insatiable.â
Spencer Fairley inclined his head. âI wish you would let somebody else handle these details, sir. You seem to find them so upsetting.â
Scopes shook his head. âThis project is too important.â
âIf you say so, sir. Can I get you anything else besides a new keyboard?â
Scopes waved his hand absently. As Fairley turned to go, Scopes suddenly spoke again. âWait. There were two things, after all. Did you see the Channel Seven news last night?â
âAs you know, sir, I donât care for television or computers.â
âYou crusty Beacon Hill fossil,â Scopes said affectionately. Fairley was the only man in the company Scopes would allow to call him sir. âWhat would I do without you to show me how the electronically illiterate half live? Anyway, last night on Channel Seven they discussed a twelve-year-old girl who has leukemia. She wanted to go to Disneyland before she died. Itâs the usual exploitative crap weâre fed on the evening news. I forget her name. Anyway, will you arrange for her and her family to go to Disneyland, private jet, all expenses paid, best hotels, limos, the works? And please, keep it strictly anonymous. I donât want that bastard Levine mocking me again, twisting it into something it isnât. Give them some money to help with the medical bills, say, fifty thousand. They seemed like nice people. It must be hell to have a kid die of leukemia. I canât even imagine it.â
âYes, sir. Thatâs very kind of you sir.â
âRemember what Samuel Johnson said: âIt is better to live rich, than die rich.â And remember: itâs to be anonymous . I donât even want them to know who did it. All right?â
âUnderstood.â
âAnd another thing. When I was in New York yesterday, this fucking cab nearly ran me over in a crosswalk. Park Avenue and Fiftieth.â
Fairleyâs expression was inscrutable. âThat would have been unfortunate.â
âSpencer, you know what I like about you? Youâre so droll that I can never tell whether Iâm being insulted or complimented. Anyway, the hack number on top of the cab was four-A-five-six. Get his medallion pulled, will you? I donât want the son of a bitch running over some grandmother.â
âYes, sir.â As the small door hissed shut with a muffled click, Scopes stood up and made his way thoughtfully back toward the piano.
A loud tone sounded in his helmet, and Carson jerked up from his terminal screen with a start. Then he relaxed again. It was only his third day on-site; he assumed that eventually heâd get used to the 6 P.M. reminder. He stretched, looked around the lab. De Vaca was in pathology; he might as well wrap up for the day. He laboriously typed a few paragraphs into his laptop, detailing the dayâs events. As he connected the laptop to the network link and uploaded his files, he found himself unable to suppress a sense of pride. Two days of labwork, and he knew exactly what had to be done. Familiarity with the latest lab techniques was the advantage heâd needed. Now, all that remained was to carry it out.
Then he hesitated. A message was flashing at the bottom of the screen.
John
[email protected] is paging.
Press the command key to chat.
Hurriedly, Carson went into chat mode and paged Singer. He hadnât been plugged into the network all day; there was no telling when Singer had originally requested to speak with him.
John
[email protected] ready to chat.
Press the command key to continue.
How are you, Guy? came the words on Carsonâs screen.
Good, Carson typed. Just got your page now.
You should get in the habit of leaving your laptop connected to the network the entire time youâre in the lab. You might mention that to Susana, too. Could you spare me a few moments after dinner? Thereâs something we need to discuss.
Name the time and place, Carson