Nightwatch: Rogue Harvest

by Ralph Benedetto, Jr.

The thing about bureaucracy," Tom Weldon said as the ambulance stopped in front of a sign reading Good Hope Evangelical Hospital, "is that, if you know what you're doing, it's easy to manipulate." He was a stocky man dressed in black shoes, black slacks, and a black shirt, all of it topped off by a white lab coat and the obligatory stethoscope, but his bearing and physiognomy were not those of a doctor.

The ambulance driver looked at Weldon and asked, "Do we know what we're doing?"

Weldon grinned back at him. "It doesn't matter," he said, opening the passenger side door. "That’s the beauty of it. Reality isn't what's important. It's what people think reality to be that determines their behavior." He swung himself out of his seat and down to the asphalt and shut the door.

"Swell," the driver said to himself, pocketing the keys and opening his door. "I don't even know what that means, and I'm not too sure he does, either.” He shook his head. “Why do I do these things to myself?”

Weldon gave the ambulance doors a rhythmic knock as he crossed behind the vehicle and looked around as he crossed the parking lot and headed into the hospital.

It wasn't Weldon's first time in Nigeria, but it was his first visit to Jos, and he liked what he'd seen of the city so far. When Simon had called him and asked him to perform "a simple little job – a cakewalk," he had been a little reluctant to put his own affairs on hold, but Simon had impressed him with the job's urgency, so he'd agreed in the end. Besides, how often did he get a chance to play doctor?

"We've got one man there,” Simon had told him, “but we don't think he could pull it off alone. It would take too long for us to get anyone else over there. You're close by and could just nip over and do this little thing tomorrow, Tom..."

The woman at the information desk looked up as two men entered, both of them white. One was a tall, gaunt man with hollow cheeks, unruly hair that seemed to stick out randomly in all directions, and a bushy moustache. The other was dressed as if he were a doctor, but he looked more like a rugby player. In fact, he looked as if the Good Lord had started out to make two rugby players and then changed his mind at the last moment and decided to just make one.

"May I help you?" she asked politely as the two men stopped in front of her.

Weldon glanced at her name tag. "Thank you, Ms. Ola," he said. "I'm Dr. O'Grady. I'm here to pick up Mr. Tamagawa."

The woman turned to her computer and clicked the keys quietly for a moment. "I'm sorry," she said, turning back to Weldon. "We don't..." the her eyes widened. "The man without a name!” she said. "You're the people for the man without a name!"

Weldon smiled. "Yes," he said. "When Mr. Tamagawa was brought in, I understand that he was in no condition to give his name."

"Dr. Okoko is expecting you." She gestured to her right. "Please follow the orange line until you pass through the double door. Dr. Okoko's office will be the second door on the left."

Weldon smiled. "Thank you," he said politely.

"Mr. Tamagawa," the woman said musingly.

Weldon simply smiled again in reply. The man without a name now had name. In fact, he had two names: the false one that Weldon has just given the receptionist and the real one that Simon hadn’t felt a need to burden him with. Simon hadn’t actually said that the name Tamagawa was false, but Tom knew Simon more than well enough to work that one out for himself. He was equally certain that the numerous documents in his possession giving him permission to remove the patient from the hospital and from the country were equally false. That didn’t trouble him, as long as everyone else accepted them as genuine.

Weldon and his companion made it through the double doors but not all the way to Dr. Okoko's office. The receptionist had apparently called ahead, and Dr. Okoko came out to meet them in the hall.

"Tare Okoko," he said, holding out his hand to Weldon.

"Patrick O'Grady," Weldon said. The name had been Simon's choice, not his, and Weldon had to fight the urge to try out an Irish accent. He gestured at his companion. "Paul Griggs," he said.

"The patient's room is this way," Okoko said, sweeping the two men along with a gesture. "We're delighted to know that his family has found him."

"The newspaper article was a good idea," Weldon said.

Okoko nodded. "Have you been briefed on his condition?"

“Not really, no," Weldon said.

"It is a very unusual case," Okoko told him, "To say the least. I have never seen anything even remotely like it. He was picked up by the police wandering the streets. At the time he was suffering from malnutrition and also had some deep bruising and various cuts and slashes, only one of them at all serious. His physical wounds are well on their way to healing, but his mental condition..." He shook his head. "Some days he seems alert and attentive, perfectly normal, except that his entire vocabulary consists of one or two words, although he seems to think that he is communicating everything that he wants to."

