"No problem then. But what about you?"

"I'll go on. Have a nice cross-country trek, something I enjoy. No worry about me."

"I didn't think so. But what about our friend the corpse here?"

Jan looked at the man's pink, bloodstained flesh, obscenely sprawled in the show. "I'll take care of him.

Cover him up back there in the forest. The foxes will find him, and then the crows. By spring there'll only be bones left. It's not very nice..."

"His job wasn't very nice. I'll appreciate it if you would take care of it. Then I can move Out." He put out his gauntletted hand and Jan took it. 'And I'm free thanks only to you and your people. We'll win, you wait and see."

"I hope so. Shalom."

"Thanks. But Shalom later. Let's get rid of the bas-tards first."

Un twisted the control and moved off, faster and faster. He gave one last wave over his shoulder then was around the bend in the lake and gone, the sound of the electric motor dying away.

"Good luck," Jan said quietly, then turned back to their cam p site.

The hody first. He dragged it by its heels, arms sprawled over its head and a trail of blood marking its pa.s.sage. The scavengers would be there as soon as he was gone. He kicked snow over the blood and went back to break camp. The second sleeping bag and all the extra equipment went into one pack, everything he would need into the other. There was no point in hanging about here, it would be dangerous in fact if the scene of the ambush were discovered. If he went through the forest carefully, he could be a good distance away before dark. Donning his pack, he grabbed up the other pack and the skis and went swiftly away from the site. It was good to move quickly and surely and the kilometers sped by. He buried the skis and pack in the middle of a dense thicket, then pressed on. Once he heard another snowcat pa.s.sing in the distance and he stopped until it had gone. A plane thrummed overhead toward sunset, as invisible to him through the trees as he was to it. He went on two hours more before he made camp.

It snowed, heavily, during the night, and he woke up more than once to clear the drifts away so he could breathe. In the morning the sun burned golden-bright on the freshly fallen powder and he found himself whistling as he boiled the water for tea. It was oyer, all over, and he was safe. He hoped Un was as well.

Safe or dead, Jan knew that the Israeli would not be taken alive a second time.

When he crossed Benmore Loch it was late afternoon. He stopped and slid under the shelter of a tree when he heard the sound of a car going by on highway 837 ahead. The hotel would not be far now. But what should he do? There would be no difficulty in spending another night in the snow, then going on in the morning. But would that be wise? If he were under any suspicion at any time the shorter the trip he had made the less chance there would be that he might have gone north to Slethill Camp before doubling back. So the best thing would be an early arrival. A steak dinner, with a bottl& of wine, by an open fire was not a- bad thing at all to look~forward to.

Jan swung forward, moving swiftly, onto the slope behind the great hotel, then snowplowing down into the yard. He unstrapped his skis and stuck them into a drift by the front entrance. Then, kicking the snow from his shoes, he pushed through the 4ouble doors and into the lobby. It seemed hot and close after his days in the open.

As he walked across to the registration desk a man came out of the manager's office and turned toward him.

"Well, Jan," Thurgood-Smythe said. "Did you have an enjoyable journey?"

Fourteen.

Jan stopped, eyes wide, stunned by the presence of his brother-in-law. "Smitty! What on earth are you doing here?" Only later did he realize that his natural response had been the right one; Thurgood-Smythe was studying his reaction closely.

"A number of reasons," the Security man said. "You're looking fit, clear-eyed, and glowing. How about a drink to put some toxins back into your body?"

"Fine idea. But not in the bar. Air's like treacle down here. We can drink just as well in my room-and I can crack the window a bit while you sit on the radiator."

"All right. I have your key here, save you the trouble. Let's go up.

There were others in the lift so they did not talk. Jan stared straight ahead and struggled to compose his thoughts. What did Thurgood-Smythe suspect? His presence here was no accident. Nor was he pretending that it was-not with Jan's key in his possession and making no secret of the fact. But a search would mean nothing: there was nothing incriminating in his luggage. Attack was the best defense and he knew better than to pretend stupidity to his brother-in-law. As soon as the door closed behind them he spoke.

"What's up, Smitty? And do me the favor of not pretending this is an innocent business-not with my key in your pocket. What's Security's interest in me?"

Thurgood-Smythe stood by the window, staring un-seeingly at the white landscape. "I'll have a whiskey if you please, neat. A large one. The problem, my dear Jan, is that I don't believe in coincidence. My credulity is limited. And you have been too close to too many interesting things just once too often."

"Would you mind explaining that?"

"You know as well as I do. The incident in the Red Sea, the illegal computer tap in your laboratory."

"Means absolutely nothing. If you think I tried to drown myself for some reason you're the one in need of an a.n.a.lyst, not me. Which leaves us the laboratory-with how many employees?"

"Point taken," Thu rgood-Smythe said. "Thank you." He sipped at the whiskey. Jan opened the window a hand's breadth and inhaled deeply of the cold air.

