Energy

By Doc Carson

What would happen if energy suddenly became free, clean and inexhaustible? The answers may be surprising. It speaks to our wistful sense of escapism from the crushing effects of environmental catastrophe and the inevitability of the economic status quo with a revolutionary 'magic pill', but is it really worth it? A clear, sharp shot cracked out.  People screamed, began running in every direction, or simply froze.  The photographer instantly ducked, jerking his head left, then right, searching, packing his kits as he started waddling quickly backwards, towards Basil Street, towards Zafir's coffee shop.   Another shot, this time from much closer, louder, a different gun.  Again the photographer jinked, turned and ran a zigzag pattern like a trained soldier.  Zafir actually saw a puff of limestone express off the building just above the cameraman's head.  The photographer was the target! Multiple shooters were out there.   Full panic was now building on the street.  People burst into the shop, pointing, shouting, shrieking.  Cell phones were whipped out and people started making calls or recording images.  Zafir pulled back into the corner as far as he could squeeze, out of the window.  Glancing up the street, he couldn't see the Americans anymore.  People were running on Brompton as well.  Given its recent tragic history, London doesn't react to street carnage very well .  Zafir clearly saw the photographer dash by the entrance to the coffee house, his older face steeled, jaw tight, white ponytail flying; all the look and moves of someone who has been under fire before.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613090503

Book preview

Prologue

Jonas started and ended each day on the deck. It was his solace, his balm, his energy. Sunset was always impressive from that large redwood platform. The home, carved into the upper ridges above Stenner Canyon, was where Dr. Jonas Heathcoat could take in the picturesque views over San Luis Obispo, the rolling California hills and on clear days, the Pacific. Sunrise was just as spectacular in the opposite direction, down into the often fog-shrouded valleys cradling U.S. 101. The hilltops would poke through the low marine cloud layer first and then the white veil would quietly dissolve by the second cup of coffee. The house itself was large, impressive. The décor was masculine, obviously a bachelor’s touch, but with a refined good taste and elegance. Looking more like a plush ski resort with its A-frame, glass architecture and cathedral ceilings, it had been featured in more than one high-end design magazine.

Tonight, however, even the tranquility of a gathering dusk and the impressive march of a distant storm line encroaching from the ocean didn’t assuage his agitation. Events were escalating; actions were required. There was no desire now to sip his wine and let the workday’s pace ebb away into an evening comfort. Ever since Chicago the week prior, Jonas had been feeling this pressure, this foreboding. He was pacing in and out of the house to the deck, fiddling with his Blackberry, jabbing at his computer keyboard, muttering.

Everyone in town was watching him. He saw them all, felt their stares, heard their whispers behind his back. He sensed they were after him; he just knew it. How many times had he checked on the safety of the data, the security around the files? No matter: check again. Things change, things happen. The Nobel Prize-winning physicist and professor emeritus at Cal Poly, thumbed off an e-mail on his hand-held. His eighty-something year old fingers still had the dexterity of a teen. Perhaps his best salvation now lay across the country with a colleague. She needed to be here. She needed to understand the entire consequence of his research before it was too late. Hadn’t he seen that same man again on campus this morning? He sure looked like the one in Chicago last week. He sure looked like the one with Nico Correlli who had followed him everywhere at the meetings and banquet. Dorothy had laughed at lunch in Chicago when he mentioned him to her. Paranoia, she’d implied. Perhaps, but Jonas’s instincts had served him well over the years with both his science and with people.

The temperature was dropping noticeably as the now faint and small orange disk of a sun was swallowed by the storm clouds on the western horizon. Jonas pulled on an old, soft cardigan and pushed the sleeves half-way up his forearms. His Rolex read a little after seven; too early to retreat into bed to escape the distress. The breeze picked up and he smelled the coming rain. Screw the Pinot Noir. A stiff scotch or two, that’s what was needed. The impressive bar was just inside the large sliding glass doors from the deck. The bar was more for his frequent entertaining than his own personal use. He reached for a simple blended whiskey. Pouring a generous tumbler over ice, his hand shook, the cubes rattled. This startled him and he put the drink aside untouched. What the hell is happening? he demanded out loud He checked his Blackberry’s in-box. Nothing. Then again, it was after ten in North Carolina. It might be too late tonight for her to answer. Should he call her? He pondered some more when finally a positive thought struck: A brisk walk before the rain hit, that should help. Exercise might throw off some endorphins, calm things down a bit, ease the tension.

