The Libran Exchange

The Libran Exchange

by

Thomas C. Stone

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © July 2014 Thomas C. Stone

All Rights Reserved

ISBN 978-1-877557-33-0

Independently Published

More Titles by Thomas C. Stone

To The Stars

Stolen Worlds

Minerva’s Soul

Among The Stars

Jennings' Folly

The Harry Irons Trilogy

Rolling Thunder

Gender Wars

Song of the Elowai

Smolif

Incident on Walsh Street

Acknowledgments

Heartfelt thanks to Georganna Barnes for having the nerve to step up!

Prologue

When astronauts aboard the International Space Station beamed a wide spectrum hail at the approaching vessel, it was already apparent the station was the alien spacecraft’s destination.

Because of reduced funding, the orbital platform was down to a two man crew. One American, Kermit Knowles, and one Soviet, Sergei Yeregev, both men nearing the two year mark aboard the ISS. They got along well, considering the close quarters, but in recent months each had taken up occupancy at opposite ends of the station. This day, however, they sat together, watching the approach of the alien craft. Both looked through field glasses at the approaching spaceship.

Fascinating, muttered Yeregev in a heavy Russian accent.

I expected something bigger. It’s what? 120 meters lengthwise? asked Knowles.

Looks like identical dish assemblies at either end, no sign of drive ports, no discernible ports or protuberances. Could be automated.

Could be? It's likely, if you ask me.

Wanna put money on it?

Make it easy on yourself.

Okay. A hundred says someting iz inside.

A tone sounded from a console and Knowles looked at a computer display. Incoming data signal on UHF. Accept? Yes. Knowles tapped a button, looked at Yeregev and started to say something but was interrupted by the voice of the Earth controller.

Stat, this is control. You guys see it yet?

Yeregev keyed his mic. We have the object under surveillance. It iz headed for us. Do you have a plotting solution prepared?

Well, there’s been a new development.

We’re kind of under the gun here, said Knowles. The craft is bearing down on us. I repeat, the craft is bearing down on us. We need to move.

That won’t be necessary. We have established communications with the object.

The Russian turned to the American and rubbed fingers and thumb together. You owe me, mouthed Yeregev.

...and, the controller continued, the object is on a docking vector.

With us? It’s going to dock with us?

That’s affirmative.

And then what?

We’re not clear on that just yet.

Chapter 1

Major Cole Flynn guided his T-5 jet trainer into a gut-wrenching bank to starboard as his eyes wandered over the heads-up display. He grinned behind the cover of the shaded faceplate as the ground chatter reached his ears.

Nice shot, quipped the controller. One to go.

Flynn scanned the radar, saw nothing, and dropped two thousand feet to the lower limit of the dogfight area. If he were in an actual dogfight, he would use the mountain ridges below to conceal his position, but that tactic was outside the rules of engagement, so he ignored what was below as he kept a lookout for threats from above.

Flynn felt good. It was the first time in months NASA had allowed him to climb back inside a conventional cockpit and he was enjoying himself immensely in the mock dogfight with the west coast astronaut candidates. He'd dispatched three already, but the fourth was playing hide and seek. It didn't matter. Eventually, his opponent would show himself and Flynn would dispatch him as well.

Before joining NASA, Flynn had lived to fly. That's probably why he was so good at it. As a Navy pilot, he'd risen quickly through the ranks and established a reputation as one of the top pilots in the military. Truth be told, he longed for those days. Being an astronaut wasn't all it was cracked up to be. In all fairness, it wasn't anything inherent. It was, rather, the country's general economic collapse. It had affected the military and NASA as well. Budgets were slashed...

Keeping a level line, he banked back to port just as an alert pinged from his threat radar. The image on the display appeared for a brief moment before vanishing. That was odd. A software glitch? Flynn craned his neck for a quick visual survey but nothing appeared in the sky save for passing clouds.

The threat pinged again but this time it didn't take the characteristics of another aircraft; this time, rather, it was a software-simulated drop-and-forget air to air missile four miles out and closing fast. How had the shooter gotten behind him? Flynn hit his afterburners and leveled out to gain speed. The increase in airspeed would give him a few more seconds but the missile was still gaining.

