Stainless Steel Visions

Could it be him? Yes, it was. His hair was white now, his face tracked with countless wrinkles. But after two months together in an ice cave — well, there are things you just don't forget. I followed him after we had dumped our trays, sat down next to him in the morning room.

"Been here long, Burin?" I asked.

He turned his head and blinked at me nearsightedly — then his face lit up with a smile.

"Jimmy diGriz as I live and breathe!"

"And I'm most glad that you are living and breathing! Burin Bache, the best forger in the history of the galaxy."

"Kind of you to say that, Jimmy. And it was true at one time. Not lately—" The smile faded and I quickly put my arm around him.

"Do you still get chilblains in your ankles?"

"You bet I do! You know — I still can't put ice into a drink. Hate the sight of it."

"Yes, but the ice cave was only a hiccup. "

"Some hiccup! But you're right there, Jimmy me lad. After what we hauled down on that job I didn't have to work for ten years. You were young but you were a genius. Hate to see you ending up here like me. Never thought they would get you."

"Happens to the best of us."

As I spoke I had my stilo concealed in my cupped hands, printing a quick message on my palm. Then I rubbed my chin with the back of my hand and waited until Burin had looked at it, his eyes widening.

"Got to go now," I said as I blurred the message with a saliva-dampened fingertip. "See you around."

He could only nod shocked and silent agreement as I left. I couldn't blame him. Since his incarceration I am sure he never thought he would ever read those words.

WE'RE GETTING OUT OF HERE.

The immense bribe that Angelina had paid to the city official had been well worth it. The building permission floorplans had not been complete — but they sufficed. I got close to the room we had selected on the second day, stuffed my stilo into the keyhole on the third. After being held in my armpit for an hour, the memory plastic of which it was made had softened to the consistency of clay. A moment after being pressed against the cold metal it had hardened into a perfect mirror image of the lock's innards.

We were permitted an hour in the garden every day and I had found a bench that was well away from any sites that might have held videoscanners. I sat there, apparently dozing over an open book. You would have to stand very close to see what I was doing.

That morning I had stripped off part of the plastic covering of my battered wallet. And chewed it well. It had not tasted as bad as some of the meals we had consumed. It had reacted with my saliva and had softened to a nice doughy consistency. And had remained that way in the darkness of my pocket. Now I pressed it against the mold of the lock's interior. It should be shaped to duplicate the key that would open it. When I was satisfied with the effort I held the plastic in the warm sunshine. The catalyst it contained reacted with the light and it hardened instantly.

Logically I should have waited for the right moment to try to open that door. But I had to make a dry run. Get any problems out of the way so I could move quickly and smoothly at the decided time.

Burin was more than happy to help. We synchronized watches and at the precise moment I reached the door he stumbled and fell onto the table where the card game was in progress. There was a great crashing, shouts of anger and dismay as I slipped the homemade key into the keyhole. Turned and pressed.

Nothing happened. I took a deep breath, held it — then used every iota of skill acquired during a lifetime of lockpicking.

It grated slightly — and the door opened.

I was through in an instant, closing and locking it behind me. Listening for footsteps, shouts of alarm.

Nothing. Only then did I look around me. I was in a small storeroom piled high with reams of paper and mounds of forms so dear to the bureaucratic heart. There was enough light from the small window to see clearly. I memorized the layout of the room, then moved one box that blocked a direct path. Enough. Time to go. I was too close to D Day, H Hour, M Minute to get into any trouble now. Silence in the hall. Through the door, lock it, stroll back to the morning room, where a sort of antique fistfight was going on. I was sorry we had to spoil their game. No, I really wasn't. Burin glanced in my direction and I flashed him a sort of conspiratorial wink, or tic, then passed on.

Angelina and I had agreed on absolutely minimum contact this first meeting. And the timing was crucial. It had to be after dark for concealment — but not so late that we had been packed off beddy-byes. On the selected evening I was first through the door after dinner, stumbling swiftly in the direction of the heads. Past that door and up the stairs. I had cut it too close, only seconds left. Lock and relock the door, tread quickly the few steps along the memorized path — my watch ready in my hand.