The Company Man

By Joe Clifford Faust

Andrew Birch is a Company Man – a spy, a soldier, a saboteur... a corporate terrorist by any other name. He is one of the top operatives for Astradyne, one of the giant corporations that now rule the irradiated world he lives in. Among his peers, his ruthless efficiency and his love for the company are legendary.

Then, on a routine mission, a chance encounter puts an all-too-human face on the consequences of corporate rule. As Birch begins to question the world he has helped build, corporate war breaks out - and he now finds himself a pawn in a game that goes deeper than he ever imagined.

And Birch begins to wonder if perhaps he has put his faith in the wrong thing...

REVIEWS

“What makes this a better book than most is the real growth in the characters… a book worth the attention of those who like spy thrillers with a little extra.” –LOCUS

“On one level, The Company Man is a violent, exciting, snapping-good suspense yarn. On another, it’s a worrying premonition of a future that doesn’t seem all that far-fetched.” –Minneapolis Star-Tribune

1989 Locus Award Nominee – SF Novel

A Locus Recommended Novel

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781625670588

Joe Clifford Faust

Joe Clifford Faust was born in North Dakota, raised in Alberta and Wyoming, went to college in Oklahoma, and now lives in Ohio. He has been married for more than thirty years to the same woman, has two adult children, and has worked at a local advertising agency since 1997. When not writing, he can be found ministering to his Church family, eating chili, badly singing and playing original songs on the guitar, playing wargames, and reading books on his Kindle.

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THE GLASS HIGHWAY

minneapolis, south to the gulf

1

A man, walking, face tucked into his coat against the cold winter wind.

Martin Nello spotted him first. He had been fiddling with the radio and had stopped on a station broadcasting a popsong he liked, No Corazón. He reached over and tapped his partner on the shoulder. There he is, Andy.

Andrew Birch sat up in the driver's seat and squinted out the window. The man was wearing a canvas coat that he held shut with one hand. The other held a black briefcase, which rocked back and forth, banging occasionally against his knee. He had no hat, and the wind tossed his hair. Tiny, hard flakes of snow were lodging there, melting and freezing again, making it stiff in the face of the storm.

It looks like him, Birch said. He reached under his seat and pulled a long object into his lap. While he checked it over, Nello made some adjustments on the board in front of him and a small porthole opened in one of the windows.

Birch put the stock to his shoulder and placed the other end out the porthole. He peered into the scope, his left thumb feeling a line of buttons along the grip. Across the bottom of the oval-shaped field of view, the word ENHANCE appeared. Birch held the button, counted to three, and the man pulled into focus: dark hair, sunken eyes, hard stare, face flushed with cold. In the background, people passed him on the street, oblivious. To them he was just another businessman.

Nello busied himself tapping on a small keyboard. On the screen that rested between them, an image appeared.

This him? Nello asked.

Give it to me in color, Birch said.

Nello tapped again. The amber hues filled out, and the face became flesh. Birch studied the screen and then peered back into the scope, singing along with the tune on the radio.

"Tinny no corazón pa'mi," he hummed flatly.

What does that mean?

You have no heart for me, Birch answered. That's our man, Nello. He's heading right into it. His left thumb struck another button, and liquid crystal cross hairs were superimposed over the field of view. Birch led the man, moving the cross hairs at whim, putting them over the head, the chest, and the throat. He moved his left thumb, and the field of view pulled back, giving him a head-to-toe view of the man fighting the wind. He moved the cross hairs back to the chest.

The man continued down the block, squinting as the wind drove stinging particles of snow into his face. It didn't distract him. He walked on, looking straight ahead, watching for his destination.

Birch watched, too. The cross hairs never left the man's chest.

He's closing in, Nello advised.

He won't get away, Birch said. He's walking right into it.

Ten meters, Andy.

Birch counted down. At five he could see the lettering on the building the man was headed for. The building was a coated granite affair with letters hewn into the rock above the main doors: EDISON ELECTRONIC RESEARCH LIMITED. An Astradyne Company. Established C. Y. XLII.

Two meters, Nello said, his voice rising in pitch.

"No tengo corazón pa'usted, Birch sang. I have no heart for you."

He pulled the trigger.

The Pentax Turbo went into action. The film drive hummed, and the shutter wheel spun. Through the scope, Birch saw each shot frozen for an instant, as it would look when developed. The man took a last step, and his hand came away from his coat. He grabbed the handle of the door and walked through. There was glare, but Birch could see him waiting as he was vacuumed off. Then the man reached for the second set of doors, pulled, and was gone.

