"I suppose I understand that," Bardasano said. "I know emotions frequently do things, cause us to do things, when our intellects know better all along. This was obviously one of those times."

"Yes, Ma'am. It was."

"Is the wife's work suffering out of all this?"

"Apparently not. According to her project leader, she actually seems to be attacking her work with greater energy. He says he thinks it's her form of escape."

"Unhappiness as a motivator." Bardasano smiled ever so slightly. "Somehow, I don't see it being generally applicable."

"No, Ma'am."

"All right, Jack—bottom line. Do you think Simões' . . . attitude is likely to have an adverse impact on his work?"

"I think it's already had an adverse impact," McBryde replied. "The man's good enough at his job that, despite everything, he's still probably outperforming just about anyone else we could slide into the same position, though—especially given the fact that anyone we might replace him with would be starting cold. The replacement would have to be brought fully up to speed, even assuming we could find someone with Simões' inherent capability."

"That's a short-term analysis," Bardasano pointed out. "What do you think about the long-term prospects?"

"Long-term, Ma'am, I think we'd better start looking for that replacement." McBryde couldn't quite keep the sadness out of his tone. "I don't think anyone can go through everything Simões is going through—and putting himself through—without crashing and burning in the end. I suppose it's possible, even likely, that he'll eventually learn to cope, but I very much doubt it's going to happen until he falls all the way down that hole inside him."

"That's . . . unfortunate," Bardasano said after a moment. McBryde's eyebrow quirked, and she let her chair come back upright as she continued. "Your analysis of his basic ability dovetails nicely with the Director of Research's analysis. At the moment, we genuinely don't have anyone we could put into his spot who could match the work he's still managing to turn out. So I guess the next question is whether or not you think his attitude—his emotional state—constitutes any sort of security risk?"

"At the moment, no," McBryde said firmly. Even as he spoke, he felt the tiniest quiver of uncertainty, but he suppressed it firmly. Herlander Simões was a man trapped in a living hell, and despite his own professionalism, McBryde wasn't prepared to simply cut him adrift without good, solid reasons.

"In the longer term," he continued, "I think it's much too early to predict where he might finally end up."

Willingness to extend Simões the benefit of the doubt was one thing; failing to throw out a sheet anchor in an evaluation like this one was quite another.

"Is he in a position to damage anything that's already been accomplished?"

Bardasano leaned forward over her desk, folding her forearms on her blotter and leaning her weight on them while she watched McBryde intently.

"No, Ma'am." This time McBryde spoke without even a shadow of a reservation. "There are too many backups, and too many other members of his team are fully hands-on. He couldn't delete any of the project notes or data even if he were so far gone that he tried—not that I think he's anywhere near that state, at this point at least, you understand. If I did, I'd have already yanked him. And as far as hardware is concerned, he's completely out of the loop. His team's working entirely on the research and basic theory end of things."

Bardasano cocked her head, obviously considering everything he'd said, for several seconds. Then she nodded.

"All right, Jack. What you've said coincides with my own sense from all the other reports. At the same time, I think we need to be aware of the potential downsides for the Gamma Center's operations in general, as well as his specific projects. I want you to take personal charge in his case."

"Ma'am—" McBryde began, but she interrupted him.

"I know you're not a therapist, and I'm not asking you to be one. And I know that, usually, a degree of separation between the security chief and the people he's responsible for keeping an eye on is a good thing. This case is outside the normal rules, though, and I think we have to approach it the same way. If you decide you need help, you need an additional viewpoint, you need to call in a therapist, feel free to do so. But if I'm right about how imminent Prometheus is, we need to keep him where he is, doing what he's doing, as long—and as expeditiously—as we can. Understood?"

"Yes, Ma'am." McBryde couldn't keep his lack of enthusiasm completely out of his voice, but he nodded. "Understood."

Chapter Eighteen

"Arsène, my man!" Santeri Laukkonen half-shouted (necessary, if anyone was actually going to hear him over the bar's background noise), and reached out to slap the blond, gray-eyed man on the shoulder. "Haven't seen you for a while! Business been good?"

Arsène Bottereau, late—very late, in his case—citizen commander in the service of the People's Republic of Haven's Office of State Security, tried not to wince. He was not outstandingly successful. First, because Laukkonen was a physically powerful man who hadn't pulled the blow in the least. Second, because Bottereau had been concentrating on keeping a low profile for a long time, now. And third, because he owed Laukkonen money . . . and wasn't there to pay it. Which was one reason he'd arranged to meet the fence and weapons dealer in a public bar rather than a quiet, discreet little office somewhere. Now he steered the other man to a corner booth—the sort of corner booth where waiters left one alone because they worked in the sort of bar where business discussions were likely to require an additional degree of . . . privacy.

Laukkonen's bodyguards were as accustomed as the bar's wait staff to keeping their noses out of their employer's business as much as possible, and they peeled off to flanking positions, close enough to hover protectively, yet far enough away to avoid overhearing anything which was none of their affair.

"Not so good as all that, Santeri, in answer to your question." Bottereau told him a small smile, once they were seated. "Now that people are shooting at each other out this way again, pickings are getting slim."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Laukkonen's tone was still genial, but his brown eyes had hardened noticeably.

"Yes, well, that's one of the reasons I wanted to talk with you," Bottereau said.

"Yes?" Laukkonen encouraged so pleasantly that an undeniable shiver ran down Bottereau's spine.

"I know I still owe you for that last load of supplies." The ex-Peep had decided going in that frankness and honesty were the only way to go. "And I'm pretty sure you've figured out that the reason I haven't come calling on you sooner is that I don't have the cash to pay for it."

"The suspicion had crossed my mind," Laukkonen allowed. His lips smiled. "I'm sure you wouldn't be thinking about stiffing an old friend, though."

"Of course not," Bottereau said, with total honesty.

Attempting to cheat Santeri Laukkonen was not what one might consider a career enhancing move. It was a big galaxy, and it was entirely possible a man could run fast enough and far enough to get away with something like that, but Arsène Bottereau wasn't about to risk finding out that it wasn't. Big as the galaxy was, people like Laukkonen tended to have contacts in the least likely of places . . . and people in his line of work tended to do one another favors. Even if they hardly knew one another. Letting someone get away with cheating any of them was bad business, and if word got around that someone had done that to someone else, the offender had a distressing tendency to end up dead. Professional courtesy (after all, one day they might need a favor in Laukkonen's area), combined with the need to make it clear deadbeats did not prosper in their neck of the woods, saw to that.