It was a clear night. Autumn was coming fast this year. Marguerite went to bed with the curtains parted. When she moved in last summer she had pushed her big, futile double bed close to the window. She liked to look at the stars before she fell asleep, but Ray had always insisted on keeping the blinds shut. Now she could indulge herself. The light of the crescent moon fell across a reef of blankets. She closed her eyes and felt weightless. Sighed once and was asleep.
Four
Ari Weingart, Blind Lake’s PR guy, carried a big digital clipboard. Chris Carmody worried a little bit about that. He’d seldom had good experiences with people who carried clipboards.
Clearly, things weren’t going too well for Weingart. He had met Vogel, Elaine, and Chris outside Hubble Plaza and escorted them to his small office overlooking the central plaza. They had been halfway through a tentative first-week itinerary when Weingart took a call. Chris and company retired to a vacant conference room, where they sat until well after sunset.
When Weingart returned he was still toting the dreaded clipboard. “There’s been a complication,” he said.
Elaine Coster had been simmering behind a months-old print edition of Current Events. She put the magazine down and gave Weingart a level stare. “If there’s a problem with the schedule, we can work it out tomorrow. All we need right now is a place to unpack. And a reliable server. I haven’t been able to get a link through to New York since this afternoon.”
“Well, that’s the problem. The facility is in lockdown. We have some nine hundred day workers with homes off-site, but they can’t get out and I’m afraid they have a prior claim on the guest quarters. The good news is—”
“Hang on,” Elaine said. “Lockdown? What are you talking about?”