However, Major Stillwell was an ambitious officer in a shrinking Defense world. He knew he wasn't a particularly good-looking man. He was short and had a tendency to grow a paunch, and his hair had been gone on top since he was thirty. A drill sergeant told Stillwell in the officers' training course that he'd never make flag rank because of his looks.

"It's a friggin' beauty pageant," the sergeant told Stillwell, at a distance of about a quarter inch. "And you're b.u.t.t ugly."

But behind Stillwell's ordinary brown eyes was a handsome brain. Alan Stillwell astounded his good-looking friends by capturing an array of beautiful, bright girls during his college years. These girls saw the interior man in the tubby little body and, to his friends' amazement, adored him.

Alan Stillwell was working his way up through the ranks using the same dogged style that won him female hearts wherever he went. So he packed his bags and headed to the flight line.

Waiting for a flight was sometimes a long process, but the orders were clear. He was to return to Peterson on the first available transport and report to his base commander. Stillwell didn't much like to fly. He hadn't minded once, back when he'd finished officer's basic training. He'd even felt regret when he was pa.s.sed over for flight school because of his lack of perfect vision.

Then came his a.s.signment to the OSI, and investigation. Investigation in the Air Force OSI was primarily aircraft accidents, and they were never pretty. Alan Stillwell threw up until he saw black dots in front of his eyes the first time he a.s.sisted in an accident investigation of an Air Force Huey helicopter. The helicopter lay in pieces in a hangar, and young Lieutenant Stillwell was a.s.sisting Major Johnston, a veteran OSI investigator. The pieces of the helicopter had been collected carefully and laid out in place. The pieces of the two pilots were mostly cleaned out. Not all. Shreds and splashes of human tissue and blood rotted slowly in the early-summer heat.

Later, a major himself, Stillwell was grimly amused when his own new lieutenant lost his lunch at the last investigation. This one was also a helicopter accident, a catastrophic failure of the rotor mechanism. The reason for the rotor failure had to be determined, and the bodies couldn't be moved until they'd filmed the scene and figured out a potential cause. The bodies were frozen solid in the high Colorado winter, and what sent his young a.s.sistant to his knees, vomiting, were the frozen icicles around the mouth of the copilot, a pretty young captain.

Lieutenant Trask abruptly broke into a run and almost made it to the trees before he lost his Air Force cafeteria lunch. Stillwell and the Medical Examiner, Dr. Rowland, nodded at each other sympathetically. You had to be detached. Trask would either learn, or he would find himself in a nice uneventful Military Police job, reading magazines and watching camera shots of windowless buildings.

Now Major Stillwell sat in the flight room at Fort Rucker, Alabama, waiting for a flight to take him to Colorado. He was very detached when at a scene, but he couldn't be quite so detached when he boarded a real plane. He wondered how badly dying in a plane crash felt. Was it really agonizing? Or did the shock make you feel dreamy and uncaring? How long did you have before you realized the plane was crashing? Minutes, seconds, even longer?

"Well, I have one for you, Major," the flight control airman said, setting a piece of paper down on the high flight-line table. "It's not going to be pretty, but it'll get you home. A Chinook, she's brand-new and Peterson is where she's being delivered."

Major Stillwell felt a rictus of a smile spread across his face as he took the paper. He hated helicopters.

"I hope they've got a good supply of barf bags," he said. The airman laughed.

"You bet they will. There's some good thunderstorms up near Oklahoma this time of year. Check with Roseburg, he's got extra flight helmets. She takes off at dawn, that's about six hours from now. Better try and get some sleep."

Gaming Center, Schriever Air Force Base.

Eileen was catching up on a month's worth of Dilbert cartoons pinned to a nearby cubicle wall when Major Blaine came back. He'd left her at a conference room across the hall and went to select a Gamer for her to talk to. A tall, stooped man with thinning gray hair was with him.

"Nelson Atkins," Blaine said.

"Detective Eileen Reed," Eileen said to the man, and shook his hand.

