From: Lester <maxim@netcom.com>
Date: Fri, 31 Oct 1997 18:25:24 -0800 (PST)
Subject: Logo Fyles #13
Message-id: <Pine.3.89.9710311817.A1257-0100000@netcom5>
Brond double parked the flimped Buik next to a towaway zone and encaved the keys in a dustbin. A policeman standing nearby paid him no more notice than a banteng might give to a passing stellion.
He regretted having craked to the goonda about decoding the message. Far better to have kept shut about that, in hopes that GOBBO would continue to use the code. Skudler would ride him if he found out. "On the job a few minutes and you pull a stumer, eh, Brond?"
Brond found an empty phone booth in the crowded terminal and called Zeriba. He wanted to let her know that her message may have saved him from enduring a few perforations. Big ones. That gun could have stood in for a terebra. No answer. He'd thank her in person, when he got back.
The train was on time, and Brond took a seat in an almost empty car, dushing his dorlach in the overhead. As the train started its slow, quiet festination out of the terminal, he thought about the things troubling him. Who was the third person who had worked with the Snebs? The rother he had disloaded the board on. His face and biog had not been in the GOBBO folder. What, other than his realization that he was being hustled, had triggered his anger? Brond thought it might have had something to do with a challenge.
His other concern was Travis Alamort. They had been assigned to work together in Paris and not hit it off. She had some French background, and pulled rank on him. She would casually let fall French words and expressions, and it had gotten under his skin. After they returned, she had caught him mimicking her faux accent in front of a crowd at lunch and stormed out. She would be out for ultion.
Brond wondered if Skudler knew about that incident when he assigned them to work together on this job.
Too many disturbing thoughts. He sat back in the seat. It was time for rest, or, as Alamort would have said, relache.