Channeling Cleopatra (20 page)

Maybe this is so.

You bet. Whereas, say you do get blended
with Cleo and he falls in love with you all over again. Aren't you
going to wonder, just a little, if he only wants you for the Cleo
inside of you?

You are a
very
—
how do you
Americans put it?
—
cagey
man, Mr. Hubbard. You are
thinking if you sell yourself to me as an expert on men, I will
keep you.

Duke chuckled
to—themselves.
You're on to me, but can you
blame me? I may be just a set of light frequencies based on a
sample of spit and cheek cells, but I'm all I've got, as far as I
know. I'll never know, though, will I, until we figure out what
happened? We may find Cleo in the process, and then you can trade
me in on her. But I'm just saying that personally, I'm pretty sure
you 'd be getting the short end of the stick in that deal. I'm told
I grow on people. You'll probably miss me.

I should like very much the
opportunity to find out,
Gretchen grumbled,
but he felt her being charmed nevertheless, though she added
quickly,
Not so cocky, please.

Up until recently, I had a
lot to be cocky about,
he said.
Do we have a deal? You help me find who done it,
and I'll play Dear Abby with you for your husband. When it's over,
I go.

Even if
you
—
the rest of
you, that is
—
isn't
still alive?

You drive a hard bargain, but okay. I
wouldn't stay where I'm not wanted.

Very well, then. But you
will be a gentleman,
ja?
No dirty talk or thoughts.

I thought you wanted to get
your husband back,
Duke said.

CHAPTER 18

If Leda had hoped that she would awaken to
find it had all been a terrible nightmare, she was disappointed.
Her bruises, scrapes, aches, and pains gave her an immediate
reality check on the situation.

She yawned, groaned, sat up, poked her feet
into her sandals, then shuffled out into the main part of the
hangar’s Quonset hut.

"I think I have a ride for you," the new
runway manager said. Unlike his predecessor, he actually seemed to
be working, typing things into the computer. "There's a plane from
headquarters due in about fifteen minutes."

"Great," she said and wandered outside. For
now, the planes and copters, trucks and piles of supplies were all
gone. Something else was gone, too.

"Hey, did anybody move the motorcycle that
was parked out here?" she asked the relief guy.

"Not that I saw. But I got pretty busy, and
there were a lot of people coming and going. Have you checked out
back? Maybe it was in someone's way."

She checked. No bike. Then she had a happy
thought.

Maybe Dad himself came back while she was
asleep, saw the bike against the wall, and rode it away. Naaaah.
For one thing, from the damage to the helmet, he had a hellacious
head injury. For another thing, he would have checked the pockets
for the specimen and the phone and found them missing and asked
around. Besides, someone would have seen him and told her. Surely
they would have. Maybe he sent somebody to pick it up?

No, all that sleep had turned her into
Little Mary Sunshine. She knew in her gut nothing that good had
happened. Dad was down for the count, at least. Maybe he was still
in a hospital or one of the emergency facilities here in Alex.
Maybe someone had taken him back to Nucore. The latter wasn't very
plausible, because everybody there knew he was her dad; the
facility wasn't a large one, and the old man had a way of getting
around and gabbing with people. Someone would have called her or
gotten word to her, even in this mess. It had been almost
twenty-four hours now.

The bike probably had been stolen in the
confusion of all of the aircraft landing and taking off again. It
was the most likely thing in the world, and she kicked herself for
not thinking to bring it inside. The old man was going to kill her
when he got back. If he got back. Where the hell was he,
anyway?

CHAPTER 19

Where do you usually find
an airborne messenger, other than crapping on granite war heroes
and national monuments?
Duke asked his
feminine side, then answered his own question.
The airport, that's where. My guess is that somewhere along
the way, there's a mole in Nucore working for whoever hit
me.

As soon as he has reached Egypt, we must
warn Wilhelm.

You got it. But with no phone service, we
gotta do it in person. So let's get dressed.

He was going to leave that part to her but
couldn't stand to do it. Her closet was a mess of outfits totally
useless for the purpose he had in mind. Her hands surged through
blouses with pussycat bows and Peter Pan collars. Even her
underwear drawer was boring: white and pastel cotton, unadorned and
practical.

He shook their head when
she held out a pair of trousers for scrutiny. They'd be fine for a
PTA meeting in the suburbs of a particularly dull Midwestern
town.
Nope,
he said
firmly.
You got anything in
leather?

She pulled out a long leather skirt with
fringes that looked like a thrift shop find from someone else's
hippie days. Without even asking, she frowned and hung it back
up.

Ah! Wilhelm 's
lederhosen!
she said hopefully.

Not unless you can yodel. I
can’t
.

She was kinda pathetic. Not even her boots
were made for walking.

Exasperated, Duke
said,
Okay, lady, pack up your portable
phone and your money. We're going to do what my kid calls a little
shopper-gatherer activity,
he
said.

I
do not like to shop,
Gretchen
said.

Me neither, though I have
picked out some pretty snazzy outfits for my girls from time to
time, but we aren't looking for Sunday school dresses this time.
Help me find a place that sells biker's leathers in the phone book,
okay? Last time I checked, I didn’t
read
German.

She had a chauffeur, no less. Very tony and
maybe a little safer for the wife of a rich man than driving
herself around in some fancy car, but personally, he liked to be in
the driver's seat himself.