Birch's view of the building turned red, and the machine against his shoulder beeped. Got him, Birch said triumphantly. He took the Turbo from his shoulder, opened it, and tossed the spent film cassette to Nello. Mark it and give me another.

Nello handed his partner a 100-exposure cassette, which Birch slipped into the Turbo. Now we're ready for him.

Hungry? Nello asked.

Not really.

Nello rubbed his chin. He had short-cropped curly brown hair and two days worth of beard on his face. He patted his expanding waistline. I could use something.

All right, Birch said. You talked me into it. Give me a Hershey bar.

Nello looked at him with tired eyes. I was thinking of something more substantial.

Such as what?

There's a Burroughs Burger down the street.

I thought you wanted something substantial, Birch grumbled.

More substantial than chocolate.

Watch the building. Birch stabbed his finger at it. We don't know how long he's going to be in there. We'll get something substantial when this is sewn up.

We could be on this another couple of days, Nello protested.

Birch scratched his chin. He needed a shave, too. It won't be more than twenty-four hours. We've got to nail him and his contact at EdenCo before they realize we've set them up with dummy documents. Besides, we can eat when he does.

Nello started to say something relevant to the subject of food but never finished his sentence. Over the sounds of the radio came a tapping on the cockpit window. Nello looked up over Birch's head. Cop, he said.

Birch popped the hatch window open. Cold air blasted in. Good afternoon, Officer, he said, talking loudly to be heard above the wind. What can I do for you?

The cop thumped the Mercedes logo on the hood of their STV. Gentlemen, I'm going to have to ask you to move on. This area has restricted-access parking. No HDVs allowed.

This isn't a heavy-duty—

No large vehicles, the cop said sharply. No POVs. Minneapolis is a restricted-access suburban area, and only ICVs are allowed in. This type of vehicle is prohibited unless licensed by a proper masstrans group.

Birch extended an open palm to Nello. Wallet. A pseudo-leather packet slapped into his hand. He pulled out a plastic card. Officer, this area falls into the Astradyne corporate jurisdiction. This lot has certified clearance for Astradyne vehicles, and my partner and I are here on official Astradyne Company business. He handed the officer the card.

We should be out of the area soon, Nello added. We're waiting to make a verification.

The cop looked at the card, his face sour. He pulled a small plastic tube from his pocket and ran it up and down the sides of the STV, listening to it click. Well, he said, your emission levels are well below limits. He pocketed the radbar. But I still don't want this thing sitting and spewing radiation all over my beat.

Officer, Birch said, you get more radiation from that granite building over there than—

I don't want to hear about it, the cop snapped. You'd better be out of here within the hour, or I'm going to have you ejected, corporate jurisdiction or not. He handed the card back. Thank you, Mr. Birch.

Have a good day, Birch replied, sealing the window.

Nello sniffed. Rent-a-cops.

Did you bring your Get Out of Jail Free Card?

He won't run us in. Nello chuckled. Not for parking here.

In Minneapolis they will, Birch told him. This is one of the least radded cities in the country. They're really strict with plutonium-operated-vehicles.

A rad is a rad, Nello replied. You sure you don't want a Burroughs Burger?

Certain. Give me a Hershey bar.

Nello relented, handing his partner a paprin-wrapped bar. He ran his hand over his stomach as he did, expecting it to start growling at any moment.

If you pet that thing, Birch said, unwrapping the bar, you'll only make it mean.

I don't know how you do it, Nello said. I haven't eaten since 8a, and I'm dying.

Birch chewed his chocolate and thumped his stomach. Deprivation. The stuff that all company men are made of.

You've just got a slow metabolism, and an incredibly tolerant one at that. If I ate the stuff I've seen you put in your mouth, I'd be on a cold slab by now.

Birch broke off a piece of the bar and offered it to Nello.

No. thanks. It'll only make things worse. Besides, it'll go straight to my gut.

Birch swallowed and smiled, Nello, anything you eat goes straight to your gut. You're a fine one to be complaining about quality food. You're the one who wanted to go to Burrough's House of Soy.

"I didn't say I liked them, Nello shot back. I just wanted something more substantial than— He looked at the waxy brown slab that Birch was holding out to him. Oh, he sighed. What the hell." He took the chocolate and popped it between his lips.

