Infiltrator

'Wait a minute, wait a minute. She broke into your house?' Warren's voice cracked with disbelief. He lowered the whiskey he'd been about to sip and stared.

'Yeah. I turned around and there she was. Never heard a thing, even when she picked up the paper. It almost gave me a heart attack.'

Colvin poured himself a drink and swirled the amber liquid around in the heavy glass. He was finding it hard to look Warren in the eye for some reason, as if he were ashamed. Though why he should be he couldn't imagine.

'Christ!' Cyberdyne's president said softly. He shuddered, and wondered if she'd be paying him a visit later. At least she'd waited until Roger's wife and kids had left. He didn't like the idea of trying to explain Serena Burns to his own wife.

'This makes me much less inclined to hire her,' he said aloud.

'If it had been just that, I would be, too,' Colvin agreed.

He took a seat opposite Cyberdyne's president and a deep gulp of his own whiskey. They were in the CEO's home office, and though it was before noon, Colvin had felt a need for a stiff drink.

'What do you mean?' Warren asked nervously.

'She says she bought Miles Dyson's old home and found some material there pertaining to…' Colvin waved his hand vaguely, but his eyes were intent.

Warren leaned forward. 'The project?' he gasped.

The CEO nodded and took another sip of whiskey.

'But we looked… that's not possible!' Paul Warren shook his head. 'Do you believe her?'

'Let me show you what she gave me,' Colvin said, rising. He brought over a laptop. 'I've taken out the modem,' he explained. He turned it on, took a disk out of his shirt pocket, and slipped it in. 'Read it and weep,' he muttered.

In less than a minute Paul sat back, his hand over his mouth in horror.

'It's real!' he whispered. He looked up at Roger. 'What did she say when she gave it to you?'

'She said to look it over and then tell her where it came from. She said we knew where to find her when we wanted to talk.'

'Is that all?' Warren asked.

'Yup.' Roger sat back in his chair and, closing his eyes, leaned his head against the cushions. The implication, of course, had been that if he didn't get back to her, someone else surely would.

'Should we tell Tricker?' Warren asked.

Colvin opened his eyes and considered the question. There didn't seem to be a right answer. If they didn't tell him, when he found out—and Tricker would find out—he might just yank the whole project from them and kick Cyberdyne off of government property. If they did tell him, he might go after Burns on his own,

risking the loss of this tantalizingly promising material.

'Hire her, then tell him,' Colvin decided. 'Once we've got that material safely in hand, I don't care what he does. But I don't want him going off half-cocked.'

Warren pursed his lips, then nodded slowly. 'You're right, of course.'

He took another sip of his whiskey. 'I don't see any alternative. Did she say what else she wanted—besides the job, that is?'

Roger shook his head, gazing into the middle distance. 'No. She didn't even mention the job, let alone any compensation for the use of this material.'

'Well, it's our material,' Paul snarled. 'Any court would uphold our claim to it.'

Colvin looked at him from under his eyebrows. 'Somehow I don't see Tricker going to the law under any circumstances. Especially these.'

Warren opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again, looking thoughtful.

He glanced at the CEO. 'He'll be furious.'

'Tricker is always furious.' Roger said. 'I think the fact that we exist infuriates him. I say, what the hell, it's high time we gave him something to really be furious about.'

Cyberdyne's president chuckled at that. 'She said we knew where to find her,' he said after a moment. 'But her application said she was in the process of moving.'

'Yeah—into Dyson's old house!' Colvin said.

Warren grimaced. 'That creeps me out.'

Roger covered his eyes with one weary hand.

Then he sat forward and looked at his friend. 'I tell you one thing, though. I'm going to make it a point of honor never to invite that bitch to my home.'

Paul's eyes slid over to his boss. 'I don't want her in my home either. And we certainly can't meet with her in the office.'

Colvin nodded and suppressed a smile. Mrs. Warren was outrageously jealous. It forced poor Paul to behave suspiciously even though he didn't even want to think about cheating on her. The sight of Serena Burns would drive the president's wife up the wall.

'Okay, we'll choose a bar at random, someplace within thirty minutes of Dyson's place. I don't want to give this whiz kid a chance to bug the place or anything.

We're gonna be in enough trouble as it is.'

'Okay,' Warren said, rising. 'Where's the phone book.'

NEW YORK CITY: THE PRESENT

'I've been waiting to see you all morning!' Ronald Labane shouted. 'The least you could do is give me the courtesy of a few minutes!'

The man he was bellowing at was a literary agent, a small, middle-aged man, neatly dressed. Since he was also a native New Yorker, the agent wasn't likely to be intimidated by mere yelling.

'What I am going to give you is ten seconds to get out of my office and not come back! Or do I have to call security?' His glare and the quiet authority of his voice brought Labane back to some semblance of rationality.

'I'm sorry,' Ronald babbled. 'I—I didn't mean to raise my voice. My apologies, I'm really not usually like this. I'm just so frustrated!'

'How many seconds is that now, Tildee?' the agent asked his secretary.

'I said I was sorry!' Labane protested. He held up his hands in what was meant to be a calming gesture. 'Look, the publishers won't even look at my manuscript unless it comes from an agent, but I can't even get an appointment with an agent.

It's driving me crazy! Couldn't you just look at my manuscript?'

The agent looked down; the stack of paper on the floor beside Labane's feet was easily eighteen inches tall. The text appeared to be single-spaced.

'It'll never sell,' the agent said.

'You haven't even read it!' Ronald said, aghast.

'I don't have to, it's too long.' The agent leaned over, read a few words.

'Nonfiction, right?'

'Yes.' Labane drew himself up. 'I have a message—'

'Hey, ya gotta message, drop an e-mail. If you can't say it any more succinctly than this, you haven't got a prayer. This thing is about the size of the national budget and I bet it's about as interesting.'

Labane looked shocked. 'Buf it's a plan, too,' he said softly.

'It's a message, it's a plan,' the agent said, 'it's a candy, it's a breath mint. If you can't cut it down from this, it's unsellable is what it is.'

Closing his eyes, Ronald took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His shoulders drooped with exhaustion and discouragement.

The agent tightened his lips; this guy looked like he was going to cry. But he wouldn't be the first author