The mission clock read thirty-eight minutes. Back then it had been smaller and off in a corner where clutter made it difficult to see. I changed it around during the restless weeks following the Presidential visit. I'd considered a complete redesign of the hangar, but I'd dropped that idea. Close as I could figure, I needed to hold Doug another fifteen to twenty. He was taking his time, which was fine by me. The more he helped, the better I liked it.

I hadn't heard much about him from Luna. Oh, the everyday "I saw Doug," or "the Hearn kid was around," but beyond that—what projects he was working on, who had hired him, how he was doing—zero. I should have heard something. He should have made an impact wherever he went. The few e-mails I sent were unanswered. After a while, I was half-convinced he'd entered the monastery.

He drifted out of sight as he checked the boat. I heard the beeps of his notebook interfacing with the GTV's IR ports. I wondered how he planned to handle launch. Even with the proper codes, he couldn't leave without somebody running the board. Not legally, anyway. Would he dare try to override with me watching? In LEO, taking out a vehicle without proper clearance was more than a violation, it was in the nature of a sin. No way an offense of that magnitude could be covered up. It would end his days in space.

Swinging into view, Doug halted himself on a payload strut, losing hold of a glove in the process. It shot in my general direction. I stretched, certain that I'd miss it until I felt the rough carbon-fiber weave smack against my palm. Steadying myself, I winged it back to him.

He waved it in the old rigger's gesture: Got it—thanks. His eyes went quizzical. "You're not wearing your turtleneck."

"Did I always wear a turtleneck?"

"No, but … that's how I picture you." He rubbed his nose, transformed the gesture into a wave at the boat. "Y'know, I'm paying for the fuel and everything. Maintenance. All covered."

"I'm not worried about that."

"Well, you should be," he said sternly. "You're the boss." He let out a piece of a laugh. I allowed myself a smile.

"You don't think much of what I'm doing, huh?" He shook his head. "I don't blame you. But … I'm not here for trouble, Gid. I just want this over with."

His face took on a faraway look. "You know, on Luna, Earth's always there. You're outside on a job, and you look up, and bang, it just hits you. It's like there's nothing else. And when you can see Earth … you can see the Rock. You can't miss this place either. Nights when I can't sleep, I go up and I look and I think …"

He pointed at the hangar's right-hand corner, a spot he couldn't see from where he stood, a spot I'd hoped he hadn't noticed. "That's where the exhaust hit, right? Sure it is. You know, I never saw that, I didn't know it was there. But if you woke me up on Luna and asked if there was a stain, and where, I could have told you.

"How do I get away from that, Gid? Where do I go?" He raised his hands. "There is no place."

Beware the Thunderbolt. That's what the Italians call it: the Thunderbolt, the all-embracing passion, beyond logic, beyond sense, beyond sanity. Doug had been struck in the worst possible way, the one person who could have saved him forever beyond his reach, leaving him to suffer alone. I wondered if there was any alternative for him. I wondered if I would do the same.

"I'm not gonna lay a hand on … Night Ops, there." He gestured with his head. When he went on, his voice was thick. "But she's got to look. Just once. So she knows. So—"

A sudden clatter from outside cut him short. He squeezed his eyes shut and slowly turned around.

A figure wearing gym trunks, a pair of sneakers, and nothing else bounded into the hangar and snagged the first static line. Anatole, one of Little Europe's hotel recreation consultants and a fitness nut to beat them all. He was typical of what Europe was sending us these more easygoing days. I occasionally found myself feeling nostalgic for the sullen apparatchiks. "Ah—directeur! It is you. Just this moment, I notice the light and thought, 'interesting—'"

"Anatole—"

"So I mount the ramp, and who do I see—"

"Anatole, look here—"

"You note the time, eh? Now, what are you up to?"

"Doug, will you give him a taste of your boot?"

Anatole frowned. "I see I intrude."

"Yeah, you intrude. Now get."

With a faint snort, Anatole got. Doug watched him go. "Am I wrong, Gid, or are people getting weirder?"