"Aphasia?" Weldon asked.

"If so, it is extremely atypical. But, then, everything about this case is atypical."

"You said that some days he was alert. What's he like on the other days?"

Okoko sighed. "On those days it is as if he has no will of his own. He will do whatever you set him to do in a very docile manner, but you have to tell him everything. If he is eating, you have to instruct him to chew and then to swallow. Sometimes he changes suddenly from one state to the other. This morning he was in the second state, but I do not know what state he will be in when we get to his room. We shall find out together."

Weldon shook his head. Simon hadn't given him quite as much information as he might have. Typical. Need to know. The mania for security could be land carried too far.

A short walk took them to a comfortable room. Inside was an oriental man wearing a hospital gown. He looked up as Dr. Okoko entered his room.

"Responsive," Okoko murmured. "Good morning," he added in a louder voice.

The patient nodded. "Window," he said politely. His voice was calm and measured, but the word had been thickly accented.

Weldon blinked and looked at Okoko with one eyebrow raised.

"These gentlemen," Okoko said, gesturing at Weldon and Griggs, "Are here to take you home to your family."

The patient smiled pleasantly at Weldon. "One dow," he said, nodding

“Yes,” Weldon said with a pleasant smile. “Let’s find you some clothes, shall we?”

***

Simon Litchfield strode the halls of the Nightwatch Insitute for Strategic and Economic Studies. He was a good match for the quiet elegance of the building, with his silver hair and brown eyes and what, at first glance, seemed to be merely a suit of comfortable khaki clothes but which turned out, at second glance, to be a very expensive suit of comfortable khaki clothes.

After the wood paneling and expensive land carpeting, Simon always found it a bit jarring to enter the Institute's library. It wasn't the library itself, but, rather, one part: the section devoted to popular culture.

Books on economics and geopolitics made sense, but why did the Institute need to have every issue of People magazine that had ever been printed? Why did they need disks of once popular television shows? And why didn't they notice that this particular culture section of the library was almost never used?

Still, that paucity of use made it the perfect place for Simon to meet with Callow, the representative of the Institute's Lower Echelon - that secret group within a group that periodically tossed more interesting assignment's Simon's way.

Callow was waiting at a table in the far corner of the popular culture section. This time he didn't seem to have brought anything with him, not even a notebook computer. Not even a real notebook. That vaguely disturbed Simon. If there was something so unsettling that Callow wasn't willing to keep even personal records of it, then Simon wasn't certain that it was something that he was going to enjoy dealing with.

Callow waited, his face utterly expressionless until Simon pulled out a chair and sat down, and then he said, "We have a...situation."

Simon cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. "We always have situations," he replied. "That's why I'm here. That's why we're both here. What makes this one so special?"

Callow looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable. "We have a certain lack of...understanding of this situation."

Simon frowned. "Why don't you stop dancing circles around it and just fill me in."

"All right. You will remember the medical patient in Nigeria that we acquired last week."

"Of course."

"The root cause of his condition has been determined to be a never before seen neurotoxin."

Simon nodded. "Interesting," he said.

“We have also managed to identify him. His name is Dr. Fa Leung. Does that name ring a bell with you?"

"No," Simon said. "Should it?"

“He is a well known molecular biologist."

"Oh..." Simon said. "Yes, I keep trading cards of well known molecular biologists."

"You, of all people, should," Callow said dryly.

"Oh, a joke," Simon said. "Excellent. Well done, Callow. Don't try another one too soon. You might hurt yourself." He shook his head and sighed, "Genetic engineering and a brand new neurotoxin. Does this get worse?"

"It gets more puzzling," Callow replied. "Dr. Leung's condition makes it difficult to get information from him. We do have one thing. When the doctor is in his responsive phase, he repeats a similar two syllable sound."

Simon nodded. "I saw the report," he said. "Window...wan chow...one toe..."

"He has stabilized now. Instead of repeating similar sounds, he apparently finally struck on the combination that he was looking for, and it is now all that he says."

"Are you going to keep me in suspense?"