Europeans didn't have a
legacy of Jimmy Dean and
Easy Rider,
so they didn't know what bikers were supposed to
look like. Their leathers came in a wild assortment of colors.
Gretchen was like a kid in a candy store with these and immediately
chose a fuchsia and purple outfit that would have put any
self-respecting cow to shame and made him feel like a cross between
a court jester and a wind sock.

He steered her toward basic
black.
Always appropriate, easily
accessorized, and, here's the best part, fairly
inconspicuous,
he said.
After all, we may have to go undercover.

He also insisted on the German-style jacket,
a little longer, laced on the sides, rather than the shorter
kidney-chilling bomber style.

They compromised on leopard
print lining for it and a waterproof leopard lap robe for riding in
rainy weather.
We should get you some
undies to match,
he suggested.

She reacted with stiff indignation.

Just an idea,
he said.
I
h
ave undies to match. You
know
—
and I think I
can say with confidence that Cleopatra herself would tell you this,
too
—
you might want
to rethink your wardrobe strategy a little if you want to woo your
husband back again.

I have bought new clothes.
Nice clothes. I cannot help that you did not like them. And those
lacy panties that are nylon, they give you the vaginal infections
and the brassieres can cause the allergies of the breast
skin,
she told him.

Well, now, I think that's
more than I wanted to know,
he
said.

But he could tell she was thinking over what
he said. She was a little shy.

However, when they surveyed
her image in the mirror, he had to admit s/he was now one hot babe.
Legs a little short but good boobs, trim waist and hips, all
slicked down black and shining. He noticed that her body felt
tight, and not in a good way. It hurt in several areas.
My cosmetic surgery,
she
told him.
One must suffer for
beauty.

Geez, I had no idea. Most of the time, I've
been the one suffering for beauties.

They got good sturdy boots with reinforced
arches for her dainty feet and sleek gloves for her little
hands.

He was afraid Gretchen would balk at wearing
a helmet and messing up her blond mane of hair. Normally, he would
have suggested, in his role as marriage counselor, that she change
to a red shade, but this lady was a natural towhead, a happy
condition that was not broke and he would not even think about
attempting to fix. As it turned out, she was also a sensible woman,
and as a doctor, inclined to be safety conscious.

But what is this you are
having painted on it?
she asked.
Old Mothah Hubbard? This means
—
what?

This means, for any
sonovabitch who's paying attention, that I may be down but not out.
Now then, I don't
suppose you have a bike
in the garage already?

Ja
,
I am riding it to work at the hospital every day,
she said.
You joke with
me.

Nope. Dead serious. That's a joke, hon.

Very amusing.
But she ordered the driver to find a bike shop.
They tried Harleys but the truth was, Harleys weren't what they
used to be. If Duke had time, he'd soup up an older one, get it
purring like he had his Sopwith. Gretchen kept going for little
toys in colors that would make them stand out like a sore thumb.
They compromised by getting the lean mean running machine he
wanted, again in basic black, and a second one to match her fuchsia
outfit.
But we're dealing with killers
here, lady, so we want to be as low-profile as we can be
considering that we look like a very foxy blond in tight black
leathers on a machine like this. You can be fashionably color
coordinated when I'm outta here.

You are a most bossy
guest,
she told him.

Standing in the display window of the
motorcycle shop, Gretchen saw her reflection reach up to scratch
her chin with thumb and forefinger. Duke was surprised to find the
chin soft and silky instead of bristling as his usually was two
hours after a shave. The salesman returned with the title to the
bike and temporary license.

We go now where?
Gretchen wondered.

Well, Kefalos I guess, and maybe Egypt.

Ah, if Egypt, we must stop then at a dress
shop.

Why?

Because there they are not liking women on
the streets in pants. As Wilhelm's wife, I must conform myself to
local customs and avoid offense.

We should have brought the leather hippie
job from your closet.

But within the same block as the bike shop,
in a little secondhand shop, she found what Leda called a
broomstick skirt: lightweight, also black, with full, tiered
pleats, and ankle length so the biker boots wouldn't look funny
with it and she could carry it in her saddlebags.

Gretchen dismissed the
driver, and hopped on the new bike.
The
airstrip then,
they agreed. Gretchen was
pleased that her new inner voice was in accord with her on this
matter. Duke expertly showed her small hands and feet how to
operate the bike.

I
don't know anybody at this strip,
Duke
said, as they dismounted and parked the bike near the airstrip's
central hangar and business office.

It matters not,
Gretchen told him, and marched into the office,
straight to the big guy with the white-blond crew cut at the desk
and said, "I am Frau Doktor Gretchen Wolfe, wife of Wilhelm Wolfe,
and my . . . motorcycle and I are going to Kefalos to see my
husband. You will find us a suitable aircraft, and we will fly
there now,
ja?”
Anyhow, that was the gist of it. She was speaking German, of
course, but Duke understood more the longer he was with her. He
guessed Chimera's process came with its own universal translator
that was more direct than anything science fiction could dream
up.

Money,
Gretchen thought in reply,
This is
another good universal that all understand. And power.
She was right. The guy at the desk was busily
tapping his key.

“
Ja,
Frau Wolfe,” he told her. “The small Piper nine-seater is
available.”

We'll fly it
ourselves,
Duke told her.
I'm a pilot, and I'm qualified on that
one.

"I personally will be flying this aircraft,"
she told the fellow.

"You will?" the man asked.

"I have said
so, ja?"