"Have I got stories for you."

The alert buzzer sounded, in rhythm with the blinking red alert light. Doug regarded it with surprise. "Ah, Gid … I'm sorry. I didn't realize you might be in the middle of something. I should have guessed. Is it important?"

"Yeah, it is." I swung myself toward the nearest lock. Even as the line left my hand I recalled which lock it was. But it was too late to change.

A sociologist up to study "the modalities of hierarchal systems in a synthetic environment" called my method "the higher hypocrisy." He was being neither facetious nor insulting. As he put it, the two poles of operating a complex organization are "bureaucratic legalism," the way of the anthill, the army, and the old agency, and the "communitarian" approach, which, all unknowing, was the way I did things: a light touch ("exploiting the unwritten social codes"), a blind eye to inevitable misdemeanors ("employing a carefully balanced regime of hypocrisy"), and dealing with larger breaches on a personal level ("assuring that, officially, nothing at all happens"). The system polices itself, authority is preserved by not being tested, and irritants of the Lorne Mills variety are controlled by allowing the "social norms" to have their play. Even unintegrated elements—the hotel staff, the military, and Lennie's pirate crew—obey the unspoken consensus. It was very convincing. I only wish I'd asked how the Europeans fit in.

Eventually, people smarter than me will come up with refinements. The prof implied as much: "The key is the tension between authority and informality. I wonder if you've found the proper mix. It works now, but in a crisis situation …"

Too bad he didn't hang around. (He went on to Luna to study the monastery: "An internalized authority structure in a pioneer milieu. Fascinating.") The longed-for crisis had arrived, revealing drawbacks in the Cummins method.

The staffers were the first challenge. Matt was a whiner, Jennie the half-crazed compulsive so familiar in White House personnel this century. Neither viewed the station with approval. Our software was crude. There was no band to greet the President. Our facilities were rather basic, weren't they? Not a novel syndrome; you see it all the time in tourists, who spend the first day up thinking that they've blown a hundred grand on something merely strange, with no perceptible positive aspect. The situation was complicated by a series of practical jokes instigated by people who should have known better, taking advantage of the basic properties of zero gravity and called "curb shots."

Putting an end to the bouncing, I explained that this was a frontier, which meant certain limitations that should best be viewed as opportunities. I suggested some solutions, assigned advisors—the very people who had been utilizing them as cue balls—and let the norms get to work. That took up Thursday night.

But even as I got the staffers off my back, the Service clambered on. Nobody, needless to say, had been goading them into racing up the hangar ramp. The shoe was on the other foot where Laxton's mob was concerned.

"Gideon, there are men in my kitchen. They're opening things and looking in them."

It was seven in the morning, and I wasn't thinking straight, so instead of making the concerned parties come to me, a process I've found gives people a chance to cool down on the way, I went to the cafeteria myself. Halfway there I discovered I'd left the phone in my other pants.

I expected Laxton to be leading the posse, but I was mistaken. Instead, I found two junior agents who weren't quite certain who I was and cared even less. It took me the better part of twenty minutes to get them straightened out, allowing, all unknown, chaos to have its way all over my end of the Rock.

I didn't discover the depths of it until I reached the office. A blinking message light was waiting. "Play back," I said, expecting another wailing department head. Instead, I got a breathy and quite unfamiliar female voice identifying itself as AsiaPac NewsNet, recommending that I call immediately to be interviewed on the (sigh) upcoming Presidential visit.

I erased it and went on. "Hey, Gid." It was Blazik down in supplies. "I open up and this pair of doofuses in suits came in pokin' around. Long story short, I threw 'em the hell out. Said they're gonna report me to Laxton. Who's Laxton? Gimme a buzz."

It occurred to me to look at the message counter. The total read fifty-three. At prior to eight in the morning. I held my breath, waiting for the next beep.

"Director, Laxton. More of the same, I'm afraid. An individual in a black t-shirt interfered with my people's inspection of the kitchen …"

I patted my black t-shirt. I'd told him we'd start out with a meeting, hadn't I?

