High-Opp

Chapter 8

O’Brien stared at the pigeons on the ledge, wishing they’d stop their senseless cooing and take off to wherever it was they went in the afternoons. Without turning, he said, “What’s he doing now?” He turned. “He’s had a week to get things moving.”

Quilliam London turned away from the multi-colored wall chart. “He’s back in his room with Janus Peterson and about a dozen others. He’s appointing cell chiefs. He’s named Janus…”

“Cells?” O’Brien glanced sharply at London. “I had no idea Movius read history.”

“His father taught it before it was low-opped.”

“Oh, yes. Slipped my mind for a moment. Of course he’d know history. I’m letting myself get too nervous. Must quiet down.” O’Brien tugged at his ear.

“He and Grace have put together a strong appeal for recruits,” said London. “It’s really a masterpiece. It picks up and magnifies every one of the little things you hear the LP’s griping about.”

O’Brien took his chair at the end of the table, sat down. “What about the marriage?”

London rubbed a finger against his cheek. “Grace is willing. She’ll be along in a…”

The door opened; Grace slipped in, sank into a chair beside her father. “He’s a slave driver,” she said. “But he certainly knows how to get things going.” She was breathing rapidly as though she had been running.

“We were just talking about the marriage idea,” said O’Brien. “It’d be a good thing to have a trusted operative such as yourself near him all the time. And a platonic alliance such as this wouldn’t…”

Grace stood up, went to the window and appeared to be watching the pigeons. She said, “I think…” broke off and put a hand to the glass in front of her.

“Not backing out are you?” asked O’Brien.

She turned, looked from O’Brien to her father. “Father, I…”

London frowned. “Are you maybe getting to like him a little too much?”

“Of course not!” She turned back to the window.

“I was just asking,” said London. “After all, you have been seeing a great deal of him these past few days and the man is charming.”

“It’s just so cold-blooded,” said Grace, addressing the window.

O’Brien gave his ear a particularly sharp tug. “Revolution is always cold-blooded.”

“I suppose so.” She looked at her hands, rubbed a finger against the glass. “Well, if we’re going to do it, let’s get it over with.” She turned, looked at O’Brien. “Can you get the marriage registry in so it won’t be found until we need it?”

“All taken care of,” said O’Brien.

“Maybe we’d better get someone else,” said London.

Grace shook her head. “No. Nathan is right. I’m the obvious one for the job.”

“But…”

“No buts, Father. It was your idea, remember?”

“I was afraid you’d remind me of that.”