A myriad of foot and bike trails spidered across the ridge lines where Jonas lived. He knew them all after years of enjoying their vertical challenge or horizontal serenity. Just a quick, invigorating stroll to get the heart rate up, then maybe review the security protocols on the system before retiring. Catching himself, he fought back the impulse. No, damn it. The security is fine.

It was still barely light enough to see. Jonas jumped on a vigorous tempo. His feet knew the rocks and turns by rote and just minutes into it he was already feeling better. This was one of the favorite activities that kept the old man sharp physically. Twenty minutes later, sensing the weather closing in, Jonas started his return. What was that? he caught himself. Knowing these hills intimately, Jonas could easily discern a jack rabbit or coyote moving through the foliage. That sound was neither. It didn’t belong here. It wasn’t natural. Something was wrong, out of place. Visibility was nearly gone, but what he’d heard sounded like a two-legged animal. Someone slipping, someone not as familiar with the rugged terrain. Someone close. Jonas picked up his speed, trusting his knowledge of the ground and his experience with rough trekking. No longer using the easier, circuitous path, but heading on a more direct route back up the hill, Jonas kept an eye on the lit house and an ear to the darkened brush. Once safely inside, he realized all that the hike accomplished was not only to raise his heart rate, but aggravate his suspicions and angst. Maybe now that scotch he left on the bar?

The ice had melted and tamed the fiery liquor into a milder drink. It was still cold, however, and tasted good. One last peek at the computer, he decided, run another security test, then catch the beginnings of the storm from the deck. The wind was picking up and the stars were now gone from overhead, covered by the arriving clouds. Jonas stepped to the rail and looked about, deeply inhaled the air, hoping to relax.

It hit. The pain was agonizing. He grabbed his chest, dropped the glass, and staggered backwards. Never had he felt pain so excruciating. His consciousness detached from his body, as though he were dreaming, only dreams never hurt like this. His arms and shoulders were on fire, he couldn’t breathe and his head was exploding as though a huge hammer was pummeling him. His once sturdy and powerful legs were rubber. He was losing vision and all he could hear was a thunderous roar. His hand caught the arm of a deck chair and he reflexively pulled himself into it. But seated, the pain unbelievably increased. It was unbearable. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe.

Jonas started and ended each day on the deck.

One

Y ou need to see this . Disturbing news on CNN. Jonas Heathcoat was found dead last night, said Mitch as he poked his head into Dr. Dorothy Baker’s office.

What? Oh my God. What happened? Dorothy gasped. The color drained from her face.

The news was brief, just a blurb saying he was found dead in his home from what looked like a heart attack. Mentioned his Nobel prize, university officials are saddened, people surprised and so forth. That was about it.

Dorothy’s throat tightened and there was an unpleasant, acid feeling filling her stomach. Guilt started to set in. Old, disturbing emotions flooded back. Her father’s face flashed through her mind’s eye and the overwhelming need to compensate for his weakness, take responsibility pricked her. Why didn’t I try harder to reach Jonas? Why now? He’s a picture of health, fantastic shape...

Mitch interjected somberly, Do you want me to make arrangements for you to go to San Luis? Staring into space, ashen, she didn’t answer. I’ll make you some tea, he said.

The urgent e-mail message, flagged in brilliant red she had ignored this morning, now haunted her. She opened it, knowing it was from Jonas’s Blackberry.

Dorothy-you must come to SLO immediately. There’s something we need to talk about in person. End of message. The sickening feeling deepened as she realized now it must have been delayed in the network somewhere. She was confused, pained, wondering why he wanted her to come all the way to San Luis Obispo. She closed the e-mail and made sure it was saved properly. Too late now. The great Dr. Jonas Heathcoat, her mentor, wouldn’t be able to explain the exigency, or did his death now manage that? Painful feelings she had worked so hard to sublimate were clawing their way back. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and recalled the mental exercise her therapist had trained her to use. The guilt about her father began to subside and she shook her head clear and returned to the present. It had to be about the data. The data, or perhaps Jonas’ earlier concerns about the Italian, Nico Correlli, about whom he kept warning her. Numb, she picked up the phone and dialed Richard, the only person she could reach out to.

