the power plant. I’m told it’ll be here at least a couple of days prior.’
‘I need a guarantee on that. I don’t want to see it plugged into a battery box. We must have the right power units. Otherwise it looks bloody amateurish.’
‘Of course.’
At a door, Jason slipped his index finger inside a scan tube by the handle and the locking mechanism gently clicked open. They went into a rectangular open-plan room, the walls lined on three sides by whiteboards and computer monitors. It had been subtly divided, using movable partitions, into small clusters of tables and chairs, a couple of which were occupied by a handful of staff who were sitting in circles discussing something.
‘This is the theory room,’ Jason said in a quieter voice. ‘Each new project has its own stance, its own position in the room, but also in an open forum that allows anyone with an idea they wish to contribute to do so. One person oversees what we call the subject but other than that it’s a free-for-all.’
Stratton looked at the various ‘stances’, the boards and screens containing mathematical data and diagrams. It was all Greek to him.
When he looked back at Jason the MI16 director was watching him, an expression in his eyes like that of a master examining an uncomprehending child. ‘Bit daunting for you, I expect . . . Let’s go to my office,’ he said, gesturing towards a smaller glass-partitioned space at the far end. ‘Take a seat,’ Jason said as they walked into the office. He sat in a comfortable leather chair behind the desk, a large portion of whose surface was a computer screen.
The warmth was beginning to make Stratton feel uncomfortable and he removed his leather jacket before sitting down.
‘We run a pretty loose ship here,’ Jason began. ‘No scheduled meals or work times. It’s up to the individual. We even have nap rooms,’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘The emphasis is placed on freedom . . . freedom to think, to express. The primary function is creation. It’s bad enough having to live like rabbits in a warren. So we do our best to compensate with pitiful luxuries and distractions.’
One such distraction caught Jason’s eye as he looked past Stratton.
Rowena was heading towards the office, no longer in the one-piece laboratory suit but in a short skirt that revealed a pair of shapely legs. Her gaze lingered on Jason perhaps a moment too long as she entered the room but her expression was still void of emotion.
‘Rowena. Have you met John Stratton?’ Jason asked.
‘Yes,’ she said, without looking at the guest and taking a seat in the other side of the room. She appeared aloof beyond rudeness as she pulled out a cigarette packet, removed a slender cigarette and lit it.
Jason smiled thinly as she blew a long line of smoke towards him. ‘That describes Rowena to a T. Rude and rebellious. This is a no-smoking establishment. But she’s invaluable, knows it, and so she gets away with everything.’
The young woman ignored everyone. Binning stared at her in private thought. Rowena somehow involved everyone and ignored them at the same time. She seemed to live under a cloud, contemptuous of everything.
‘I asked Rowena to pop in because she’s, well, a part of why you’re here,’ Jason said, looking at Stratton. ‘I can’t help feeling there’s bad feeling between you and us. I’d like to move beyond it. I think there’s been an overreaction to the hull-recording incident. It’s quite acceptable that under such hostile circumstances an operative could forget to arm the self-destruct option—’
‘I didn’t forget to arm it,’ Stratton said, surprised by his own sudden anger. It was a warning that his previous acceptance of the situation was a smokescreen that he’d created in self-defence. Deep down he still felt sensitive about the incident, at least where these people were concerned.
Everyone else in the room felt the sting of Stratton’s glare although they did not
‘I need a guarantee on that. I don’t want to see it plugged into a battery box. We must have the right power units. Otherwise it looks bloody amateurish.’
‘Of course.’
At a door, Jason slipped his index finger inside a scan tube by the handle and the locking mechanism gently clicked open. They went into a rectangular open-plan room, the walls lined on three sides by whiteboards and computer monitors. It had been subtly divided, using movable partitions, into small clusters of tables and chairs, a couple of which were occupied by a handful of staff who were sitting in circles discussing something.
‘This is the theory room,’ Jason said in a quieter voice. ‘Each new project has its own stance, its own position in the room, but also in an open forum that allows anyone with an idea they wish to contribute to do so. One person oversees what we call the subject but other than that it’s a free-for-all.’
Stratton looked at the various ‘stances’, the boards and screens containing mathematical data and diagrams. It was all Greek to him.
When he looked back at Jason the MI16 director was watching him, an expression in his eyes like that of a master examining an uncomprehending child. ‘Bit daunting for you, I expect . . . Let’s go to my office,’ he said, gesturing towards a smaller glass-partitioned space at the far end. ‘Take a seat,’ Jason said as they walked into the office. He sat in a comfortable leather chair behind the desk, a large portion of whose surface was a computer screen.
The warmth was beginning to make Stratton feel uncomfortable and he removed his leather jacket before sitting down.
‘We run a pretty loose ship here,’ Jason began. ‘No scheduled meals or work times. It’s up to the individual. We even have nap rooms,’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘The emphasis is placed on freedom . . . freedom to think, to express. The primary function is creation. It’s bad enough having to live like rabbits in a warren. So we do our best to compensate with pitiful luxuries and distractions.’
One such distraction caught Jason’s eye as he looked past Stratton.
Rowena was heading towards the office, no longer in the one-piece laboratory suit but in a short skirt that revealed a pair of shapely legs. Her gaze lingered on Jason perhaps a moment too long as she entered the room but her expression was still void of emotion.
‘Rowena. Have you met John Stratton?’ Jason asked.
‘Yes,’ she said, without looking at the guest and taking a seat in the other side of the room. She appeared aloof beyond rudeness as she pulled out a cigarette packet, removed a slender cigarette and lit it.
Jason smiled thinly as she blew a long line of smoke towards him. ‘That describes Rowena to a T. Rude and rebellious. This is a no-smoking establishment. But she’s invaluable, knows it, and so she gets away with everything.’
The young woman ignored everyone. Binning stared at her in private thought. Rowena somehow involved everyone and ignored them at the same time. She seemed to live under a cloud, contemptuous of everything.
‘I asked Rowena to pop in because she’s, well, a part of why you’re here,’ Jason said, looking at Stratton. ‘I can’t help feeling there’s bad feeling between you and us. I’d like to move beyond it. I think there’s been an overreaction to the hull-recording incident. It’s quite acceptable that under such hostile circumstances an operative could forget to arm the self-destruct option—’
‘I didn’t forget to arm it,’ Stratton said, surprised by his own sudden anger. It was a warning that his previous acceptance of the situation was a smokescreen that he’d created in self-defence. Deep down he still felt sensitive about the incident, at least where these people were concerned.
Everyone else in the room felt the sting of Stratton’s glare although they did not
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