“To answer Dr. Wishart’s question,” said Sanrio, pointedly ignoring her, “no, there does not at this point appear to have been an equipment malfunction. Lilleburger noted the development of spontaneous hot spots in 1940. .”
“Which my investigations of the Russian research never found any mention of,” cut in Pollard.
“Well, God forbid we should proceed without confirmation from Dr. Pollard’s research,” purred Sanrio. He turned back to Wishart.
“According to the schematic the leakage involved a very small area northeast of here, along…”he checked a Braille notecard with one insectile forefinger, “along Medicine Water Creek. At that hour of the morning it’s unlikely anyone was there to see a manifestation anyway-if there was a manifestation.”
“You are minimizing the extent of the burnthrough!” St. Ives slapped the table angrily with a sheaf of papers. “I’ve warned this committee before about security.”
“And I have warned this committee about timidity!” retorted Sanrio. “Some members of this organization seem to have the two words confused. We’re running a system-wide check to make sure, but there should be no reason we cannot proceed to the establishment of a limited field later this morning.”
“That’s nonsense,” cried Sakamoto. “I’ll barely have time to set up proper observation equipment.”
“You can’t be serious,” Pollard added. “No responsible researcher could countenance. .”
“Might I suggest that the limited-field experiment be put off until tomorrow?” Wu’s soft voice cut across the general clamor of My research, My observation, My data.
Sanrio heaved an exaggerated sigh and made a slight gesture of turning his head, like a glance, from her to Pollard- the two women had become close friends during the months of incarceration at the project.
Unperturbed, the old woman continued, “Not for any reason of equipment failure nor even due to the fact that we still have no idea why hot spots develop. It is simply that you have not taken a rest period in the past twenty-four hours, Dr. Sanrio. It is over ninety hours since you have remained off-shift for a complete rest period. Dr. Wishart has not had a formal rest period for sixteen, and prior to that, two rest periods in eighty hours. I believe one reason that this hot spot developed to burnthrough was because the technician on duty was overtired and his reflexes slow. The human body is not designed-”
“If you need to go take a nap, Dr. Wu,” Sanrio cut her off, “please feel free to do so. I apologize for taking up your time.” He swung his head around, not so much like a sighted person as a machine, zeroing in on the body heat of the others in the room. “And that goes for the rest of you. Evidently none of you remember-perhaps because, as Dr. Wu so obviously points out, of the bonecracking labor involved in sitting at a computer terminal in an air-conditioned room all day-that we are working against a deadline, a deadline that none of us know. Some fool in Washington may even now be standing up on his hind legs in a Senate sub-committee and yapping about cutting expenditure, and tomorrow’s mail may very well contain a request that we pack up our things in a little cardboard box and get out; they’re giving our money to buy crayons for day-care centers.”
His thin white hand, its long nails stained with nicotine, bunched tight where it rested on the schematic, whose lights had all cooled now to green. Behind him a random swirl of white sparks blossomed from some corner of the Resonating Maze, framing him in misty diamond fire.
“And what will we be able to say, when the imbeciles in charge of appropriations ask us, ‘What do you have to show for five years of active research? What do you have to show for seventy years’ worth of research by some of the best minds in prewar Germany, in Russia, in America?’ I’m not talking about next week, or next month. I may be talking about tomorrow. I don’t want to have to say-” and he transformed his light, expressive voice into an apologetic whine, “ ‘Well, sir, we’re working on it.’ ”
He gestured sharply to the black glass behind him, and Wishart thought he saw, all along the tops and edges of the resonator panels, a blue flicker of lightning, eerily mimicking the sweep of his arm.
“I am going to put forward plans to establish a limited field this morning,” Sanrio said. “Now the rest of you have my permission to go and take your little naps.”
Fine, thought Fred. I’ll do that. Dreaming of home- dreaming of Bob-was more productive than wrangling about whose research conflicted with whose and whether or not St. Ives’ theories were being proved or disproved.
While the others were still arguing, he walked quietly out the door. He thought he heard Dr. Pollard call after him, but he didn’t turn his head, hastening back to the safety of his office.
NEW YORK-8:11 A.M. EDT
Mornings were always a bitch.
Colleen Brooks slicked back the wet hair from her face and stepped from the shower, not even glancing at the bathroom mirror, which was steamed to a silvery fog anyhow. Most people would have thought she was referring to the five-mile run, the pushups, the lat pulls, the crunches, the rest of the routine that it took to get her motor running, but that was just something she did; something that burned off the fumes of the previous day.
No, it was the gauntlet. She steeled herself as she buttoned the denim shirt, zipped up her work pants, slid thick socks into steel-toed boots. She opened the bathroom door.
“You gonna comb your hair?”
“It’s combed, Rory.”
“That thing washed?”
“Yeah.”
He reclined, resplendent in the old BarcaLounger, the Simpsons TV tray in front of him, sucking up Frosted Flakes and knocking them back with a Bud. He was on day three of his shaving rotation-shave one of every four-which he thought gave him that cool Johnny Depp look (which was so old, anyway) but which to Colleen seemed more Jed Clampett. Mainly, he looked like a younger, taller Danny DeVito. Not that much taller, though. At five-six, he had only an inch on her. “It’s got a spot.”
Like his T-shirt wasn’t dribbled with them.
“They don’t pay me for my looks.”
“That’s the truth.”
Colleen felt tired and looked away. It hadn’t always been like this, she told herself, trying to remember the sweetness. That week in Cabo they’d had three years back; he’d filled the place with orchids and roses and irises and God knew what, an explosion of blossom, told her not to pack a thing-they’d buy it all there. He’d blown a month’s pay plus commissions on that. That was before the FTC had cracked down on the toner-cartridge phone scam and his boss had flown the coop to the Caymans. Not that he’d ever bothered to mention to her what his phone sales consisted of till it hit the Daily News. Thank god the feds hadn’t cared about the little fish. . at least, as long as they proved cooperative.
She poked in the fridge, found last night’s fried-egg sandwich and, as she gulped it down, extended the newspaper to him, folded over to one item.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Read it.” He rolled his eyes, his old standard I-don’t-need-this-shit look. She held his gaze, not backing down. With a martyred sigh he took it and read.
“ ‘Dear Abby, the man in my life is a boorish pig who drinks up my paycheck and won’t get work.’ ” He tossed it back to her. “Who writes this crap?”
She tried not to think about breaking one of his fingers. Tried not to think about living by herself. About waking up in the darkness, in a cold bed, alone. Looking at him, she spied her reflection in the flamingo-framed mirror they’d gotten in Cabo. Maybe they didn’t pay her for her looks, but she was cut and strong and not bad for twenty-six. She still had all her teeth and not that many scars. Not on the outside, anyway.