DOROTHY BAKER GREW up in quaint little ol’ Raleigh, North Carolina. The retired Southern matriarchs who lunch at the country club pronounce it Raw-o-lee with at least three syllables, possibly four, depending on how much gin has been tippled. The only child of two tenured college professors, Dorothy was a mathematical prodigy. Her parents were well known in Raleigh. Her mother headed the science department at the large women’s college and was civically active. Her dad was a renowned mathematician at the state university. He was also a chronic alcoholic. Numbers, rational thought, geometric congruence and spatial recognition all came naturally to Dorothy. She has the genes, people would say. She assumed her father’s strange behavior at times was normal until her early teenage years when adolescent peers reach their pinnacle of cruelty. That’s when she started the enabling and compensating behavior for her father. Dorothy’s heart ached whenever her mother would explode and unleash upon her inebriated father. The ache was for him, for her parents’ crumbling relationship and most of all for herself, believing she was to blame for everything. Dorothy could fix it all, however. She was strong, she was gifted, she was special...everyone told her so...and she tried mightily up until the end.

She had known Richard Lewis since third grade. He couldn’t even do his thirteens’ times tables or long division in his head, agahst, she remembered from then. Public schools are very good in Raleigh, but Dorothy’s mother still understood realpolitik when it came to her child’s upbringing. That’s why there are private education options that draw from a certain socio-economic strata; the strata where resources are not an issue. Exclusive, K through twelve, coed, expensive, well-endowed, state-of-the-art facilities, with a strong faculty, Hamilton Academy offered Raleigh’s elite a start in life for their children who expected an Ivy League standard of living.

Athletics are important at Hamilton as well. Both Dorothy and Richard eventually adopted soccer as their sport of passion when they reached middle school. It’s a graceful combination of skill, speed, stamina and best of all, pure all-out whacking, Dorothy would often brag after flattening an opposing forward daring to dribble into her sweeper position. When she yanked her auburn pony-tail back tight into place, the mud smears and sweat streaks complemented a cocky smirk and her opponents would shrink. Gone were the snide remarks from those chiding peers of not so long ago. They all feared her mental and physical presence. It was during the alone-time or Daddy-time that Dorothy knew she was vulnerable and no one ever, ever was allowed to see that. She truly believed she needed that inner strength to fix everything with her family, her father.

Although not as verbose, Richard got his licks in too as team captain and chief collector of yellow cards. Sports aside, they excelled in school, following two very different paths, however. Left-brain, right-brain opposites, Dorothy’s focus was on the sciences, especially physics and chemistry, while Richard’s passion was more literal. Always asking, Why did that happen, history and the classics dominated his personality and psyche. Dorothy, the extrovert, always had a boy (or two) on a leash. Richard’s shyness and good looks attracted all the girls except Dorothy. Theirs was more of a brother–sister relationship.

Getting into college, even the right college, was not an issue for either of them. SATs were a joke; GPAs were well north of 5.00 and class ranks from prestigious Hamilton? Valedictorian and salutatorian. They parted ways after high school but still kept in touch when home for holidays. As for undergraduate college Dorothy went to MIT, Richard, Yale, and it continued from there: graduate school Stanford and Columbia; doctoral degrees California Polytechnic State University and Princeton/Oxford. Now, perhaps too smart to function in the commercial world, research and academia were all that remained to Dorothy, career-wise. Interestingly enough, the home roots were strong and a fellowship in Materials and Physics at North Carolina State attracted Dorothy. State’s arch rival and bastion of liberal arts, the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, landed Richard as a famously published history professor and author.

Both tried the marriage and family route as their traditional value system trained them, but the spouses, multiple in Dorothy’s case, couldn’t last, given the eccentricities, obsession with study or long ingrained personality quirks. Rekindled after years of school around the country, Dorothy’s and Richard’s friendship almost surpassed that brother-sister bond from high school. They made close confidants on everything except their professional lives, or during basketball season. When talking shop, Richard would diss, You might as well be speaking Greek, to which Dorothy would smugly retort, I am. Dorothy, more than once, began to wonder about her and Richard. It was her natural instinct to complicate or control relationships. But Richard always backed off. He could sense these approaches could go to a different level. He would very overtly, but politely, go into avoidance mode. Dorothy even remembered Richard’s ex making comments along these lines: Richard can slip into these cold funks sometimes. God knows why. He’ll never say. Dorothy just assumed that was part of the reason for her current title of ex. After all, it couldn’t be that man’s fault.

