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debris and it looks like the meteor was actually a chunk of rock knocked out of the surface of Mars by an asteroid that smacked it during the Permian Age. And there are some scientists who say that there was an even earlier impact about a billion years ago.”
    â€œYou’re saying Gateway was set up to study Martian rock?” I asked.
    â€œWell … on paper, yeah,” said Bug. “With a bias toward looking for microbes that might prove the existence of life on Mars. The colonists they’re planning to send need to know stuff like that. But that’s only the cover story, and it’s the same cover story the Russians and Chinese used when they set up shop. The problem is that when I go deeper what I find are files marked VBO.”
    VBO means “verbal briefing only.” All pertinent information is to be relayed in person. Nothing written. Or if there are papers they’re typed old school and photocopied. Nothing in a searchable database. Nothing e-mailed. Ever since some skittish types in the DoD and Congress got wind of MindReader there are more and more VBO files popping up. It’s making me cranky.
    â€œThis is fascinating as shit, Bug,” I groused, “but it doesn’t tell me what I need to know. Find out who is writing checks for this thing and tell Mr. Church that I want interrogators making life unpleasant for them until I know why I’m about to freeze my nuts off.”
    â€œCopy that,” he said, and disconnected.
    The pilot put us down with no trouble and informed us that the twilight temperature outside was a balmy fifty-six below. He told us that, temperature-wise, we caught a break.
    Let’s pause on that for a moment.
    Fifty-six below.
    And that is miles from what’s considered cold down here. Pretty nippy by my personal standards, however.
    We bundled. Mr. Church always makes sure we have the best toys, and one of the goodies we had were Therma-skinz, a pre-market kind of long johns that had micro-fine heating elements woven into the fabric of the new generation of spider-silk Kevlar. We’d stay warm and moderately bulletproof. The ’Skinz were ultralightweight and designed for combat troops who need to move and fight.
    â€œYou ready, Farm Boy?” asked Top.
    Bunny looked out the window. “Nope,” he said.

 
    CHAPTER FIVE
    THE DREAMER
    IN THE PLAYROOM
    AUGUST 19, 10:19 P.M.
    He lay back and got comfortable. Back then comfort mattered. Back then it took a lot to get him in the mood.
    No sleeping pills. He’d tried those, but that was a mistake. Sometimes the drugs blocked him; sometimes the drugs trapped him. A nightmare either way.
    Comfort was the thing. A good bed with enough pillows. A recliner by the fire. The sofa in his office. Maybe later it would be easier. Cat naps. That would be good. That was a goal. A little sleep on the road, on a mission, in the field.
    For now, though, he had to cater to the needs of the body in order to soothe the mind and open all those doors.
    He closed his eyes and let himself drift.
    Drift.
    Drift.
    Until he was very far away.

 
    CHAPTER SIX
    THE VINSON MASSIF
    THE SENTINEL RANGE OF THE ELLSWORTH MOUNTAINS
    ANTARCTICA
    AUGUST 19, 10:21 P.M.
    The LC-130’s nose lifted on powerful hydraulics to allow us to drive the snowcat out, and the inrush of frigid air was like a punch in the face. I tugged my balaclava into place as I walked down the ramp with Bunny. Top drove the cat and the flight crew waved him down and guided him onto the access road. The crew was instructed to button up the plane and remain aboard. A team from Gateway was supposed to refuel the bird, but so far no one had come to meet us. That was troubling for all of the obvious reasons.
    The closest buildings were utility sheds, all of which were dark and probably locked. The main building was a quarter mile away—a two-story central structure with single-story wings stretching off as if embracing the