Attaboy, Birch encouraged him. "Tell you what. When this is over, we'll drive over to San Fran, and I'll buy Chinese.

We don't have to go that far, Nello said. There's a great place in Cincy.

Birch gestured at the Edison building. If he's going where I think he's going, we'll be in the neighborhood. EdenCo's based in L.A.

What if he's not going to L.A.?

Birch wiped his lips with two fingers. Then you're buying the Chinese in Cincy.

Nello scrounged another Hershey from under the seat and tore the paprin from the top. As he bit the tip from the bar, he looked out the window. Heads up, he said. There's our man.

Already? Birch swore and opened the porthole. He put the Pentax to his shoulder and drew a bead on the doors. The man was standing outside the Edison building, studying his watch. That didn't take long.

Suspicions confirmed. He's got an inside connection.

Birch flipped on the enhance circuit and zoomed in. He moved the field of view until he was focused on the maroon briefcase their target was holding with white knuckles. Start the tracker, he told Nello. Our man is hot.

Nello pivoted the seat to his left and turned on the screen. A series of concentric circles appeared, along with a flashing amber light and an accompanying electronic chirp. You were right on top of that, Andy.

Birch didn't hear him. He had zoomed back and pulled the Turbo's trigger, tracking the man as he walked in front of the letters carved in granite. Come to Poppa, he said as he zoomed in on the case. Show us your pretty new briefcase. He took intermittent shots of the man over the next minute. Three seconds of him standing by the words EDISON ELECTRONIC RESEARCH. Another five in sequence of him walking away. Close-ups of the hand and the briefcase. A full-length shot of him walking down the street, the briefcase swinging like a pendulum. After thirty seconds of pulling the trigger on the Turbo, he had burned up the 100 exposures.

More film?

No, Birch said, breaking the camera down and packing it into a neofoam case. He's going to be running, and we need to find who's on the other end. He clicked the case shut and slipped it into a compartment behind his seat.

What about the insider at Edison?

He's their problem right now. Ours is this courier's boss.

Nello grunted and checked the tracking screen. He's a hundred meters away, no longer moving parallel.

Strap in. Birch started the sequence for powering up the engines.

Nello hit the seat lock and pivoted forward. It clicked into place. He reached up and pulled straps down around his shoulders, locking them to the harness. Ready.

Put us on independent vector and call up the Minneapolis metro grid.

Nello punched the orders into a keypad. The screen changed to a topographic map of downtown Minneapolis. You want silhouette ID?

No. We'll be above the buildings in a minute. He took the control yoke in his hands and pulled back. The STV tilted back and then rose neatly from the parking lot, leaving behind a puddle of melted asphalt.

Ten meters, Nello said. Retracting landing struts.

Birch worked the foot pedals, and the vehicle rotated like a top, affording them a view of the buildings they were rising past. Put the compass on the window.

Nello fed the order into the STV's terminal. The cabin darkened, and pink lines appeared on the window, neatly superimposed over the skylines on the outside. A display at bottom center read out their compass heading in degrees.

Change it to green, Birch growled.

The pink lines and numerical display changed to fluorescent green.

Thank you. Target's heading?

Nello looked at the tracker. Looks like two two seven at two hundred meters.

Birch manipulated the foot pedals until the display on the window read 227, then locked the heading in and urged the machine forward. They were above the Minneapolis skyline, mingling with the other vehicles that were passing in a layer of smog. Birch checked his altitude and relative distance to other vehicles, then passed over the city.

Whoa, Nello told him. We're right over him, plus or minus. He's stopped.

In a building?

I can't tell. He could very well be. There's no discernible movement.

Birch swore. He's up to something. He looked out the windows and into the angled mirrors that showed the city below. We can't maintain this altitude much longer. Find a place to set down.

Here?

Right here. Any building will do.

Nello checked the metro grid. There aren't many with a POV-rated pad, and nothing nearby is within Astradyne jurisdiction.

It doesn't have to be in Astradyne jurisdiction. I just need to set down so I don't burn out the power plant.

Forget it, partner, Nello said, too loudly. Our man is moving. Fast.

From where?

Nello took deep breaths and read the screen. He's above us. He must be in a standard travel vehicle. One five zero meters and clearing, heading one eight seven degrees.

One eight seven. Those are the cruise path coordinates. He's running. Birch put his hand on the forward thrusters and brought up the speed. Out the window, vehicles of different classes and makes dotted the thick air.