When it was less than a mile behind, Flynn dropped a signal decoy and the small drone immediately began emitting electronic noise and sped off at an angle to Flynn's starboard side. Radar had a good track on the incoming missile and Flynn watched as it veered after the drone, then turned back to the T-5's heat trail as it reacquired its primary target. Nonplussed, Flynn ejected two loads of chaff off both sides of his jet. The heatseeking missile never had a chance as it flew directly through the chaff, became confused, and begun reversing itself in a wide arc.

Flynn had no time to celebrate because as soon as he confirmed the missile had lost him, another appeared on his threat display.

Where are these coming from? The second missile was two thousand feet below and already two miles out burning in on a vector that put the shooter somewhere off his port side -- to the south. Flynn ejected four shots of chaff this time -- in staggered loads -- and dropped another drone with instructions to circle, then put his plane into a steep climb with the intention to go high in a giant loop, invert and come down behind the shooter who had to be coming on strong.

It was a tricky maneuver and it was a guess, but Flynn counted on the other pilot maintaining the aggression he'd displayed. The other three had gone down without much of a fight, but Major Flynn had to hand it to this last guy -- he was good. It still didn't explain how he'd been able to get so close in the first place without being seen. All participants flew the same type of aircraft and none had stealth capability.

Flynn finally got a solid radar blip as he reached the apex of his loop and began his inverted descent. Bad news for Flynn. Although the second drone had done its job and averted the second threat, the opposing T-5 had apparently caught on to his strategy and corrected its approach angle. Alarms buzzed inside the cockpit as his radar indicated the other aircraft had a firm lock.

The ground controller's voice came through Flynn's headset. Sorry, Major, you are bango-wango, dead in the air. Game over, return to base.

Flynn let out a heavy sigh. Roger that, he replied, headed home.

Banking the jet over the mountains of northern New Mexico, he strained to catch a visual of the other T-5, but it had already fled the area. It occurred to Flynn that the other pilot had been lying in wait below the specified altitude and had used a ridgeline as a radar barrier. Simply put, the other pilot had cheated. All's fair in love and war, Flynn mumbled to himself as he attempted to rationalize the tactic.

*

Returning to base, Major Flynn taxied his jet to a spot in a line of parked T-5's. Handing the care of the plane over to a smartly-saluting airman, he strode across the tarmac to a hangar which housed the NASA briefing room. Enlisted personnel milled about, appearing to do busy work as they caught sight of the approaching officer. Several gathered about a television mounted on a wall in the community lounge. They dispersed as Flynn strode past. A newscaster said something about an approaching meteor. Had Flynn not been so distracted by his recent aerial combat loss, he would have paid more attention.

Upon entering the briefing room, he spotted Air Force Captain Nolan Randall, fellow astronaut and friend, standing among a small group of full time NASA astronauts. Randall waved Flynn over. Another group stood on the opposite side of the room -- the west coast astronaut trainees. Flynn didn't recognize anyone among them although one of the two females in the group was a dark-haired beauty who eyed Flynn as he entered.

What happened up there? said a grinning Captain Randall when Flynn got to within earshot.

I got ambushed, mumbled Flynn, adding, Who's the civilian babe?

Captain Randall followed Flynn's gaze. Oh, her? That's Dr. Carlisle Fantos. Careful with that one. They call her the ice queen.

Flynn stared. Oh yeah. I've heard of her.

Flynn's boss, Colonel John Rowdy Reynolds walked into the room, along with a surprise guest, Dr. David Stone, Deputy Director for NASA operations. The two nodded and shook hands as they made their way to the front of the room where both took positions behind a lectern.

Please have a seat, everyone, said Colonel Reynolds. We have a number of items to discuss.

An enlisted man shut the open door and stood beside it.

Randall leaned to Flynn and whispered, Something's up, as the two groups of astronauts and trainees sat in chairs arranged in rows facing the lectern.

Flynn nodded and sat uneasily as Reynolds waited for everyone to settle.

Reynolds half-turned to the man standing beside him. You all know Director Stone. Everyone murmured their acknowledgments. I've invited the Director along today to advise us on a new matter. However, before we get to that, I'd like to congratulate the winner of our annual unofficial Astronaut Top Gun contest. Reynolds paused for effect and looked over the room.

Finally, he gazed to the side of the room opposite Flynn. Dr. Fantos, he said with a smile, will you join us at the lectern? The shapely astronaut candidate got to her feet, tossed her long, copper-colored hair from her face, and made her way to the front.

