CUEBALL TANGO ROSEBUD APPLE: PAGING MISTER RUMSFELD REPEAT: PAGING MISTER RUMSFELD DO YOU COPY? Di Manes studies the dataspace laid out on the inner curve of his faceplate. Estimated time to op zone is 3:28:02, airframe nominal, Stealth-Vee subsystems ditto, MMCS ditto, on-site deliverables at warm standby, Fuzzy Logic SafetiesTM engaged. He thinks his way through a series of menus. The operator audio program appears to be locked in pause mode. Hm. Up two levels, down one. It says here the Contingency See-Three Interrupt is engaged. Hmm. > PAGING MISTER RUMSFELD Okay. RUMSFELD is the current opcode for Flash Priority Mission Abort. Di Manes doesn't have to look it up because the MMCS has just obligingly displayed today's signals protocol in a little red window in the middle of the dataspace. He has never seen anything in the middle of the dataspace before. He has never seen a little red window, either. "Say," Di Manes wonders aloud. "Just out of curiosity, what might lead to a Flash Priority Mission Abort?" Saul stands above her and places his hands on either side of her head. Carefully positioning his knuckles so he doesn't break her cranium, he feels around until he finds the eject buttons. They are right below her high cheekbones, labeled EJECT He jabs both sides simultaneously and she shrieks: both eyes pop out of her head and straight up into the air, optic nerves flapping spermatic tails behind. Saul snatches the left, but the right squiggles out of his grasp, a fishy squishing from one hand to another. He is swift, but the plucky eyeballs are slick with blood and internal fluids. Finally he stops his frantic grasping and both are cradled. "Please Stand By? What a bore. I'll switch." "No; I love this part." "What?" He unplugs the optic nerve from each in a swift, assured motion and plugs in the new eyes, which come fresh and toasty from a previously unmentioned brazier next to the altar. He gasps for breath, and soon is calmed. She is writhing. He watches her knees buckle and flop, then returns to his job. He goes and holds her head still, throwing the old eyes into the recycling bin, where one pops. He ties the new eyes in with a ball of twine and waits for her to stop twitching. Saul has blood all over him from the chase, so he goes into a hidden and previously unmentioned antechamber where he puts on a new set of clothes and types in the English version: a pound in the wallet is worth two in the book. It's not as if they've actually drilled for this, but Lorraine and Harry have always been sensible folks who believe in keeping a clear head and knowing exactly what to do in a pinch. She calls the security service and keys the code for the silent alarm. He finds the magazine for the Ruger, checks the safety and quietly loads up. When they're both composed and ready they head downstairs. Harry carries the firepower in front, "Nostalgia. The first time I saw this I was about five. I took it very literally. It sounded like the Army." "You actually... stood by." "At attention." Lorraine follows close behind for best tactical advantage. They shift their weight carefully, trying to match step to minimize noise. "Eh?" I thought the Russians were coming and we were all drafted." Harry pauses at the foot of the stairs. He strains his ears against the possibility of a sound, walking through the house in his mind's eye, picking likely spots. Though this is an unfamiliar setting for this particular behavior, Harry has done this sort of thing before. He tells himself he's just waiting for the security patrol, or the local police, but that isn't strictly speaking true. In the back of his mind, Harry knows he's hunting.