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told him that. It had been about three minutes before he'd dumped her. Hopefully she'd forgotten.
    "In fact, I think I told you that right before you dumped me."
    Great.
    "In the past it was always you against the establishment," she continued. "That's not the case here. What you're telling me is that you think they're right and you're wrong. That must be hard for you."
    He didn't answer.
    "Maybe you need some help--someone to talk to. Someone impartial."
    "I'm not crazy, Carrie."
    That elicited a little smile from her. "Don't fool yourself, Mark. You're as crazy as anyone I've ever met."
    For once, he welcomed the sudden ringing of his cell phone. His dinner conversation with Carrie hadn't started out particularly flattering, and it looked like it was only going to get worse. He dug the phone from his pocket and pressed it to his ear. "This is Beamon."
    "Evening, Mark."
    "Laura? What happened to 'I never want to hear from you again'?"
    "Don't beat me up over that, Mark."
    "Does your boss know you're talking to me?"
    "He suggested it."
    Beamon felt his eyebrows rise involuntarily. "Dave Iverson suggested you call me? I find that hard to believe." "Strange but true."
    "I'm intrigued. What . . . ?" He let his voice trail off. Time to get his goddamn priorities straight for once in his life. "But I can't talk now."
    "It's about the launcher," she said, baiting him wit h something that he would normally find absolutely irresistible.
    "I don't care what it's about."
    "What do you mean?" she said, obviously confused. "I don't understand."
    "I'm having dinner with Carrie."
    "Really? Good job, Mark. Give her the phone, I want to say hi."
    He held it out. "It's Laura."
    Carrie flashed a wide smile and snatched the phone. "Laura! How've you been?"
    Beamon concentrated on his beer, trying to ignore the conversation that soon degenerated into smirks, ironic laughter, and brief phrases designed to be indecipherable to him. It went on like that for five minutes before Carrie finally handed the phone back.
    "Go, Mark!" Laura said. "It sounds like you're softening her up. Call me when you get home, okay?"
    "I don't know. Might not be able to get back to you till tomorrow."
    Her laugh crackled through the earpiece. "I don't think you've softened her up that much."

    Chapter 6
    MARK Beamon stepped into the cold air of his apartment and slammed the door before the July heat could slip in behind him. He looked around at the immaculate living room and sighed quietly. He'd cleaned it up that morning--or at least hidden everything dirty--in case things went better than expected with Carrie. Of course they hadn't and she'd escaped back to Flagstaff and her daughter. Who could blame her? He'd been less than a sunny companion lately. That was something that needed to change.
    He dropped onto the sofa and picked up the inspection report he'd left there the night before. After staring at the blank cover for a few seconds, he dropped it in his lap and flipped to a dog-eared page about a third of the way in. This page, he told himself, would be the turning point. Things were going to start looking up from here on. After a quick scan, it turned out to be yet another inaccurate criticism of one of his assistant SACS. Instead of crossing it out and writing a note as to why it was his fault, he just tossed the report on the floor and flipped on the television, surfing the channels at high speed, looking for something uplifting. There wasn't much to choose from--mostly doom, gloom, and wild speculation about pending biological and nuclear attacks. He finally settled on Charles Russell speaking passionately to a television camera. His message seemed uncharacteristically confused: half prediction of impending death and destruction, and half plea for people to climb out from under their beds and support the economy. As he always did when something bad happened, Russell eventually segued into a fire-and-brimstone speech on why the government needed more power to