He took a step back down, unsure just why. Something had sparkled somewhere, but he had no idea why that should mean anything.
Still, it bothered him. He turned and trotted back down the steps, and went out the opposite entrance. Then he detoured around the block.
Just for variety, he tried to tell himself. He was taking a new, longer route just to be different.
In the elevator he found himself thinking that he would have to buy a gun, or at any rate acquire one somehow. It would be expected, and he might need it.
He blinked. Expected by whom? Needed for what?
At his desk he looked at the job list and first despaired, then grew defiant.
What kind of a man did they think he was, giving him all this shitwork to do?
Mirim stepped up behind him and said, “Boo!”
He didn't react immediately; then his lips pulled back and his teeth showed in an expression that was only technically a smile. He turned.
“Do you respect yourself?” he demanded.
“What?”
“I said, do you respect yourself?”
Mirim blinked, puzzled. “Of course I do,” she said. “Is this a gag, Casper?”
“A joke?” He waved an arm at his computer screen. “No, Mirim,” he said, “ that's a joke! Expecting a human being to waste his time on this nonsense! It's fit only for lawyers and computers, not a so-called free man!”
She laughed. “You got that right!” she said. “But hey, it's a steady paycheck, right?”
“Not any more!” Casper cleared the screen. “Not for me, it isn't!”
Her smile vanished. “Cas, do you feel all right?”
“I feel fine, Mirim. I feel better than I have in years. I'm setting myself free, and it feels good!”
“Cas…”
“You think I'm being a reckless fool, don't you?”
“If you're serious, yeah, I do, Cas. Are you…”
Casper laughed, not his usual high-pitched, nervous giggle, but a solid, powerful laugh. “Mirim,” he said, “we were meant for better things than this. We've had our birthright stolen, and I mean to…”
“What's this, Beech?” a new voice demanded. Quinones appeared at Mirim's shoulder.
Casper looked at his boss's broad, hostile face, and the feeling of power and certainty suddenly faded. There were times to retreat and regroup, and this was one of them.
“Nothing, sir,” he said.
“Then let's get back to work, shall we? You and Ms. Anspack both. I must say, that imprinting you took doesn't seem to have kicked in yet, from what you've done so far.”
“I'd have to agree, sir,” Casper said boldly. “I think NeuroTalents screwed it up somehow, and you should have someone look into the matter.”
Startled, Quinones stared at Beech. The man was a doormat, and could always be relied on to accept blame for anything-since when would he suggest that somebody else might be at fault?
Since when would he suggest anything?
“I think you're right,” Quinones said slowly. “I think I might just give NeuroTalents a call myself.”
“You do that, sir,” Casper said. “Thank you.”
“Right. Well, Beech, you'd better get some work done, imprinted or not.”
Quinones turned and marched away. Mirim watched him go, throwing quick little glances at Casper and trying to suppress the urge to giggle. The whole exchange had been bizarre. Casper talking to Quinones that way? Sweet little Casper?
“Casper, what's happened to you?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I don't know,” he said. “I really do think the imprint must have been screwed up somehow. I can't do a damn thing with this new software, but I'm getting all these other weird reactions. And you know, Mirim, they might be just what I've needed to jar me out of my rut.”
Mirim nodded, eyeing Casper. For the past year, maybe longer, she had been watching Casper, joking with him, watching how Quinones and the other people around the office treated him, watching how he treated Cecelia and how Celia bossed him around, and thinking what a fine man he could be if he had a little more backbone, if he weren't afraid to step out of his timid little groove-but that had been daydreaming. If it was really going to happen, she wasn't sure how to handle it. “I think I better get back to work myself,” she said, and she turned away.
From the door of his office Quinones watched her emerge from behind Casper's partition and go back toward her own desk; he was just stepping inside when his phone rang.
Annoyed, he glanced back out the door; yes, his secretary was working the phone. Why hadn't she just called to him? He picked up the receiver and said, “Yes?”
“Arturo Quinones?” a cold voice asked.
“This is Quinones.”
“Are you private?”
Puzzled, Quinones leaned over and closed the door. “Yes,” he said.
“You have a man named Casper Beech there? Recently received an imprint at NeuroTalents?”
“He works here, yes. Who is this?”
“My name is Smith,” the voice replied. “I'm with the government. Is Beech there now?”
“Yes, I just spoke to him. What's this about?”
“Don't worry about it. What we want you to do is tell us the minute Beech leaves the office, for any reason. Just call this number, 445-304-0011-did you get that?”
“No,” Quinones said, groping for a pen-most people would have used a PDA or keyboard, but Quinones was proud of his old-fashioned insistence on hardcopy. “Hold on a minute.” He found a pen, fished an old envelope from the trash, and said, “Ready.”
The number was repeated.
“Call that number,” Smith told him. “You don't need to wait for an answer, but let it ring at least twice, to make sure Caller ID gets your number. Don't call until Beech leaves. You understand?”
“I understand, but what…”
Smith hung up.
Quinones stared at the phone for a minute, then muttered, “Shit. Crazy feds,” and dropped the receiver on the cradle.
He supposed, though, that he had better do what he was told.
He opened the door and tried to peer through or over the maze of partitions, but there was simply no way to see Beech from where he stood. He returned to his desk, sat, and grabbed the phone.
Mirim's cubby was in a corner where she could see the office entry, and if she turned the other way she could see Casper. She was sitting there, marveling at the sight of Casper Beech leaning back with his hands behind his head, not even pretending to work, when her phone beeped for attention.
She snatched up the headset and plugged it into her ear. “Anspack,” she said into the mike.
“Mirim, this is Mr. Quinones,” she heard. “I've got something I'd like you to do for me.”
“Yes, sir?” she replied, puzzled.
“I want you to tell me when Casper Beech leaves the office-even if it's just to use the men's room. Just give me a buzz.”
Mirim hesitated. “Uh… yes, sir,” she said at last. She fought down the impulse to ask why; she knew that Quinones didn't take kindly to questions from his subordinates.
“Good. You just call the minute he sets foot out the door, then.”
He hung up.
He hadn't even said thank you, Mirim thought, pulling off the headset and glaring at it. He hadn't given any reason.
He was probably mad at Casper about some stupid little infraction that poor Cas didn't even know he'd committed. Maybe he'd heard Cas's stillborn speech about self-respect.
But why would he want to know when Cas was out of the office?
So he could search his cubby, of course. He probably thought Cas was on uppers or something-a man like Quinones would never believe one of his underlings might simply be fed up, he'd insist there was some other factor, something affecting the man's thinking.
Mirim's mouth set in an angry frown.
And somewhere in the back of her mind, a guilty little thought appeared- was Casper on something? Drugs or wire?
Even if he was, though, what business was it of Quinones'? Or of hers? She hadn't been hired to spy on her co-workers. Quinones had a lot of nerve, involving her in his nasty little search-and-seizure-if that's what it was.