show it to the people in the room. “What’s the other last thing you wanted to mention?” she asked Adams. The DCIO gave her a smug smile. “Two, Madam, we have a very reliable agent on Atlas who will be making a report soon. That report should convince you our option is justified.”
Chang-Sturdevant felt a mighty surge of anger, but her long years of experience in public life allowed her to suppress it. How, she raged inwardly, could Adams know the report would convince her to authorize an assassination before it had even been submitted to the CIO for evaluation? “Well, Jay, let me see it, then, when it’s fully evaluated,” she responded coolly and swirled out of the room.
“Madam,” Berentus closed the door to Chang-Sturdevant’s private office behind him, “did you hear what old stuffed-shirt Porter said? Because of the weather he had to call for a starship to get over here this morning?”
Chang-Sturdevant looked at her Minister of War blankly for a moment and then burst into laughter. They both laughed. “Marcus,” she exclaimed, slapping her thigh, “the old boy does have some life in him after all! Now,” she plopped into the nearest chair, “I’ve some free time before I meet with the,” she waved a hand vaguely, “the Great Wazoo of Tubegador or whomever, so let’s have a cuppa java.”
“That is very presidential of you—Suelee,” Berentus smiled, taking a seat opposite Chang-Sturdevant. She smiled at him, deciding she liked having Marcus call her by that name, then said, “One final thing, old friend. That analyst. The one who knows this Lavager. Find out who she is for me, would you? For her I might grant a private interview.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Office of the Director, Central Intelligence Organization, Hunter, Earth
J. Murchison Adams cursed so foully once they were back in the privacy of his office at CIO headquarters that Palmer Lowell actually winced. When Adams was upset he resorted to gutter language using words not even the crustiest drill sergeant would employ with the dumbest recruits. Where he’d learned to curse so eloquently was a mystery to Palmer, considering the DCIO’s upbringing by people who wouldn’t have said “garbage” if they’d had a mouthful of it.
“That rotten sonofabitch, useless goddamned—” Adams paused to catch his breath.
“Well, Gustafferson’s report will clinch matters for us, old boy,” Lowell volunteered, hoping to calm the director down.
Adams gasped and wiped his forehead. He was quiet for a moment, trying to get a grip on himself. Then his face reddened again and he slammed a fist onto his desk. “And that goddamned bitch!” he screamed.
“I asked for a private meeting and she went and brought in those, those—” He broke into a fit of coughing.
“Ah, you refer to our illustrious Madam President Chang-Sturdevant and her advisors, old man? Quite distressing, the whole affair, I must admit. Have some of this Paté Munchausen, old chap? Settle you down a bit.”
“Goddamnit, I don’t want any Paté Munchausen!” Adams shouted, but he made a visible effort to get a grip on himself. He drank a mouthful of the Club Klinko ’76 the servo had just poured. “Who ordered this vinegar?” he asked, then said, “Pretty good for vinegar, though.” He drained the glass and the servo poured another. He was getting back in control of himself now. “Gustafferson. Yes, Palmer, quite, quite. He’s on to something out there, you can bet on it. Yes, his report will be decisive.” He spooned up a bite of the Paté Munchausen. “Umm. Very good, Palmer.” He activated the intercom on his desk. “Get Somervell in here, would you?” he ordered his secretary. As he entered the director’s private office, Somervell P. Amesbury, CIO Chief of Staff, exchanged a rapid glance with Lowell, who shook his head ever so slightly, indicating the blowup was over and didn’t concern anyone at Hunter. The rest of the director’s immediate
Chang-Sturdevant felt a mighty surge of anger, but her long years of experience in public life allowed her to suppress it. How, she raged inwardly, could Adams know the report would convince her to authorize an assassination before it had even been submitted to the CIO for evaluation? “Well, Jay, let me see it, then, when it’s fully evaluated,” she responded coolly and swirled out of the room.
“Madam,” Berentus closed the door to Chang-Sturdevant’s private office behind him, “did you hear what old stuffed-shirt Porter said? Because of the weather he had to call for a starship to get over here this morning?”
Chang-Sturdevant looked at her Minister of War blankly for a moment and then burst into laughter. They both laughed. “Marcus,” she exclaimed, slapping her thigh, “the old boy does have some life in him after all! Now,” she plopped into the nearest chair, “I’ve some free time before I meet with the,” she waved a hand vaguely, “the Great Wazoo of Tubegador or whomever, so let’s have a cuppa java.”
“That is very presidential of you—Suelee,” Berentus smiled, taking a seat opposite Chang-Sturdevant. She smiled at him, deciding she liked having Marcus call her by that name, then said, “One final thing, old friend. That analyst. The one who knows this Lavager. Find out who she is for me, would you? For her I might grant a private interview.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Office of the Director, Central Intelligence Organization, Hunter, Earth
J. Murchison Adams cursed so foully once they were back in the privacy of his office at CIO headquarters that Palmer Lowell actually winced. When Adams was upset he resorted to gutter language using words not even the crustiest drill sergeant would employ with the dumbest recruits. Where he’d learned to curse so eloquently was a mystery to Palmer, considering the DCIO’s upbringing by people who wouldn’t have said “garbage” if they’d had a mouthful of it.
“That rotten sonofabitch, useless goddamned—” Adams paused to catch his breath.
“Well, Gustafferson’s report will clinch matters for us, old boy,” Lowell volunteered, hoping to calm the director down.
Adams gasped and wiped his forehead. He was quiet for a moment, trying to get a grip on himself. Then his face reddened again and he slammed a fist onto his desk. “And that goddamned bitch!” he screamed.
“I asked for a private meeting and she went and brought in those, those—” He broke into a fit of coughing.
“Ah, you refer to our illustrious Madam President Chang-Sturdevant and her advisors, old man? Quite distressing, the whole affair, I must admit. Have some of this Paté Munchausen, old chap? Settle you down a bit.”
“Goddamnit, I don’t want any Paté Munchausen!” Adams shouted, but he made a visible effort to get a grip on himself. He drank a mouthful of the Club Klinko ’76 the servo had just poured. “Who ordered this vinegar?” he asked, then said, “Pretty good for vinegar, though.” He drained the glass and the servo poured another. He was getting back in control of himself now. “Gustafferson. Yes, Palmer, quite, quite. He’s on to something out there, you can bet on it. Yes, his report will be decisive.” He spooned up a bite of the Paté Munchausen. “Umm. Very good, Palmer.” He activated the intercom on his desk. “Get Somervell in here, would you?” he ordered his secretary. As he entered the director’s private office, Somervell P. Amesbury, CIO Chief of Staff, exchanged a rapid glance with Lowell, who shook his head ever so slightly, indicating the blowup was over and didn’t concern anyone at Hunter. The rest of the director’s immediate
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