"Huang dou."

Simon raised an eyebrow. "Which is Chinese for..."

"Soybeans," Callow said unhappily.

"Soybeans," Simon repeated.

“Yes."

"You think-," Simon began.

"Yes," Callow said, hoping to avoid hearing the thought out loud.

"That someone is genetically engineering soybeans..."

"Yes."

"Neurotoxic soybeans..."

"Yes."

"Soybean terrorists."

Callow sighed. "We have done some investigation and analysis. Dr. Leung was not supposed to be in Africa. It can still be difficult to gather information on Chinese nationals, but the Chinese government still maintains that Dr. Leung is in China at this moment."

"Are you certain he isn't?"

"Yes," Callow said. "I wouldn't be here talking about--"

"Killer legumes," Simon put in.

"…if I weren't serious," Callow finished. "Also, there is a research lab in Nigeria working on grains and soybeans."

Simon raised an eyebrow. "A genetics lab?" he asked.

"All quite legal," Callow assured him. "A large biotechnology firm established the lab a decade ago, but the firm has been having financial and legal difficulties for a few years now."

"These things do tend to drag on when the defendants are rich, don't they?" Simon asked sweetly.

"Cynicism doesn't become you, Simon."

"Yes it does," Simon said firmly. "Tell me about the biotech company."

"Meggar and Fields," Callow told him. "Their CEO and chief financial officer were apparently involved in some rather complicated and highly illegal doings. The government is still trying to sort things out. Many of the company's assets have been liquidated and many others have been put into a sort of limbo."

Simon blinked twice and then pulled his shoulders upward, trying to stretch out a tight spot in his back that had been bothering him for a few days. "A genetics lab in limbo?" he asked.

"The lab still exists, but, according to the company's internal records…"

"Have we a mole?" Simon asked.

"According to the company's internal records," Callow repeated, ignoring the question, "the lab has gone almost entirely unfunded. Salaries are being paid to a few people to keep an eye on things, but minimal research is currently being done."

"A genetics lab in limbo," Simon repeated. "Ripe for the picking, I would have said. So, what research were they doing before the CEO did the big swindle?"

"Their two main lines seemed to be increasing the protein content of various legumes and working on plants that would help the global environment by absorbing and processing greenhouse gases."

"That's a far cry from neurotoxins," Simon said.

"We suspect that the lab may be...freelancing. We'd like you to go check it out."

"All right," Simon said. "I can't resist the urge to find out about killer soybeans. I think Tom is still in Nigeria doing whatever it is that he's doing. I might enlist him to help."

“Who you take with you is at your discretion," Callow told him. "Subject to the usual considerations, of course. Are you going to take…" Callow arched his eyebrows.

"One of the delicate phantoms of my past? Probably." He started to turn away and then stopped. "I have an idea, but it's going to require a little infrastructure."

"You know the rules under which you are required to operate, Simon. Within that framework, you may do whatever is required."

Simon nodded and finally did turn away, humming a George Harrison tune to himself: “Devil's Radio.” It seemed somehow appropriate.

He was still humming a few moments later as he paced one of the institute's hallowed halls and spotted Stephanie Keel. The computer wizard was dressed, as always, in khaki cargo pants with a khaki vest over a sweater - today's color being a soft blue.

"Simon," she said with a grin. "How's the back?"

"There's nothing wrong with my back," he said, resisting the urge to stretch again.

"Of course not," she said. "That dive into the corner couldn't possibly have hurt someone in such good shape. Then you'll be up for another game this weekend?"

Simon shook his head. Stephanie was a good racquetball player, and he wasn't able to beat her as often as he would have liked, but he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of knowing it. "I'm not sure we'll be back by then," he said.

She raised her eyebrows. "We?" she asked.

"I just had a chat with Callow. Pack for someplace warm. We'll be leaving in a couple of days. I'll let you know when."

"You got it," she said. "I'll have to clear a few things from my calendar." She started to turn away. "Catch you later, Doc. Page me when you get things nailed down.”

Simon watched her go, not that he could see much through the loose pants and sweater. He liked watching her better when she was kitted out for racquetball. When she was out of sight, he headed for his own office to make a few calls.