It was actually Jonas Heathcoat who finally helped her better manage her control issues. It was also Jonas Heathcoat that held her together emotionally the months following the tragedy at home. Heathcoat focused Dorothy on her work and how to manage it. The research data was critical and the lifeblood of her profession. He proved to her it was also more efficient to delegate the data management to competent assistants. That was where Dr. Mitchell Davis came into the picture. Meticulous records-keeping and detailed schedule management were his forte. Mitch could fire off even the clever and disarming memos responding to nosy deans or impatient corporate sponsors with Dorothy’s clipped and mildly condescending tone. Dedicated to her cause and cult of personality, Mitch managed the scientific entourage surrounding Dr. Baker. She was the pack leader while he was the impresario, chief-of-staff and major domo. Without Mitch, I’d be just another pain-in-the-ass, egocentric scientist, she would routinely blurt. As with most major universities with a focus on science and technology, inventions and patents were a huge business. In licensing the patents and technology, the schools received an enormous and continuous annuity. The researchers themselves? Well, usually it was only attribution, recognition among their peers and some token dollars thrown their way.

Not so with Dr. Dorothy Baker. She made sure her accomplishments were well rewarded. She wasn’t going to let anyone, especially herself, ever say she didn’t do enough again. Her list of patents in materials science was impressive: life-saving, lightweight, breathable cloth for fire fighters, smart cloth which managed evaporation versus warmth for an athlete’s or surgeon’s garb, and her most recent contribution to humanity, magmar. Tempted to name it after her father, she just couldn’t and settled for a boring technical acronym. Perhaps a solution in search of a problem, magmar was a composite material that possessed super-electromagnetic conductivity, was malleable into any form, and best of all, was cheap to produce from abundant silicon and other common elements.

It all comes down to getting the molecules to align themselves properly and then behave as needed, using shape, electromagnetic currents and temperature. That’s what makes magmar so revolutionary, Dorothy would cite to the media. Not a metal, but more like a flexible ceramic, magmar had promises for applications yet to be created. Cutting a special deal with the university, she stood to garner a major piece of the financial action derived from any licensing of magmar’s use. Given that and other achievements, the school gave her free rein and a release from mundane teaching responsibilities. Research was where Dorothy derived her energy.

At this level, research was more than just burying yourself in a laboratory and spread sheets. It involved managing a team. Between Dorothy and Mitch, they’d assembled a noteworthy group. Dorothy was the orchestra’s maestro; Mitch, the show’s executive producer. There were a variety of promising applications that naturally fell out when she invented magmar: airframes, medical diagnostic devices, computer materials. The list went on. Where to start? That answer now became much more complicated. Perhaps even deadly, since Jonas’s death.

Richard Lewis on the other hand poor muddling but contented Richard became the quintessential liberal arts professor. The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill is a bucolic setting in a classic American college town, a perfect setting for Richard. His longish hair, now with a little salt and pepper, was not shoulder length, but full and rakishly cut. Perhaps he wore it longer than current style might dictate, but he had a number of friends, many younger, already dealing with male pattern baldness. When you got it, flaunt it, he would often mockingly gloat. There was more than a touch of vanity derived from his good looks and polished demeanor. Gently but firmly deflecting star-struck coeds was a well-honed skill. A Facebook account was entirely too dangerous. Gardening was a quieter, safer hobby, and that’s where Richard directed a lot of his energy. The walled back yard garden was a great place to enjoy a fine Nicaraguan cigar, preferably a Padron, and a properly chilled Hendricks martini...or two...or more. A true martini is an acquired taste. While on fellowship at the University of Oxford, Richard, for better or worse, had fallen in love with a Churchillian martini. Eleven parts Hendricks gin, zero parts vermouth, pour over cracked ice in a sterling silver martini mixer, stir gently. Never shake Hendricks old man, bruises too badly, disrupts the oils, you know. Strain into a large martini glass and garnish with a cucumber slice. It must be cucumber; otherwise it’s not peculiarly Hendricks enough. The mixer must be sterling; otherwise it’s not British enough. Interesting thing about the Victorian Brits, Richard would muse. They could do anything in silver. I even found an antique, left-handed moustache trimmer in a shop on Portobello sterling of course. That was the public Richard Lewis.

