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Show Acting Alone Page 353 all nasal and monotonic and passionless. And who would the old man have perform this sonne et lumiere extravaganza? The boys from Fort Carson, maybe? No, the Iron Horse Division would sound way too implausible, even over the pirated lines of the radio-phone. Axelrad had seen that ragtag bunch on maneuvers in the foothills, had even scrutinized their not-entirely-male ranks from above with binoculars. Even at full force they could never stay the dead-souled, fanatical Companions from the swift completion of their appointed - Wait. If by some stretch of probability that presumptive raid was not just a bit of fancy, a symptom of the old man's overwork or his advanced age; if this war was real and not some brightly-granulated but inconsequential piece of pointillism, then why hadn't Mr. Cicerone warned the others? And why had Mr. Cicerone known about it in the first place? And why couldn't Mr. Cicerone have simply snapped his reputedly all-powerful fingers and vaporized the attack force? And why was the attack coming as though coincidentally on a tornado-threatening day? A day following so soon after Mr. Cicerone had gone to all that trouble to concoct such a cockamamie bit of tornado sci-fi to seal off the only escape route from the encampment? That series of questions brought another access of fast, headlong thinking into Axelrad's head. The Cobra 'copters returned, the spy satellites blipping and backing them up. Axelrad had to roll over again. Lie flat on his back under a pew now. Ride this one out among the dustkittens. Mr. Cicerone doesn't want the satellites to spy a mass exodus of live |
