If he thought about it, if he analyzed it the way Dr. Geraldo obviously wanted, he might have found the day that it had happened, the moment he’d gotten over her. He’d been obsessed with her for a long time after she’d left him, fantasizing about getting her back, fantasizing about confronting her—and yes, even fantasizing about killing her, though he would never admit it.

Probably, that was what Geraldo wanted to hear. But he wasn’t going to tell her that.

Christina, his daughter, his poor dead daughter—she was locked away in a place he’d allow no one to enter, not Geraldo, not even himself. He’d never mention her to anyone.

“You don’t feel angry with her?” Geraldo asked.

“Well, a little. She left me. But …”

It really did feel like a magnet, pulling at him.

“After a while, it kind of went away. Slowly. I don’t know. It seems almost trite.”

“Time heals all wounds?” said the psychiatrist.

“Exactly.” He glanced at his thumbnail, willing his hand still.

“And there’s been no one else?”

“On that level. No.”

“Afraid of commitment?”

“Not really. But being single does have some advantages.”

Geraldo sat in her thick red chair, waiting to see if the magnet would pull anything else out. Finally, she seemed to decide it wouldn’t.

“I have yet another test for you,” she said apologetically. “It’s another standardized test, but this one is a bit old-fashioned, no computer—pencil and paper. You have to fill in circles.” She got up and went to a filing cabinet at the far end of the room. She returned with a manila folder and a pencil. “Would you like more coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

As she started to hand the folder to him, the psychiatrist stopped. He looked up into her face; for the first time since the testing and interview sessions had begun, her face seemed like a real face, as if it belonged to someone he knew, an aunt maybe, not a scientist. The small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth furrowed deeper. Her body pitched down slightly, as if the tight iron bands that had held it loosened. Even her clothes—a dark navy-blue suit with a stiff white blouse—became less severe.

“Kevin, if you ever want to talk about your ex-wife, you can,” she said. “Not as an official thing, of course. But if you feel the need.”

He nodded slowly, then took the folder.

ZEN WHEELED HIS CHAIR BACK FROM THE MONITOR, watching as Geraldo left the room. Even though it was his job to help the psychiatrist make the final selection of an ANTARES subject, he felt like a voyeur spying on his friend.

He knew Madrone was divorced, even though Kevin said little about his ex-wife. Yet something about the way he talked about her surprised him. Over the past two years or so that they’d known each other, Kevin had seemed rather muted, not just shy, but not an emotional guy—as if being an engineer was deeply embedded in his personality. Even when he talked about things he liked, the Yankees and baseball, for example, he sounded as if he was reading down a column of numbers.

When he had talked about Karen, however, his eyes had changed. His motions had become, if not animated exactly, at least more fluid. Zen got the impression he was hiding something, struggling to keep something bottled away.

Anger? Did that make any difference for ANTARES?

Madrone had consistently scored the highest or second highest on all of the tests they’d given him, even the manual-dexterity and physical-endurance tests. His IQ, tested by computer no less than five times, had turned out to be an astounding 180. His only flaw was an inherent shyness and possibly a slight feeling of inferiority, or as Geraldo put it: “an image of self-worth that does not accurately reflect his abilities.”

Zen wheeled toward the low table where he’d placed his coffee nearly an hour ago. Geraldo pushed through the door briskly.

“Very good, Major, don’t you think?” she said, going immediately to the desk. She glanced at the monitor, then pulled a thick spiral notebook from the top drawer and made some notes.

“What do you think about his wife?” said Zen.

“Oh, the usual anger and resentment, some bewilderment,” said Geraldo, still writing. “I think he honestly was blind-sided. Perhaps it accounts for his reserve, no? The nail-biting under pressure, the cigarette-smoking—classic. Minor. To some extent the military has replaced his wife; he throws himself into work. Very common. Not an impediment. His emotions don’t run all that deep. Not good for a marriage, but for ANTARES, it’s a plus.”

Zen didn’t say anything. Geraldo pried into people’s minds for a living. It had to be done, but sometimes the notion that a personality could be dissected and examined like a piece of code in a computer or the components of a jet engine bothered him. Zen had undergone a battery of tests and examinations as part of his rehab in the hospital. He’d gone through it because it was necessary, but he hadn’t particularly liked it. Now he realized that people must have been watching him on hidden monitors just as he had watched Madrone. One more indignity; one more surrender.

Necessary, but still humiliating.

“I think he’s the one,” said Geraldo, putting down her pen finally. “But you’re reluctant.”

Her comment took him by surprise. “What do you mean?”

“You just seem reluctant. Should we bring Ross back in?”

“I’m not reluctant,” said Zen.

Geraldo pushed back in her seat, swiveling gently. “You’re his friend. You have doubts about the program, and you’re worried about endangering him.”

“I’m friends with a lot of people. He’s the obvious choice, no doubt about it.”

“You have reservations about ANTARES.”

“Of course,” said Zen. “We’ve gone over that.”

“The spy did not compromise the project.”

Spy. No one would even say the name Maraklov—or Captain James, as he had been known here. He had nearly ruined Dreamland, and all of them.

“It’s not that,” said Zen.

“Perhaps you should explain, Jeff. Are you feeling jealous?”

“Not in the least.”

They’d been over it before, twice as a matter of fact, neither time very satisfactorily. Jeff believed in the concept of ANTARES; he was the only person left on the base who had gone through the program, and in fact still had the old-style chip implant in the side of his skull. He had always assumed he would be involved in the next stage of the project, always assumed it would eventually be green-lighted again after the Maraklov business died down.

But he had reservations, objections he couldn’t quite put into words. His recent nightmare for one. The way he felt when he woke from it—as if a part of him he didn’t completely trust or like had taken control of him.

There was no way to put those vague feelings into rational arguments. They sounded like reasons to continue studying ANTARES. They were, in fact.

“We’ve made numerous improvements,” said Geraldo. She spoke as if she were making the case for the first time. “We’re light-years ahead of where the project was when DreamStar was canceled. Fresh eyes—fresh minds—a new start. Kevin Madrone will be a perfect subject.”

“I’m sure he will.”

“So we have your approval?”

What was it that bugged him? Kevin or ANTARES?

Shit. The way Geraldo was looking at him, he could tell she thought it was jealousy—that he looked at Kevin as a potential rival on the Flighthawk program.

“I think Captain Madrone is the obvious choice,” said Zen. “And I’ll put that in writing.”

“Very good,” said Geraldo, standing. “We’ll start this morning.”

Aboard EB-52 BX-4 “Missouri”

Range 2, Dreamland

23 January, 0807

WAS IT THE FACT THAT HE WASN’T USED TO FLYING something so big? Or the fact that he wasn’t used to flying with a copilot?