"Here's the list of names," Blaine said, and handed a clipboard to Eileen. She took the list and looked at it briefly. There were three sets of names, one marked "Observers," one marked "Commanders," and one marked "Gamers." Nelson Atkins headed up the list. Next to his name was written "Game Director."

Eileen waved a hand to the chairs in the conference room. Atkins went in and took a seat immediately.

"I need to talk to Colonel Willmeth about the secure phone line," Blaine said apologetically from the doorway. "You'll stay here until I return."

"That's fine," Eileen said with a glittering false smile, as though he'd asked her a question instead of giving her an order. She closed the door behind Blaine and took a seat. The chairs were comfortable, almost plush, with a dull geometric pattern in heavy fabric. The backs were very high and the arms were padded. The other chairs stood in random positions around the table. After a moment, Eileen realized the chairs were left in the positions they rolled to when the last people to sit in them had gotten up. There was a white board along one wall. It was written and rewritten on so many times, the latest writings were hard to read over the poorly erased ghosts of the old. Eileen studied the board for a moment. She couldn't make heads or tails out of the hieroglyphics. There were circles connected by lines and phrases connected by pluses and brackets, as though someone had tried to do algebra with words instead of X's and Y's.

"Enable Command Authority equals time plus check plus switch?"

Atkins looked bewildered and followed Eileen's gaze to the white board. He smiled faintly. "Data Dictionary Entries," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"It's called structured software design. It's a way of engineering software so you get exactly what you want, every time," Atkins replied patiently. Faint color washed across his forehead, and his shoulders rose a little. "We use it in combination with Object Oriented Design. It works well."

"I see," Eileen said gently, although she didn't. She really wanted to see Atkins get his feet under him a little. This was her territory, the interviews. Jim always had her do the inter-views. If he were here, he would be rewinding the Game tapes and watching them, and they would compare notes later.

"Let's talk about what happened. I know you're upset."

"Of course, of course," Atkins said anxiously. "Anything I can do to help. This is terrible, just terrible." He scrubbed at his face with a shaking hand.

"What happened, Mr. Atkins?"

"I don't know, Miss ... Er?"

"Reed. Call me Eileen."

"Miss Reed. She was fine when she went into the Ground Weapons station. She closed her door, and I went into my room and closed my door. Then I came out when the ground interceptors didn't fire-"

"The what?"

"The ground interceptors. She was supposed to release them to fire at the incoming RVs. Er, reentry vehicles. Nuclear bombs."

"Who opened the door to her room?"

"I did. I went to see why she hadn't-hadn't..." Atkins stopped.

"Just take your time, Mr. Atkins," Eileen said.

"I'm okay," Atkins said, and wiped at his upper lip. "I opened the door and saw her."

"What did you see?"

Atkins looked at her blankly. "I saw she had something in her back, that she looked like she was dead."

"Did you touch her?"

"No, I didn't. I turned away, I-I couldn't believe it."

"Was she moving when you opened the door?"

"No," Atkins said after a moment. "No, she was still. She didn't look asleep, even. She looked like a doll. Not alive."

"Did anyone else touch the door or enter the room?"

"I don't think so. I closed it before Major Blaine got there. He didn't open it."

"Okay. Let me ask you some questions about Terry. How long had she worked for you?"

"About a year and a half. I can get her personnel file for you."

Eileen nodded and made a note.

"Please do. Where did she work before this?"

"Digital Equipment Corporation. She was laid off along with about two hundred other people. It had nothing to do with her work performance."

"Why did you hire her?"

Atkins flushed and pressed his lips together. "I think that's obvious."

"Obvious?" Eileen was puzzled.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you knew. Lowell Guzman is our a.s.sistant Game Director. Lowell recommended her highly. We have regulations about hiring relatives, but since she would be reporting to me and not to Lowell, the regulations didn't apply."

Eileen glanced down at his list. "Lowell Guzman, a.s.sistant Game Director." Sure enough.

"Lowell is her brother? Her husband?"

"Husband, I'm sorry."

"Her husband was here? Where is he?"

"He's in the conference room. The base paramedic gave him a shot. He's pretty woozy right now."

"I'll talk to him when he comes out of it a bit," Eileen said, making notes. "Were she and Lowell getting along?"

