The house was small, with a living room–dining room combination, except he used the dining room for his home office and what few meals he had here he ate in the kitchen. The two bedrooms led off the short hall, one on the left and one on the right, with the bathroom between them. The front bedroom, the larger one, was his; the back bedroom was nothing extra, just a bedroom, with the requisite furniture. He showed her where the linen closet was, for fresh towels when she showered, then left her to take care of whatever needed taking care of while he went into the living room.
Instead of using his home phone, because he didn’t want anyone to know where he was, he took out his radio and called in, passing along the request to have Nikita’s suitcase picked up at the motel and taken to his office. He’d go in later tonight, when only dispatch was working, and retrieve it. He had to do something about her rental car, too.
An idea struck and he picked up his home phone and called his dad. Kelvin answered on the first ring. “Hardware store.”
“Dad, is it all right if I stash a car in your barn for a while?”
“Sure. Whose car is it?”
“A rental. I don’t want it seen.”
“I can take a tarp home with me tonight if you want to cover it up, just to be on the safe side.”
“That’s a good idea. Thanks.”
“When will you bring it?”
“After dark sometime. I’ll call you.”
“Okay. See you then.”
That was another problem taken care of, Knox thought, if he could just get her car moved without being followed. He’d have to drive it, of course; no one else was going to get a shot at her if he could help it.
She came out of the bathroom, and he noticed how tired she looked. Today had been a hell of a day, for both of them, and it wasn’t over yet.
“Let’s have some soup,” he said, taking her arm and turning her toward the kitchen. “Chicken noodle soup makes everything better.”
“In that case,” she said, “you should open another can.”
12
Nikita wasn’t hungry but the soup was comforting, and the air-conditioning in the house was set slightly too cool for her, so the hot liquid was doubly welcome. They sat at the scarred wooden kitchen table and silently spooned the rich broth and noodles—with a few tiny bits of chicken in the broth to justify the name—out of matching blue bowls. He had almost finished his when his radio crackled to life.
With a resigned expression he listened to the code, then picked up his bowl and spoon and took them to the sink, dumping the soup down the disposal, then turning on the water and flipping the switch. “I have to go,” he said unnecessarily. “Stay inside and don’t answer the phone, unless I’m the one calling.” He scribbled his number on a pad of paper and pushed it toward her. “If that number isn’t what shows up in the ID window on the phone, don’t answer.”
“All right,” Nikita said. The technology was very similar to that in her own time.
He paused on his way out the door and looked back at her. “Will you still be here when I get back?”
“Of course,” she said steadily, tamping down the spurt of resentment that he felt he had to ask that particular question. “I still have a mission to accomplish, and I need your help to do that.”
He nodded and started out the door again, only to pause once more. “Shit,” he said under his breath, striding back to her. Startled, she wondered if he intended to stuff her into the trunk of his car, or maybe handcuff her to a bed frame; she dropped her spoon and scraped her chair back, half rising, ready to fight.
Instead he bent down, propping his left hand on the table and cupping the back of her head in his right, and closed his mouth over hers.
Well,
she thought in dim surprise. Then:
Oh.
He was slow, very slow, and thorough—
very
thorough. His tongue curled into her mouth like an old friend, sure of his welcome. She put her hand over his on the table and he turned his palm up, capturing hers, lacing their fingers together.
A low, warm hum of pleasure, little more than a sigh, sounded in her throat. Of course she had noticed—several times—how attractive he was, but except for that one slip of the tongue she thought she’d been successful in keeping her thoughts to herself. Either his low-key persona had misled her about his self-confidence and boldness, or she had been as transparent as water in her appreciation.
She ended the kiss as leisurely as he had prolonged it, only gradually pulling away. His eyes were heavy-lidded, intent; her own lids felt heavy.
“Do you think a kiss will keep me here?” she asked, her voice low.
He chuckled as he straightened. “No, but I damn sure wanted to know how you taste just in case you do split.”
Split? He thought she would
split
? She didn’t know if he was making a really lewd, disgusting reference, or if he thought she might not survive her assignment, and a laser attack did somewhat look as if the victim had been split open. Either way—
He burst out laughing. “If you could see your face . . .”
“Then my eyes would have to be on stems.”
“
Split
means ‘to leave,’ ” he explained, still laughing as he went out the door.
Nikita sat at the table, wondering how many other times she had missed the meaning of slang expressions, and if he thought she was a complete idiot. Then she laughed softly to herself, because who cared? He knew why she wasn’t familiar with all the slang he used. Some of it, yes, but not all. He had probably been laughing at her all day.
