"We’ll need clothes," Maks said.

"What?" Hilarion asked.

"Why?" Ranon asked.

"Everyone who goes off to the Brothel wears street clothes."

"Even Ethan wears different clothes when he goes out," Hilarion agreed. "Let’s ask the Innkeeper."

***

The Innkeeper, meeting the three Clansmen near one of the exits of the lounge, listened, then shook his head and said, "Clothes appropriate for the Brothel will attract attention on the street in San Jose. Is what you want?"

"Ah…"

"No."

"We have a tailor who is reasonably au courant with local styles. You can discuss the occasion with him and see what he suggests. This way."

"And we’re going to need some human money," Maks said.

"The cashier will advance you what you need. How much will that be?"

"Sixty cubed," Ranon said. "Uh, in decimal English, $216,000.

"Certainly," the Innkeeper said. "There is a mandatory briefing on how to conduct yourselves in modern human society, and what to do if difficulties arise. The Inn retains Polias and Coronis for legal matters, and also the Kearney Agency for escort work."

"Hey, we may be smart, but we’re still heroes. We can get around on our own," Hilarion. "We can all drive, we passed the course."

"And when were you planning on leaving the Inn?"

"Tomorrow night," Maks said.

"In time to get there before midnight," Hilarion said.

***

So, Chasen thought, something out of the ordinary routine at last: A priest, a scribe and a librarian, in a huddle with the Innkeeper. If it wasn’t just the start of a Bar Joke, it might be important. He kept walking, but doubled back behind some of the ubiquitous potted palm trees, sat down and began to read his paper, keeping an eye on the mixed trio.

***

"So, here are your car keys, your licenses, your panic buttons, and your money."

"Thank you," Ranon said.

"Remember, since that thing a year ago, humans in this country are very xenophobic. Don’t speak anything but English or Spanish."

"We’ll remember."

The three clansmen left the briefing room and went off to the elevators.

***

Where were the geniuses going? Apparently, they were headed for the garage. OK. Chasen took his time as the boys sorted out the seating and who was going to drive, then followed the candy-apple red Cadillac Escalade in his quiet Toyota.

Guzman, the less than perfect librarian, followed the Reverend Professor’s instructions, even when he was already sure he hadn’t been noticed. The ticket checkers in Lima had paid no special attention to him, the stewards had paid only the same attention as to any other business class passenger. In Los Angeles no one had paid any unusual attention to him: The customs agents had passed him through after the usual post-11 September search and interrogation, both of which were stringent but expected and impersonal.

He went to the San Jose shuttle ticket outlet and arranged to take the next flight north, without attracting any attention that he noticed. When the plane lifted off, he sighed, having successfully ‘broken his trail,’ exactly as instructed.

The Reverend Professor had strongly impressed on him that what he carried was valuable, not only to the faculty of the University of Lima and the faculty of the Anglo-Sanskrit Theological University at Vallejo, but to Others. These Others also wanted the book and the scroll, and only by following the professor’s instructions would Guzman, and his immortal soul, be safe. There was also the matter of the deposit.

What would happen if the Others took the book and the scroll was almost too terrible to think of, so Guzman turned his mind to the next set of instructions, reading them again. The penultimate step involved a meeting and half a playing card. He could do that, Guzman told himself, opening his paperback and regarding the jaggedly cut Queen of Hearts he was using as a bookmark. He moved it to his right jacket pocket and made sure the flap was smooth over it.

He was much surer about driving. Even California couldn’t intimidate someone who commuted in Lima. Just to be on the safe side, however, he said a quick prayer, holding the large cross he wore; then he inspected his new international drivers license again. Satisfied with his preparations, he waited as patiently as he could for the short flight to end.

***

"How will we know which one he is?"

"We’ll have him paged," Ranon said, walking over to a white phone. "I saw this on the television."

"White Courtesy Phone for Francisco Naoko Guzman. Francisco Naoko Guzman, White Courtesy Phone, please."

"How much of a fuss is he likely to make?" Maks asked.

"Yes, we’re not the ones he’s come to meet," Ranon said.

"We’re going to be offering him a lot more money," Hilarion pointed out. "I don’t think he’ll care."

