That said . . .

Dusek figured he could probably ignore the problem, as long as Inez Cloutier hired McRae and got him off the planet quickly. It really wasn't likely, after all, that a former inner circle StateSec person would have anything to do with the Ballroom. True, the Havenites had always been opposed to genetic slavery. But so what? The one thing every former StateSec whom Dusek had ever encountered had in common was that they were mercenaries. And what did the Ballroom have to offer them?

"So what do you want to do with McRae?" asked Chuanli.

Dusek made his decision. "Just have somebody keep track of him. It doesn't have to be any sort of elaborate tailing operation, Chuanli. That costs real money. Just somebody keeping an eye on his lodgings. Letting us now when he leaves, when he comes back, his daily routine."

"Can't find out where he goes without tailing him, boss."

"Who the hell cares where he goes? We're not in the least bit interested in this guy, Chuanli. He's bad news. A full-bore psychopath—and good at it. The sooner he's off the planet, the better. We just want to turn a nice profit getting him off, that's all. For that, we don't need to know anything we don't know already. He's legitimately StateSec, was all that mattered. Good enough for this market."

Chapter Forty-Three

Jack McBryde sat in his comfortable office, watching the smart wall opposite his desk, and worried.

The wall was configured to show bird's-eye views from the ceiling-mounted security pickups scattered throughout the facility for which he held primary responsibility. From those views, an uninformed observer would never have guessed that the entire Gamma Center was buried under better than fifty meters of the planet Mesa's dirt and rock. Actually, it was buried under the foundations of one of the commercial-zoned towers which fringed the outskirts of Green Pines, as well. Its original construction had been handily concealed by all the other activity involved in building Green Pines in the first place, and it was far enough out from the residential district that it had no "fulltime" neighbors to notice anything peculiar about it. Even better, perhaps, the fact that the tower above it was packed with specialty shops, financial offices, medical service providers, and better than a dozen various government and corporate offices provided ample cover for the comings and goings of the Center's seven hundred-odd scientists, engineers, and administrators and the security people responsible for keeping an eye on them.

The Alignment, however, had learned long ago that a troglodyte existence wasn't conducive to getting the very best out of creative people. That was why the Center's subterranean chambers boasted surprisingly high ceilings and large, airy rooms and offices. Corridors were broader than they had to be, with their smart walls configured to provide remarkably convincing illusions of open forest glades or—on the second floor—sundrenched, white-sugar beaches. The public areas' ceilings were likewise designed to give the impression that people inside them were actually outside, but the individual researchers' work spaces and offices were configured as the interior rooms they were, since quite a few people seemed to find it difficult to concentrate their full attention on the work at hand when they were "outside." On the other hand, the decision of exactly how to configure any team's work area was left up to the team's members, and the majority of them had opted for "windows" looking out on the same scenery their public corridors afforded. Better than half had added large "skylights" whose views of the sky matched the apparent time of day of the corridors which, in turn, were coordinated with the actual time of day outside the Center.

The result was a working environment which avoided the impression of being shut up inside a bunker (despite the fact that it was) and simultaneously kept the researchers' mental and physical clocks adjusted to the rest of Mesa's clocks when they finally got to head home at the end of work each day.

Unfortunately, that wasn't enough to keep all of them focused and productive, McBryde reflected gloomily, and tapped the virtual keyboard key which selected the view of Herlander Simões' team, brought it to the center of his office's wall, and zoomed in on the hyper-physicist.

In some ways, Simões actually looked better than he had during his first conversation with McBryde, almost six T-months before. He was taking more care with his grooming, now, at least, and as far as McBryde could tell, he was actually getting more sleep. But the bouts of depression were still there. They seemed to be less frequent, yet, according to his therapist they were even deeper and darker than they had been, and McBryde himself had noticed over the last several weeks that Simões' occasional bursts of furious temper—which had never been a part of his amiable, easy-going personality before his daughter's death—had grown increasingly violent.

He hadn't—yet—approached the point of actually laying hands on any of his coworkers, but his red-faced, vicious outbursts, often laden with intensely personal profanity, had thoroughly alienated his coworkers. Many of them had been his and his wife's close friends before Francesca's death, and some of those seemed to be trying to maintain at least a degree of personal contact with him, yet even they had retreated behind a protective barrier of formality. The other members of his team, however, despite any sympathy they might have felt, avoided him whenever it was remotely possible. When they couldn't avoid him, they limited themselves to the minimum possible number of words. It was painfully obvious they'd written him off, and three of them were at the point of making it clear they didn't sympathize with him. The best McBryde could say about those three was that they'd at least tried to avoid expressing their agreement with the Board's decision in Francesca Simões' case where Herlander was likely to overhear them. On the other hand, he doubted any of them would be particularly heartbroken if he did happen to hear.

Their current project was nearing its conclusion, which was both good and bad. The improvement to the "streak drive" likely to result from their R&D would be a significant plus, of course. And the fact that Simões had remained basically functional throughout was a major plus, both personally and professionally, for Jack McBryde. But the unfortunate truth was that despite his past record, and despite his obvious ability, Herlander Simões wasn't really uniquely important to the Alignment's research efforts. He wasn't irreplaceable—not in the long term, whatever the disruptive effect on dropping him from his team's current projects might have been. And McBryde had no illusions about what was going to happen to Simões, at least as far as his work at the Center was concerned, as soon as those current projects were all safely put to bed.

They're going to shit-can him, that's what's going to happen, McBryde thought grimly. Hard to blame them, really. He's turned into such a basket case no one in his right mind would include him in a new team if they could find anyone at all to use instead. He sees it coming, too. I think that's one of the reasons his temper's been even shorter-fused lately. But what the hell is going to happen to him when he loses even his work?

He grimaced as a still darker thought crossed his mind once again. Given the fact that Simões was aware of the countdown until he was removed from his current duties, the possibility that his anger and despair might drive him to some self-destructive (and ultimately futile) overt attempt at vengeance loomed large on McBryde's list of Things to Worry About.

And what about you, Jack? He asked himself, gazing at the enlarged imagery of Herlander Simões working at his terminal, all alone in his self-created pocket of isolation. You're not the basket case he is . . . yet, at least. But you're infected, too, aren't you? And Zack's starting to worry about you, isn't he? He doesn't know what's eating on you, but he knows something's gnawing away down inside there.