She didn’t want any more soup, so she carried hers to the sink and copied what he had done: dump the food down the drain, turn on the water, then flip a switch that caused an awful grinding sound. When the quality of the sound changed, became a bit smoother, she turned off that switch and then the water.
He probably had one of those automated dish-cleaning machines that were common in this century, but she didn’t want to push her luck. Until she saw him operate it, she would leave well enough alone. Instead, rummaging under the sink, she found a plastic bottle labeled “dishwashing detergent” and washed the dishes by hand, using a small, stiff-bristled brush that seemed to be there for just that purpose. Then she found a clean kitchen towel and spread it out on the countertop, putting the dishes upside down on it to dry.
Domestic duties taken care of, she decided to take advantage of his absence by thoroughly examining his home. If he had thought she would be too polite to pass up this opportunity to inspect an early-twenty-first-century house, then his expectations were far divorced from reality.
She started with the little alcove in back, where two white machines took up all the space. She thought she knew what they were, and by reading the various selections, she deduced she was correct. The machine that had such selections as “Quick Wash” had to be the “washing machine,” which had been used for wet cleaning. No one in her time ever used water for cleaning clothing. The other machine, then, was the drying machine. She opened both and looked inside. The washing machine was half full of socks and underwear, dry, so she assumed they needed washing and she quickly closed that lid. The drying machine was full of towels, and they were dry, so they had just as obviously already been wet-washed.
She pulled one towel out and smelled it; there was a delicious, faintly lemon scent to the fabric. A tag caught her attention and she read it, surprised to find that the towel was one hundred percent cotton. Cotton! Did he know what a fortune these were worth? No, of course he didn’t. Only the very wealthy, the very very wealthy, could afford clothes made from any natural fiber. Cotton, silk, wool, linen—they were more precious than diamonds. Almost all clothing in her time was synthetic; certainly everything she owned was.
The towel reminded her of the bathing apparatus in the motel. She had worked out how to use it, and though part of her was scandalized at the idea of using water to clean herself, she had greatly enjoyed the sensation of warm water cascading over her. Knox had the same arrangement in his bathroom, and after a day spent in these clothes, plus a lot of time out in the hot weather, she
needed
to bathe. Pity she didn’t have her clean clothes to change into yet, but right now she’d be satisfied to wash off the old sweat and grime.
Putting thought into action, she hurried into the bathroom and locked the door, then stripped off her clothes. One of the advantages of the synthetic material was that if you were caught out in the rain, it dried very fast, within minutes. She quickly washed out her underwear and shirt, then hung them to dry before turning on the shower. She would have washed all her clothes, but doing the chore by hand seemed rather daunting. If Knox didn’t bring her suitcase back with him, though, she would have to wash her clothes tonight before she went to bed.
After wrapping a towel around her head to keep her hair dry, she stepped under the warm water and sighed with bliss. Her time might be best in terms of convenience, but this time was definitely best in some things, a water bath being one of them. A plentiful supply of cotton towels was another. Oh, and paper! she thought, almost salivating at the idea of taking some paper back with her—assuming she didn’t get killed, assuming SAR was sent with replacement links so she
could
go home, assuming a lot of other factors went in her favor.
The thought of home dimmed her delight in the shower. She couldn’t let herself think that she might not be able to get home. She had family, friends, a job she loved. She was close to her parents and to her younger sister, Fair; her younger brother, Connor, had confounded everyone two years ago by giving up his wild bachelor days for married life, and he and his wife had promptly produced a fat, adorable baby boy whom she doted on. She couldn’t imagine never getting to see Jemi’s dimpled little face again, or listen to his infectious laugh. She
had
to go home, or she wouldn’t be able to bear it.
Clean and smelling of an herbal-scented soap, she turned off the water and dried herself with the towel she’d wrapped around her head. On the vanity were a few items and she inspected them, recognizing a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste—the tube said “toothpaste” on it, so there wasn’t much chance of guessing wrong on that one—and a razor for shaving. Men still used razors in her time; it was another one of those objects that worked. In her time, though, toothbrushes hadn’t been used for about a century; antiviral drugs had wiped out tooth decay in the modernized world, and mouthwashes broke down the sticky material that got on teeth, dissolving it.
She found a bottle of moisturizer—unscented—and smoothed it over her skin, then got dressed. Her underwear and shirt were dry, and felt much better now that they’d been freshened. Comfortable and relaxed, she resumed her exploration of the house.