"Taken alone, these two incidents are meaningless. I only worry about them when I find you in the Highlands at this time. There has been a very serious incident at one of the nearby camps which means your presence here could be very suspicious."

"I don't see why." Jan's voice was cold, his face expres-sionless. "I ski up here two or three times, at least, every winter."

"I know you do, which is the only reason I am talking to you like this. If I were not married to your sister this interview would be entirely different. I would have a biomonitor in my pocket which would give me a readout on your heartbeat, muscle tension, respiration, and brainwaves. With this I would know if you were lying or not."

"Why should I lie? If you have one of these devices pull it out and look at it and see for yourself."

Jan's anger was real; he did not like the way the conversation was progressing.

"I don't. I had one in my hand before I left-but I put it back in the safe. Not because I like you, Jan-which I do. That has nothing to do with it. If you were anyone else I would be interrogating you now instead of talking to you. If I did that, sooner or later Elizabeth would hear about it and that would be the end of my marriage. Her protective instincts for her little brother go far beyond reason, and I do not wish to put them to the test of choosing between you or me. I have the uneasy sensation that it would probably be you.

"Smitty, for heaven's sake-what is this all about?"

"Let me finish first. Before I tell you what is happen-mg I want to make it absolutely clear what is going to happen. I'm going home to Elizabeth and tell her that you have been put under surveillance by a different depart-ment of Security. This is true. I will also tell her that I can do nothing to prevent it-which is also true. What will happen in the future will depend upon what you do in the future. Up until now, until this moment, you are in the clear. Do you understand that?"

Jan nodded slowly. "Thanks, Smitty. You're putt~g yourself out on a limb for me, aren't you? I imagine your telling me about the surveillance is a dangerous thing for you to do?"

"It is. And I would appreciate the return of the favor by your discovering some aspect of the surveillance, then telephoning me and complaining about it."

"'Will do. As soon as I get home. Now if you will tell me what I'm supposed to have done..."

"Not done-what you could have done." There was no warmth now in Thurgood-Smythe's voice, no give in his manner. This was the professional Security man that Jan had never seen before. 'An Italian seaman escaped from a work camp up here. An item normally of little interest. But two things make it important.

His escape was aided from the outside-and a number of guards were killed. Soon after this happened we had a report from the Italian authorities. The man does not exist."

"I don't understand..."

"Does not exist in ~eir records. His doc.u.mentation was forged, very professionally. Which means he is the citizen of another country, a foreign agent."

"He could be Italian."

"Possibly. But for other reasons I doubt that strongly."

"If not Italian-then what country?"

"I thought you might be able to tell me." His voice was quiet, soft as silk.

"How would I know?"

"You could have helped him escape, guided him through the forest, have him hiding out there right now."

This was so close to what he had planned that Jan felt the short hairs stirring on his neck. "I could-if you say so. But I didn't. I'll get out my map and show you where I've been. Then you tell me if I was near your mysterious escapee.

Thurgood-Smythe dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand." No maps. If you are lying~r telling me the truth-there will be no evidence there."

"Why on earth should another country spy on us? I thought this was a worl& at peace.

"There is no such thing as peace-l.u.s.t modified forms of warfare."

"That's a rather cynical statement."

"Mine's a rather cynical profession."

Jan filled both gla.s.ses again and sat on the window ledge. Thurgood-Smythe retreated as far from the cold blast as he could.

"I don't think I like the things that you are telling me," Jan said. 'All this murder and prisoners and surveillance machines. Does this kind of thing happen often? Why don't we hear about it?"

"You don't hear about it, dear brother, because you are not meant to hear about it. The world is a very nasty place and there is no cause to bother people with the sordid details."

"You're telling me that important events in the world are kept secret from people?"

"I'm telling you just that. And if you have never suspected it, then you are a bigger fool than I took you to be. People of your cla.s.s prefrr not to know, to let people like me take care of the dirty work for you.

And look down upon us for it."

'That's not true, Smitty...

"Isn't it?" There was a cutting edge to his voice. "What was it you just called me? Smitty? Did you ever call Ricardo de Torres-Ricky?"

Jan started to answer, but could not. It was true. ThuYgood-Smythe was descended from generations of drab civil servants; Ricardo de Torres from t.i.tled, landed gentry. For long seconds Jan felt impaled on that look of cold hatred; then his brother-in-law turned away.

"How did you find me up here?" Jan asked, trying to change the subject.

"Don't pretend to be simple. The location of your car is in the motorway memories. Do you realize the extent of the computer files and programming?"

"I never thought about it~ Big I suppose."

"Far bigger than you realize-and far better Qrgan-ized. There is no such thing as having too much memory. If Security wanted t~and we may-we could monitor every second of your life, have it all on record."

"That's stupid, impossible. You're in my territory now. No matter how much circuitry you have, no matter how much memory, there is no possible way you could run surveillance on everyone in the country all of the time. The data would swamp you.

