[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
He greeted her by her new name, saying his own as if reminding her of it
while he pumped her hand up and down and expressed his pleasure and surprise
at seeing her in Prescott. He looked about nineteen, red-haired, jug-eared,
earnest, and eager to get things right, and she hadn't the heart to tell him
that probably half the people in the room knew that he was the local FBI man.
Instead, she played her part. She invited him to sit down and maintained her
side of the meaningless conversation until he was satisfied that the
neighboring tables had no interest in them, at which point he lowered his
voice to get down to business. It did not take long to reassure him that yes,
she had his phone number memorized, yes she would call for help if she needed
it, yes she knew how to keep in touch with Glen, and no she did not need
anything. She took a few minutes to explain to him just what she wanted: no
interference, no drop-ins, no clever surveillance. His disappointment was
profound, but with the authority of Glen McCarthy behind her, she was
satisfied that he would not try to put together his own operation behind her
back. She relaxed and thanked him nicely, and told him again that she would
definitely call if she needed anything at all. Then she left him to pay the
tab.
Anne shambled out of the restaurant feeling like a curmudgeon no, like a
bear: a vastly experienced, irritable, wily old bear disturbed too early from
a winter's sleep. She climbed behind the wheel, and paused to tug Rocinante's
stained mirror around. Same old lines on her face, same new brutal haircut on
her head; she made a face into the mirror, baring her teeth and growling at
her misted reflection. Where on earth did the government find so many
fresh-faced youngsters? she asked herself sourly, reaching down to turn the
key, waiting for Rocinante's engine to rattle into life. And why do they all
have to be so damned cute?
Christ, Anne, she thought. Don't be disgusting. What the hell is wrong with
you?
It was at that point that she realized that something was awry. Sardonic
self-criticism and easy mild profanity should not be her response; those were
straight from the voice of Anne Waverly, and Anne had no business here. Ana
Wakefield was proving very tardy in taking her place behind Rocinante's wheel.
Anne sat in the bus, not aware that the engine was running, staring unseeing
Page 53
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
at the cracked plastic of the steering wheel and searching internally for the
person she had once been: interested, gentle, patient, contemplative Annie,
now Ana, a Seeker who believed rather than analyzed, who was open to ideas,
not cynical about motivations, concerned with the individual and the
immediate, not with patterns and theories.
Ana had to take over; it was as simple as that. There was no way Anne Waverly
could act the part in Change without endangering herself and others, because
it would be an act, and obvious, and dangerous as hell.
Gradually, imperceptibly, her fingers and toes grew colder and her breathing
rate slowed, and the analytical scholar she had forged, through defense as
much as inclination, took a small step back, and then another. Ana Wakefield
was born in that bus in the snow, as curiosity began to awaken.
First off, she had to forget the details. She had never heard of Steven
Change, never seen an aerial photograph of the Arizona compound or a photocopy
of its building application, never reviewed the community's Web site or
studied its tax returns. These were all thing she should not know; that would
only trip her up and get in the way of her innocence.
Instead of facts, she had to concentrate on how she felt about Change, to
open herself up and make her mind receptive to its nuances. She already had
the impression of Change as a growing, energetic, interesting group of people
with a strong leader filled with original ideas. Yes, she knew that Glen had
reservations, and yes, an ex-member had complained at great length about the
secrecy and limitations he had encountered, but that did not explain the
almost excessive openness the community displayed when it came to the school
or to visitors to its frequent retreat sessions, nor did it account for the
presence of a number of educated, intelligent people a professor of economics,
a doctor, several schoolteachers, and a rabbi who had dropped out of their
former lives to join the community. Granted, even the most critical of minds
could become gullible, open to the point of emptiness when confronted by the
mumbo jumbo of another discipline. And she could not forget that boy's odd and
disturbing nightmare drawing of the man in the giant pear surrounded by
monsters. Still, Change promised to be sufficiently complex to be interesting.
Who knew? Ana might even learn something there.
