The Archimedes Effect

21

Washington, D.C.

“Wow,” Kent said.

“I take that as a compliment,” Jen said.

They were lying side by side in her bed. Almiron, the cat—named, Kent had been told, for a famous woman classical guitarist who had been born in Argentina in 1914—lay sleeping next to his feet.

“Yes, ma’am, please do.”

Jen propped herself up on one elbow and smiled at him. “So, what took you so long to ask me out, Abe? You couldn’t tell that I found you attractive after that first lesson?”

“Well, no. I’m a little slow about such things.”

She laughed. “Better late than never.”

“Yes, ma’am . . .”

It was amazing how relaxed he was with her. Well, okay, at the moment being relaxed might not be so amazing, but . . . overall . . .

“In case you think I do this with all the boys, let me disabuse you of that notion. You’re the first man I’ve invited home for, well, for longer than I care to remember.”

“I’m honored.”

“You should be.”

“Why me?”

“Well, don’t take it the wrong way, but you’re like an old pair of shoes I suddenly found in my closet. They fit, they are comfortable, they don’t look too bad.”

He laughed. “You should do stand-up comedy.”

“Why? Don’t you think I’m better lying down?”

“Yes, ma’am, no question.”

She laughed, and he was happy to have caused it.

New York City

East Coast Fencing Championships

“Jamal’s pretty good, isn’t he?” Marissa asked.

Thorn nodded. “He’s getting there.”

They’d come by to offer their support in today’s match. This was the last day of the Sectionals competition—one step below the Nationals—and Jamal was in the title bout. He’d just scored a touch that put him ahead of his opponent. If he scored the next point, he’d win; if he lost the next point, the score would be at la belle and they would likely be fencing for a while, since in this format you had to win by at least two touches.

The air was cool in the large gym. The bleachers had been retracted to provide space for more pistes, so all the spectators were standing off to one side, watching. It was a very quiet crowd, murmuring softly about that last touch. . . .

The director positioned the fencers on the guard lines, asked if they were ready, and when they both indicated they were, said, “Allez!”

Match point.

The crowd fell silent.

Jamal’s opponent, Michael Sorenson, was the favorite. He was twenty-two years old, a former national champion, and everyone had expected him to walk away with the match. The fact that Jamal was giving him a run for his money—indeed, was a touch away from victory—had created quite a buzz.

“I can’t watch,” Marissa said, clutching his arm. “Tell me what happens, Tommy.”

Thorn smiled. She was pulling his leg. If anything, he was more nervous than she was . . . and she knew it.

Jamal was on their left, which was unfortunate. He was a right-handed fencer, so they had a good look at his back, but couldn’t see him as well as they would have liked. That was too bad, but it’s how it was. The fencers came to the strip in the order they were called, and the spectators were confined to a specific spot.

Thorn didn’t mind, though. He could see all that he needed to see.

Sorenson was pressing the attack.

For a time, the only sounds were the sussing of the fencers’ shoes sliding along the copper piste, the tick-tack of the blades working against each other, and the occasional grunt or cry from one fencer or the other.

Sorenson kept pressing, and Jamal kept retreating, giving ground reluctantly, but giving it up step by step.

“He’s gettin’ awfully close to the end line, isn’t he, Tommy?”

Thorn nodded.

“And he’ll lose a touch if he goes off the end with both feet, won’t he?”

“He won’t,” Thorn said.

But Jamal was getting awfully close. His back foot had already crossed over the line, and Thorn suspected that Sorenson was setting him up for a particular feint. He figured there was a good chance that Sorenson was going to drive a hard attack, probably high-line, then suddenly drop off into a darting thrust at Jamal’s lead foot.

The reflexive counter to that was to draw the front foot back and counter with a thrust to the opponent’s mask.

The problem was that, if Sorenson timed it correctly, Jamal could actually win and lose at the same time. If his front foot drew back and touched down beyond the end line even a fraction of a second before his point struck Sorenson’s mask, the director would award the touch to Sorenson, not to Jamal, and the match would be tied again.

