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the roar of the machine. The tropical storm had been born in the Gulf, two hundred miles to the south, and now it lashed the Gulf States, shedding its moisture as it moved inland.
    Guthrie made some response, but the sound was yanked away. Guthrie ducked as he ran beneath the spinning blades. A common, involuntary reflex. Though Martial was a few inches taller, he stood upright and walked slowly, reaching up to hold his hat onto his head.
    He’d done the math when he’d first bought the helicopter. He was six foot one. The blades, at their center, were eight feet off the ground. Therefore, he didn’t need to duck. Later he read of a man who’d died in a windstorm, his head taken off by the overhead prop. For though the blades were eight feet high at the center, they drooped while the helicopter idled down; and during gusty weather an idling helicopter could be rocked ever so slightly by the force of the wind, producing a slight pitch. Blades that were eight feet off the ground in the center might be suddenly, on one side of the helicopter, only five or six feet at their spinning tips. Martial took the news as a lesson: When God wants you, he will take you.
    The three men in suits walked forward to greet them.
    “Sir,” the first man said. This was Scholler. As big as he was dedicated, and one of Martial’s longest-serving personal guards.
    They shook hands. “I trust you had a good flight, sir.”
    “We’re here, aren’t we?”
    “And glad to see it, sir.”
    Behind Scholler was Ekman. Blond, serious, unsmiling. He looked younger than his actual age, as much boy as man, but he was the one Martial trusted to handle the more difficult operations. A diagonal scar split his upper lip. To Ekman’s left was Phillips, who really was as young as he looked. A newer asset. Ex-military and kept the crew cut.
    They crossed the helipad to the waiting doorway. Once inside, they took the stairs down. “How were the latest trials?” Martial asked.
    “Negative,” Scholler said.
    Martial nodded, accepting the news. “And how is he?”
    “The same, sir.”
    “The others?”
    “Another numbers reduction, sir.”
    “Cause of?”
    “We haven’t finished the autopsy yet but we’ll—”
    Martial cut him off with a raised hand. “What do you think ?”
    “Probably the same as the others. Methylation imprint. Unbalanced base-pair alignment.”
    “Which is another way of saying you have no idea.”
    “Yes, sir. You could say that.”
    There were men in Martial’s shoes who did not sweat the details, who ran their companies like drivers raced cars, foot on the gas, aware only of the output of their machine rather than the intricacies of its inner workings. Martial prided himself on looking under the hood. To be any other way made no sense, considering the circumstances.
    “I was hoping for good news,” he said.
    “Sorry, sir. The new trials are scheduled to begin next month.”
    Martial shook his head dismissively. “The price of progress. There’s an old saying, If you want to achieve the impossible, you must first accept that you may fail.”
    They took the stairs down to the third floor. At the doorway, Martial paused and turned toward the smallest man. “Ekman, I’d like a word.” The others continued down the stairs. Only Ekman followed Martial into the hall.
    “The problem I tasked you with,” Martial said. “I’m told you took care of it.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And the mess?”
    “Cleaned up as best we could.”
    “Did you talk to him first?”
    “Yes. We sat in the kitchen and had a chat.”
    “And your opinion?”
    “My opinion, sir?”
    “Of Manuel. His state of mind. His motive. Why did he do it?”
    “I think he was crazy.”
    Martial nodded. “It seems to be an occupational risk.” He stopped at the door of his private quarters. “And our property was recovered?”
    “Yes. Deceased. The autopsy will take place at the same time as the others.”
    “Excellent work. I appreciate the