But there was another side, a darker side. All those yellow cards, and too occasionally red ones, from soccer days didn’t just come from a strategic plan of showmanship or motivation for his teammates. There was a very public temper often followed by a very private sulk. Rarely ever seen now, Richard feared it, with reason. He liked to cultivate and project the easygoing professor persona. He believed it served him well in life. It was his comfort zone. However, when conditions misaligned, at best there could be a blistering tirade born from a PhD’s vocabulary, but salted heavily with a footballer’s vernacular. At worst, that persona grew strangely and quietly violent.

DOROTHY LET RICHARD’S phone ring until the message kicked in. All she could muster at that point was a halting, It’s Dorothy. Call me as soon as you can. Please.

HER MIND INEVITABLY traced back to last week. Dr. Jonas Heathcoat was the guest of honor at a dinner hosted by the prestigious Vanguard Society. This group, formed in the early twentieth century, consisted of wealthy patrons, interested corporations, select academicians and a number of international non-governmental organizations or NGOs. Sir Isaac Newton was their patron saint and Albert Einstein their favorite son. Chicago wasn’t the most comfortable place in early spring, but it was easy to get to and central from anywhere in the country. It was also the Vanguard Society’s headquarters. The dinner was at the Drake Hotel.

Jonas and Dorothy went back to her days in San Luis Obispo, where she perfected the mechanics of formal research from him. A UK native, Heathcoat maintained dual citizenship with the U.S. He was part of a group that received the 1993 Nobel Prize in physics for its work on gravitational waves and gravitational radiation. This radiation, or energy, carries the waves that have the gravitational effects we see and understand; essentially, what goes up must come down. Closely related to much of Einstein’s work with relativity, this study continued to be on the bleeding edge of astrophysics. Dorothy’s interest was not so much the physics, but the pure mathematics. The equations were elegant. Some simple, some complex, but all perfect recipes describing the natural world.

Black-tie, good food, plenty of wine, the Vanguard dinner was always a hot ticket in the rare air of science and academia. Dorothy’s recent press around her latest invention, magmar, landed her a seat at the head table with Heathcoat and the big money people. She hadn’t seen him in a long time.

Jonas, you look great, she gushed. It’s been too long.

Now in his early eighties, Heathcoat was the epitome of geriatric fitness. Walking several miles daily, swimming when he could, golf and tennis, Jonas had more vigor than most men half his age. You’re looking ravishing as always, as he eyed her statuesque physique poured into a designer gown. Her once childhood blonde hair had matured into a burnished auburn with only a hint professional coloring and when pulled back into a tight bun like tonight, Dorothy projected an exotic mix of sophistication, subtle beauty and brains. We have to catch up when all this settles down after tonight, he said with the ever-charming British accent that melted most American women, then winked. I have something very special to share with you. Dorothy let his flirting roll off as she was accustomed to it and knew it was all innocent fun.

The society’s executive director and the evening’s host politely interrupted. Dr. Heathcoat, I would like to introduce you to Nico Correlli. Mr. Correlli is a new board member with us as well as CEO of CorrDyne. The men’s conversation segued into the gracious banter of mutual admiration. Dorothy merely smiled and returned to the small talk of nuclear dimorphism with one of her table companions. But her curiosity was piqued by Jonas’s comment.

The Vanguard affair went off as planned with the usual speeches, courteous applause, jokes that went over most heads, and finally, recognition of Jonas as the guest of honor. His speech was colloquial, entertaining and best of all, short. The banquet’s open bars finally closed and the guests were filing out when Jonas tugged Dorothy’s elbow from behind.

I thought I would never be able to break away from those people. It gets all so trite and artificial, like that Correlli fellow. He’s a little too obvious about gaining an edge for his business. I’m not sure how he found out about my latest work. Can’t afford any leaks at this stage.

What on earth are you going on about, Jonas? Dorothy asked teasingly.

It’s what I’ve been wanting to tell you . All hush-hush for now, but I believe we’re truly on to something spectacular. This could take gravitational radiation well beyond where we are today. Here’s not the place. How about lunch tomorrow before my flight back to California?

LUNCH OVERLOOKING A partially frozen Lake Michigan could be interesting or dreary depending on the sunlight, or lack thereof. Today’s was brilliant, almost blinding.

So Jonas, what has you all worked up after last night? Dorothy asked after the menus were delivered.

You have to promise to keep this is in strict confidence, Dorothy, the older man whispered seriously.

