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about?” Deborah replied.
    â€œRumors were getting out about the echin compound,” Cofield asserted. “We decided to go public with what we know.”
    â€œWhat you think ,” Cliff said, struggling to keep a grip on his temper. “The clinical trials have just gotten started.”
    â€œYes, but what we’ve seen so far has been incredible,” Cofield ground on. “Incredible enough for us to decide we’ll probably need to report the findings to our friends in Washington next week.”
    â€œMy director will be delighted to hear this,” Cliff said, knowing Ralph Summers had about as much time for political pressure as he did. Cliff leaned forward and said with all the force he could muster, “And I expect your application for product approval to proceed exactly according to proper schedule.”
    â€œWe’ll see about that,” Cofield snapped.
    â€œWe certainly shall,” Cliff agreed, and decided he had just about had enough. He rose to his feet. “Anything else?”
    â€œWell, it certainly has been delightful to meet you, Mr. Devon,” Whitehurst said, rising with the others. “Now don’t you forget—anything you need, anything at all. Debs knows where to reach me night or day.”
    Cliff allowed Deborah to usher him out. When the doors were shut behind them, he stood and fumed, “You know those lower life forms you use in the labs? I think some of them escaped.”
    To his surprise, it was Blair Collins who responded. “He’ll do,” she announced to Deborah. “Okay for tomorrow night at seven?”
    â€œPerfect,” Deborah replied, and took his arm. “Come along, dear. You’re steaming up the windows.”
    ----
    Daylight was just beginning to wane when Horace Tweedie showed up in front of the U.S. Patent Office headquarters in Washington. The air still smelled of its city imprisonment, hot and muggy and acrid. Ted Kelley was outside waiting for him, nervous as a new recruit arriving at boot camp. As soon as Horace’s car pulled up, Ted raced over and tried to crawl in through the side window. “What took you so long?” he hissed, dancing in place. “You’re almost half an hour late.”
    â€œFriday rush-hour traffic,” Horace replied, rolling toward a curbside parking place. He climbed from the car, clapped a hand on Ted’s shoulder, grinned broadly, and said in a quiet voice, “Calm down. You don’t want anybody to get suspicious, do you?”
    â€œI don’t know if I want to do this at all.”
    â€œThat’s okay,” Horace said amiably, knowing the guy had to be nursed. His poker buddy was a gambler, mostly small stakes, but a lot of them. And he lost. Almost always. Like many gamblers, Ted gambled to reinforce his own self-hatred, something best accomplished by placing bets that had almost no chance of succeeding.
    Horace hated playing poker with Kelley. He didn’t like watching him gradually melt into a sweaty little puddle as he overbet and lost hand after hand, trying time and time again to fill inside straights and flushes missing two cards. The guy rarely lost more than a couple hundred, but for him it was almost a nightly ritual. Not to mention the football pools and the basketball and the golf and the hockey and anything else he could find to bet on.
    Needless to say, Kelley was perpetually in debt. And to the wrong sort of creditors. Ones who insisted on being paid. Insisted in the strongest possible terms.
    So Horace played it cool like he was still at the poker table with this guy. “It was just an idea. They really don’t need the information right now, and I’ll have it on file myself in a month or so.”
    Then he started back toward the car, his heart tripping a frantic beat.
    â€œNo, wait.” Ted’s hand was on his elbow.
    Horace breathed a silent sigh and allowed himself to be turned back.