"I've been trying to reach you for an hour!"

No cellular transmissions could pass through the cop¬per cladding that encased the Trinity building. "Just tell me what's wrong."

"Did you come to my office this morning?"

"Your office? Of course not. Why?"

"Because someone practically tore it to pieces. Your file is missing, and everything's out of place."

I sucked in a lungful of air and forced myself to keep walking toward my car. "I haven't been near your office today. Why do you think I'd do something like that?"

"To bolster your delusions in my eyes! To make me think they're real!"

She sounded close to hysteria. Had she understood nothing last night? "We need to talk. But not like this. Are you at your office now?"

"No, I'm on Highway 15."

Rachel could take 15 all the way from the Duke Medical Center to Chapel Hill. "Are you in a cab?"

"No. I went and got my car this morning."

"Meet me where you saw me making the videotape."

"You mean-"

"You know where. I'm on my way. Hang up now."

She did.

It took all my self-control not to run the last few steps to my car.

Rachel's white Saab was parked in front of my house. Rachel herself was sitting on my front steps, her chin in her hands like a college girl waiting for a class to begin. Instead of her usual silk blouse and skirt, she wore blue jeans and a white cotton oxford shirt. I tapped my horn. She looked up, unsmiling. Waving once, I pulled into my garage and walked through the house to open the front door.

"Sorry you got here first," I said, glancing up the street for unfamiliar vehicles.

Her eyes were red from crying. She went into the liv¬ing room but didn't sit. Instead, she paced around my sparse furniture, unable to remain still.

"Tell me what happened," I said.

She paused long enough to fix me with a glare, then continued pacing. "I was at the hospital, checking on a patient who attempted suicide two days ago."

"And?"

"I decided to run by my office and dictate some charts. When I got there, I realized someone else had been there. I mean, the office was locked, but I could tell, you know?"

"You said the place was torn to pieces."

She averted her eyes. "Not exactly. But lots of things were out of place. I know, because I like my things a cer¬tain way. Books arranged from small to large, papers stacked… never mind."

"You're obsessive-compulsive."

Her dark eyes flashed. "There are worse problems than having OCD."

"Agreed. You said my file was missing?"

"Yes."

"Any other patient records missing?"

"No."

"That's it, then. What I don't understand is why they would steal my file. Why not just photocopy it? I'm sure they've read it before. They probably read it every week."

Rachel stopped pacing and looked at me in disbelief. "How could they do that?"

"By sneaking someone into your office. Probably the nights of my appointment days."

"Why didn't I notice anything before?"

"Maybe this time they were in a hurry."

"Why?"

"They're frightened."

"Of what?"

"Me. Of what I've done. What I might do."

She sat on the edge of my sofa as though to collect herself. "I need to be clear on this, David. Just who is they? The NSA?"

"Yes and no. They're the security people for Project Trinity, which is funded by the NSA."

"And this is who you say murdered Andrew Fielding?"

"Yes."

She closed her eyes. "I had a friend at the medical cen¬ter test that white powder you gave me. It's not contami¬nated with anthrax or any other known pathogen or poi¬son." Her eyes opened and looked into mine. "It's sand, David. Gypsum. White sand. No threat to anybody."

My mind began spinning with the possible signifi¬cance of that. Microchips were made of silicon, a kind of sand. Was gypsum the basis of some new semiconductor Godin had discovered? Maybe Fielding was trying to tell me something like that without being overt-

"Have you tried to reach the president again?" Rachel asked.

I opened my mouth in surprise.

"What?"

"I forgot to check my answering machine. Excuse me."

I went to the kitchen. The machine's LED showed one message waiting. When I hit the button, a New England accent crackled from the tiny speaker:

"Dr. Tennant? This is Ewan McCaskell, the presi¬dent's chief of staff. I remember you from your visit a couple of years ago. I just received your message. I'm sure you understand that we're very busy over here. I can't involve the president until I know what this is about, but I do want to talk to you as soon as possible. Please remain at this number, and I'll call back as soon as time permits."

My relief was almost overwhelming. I put my hand on the counter to steady myself. The caller ID unit showed that McCaskell’s call had come in twenty minutes ago.

"Who was that?" Rachel asked.

I replayed the message for her.

"I have to admit," she said, "that sounded like Ewan McCaskell."

"Like him? That was him. Didn't you understand anything you saw last night?"

She pulled a chair away from the kitchen table and sat in front of me. "Listen to me, David. Do you know why I'm here? Why I helped you last night?"

"Tell me."

"Your book."

"My book?"

"Yes. Every day in the hospital I see things they never told me about in medical school. Cases that fall into the cracks between reality and legality. Dilemmas the govern¬ment hasn't got the guts to face. I do what I can about them… maybe I complain to another doctor, but that's it. You wrote it down for the world to read, without giving a damn what would happen to you. Abortion. Last-year-of-life care versus prenatal care. Euthanasia. My God, you wrote about assisting your own brother to die."

I closed my eyes and saw an image of my older brother, unable to move anything but his eyelids due to the ravages of ALS, then unable to move even those. We'd made a pact. At that point I would help him end what remained of his life.

"I nearly left that out,'" I said.

She gripped my forearm. "But you didn't. You took the risk, and you helped countless people by leaving it in. People you'll never know. But they know you. I know you. And now you're ill. You've needed help for months, and conventional therapy wasn't working. I couldn't break through the walls you'd put up." Her hand tight¬ened on my arm, and she smiled encouragingly. “I believe you're involved in some kind of special work, okay? But tell me this. If the Trinity computer is all you say it is, then why you? You know? You wrote a great book. The president knew your brother. But does that qualify you to make judgments about the kind of science you've told me about?"

She was right. There was more to it. I'd kept my past secret for so long that to speak of it now required a sur¬prising act of will.

"My father was a nuclear physicist," I said softly. "He worked at Los Alamos during the war. He was the youngest physicist to work on the Manhattan Project."

Her dark eyes flashed. "Go on."

"My undergraduate degree is in theoretical physics. MIT."

"My God. I really know nothing about you, do I?"

I touched her shoulder. "Sure you do. Look, my father was part of the group that began to protest using the bomb. Leo Szilard, Eugene Wigner, those guys. The Germans had surrendered, and the Japanese just didn't have the resources to build an atomic bomb. My father's group wanted our bomb demonstrated for the Japanese army, not used on civilians. Their dissent was ignored, and Hiroshima became history.

"But we live in a different world now. Once the presi¬dent realized the implications of Trinity-we're talking about liberating human intelligence from the body, for God's sake-he knew he'd be vulnerable politically if the public learned he'd gone ahead without concern for ethics or morality. Look at the craziness that surrounds cloning and fetal tissue research. So he demanded ethical oversight. He knew my book, he knew the public trusts me to tell the truth, and he trusted me because he'd known my brother. Beyond that, my pedigree for conscientious objection went back to my father and the Manhattan Project. So, who better than I?"