"… worse instead of better. Call me when you get around to it."

"Captain Cummings … Nancy Solo, from MSANPBS. How are ya this evening?"

"Erase," I said.

"Chief, this is Security. We have a tourist report of a man concealing a weapon under a suit jacket …"

"Erase."

"Director, Laxton. Call number four. I have a message from a Lorne Mills, stating that she is aware of …"

The phone rang. I grabbed the receiver, possibilities running through my head. I decided an official tone would cover them all best. "Cummins," I said in as clipped a voice as possible.

"Gideon!"

The island accent was so thick I couldn't identify him until the third full sentence as Neville Sprague, crown prince of the Rock's resident physicists and acting director of the Institute. The message came through clearly enough: I, Gid Cummins, had let him, the Institute, and science in general down. I had allowed Bobtail and his Crew to make free with the labs at all hours of the morning, disturbing and imperiling experiments on matters so arcane there was no point in identifying them. They had menaced the assistants and grad students, causing one to fall into weeping. They had handled items both fragile and expensive and failed to return them where they had got them from. This fellow Laxton, a hard man, demanded that Doctor Sprague personally describe the use of every single piece of equipment on premises …

"Laxton's there? Put him on."

No, Laxton was no longer present. He might have been so had Gideon returned the call when it was first placed, a half an hour and more ago … No, Sprague had no notion where they were bound. He was not in the habit of questioning the itineraries of armed men.

"Neville, I'll take care of it. They won't be back."

"I should hope not. Really, Gideon, it shakes a man …"

The phone clicked with an incoming call. As I switched over, the door opened and Mimi slipped inside.

"Cummins," I said, holding up a forefinger. She nodded demurely and smiled with the air of an adult witnessing an episode of character-building.

"Commander?" the receiver barked. "This is Commander Cummins?"

"Ahh … yes." The voice had pronounced it "Coomins."

"Very good. And how is the weightlessness this morning, ha-ha?"

"Fine. Never better." Making a face, Mimi pulled out a pad and jotted something down. With a wink she tore off the sheet and set it on the desk before retreating toward the door.

"This is Indra Network News, broadcasting live to the quarter-billion Gujarati market. If you please, Commander, share with us the excitement of the day."

Little tip, the note read. "No comment" works wonders. I looked up to see the door shut behind her.

"Commander Coomins?"

I made static noises into the phone, a technique that serves me well in battling assorted bureaucrats. It rang again as I hung up. I rattled the carriage and keyed supplies. A glance at the tracker showed it up to fifty-eight. Blazik answered after only one ring.

"Understand you had a visit."

"Yeah. Two jackasses in suits. The President's comin'. For what? Pick up a spare welding nozzle?"

"This was when?"

"Ten minutes ago. I says, you boys seem confused. Lemme help you out—"

"They mentioned Laxton?"

"Yeah. Go get him bring him back, they says. I told 'em, tell you somethin': Every door has two sides, one you push, other hits you in the ass you go out …"

"They say where?"

"Down the hangar."

"Thanks, Pete."

I got no answer from the control room. Accessing the PA gave me what sounded like feeding time in the monkey house: hoots, whistles, screeches, little of it coherent, and that obscene. Yelling into the receiver gained me the same result as every other effort of the morning. In the corridor I encountered a matronly tourist convinced that we were undergoing some kind of disaster—she was old enough to recall the Skylab re-entry—due to the fact that people had been "shouting loudly" and here I was "moving quickly." I calmed her down with chatter about the big visit and sent her to breakfast only to be intercepted by two shop owners with Secret Service tales. I was longer in shaking them. Passing II, I spotted the agents from the kitchen being searched by taser-wielding station security. One saw me and called me by name. Now they knew who I was. I kept going.

The hangar was empty. I was considering implications when Burt Zogby hollered from the control room.

"Laxton? Just missed him. He came by to look around." Zogby started flicking though various papers clipped above the board. "Saw everything except the laser."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. The crew started messing with him. Making ape noises and bouncing off the walls and stuff."

