Metzger's Dog by Thomas Perry Page A

they’re finished with the noisy part, though, so we may be able to talk.”
    “Burglary?” said Porterfield. “Too bad. I hope they didn’t get anything that can’t be replaced.”
    “Oh no. Actually, they missed everything you’d have thought would attract them—office equipment, the petty cash. They stole several unpublished manuscripts of mine. Thank God I had them on storage disks for the word processor. I can retrieve them at six hundred words a minute whenever I choose. The problem is—and I know I can trust you to keep this confidential—much of the material had a certain national security interest, so I’m a little concerned about seeing that it’s recovered.”
    “I see,” said Porterfield. “I hadn’t realized you were much involved with the Defense Department.”
    Donahue shrugged and smiled but said nothing. Porterfield had checked the history of the payments to Donahue, and all of them had been made through the National Research Foundation. Porterfield said, “I see. Perhaps I’m wasting your time. Mr. Morrison had mentioned to me that you were doing some research that was of interest to the Seyell Foundation and that the funding for it was becoming difficult. If—”
    Donahue held up his hand. “Don’t misunderstand me. At the moment I’m preparing some proposals with the Seyell Foundation in mind.”
    Porterfield stood up and smiled. “Very good. Just send them along when they’re ready and I promise they’ll get plenty of attention. They’ll be high on our agenda for next year, which would mean that the actual funding could come through the year after that. It’s been a pleasure.” He turned to go.
    “Two years?”
    Porterfield stopped. “Well, not two years, Professor Donahue. More like a year and a half.”
    “But even the government is faster than that.”
    “The deadline for this year’s screening committee is already past, and while I could return to Washington tomorrow with something to slip into the mass of material they have to deal with, after that it would be impossible. Meddling with deadlines would jeopardize our tax-exempt status.”
    “I can show you some things that would change your mind,” said Donahue. “Things I was working on for the National Research Foundation.” His desperation seemed to be swallowed for a moment by some other emotion that wasn’t immediately identifiable. “It’s going to knock them on their asses.” Then he added, “If there’s anyone there qualified to read it.”
    Of course the little bastard would be this way—bitter, waiting for the chance to revel in some personal triumph over people who certainly never thought about him, probably never even heard of him; but that too would be part of it. These people spent their lives telling themselves they had international reputations because they were quoted in a journal with two hundred subscribers. He’d forgotten about that part of it. “Of course, for a distinguished scientist like you we might be able to deal with a body of work, at least until a specific contract could be constructed.”
    Donahue beamed. “When does your plane leave?”
    “Late this evening—ten forty-five.”
    “I can have the manuscripts out of the machine by six.” He reached in his desk drawer and began fumbling with a row of word processor disks in gray envelopes.
    Porterfield moved to the door. “Eight will be fine.”
    He passed along the corridor to the end of the suite of offices. The electricians seemed to have gone, although there still was a toolbox on the floor near the door. When he turned the corner, Goldschmidt’s man was waiting for him. Porterfield said quietly, “It’s all on word processor disks in his office. We’ll need his access code.”
    “Do you need to talk to him some more?”
    Porterfield glanced at Goldschmidt’s man as he walked. He was definitely one of the ones Goldschmidt had trained to be what he called professional. He always found them in their early