***

The passenger cabin of Nightbird One was comfortable, even opulent, and the plane could make the flight to Nigeria without stopping to refuel. It wasn't as fast as the Grumman G6, but it had a few little extras that Grumman didn't put in its planes, not even for the obscenely wealthy.

Simon was leaning casually back in his seat, a glass of gin in his hand and a pair of headphones on his ears. His eyes were closed and his brain at rest, when he felt a touch on his knee. He knew that touch, so knew exactly what he'd see when he opened his eyes.

The seat across from his that swiveled to face him was pleasantly full of a nicely constructed redhead with cornflower blue eyes and pale skin with a dusting of freckles, especially across her nose. Her lips were curved into a not entirely pleasant smile.

"Yes, my love?" Simon asked.

Morna's smile widened slightly, and her lips curved upward in just the way that had made him glad to wake up beside her every morning for five years.

"Simon," she said. He couldn't hear it over the string section in his headphones, but he read her lips. The rest of her sentence escaped him. He pressed a button and the music faded away.

"I'm sorry," he said, removing the headphones, "I didn't quite catch that."

"I said" she repeated with that touch of asperity that he had heard a lot during the divorce proceedings, "that I was able to get some information on Fa Leung." She had never lost the faintly musical lilt of her Irish homeland.

"Then you're doing better than the Institute," he said appreciatively. "You always were something special, pet. Especially in the…"

"Simon," she said, "You're a dear, but I'm immune to your charm."

"Alas, my Sunrise," he said, "if only I were immune to yours."

Morna rolled her eyes. "Simon," she said, "can we keep our mind on business?"

"We both know you aren't really immune to my charms," he said. "You've just always liked playing hard to get."

She laughed and shook her head. "Fa Leung," she said.

"Very well. The Institute hasn't been able to pry anything out of the Chinese government about either him or his work. How did you get the information?"

"I called some colleagues. Scientists talk to each other. There's competition, of course, but we still talk about our work. Dr. Leung was working on transgenic plants. His early experiments were primarily focused on putting the nitrogenase gene into nonlegumes."

"Oh, good," Simon said. "I was hoping someone was doing that."

"The idea," Morna continued, leaning back and crossing her legs, her eyes closed halfway as she watched Simon's gaze track along her calves and thighs, "was to create plants that had a higher level of high quality protein. That first meant increasing their nitrogen content."

Simon nodded, taking a sip of gin. "That could explain why he was working at this particular lab."

"If he was," Morna said. “He apparently had moved on to a new line of investigation, something very hush hush for the military. There wasn't much information out there except that he had been working with some insect species in the rain forests. There were rumors of some rather unpleasant casualties but nothing really concrete."

Simon frowned. "All right," he said. "All right." He took another meditative sip, his eyes narrowed in thought, then his brow suddenly cleared, and he said, "Thank you, Morna. I knew you were the right person for the job."

"All right, Simon, I've got some papers I want to read over. Go back to your Wallace."

Simon looked down at the headphones. He knew good and well that she couldn't possibly have heard what was playing on them, but it was Wallace right enough. He put the headphones back on, and his gaze drifted to the stack of three legal books sitting in the seat next to him. With a sigh, he picked one up and opened it.

Morna made her way down the aisle, smiling at Stephanie as she passed.

***

Tom Weldon was there to greet the plane. Simon, stepping into the heat and humidity, spotted him and waved him up. Tom climbed the stairs up to the plane's hatch and shook Simon's hand.

"You may possibly," Simon said dryly, "be the only man in Nigeria dressed all in black. It must be over ninety degrees out."

"I hadn't noticed," Weldon said. "Mind over matter. But I wouldn't say no to a drink."

"You never do," Simon said with a grin. "Come on in. We've made some preliminary plans, but we need to fill you in."

Tom climbed up the stairs and stepped into the plane. “I assume that Andy made it back with our mystery patient?”

Simon nodded. “Of course,” he said.

Tom nodded. “Good.” He grinned. “I don’t think he enjoyed our little impersonation in the hospital.”

“Well,” Simons said meditatively, “I believe that he did make one or two comments about your observations on the nature of reality.”