"And where were you?"

"Oh, I went down to keep an eye on things."

"I see. And Laxton?"

"Didn't pay any attention. Looked over Lorne's setup instead. Seemed real pleased with it."

"Where is he now?"

"Headed for Little Europe."

I rubbed my temples. Little Europe. What the Devil was he after over there?

"Aha." Zogby spotted a rogue sheet in the corner next to the ventilator grid and stretched to snag it.

"And what is this?"

"Notes. From Laxton."

Crumpling it up, I jammed it into the disposal. I eyed Zogby for a moment. "How's the weightlessness today?"

He frowned. "Okay, I guess."

"Good." I turned and headed out.

Back at the office I found another sheet headed "Laxton—Notes." So the man had found the copier. I sent it after the first and checked the message counter. It clicked over to eighty-six as I watched. I cleared my throat. "Global erase," I said, and switched to PA. "All department heads lock up and report to me."

That was Friday morning.

"Hotel desk," Ziegler shifted his toothpick. Chewing toothpicks as a substitute for smoking was his sole vice apart from compulsive conspiracy theorizing. The result was something of an internal debris problem. Microgravity areas grew dangerous, with toothpicks winding up in experiments, machinery, and eyes. These days Zee was allowed a toothpick only in his own spaces, with the door closed, a rule he was not quite violating, having just finished eating. "Blond, muttonchops. Up about eight months."

The latest message from Laxton contained the names of three individuals to be "monitored" during the visit. The murder suspect and the hit-and-run I'd expected, but this Alexander puzzled me, as did the lack of Miriam's name. "What they have on him?"

"He's some kinda libertarian. He said something. Kill all the pols."

"And they heard him."

"Sure. They got somebody up here."

"Go on, Zee."

"That's how they do it, Gid. A tourist. Down Little Europe too."

"Then why all the …" I threw up my hands. Yesterday's meeting had served to calm things, even featuring an appearance by Laxton late in the proceedings. But improvement was marginal, from my point of view. The department heads pissed and moaned, Laxton watched and listened, and the sole concrete result was a general agreement that Acting Director Cummins would serve as a moderator to avoid conflicts.

I hadn't gotten a minute's peace since, particularly after unknown parties began feeding the Service irrelevant tidbits about the station designed to create work and confusion in about equal measure, such as the fact that the Rock's surface also served as the floor.

Somebody more imaginative than Laxton had immediate visions of people crawling across the exterior unnoticed by miners, traffic control (or, for that matter, Lennie Irwin, playing Big Brother over his private vid system), accurately guessing at the right spot, digging through the eight to ten feet of regolith flooring the hotel suites, and doing the Pres a mischief. My suggestion for a guard of bluesuit junior officers from the Rock's ODC unit was dismissed out of hand: "It has to be our people."

I explained that it required a two-week training course and a half-dozen group trips to qualify for surface duty, along with a personally-tailored suit. The Zoomies were not only qualified, they possessed clearance to fire anything up to a million-watt laser. That did the trick. At least, I didn't hear about it again.

Instead, they hit me with Irwin's windows.

Zee made a vague gesture. "All the what, Gid?"

My phone buzzed with the particularly obnoxious tone I'd assigned to Laxton's calls. I snapped it open. "Cummins."

"You get the list?"

"I did," I told him, watching Doug enter the cafeteria and glance elaborately in every direction but mine. I raised a hand to call him over, but thought twice about Laxton overhearing me. I'd catch him before he left. "What's 'monitored' mean?"

"Bugged and under surveillance. I'd like them put on rigorous duty someplace else."

"I'll run 'em ragged. That make you happy?"

"I'll be happy when myself and the Principal are back on terra firma."

That made two of us. "Okay. What else?"

