"Of course. I can't say I ever had any."

"Then you must try. You will come in, won't you? Just for a few minutes. It's not really late yet."

This innocent invitation was driven home by a firm nod of her head and a slow and languid wink.

"'Well, perhaps for a few minutes. It's nice of you to ask."

The conversation continued in this same light vein as he drove down the nearly empty Finchley Road and into Marble Arch. She gave him instructions; the club was easy enough to find. He parked just in front of the entrance and they entered, brushing melting snow from their coats. Except for one other couple they had the bar to them-selves. While the waitress took the drink order Sara wrote on the back of the note he had given her earlier. He looked at it as soon as the girl turned away.

STILL SOUND BUGGED. ACCEPT INYITATION TO COME TO MY ROOM. LEAVE ALL.

YOUR CLOTHES IN BATHROOM THERE.

He raised his eyebrows high at the invitation and Sara smiled and stuck her tongue out at him in mock anger. While they talked he shredded the note in his pocket.

The hot whiskies were very good, their play-acting seduction even better. No, he didn't think her bold, yes people would misunderstand if they went to the room together. Right, he would go first with the key and leave the door unlocked.

In her room the curtains were closed and the bed turned back temptingly. He undressed in the bathroom as he had been instructed and found a heavy terry cloth bathrobe behind the door which he put on. Sara came in and he heard her lock the hall door. She had her fingers to her lips when he came out, and did not talk until she had closed the bathroom door behind him and turned on the radio.

"Sit down here and keep your voice low. You know that you are under Security surveillance?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then your clothes are undoubtedly bugged. But we re safe enough away from them. The Irish are very proud of their independence and this club is swept and debugged daily. Security gave up years ago. They lost so many devices that they were supplying the Irish intelli-gence services with all they needed."

"Then tell me quickly-what happened to Un?"

"He's safe, and out of the country. Thanks to you.

She pulled him close and hugged him, giving him a warm and lingering kiss. But when his arms went around her as well she wriggled free and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Take the armchair," she said. "We need to talk. First."

"Well, as long as you say first. Would you start by telling me just who you are and how Orla got into my sister's house."

"It's the best cover we have, so I don't jeopardize it by using it too often. We've done a lot of favors for the Irish government; this is something they've done in return. Absolutely solid identification, birth, school records, the lot. All with my fingerprints and details. It was when we were running your records through the computer to see how to contact you again that the bells began to ring. Orla Mountcharles did go to Roedean, some years after your sister. The rest was easy. I boned up on the school, saw some friends of friends of friends, and was invited to join the bridge club. The rest was as natural as the law of gravity."

"I know! Expose Liz to a new girl in town, hopefully with fairly good looks, but preferably with good connec-tions, and the trap is instantly sprung. Home and dinner with little brother. But isn't it d.a.m.n risky with the keen nose of Thurgood-Smythe sniffing the air?"

"I don't think it sniffs quite as well in the cloister of his own home. This is really the safest way.

"If you say so. But what makes you think my clothes are bugged?"

"Experience. The Irish have a lovely collection of intelligence devices. Security builds them into belt buckles, pens, the metal spines of notebooks, anything. They don't broadcast but record digitally on a molecular level to be played back later. Virtually indetectable without taking to pieces every item you possess. Best to think you are bugged at all times. I only hope your body is still all right."

"Want to find out?"

'That is not what I meant. Have you had any surgery or dental work done since you came back from Scotland?"

"No, nothing."

"Then you must still be clean. They have put record-ing devices inside bridgework, even implanted them in bones. They are very skilled."

"This does very little for my morale." He pointed to the bottle of Malvern water on the nightstand. "You wouldn't have a drop of whiskey to go with that, would you?"

"I would. Irish, of course, Paddy's."

"I'm acquiring the taste."

He poured one for each of them, then dropped back into the deep chair. "I'm worried. As much as I love seeing you-I don't think there is anything more I can do for the resistance."

