第46节

w that the loyal, stalwart and

trustworthy Steven Roosevelt Brickman could also keep a secret.

Steve had not forgotten his earlier decision to hew his own path

through the impenetrable forest of lies and deception that had sprung

up around the First Family but now that he had gotten within spitting

distance of a man who worked with the President-General this was not

the moment to start wielding the axe.

When Pruett came to collect him next morning, she found Steve standing

at ease in an impeccably pressed jump-suit by the door to the ward.

'Good morning, Mister Brickman."

'Good morning, ma'am,' replied Steve. Again the smile - and now

'mister'! Was this part of the softening-up process? Or was this how

Junior Execs addressed each other? Steve had never met anyone from the

Black Tower before. He'd come into contact with some of Uncle Ban's

senior staff but they were Provos.

And like Uncle Bart they were, well - a special brand of shit-head.

Steve and Pruett retraced the route that led to Karlstrom's office.

'The Commander-General will be with you in a moment." She left him

standing facing the large, solid desk made of red-brown wood. Smooth

and gleaming, with swirling black lines that reminded him of the

pattern on Clearwater's oiled body...

Commander-General Karlstrom appeared through the door behind the desk

and acknowledged Steve's salute with a curt nod. 'You ready to

talk?"

'Yes, Commander."

'Good. Step this way." Steve followed him back through the door and

found they had entered a small elevator. The door slid shut as

Karlstrom aimed his voice at a grille that occupied the place where the

floor selector buttons were usually found. 'llp four please..."

Steve assumed he meant four floors - which would bring them out on

Level Four-6. In other parts of the Federation the level was displayed

boldly on the wall facing the elevator but he had noticed this was not

the practice in the White House. Steve concluded that it must be a

security measure designed to confuse intruders. But who, he asked

himself, would contemplate storming the White House?

He followed Karlstrom out of the elevator into an enormous circular

lobby with a domed thirty-foot-high ceiling. Doors to other elevators

were set at regular intervals around the wall. Clustered together in

the centre of the lobby were four big tubes each about a yard in

diameter. The tubes came out of the floor and went up through the

ceiling. Set around the tubes was a circular wall of marble about ten

feet high divided into segments by turnstiles. A bevelled, horizontal

aperture set in each section of the wall at counter height made the

whole structure look like a cross between a futuristic reception desk

and a way-station bunker. Trackers wearing uniforms Steve had never

seen before manned the counters. They wore parade caps with red tops,

white headbands and a dark blue peak that was angled down sharply over

their eyes and short, tri-colour jackets over white straight-legged

ducks. The jackets were cut waist-high at the back and up in a V over

the abdomen, the blue across the shoulders, upper chest and sleeves

being separated from the red by a broad white chest band and matching

chevron on the arm. Each guard carried an extra-long-barrelled air

pistol in a white leather holster and all of them wore gold ensign rank

bars on their high collars.

The set-up, Steve decided, could only be designed to guard one

person.

His knees became watery at the thought. Karlstrom was recognised as he

approached and a captain appeared at the turnstile, saluting as the

Commander-General went through. He handed an ID-card to the captain,

who passed it on for verification.

I99

One of the ensigns at the counter gave Steve the nod as his card was