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say a half-hour layover at your end for refueling and whatever else the pilot has to do. You'll take off in about four or five hours from now."
    Haugen's expression turned quizzical. "Five hours? Make it 5 p.m. instead." He was testing: The general seemed to be pushing for time; how urgent was this, really?
    Cromwell's expression didn't change, but his mind raced. He wanted Haugen there while Donnelly was still rational. But if he pushed too hard, Haugen was likely to insist on knowing what it was about, and if he told him over the phone, five would get you ten he'd shy off.
    "Okay, 5 p.m. will be fine," Cromwell said. "I'll see you tonight."
    "I'll bring clothes for two days."
    "Make it three days?"
    "Three then." It made no difference. Arne Haugen always kept a bag packed and ready.
    ***
    When they'd disconnected, the general realized his forehead was dewed with sweat. What're the odds he'll tell you to go to hell, Cromwell? he asked himself. He really really didn't want to accept the presidency himself. Because if he did, and couldn't make it work... He veered away from the thought.
    ***
    Haugen sat back in his chair and watched a few more minutes of news—up till the weather forecast. The president was rumored to be ill. The latest unemployment figure was forty percent, but that was the week before the blowup; it might easily be fifty or sixty by now. The final games of the baseball season, plus the league playoffs and world series had all been cancelled, and Baltimore declared champion on the basis of the best record—101 wins. And the Iranian army had finally taken Baghdad; at least the Ayatollah Jalal had something to cheer about.
    Then, after turning off the set, Arne Haugen reached and dialed his home. His wife answered. They hadn't had a maid recently; Lois had decided to try a twice-a-week cleaning service for the privacy it gave.
    "Hey, Babe," he said, "I've got to fly out of town about four-thirty or five this afternoon. How about I take the rest of the day off? We can drive up the North Shore and enjoy the color, stop at Bjerke's for a late lunch, and come back."
    "Oh?" Her brows had risen. "Well, I like the driving and eating part. Where are you flying to?"
    "D.C."
    "Hmh! Okay. Shall we drive the Elf? It doesn't ride like the Caddy, but I've hoarded enough gas coupons for a tank and a half."
    "The Elf it is then. I'll be there in ten minutes."
    They disconnected. He took his jacket and safety helmet off their hooks and started for the lot where his little Yamaha 250 was parked. He wasn't speculating on what the trip was about; he'd find out when he got there.

FIVE
    As his wife drove him to the airport, Arne Haugen couldn't help wondering again what this was all about. Could Cromwell want him to take on some electronic project? He had no experience in weapons development, had never done anything for the Pentagon except pay taxes.
    Maybe they'd gotten wind of the GPC.
    When the DOD's executive jet arrived to pick him up—a beautiful little Rockwell T-39 without military markings—he found it was being flown by a bird colonel, and that really piqued Haugen's curiosity. A bird colonel detailed to shuttle a private businessman!
    A brain-picking session maybe? Or did they want him as a technical advisor? But surely he didn't have that kind of reputation; he didn't even have a master's degree. And besides, this would be a strange time for Washington to have much attention on anything other than the domestic emergency. Except maybe Iran.
    Maybe they had learned about the GPC. He'd just have to wait and see.
    And why the secrecy?
    After they'd taken off, he turned on his seat light and took Spider Robinson's latest novel from his small bag. He was a rapid reader; it would just about last him to Washington.
    ***
    In Duluth, the October evening had been clear, with the promise of a hard freeze. Washington, by contrast, was under a miles-thick blanket of soggy cloud, and when they broke through the ceiling at