"About the windows …"

The President was scheduled for a big dinner in Irwin's tower, presumably the same chitlins-in-glop his French-Algerian chef dished out for everybody. The problem was the dining-room windows, which "provided a clear field of fire across the entire surface." A solution already having occurred to me, I refrained from pointing out that the field of fire actually extended all the way to Mimi's red limit. Instead, I arranged for Irwin's Russians to string a line of floods around the windows, shining in all directions to ruin any potential sniper's aim.

"… those lights. Is it true the crew were foreign nationals?"

I lowered the phone. "Can you send somebody out to check the lights? Thanks. Roy, it's done … That was Ziegler."

"Ah, Zee." For some reason, possibly mutual esteem among paranoids, the two of them had hit it off while Ziegler was showing him the station infrastructure. "Ziegler is a good man, and you are wasting him as head of maintenance."

"Maintenance is the most important department on this Rock. It's what keeps us breathing. What you think he is, the janitor?"

"One last item. The laser. Your project chief is stonewalling. If he knew his girlfriend was not under suspicion—"

An expression crossed my face quite beyond my control. "You want me to tell him?"

"It'll sound better coming from you."

"Consider it done." A search of the room revealed no sign of Doug, damn him.

"Today, Gid."

"Of course today. Circus comes to town tomorrow."

I slipped the phone back on my belt. "That man will drive me to the clinic. Now it's the Flashlight. U.S. armed forces equipment, being refurbished by an ex-service engineer—"

"Didn't the Frenchies work on the engine?"

"Yeah, for about two weeks. What difference that make? Who the hell would take a pop at the Pres out here? Alexander?"

Ziegler let out a sigh. "Anybody. Anybody, Gid. You're thinking rationally. Politics is not rational. I ask you: When the Europeans decided to freeze you out, what were they thinking? Gideon Cummins is the font of evil of the Millennial era. He's a baby-eater. He's the one killed them college girls that time. No—course not. They thought what?"

"It's what I represented."

"Yeah. You were a symbol. And what did it get them? Nothing. But you know what? They're happy."

"And they'd do it again."

"Righto. Same with Vecker. The minute he took office, he stepped out of the rational world into Wonderland. He stopped being human and became an archetype: the American President. And you don't need reasons to attack one of those. That's what presidents are for: to get shot at by nuts."

Europe had gone predictably wild over the Pres's visit, the news even drowning out threats of an Iberian secession: The Eagle was flying too high. The orbital scepter was being wielded. The Yankee Nero had stepped out to view his domain. Very much in the customary mode, in tone if not volume. But all the same I thought of Tonga and Chile, of Laxton's quick reconnaissance the other day (which neither he nor the Europeans had commented on), of the uneasy conjunction of two great symbols—the President and the Rock. Terrorists like symbols. The WTC, the Pentagon, the Vatican—no better target existed for the kind of misfit who turned toward terror in the first place. Of course, we'd always been out of the reach of Al Qaeda and Harb al'Islam, but times had changed, as Laxton had so cheerfully pointed out.

I noticed that Zee was smiling. On the other hand, how much credence can you give a man who believes that the Mob made Taxi Driver to get Reagan shot?

"You missed it," he told me. "Lorne poked her head in, spotted you, and took off like a bat."

"Lorne. That's who ought to be monitored." I'd had Zee hint to Laxton that anything coming from Lorne ought to be discounted. I was proud of that little touch.

"You want me to mention—"

"I do not." I slid my cup across the counter.

"Y'know, if I was Lorne, and I wanted to mess somebody up—"

"I don't feature hearing this, Zee." I headed for the door.

The station was coming to life, tourists lining up for their swim through zero-gee, half-awake staff padding around in ragged old sweatpants and tights (I clearly had to crack the whip on the dress code), the inevitable agent taking it all in. Bringing up my system, I got to work. There was plenty to do, a station to run, President or no President, and I wouldn't have much in the way of time over the next two days. I got through most of it before word arrived that Miriam had been taken into custody.

Hearing his name, Laxton grabbed the railing to bring himself to a halt. He stared beseechingly at the ceiling before looking back at me.

I raised one hand. "You were plannin' to inform me when?"