In the main room, the living room, were a couple of comfortable chairs and a large leather couch, plus a much larger video screen than any she’d seen before in this time. The one in the motel room had been small compared to this one. The floor was covered with a carpet that didn’t look as if it had seen much traffic. There were a couple of lamps, some small tables, and at the other end of the room was a desk with one of the large, primitive computers and another small video screen. There were also books, all of them paper copies, and her hand trembled with excitement as she picked one up and flipped through the pages.
Did these people realize how lucky they were, that they had so very many books printed on paper? One of the great tragedies of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries was that so much of their music, their books, their
culture,
had been recorded on computer discs that hadn’t stood up to time very well. Within two generations, the discs had deteriorated and most of the data was lost. Some of it could be re-created, of course; songs could be sung by other singers. But those original recordings were gone, never to be recovered. Manuscripts, research . . . so much of it lost. Paper seemed so very fragile, but there were fragments of paper hundreds of years old, proving that, with care, it was a viable medium for information.
She turned on his computer, and waited an interminable amount of time while it whirred and clicked before finally becoming operational. Absently she said, “Open communication program,” then laughed at herself when nothing happened. Voice-recognition programs existed now, but they weren’t the norm.
She sat down in front of the video screen and experimented with the manual operational system, fascinated with the little arrow that told you where you were on the screen. Computer knowledge had exploded in the late twentieth century, along with so many other sciences that had built her own world.
She was reluctant to do too much, though, because she was afraid she might inadvertently destroy the system. She clicked various icons until she found how to tell the computer to turn itself off.
Next she examined the bedrooms. His room was larger than the one he’d designated for her use, and the bed was larger. It was unmade, the pillows punched together in a lump, the sheet and blankets rumpled and thrown to the side. On the dresser was a photograph of a pretty young woman, and Nikita went closer to examine it. The woman’s green eyes seemed to smile, and invite a smile in return. There were no other photographs. A telephone sat on a small table beside the bed, as well as a lamp, two books, a magazine, a glass with about an inch of water in the bottom, and one sock.
Something definitely hadn’t changed in two centuries: men.
Having satisfied her curiosity, she returned to the living room and turned on the large video screen. Judging from what she had seen the night before in the motel, she could learn more about the mechanics of this culture by watching television than by ten years of intensive study in her own time.
She settled on the couch and was soon fast asleep.
The ringing of the telephone woke her. She scrambled to her feet and ran to the kitchen to grab the phone. First she checked the number in the lit ID screen, and it matched the number Knox had scribbled down. She pressed what seemed the most likely button and said, “Hello.”
“So you’re still there.”
“I said I would be.” She yawned, then peered at her wristwatch. It was analog instead of digital, and her mind was too clouded with sleep to make sense of all those hands. “I’ve been asleep; what time is it?”
“Just after six. I’ll be through here in another fifteen, twenty minutes. Want me to bring something home for supper?”
She paused, then cautiously said, “Do you need to?”
“If you want to eat tonight, yeah. I don’t have much in the way of groceries.”
She wasn’t particularly hungry, after having soup that afternoon, but she remembered how good lunch had tasted and said, “Could we have another hamburger?”
He chuckled. “You liked those, huh?”
“Yes. They’re horribly bad for your health, I think, but I liked the taste.”
“Everything that tastes good is bad for your health. It’s a rule.”
That hadn’t changed, either. Every time something that tasted really good was developed, within a year there was a huge outcry about how unhealthy the product was. Not even vegetables and fruit escaped the notice of the alarmists.
“A hamburger,” she said firmly. “And the french fries.”
“That’s the way to live. I’ll be home in about forty minutes, depending on how long it takes me to get the burgers. Has anyone called?”
“No, it’s been quiet.”
“Good. I hope it stays that way.”
While she waited for him to arrive, she splashed cool water in her face, and combed her hair. The nap had renewed her energy, and she felt as if she could function for another twelve hours if need be.
He estimated time very well, pulling into his driveway thirty-nine minutes later. She waited in the kitchen, aware of a warm sense of pleasure as she anticipated the opening of the door, seeing him for the first time since that surprising kiss.
He came in bearing her suitcase and white paper sacks from which wafted the most delicious aroma. His jacket was off, his weapon holstered in his shoulder harness. With his jeans and boots, he looked as if he belonged in an even earlier century, when horses were still the main mode of transportation. His jaw was dark with beard shadow, his hair hanging over his forehead, but he didn’t look tired. Instead his blue eyes were sharp and alert, and he moved without any obvious fatigue dragging at him.