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effort either made to hide the fact.
    Abruptly, Stillman turned back his way with an ingratiating smile. “Aren’t you hot in those clothes, Doctor?”
    “Leave him alone,” snapped Shein.
    “Well?” said Stillman, ignoring this.
    Not knowing what to do, Logan nodded tentatively.
    “I know I am,” said Stillman, suddenly unzipping his leather jacket and tossing it at Shein’s feet; quickly followed by his boots and leather pants. Underneath, he wore a pair of trunks.
    “First rule of medical research,” he announced, with a raised eyebrow “—one a lot of people around here have yet to learn: Never shy away from the unorthodox because you’re worried what people will say.” He shot Shein a look. “You’ll find that most people—including your colleagues—are idiots.” He dived into the pool and with strong, even strokes began making his way to the other end.
    “You,” hissed Shein, in Logan’s direction, “are going to have to choose sides.” And, though still dressed, dived into the pool after the other man, racing frantically to overtake him.

 
    T wo days later, his first day of work, Logan reached the ACF grounds before seven. Though the initiation session for incoming associates was not scheduled to begin till eight-thirty, he didn’t want to take the slightest chance of arriving late; or, for that matter, of drawing
any
undue attention to himself.
    The encounter between the two senior scientists had thrown him badly. Sure, it was easy to rationalize, and he did, that the occasion had provided an unusually combustible set of circumstances: brutal heat, lots of alcohol, an audience of novice junior associates calling forth the basest competitive instincts of each. Logan had often seen gifted men under stress act like spoiled five-year-olds, and knew he would many times again; ego and insecurity almost always come as a matched set. Still, as he replayed the scene over and over in his mind, the question grew ever more insistent:
What the hell had he gotten himself into?
    Besides, heavy rain was predicted; and, though he’d studied a map of the campus, Logan’s sense of direction was notoriously unreliable. He would surely need time to get his bearings.
    It proved a wise precaution. The employee pass he’d received in the mail got him through the main gate, but he found himself turned away from the underground garage of the administration building by a uniformed guard. In the interest of sabotage prevention, it seemed one needed a special parking credential available only through ACF security. Then, just as he drew his newly purchased used Ford into the visitors’ lot several hundred yards beyond, the heavens opened.
    Cursing himself for forgetting his umbrella, he made a dash for the building,
The Washington Post
his only shield. By the time he got there, he was soaked.
    “Christ,” he muttered, staring at his matted hair in the men’s room mirror. To his further annoyance, the paper-towel dispensers were empty—in fact, the bathroom seemed surprisingly poorly serviced in general, more like the one in his old high school than what he’d expected to find in the nation’s top medical research facility. Doing the best he could with wadded toilet paper, he headed for the nearby cafeteria, got a cup of tea, and took a spot at a corner table to dry out.
    He had just unfolded his soggy paper when he saw John Reston, moving his way with a full tray.
    “Look at you,” noted Reston, grinning. “No security pass, right?”
    Logan shook his head. “Do you have one?”
    He set down the tray and withdrew an official-looking laminated card from his jacket pocket. “Just have to know the right people. Talk to Shein’s assistant, she’ll take care of it.” He smiled. “Or talk to Shein—if you dare.”
    “How’d you find out?”
    “Hey, some of us got here a few days early and asked around.” Sitting down, he indicated his plate, piled high with scrambled eggs and overdone bacon. “Hope you