“Watch,” Thorn said. “Tell me what you see.”

“With them down at that end of the strip, about all I can see is Sorenson’s back.”

“Can you see Jamal’s face?”

“Through the mask, sure.”

“Watch his eyes.”

Jamal’s defense had stiffened. Sorenson was pressing, pressing, but Jamal resisted, halfway over the end line.

Back and forth the blades. Attack, parry, riposte, parry, remise, parry, press.

Inside himself, Thorn went still. This was the hardest part of coaching. For that matter, it was the hardest part of spectating, being reduced to an observer. It had been a very long time since he had fenced competitively, but every time he watched a bout a part of him longed to be out there.

“Here it comes,” he whispered.

Jamal had overparried Sorenson’s last attack, leaving his own blade a little higher than he should have. Sorenson reacted immediately, stepping forward and starting a compound attack that began with Jamal’s right wrist, feinted to the outside of his right elbow, then circled over his arm to come in toward his shoulder. As Jamal worked to close out that line, Sorenson’s point dropped suddenly, streaking toward Jamal’s front toe.

Beside him, Thorn heard Marissa gasp.

He smiled.

On the strip, Sorenson had dropped into a crouch, trying to buy an extra moment or two before Jamal’s counter could hit his mask. So the feint toward Jamal’s toe hadn’t been a feint after all. Sorenson was trying to score a touch, or to drive Jamal off the end of the strip.

But Jamal wasn’t reacting as anyone had expected. As soon as Sorenson’s point started its dip—later, Thorn even heard some of the audience say it looked like he started moving a bare instant before Sorenson’s attack, which made Thorn smile—Jamal had leaped, but he hadn’t gone backward. He had jumped up, tucking his right foot under him and dropping his own point directly on top of Sorenson’s mask.

Touché.

And match point.

The director called halt and awarded the touch, but it was all a formality. Jamal had won.

“How’d he do that, Tommy?” Marissa asked.

Thorn smiled again. “Tell me what you saw.”

“His eyes, you mean? Well, it’s hard to see through that mesh, but they looked different. Unfocused, I guess, but more so than usual, if you know what I mean.”

Thorn nodded. “What else?”

She paused, thinking, then said, “The oddest thing was his face. I mean, I’ve seen Jamal fence a few times, and it always seems that he’s grinning, or gritting his teeth, or biting his lip, or something, you know? But this time, there at the end of the bout, it was like his face lost all expression.” She looked at him. “Why, Tommy? Does that mean something?”

Thorn smiled. “It means he’s getting there.”

They went over to join the small crowd gathered around Jamal.

“Great bout, Jamal,” Thorn said, shaking his hand.

Jamal grinned. “Thanks,” he said.

“Yeah, amazing.” Marissa shook his hand, too.

They started walking away, away from the others and toward where Jamal had his gear.

“Tell me, though,” Marissa said when they had gained some space. “What happened with that last touch? It looked almost as though you knew what he was going to do before he did it, but that can’t be right, can it? Tommy always says—”

“Anticipation will get you killed,” Jamal finished, grinning again. Then his smile faded. “Honestly, Marissa, I don’t really know what happened. I could feel him pressing, and I knew he was setting me up for something, and of course I knew I was out of room, and then, I don’t know. It’s like I found myself three feet up in the air, my point coming down on his mask, without really knowing how I got there.” He shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed, and darted a glance at Thorn.

Thorn nodded. “It’s like your counter just happened.”

Jamal’s eyes grew bigger. He nodded. “Exactly,” he said. “Like it wasn’t me doing it.”

“Excellent,” Thorn said. “And congratulations.”

They were already calling people over for the medal ceremony. “Go get ’em,” Thorn said.

Jamal grinned again and darted off.

“Tommy?” Marissa said. There was an edge to her voice, a tell-me-now-or-you’ll-be-sorry note.

