Isaacs calculated quickly. He was in a no-win situation, with no chance of talking McMasters out of his vindictive position. He had little beyond his intuition to justify the effort he had authorized to understand the queer seismic waves. The expenses involved were small, but still a finite drain on Agency resources. He did not want the project to come up for a full-scale Agency review as McMasters could easily arrange. In such a case he would be forced to rank the seismic project below a goodly number of others. Even the Director, through no malice, was likely to suggest a “compromise” in an effort to quell disagreements among his subordinates. His best hope would be to lose only the seismic project and prevent McMasters from lopping off any other projects. He would be no better off than now, but the disagreement between himself and McMasters would have been aired widely, and that could only lead to other trouble. He had little practical choice but to accede to McMasters.
Isaacs stared down at the man before him.
“All right,” he conceded, “both of us stand to lose if you insist on dragging our personal disagreements before the Director, but I won’t risk Agency programs being gratuitously interrupted for the sake of exposing your machinations.”
“You’ll abandon your investigation of this seismic folly?”
“Yes.”
“You understand that this is an order carrying the full authority of my office?”
“Yes, dammit!”
McMasters eyed him for a moment, then snapped, “You are dismissed.”
Isaacs promptly whirled and strode out of the office. He resisted a temptation to slam the door behind him. The secretary half expected another wink. Instead he treated her to the sight of his back as he crossed her office and disappeared down the corridor.
In his office, Kevin McMasters wrote a brief note to his secretary, attached it to the file before him and dropped the file in his “out” box. His gaze lingered on it, and he smiled a small, self-satisfied smile.
That afternoon Pat Danielson was one of a handful of people to receive the following memo:
Due to a reordering of priorities, active investigation connected with operation code name QUAKER will terminate effective immediately. Please act promptly to deliver to central inactive files all material relevant to Project QUAKER that is in your possession.
It was initialed by Isaacs.
Danielson reread the two sentences with confusion and disappointment. She still had no inkling of what caused the strange signal, but she was captivated by it and had spent long hours wrestling with it. Only yesterday she had spoken briefly with Isaacs about it. They had expressed their mutual frustration that no solution had been devised, but his interest showed no sign of flagging, and he had expressed satisfaction with her work. Stunned by the surprise terse note, she was now assailed with doubt. Was her enthusiasm for the project misplaced? The signal a trivial curiosity? Even worse, was it through an inadequacy on her part that progress toward understanding had come to a halt?
Without pausing to analyze the propriety of her actions, she logged off the computer, slammed her notebook shut and strode off toward Isaacs’ office, the memo crumpled in her hand.
Kathleen looked up in mild surprise when Danielson appeared in her office and announced stiffly, “I’d like to see Mr. Isaacs.”
“He’s in the middle of a conference call. Do you want to wait until he finishes to see if he has the time? It may be fifteen or twenty minutes.”
Danielson was taken aback by the roadblock.
“Oh, well, yes. Yes. I would like to wait,” she finished in a strong voice. She looked around and sat briskly in one of the office chairs.
Kathleen recognized the wrinkled memo. After a moment, she nodded at it and spoke in a friendly tone.
“Is that the problem?”
Danielson looked at the slip of paper. She sat back in her chair and brandished the memo at Kathleen. “It was such a surprise. I’m a bit upset.”
“Not my place to stick my nose in,” Kathleen said, “but I can give you a little insight. That’s nothing against you.”
“I’d like to think so, but I’ve done the most work on it, spent every spare minute since I got back from Boston, and to have it canceled … I was afraid …”
Kathleen leaned on her forearms. “Do you know about the tiff between Mr. Isaacs and McMasters?”
“There’s some scuttlebutt. I haven’t paid much attention to it,” Danielson smiled in self-deprecation. “I don’t operate in that league.”
“Who does?” Kathleen smiled in return. “But sometimes some of us get caught up in the battles.” She turned serious. “For some reason McMasters has it in for Isaacs. Bob, Mr. Isaacs, is always having to tiptoe around him. It’s too bad. Mr. Isaacs can be pretty ferocious when he’s worked up, but he really is very sweet.”
“I’ve enjoyed working with him,” Danielson admitted. “He takes everything very seriously, but he’s reasonable.”
“Well, he won’t toady to McMasters, and McMasters took a dislike to him early on. I don’t know the details, but McMasters is behind the cancellation of that particular project. As I say, it’s nothing personal against you, I’m sure.”
“I’d like to believe that.”
“Do you still want to see Mr. Isaacs?”
“Yes,” Danielson said thoughtfully, “I think I still would.”
“Well, you’re welcome to make yourself at home, but I’ve got to finish this briefing paper.”
“Oh, please go ahead.”
Kathleen turned back to her keyboard. Danielson watched her fingers rap the keys and then began to think about Project QUAKER. The project fascinated and haunted her. She also wanted very much to please Isaacs with her performance. How frustrating to do your best, she thought, try to gain some appreciation and be thwarted by something beyond your control, in this case interference by McMasters, some high muckety-muck I haven’t even met.
She recognized the cord of tension, strong and familiar, the ambition to go her own way played against the need to satisfy another authority figure, no stranger at all. She slipped into a reverie, her thoughts drifting to her childhood, dim memories of the tragic, premature death of her mother in an auto collision with a drunk. Her father, a chief petty officer in the Navy, giving up the sea he loved to take a desk job, trying to be both father and mother, while she tried to be wife and daughter.
She had worked hard to do well in school, at first to protect him from further disappointment, but then more to satisfy her own drives. She had been only dimly aware of the degree to which he lived his life through her, of her irrational guilt that his situation was somehow her fault, of her own repressed resentment that she had to be strong for him, that she could never, for even a brief moment, set all her burdens on his broad shoulders. In hindsight, she saw how the seeds had been slowly planted for the bitter row that still tainted their relationship years later, despite their love for one another.
She was finishing high school and planning to join the Navy as he wished, but she aimed for, insisted on, sea duty. He wanted her to follow his path, but was too tradition- bound to countenance women on shipboard, particularly his own kin. Years of repressed feelings erupted. He called her headstrong and ungrateful for his years of sacrifice. “It’s not my fault that your wife died,” she shouted in return, and suffered immediate remorse.
In the aftermath of their fight, she had spurned the Navy and gone to UCLA to study engineering. Now she found the work for the Agency stimulating and enjoyed the notion that she played an important, if small, role in the strategic balance of power in the world. Still, during those low points like the present, she could sense her father looking over her shoulder.