Chapter 27
On the Crypto floor, the shadows
were growing long and faint. Overhead, the automatic
lighting gradually
increased to compensate. Susan was still at her terminal silently
awaiting news from
her tracer. It was taking longer than expected.
Her mind had been wandering–missing David and willing Greg Hale to go home. Although
Hale hadn’t budged,
thankfully he’d been
silent,
engrossed in whatever he was
doing
at his
terminal. Susan couldn’t
care less
what Hale
was doing,
as long as
he
didn’t access
the Run-Monitor.
He obviously hadn’t–sixteen hours would have
brought an audible yelp of
disbelief.
Susan was sipping her third cup of tea when it finally
happened–her terminal beeped once. Her pulse quickened. A flashing
envelope icon appeared
on her monitor announcing the arrival
of E-mail. Susan shot a quick glance toward Hale. He was absorbed in his work. She held her breath
and double-clicked the envelope.
“North Dakota,”
she whispered to herself. “Let’s see who you
are.”
When the E-mail opened, it was
a single line. Susan read it. And
then she read it again.
DINNER AT ALFREDO’S?
8 PM?
Across the room, Hale muffled a chuckle.
Susan checked the message header.
Susan felt
a surge of anger but fought
it off. She deleted the message.
“Very mature, Greg.” “They
make a great carpaccio.” Hale
smiled. “What do you say? Afterward
we could–” “Forget it.”
“Snob.”
Hale sighed and turned back to his terminal.
That was strike eighty-nine with Susan Fletcher. The brilliant female cryptographer was a constant frustration to him. Hale had often fantasized about having sex with her–pinning her against TRANSLTR’s curved hull and taking her right there against the warm black tile. But Susan would have nothing
to do with him. In Hale’s
mind, what made things worse was that she was in
love with some university teacher who
slaved for hours on end for peanuts. It would be a pity for Susan to dilute her superior
gene pool procreating with some geek–particularly when she could
have Greg. We’d
have perfect children, he
thought.
“What are you
working on?” Hale asked, trying a different
approach. Susan
said nothing.
“Some team player you are. Sure I can’t have a peek?” Hale stood and started moving around the
circle of terminals toward her.
Susan sensed that Hale’s curiosity had the potential to cause some serious
problems today.
She made a
snap decision. “It’s a diagnostic,” she offered, falling back on the commander’s lie.
Hale stopped
in his tracks. “Diagnostic?” He sounded doubtful. “You’re spending Saturday
running a diagnostic instead of playing
with the prof?”
“His name
is David.” “Whatever.”
Susan glared
at him. “Haven’t you got anything better
to do?” “Are you trying
to get rid of me?” Hale pouted.
“Actually, yes.” “Gee,
Sue, I’m hurt.”
Susan Fletcher’s eyes narrowed. She hated being called
Sue. She had nothing against the nickname, but Hale was the
only one who’d ever used it.
“Why don’t I help you?” Hale offered. He was suddenly circling toward her again. “I’m great with diagnostics. Besides, I’m dying to see what diagnostic could make the mighty Susan Fletcher
come to work on a
Saturday.”
Susan felt a surge of adrenaline. She glanced down at the tracer on her screen. She knew she couldn’t
let Hale see it–he’d have too many questions. “I’ve got
it covered, Greg,” she said.
But Hale kept coming. As he circled
toward her terminal, Susan knew she had to act fast. Hale was only a few yards away when she made her move. She stood to meet his towering frame,
blocking
his way. His
cologne was overpowering.
She looked him straight in the eye. “I said
no.”
Hale cocked his head, apparently intrigued
by her odd display of secrecy.
He
playfully stepped closer. Greg Hale
was not ready for what happened next.
With unwavering
cool, Susan pressed a single index finger against his rock-hard chest, stopping his forward
motion.
Hale halted and stepped
back in shock. Apparently Susan Fletcher
was serious; she had never touched
him before, ever. It wasn’t quite what Hale had had in mind for their first contact,
but it was a start. He gave her a long puzzled look and slowly
returned to his terminal. As he sat back down, one thing became perfectly clear: The lovely Susan Fletcher
was working on something
important, and it sure
as hell wasn’t any diagnostic.
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