Impact

would roll out: if you're going to do it, do it; if you make a lot of money, no one will care how you did it; if you intend to win, one way is as good as another. 'The victor will never be asked if he told the truth,' was what the old man said when he walked out of the kitchen after shooting his mother. Never to be seen again. A few years later Harry learned his father had been quoting Hitler. Now that was funny.

Harry Burr smiled. He was 'damaged,' or so he was led to believe by the parade of school psychologists, social workers, counselors, and all the other professional advice-giving-for-one-hundred-dollars-an-hour folks after his mother's murder. So why not make a career of being damaged? He plucked the crumpled cigarette pack out of his shirt pocket. Fishing the last one out, he lit it and put the empty pack back in his pocket. What was it St. Augustine said? 'God give me chastity, but not right now.' One of these days he'd quit, but not right now.

48

Abbey waited behind Ford as he knocked on the open door of the office of Dr. Charles Chaudry, director of the Mars mission. She felt itchy and hot in the new suit Ford had made her wear, especially in California in June.

The director rose and came around his desk, hand extended.

'My assistant, Abbey Straw.'

Abbey shook the cool hand. Chaudry was a handsome man with a lean, chiseled face, dark brown eyes, springy on his feet, athletic, personable. He sported one of those tight little ponytails that seemed endemic to Californians of a certain age.

'Come in, please,' said the man, his tenor voice almost musical.

Ford eased his frame into a chair and Abbey followed suit. She tried to hide her nervousness. Part of her was thrilled at the cloak-and-dagger business, the pretense with which they'd gained access. This Ford fellow, who looked so buttoned down and mainstream, was actually a subversive at heart. She liked that.

The office was pleasantly large and spare, with windows looking out over gray-brown mountains that rose abruptly behind the giant parking lot. Two walls of books added to the comfortable, scholarly atmosphere. Everything was as neat as a pin.

'Well now,' said Chaudry, folding his hands. 'So you're writing a book on our Mars mission.'

'That's right,' said Ford. 'A big, beautiful photography book. They tell me you're the man in charge of mapping and photographing the surface.'

Chaudry nodded.

Ford went on to describe the book in enthusiastic detail, the layout, what it would cover, and of course all the beautiful photographs it would contain. Abbey was amazed at the transformation from his usual dry and cool manner to a bubbling enthusiasm. Chaudry listened politely, hands tented in front.

Ford finished up. 'I understand that because this is a NASA project, the photographs are in the public domain. I'd like access to all your images, at the highest resolution.'

Chaudry unclasped his hands and leaned forward. 'You're right that the images are in the public domain--but not at the highest resolution.'

'We're going to be running double trucks and gatefolds and we'll need the best resolution we can get.'

The director leaned back. 'The high-res images are strictly classified, I'm afraid. Don't be concerned--we can get you all the images you need at a resolution more than adequate for a book.'

'Why classified?'

'Standard operating procedure. The imaging technology is highly classified and we don't want our enemies knowing just how good that technology is.'

'Just how high is the highest resolution?'

'Again, I can't talk about specifics. Generally, from orbit, we can see something on the ground as small as fifty centimeters. And with our SHARAD radar we can look as much as a hundred meters under the surface, too.'

Ford whistled. 'Seen anything unusual?'

Chaudry smiled, showing very white teeth. 'Just about everything we see is unusual. We're like Columbus setting foot in America.'

'Anything . . . not strictly natural?'

The smile faded. 'And what do you mean by that?' he asked coolly.

'Let's say you were to see something on the surface that wasn't natural--say, an alien spaceship.' Ford chuckled lightly. 'What would you do then?'

Now the smile was completely gone. 'Mr. Ford, please don't even joke about that. We get a lot--and I mean a lot--of nuts in here pushing crazy theories. We've actually had demonstrations in front of the buildings by groups demanding we release pictures of the alien civilizations we've discovered.' He paused, and then added: 'You are joking, Mr. Ford? Or do you have some specific reason for asking the question?'

'Yes,' said Ford. 'I was joking.'

Abbey spoke. 'You're right, Dr. Chaudry. I read somewhere that almost forty percent of Americans believe in the existence of intelligent life somewhere else in the universe. Imagine being that dumb!'

Chaudry shifted uncomfortably.

'Well,' said Ford briskly, casting a sharp eye on Abbey. 'You've been most helpful, Dr. Chaudry.'

Chaudry rose with evident relief. 'Mr. Ford, we'd be glad to cooperate with your book. All the pictures are online at our Web site. Just pick out the ones you want and my press office will be glad to get you a DVD of the images at the highest legal resolution.' He gave a rather forced smile and eased them out of the office with a practiced hand.

'That was a waste of time,' muttered Abbey, as they walked down the long halls.

Ford rubbed his chin and looked about, then turned a corner and headed down a wrong hall.

'Yo, Einstein,' Abbey said. 'You're going the wrong way.'

A smile crept onto Ford's face. 'Darn. This is such a big, confusing place. Easy to get lost.' He continued on, turning another corner, going down another hallway.

Abbey tried to keep up with his long strides.

'Just follow my lead,' said Ford. He turned another corner and Abbey realized he already seemed to know the layout of the place. They came to an office door, which was shut. Ford knocked and a rather irritated voice sounded within, 'Come in.'

Ford opened and door and entered. Abbey saw a large man with an unpleasantly fleshy face, wearing a short-sleeved shirt with hammy arms. It was hot and the place smelled of sweat.

'Dr. Winston Derkweiler?' Ford rapped out.

'Yes?'

'I'm with the Agency,' Ford said, then nodded toward Abbey. 'My assistant.'

Derkweiler looked at her, then back at him. 'Agency? Which agency?'

'About a month ago,' Ford continued as if he hadn't heard, 'one of your scientists was murdered.'

Abbey was surprised. This was all new to her. Ford played his cards close.

'That's right,' said Derkweiler, 'but I understood the case was closed.'

Ford turned to Abbey. 'Ms. Straw, would you please shut the door?'

'Yes, sir.' Abbey shut the door, and then turned the lock for good measure.

'The case may be closed, but the security breach is still under investigation.'

Derkweiler nodded. 'Security breach? I'm not sure I understand.'

'Let us just say Dr. Freeman was indiscreet.'

'It doesn't surprise me.'

'I'm glad you understand the problem, Dr. Derkweiler.'