Laxton descended the ramp, passing between the two impatient-looking younger men. "Now'll do. A half-hour ago we received an e-mail containing a recording of Ms. Espinosa's voice uttering threats against the President."

"Aw, come on, Laxton. You know that's—"

"It did not originate from here. It was sent from downstairs."

"You mean—official?"

"No, anonymous. And before you go on, yes, I am aware of a half-dozen ways it could be faked. But it doesn't matter, because I cannot ignore it."

He halted at about one-third gee. I gestured him to descend the rest of the way. "Look here—let's get hold of Lorne Mills and—"

"I tried."

"You're lyin'."

"He is not lying," the harder-looking of the younger agents said.

"You stay out of this, sonny—"

"Pasquale …" Laxton made a restraining gesture. "It happens that Lorne Mills was last seen trotting in the direction of Little Europa. I lack jurisdiction there."

"So you drop in on Doug Hearn instead. That's good thinkin'."

"Maybe he hasn't heard."

"You know damn well he has."

"In that case, Gid, it's a good thing I've got the boss along." He started back up. "Let him through."

I sprinted after him. "What you plan on doin' with her?"

"Lock her up until I can send her back."

"Lock her up where?"

He slowed down on reaching full microgravity. I took a shortcut—a kick to the storeroom ramp overhead, a somersault to the hangar entrance itself—and got ahead of him. "Where?"

"You got a lockup and a pair of rent-a-cops, don't you?"

So he planned to dump it on me. Before I could give him the reply he deserved, the other two joined him, and, ties billowing (if there is one item of clothing with no place in zero gravity, it is a tie), all three headed into the hangar.

By my estimate, the phone call had beat us by about half a minute. Doug and his engineering specs, all his age, were floating in a clump outside their work space. They turned as one when Laxton appeared. Red-faced as only a blond can be, Doug breathed raggedly through clenched teeth. The others merely looked grim.

Laxton advanced alone. "Mr. Hearn, I require your expertise."

"Where is she?" Doug approached him in the effortless manner of someone used to microgravity.

"My office. Soon as we're finished, you can—"

"Is she … are you holding her?"

"I'm afraid so."

"'Cause she wouldn't bend for you. Yeah—you think I didn't hear that?"

I was about to call Doug aside when I noticed the two other agents discreetly arranging themselves in suitable positions to back up Laxton. That changed my mind—I didn't like the idea that they'd worked it out beforehand.

"She didn't tell you that—"

"Did I ask you to talk? You threatened to send her down, didn't you? You think I didn't know—"

"Hearn—"

"You think I— You think—"

Someone had gone over microgravity defensive techniques with Laxton. Even as Doug launched himself, Laxton, moving more quickly than I'd have expected, jammed a heel against the nearest footrest and ducked. Doug struck him glancingly, with no weight behind it. As he flailed overhead, Laxton backhanded him, then, with a twisting motion of his torso, flung him on his way.

Spence, one of Doug's boys, stood facing an agent, wrench in hand, while the other two stalked the one named Pasquale. I kicked off up and over Laxton's head, catching a static line and swinging myself around and down. My feet hit the floor with a ferocious bang. "That's it!" I shouted. "Break it up. Now!"

The engineers glanced among themselves and backed away. Doug lay entangled with a wall net, feeling his bloody nose. Laxton, staring coldly into space, ran a hand over his scalp. Confused voices swelled from the entrance. I didn't bother to look.

"Laxton, stay where you are. Doug, you too." I gestured Spence to go look Doug over.

"Don't you take him out of here," Laxton said. "He is showing me that machine."

"He is showin' you jack, because you just crossed the line."

Laxton swung his icy gaze toward me. "Director—"

"'Director,' nothin'. Ya'll have woken the Rebel in me."

Regimes of hypocrisy aside, a space station is not quite the same thing as an earthbound port. It also shares the attributes of a vessel, and as its director, I possessed the absolute authority of a sea captain. I wondered if Laxton understood that. If not, he was due to be enlightened.