Tom’s grin got bigger. “That man’s outlook on life it just too narrow,” he said. “Now, about that drink…”

***

The land rover was not a rental, but it would untraceable should anyone have any reason to attempt to trace it. It was well air conditioned, had comfortable seats and a CD player which Tom, who was doing the driving, had taken control of. It was currently playing a selection of Robert Johnson songs that Tom seemed to know all of the words to and which he was singing along with in a deep, gravelly bass.

Stephanie was in the front seat beside him. While Tom was still wearing his normal black slacks, black shirt, black shoes, and black belt, she had a made a concession to the heat and had topped off her khaki pants with a loose shirt.

Simon and Morna were in the back seat taking quietly to each other.

"So," Tom said with mock seriousness, "I see that you've come out of your den long enough to get some sun."

Stephanie glanced at him. "You've never even seen my den." There was a slight crinkle visible around the corners of her eyes and lips.

“Alas, no,” Tom said with a huge sigh, “But I imagine it as a dark, cool place full of disemboweled computers and disjointed pieces of machinery."

"Nothing of the kind," she said, her tone a perfect match for Tom’s. "It's very brightly lit."

“But still full of body parts,” Tom said. “Is this your stop?"

She looked around. There was cover nearby and ready access of the telephone lines. "This'll do," she said.

The land rover slowed, and she picked up a soft-sided briefcase and climbed out. She pointed to

a case on the ground. “Remember, the jammer needs to be within five hundred meters of the building, right?"

"Got it," he said with a grin. "Leave it to me."

“Leaving it to you is what concerns me,” she said with an answering grin. "I don't trust you with hardware, you know. It isn't your specialty. Don't break any of my stuff, all right?"

“I have the delicate hands of a surgeon,” he told her, then he gave her a quick salute as the land rover pulled away. “Trust me!”

Stephanie laughed, shook her head, and headed toward the bushes that she planned to set up camp behind.

The rest of the journey was uneventful. Two miles later they had turned off of the main road and were headed down one made of dirt. After several hundred yards, they found their way blocked by a fence. There was no one around.

Tom pulled the land rover to a stop, looked around for a few seconds, shrugged, got out, and opened the gate, utterly ignoring a sign that promised dire consequences to anyone brazen enough to pass through the gate uninvited.

Tom left the unfriendly gate open after they drove through it.

"Shouldn't you close it back again?" Morna asked him.

Tom grinned at her in the rearview mirror. "Nah," he said. "We're arrogant officials from the head office, remember?"

The road led them to a large, low white building in the middle of a dirt parking lot. There were three other vehicles in the lot, all of them covered with dust and looking much the worse for wear. Tom parked the land rover close to the building and pocketed the keys. Then he reached over and flipped a switch on the hammer. It beeped once and then began to hum quietly to himself.

Simon stepped out of the land rover and, with a swirl and a flourish, draped a tan cape over his shoulders and picked up a mahogany walking stick with a gold and silver knob.

"Oh, Simon," Morna said, "not the cape."

"I'm a lawyer, my love, and must look the part, heat or no heat. The weather can never be allowed to interfere with one’s sense of style. Let's go."

They walked to the building. It was long and low with white sides and numerous windows with tinted glass. All of the windows were covered by curtains. The building had an indefinable air of not being well maintained, although it was far from being in disrepair.

The front door proved to be unlocked. Simon opened it and they entered.

They found themselves in a luxurious waiting room. The floor was not carpeted, but the walls here were hung with numerous pictures, and several very comfortable looking chairs were scattered about with a casual randomness that must have been the fruit of considerable effort.

A woman at a desk looked up in surprise at the three strangers.

"Uh...may I help you?" she asked.

Simon walked up to her desk and stood looking down at her. She was blond, with full lips, long carmine nails, and various other features, all of them designed to attract the eye, and, in Simon's judgment, all of them artificial. He wondered if she'd purchased an artificial personality to complete the set.

He smiled genially at her and flourished a card. "We would like to see Dr. Geisel, please. Immediately." His tone was perfect. It was cultured and polished, with a veneer of politeness covering chilled steel.

The woman gaped at him. Then she gaped at Morna. That didn't seem to help her, so she gaped at Tom. He at least, with his massive weightlifter's frame, was worth gaping at. For his part, he was ignoring her and studying the paintings. They were prettier.