Of course, she playfully mocked.

Leaning forward and continuing to whisper, Heathcoat went on for several minutes to explain how close he was to building a complete mathematical model depicting gravity and all its behavioral nuances.

Pardon me for saying so, Jonas, but that still sounds awfully theoretical, she challenged.

"Of course it is, my girl! I’m a theoretical physicist. That’s why you, a practical scientist and math whiz, need to be involved." Jonas’s body tensed and slowly leaned back into his chair. His eyes, but not his head, stole a glance to the right, perfectly quiet and unanimated.

Jonas, what’s the matter?

Raising the menu and pretending to look at it, he went on, That man over there is Nico Correlli, from last night. My staff warned me about him.

Warned you about what? Dorothy began to grin, playing off the melodrama.

CorrDyne has been known to infiltrate scientific research bodies for profit, the older professor stated coldly. They’re Silicon Valley based and have a lot of influential contacts at the university. I’ve heard of some rather nefarious outcomes when they get involved. Correlli personally offered me some grant money last night at dinner. He spoke about the gravitational radiation studies we’re pursuing.

Jonas, I believe you’re still giddy from last night. That sounds wonderful! Dorothy replied.

Say what you will, but Zellner and Kozinski might disagree, Jonas, shot back, somewhat agitated. If they could.

And they are who?

Simper if you want, Dorothy. They’re dead.

Spanked back into a more sober attitude, Dorothy asked the obvious. What were they working on, Jonas?

Zellner and Koz were particle physicists. They had a prototype laser generator with some unique capabilities. JSP Corporation was the prime contractor for DARPA while they were the key consultants to JSP. After their death in a plane crash, the project disappeared from the university’s view. It just stopped. The techs, grad students and assistant researchers were all let go. Their lab was dismantled. But not before they submitted their substantial completion notes and files to the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. Which probably means they were at a prototype stage.

What’s that got to do with your concern about CorrDyne and Nico Correlli?

Jonas hesitated for effect. JSP is a wholly owned subsidiary of CorrDyne.

Dorothy chided, almost irreverent again, and stole a glance at the object of Heathcoat’s concern. Perhaps Mr. Correlli likes to lunch on Oak Street as well.

Be serious, woman. That man with Correlli has been following me since I landed at O’Hare two days ago.

Jonas, let’s skip lunch and take a walk. I have some questions about your formula’s derivation, Dorothy said a little more respectfully.

Heathcoat slipped a computer thumb drive into her purse and they left a tip, but no order.

CRADLING THE PHONE after leaving Richard her plea, Dorothy’s mind finally began to re-boot. Jonas was dead. The shock and pain was mounting just as with her parents. What had he actually said about that Correlli guy? Dorothy wracked her brain. She had only peeked at the data, saving it for when she could sink her teeth into the complex algorithms. Maybe now was the time to start chewing. She left for the day, however, still shocked at the news.

Home offered no relief. The questions started piling up. Questions not only about Jonas Heathcoat’s death, but about how they last spoke, the cryptic insinuations about the research; all gnawed at her professional sense of inquisition. Emotionally, she knew she couldn’t hide it away like her father’s and mother’s death. She had to dig deeper. She needed closure this time. She uploaded the summary sections from Jonas’s work on her laptop. Her jaw dropped reading the details within the core thesis, the implications, the possibilities. She skimmed the raw data, ran calculations. The distraction of science was working once more as a balm.

She tried Richard again. No answer. Another message left. Anxiety quickly morphed into urgency and by mid-evening she had to return to her now-empty laboratory. Dorothy’s lab and office were locked with several layers of security. She had a radio frequency ID card that got her through the front door, but a hand-scanner that read the entire palm print opened her office and laboratory suite. Her private office was spacious, ultra modern and located through yet another locked door guarded by a combination lock and the RFID reader again. She had the walls, furniture and carpet decorated all in plush white. Huge picture windows and marble trim complimented the minimalist style. She was particularly proud of the abstract-looking sculpture dominating one side. Most people thought it was an intricate and highly stylized human form. Standing over six feet tall, it was actually a model of the molecular structure for magmar. A large glass table, her desk, commanded the other side.

Seated in her Aeron chair, Dorothy crab-walked over to a blank wall and flipped a recessed light switch. The wall itself slid left into a pocket, revealing a separate room swimming in cool, florescent