"Lowell loved her," Atkins said angrily. "What are you trying to say?"

"I'm trying to say she was murdered," Eileen said calmly. "Now, did she and Lowell get along?"

"I think they did," Atkins said, deflated. "They never fought, as far as I" know."

"Okay, then. Did she have any enemies?"

Atkins hesitated too long before answering.

"No, I don't think so."

"Really?" Eileen asked gently. Atkins seemed to huddle back in his chair. The gray hair seemed darker against the paleness of his face.

"Miss Reed, I don't know how to say this-"

"Just try," Eileen said.

"Okay. Terry was not popular. She wasn't a-an easygoing kind of person. But if you arrest anyone here on suspicion just because they didn't like her, you're going to ruin their lives."

"Excuse me?"

"I mean it. If you arrest me, I'll lose my clearance. It's doubtful I'll get it back. The same is true of"-Atkins swept a pale arm from the chair-"everyone here. I don't want to make you upset, Miss Reed. But if you arrest someone who turns out to be innocent, you'll probably have a lawsuit on your hands."

"Are you threatening me?" Eileen asked mildly.

"No, no," Atkins said, aghast. "I'm not. I'm just asking you to be-careful, that's all. I'll tell my people to work with you. I just-it's just..."

Atkins ran out of steam. He scrubbed at his face again.

"I suppose I can restrict my wild tendency to arrest everyone in sight, Mr. Atkins," Eileen said dryly. "And in return I a.s.sume I'm going to get complete cooperation with everyone?"

"Everyone, I swear it," Atkins said gratefully. He nodded, and nodded again, and kept nodding his head for the rest of the interview as though the nod motor had shorted out somewhere and wouldn't shut off. He told Eileen he'd gone out for coffee once, to the bathroom once, and stayed in the main room for the rest of the Game. He hadn't seen anything or noticed anything.

He plucked at the hairs on his arm while Eileen finished up her notes.

"Bring me Lowell Guzman, please," Eileen said.

"Okay." Atkins shot to his feet and left the room with palpable relief.

Eileen sat and drummed her fingers on the comfortable chair arm, and looked at the queer drawings on the white board. She made a little whistling mouth, but didn't whistle out loud. She looked at the list again. There were seven names:

Nelson Atkins-Game Director.

Lowell Guzman-a.s.sistant Game Director Arthur Bailey-Truth Team Leader Joe Tanner-Software Engineer Roberto Espinoza-Software Engineer Doug Procell-Software Engineer Sharon Johnson-Software Engineer.

"What the h.e.l.l's a Truth Team?" Eileen said to herself. The door opened. The man who walked in was handsome in a way Eileen liked immediately: strong face, lanky body, big hands. He wore a suit elegantly because he had good lines, but Eileen immediately noticed the color change at the seams and the splotch of mustard along the dark sleeve. His hair was brown and mussed. His eyes were pale green and red-rimmed, as though he'd been crying. He smelled of Dial soap and fresh, anxious sweat.

"Lowell Guzman?" Eileen asked, rising.

"No, I'm Joe Tanner," the man said. "Lowell is really out of it. Whatever the paramedics gave him knocked him right out. Nelson said to come on in, and when Lowell wakes up he'll send him in."

"All right," Eileen said, not meaning it. She sat down and gestured for Tanner to take a seat. "I need to ask you some questions, Mr. Tanner. Can you help me?"

"Joe, please. Yes," Tanner said. He sat down and pressed the back of his hand to his eyes and then his nose. With a complete lack of self-consciousness, he wiped his wet hand on the expensive wool of his suit. He took a deep breath. "Okay."

"When did you know that Terry was dead?"

"The same time everyone did," Tanner said. "When Nelson opened the door and we saw her."

"What did you see?"

"I saw Terry-well, no, I saw Nelson first. He turned away from the door and bent over like he was going to throw up. I saw Terry in her room and she was lying over her keyboard. There was something sticking out of her-her back. Then someone screamed and I realized she was dead. I turned away."

"Did you see Terry after that?"

"Nelson closed the door," Tanner said. "I didn't look anyway."