Thorn chuckled. “It’s called ‘no-mind,’ and it’s not a Western thing at all. But it’s a very good thing. Being one with the moment, so that the blade itself seems to react, not the fencer, and the parries and attacks throw themselves. It extends further, to where the touch happens before the move, and the bout is over before it begins, but I think we’ll save that conversation for another time.”

She looked at him, frowning. “Why?”

He grinned. “ ’Cuz I want to see Jamal get his medal.”

The Great Desert Waste

North Africa

One of the things Lewis had learned about men over the years was that the surest way to catch them was to use multiple baits. Some men liked to be thought physically attractive; some preferred to be admired for their minds, or personalities, or their senses of humor. Some wanted you to be impressed with their ability to make money—or to wield power. A man who might laugh out loud if you called him a “hunk” or a “stud” might also preen like a peacock if you flattered his intelligence or his compassion.

With a man like Jay, you wanted to hit him on at least two fronts. The first and most important bait, Lewis figured, was to be a fan of smokin’ Jay, the computer whiz. That was easy enough to do—he was good, as good as any, and better than most, so it didn’t take much acting on her part to admire his moves and knowledge.

But computer geeks tended to be insecure about things on the physical plane, and letting it be known that he was attractive on a male-female basis was the second prong of the attack. She knew he was a normal heterosexual man—he had a wife and child—and she was making it apparent that she would like to roll around with him and break furniture, doing some things he probably wouldn’t be able to do at home with the baby sleeping in the next room.

He had to be at least curious and flattered.

Given her choice, she would be running a custom-made-to-attract-Jay-Gridley scenario, full of subconscious prods to get Jay’s hormones stirred so she could take advantage of them, like that club in WWII Chicago. But Jay had been fairly adamant that she join his VR creation this time, which meant that he was nervous about hers, which was good. Keeping him off balance was where she wanted to be.

She smiled as she walked along behind Jay. He had them walking in a classic desert, dressed in Bedouin-style white robes and sandals, with high-tech snake sticks, moving along a trail passing tall sand dunes dotted with bits of scraggly grasses. She had a cowl over her head and a scarf over most of her face. In fact, save for her eyes and forehead and hands, she was completely covered, and that was worth another smile.

Her staff was not the crook’d wood of a sheepherder, though, but aluminum or titanium, expandable, with a wrist loop and a spongy, padded grip. The bottom end was sharp and pointed, with a round concave metal disk “basket” a few inches up, to offer more support in snow or, in this case, sand. There was a button under a flip-up cap on the staff’s butt, and if you pressed it and grounded the tip, it would charge the basket with enough low-amp voltage to send a serpent on his slithery way if it was anywhere close to the critter. If that didn’t work, you could stab the crawler with the point itself, or just bash him with the staff like a club.

And if need be, the point was sharp and heavy enough to seriously deter a human who might want your wallet or virtue.

She wondered how Jay would react if she goosed him in the rear end with the sharp point.

She laughed at the thought.

Jay turned to look at her, all Lawrence of Arabia in his robe and that Arab headgear—what did they call those scarves? Kaffiyeh? Yeah, that was it. Held in place by a piece of goat hair or some such, called . . . an . . . agal? Something like that.

“Sorry,” she said. “I just remembered an old joke.”

Jay looked at her with the question in his eyes, but she didn’t follow up on it.

Finally, he said, “The URL and page ought to be around that next big dune.”

This was the piece she had gone back into her old game to plant for Jay to find, and it was a red herring; there wasn’t anything there that was going to help Jay locate anything useful. But there were a couple of things that would, on the face of it, look as if they might be worth chasing down. If Jay was chasing a false trail, that would be good. Eventually, he’d figure out it went nowhere, but “eventually” could be more than long enough.

They rounded the sloping dune. A warm little sirocco wind dusted them with fine-grained sand from the twenty-meter-tall hill.

An oasis lay three or four hundred meters ahead—a splotch of green, with desert grasses and palm and olive trees bordering a water hole. Of course. What else would there be out here?

