Read Craig Kreident #1: Virtual Destruction for Free Online Page B

smiled tightly, aware that Aragon was looking at more than pure community relations—if pitched properly, this would ensure Aragon’s directorate wouldn’t be short of funds as well.   Well, they all fed out of the same trough.
    “I’m sure Dr. Michaelson would enjoy that,” he said without the slightest trace of sarcasm.
    He kept his smile in place as the children made their way out, each one thanking him in their own way.   He felt like a flight attendant watching passengers file out of an airplane.   The last pair out the door was the boy with cerebral palsy and the slight man with stooped shoulders.   The boy seemed delirious with happiness.
    The tired-looking man nodded to him and extended his hand.   “Thank you, sir.   I’m Duane Hopkins—”   He fingered his green Livermore badge as if to prove it.   “I just wanted to thank you. Stevie, my son—I’ve never seen him so happy.   This was really special for him.”
    “No problem,” Lesserec said.   He was pleased with their reactions.   The simulations seemed very marketable.
    Hopkins looked down at the floor, then back up, as if he were afraid to meet Lesserec’s gaze.   “Stevie has been sick for . . . well, he’s always been sick, and I just can’t take him out very often.   I work in the plutonium building, and we don’t get to show off—”
    “Mr. Hopkins, we’re leaving now,” interrupted the woman from the Coalition for Family Values.   “Come along.”   The others had made their way out the emergency exit door where the security guard continued to watch.   The woman from the community group gave a stern smile and raised her eyebrows, motioning for him to hurry.
    The man, Hopkins, was startled, mumbled his thanks again, and rushed after the others, pushing Stevie’s wheelchair.
    As the chaotic tour group left, Lesserec relaxed back in his chair, thinking how well received the simulation had been.   He ran over the possibilities, wondering how people might respond to something really exciting, exotic, not just a vacation snapshot.   He couldn’t wait to test out some of the stuff he had been developing at home.
    Through the dollar signs in his daydreams, he saw a real chance to make it big.   He had Aragon snowed . . . leaving only Hal Michaelson.
     
     
     
    CHAPTER 4
     
    Tuesday
     
    The White House
    Washington, D.C.
     
    Looking up and down the street, nondescript, Hal Michaelson decided to enter the White House through the most inconspicuous entrance.   He doubted anyone would recognize him, despite his height and large frame and distinctive moustache; but the paparazzi permanently stationed by the south entrance hungrily scanned everyone who entered by more obvious means, and Michaelson avoided them on general principles.   Most of the reporters wouldn’t care, or even understand, the International Verification Initiative; of course they wouldn’t carry the news conference live.
    He entered through the Old Executive Office Building, a five-story gray granite structure that would have looked more at home in 18th century France than next to the White House.   The blocky, gothic-looking building held most of the 1,500 staff members who actually served the White House.   Two of the entrances were on 17th street, allowing Michaelson to slip inside.
    Once he passed the secret-service checkpoint, Michaelson still felt conspicuous.   As he walked along the black-and-white checkerboard halls, he fingered his laminated badge that prominently displayed a large V for visitor.   Nothing was more likely to attract attention.   He had to concentrate on his speech, on his meeting, not worry about pestering interviewers.
    He elected to take the circular stairway instead of chancing the elevator where he might run into some desperate reporter.   God, he hated stupid questions.   He climbed the stairs to the ready room off to the side of the fourth-floor auditorium, where the conference would take place at