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I'm really caught in the middle. There are circumstances here that you don't
know about. They probably
override the funding statutes."
"What are you talking about? How can you 'override' statutes?"
"Besides," she ignored his question, "you know how the press is."
"How is the press?"
"They'll twist anything you say. You're at the mercy of their personal slant.
They can make you look like a leech. Especially when you have a delicate
situation you're trying to keep quiet."
"Damn it, Elena! I don't have to listen to you insulting Annie. Are you going
to talk to me or not?"
"Damn it yourself, Carter! You come swooping in here with your little reporter
in tow, ready to accuse us of God knows what, and then you insult me for not
being polite. It's you that owes me an explanation of what's going on."
The word "little" stuck in Carter's mind. The adjective that women apply to
other women they view as competition. "Is it Annie you're upset about, or some
secret you're trying to hide? Let's just forget it, Lena. Jeez." Carter got up
to go.
Elena sprang to her feet. "Wait, Carter, I'm sorry." She put her hand on his
arm, but he shook it off. He kept his other hand on the doorknob. "Maybe I am
a little jealous. Who wouldn't be?" A pretty compliment. "But that's not the
main thing here."
"What is the main thing here, Lena?"
She said nothing.
"At the beginning, this looked like a tragic accident. But now Stafford's gone
and it's snowballing into something ... I don't know what, and you're not
helping me. I've got a commission from the Council to investigate it and make
a report. What have you got?"
"I want to help you, Carter. Stay with me tonight. Talk to me."
There were tears welling up in her eyes. My God, Carter thought.
"Just tell me what's going on, Lena."
Philippe, sitting in his room after dinner, had felt useless during the whole
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trip. Carter had asked him for help; all he had done was tag along, saying
"yes" and "no." Why had he really come? Was it just his private motivation:
the chance to see the ice fields of thesouth pole for the first time, the
chance to sketch out ideas while the others scurried around...?
And what was the point of that? Once, he had invented a questionnaire for
himself. The main purpose of my art is: (a) to show off, (b) to contribute
something to society, (c) to earn a living, (d) to relieve a psychological
compulsion, (e) I haven't the foggiest idea. He wondered why the answer was
(e). What would Rodin have said, or Pericles? Had his heroes felt as ordinary
and confused as he did?
Well, he was no more naive than Carter, with his American ideas of open
societies and noble cities motivated by science. So here they were and now
Carter was stuck, hitting dead ends as he explored his formal channels,
probably with Annie at his side. No, he had promised himself not to obsess
about
Annie. At least he had his art to fall back on, to fill the vacuum she had
created.
Philippe looked at his watch: 9:00 P.M. local time. So, now was the time for
action. He was the only one who could dare to prowl about on his own, and dig
up ... something. As Carter said, if anyone stopped him, he could always play
the innocent artist. That was one benefit of being a creative person.
No one took you seriously.
His own suspicion was that everyone here had something to hide. He could see
it in their eyes.
Something about this place, it was not normal. He could imagine the whole
place being bugged and monitored, like the hotels in Washington in the
mid-twenties.
He was about to open the door of his room, when he heard Carter's voice in the
hall. Opening his door a crack, he could see one of Elena's goons the "guide"
he had talked to earlier taking Carter offdown the hall. "The boss wants to
talk to you," the goon said.
Philippe watched them through a crack in the door as they headed up the steps.
Here was his chance.
He was pretty sure he could find his way back to Elena's office. It was late;
nobody was around. Maybe
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