She was the one, Flynn realized, who had shot him down. She had gotten away with breaking the rules in order to win the game and take the prize. Big deal, Flynn thought, so what? She'll get a plaque with her name on it and bragging rights. The worst part of it was that she wasn't even a naval flyer. She was, rather (Flynn suppressed a shudder), trained by the Air Force.

"She shot us down?" asked Randall to no one in particular.

She cheated, said Flynn, under his breath.

Dr. Fantos stood at the podium and accepted her plaque from Deputy Director Stone with a knowing smile. Thank you, she said, holding the plaque aloft. This means a great deal to me, she added.

And to the NASA astronaut corps, Dr. Fantos, said Stone. I have the distinct pleasure of welcoming you into the full-time ranks.

After thanking the Director and shaking Colonel Reynolds' hand, Carlisle Fantos returned to her seat amid applause that was noticeably louder from her side of the room.

Reynolds positioned himself behind the lectern and held up a hand. His audience grew quiet. Now, stated the Colonel, on to more serious business. Unfortunately, due to cutbacks...

Here it comes, whispered Randall.

... most of you will be re-assigned to military billets while some of you will retain NASA flight status.

Flynn's group looked at one another with bewildered expressions. Flynn looked at Captain Randall. What does that mean? he said aloud.

Colonel Reynolds' overheard Flynn. It means we're cutting back, Major Flynn. The truth is, there is simply not enough funding to sustain the program any longer. We're all aware there have been no flights in two years and the plans for the Mars mission are in indefinite suspension.

Flynn reminded the Colonel that, The Japanese put a team up last year.

And circled the planet thirty-seven times before bringing them back to the Sea of Japan early. They don't have any funds to spare either. Their two follow-up missions have been scrapped as well.

But what about the future of space exploration? asked one of the re-assigned astronauts.

Drones are cheaper.

Drones can't make decisions like a trained astronaut.

Gentlemen, cautioned the Colonel, this announcement was not intended to open up a discussion on the subject. It is, rather, an effort to let you know that in any case you all have assigned billets either back in the military or in NASA. Everybody still has a job.

Flynn held up his hand. Colonel Reynolds gazed at him before nodding. Yes, Major? What is it?

How is it NASA can bring on a new astronaut while terminating more experienced hands? Of course, Flynn referred to Dr. Fantos, but he didn't even look in her direction as he asked the question.

The Colonel smiled knowingly and spread his hands. Such are the mysterious ways of government decision-making, Major. Perhaps someday you'll come to terms with it.

Randall leaned to Flynn's ear. They want a female to balance things out.

Flynn looked across the room at Dr. Fantos. She was already looking at Major Flynn, and not in a friendly way.

Flynn held up his hand again. One more question, sir.

The Colonel sighed. Yes?

Who's leaving and who is staying in the Astronaut Corps?

Colonel Reynolds nodded and looked at Director Stone before gripping both sides of the lectern. Well, we already know Dr. Fantos will be joining the team. He looked to his left at the west coast candidates. There was scattered applause among their group of eight men and two women.

Reynolds continued. Among the established team, you will remain, Major, along with Captain Randall. Randall will assist in an advisory status only, however. After that, the Colonel remained curiously silent.

And?

And what?

Who else?

There is no 'who else', Major. Everyone else is being re-assigned.

Flynn didn't know what to say. He was stunned. Among the six other full-time astronauts, five were being re-assigned. Captain Randall, his best friend, was, in effect, bring demoted to an assistant. They were stripping the team. In fact, there was no team anymore, unless you wanted to call it a duo. Flynn looked back to Fantos. She looked in his direction again, then returned her attention to Colonel Reynolds.

So shocked was Flynn, he barely heard the announcement for the informal celebratory gathering at a local watering hole.

As everyone began to rise and file out, a bewildered Flynn looked at Captain Randall and asked, What does this mean?

It means we've still got a job, replied Randall.

*

The Mucky Duck was located in a strip mall just inside the city limits of Alamogordo. On one side of the lounge was a Laundromat with churning washers and whirling dryers and on the other side was a novelty shop that sold pastel-colored condoms, cheap Indian jewelry, shot-glasses, dried and stuffed lizards, Navajo kachina dolls, miniature drums, coffee cups by the hundreds with every name imaginable stenciled on the front, gag gifts like rubberized vomit and Mexican jumping beans and, of course, souvenir t-shirts. The t-shirts were showcased in the front windows with logos like New Mexicans Do It Better and White Sands Missile Range, and Free Moustache Rides. Randall paused before the window and looked at the shirts.