Simon tapped the knob of his cane on the woman's desk to draw her attention back to him. "Dr. Geisel," he said. "Your head of research. We would like to see him immediately."

"Um...yes..." she floundered. "But..." she cleared her throat. "Dr. Geisel is not in."

"He will be in to me, or he will very soon be out."

She blinked at him.

"Out of a job," Simon explained, leaning toward her slightly. He did a conjuring trick, and a letter appeared in his hand. It was on the letterhead of Meggar and Fields, signed by Jonas Fields himself. Simon considered letting her read it, but he had already decided that her head was little more than ornamental. "Tell Dr. Geisel that I will wait precisely three minutes. If I don't see him by the end of that time period, I will order this facility closed down and everyone here will be out of work." He smiled at her. It was neither polite nor comforting.

She fumbled for her phone and spoke hastily but quietly into it for a moment while Simon appeared to ignore her utterly. Precisely two minutes and fifteen seconds later, a door in the far wall opened and a chubby man with thinning hair and thick features appeared in the door way. He was dressed in casual tan slacks with a white polo shirt on and a thin cotton lab coat on over that.

The man cleared his throat and said, "I'm Ted Geisel. Can I help you?"

"Ah, so you were in after all," Simon said. "How fortunate. I'm Simon Clarke." He handed Geisel the letter. “I believe this will explain everything," he said.

Geisel scanned the letter quickly and then slowed down and read it a second time, then he looked back up at Simon and handed him the letter, making a ghastly effort at a smile. "An audit team," he said. "Well, well. How...um...yes."

"Yes," Simon said. He turned to his two companions and gestured at Morna. "My colleagues Miss Talbot," he waved a hand at Tom, "and Mr. Seals."

"And, why, precisely, are you here? Not that you aren't welcome, of course. Heh." Geisel's attempt at a laugh was even more ghastly than his smile, and, despite the very efficient air conditioning, he was sweating slightly.

"As you know,” Simon told him, surveying his surroundings with just the right air of disdain, “Meggar and Fields is having some…budgetary difficulties. Cost cutting may be essential to the firm's survival. We are here to see how this department is spending the money that it has been allocated and whether that allocation of funds is merited. You wouldn't mind showing us around, of course?"

"Of...uh...of course...Mr...uh..."

"Clarke," Simon supplied.

"Yes. Mr. Clarke. Well if you...uh...wouldn't mind...um...possibly waiting a few moments? I'm sure you can understand...I'd like to..." He waved his hand vaguely in the air.

"Call and check out our bona fides?" Simon finished for him. "That would be prudent. I'm sure you wouldn't mind if we accompanied you."

"No...of course..." He tried to smile at Morna. "Yes. Miss...um...please...this way...?"

They followed his waving arm through the door and into a long hall and then into his office. There were two chairs, one behind the desk and one for visitors. Simon gallantly gestured Morna into the visitor's chair and then smiled pleasantly at Geisel while he fumbled with his computer. Tom merely crossed his arms and waited patiently, seeming to retreat into himself. He had decided that his role in this particular performance was to be quietly menacing, so he was having a go at it.

Geisel clicked away at the keyboard for a moment and then frowned, and a sound that could only be described as a nervous giggle escaped him. "The...uh...the sat-cell network seems to be...uh..." he giggled again and then glanced at the others. Simon kept his pleasantly unpleasant smile on his face. Morna looked sympathetic. She was beginning to feel sorry for the poor man. Tom was merely looking impassive.

"Perhaps you could use the regular phone system," Simon suggested.

"Yes." Geisel fumbled for several painful moments before he finally found the number that he was looking for and punched it in. A few miles away, a phone connected to a portable computer sitting in a case at Stephanie's side rang. She glanced at the screen where the words: "Meggar and Fields: Main office" were displayed.

She picked up the phone. "Meggar and Fields," she said in the perky sort of voice that she loathed hearing on the other end of the phone. "May I help you please?"

"Uh...this is...this is Dr. Ted Geisel at research office 1127 Nigeria. I need to speak to Mr. Fields. My authorization code is 25-A-Red."

"Hold please."

Stephanie pushed a button on the computer's keypad, then she flipped a switch on the

phone's receiver, waited ten seconds, and then punched the keypad again.

