The Biofab War Page 18

  "That was our agent," he said slowly. "The book..."

  "They didn't turn it down!" she cried.

  Returning from Vigilant, John, Zahava and Bob had worked day and night for three months on their book, First Contact. It was all there, from their first meeting with Bill to the final battle. John had air-expressed it off to New York last Friday and never been far from the phone since.

  Before he could reply, McShane, Bill Sutherland and a third man came out onto the patio from the townhouse.

  "Look who dropped in!" boomed McShane.

  "Andre!" They rose to greet the Russian.

  "In the flesh." Bakunin grinned, sinking into a chair. But for the close-cropped hair he might have been an assistant professor, with his corduroy jacket, leather-patched at the elbows, casual summer pants and penny loafers.

  "Nice house." He nodded approvingly. "At heart I'm a reactionary: the older I am, the more I like fine old things."

  Climbing just above the brick wall, the hot August sun had coaxed open the last of the morning glories. A pair of cardinals flirted in the big old elm overhanging the wall, red and gray plumages soaring high into the greenery.

  "So, what brings you to the States, Andre?" asked John. "A well earned rest?" Ex-CIA, it was the closest he could come to open admiration for the ex-KGB.

  The dramatic footage of Bakunin helping a pale, stumbling Raoul Wallenberg through the Lubyanka's shattered gate had swept the globe. Imprisoned most of his life by a system unable to admit error, the elderly Swedish diplomat, a hero of the Holocaust, looked thin but well. He'd even made a brief but gracious speech before boarding the 727 that took him home to Stockholm and a jubilant welcome.

  "K'Ronarin liaison." The Russian sipped a cup of coffee. "I'm going on the Trel Expedition. But first I have one small chore to perform at the K'Ronarin mission office in New York. And besides"—he smiled—"I wanted to tour the world's greatest tourist attraction."

  "So you're going out to Andrews to tour Vigilant?" Bob asked. Bakunin nodded, crossing his legs. "I'd think you'd have seen enough of her.''

  "Oh, I have. But I want to see her here on Earth, with crowds lined up outside her. Then maybe I can accept that this has all actually happened. Call it a pilgrimage for my psyche's sake." He unconsciously rubbed his healed calf muscle.

  "Then?" asked John.

  "Then to New York. I'm empowered by my government to sign the Terran/K'Ronarin Treaty."

  "Thank God." McShane sighed, standing to shake the surprised Colonel's hand. "And thank you, Andre. This hand I'm holding will free us from our small pocket of the universe."

  "And how's the CIA's new Director?" asked Zahava, lighting a cigarette as Bakunin looked thoughtfully at his hand.

  "You mean 'the dedicated Intelligence officer whose brilliance and daring saved not only his country but his planet'?" quoted John, smirking maliciously.

  "No more, please," pleaded Bill, holding up his hands. "The President was too effusive—you've no idea how horrible it is to be anointed a demigod! People at work vying for the honor of bringing me coffee, Emmy-chan won't let me take out the trash. And I get swamped when we go out—too many people know my face." He shook his head. "No wonder you three wouldn't let the President or me mention your contributions."

  "Otherwise?"

  "Otherwise, Zahava, I'm busy, keeping track of the fledgling democracy in Russia, liaison with L'Guan and Z'Sha's people helping organize the Expedition."

  Bob hesitated, then buttered another croissant. "When does that leave?"

  "As soon as Fleet mops up the S'Cotar in our system. Maybe two months." Adding a generous glob of boysenberry jam to the roll, he took a heroic bite.

  "D’Trelna's going to lead it," said Sutherland. "He's been promoted Commodore. And L'Wrona's now Captain of Implacable."

  Reaching under the table, John brought the cold bottle of Dom Perignon and some champagne flutes out from their hiding place. "I have two announcements." The loud pop of the cork scattered the cardinals.

  "One." He began pouring. "Our book has been sold to a publishing consortium for an advance of five million dollars."

  McShane choked on his croissant, then drained his glass in one gulp. Zahava's jaw dropped. Sutherland and Bakunin pounded backs and pumped hands, loudly congratulating the trio.

  When the tumult died, John continued. "Two. Captain, Miss Tal and I are getting married next weekend by a compliant rabbi. You're all invited." Zahava's anguished "I don't have a dress!" was drowned by boisterous best wishes.

  "And I also have an announcement," she said as Harrison refilled the glasses. "Admiral L'Guan's accepted John's and my application to join the Trel Expedition."

  "What application?"

  "The one I submitted last week through Bill."

  John put down his glass. "Mindslaves. Matter transport. Biofabs. Machiavellian cyborgs. Hostile space. The 'Enemy.' And worst of all, gallant allies." He tossed down the wine. ''I can hardly wait."

  Bill reached over, touching his arm reassuringly. "Don't worry, John," he said solemnly. "I'll be with you."

  "And you, Bob?" asked Zahava hopefully.

  "Thank you, no," the philosopher said firmly, topping his glass. "I'm going to spend my dotage with the grandchildren.

  "Besides," he added cheerfully, "one of us should stay and see to the spending of the royalties. But I'll think of you while I'm on Capri."

  "My friends," said John, slightly tipsy, "my dear friends, a great writer once said mankind would not just endure, but prevail, so long as we realized always that the basest of all things was to be afraid.

  "A final toast, then," he offered, golden glass held high.

  "To humanity and its future, bright and unafraid!"

  "To the future!"