J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection by J. M. Dillard Page B

percent."
    "That's a mathematical impossibility," he replied, but he smiled. "A daughter. That's nice. How old is she?"
    His interest seemed so genuine that she relaxed a little. "Debi's eleven. Already a sixth-grader."
    "Eleven, huh? Pretty difficult age if I remember correctly. Not quite a baby but not really a teenager either."
    She shook her head and smiled a little ruefully. "Difficult is an understatement... but then, I don't remember any age as being particularly easy."
    "I suppose not." He paused. "Look, maybe we can
    work something out, but I'm not going to lie to you. There could be times when we'll need you to work late. Maybe if your husband's willing to help out—"
    "He's not," she snapped, and then in a calmer, lower voice, "We're divorced."
    "Oh. Sorry." He looked sheepish.
    "I'm not," Suzanne replied, trying hard to sound as if she meant it. They had arrived at the entrance to another building; she stopped in her tracks as he held open the glass door. "But you still haven't told me what this project is about."
    He smiled and gestured her through. "There's someone I'd like you to meet first."
    He led her down a corridor to a door marked communications center. The instant he opened it, she was greeted by the overwhelmingly seductive fragrance of coffee.
    Inside, the room was filled with enough sophisticated equipment to make NASA and SAC jealous. Consoles, computers, transmitters, and receivers lined the walls and counters; a series of photographs on the wall showed a muscular black man in a wheelchair with a racing number pinned to his jersey, and beneath, in careful hand-lettering, the legends: marine corps marathon, 1 984; boston marathon, 1 986; la marathon, 1987. In the far corner of the room a man sat peering intently at a computer monitor.
    "Norton," Harrison began, "I want you to—"
    His focus still on the monitor, Norton raised a coffee-colored hand in a plea for silence, but it was too late. He groaned, his concentration broken.
    "Maybe we should come back another time,"
    Suzanne whispered in Blackwood's ear, but he propelled her over to where Norton sat.
    "Six under, one to go," Norton complained bitterly, staring into the flashing screen. "Harrison, didn't anyone ever teach you any manners? You're not supposed to interrupt a man when he's standing at the tee."
    Suzanne was close enough now to see the graphics on the screen: a little golfer wearing a funny hat and checked knickers stood, his club resting on his shoulder while Norton's score flashed in the upper right-hand corner. She shot Harrison a narrow look: Important secret project. Lots of overtime, huh? Harrison shrugged, his expression innocent.
    Norton swiveled slowly to face them; for the first time Suzanne noticed the automated wheelchair. Norton's long-sleeved shirt hid most of the muscles that showed in the photograph, but he still looked square-shouldered and strong, in his late thirties. He peered up at Suzanne with large brown eyes set in a broad, friendly face.
    "Who are you?" he asked point-blank. Yet another one who had no use for formalities.
    She was slightly taken aback. "Suzanne. Suzanne McCullough."
    "Norton Drake." He grinned with a sudden disconcerting warmth, and extended his hand. She gave it a firm shake. "Welcome to the PITS, Suzanne."
    "I've already been given the standard welcome," she answered dryly.
    "Suzanne is the new microbiologist Ephram's been promising us," Harrison explained.
    Norton cocked his head and scrutinized her clinically. "Doesn't look like a microbiologist. Everyone in our micro department is nearsighted and losing his hair." He shook his head. "No, she looks more like a ... biochemist." He winked at Harrison. "Which reminds me, you have caught sight of the new addition to biochem, our esteemed colleague, Dr. Mona LaRue, haven't you, Harrison?"
    Harrison grinned. "Later, Norton."
    "Forgive me, I'm being a poor host. Coffee, Suzanne?"
    "God, I'd love some. It smells wonderful."
    Pleased, Norton raised