Ana became aware that she was sitting in Rocinante staring out at the plowed
drifts of snow, and had been for some time. She shook herself mentally and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl szkicerysunki.xlx.pl
He greeted her by her new name, saying his own as if reminding her of it
while he pumped her hand up and down and expressed his pleasure and surprise
at seeing her in Prescott. He looked about nineteen, red-haired, jug-eared,
earnest, and eager to get things right, and she hadn't the heart to tell him
that probably half the people in the room knew that he was the local FBI man.
Instead, she played her part. She invited him to sit down and maintained her
side of the meaningless conversation until he was satisfied that the
neighboring tables had no interest in them, at which point he lowered his
voice to get down to business. It did not take long to reassure him that yes,
she had his phone number memorized, yes she would call for help if she needed
it, yes she knew how to keep in touch with Glen, and no she did not need
anything. She took a few minutes to explain to him just what she wanted: no
interference, no drop-ins, no clever surveillance. His disappointment was
profound, but with the authority of Glen McCarthy behind her, she was
satisfied that he would not try to put together his own operation behind her
back. She relaxed and thanked him nicely, and told him again that she would
definitely call if she needed anything at all. Then she left him to pay the
tab.
Anne shambled out of the restaurant feeling like a curmudgeon no, like a
bear: a vastly experienced, irritable, wily old bear disturbed too early from
a winter's sleep. She climbed behind the wheel, and paused to tug Rocinante's
stained mirror around. Same old lines on her face, same new brutal haircut on
her head; she made a face into the mirror, baring her teeth and growling at
her misted reflection. Where on earth did the government find so many
fresh-faced youngsters? she asked herself sourly, reaching down to turn the
key, waiting for Rocinante's engine to rattle into life. And why do they all
have to be so damned cute?
Christ, Anne, she thought. Don't be disgusting. What the hell is wrong with
you?
It was at that point that she realized that something was awry. Sardonic
self-criticism and easy mild profanity should not be her response; those were
straight from the voice of Anne Waverly, and Anne had no business here. Ana
Wakefield was proving very tardy in taking her place behind Rocinante's wheel.
Anne sat in the bus, not aware that the engine was running, staring unseeing
Page 53
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
at the cracked plastic of the steering wheel and searching internally for the
person she had once been: interested, gentle, patient, contemplative Annie,
now Ana, a Seeker who believed rather than analyzed, who was open to ideas,
not cynical about motivations, concerned with the individual and the
immediate, not with patterns and theories.
Ana had to take over; it was as simple as that. There was no way Anne Waverly
could act the part in Change without endangering herself and others, because
it would be an act, and obvious, and dangerous as hell.
Gradually, imperceptibly, her fingers and toes grew colder and her breathing
rate slowed, and the analytical scholar she had forged, through defense as
much as inclination, took a small step back, and then another. Ana Wakefield
was born in that bus in the snow, as curiosity began to awaken.
First off, she had to forget the details. She had never heard of Steven
Change, never seen an aerial photograph of the Arizona compound or a photocopy
of its building application, never reviewed the community's Web site or
studied its tax returns. These were all thing she should not know; that would
only trip her up and get in the way of her innocence.
Instead of facts, she had to concentrate on how she felt about Change, to
open herself up and make her mind receptive to its nuances. She already had
the impression of Change as a growing, energetic, interesting group of people
with a strong leader filled with original ideas. Yes, she knew that Glen had
reservations, and yes, an ex-member had complained at great length about the
secrecy and limitations he had encountered, but that did not explain the
almost excessive openness the community displayed when it came to the school
or to visitors to its frequent retreat sessions, nor did it account for the
presence of a number of educated, intelligent people a professor of economics,
a doctor, several schoolteachers, and a rabbi who had dropped out of their
former lives to join the community. Granted, even the most critical of minds
could become gullible, open to the point of emptiness when confronted by the
mumbo jumbo of another discipline. And she could not forget that boy's odd and
disturbing nightmare drawing of the man in the giant pear surrounded by
monsters. Still, Change promised to be sufficiently complex to be interesting.
Who knew? Ana might even learn something there.
Ana became aware that she was sitting in Rocinante staring out at the plowed
drifts of snow, and had been for some time. She shook herself mentally and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]