We'll clear Minneapolis metro in two minutes. Then you can drop to cruising altitude.

Thanks, Birch said. Link the tracker in with the window display and give me a targeting halo.

As Minneapolis flashed below, Nello reprogrammed the STV's window. A fluorescent blue oval flickered onto the temperglass, marking a dark speck in the afternoon sky.

There he is.

As Birch and Nello watched, the dot in the halo lowered to the bottom part of their window. It moved in on a thin, silvery ribbon that cut a path through the barren winter forest.

He's dropping, Nello continued. He's going for the path, all right.

Birch boosted the speed and eased the yoke forward. Their altitude dropped, and the cruising speed indicator showed they were moving in excess of 300 kilometers per hour. I'm going to max out as soon as we get close enough to the ground to be safe. See if you can figure which travel vector he's reading.

Nello pointed out the window to a nearby landmark, two small strips of black running parallel to each other. It was dotted with crawling specks of bright colors. There's the old ICV highway, I-35. This cruise path follows it all the way to the Gulf of Mexico.

Des Moines, Birch said sourly. Maybe he's following the Des Moines vector. His voice changed to a threat. Would you check it, please?

Nello flushed and tapped his keyboard. As he worked, Birch brought the vehicle within twenty meters of the path's glass surface and kicked up the speed. The safety board lit with a series of amber flickers when he hit 400 kph. He's following the Kansas City vector, Andy.

The Kansas City vector's along the same path as Des Moines.

With the way he's running? I don't think so. It'd be stupid to make such a short hop. Des Moines isn't a hub like Kansas City, and EdenCo sure as hell doesn't have a branch there.

So you think he's going to vector into Kansas City and head west from there?

Why not? Kansas City to Oklacity, on to Albuquerque, Phoenix, and straight into L.A. Makes sense, doesn't it?

Why wouldn't he vector into Denver?

He could, but if it was me, I wouldn't. Denver's the only vector in the Winterland work district. He'd either go through Albuquerque and Phoenix or shoot straight into L.A. He's still going through the desert with my route, but it's not as rough a trip.

Birch smiled at his partner. You're learning, Martin. Nello smiled and fed the Kansas City vector frequency to the navigational computer. He told Birch that they were ready to switch to vector piloting and was informed that they needed to do some catching up first.

An irritating chirp filled the cabin, and the STV started to tremble. Red lights glowed on the safety board.

Are you out of your mind? Nello yelped. When we hit five hundred, this thing will shake apart.

We won't be there that long. Hang on. Birch pushed the thrust up, and they sank into their seats, the Mercedes rattling in protest at the excessive speed. He gripped the control yoke and wove in and out of the slower-moving cruise vehicles, watching the haloed image on the window grow in size.

Things were coming at Nello too quickly from the front window. He rolled his head and looked out across the silvery glass of the cruise path and at the old asphalt interstate. They were moving so fast that the internal combustion vehicles were blurs. Just as he thought he was going to be shaken out of his straps, a buzzer sounded. Birch pulled back on the thrust, and the power plant whined in relief. The numbers on the speed display dropped to 300.

Cruising speed, Birch said. Kansas City vector engaged.

Nello looked at the window. What had been a speck was now visible as a standard travel vehicle. The superimposed halo had grown to accommodate it.

Birch took his hands off the yoke and stretched them. Ladies and gentlemen, he said in his best airline pilot voice. "For your entertainment, Mr. Andrew Birch will sing the immolation scene from Götterdämmerung."

Spare me, Nello sneered playfully. He unlocked his seat and pivoted, checking the cabinets behind him. He opened one and pulled out a pair of binoculars.

You don't like my singing?

I don't like Wagner. Your singing I hate.

Birch shrugged. Only trying to pass the time.

Don't you have a more profitable way to do it?

As a matter of fact, I do. Birch shifted in his seat. How'd you like to get in good with Kessler?

Nello scowled. I don't have a good-looking wife he can sleep with.

I'm serious, Nello. I've got an idea for a weapon that could buy points for us. There have been problems with hitting high-level meetings because it seems like the target you really want to take out is never there. So I started thinking about how to increase the odds a little. I think the answer is an infrared detonator.

His partner looked at him and rested the binoculars in his lap. Infrared?

Birch nodded. I heard somewhere that ten people in a room will raise that room's temperature by one degree an hour—or something like that. So you make a component that reads heat and put in a little microchip that can be programmed for whatever level you need. If five guys are at your meeting, you tell it to activate when it gets an equivalent reading.