Christmas shopping? Flynn joked.

The two had just climbed from Captain Randall's car and both were reluctant to enter the lounge.

Randall didn't look at Flynn. "Cyndi wants a t-shirt that says, I am woman -- hear me roar. She saw one when we were stationed in Subic but didn't buy it and always regretted it."

Why on Earth would she want something like that?

Randall shrugged. Although the shop was closed and locked for the night, a television situated above and behind the cash register was on. It was muted but a headline displayed across the screen proclaimed the approach of a meteor. Randall pointed. That's what's got the enlisted men so riled up.

What?

That. Randall repeated and Flynn paused beside his friend to stare. I don't watch television, said Flynn. It's a waste of time. Nothing's real. If a giant meteor was really about to impact, they wouldn't tell anybody. Besides, we're astronauts, remember? We'd know about it.

Randall sighed. Yes, we're still astronauts for a little longer. Last of a dying breed. You and Fantos are the only full-time astronauts left. Astronauts without a ship.

They need us, insisted Flynn, when they decide to re-activate Skylab.

Yeah, buddy-boy, keep telling yourself that. Come on, let's go inside and get this over with.

The two officers turned away from the storefront and the muted television and the t-shirts and stepped to the front door of the Mucky Duck. Flynn pulled it open and was met by country music, the smell of stale beer, and an overweight young man wearing a black t-shirt without sleeves. Five dollar cover tonight, guys, he said.

What's the occasion? asked Randall.

Ladies' Night, came the answer.

Flynn peered into the darkness past the bar lit by neon beer advertisements. The only female he saw was Dr. Fantos and she was surrounded by her west coast comrades. They were a subdued lot, but nothing compared to the familiar group of ex-astronauts gathered at the opposite end of the bar. Randall and Flynn begrudgingly handed over their fivers and entered.

Captain Randall waved at Fantos and her entourage but steered Flynn in the opposite direction. This looks like a wake, he said as he approached the group. Three half-empty pitchers of beer were lined up on the bar. A sad bartender looked on with disinterest.

That's a good description, one of the men quipped.

Flynn tried to be encouraging. You'll be back in the fleet, he said, you'll be flying again.

Only two of us, said Lieutenant Shirley Jackson, the rest are getting desks.

Not me, said Al Quickspit Jardine. I'm out in September. I'm going to fly jumbos for Quantas. I've had enough.

Nobody said anything. Randall signaled the bored bartender for two more mugs.

It's not the end of the world, insisted Flynn.

That's easy for you to say, said Ronnie Easy Rider Driscoll. You've still got something to do. With the economy the way it is, the country is practically imploding. Even those of us staying in service would rather do something else if there's no chance of going into space. Heck, that's why I signed up.

Randall poured beer into the two empty mugs placed before him and handed one to Flynn. Flynn took a sip.

It's warm.

Randall sipped from his mug. It's not warm, he said upon lowering the mug, it's just not cold.

Flynn started to say something but Randall's cell phone chimed. Hold that thought, said Randall as he first looked to see who was calling, frowned, then raised the phone to his ear and walked away for privacy.

Flynn looked to where the other group stood clustered at the opposite end of the bar. He caught Dr. Fantos looking at him again, but this time she didn't try to hide it. Instead, she gave a half-smile and raised her glass. Flynn nodded and looked away.

Randall was off the phone and was wearing his game face.

What's up? Flynn asked.

Randall shook his head. I don't know exactly.

Well, who was on the phone?

The base watch officer. He wants me to come in. Well, actually, not her, but Colonel Reynolds.

Reynolds?

Uh-huh.

What does he want?

I told you. I don't know exactly. I think it has something to do with that meteor, though. The watch officer mentioned it. Randall turned up his mug and drained the glass. He burped and made his apologies to the others. I'm out of here, he said as he turned and walked toward the door.

Let me know what's going on, said Flynn to his retreating back.

Dr. Fantos stepped into Flynn's line of sight as Captain Randall pushed open the front door of the lounge and stepped outside. Fantos had separated from her group and now approached Flynn.