"It will be difficult, bt.i.t not insurmountable. You re-member I told you that you were the most vital man we had."

"Yes. But you didn't say why."

"Your work on the satellites. That means you have access to the orbiting stations."

"It does. In fact I have been putting off a trip for some time now. I have to examine one of the old comsats in situ, in s.p.a.ce and in free fall. Everything will change when we bring it down to Earth, to the lab. 'Why is this important?"

"Because you can be a contact with the deep s.p.a.cers. Through them we have opened lines of communication with a number of planets. Not perfect, but improving. And there is a revolt brewing already, the miners on Alpha Aurigae Two. They have a chance of success if we can get in contact with them again. But the govemment is aware that trouble is starting out there and Security has clamped a lid on everything. There is no way of getting a message to our people on the ships from Earth. You should be able to manage it on the station. 'We've worked out a way...

"You're frowning," Jan said softly. "'When you get all worked up like this you frown. You will get wrinkles if you keep it up."

But I want to explain..."

"Can't it keep, just for a little bit?" he asked, taking her hands in his, bending to put his lips on her forehead.

"Of course it can. You are absolutely right. Come, cure my wrinkles," she said, pulling him down to her.

Seventeen.

Sonia Amarigho was ecstatic next day when Jan told her that he felt it was time to examine the satellite in s.p.a.ce.

"Marvelous!" she said, clapping her hands. "It jtist floats up there and no one has the intelligence to poke in the nose at the circuitry and see what has gone wrong. I get so angry I want to go myself."

"You should. A trip into s.p.a.ce must be something to remember."

"Memories I would love to have. But this ancient machine does not run so well." She patted her ample bosom somewhere in the region of her heart. "The doc-tors say the acceleration would not be good for my tick- tock..."

"I'm so sorry. I'm being stupid, I didn't know."

"Please, Jan, do not apologize. As long as I stay out of s.p.a.ceships they say I will live forever. It is enough that you will g~~and will make a much better job of it. 'When can you leave?"

"I must finish the circuit that I'm in the middle of now, the multiresonant repeater. A week, ten days at the outside."

Sonia was sifting through the papers on her desk and extracted a gray UNOSA folder which she flipped through. "Yes, here it is. A shuttle for Satellite Station leaving on March twentieth. I'll book you a place on it now."

"Very good." Very good indeed. This was the shuttle Sara had told him to be sure to be on, so that the schedules would mesh correctly.

Jan was whistling when he went back to work, a bit of "Sheep May Safely Graze." He became aware of the irony of the t.i.tle and his present condition. He wasn't going to graze safely anymor~and he was glad of it. Ever since the beginning of surveillance he had been over-careful, walking on eggs. But no more of that. Seeing Sara, loving Sara, had put an end to that period of formless fear. He would not stop what he was doing just because they were watching him closely. It would make the work more diffi-cult but it would not stop it. Not only would he work with the resistance, but he would do a little resisting on his own. As a specialist in microcircuits he was very interested in seeing just wh~t sort of devices surveillance had come up with.

So far he had been unsuccessful. He had bought a new notebook to replace the one he had sawn open, then obtained a replacement ID card for the one inadvertently destroyed. Today it was the turn of his pen, the gold pen Liz had given him for Christmas. A good place for a bug since he usually had it with him. It was up his sleeve now, slipped there when he was pretty sure no optic pickups were on him.

Now he would try a little skilled dissection.

A quick circuit check showed that the instrumentation on his bench was still bug free. 'When he had first started this unapproved research problem he had found out that his multimeter electron microscope and all of his electron-ic instruments were tapped and reporting to a small transmitter. After that he used the optical microscope, and saw to it that a short circuit 6f 4,000 volts went through the transmitter. It had vanished and not been replaced.

The pen disa.s.sembled easily enough and he exam-ined each part carefully under the low power microscope. Nothing. And the drawn metal case looked too thin to hold any components; he put a few volts through it as well as a quick blast of radiation for the printed circuitry just in case lie was wrong. He was about to rea.s.semble it when he realized that he had not looked inside the ink refill.

