Lorimer tickled the back of Elliot’s neck. “When do we leave, stranger?”
“Get your stuff, meet me back here in three minutes. I’ll see what the computer says.”
Lorimer gave him a grace kiss on the mouth. “Be right back.”
Elliot propelled her out the door with a pat on the rump. 124
Alongside Night
As the door shut, Elliot unclipped his photo badge from his jacket, inserting the card into his computer station. The video display lit up at once:
OPERATOR: ELLIOT VREELAND ALIAS JOSEPH RABINOWITZ CONTRACT 23-NY-890
PRELIMINARY INVESTIGATION MADE VREELAND FAMILY WHEREABOUTS: TWO WOMEN TENTATIVELY IDENTIFIED AS CATHRYN AND
DENISE VREELAND CONFINED INCOMMUNICADO, 23 FEBRUARY, FBI MAXIMUM SECURITY PRISON CODE NAME “UTOPIA,” CHESHIRE, MASSACHUSETTS. REMOVAL NOW NOT POSSIBLE.
ALL INVESTIGATIONS TO DATE DR. MARTIN VREELAND REPORT NEGATIVE. SEARCH TO PROCEED. WILL NOTIFY YOU RESULTS WHEN AVAILABLE. They’ve killed him, thought Elliot.
ACCOUNT TO DATE:
TRANSPORTATION ................................................ AU 2.500 GRAMS
REGISTRATION ...................................................... AU 1.000
ROOM (ONE NIGHTS) ............................................. AU 2.000
COMMISSARY ....................................................... AU 0.174
INQUIRY .............................................................. AU 20.000
TOTAL CHARGES .................................................. AU 25.674 GRAMS
PAYMENT ON ACCOUNT DEFERRED.
PLEASE REPORT AT ONCE TO SECURITY DESK, TERMINAL FLOOR, FOR
EVACUATION TO NEW YORK
All but the last sentence winked off. Elliot pulled out his photo badge, and the display went blank.
Alongside Night
125
For a long moment, Elliot sat in front of the lifeless console, arching forward over it to brace himself. That his father was not confined with his mother and sister meant almost surely that he had been murdered. Images of words he had just seen lingered: CONFINED INCOMMUNICADO …UTOPIA …REMOVAL NOT NOW POSSIBLE …
The unspeakable emptiness felt when Denise had told him their father was dead returned, thricefold, multiplied also by the suffocating frustration of feeling impotent to do anything about it.
There was a knock at the door; Elliot got up and let Lorimer in. One arm held a Genghis Khan coat and a small travel bag; her other held a cigarette. “All set …Hey, what’s wrong?”
Elliot made an effort to control his voice, after a moment replying evenly, “My problem. I’ll have to handle it.”
Lorimer nodded solemnly. “I checked with the station in my room. I’m supposed to go to the security desk.”
“Same here.” Elliot violently yanked his overcoat from its hanger. “C’mon, we’d better get the hell moving.”
As they rode the elevator down, stopping at the second floor for more passengers, Elliot was surprised at the tranquility pervading the complex. Were the agorists all on barbiturates?
No one pushed frantically to get onto the elevator; those for whom there was no room seemed willing to wait in line for its next trip. Nobody ran panic-stricken down the halls. There were no sirens. It just did not seem as if a major emergency was taking place.
Upon disembarking on the Terminal floor, Elliot and Lorimer found themselves at the tail end of a long line to the security alcove; there were perhaps seventy persons stretched ahead of them, carrying a wide variety of luggage and apparel. Still, the atmosphere was cheery and matter-of-fact—not at all what he had expected. Elliot gained some small understanding by eavesdropping on two men in front of him—one of the 126
Alongside Night
few public dialogues he had overheard, in fact, among the necessarily taciturn countereconomic traders. “It’s a goddam nuisance,” grumbled the younger of the two. “At these prices you would think they could avoid this sort of problem.”
“Two hours’ warning of a raid is not what I would call unreasonable,” his friend said.
“It might as well have been two minutes, for all the good it does me. I have a half-quintal commodities account downstairs. Now what am I supposed to do?”
“Stop acting like an ass, Red.”
That ended the discussion.
In forty-five minutes they were at the security desk, the line now stretching behind. Commandant Welch was again on duty, saying to Lorimer, “Badge, please.” She handed it over, the commandant inserting it into the console built onto his desk.
“You’re in Group Eight. Claim any property checked here, then wait for your number to be called.” A guard led Lorimer over to the lockers, where she retrieved a small leather pouch, while the commandant took Elliot’s badge. “Group Five,” the commandant told him, “leaving Terminal in eleven minutes.”