Flynn had never been properly introduced but he knew her by reputation. She was a hard charger, an overachiever. A doctor of something or other -- not medicine -- an Air Force pilot who'd given up her commission to pursue work as a civilian, made a fortune doing something for a pharmaceutical company, and then chunked it for a chance to become an astronaut. She had a lot going on, plus, she was a knock-out.

Can I buy you a drink? she offered while extending a hand.

I don't know, said Flynn, can you? He gingerly took the hand but released it immediately.

Fantos sighed and signaled to the bartender. Dos Cuervos, she ordered. Facing Flynn, she said, I see we need some icebreakers.

I'm not a drinker, admitted Flynn.

Me neither, said Fantos, but I am a doctor and I can see we need social lubricant. I'm Carly Fantos, by the way.

I know who you are.

Well, sure you do. And you're Major Cole Flynn, naval flyer extraordinaire. May I call you Cole?

Flynn shrugged. That's my name.

Fantos stared for a moment. You're still upset about the dogfight, aren't you?

Why wouldn't I be? You cheated.

That's a harsh word.

That's what it's called when you step outside the rules while pursuing your goals.

Dr. Fantos frowned as the bartender placed two shot glasses on the bar filled to the brim with amber-colored liquid. The action roused the troops and Flynn's fellow astronauts began ordering shots in kind. Carly pushed one glass toward Flynn and lifted the other. Flynn reluctantly lifted the offered glass. Carly said, Here's looking at you, and downed the tequila shot in two gulps. Her eyes squinted shut and she pursed her lips as she drew in a breath. Oh man, was all she could say.

Flynn, not wanting to appear the weaker, tossed his back in one swallow. His eyes watered as the alcohol burned past his throat on its way to his stomach.

Carly slammed the shot glass on the countertop loud enough to get everyone's attention and Cole followed suit. It brought a roar from the west coast candidates and they ordered shots as well. Soon, the two groups had forgotten their differences and were mingling. The remaining west coast female astronaut found herself surrounded by three of Flynn's fellow naval aviators.

Flynn ordered another round but Carly tried to beg off. I don't know if I should, she said. Yet, when the drinks came, she followed Flynn's lead, dutifully lifted her glass, and drank the liquid fire -- this time with a salt lick and lime chaser.

Flynn leaned closer to her, noticed that she smelled good, and asked her if she always cheated. He could tell the question annoyed her, but he figured that was her problem and, since they'd most likely be working together, he needed to know. Besides, he enjoyed yanking her chain since he'd found the handle.

No, she flatly answered, not at everything. Just those things where I need an advantage. You are a superior flyer. Everyone knows that. I flew low and used a ridgeline below the limits to block radar...

To hide from me.

Yes, to conceal myself until the right time.

Why did you do it?

Carly looked surprised. Why, to win, of course.

What if NASA finds out? What then?

Carly shook her head. Cole, are you that naive?

What do you mean?

They already know.

Flynn straightened up and looked around to see if anyone was listening. They weren't. The jukebox was blasting a country tune about a cowboy being lonely on the range while the muted television above the bar displayed a talking head officiously chattering about, Cole was certain, the so-called economic recovery, or the race riots in LA, or Monsanto's latest GMO. No one was interested in the conversation between America's only two full-time astronauts.

What do you mean? Flynn carefully asked.

Dr. Fantos took a look around before answering. I mean, she said in a low voice, that the powers that be wanted me in. That's all there is to it.

Flynn stared, unbelieving. Why would they do that?

She looked at the Navy pilot. You really are that naive. She signaled to the bartender again. Dos mas.

Flynn's head swam, not from the unaccustomed drinks, but from the knowledge that the game was fixed. There had to be at least a dozen others who were more qualified than Fantos, yet if what she said was true, then things had been arranged so she would capture the honor of being only one of two active, full-time astronauts in the entire NASA program -- not counting back-ups, of course. Why, it wasn't... fair.

The bartender placed two more shots of tequila before Fantos and himself. Fantos salted the back of her hand, pushed the salt shaker toward Flynn, then downed the liquid in two gulps, squinting over the aftertaste and quickly biting into a slice of lime.

Flynn absently applied salt to the back of his hand, licked it off and tossed the drink to the back of his throat where he hoped he would avoid the taste. He didn't and he automatically reached for a lime slice after swallowing.