It was messy but rewarding. He rolled the little cylin-der about with the tip of one ink-stained finger. As thick as a grain of rice and perhaps twice as long. Using the micromanipulators he dissected it and marveled at the circuitry and electronics. Half of the bug was powerpack, but considering the minimal current drain, it should run six months at least without recharging. A pressure micro-phone that used all of the surface of the ink supply as a sound pickup, very ingenious. Discrimination circuits to ignore random noise and put the device in the recording mode only for sounds of the human voice. Molecule-level recorder. Transponder circuit that, when hit with the right frequency signal, would broadcast the stored memory at high speed. A lot of work had gone into this, just to eavesdrop on him. Misapplied technology, which was the history of so much of technology. Jan wondered if the pen had been bugged before Liz had given it to him. Thurgood-Smythe might have arranged it easily enough. She had given him the same kind of pen for Christmas and he could have exchanged one for the other.

At this point the wonderful idea struck Jan. It might be a bit of bravado, a bit of hitting back-but he was going to do it no matter what. He bent to dissect the bug, carefully excising out the Read Only Memory section of the transponder. This was something he enjoyed doing. When it was finished to his satisfaction he straightened up and rubbed the knots from his back. Then called his sister.

"Liz-I have the greatest news. I'm going to the moon!"

"I rather thought you were calling to thank me for having that lovely little Irish girl to dinner."

"Yes, that too, very kind. I'll tell you all about her when I see you. But weren't you listening? I said the moon."

"I heard you. But, Jan, really, aren't people going there all of the time?"

"Of course. But haven't you ever wanted to go yourself?"

"Not particularly. It would be rather cold, I imagine."

"Yes, it would be. Particularly without a s.p.a.cesuit. In any case it's not the moon I'm going to, but a satellite. And I think it's important, and so might Smitty, and I want to tell you all about it. I'll take you out for a celebratory dinner tonight."

"How thoughtful! But impossible. 'We have been invit-ed to a reception."

"Then drinks, at your place. I'll save money. Six all right?"

"If you say so. But I don't understand all the rush..."

"Just boyish enthusiasm. See you at six."

Thurgood-Sinythe did not return home until close to seven and Elizabeth showed very little interest in either satellites or s.p.a.ce flight so, after exhausting the conversa-tional possibilities of Orla, Jan turned his attention to mixing a large picture of c.o.c.ktails. A new one called Death Valley, dry, hot, and deadly the bartender had explained, and leave out most of the tobasco for the ladies. Thurgood-Smythe arrived in a rush, puckered his lips over the c.o.c.ktail, and listened with half an ear to the satellite news. Which was undoubtedly old news to him if he were getting surveillance reports. Jan trailed after him and had not the slightest trouble in exchanging gold pens when his brother-in-law changed jackets.

It would probably come to nothing, but there was a certain sweet feeling of success to know he had bugged the b.u.g.g.e.rs. When he ~eft they were relieved to see him go.

On his way home he stopped at a twenty-four hour shop and made the purchases as instructed. He would be meeting Sara again later this same evening and the in-structions had been detailed and precise.

When he returned to his apartment he went straight to the bathroom and extracted the tester from the holder on his belt. He had done this, every day as a matter of routine, since he had found the optic bug set into the light fixture above the sink. Invasion of privacy was one thing, sheer bad taste was another, he had shouted as he had shorted the thing out. Since that time some sort of unspo-ken arrangement seemed to have been made. He made no attempt to search for bugs in the rest of the apartment; surveillance, as far as he could tell, kept their cameras out of the toilet. It was still clear.