"Mr. Fields office."

She was speaking in her normal voice, but the voice in Geisel's ear sounded like that of an entirely different woman. Stephanie was very proud of that small modification on her part to the system.

“This is...um...1127 Nigeria. Dr. Geisel. I need to speak with Mr. Fields immediately."

"Mr Fields is not in today, Dr. Geisel," Stephanie said. A groan floated up the wire and into her ear. "But he left a message for you. May I have your authorization code, please?" She was proud of that one. She hadn't even known that authorization codes existed until Geisel himself had told her a moment ago.

"25-A-Red."

"Yes, Dr. Geisel. Mr. Fields said to tell you to expect an audit team sometime in the near future. They are to be shown everything without reservation. They have the authority to determine the future of the facility they are investigating."

"Oh...dear..." Geisel said hollowly. "Yes. Um...thank...um..."

"You're welcome," Stephanie said. "Good-bye." She hung up and smiled to herself, then she reached into a cooler at her side and pulled out a bottle of soda. She'd have to keep monitoring the phones until the others came back to pick her up, but that was easy enough. It was a good thing they'd been able to jam the sat-cell network in the lab's area. Simulating the video would have been possible, but way too much trouble. Hmm. So they needed a way to make that easier. Stephanie frowned in thought. Maybe if she...

Back in his office, Geisel hung up the phone and smiled weakly at Morna. He had chosen her as the least threatening member of the group. Everyone makes mistakes. "Well, everything seems to be..."

Morna smiled back at him. "Shall we get the tour started, then?" she asked.

"Yes." He rose unsteadily to his feet and headed for the door. "If you'll...um..." he gestured with his arm, and they followed him into the hall and toward a door at the far end.

"No doubt you know," Geisel began, his voice steadying as he slipped into autopilot, "that there are a number of ecological problems facing the planet at this time. Gree...many people are forced to live on diets that contain very little meat and which are low in essential proteins. One of our main focuses...foci?..um... is to remedy that situation by creating plant species which are higher in proteins. As a first step, one of our projects is to introduce the genes which code for the enzymes involved in nitrogen fixation into plants." He wrinkled his brow at Simon. "You have to increase the nitrogen content of the plant preparatory to increasing the protein content."

"Of course," Simon said.

"Yes," Geisel said. "Of cour...um...yes. Well...of course, with the...uh...problems that the company is...well, money, of course...we don't..."

"Money is the engine that powers corporate research," Morna said gently.

"Yes!" Geisel said, suddenly beaming.

"And, without money, there isn't much research going on here."

"Yes!" Geisel said again.

"But you'll show us what you do have going on and explain it to us."

"Yes!" Geisel said again.

Morna had to resist the urge to say, "Right this way" and start the man off, but he did eventually direct them toward the labs.

“Will you be conducting the rest of the tour?” Simon murmured to her. She elbowed him in the ribs without breaking stride.

There really was very little going on in the facility, apparently. Geisel led them through every lab, every storage room, every office. Morna prowled through cabinets, refrigerators, and freezers. Tom moved things for her. Simon supervised, looking both threatening and smug. The place was the very picture of an underfunded lab with little to nothing on hand.

By the end of the examination, Geisel was calm. He quite cheerfully gave the trio several disks full of records that Simon knew would show absolutely nothing useful and which he had absolutely no intention of wasting his time examining.

Geisel showed them out with every expression of good will, even shaking hands with each of them, albeit a little gingerly with Tom.

As they walked out, the three were silent until they climbed back into the land rover, with Tom once again in the driver's seat. He didn't start the engine immediately.

"Well?" Simon asked.

"He's lying," Tom said firmly.

There was a moment of silence. "Which you know...how?" Simon asked.

"Pupil response," Tom said. "As well as general demeanor. He was scared witless at first, and then when he realized that we weren't going to find whatever it was, and he calmed down."

"Interesting," Simon said. He might have sounded dryly sarcastic, but both he and Tom were well aware that he trusted Tom's instincts in such matters.

"He's lying," Morna agreed. "There is research going on somewhere in that place."

"How do you know?"

"When we went in, he was wearing a radiation film ring on his right hand. He must have quietly slipped it off while he was behind his desk, because he wasn't wearing it when he stood up again.”