With raised hands, I curtailed his second effort to speak. "No sir. I require no words from you. I have had it. I am departin' this hangar for communications, where I intend to notify Washington that the International Orbital Station is no longer tenable for a sojourn by the President. And you will leave this space as well for that office of yours, where you will remain until you again hear from me."

Laxton regarded me a moment longer before gesturing to his men. The onlookers at the entrance got out of his path quickly enough. As he swung from sight, I heard him say something about "… getting us a new director."

Doug was on his feet, a bloody cloth pressed to his face. I glanced around for stray blood globules—few things are as unpleasant as running into one—but I didn't spot any. I tapped him on the shoulder and told him to come along. Everybody else I sent back to work. We'd returned to gee before Doug spoke.

"You sure straightened him out, Gid."

I walked on without answering. People stared as we passed. I'm sure we made quite a spectacle.

"No, I mean it."

I waved a hand, as much to stifle him as in acknowledgment. Encouraged by the response, he quickened his pace. "You backed me up, and I appreciate—"

"Doug—don't you commence." I shot him a glare. "You, I oughta lock up. Did you really believe that line about Miriam and Laxton?"

"Look, somebody told me—"

"Who?"

"Whatsername, down the cafeteria."

"Dolly?" My right hand swung high, and I believe I would have clouted him if it hadn't been for his nose. I shook my head instead. "You better stick close to me."

I have an actual desk in my office. I fought for that desk. My contention was that my position as de facto head of operations required something with more presence than the pressboard-with-baskets everybody else made do with. One vacation I hit the antique store circuit, bought the finest executive-style oak desk I could find, drove it to Kennedy, and told them to hold it until I sent for it. BuSpace resisted to the last ditch: That heavy a framework was unnecessary in half a gee. The weight was too great to justify it. It wasn't government standard. But I knew damn well that a quarter of the cargo space on the tourist flights went unused, and I held out until they shipped it in three separate launches, frame in one, top in the second, and drawers in the third. There are some traditions that must not, under any circumstances, be allowed to fade.

It was truly worth it. Even as I sat down behind that mass, all uncertainty vanished and my strategy began to coalesce. I'd have to call Dino, make an official complaint. But he'd dither. Before that … Miriam's home office in Panama City. No; better yet, Hemispheric's U.S. office in Miami. That was it. They'd roar loud enough to get the Net buzzing, and then I'd call Dino: Haven't you heard? The drudges got hold of it. It's leading every single post. The phones are ringing off the hook up here. What do I tell 'em?

"Gid, you really gonna cancel the visit?"

Grabbing the phone, I punched for the number and sat back in the swivel chair that had come up on the fourth flight, a present from the Kennedy staff.

"I mean, can you do that?"

"No, he can't."

Roy Laxton pushed the door wide and settled against the jamb. Doug shot to his feet. "Hemispheric," a sweet voice said in my ear.

"One minute, please." I raised my eyebrows at Laxton.

"Ms. Espinosa has been asked to interview the President."

"My mistake." I hung up.

"I believe he wants to make a gesture concerning the Expellees. You've heard him say nothing's too much where they're concerned."

"I see. I suppose they investigated her thoroughly."

"That's right."

"Well, Roy … You don't have their resources."

"Aw, screw him." Doug made as if to throw the bloody rag at Laxton, but checked the gesture.

"I did come to tell you, Mr. Engineer."

"Where is she now?" I interjected quickly.

"Arranging things over the phone. It's like she knew it was coming. You got a bright penny there, kiddo."

"So keep your dirty mouth off her."

"Doug."

"I need to see that laser." Laxton spoke to me rather than Hearn.

"Fucker's there. Go look at it."

"Doug, drop it."

Laxton gestured out into the corridor. The agent named Pasquale appeared. "Will he do?"

"Doug, give that man a thorough briefing."

"I don't know a thing about lasers, Roy," Pasquale said.

"Do I?" Laxton stepped away from the door. "You'll learn something."

Doug gazed at Pasquale for several seconds. At last he smiled. "Short course, you silly bastard."