Drin is aware that his fellow serious Symphony patrons are mostly auditory people. They can remember voices but not faces. They do not respond to, nor do they think of appealing to, visual sensory input–which explains a lot about the …
When he wakes up, in the dark, his body is rocking back and forth at some indeterminate height, on inadequate padding, and something is brushing at his hair. He blinks, twists a little, and relaxes. He is in the upper …
Drin is fighting off a desperate sense of deja blank.
The social part of his monkey brain is screaming, “Come on, get with it here–I ought to know this person, I ought to know about the business I’ve been …
By his own telling, this is the guy who argued.
His comments, in Dance’s emails to his Grandmother-teacher, reveal that he still thinks he was disobedient. Defied the rules, became an artiste, ran away from home, changed his name, and …
While Pancras does his spiel, Auren Han drinks his Coke and watches. He’s not watching Pancras. He’s in the deep field, watching something else, not Pancras, who is describing dangling a reticent witness–an attorney–out of a small propeller plane.
Beyond …
“Why don’t you tell me a little about your experience coordinating security,” Auren Han says.
His tablemate proffers him a Coke, which he accepts politely.
“In Taipei,” Don Pancras begins, promisingly enough; Barret, Han thinks, would already be calling him …
The big kids are boring. Dav is showing off for Callie and her friends. ‘Course, his dad Pen is saving practically half the people in the whole world by letting them stay in his house during the storm, so it’s …
“There’s a little fluffy business,” Pen says then, “with maths. Isn’t there? Set of codes? Codes and rotations–Ah! Locatelli. You reverse-engineered the song, didn’t you, from the findings. Show me. No, first the numbers, then the tune. The–this is daft. …
“It’s locked,” Pen says, “because it’s dangerous. This instrument is deadly dangerous.” Certainly, Dance thinks, Pen looks nervous. “Often–” and he sees it again, a cloudiness, evidence of a secret,in Pen’s face–it’s like finding a secret door where you …
Drin hadn’t been sure Pen would come, and Barret had just shrugged. “Anybody’s guess,” he says, as he sits down on the floor, not quite level with Dance, but much closer. Not looming over him.
“Barret,” Dance says, staring mostly …