Running water into the tub should take care of the sound bugs. There were so many ways of picking up voices and sound that he did not even try to look for them. Just mask them when needed. He bathed quickly, with the water still running, toweled himself dry, and dressed from the skin out with his recent purchases. Underclothes, socks, shoes, dark trouser~roughly the color of the ones he had taken off-shirt and sweater. All of his discarded clothing went into the bag that had held the new items. He pulled on his overcoat, b.u.t.toning it carefully to his chin, picked up gloves and hat and left with the bundle of clothing.

With all of the bugs it might contain whirring and recording like mad.

He looked at the dashboard clock and slowed the car. He was to be at the rendezvous at nine precisely.

No earlier and no later. It was a clear night and a few people were still about in the streets. He turned into the Edgeware Road and proceeded leisurely toward Little Venice. The radio was playing, a little louder than he usually liked it, but the music was also part of the arrangements.

It was exactly on the hour when he stopped at the bridge over Regent's Ca.n.a.l. A man walked out of the darkness and held the car door as he opened it. A scarf around his face concealed his ident.i.ty. He eased the door shut, trying not to click the latch, then drove away. Jan's ident.i.ty and bugs drove away too, along with his overcoat, shoes, and clothing. Until he was back in the car surveil-lance did not kndw where he was, could not see or hear him. A man waved to him from the towpath along the ca.n.a.l.

Jan followed about ten paces behind him, not trying to catch up. The wind was cold, cutting through the sweater, and he hunched his shoulders, hands jammed into his pockets. Their footsteps were soundless in the snow, the night quiet except for the sound of a television playing in the distance. The frozen ca.n.a.l was an unbroken layer of whiteness. They came to ca.n.a.l boats tied by the path. After looking around the leading man jumped aboard the second one and vanished from sight. Jan did the same, finding the rear door in the darkness and pushing it open. Someone closed it and the lights came on.

"Cold evening," Jan said, looking at the girl seated at the table. Her features were invisible behind the face-changer, but her hair and figure was undoubtedly Sara's. The man he had followed in had a familiar smile and gap-toothed grin.

"Fryer," Jan said, wringing his hand strongly. "It's good to see you again."

"And yourself. Survived your little adventure I see, and did well in the bargain."

"We don't have much time," Sara said sternly. 'And there is a lot to be done."

"Yes, m'am," Jan said. "Do you have a name or do I just keep calling you M'am like you were the Queen?"

"You may call me Queeny, my good man." There was mischief in her voice and Fryer caught it.

"Sounds like you two met before. So you, old son, we'll call you Kingy, because I'm blowed if I remember what name you used last time. Now I have some good beer down in the bilge and I'll get it and 'we'll get on with the night's business."

They had just time enough for a warm embrace before Fryer clattered back up the stairs.

"Here you are," Fryer said, setting two heavy bottles on the deck. He dropped a metal box next to them and went to get a towel from the galley to wipe them dry. There were gla.s.ses ready on the table; Jan unscrewed one of the tops and poured them full.

"Home brew," Fryer said. "Better than the slops they serve in the pubs." He drained his gla.s.s in a single go and began opening the seals on the box while Jan poured him a second one. When the top came off Fryer lifted two small aluminum foil envelopes out of the box and set them on the table.

"To all appearances these are ordinary TV record-ings," Sara said. "In fact you couldplay them on your set at home. One is an organ recital, the other a comedy program. Put them in the bag you will be taking with you-along with some recordings of your own. Make no attempt to hide them. Recordings like these are stock in trade with the s.p.a.cers and there will be plenty about."

"Why are these so special?" Jan asked.

"Fryer, will you go on deck as a lookout?" Sara asked.

"That's the way, Queeny. What they don't know they can't tell."

He picked up the full bottle of beer and went out. As 5()Ofl as the door closed Sara pulled off the face-changer and Jan had her in his arms, kissing her with a pa.s.sion that surprised both of them.

"Not now, please, there is so little time," Sara said, trying to push him away.

"When will there be time? Tell me right now or I won't let you go."

"Jan-tomorrow then. Pick nie up at the club and we'll go ot.i.t for dinner."

'And for afters?"