Why would they do that? he repeated.

Carly shook her head. You've been in the Men's Club too long.

What do you mean?

It's a new world, Cole. Women may not be in charge, but men have definitely moved over. The rules are different. Equal rights, you know?

Equal doesn't mean best, countered Cole.

Fantos shrugged. Her red hair shifted; falling across her face, the neon light shined from it. Cole was distracted. She really does have beautiful hair, he thought, then realized the alcohol was working on him.

She studied his face a moment and seemed almost sad before taking him by the hand and pulling him from the barstool onto his feet. Come on, she coaxed, let's dance.

Cole shook his head. I don't want to. I want to know why they...

Come on, she interrupted, pulling him onto the small dance floor in front of the jukebox. We know you're good in the air; let's see how you do on your feet.

I don't dance, he started as he stepped onto the floor.

Fantos placed one of his hands on her waist and held the other. Everybody dances, she told him and the two began to sway to the backbeat of a song that had something to do with pick-up trucks and brown-eyed girls.

*

Light seeped in through Cole's closed eyelids but that wasn't what woke him. He wasn't quite sure what had roused him but now that he was coming around, he thought it might be the pain in his head, or the pain behind his eyes -- he couldn't be certain because the two were somehow connected. He didn't want to open his eyes. Rather, he just wanted to lie there and drift back into blissful darkness, that place where there was no pain, no discomfort, no responsibility, that place where there were no early morning wake-up calls, where there was nothing to do but sleep and heal from the night before and all that had preceded it. That's when he remembered that he'd been bested in a dogfight by an ex-Air Force pilot. A woman, at that. He sat up straight in bed, the covers dropping away. She cheated, he said to himself. The sudden motion caused him to feel something like a hatchet splitting his head directly between the two hemispheres of his surely swollen, alcohol-poisoned brain. Light shined into the room through a slit between the curtains and it acted like a piercing laser beam of pain. Cole clamped his hands over his eyes and lay down again, rolling onto his side.

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms and, when finished, rested his cheek against his flat, praying fingers. Sensing something out of order, Cole opened his eyes. Lying parallel to him was Carly Fantos. Her eyes were open and bloodshot.

Cole closed his eyes and shifted his hands over them once again. It was a hallucination. It had to be. She couldn't be there. But where was there? Where was he? He opened one eye slightly. Carly was still lying next to him, inches from his face, looking at him. She was not a hallucination.

What are you doing here? Cole asked, a little rudely.

This is my room, she said in a forced whisper.

Cole raised up and looked around. He was in a motel room, not his own. He laid back, head on the pillow. No, no, this can't be, he said. I can't be here.

Carly rolled over onto her back and crossed her arms above the covers. This wasn't my idea, she said.

Well, it couldn't have been mine either, countered Flynn.

Silence passed between the two. Cole was afraid to move, almost afraid to breath. I don't remember coming here. He looked at her. She stared at the ceiling. Finally, she said, This is bad.

Did you drug me? Cole blurted.

She looked at him, incredulous. You've got to be kidding.

Well, how do I know? I don't remember anything.

Likely story.

We were dancing, said Cole, trying to recall, and you dance funny.

You're no Fred Astaire yourself, cowboy, replied Fantos.

Cole looked under the covers. Where are my clothes? What did you do with my clothes?

I didn't do anything to your clothes. You took them off out of your own volition. Mine too, if I remember correctly.

For the third time, Flynn ran his hands over his eyes.

He shook his head and said, again, This is bad. Before Carly could reply, a phone began chiming. Flynn followed the sound to the pocket of his blue jeans, which were lying on the floor beside the bed. Pulling the phone from the pocket, he saw it was Randall calling.

Hello?

Captain Randall asked Flynn if he was awake.

Yes, I'm awake. I answered the phone, didn't I?

A little testy this morning, eh? Where are you?

In bed.

Well, get up, get dressed, and come to the base ASAP.

What's up?

I'll tell you when you get here. Double-time, Cole. Meet me at the Comm Facility. You know where that is?

I'll find it.

All right then. See you in fifteen.

Flynn glanced at Dr. Fantos. Better make that thirty.

Just get here quick. Randall broke the connection.

Fantos had pulled the blanket from the bed, wrapped it around herself, and presently