And it detonates the explosive.

Or cuts the power. Or releases gas. Whatever you want it to do.

What if the heater is on or they've got an external heat source like a coffeepot?

It'd have to be smart. It could only read and calculate heat sources that are stable within a small percentage of thirty-seven degrees.

Nello stared at him.

You like it?

Nello smiled. If it works right, I'd say it'd be worth an Elite rating. Work on it.

I will. Birch leaned back in his seat and folded his arms.

Nello trained the binoculars out the window and zoomed in on their prey. That's what I thought. He's got a single-man steve.

Bad news, Birch said. He could probably outrun us if he catches wind that we're here.

No way, Nello said, squinting. It looks like a General Motors. Probably a Glenn or a Yeager. It's a piece of junk.

Nobody said EdenCo was smart. Birch smirked. But don't let it fool you. We've got to be ready for anything.

Anything, Nello said, except supper.

His stomach rumbled loudly.

2

Two hours later they were on the Kansas City approach. Birch took the vehicle off vector and slowed with the GM, letting it get ahead with the incoming traffic.

The target took the vehicle from the cruise path and up, high across outer Kansas City so that the vehicle's exhaust wouldn't damage the suburban lawns and homes below. Birch followed at a distance, hanging back, his target a fly speck on the window.

At last their man went down into a suburb called Lawrence, the steve lowering and vanishing behind a line of buildings. Nello brought up the tracking coordinates and reported that it had stopped. They circled the suburb and closed in on the briefcase's signal, finding themselves over a large spread of paved glass three kilometers across. Etched into the glass were bright red lines that marked it into a grid, a series of resting places for plutonium-operated vehicles. To one side of the glass plain was a squat line of buildings that advertised in neon and liquid crystal a variety of services from HOTEL to BROTHEL to FREE RAD CHECKS WITH POWER PLANT SERVICE.

Oasis. Nello smiled.

Looks like he's down for a break.

Nello's stomach growled.

See if you can get an environmental report on the radio, Birch said. If he's going to be breaking, we might as well feed that thing of yours.

Nello complied. As Andrew Birch took the vehicle into the landing zone and guided it into an open grid, he combed the Kansas City frequencies, stopping when he heard a voice giving the news. By the time his partner had the landing struts down and was cutting back on the engines, he was listening to the weather.

It's going to be another cool night in Kansas City, the announcer said. Scattered clouds and a low of eight below, which means that all the snow that melted today will be a solid sheet of ice tomorrow morning for you IC travelers. Currently it's still nice at six above.

Our friend is right over there, Birch said, pointing across the field of POVs. Give me those eyes.

Nello handed him the binoculars and put a finger to his lips.

Environmental conditions are tolerable, the radio continued. Due to prevailing winds in the upper atmosphere, the pollution index is low. Unfortunately, these winds from the west have also brought the day's rad count up. Levels will be moderate tonight, so citizens are advised to dress appropriately. The count is expected to peak tomorrow. The pregnant, the elderly, those with blood disorders, and all children are advised to stay indoors.

Nello snapped the radio off. That's okay. We won't be here then.

I think you're right. I think he's here to eat and then dash on down to Oklacity.

Think he'll stay the night there? They've got this great steak house—

Birch popped the lock on Nello's door and pointed at the line of buildings. Go, he ordered. Go and get something to eat. You're going to drive me crazy until you shut that stomach up.

Nello rolled the seat back and unbuckled. He opened a pouch on the left shoulder of his cruise suit and removed a tiny earpiece and throat mike. Once he had them installed, he jacked a small plug into the front pocket. What'll you have?

Depends on what they've got. Call me. He put on a headset. I'll be keeping an eye on the GM.

Nello flashed a thumbs-up and rose from his seat.

Cover up or glow, Birch reminded him.

Thanks. He pulled a hood from the back of the cruise suit and fitted it over his head, tightening it with a pair of drawstrings. Then he climbed out of the Mercedes, sealing the hatch as he left. How are you reading? His voice came through Birch's headset.

You're just fine.

The rad count can't be that high. I'm not getting much interference.

Birch looked out the passenger window. Nello was fifteen meters away. You haven't gone very far, either. Call me from the restaurant.

Nello waved and continued walking.

