Agent Shield and Spaceman

First there were only impressions: the delighted and meaningless chatter of people, the cherry wood panels of the hall, the portraits of old stuffy men. Then, looking down through and beyond Spaceman’s eyes, D and Marcus saw Gunther Thulewaite waiting patiently for the answer to his question. His face was hard and unpleasant even with a superficial smile. This was the face of someone getting ready to put down a rabid dog or squash a cockroach. The charm D was using to observe Spaceman was dim and obscuring. The gist was clear but details remained murky. The emotions of passing guests became intertwined with the smells of food and drink. The impressions of menace from Thulewaite’s guards had somehow the same flavor as the stuffed canapé that Spaceman was chewing on contentedly. In a similar way, D’s observations came tinged with Marcus’ own alarm. “Oh, there was no escape,” said Spaceman/Rasheed, relaxed and lucid. “I imagine there was some instant where Rasheed believed ...

The moon fell in crisp blue beams through the windows of the limousine. Bathed in this light, Melissa and Marcus shifted uneasily, never quite able to relax. “Are we sure this is a good idea,” asked LeHaze, “Do you trust Spaceman?” Marcus gave a tight smile. “The signal’s sent, we’re going in,” he said, hesitating. “If Spaceman’s blown the mission already, hopefully we’ll have a chance for a conversation with him.” Marcus pushed against the frame of his glasses, attempting to pinch the horn-rims just close enough to prevent it from sliding down his nose. Disguise had never been his strong suit. Finally he gave up, folding them into his front pocket. D held out her hand. Raising his eyebrow, Shield realized she wanted his glasses. Seeing no harm, he passed them over. A suggestion of greenish fire spilled from her fingers as she cupped the frames to her mouth and exhaled sharply. In the poor moonlight, it was difficult to make out what exactly D was doing, but af...