Gripping his carry-on tightly, Guzman walked into the airport. He picked up his checked luggage—one wheeled suitcase—and looked around for a car rental agency. He heard his name called over the PA system and stopped. This wasn’t according to the plan, but he had been cautioned that emergencies might happen and he should be alert for any contingency. After all, the call included his middle name, the name his mother gave him and which he never used in Lima. He had used it in his e-mails with the Reverend Professor; this message must have come from him. He picked up a white phone.

"May I help you?"

"This is Guzman," he whispered.

"Please speak up, sir."

"This is Guzman!"

A blond man, one of three surrounding the phone next to his, looked up.

"This is Guzman," Guzman said, more normally.

"One moment, I will connect you."

Hilarion said: "Mr. Guzman?"

"Yes?" Guzman said into the phone.

Hilarion tapped him on his shoulder. "Mr. Guzman? We need to talk to you."

Guzman caught his breath and jerked around.

Ranon nudged Maks, who was speaking into the phone: "Hello? Hello? I’m not getting anyone." Maks looked up, then straightened.

Guzman saw three tall fair skinned men, clearly related to each other, with what a writer of an English telenovela would call ‘ruggedly handsome’ features. They wore khaki pants, brown lace-up boots, white shirts with the sleeves rolled up and the collar open. In each shirt pocket were a laser pointer, a Rapidograph, and a dry-erase marker, each in a different color: red, blue, and purple. One, with long blond hair in a queue down his back carried a laptop; one, with a crew cut, carried an aluminum briefcase and the third man, the one with the shaven head, was empty-handed. They all had dazzling smiles. They seemed to radiate a feeling of friendship and camaraderie. Warmed and charmed, he smiled back at them. "Yes?" he said.

"Hi! You don’t know us," the one with the laptop said.

"But we know about you."

"We want to talk about the Relic."

"And the History."

"Let’s go to the café."

"If we’re not going to the hotel room, shouldn’t we go on to the university?" Guzman asked.

The three men exchanged quick glances. "Later," one of them said.

Guzman stopped smiling. Just inside the café he balked. "Uh, do you have something for me?"

"Oh, yes," said the man with the aluminum briefcase.

"Of course," the third man said.

"Come sit down and we’ll show you."

"Show me now," Guzman said.

"We’re not supposed to show you the money where other humans can see it," the man with the laptop said.

"Not money. The other half," Guzman said, dropping his suitcase and reaching into his pocket for the Queen of Hearts.

"Of what?" the third man asked, looking blankly Guzman.

"You’re not from the university," Guzman said, stepping back and leaving the card where it was.

"No."

"We’re from a different library," Maks said.

"Argh! Vade retro me, Satana!" Guzman held up the cross he wore.

Alarmed, the three heroes stepped back.

I knew it! Guzman thought. The Reverend Professor was right! The Others are after the books, and these are They!

"Is he having a fit?" Ranon asked. "Humans do have fits."

"I don’t think it’s a fit," Maks said. "I think he wants the money."

"That doesn’t seem entirely likely," said Hilarion, as Guzman snatched up his suitcase, turned and ran out the café door.

"We’re being watched," Maks muttered.

"Right," Hilarion said. "Let’s sit down and think about this."

"We should follow him," Ranon said, taking a step after Guzman.

"No," Maks said, blocking the priest for a moment. "That man in the gray pants and shirt, with the gun and symbolic shield, that’s one of the airport guards the Innkeeper’s briefing warned us about. We should leave."

***

Guzman spotted a crowd and hid himself in the center of it. The enhanced group of people split to exit through several doors opening on to a wide pavement where a bus waited. Everyone got on. Guzman stopped in the door:

"¿ Va este autobus a una agencia de alquiler de automoviles?"

"Car rental agency? Only four or five. Get on," the driver said.

No one noticed a man hurry out of the airport, glance at the front of the bus, then speed off towards an illegally parked car.

Guzman tried to calm himself. Fortunately, there was a line at the car rental counter. He kept glancing around, but the three blond men did not reappear. His breathing returned to near normal, and he even remembered his English as he completed the forms and handed over his VISA card.