A horned viper crossed the path ten meters ahead, sidewinding in a pattern like a letter S. Looking, she didn’t doubt, for shade, and good luck with that, snake.

It was hot out here, and while she knew the pale robes she wore were ideal for such a climate, keeping the sun off and her body’s moisture in, if were it up to her she’d be slathered in #30 sunblock and naked. Of course, if Jay turned around and saw that, he’d probably have a heart attack.

Between the shade and the water, the oasis was twenty degrees cooler, probably eighty F. instead of a hundred. Even though it was Jay’s metaphor, she knew what he was looking for, and she could easily spot the “clues” that were hidden here.

Jay said, “I saw something up in that palm tree,” he said. “I’m gonna go check it out.”

“I’m going to splash some water on my feet,” she said. “I’ll scope the water hole.”

“I’ll meet you there,” he said.

Lewis slipped her sandals off at the sandy edge of the water hole, which was actually a fair-size pond, fed, no doubt, by an underground spring. The water was cool and fairly clear. In RW, it would probably be scummy and full of bacteria that would make it pea-green, but here it was like it had just come from the tap.

She padded down the shallow slope of wet sand, raising the hem of her robe with her hands. She waded into the water until it was halfway up her thighs, with the robe bunched around her hips.

Jay hadn’t bothered with underwear, which was good.

She stood there for a few moments until she heard Jay coming through the dark bushes toward the water. She turned around and gave him a quick glimpse beneath her robe. As he already knew from her beach scenario, she was a natural blonde, and a reminder would be good. . . .

She waded to the shore, lowering her robe slowly as she ascended the gentle slope.

He watched her most attentively.

“See anything?” she asked. Butter wouldn’t have melted in her mouth, her voice was so cool and sweet. Other than the doorway to sensual bliss, I mean?

It was as if he was afraid his voice would crack. He wordlessly held out his hand. Upon it was a small electronic device, about the size of a book of matches. She knew what it was, of course, since she had put it here.

“Looks like some kind of signal generator,” she said.

Jay finally found his tongue. “Narrowcaster,” he said. “Probably set to send a slimbeam radio or LOS pulse. We need to see if we can figure out where it was sending its signal.”

She needed to give him another victory. She said, “It seems awfully small.”

“You’re right. Probably there’s a camouflaged parabolic dish here somewhere,” he said. “This thing is too weak to have much push. The dish will boost and relay the sig. Find that, and we can figure out which direction to head in.”

She nodded. “You’re really good at this, Jay. A lot better than I am.”

“You found this page,” he said.

“You would have when you got around to looking.”

He nodded. That was true enough, she knew. Of course, he wouldn’t have known he was supposed to find it because she had put it here for him to find.

Lewis knew she didn’t need to be entirely stupid here. Really bright men were often attracted to smart women, especially if the men were confident in their fields of expertise. That she was also competent at what Jay did was a plus—by being so, she could understand how really impressive he was, and he’d know that. Just as a good amateur basketball player could appreciate a real expert’s skill better than somebody who couldn’t play at all, her being able to run with him at least part of the way was good. Everybody liked an appreciative audience. Impressing the rubes was one thing; impressing other experts in your field was something better. And everything Jay Gridley did from here on out was going to impress the hell out of her. Oh, Jay. You’re so smart. And so good-looking, too . . .

“Let’s see if we can find the dish,” he said.

“Where do you want me to look?” she asked. Let him be the director. Anything you want me to do, Jay, just say the word. Anything at all . . .

“Check the bushes on the left, over that way. I’ll go to the right.”

“You’re the man,” she said.

She knew the dish Jay was looking for was to the left, but she also knew she was going to miss it on her search, leaving it to Jay to come and find and point it out to her. Another victory for which she could admire him. You’re so smart, Jay. So adept. I bet you’re good in bed, too, huh? Wanna show me how good?

She grinned to herself. Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

It was just a matter of time. A small push, and he would fall, and she would be under him when he came down. She was going to enjoy it, and on more than one level, too.