."
"Oh," he observed and calculated, getting the appropriate bearings of latitude, "I believe you're seeing M-24, known also as the Small Sagittarius Star Cloud. It is just a bit more than one degree in diameter, and is nothing more than a slightly brighter version of the Milky Way. I am impressed that you can view it with your naked eye. I see it best when my sight is amplified to fifty times my normal viewing span."
"And what's that one, the one next to M-24?"
"The Lagoon Nebula."
"What's a nebula?"
"It's a patch of interstellar gas and dust that reacts with—"
"And what's that one . . . ? And that one . . . ?"
— —
The End.
Thank you for reading!
— —
Notes
Chapter One
1) It was difficult deciding how long Agent Bennett had been married, and also difficult to judge Jimmy's age. Fifteen years seems pretty reasonable, which means they married when they were in their early twenties. To me that seems young, but he was also a military guy and she was an educated aristocrat, so they were relatively mature people. Incidentally, I always imagine Jo Bennett looking like Jennifer Aniston. Jo, like poor Agent Rush, had no first name in the series, she was just a vague image in a photograph.
2) ". . . a crop farmer in Ohio." – This is my on-running gag: In every story I write, I must make at least one joke about Ohio. I live there, you know, and I have a very comfortable love-hate relationship with it.
3) Director Goubeaux is the managing director of field operatives at the NSA's Colorado field office. Agent Lee's request of transfer was to switch from being a technical operative to a field operative. She shows field operative qualities in The Zeta Project episode 'Resume Mission', which takes place after she resigns her Zeta Project station.
4) Colonel Lemak is one of the NSA Suits, who's basically like the NSA Watchdog and Human Relations manager. He makes sure everyone's doing what they're supposed to be doing, although he has no responsibility as an NSA director. He was a background character in the show. Although I feel his ranking should be a little higher than colonel, he is only a promotion away from making brigadier general.
Chapter Two
1) Tops Hi-Fi was a real company. The album I mention is also a real album. A lot of their covers are considered collectors items; several feature a young Mary Tyler Moore as cover model.
Chapter Four
1) Zeta's explanation of the NSA's location is a set-up for the episode 'Wired Part 2'. Whole Day Off takes place between 'Countdown' and 'Absolute Zero'. This is why Ro says they've only been to Gotham City once ('Countdown'), and why Agent West doesn't know of Lee's resignation ('Absolute Zero').
Chapter Five
1) The Generals – Two guys who run the NSA from pretty little offices located in Washington, D.C.
2) Arcades ambo - Latin: Arcadians both; fellows of the same stamp; cut from the same cloth . . . West means to say that Lee is as single as he is.
3) Ignotum per ignotius - Latin: The unknown (explained) by the still more unknown . . . West indicates that it's a great mystery why they're both single.
Chapter Six
1) Frag and slag are both Batman Beyond euphemisms that never appeared in The Zeta Project.
2) The design of the NSA field office is only loosely based on its appearance in 'Wired Part 2'. I made it look less like an impenetrable fortress and more like a traditional office building, similar to its brief appearances in episodes like 'His Maker's Name'.