of her ў or vice versa. This latest thing about Livermore wasn't going to help.
The fire colors faded from the sky, which now had a faint tinge of blue in it.
Fred ў who claimed he intended to retire to the airlines ў spoke up, "Welcome,
lady and gentleman, to the beautiful skies of California... or maybe it's still
Oregon."
The nose pitched down from reentry attitude. The view was much like that from a
commercial flyer, if you could ignore the slight curvature of the horizon and
the darkness of the sky. California's Great Valley was a green corridor across
their path. To the right, faded in the haze, was San Francisco Bay. They would
pass about ninety kilometers east of Livermore. The place seemed to be the
center of everything on this flight: It had been incorrect reports from their
detector array which convinced the military and the politicians that Sov
treachery was in the offing. And that detector was part of the same project
Hoehler was so suspicious of ў for reasons he would not fully reveal.
Allison Parker's world ended with that thought.
ONE
The Old California Shopping Center was the Santa Ynez Police Company's biggest
account ў and one of Miguel Rosas' most enjoyable beats. On this beautiful
Sunday afternoon, the Center had hundreds of customers, people who had traveled
many kilometers along Old 101 to be here. This Sunday was especially busy: All
during the week, produce and quality reports had shown that the stores would
have best buys. And it wouldn't rain till late. Mike wandered up and down the
malls, stopping every now and then to talk or go into a shop and have a closer
look at the merchandise. Most people knew how effective the shoplift-detection
gear was, and so far he hadn't had any business whatsoever.
Which was okay with Mike. Rosas had been officially employed by the Santa Ynez
Police Company for three years. And before that, all the way back to when he and
his sisters had arrived in California, he had been associated with the company.
Sheriff Wentz had more or less adopted him, and so he had grown up with police
work, and was doing the job of a paid undersheriff by the time he was thirteen.
Wentz had encouraged him to look at technical jobs, but somehow police work was
always the most attractive. The SYP Company was a popular outfit that did
business with most of the families around Vandenberg. The pay was good, the area
was peaceful, and Mike had the feeling that he was really doing something to
help people.
Mike left the shopping area and climbed the grassy hill that management kept
nicely shorn and cleaned. From the top he could look across the Center to see
all the shops and the brilliantly dyed fabrics that shaded the arcades.
He tweaked up his caller in case they wanted him to come down for some traffic
control. Horses and wagons were not permitted beyond the outer parking area.
Normally this was a convenience, but there were so many customers this afternoon
that the owners might want to relax the rules.
Near the top of the hill, basking in the double sunlight, Paul Naismith sat in
front of his chessboard. Every few months, Paul came down to the coast,
sometimes to Santa Ynez, sometimes to towns further north. Naismith and Bill
Morales would come in early enough to get a good parking spot, Paul would set up
his chessboard, and Bill would go off to shop for him. Come evening, the Tinkers
would trot out their specialties and he might do some trading. For now the old
man slouched behind his chessboard and munched his lunch.
Mike approached the other diffidently. Naismith was not personally forbidding.