Andy Birch yawned and stretched, unlocking his seat and sliding it all the way back. For a few minutes he studied the courier's steve through the binoculars. His partner had been right. It was a single-man vehicle, a Yeager. Its frame was small, and it had only three landing struts. The body was battered and scratched, and there was a crush of blood and feathers near the front part of the nose. After a few minutes he tired of his study and keyed his mike. Hey, Nello. You there?

You're hitting me clear, Nello answered. I'm almost there. You decide?

What've they got?

Burgers, mostly. Some beefalo. I'm having a French dip because those are hard to screw up.

What kind of blend on the burgers? If it's sixty-forty or better, I'll have one.

I can get you seventy-five percent beef.

Sounds good.

What kind do you want? They've got about a dozen different ones.

Let's hear. Birch brought the seat forward and locked it into place. Outside the window, there was movement.

They've got one called the Alberta Clipper, which has a white cheese and Canadian bacon, Nello reported. One called the Garden, which has sprouts and mushrooms that they claim were grown in clean soil.

Birch sat up in his chair and looked out across the parking lot. Something was moving his way. It was a man, walking, face tucked into his coat against the sweeping Kansas winds.

Nello, he said, trying to interrupt.

...and has some kind of hickory sauce. This one called the Caesar sounds good.

"Nello!" he shouted.

You want the Caesar? Nello asked. It's got— There was a snap in Birch's ear, and Nello's voice went out of phase, covered by static.

Outside, the man in the coat headed straight for the Yeager. It was the courier.

Forget the food, Nello. Get back here.

Nello's voice shifted back into phase. Lettuce, tomato, and onion, it said before slipping back out.

The courier stopped at his steve, opened the hatch, and climbed in. Birch fumbled the frequency adjuster and tried to tune his partner back in. He caught the phrase and it's not real bacon, of course and lost it again.

He heard engines fire.

"Nello, get your ass back here!"

Birch hurriedly buckled in and engaged the cold start mechanism.

You bastard, he hissed. You knew. You knew it all along. You set us up, didn't you?

He turned on the tracking console as the GM lifted into the air.

Dammit! he cried, pounding on the screen. He leaned over to Nello's console and powered up the navigational computer, then opened a small compartment and took out a plasma bolt. He slipped it under his seat, then ignited the power plant. The inside of the cabin came to life.

Nello, he said calmly. "You have ten seconds to answer me in some way. Our man is leaving. I am doing the same without you unless you signal."

He heard nothing but interference. Good-bye, then, he said, stowing the communications gear.

In other news, the radio said, the Corporate Budget Committee has denied any rumors that recent budget cuts would affect the Leadspray program, which provides radproof insulation for needy families. They also advised that no cuts would be made in the Synthetic Fossil Fuels research program. In Kansas City today—

Cursing, Birch leaned over and shut the radio off. He settled back in his seat and worked the foot pedals, and the STV lifted off the ground. At ten meters there was a chiming sound.

This is the voice of the Mercedes LRC 1100, said a pleasant but stern female. This vehicle requires a two-man crew for optimal safe operation. Please discontinue operation until you are properly staffed. Failure to do so will result in an automatic waiver of the liability of the Mercedes Corporation.

Save it, Birch snapped. He activated the HOVER circuit and then, using Nello's console, tied the tracker in with the targeting display. When he sat back up, the Yeager was highlighted with the familiar halo.

This is the voice of the Mercedes LRC 1100, the woman repeated. This vehicle requires—

Birch grabbed a handle on the bottom of the safety display and pulled. A box pulled loose from its mounting. The display of lights went dead, and the voice cut off.

Thank you, he said, and pushed the vehicle forward.

He guided the vehicle manually, tapping the thrust controls for bursts of speed and keeping the halo in the center of his window. They went back toward Kansas City metro, then banked sharply south, overflying rows of suburbs at an almost too low level, then straightened out and settled down on a cruise path that was starting to glow cathode-blue from the lights planted under it. As the sun set, the maneuver lights on the Yeager flickered on, flashing an alternating pattern of white, red, and green.

Birch pulled Nello's terminal out of its housing. He dropped it in his lap and started to type with a one-fingered peck, alternating watching the tracking halo with glimpses at the Dvorak keyboard. It took five minutes, but he finally fed COMPUTE/ENTER VECTOR OKLACITY to the nav computer. The corners of his mouth turned up with satisfaction.

* ERROR * ERROR * ERROR *, it replied. ERROR IN VECTOR FEED.

He stared at the screen, numb. They were not going to Oklacity. In fact, they were so far off the vector path that the computer