He picked up his car and headed back the way the shuttle bus had come. He missed the turn for Airport Parkway, and was disconcerted to find himself suddenly and without making a turn, on Technology Drive. He paid little attention to the car following him as he decided to go back and find Airport Parkway.

Guzman turned left on Sonora Avenue. At the stop sign, he read ‘North First Street’, which was what he supposed to be on after making a turn off Airport Parkway. He took his time before deciding to turn right. The car behind him waited patiently as he made up his mind.

Chasen followed the man with the books. The subject obviously never heard of turn signals, he thought, turning south after the rental car. He experienced a brief spasm of nostalgia. In the old days, he could have just loosed the rakkis on the man, then followed at his leisure, picking up the inedible bits.

Guzman, still alarmed by the abortive meeting with Maks, Ranon, and Hilarion, was ready to see dangers everywhere and he quickly noticed the car behind him. Exceeding the speed limit and earning a rebuke from the car’s speakers, he tried to outrun his pursuer.

BOOKQUEST, Guzman read. A warehouse for books. Be alert for any contingency. Books were his life, books had gotten him into this dangerous predicament, perhaps books could help him get out of it. He turned into the parking lot. He got out of the car for a quick look around, then hid the car as best he could around the back, in the shadow of a dumpster.

He pulled his rolling suitcase out of the car and, taking his carry-on, hurried quietly along the side of the warehouse where the shadows were deep. He scuttled across the large metal garage door, passing a small human sized door towards one edge. As he neared the human door, it opened.

A security guard, older than Guzman, and even more sedentary, tried to exit.

Guzman let go his rolling suitcase and, fueled by desperation, hit the guard in the face with the carry-on, knocking the guard back. Guzman hurried in after him.

Guzman found himself in an oil stained loading bay: a large empty area, with wheeled canvas carts carrying brown cardboard parcels and manila padded envelopes, with a few pallets laden with larger cardboard shipping boxes off to the side by a small forklift.

The guard fell and Guzman hit him again. "Perdone Usted," Guzman said, his English deserting him again. He knelt and took the guard’s handcuffs, using them to bind the guard’s arms behind him. "I will return directly and you can arrest me and I will be safe, but first I must hide the items."

He locked the entrance he had used, took his rolling suitcase and his carry-on and hurried across the loading bay, where he went through a pair of double doors in the interior wall. He found himself in the mailroom: a long table with packing materials ready to hand, tape, scissors, packing paper, bubble wrap and a dedicated printer, with a socket for a plug-in inventory device; surrounded by several of the small wheeled carts, each with a stack of books and its own small hand held inventory computer. He looked over all the books, looking for one in particular. There, that stack, the ones on the bottom, they were the right size; and they were blank, not even a title on the spine. Excellent. He eyed the stack of books, took the printout inventory with attached mailing label, and selecting a large mailing box, set it up, taping the bottom closed and lining it with bubble wrap. He took the History and the Scroll out of his carry-on.

Looking around again, he saw a bundle of shipping tubes. They were too long, and he sliced one in half with the huge paper scissors, making it approximately the size of the Scroll. He removed the Scroll from its leather carrying case, removed the bisected modern scroll from its mailing tube and swapped them, putting the Scroll in the tube, while half the modern scroll went into the leather carrying case. Quickly, he packed the History, in the middle of the rest of the blank journals, and the Scroll, in its makeshift mailing tube, and the rest of the books in the original stack, adding packing peanuts and folding the ends of the bubble wrap over the contents. He tore apart the inventory and the label, put the inventory on top of the stack of books, taped the box shut and slapped on the label. He took the left-over half of the cardboard mailing tube, with its portion of the modern scroll it still contained and buried them deep in the large box of packing chips, scattering some on the floor. He took the extra blank book and put it in his carry-on.

He returned the leather scroll case to the carry-on, placing it on top of the blank book. Setting up a new shipping box, he placed the small suitcase in it and filled the volume with packing peanuts. He closed the flaps, but did not tape them shut, and placed the box on the back of the table, with the other box he had packed and some others that he took out of one of the larger wheeled carts.

He abandoned his rolling suitcase and left the mail room to return to the guard.

Continue to Chapter 2e