"Of course it would. But I wasn't talking about the entire country. I was mentioning one individual. You.

Ninety-nine percent of the people in this country are neutral, neuters. Names in a memory bank of no interest to us. Proles who are identical as matchsticks. Society b.u.t.terflies, who while richer and more exotic, are equally uninteresting. In reality, we have very little to do. Petty thievery and embezzling head our list of crimes. Of no real importance. So when we are asked to take interest in someone we do it with a vengeance. Your screen can be two-way-as can your phone. Your computer is accessible to us, no matter how secure you may think. Your auto, your laboratory, the mirror in your toilet, the light above your bed-are all in our employ..."

"You're exaggerating!"

"Perhaps. But not by much, not in reality. If we want to know about you we can easily know all about you. Don't ever doubt that. And we want to know about you now. I would say that, for a number of years-until your guilt or innocence is proven-this is the last private conversation that you will ever have."

'Are you trying to scare me?"

"I hope so. If you are involved in anything-get out. We'll never know, and I for one prefer it that way.

But if your hands are soiled we are going to get you. Yes we will-as certain as the sun rises in the east."

Thurgood-Smythe crossed over to the door and opened it. He turned as though to add something, then thought better of it. He turned and left and the door closed heavily behind him.

Jan closed the window; he was getting chilled.

Fifteen.

The only thing to do now was to appear normal~ry to act naturally in every way. Jan unpacked his bag, knowing that Thurgood-Smythe had undoubtedly gone through it, apprehensive lest something incriminating had been slipped in by accident. There was of course nothing; but he still could not displace the niggle of fear. It stayed with him while he bathed and changed, went down to dine, talked with old acquaintances in the bar. The feeling stayed with him all night and he slept little. He checked out early the next morning and began the long drive back to London.

It was snowing again, and he had no leisure to think of anything else as he drove carefully down the winding Highland roads. Luncheon was beer and a pasty in a roadside pub, then on until he came to the motorway. Once the computer took control he could relax-but did not. He felt more uneasy if anything.

Sitting back, blinded by the torrent of snowflakes against the window, yet completely safe under electronic control, Jan finally faced up to what was disturbing him. There, right before him, was the evidence. The circle of tiny holes around the center of the steering wheel. Monitoring his breath. He could not drive and escape them. Inlets to an a.n.a.lyzer that detected the parts per million of alcohol on his breath, that only permitted him to drive the car when he was legally sober. An intelligent idea to prevent accidents: an insinuating, humiliating idea when viewed as part of the bigger picture of continuous observation. This, and his other personal data, were stored in the car's memory, could be transmitted to the highway computer-and from there to the Security memory banks. A record of his breath, his drinking, his reaction time, where he drove, when he drove-whom he drove with. And when he went home the Security cameras in the garage and halls would follow him carefully to his front door-and beyond. While.

he watched TV the set would be watching back, an invisible policeman gazing out from the screen. His phone monitored, indetectable bugs planted in the wiring. Find and remove them-if possible-and his voice within the room would then be monitored by focus-ing a laser beam on the gla.s.s of his windows. Data and more data would be continuously fed to some hidden secret file-where all of the rest of the facts of his life were already recorded.

He had never thought seriously about it before, but he realized for the first time that he existed as two people.

The flesh and blood person, and the duplicate electronic file. His birth had been recorded as well as all pertinent medical information. His education, his dental record, financial record, and purchases. What books he bought, what presents he gave. Was it all on file someplace? With a sinking feeling he realized that it probably was. There was physically almost no limit to the amount of information that could be stored in the new molecular memory cores. Molecules flipped one way or another to record bits, bits forming bytes, bytes forming words and numbers. More and more and more. An encyclopedia in a piece of materi-al the size of a pinhead, a man's entire life in a pebble.

And nothing he could do about it. He had tried, done his bit for the resistance, helped in a small way.

But now it was over. Raise his head and it would be chopped off. Life wasn't that bad. Be glad he wasn't a prole, condemned to that existence for all the days of his years.

Must he stop? Couldn't it be changed? But even as the rebellious thoughts possessed him he realized that his heartbeat had increased, the muscles in his arm tensed as he made an inadvertent fist.

Physiological changes that could be monitored, observed, considered.

He was a prisoner in an invisible cell. Make one step out of it and it would be the end. For the first time in his life he had the realization what freedom was, what he did not have. What lack of liberty was really about.

The drive home was dull and uneventful. The weath-er improved, when he pa.s.sed Carlyle the snowstorm had ended and he drove under leaden skies. There was a play on the fifth channel and he turned it on but did not watch it; his head was too filled with the turbulence of his thoughts. Now that he could no longer take part in the resistance he realized how important it had become to him. A way to work for something he had come to believe in, to expiate the guilt he was just learning to feel. All over.

By the time he reached home he was in the darkest of moods, scowling at the innocent lift attendant and slamming through his front door. He locked it and turned on the lights-and the bulb in the one important lamp did not come on.