The truth was that Hale had mixed emotions about the psychologist. He was attracted to her, and had been from the beginning, but he had never been sure of how she felt about him. She had been decidedly cool toward him during Project Abraham. But had that been a matter of professionalism? Or a signal for him to back off?
He had never been sure.
Then there was the fact that she had a Ph.D. in psychology, while he merely had a high school diploma, which raised the question of whether he would be biting off more than he could chew where Cassie was concerned. Still, she had clearly been eager to see him, and that was worth something. Wasn’t it?
Hale spotted the diner up ahead. It looked like what it was—a railroad dining car that had been taken out of service, refurbished for use as a small restaurant, and plopped down next to Alameda Avenue. Judging from the number of cars in the parking lot, the eatery was quite popular.
Hale followed a man wearing a business suit inside, where he looked for Cassie, but didn’t see her. So as a couple got up to leave, Hale took possession of their window booth and a harried-looking waitress arrived to bus the dishes. “Sorry, soldier,” she said. “I’ll clear this stuff away and come back for your order.”
About five minutes passed, and Hale was beginning to wonder if he’d been stood up when he looked out the window and saw Cassie hurrying up the street. She saw him, waved, and entered the restaurant a minute later. She was pretty, so lots of men took notice, but once they’d seen her most turned back to their meals.
“I’m sorry,” Cassie said apologetically, as she allowed him to take her overcoat. “My boss walked into my office just as I was trying to leave.”
“I understand,” Hale assured her. “You’re a busy lady.”
They chatted for a few minutes, Hale about life with his fellow Sentinels, Cassie about her tiny apartment and roommate, and the waitress brought their menus. When she walked away, Hale turned to face Cassie and asked something he had been wondering about. “So did they send you to Denver? Or did you request it?”
“The latter,” she replied. “I have trouble staying in one place for very long—and I was tired of Alaska.”
“Maybe you should see a psychologist about that,” he suggested dryly.
She had short blond hair, direct eyes, and full lips that broke into a wry smile. When she laughed it had a full-throated sound.
“If you’re suggesting that I have a problem with commitment, you’re probably correct…” She paused, then said, “They make a really good chocolate shake here if you’re interested.”
Hale was, and when the waitress returned both of them ordered cheeseburgers, fries, and chocolate shakes. All of which cost 30 percent more than six months earlier.
“You’re a lieutenant now,” Cassie said brightly as their orders went in. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Hale replied. “I’m still getting used to it. After complaining about officers for years, it’s weird to be one.”
“Well, it appears as if you’re good at it, or at least so I’m told,” Cassie responded. “And who would know better than your men?”
It hadn’t occurred to him that Cassie might have been assigned to monitor the psychological well-being of some of his subordinates, and Hale wondered if it was proper for her to talk about it that way. Not only that, but he felt embarrassed at the compliment, and looked away. “Yeah, well, I’ve been lucky so far.”
She must have seen his discomfort, because she changed the subject. The next forty-five minutes passed quickly, as their food arrived and they discussed a wide range of topics, including the war, the economy, and the latest Bob Hope-Bing Crosby movie: Road to Rangoon.
He hadn’t seen it, but she had, and said it was very funny.
Then, having paid the bill, the couple suddenly found themselves outside. “I’ll walk you back,” Hale said.
“Thank you,” Cassie replied, “but I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”
Hale’s eyebrows rose.
“It isn’t? Why not?”
Cassie looked down, then up again. “The truth is that I probably shouldn’t be spending time with you. You’re seeing McKenzie now, and you and I had a clinical relationship during Project Abraham, so any sort of outside relationship might be considered unethical.”
“Which means we can’t see each other again?”
“No,” Cassie replied evenly, as a wisp of vapor drifted away from her mouth. “It means we shouldn’t see each other as long as we’re both working for SRPA.”
Hale grinned. “Okay, problem solved,” he announced. “I quit! Now, will you go to dinner with me?”
She didn’t laugh, as he had hoped she would, and she was silent for a moment. He realized then that he had no idea what was going through her head. Finally, she spoke.
“When do you have to return to Nebraska?”
“Thirty of us came down together,” Hale replied. “We were told to report to Stapleton by 0300. Knowing how long some of them have been waiting for a drink, I imagine the MPs will deliver at least half of them to the airport.”
“Then it’s clearly my duty to save you from a similar fate,” Cassie said, as she removed a small notebook from her purse and scribbled on one of the pages. “So rather than go out—let’s eat in. Here’s my address… Dinner will be at seven. My roommate will have left for work by then.”
Hale felt a sense of elation, but tried not to show it as he accepted the scrap of paper. He didn’t want to screw this up.
“What can I bring?”
“Bring yourself,” she replied as she glanced at her watch. “Yikes! Sorry, I have to run! See you at seven.”
Hale watched her walk away, thought about how lucky he was, and turned in the opposite direction.
There was a bus stop one block east and on the other side of Alameda. He had an afternoon to kill—and a mission to accomplish.
The administrator watched as the couple left the diner, spoke with each other, and parted company. The lunch wasn’t a big deal, not really, but it was currency of a sort. The kind of deposit which, when combined with similar payments, would eventually add up to a promotion.
The thought made him feel cheerful as he left the diner, tucked the Post under his arm, and returned to work. The world might be going to hell in a handcart, but his life was good.
It was necessary to transfer once before arriving in downtown Denver—and both of the electric trolleys were crowded. So Hale stood, as did most of the men aboard, allowing women and elderly people to sit. Based on information gleaned from the driver, he knew that the Customs House was located on Broadway, and that the trolley would stop across the street from it. So he was ready as the trolley came to a halt.
“Customs House, post office, and main business district,” the driver intoned. “Please watch your step.”
The bi-fold doors opened, Hale took two steps down, and hurried to get out of the way so that other people could board. Having cleared the back end of the trolley, he could see the Customs House on the far side of the street. It consisted of two matching five-story buildings, divided by a long, gently sloping flight of stairs that led into the courtyard between them. And, much to Hale’s surprise, a long line of people stretched from the inner courtyard out onto Broadway, where it turned the corner and ran down 19th Avenue.
There was no way to tell what the people were lined up to do, and based on how diverse they were, it was impossible to guess.
He went down to the corner, waited for the light to change, and crossed the street. A whalelike blimp could be seen in the distance, propellers turning slowly as it patrolled the western suburbs. A staff sergeant stood in front of the Customs House. He had a round face and his cheeks were a ruddy red. The noncom saluted as Hale approached. If he was curious about the officer’s golden yellow eyes, he managed to hide it.