Again the sounding of trumpets, again the parting of curtains. The orchestra struck up “Pomp and Circumstance” as the first of many beaming debutantes floated out onto the stage, escorted by her smiling yet mildly embarrassed father. Hands clapped in well-mannered enthusiasm as her name was announced and they began to walk down the runway toward the stage.

McLaughlin’s curiosity finally got the better of him. He leaned toward me, his palms automatically slapping against one another. “How did you-”

“Find out who the Veiled Prophet is?” I grinned, not bothering to applaud. “Why, Ruby Fulcrum told me.”

His face turned pale as his hands faltered. I waited a beat, savoring his discomfiture, before I went on. “Ruby’s told me a lot of secrets,” I said. “In fact, they’re going to be in all the newspapers tomorrow.”

McLaughlin’s eyes shifted back toward the runway; he kept clapping as another debutante enjoyed her moment in the limelight. His wife glanced at him, then at me, her expression gradually changing from polite greeting to mild bewilderment as she noticed her husband’s confusion. His face had become as rigid as the knees of the young women who strode down the runway, and with good reason. He was about to have his own coming-out party.

“Is there some reason why you want to see me?” he whispered, his voice almost a hiss.

“I need to ask you a few questions,” I replied. “It’ll take just a minute.”

He nodded, then turned around to murmur something to his wife. She kept applauding as yet another deb was introduced, while he rose from his chair. I stood up and allowed him to brush past me, then I followed him down the aisle.

The ushers shut the doors behind us as we walked out into the vacant mezzanine. We could hear faint orchestra music and sporadic handclapping through the doors; except for a few hotel bartenders restocking their tables, though, we were alone.

McLaughlin strode to a window overlooking the street, then turned around and stared straight at me. “All right,” he said as he shot back his shirtcuff to check his Rolex, “you’ve got a minute. What do you want?”

I pulled Joker out of my trouser pocket, switching it into Audio Record mode. “My name’s Gerry Rosen. I’m a reporter for the Big Muddy-”

“I know who you are,” he said. “What’s the point?”

The point was that he was talking to a reporter now. I wanted to let him know that, even if he didn’t get it. “I’m working on a story about the Tiptree Corporation’s involvement in a conspiracy to overthrow the elected government of the United States-”

“Never heard of it,” he said automatically.

“The United States or the conspiracy?”

He stared at me, standing a little straighter in his starched shirt and collar. Now he got the point.

“I don’t know anything about any conspiracies,” he replied.

“Then you deny that the purpose of the Sentinel program was to stop civil insurrections in the United States, even if that meant using the satellite against American citizens?”

McLaughlin’s mouth dropped open. “What …? How did you …?” He stiffened again, regathering his wits. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then you claim you don’t know that Sentinel was going to be fired at Cascadian armed forces?”

I heard the ballroom door open and close behind me. Someone started striding across the room toward us. McLaughlin’s eyes darted in that direction, but I didn’t look around. I already knew who it was.

“I’m not aware of anything of the sort,” he said, his voice tight. “Furthermore, this all sounds like a … some sort of wild fantasy. Are you sure of your facts, Mr. Rosen?”

“I’m quite sure, Mr. McLaughlin,” I said, “and they’re not just my facts, either. All this comes from government documents that were released to my paper by Ruby Fulcrum.”

“And who’s going to believe a computer, Gerry?” Paul Huygens asked as he walked up behind me.

I wasn’t surprised to see him here; his name had been on the guest list, so it would only figure that he would have trailed his boss when he left the ballroom. I turned around to look at him; he was as smug as usual, his thumbs cocked in the pockets of his white vest, smiling like the cat who had eaten the proverbial canary.

“That’s a good question, Paul,” I replied. “We’ll have to see, once you start getting calls from all the other papers that now have those documents.”

The smile faded from his face. “What other papers?” he asked, his hands dropping to his side. “Who are you talking about?”

I shrugged. “The New York Times, the Washington Post, Newsday, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Minneapolis Star-Tribune, the Chicago Tribune, the Boston Globe-Herald, and of course the Post-Dispatch. That’s just for starters … I’m sure the wire services will pick up on the story. Plus the TV networks, Time and Newsweek, Rolling Stone, the New Yorker, and whoever else received copies of those documents today.”

Huygens looked as if he had just glanced up from the sidewalk to see a ten-ton safe falling toward him. McLaughlin seemed to shudder; his face turned bright red, his mouth opening, then closing, then opening again. I cursed myself for not getting Jah into the ball with me; I would have framed the photo he could have taken of their expressions, and every time I began to curse fate for making me a journalist, I would only have to study this picture to remind myself why I wanted this crummy, thankless job.

McLaughlin recovered his voice. He took a step closer to me and thrust a finger in my face. “If they print a word of this,” he said, his voice low and menacing, “then we’ll sue your ass for libel.”

I stared him in the eye. “No, you won’t,” I said calmly, slowly shaking my head, “because it’s not my allegation. It comes straight from documents you signed yourself. I have the copies to prove it-”

“Accidents happen,” Huygens murmured. “If you’re not careful, bad things can happen to people who-”

“You’re on record, Paul,” I interrupted, glancing down at Joker. “Care to explicate a little further?”

Huygens shut up. “Besides,” I went on, “I’m just the first reporter who’s contacted you for your comments … and, if you didn’t get the hint already, there’s now a whole lot of other people who have the same material I have.”

McLaughlin’s eyebrows began to tremble. “The first reporter?” he asked as he glanced again at Huygens, who was beginning to look distinctly uncomfortable. “What do you mean by that?”

“What it means,” I said, “is that I’ve got a head start on everyone else … but only a head start. It’ll take the other guys a few days to play catch-up, but I’m sure you’ll be hearing from them soon.”

Huygens inched closer to McLaughlin and whispered something in his ear. I paid him no mind; I was busy checking the notes on my PT.

“Now then,” I continued, “regarding the murders of Kim Po, Beryl Hinckley, and John Tiernan-”

“No comment,” McLaughlin said.

“But Kim and Hinckley were Tiptree scientists directly involved with Project Sentinel. Surely you must have something to say about their untimely-”

“No comment!” he snapped. “Any further statements I have to make about this matter will be relayed through our public relations office.” He stepped away from me, his face nearly as pale as his bow tie. “This interview is over, Mr. Rosen. Now, if you’ll excuse me-”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Thank you for your time. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

McLaughlin hesitated. If looks could kill, I would have had a hole burned through my head by a laser beam … but he had tried that already and it hadn’t worked.

He turned away from us and began to walk quickly toward the ballroom, his legs so stiff I thought I heard his knee joints cracking. I watched him until the usher opened the ballroom door for him. There was a moment of worn-out applause as the audience clapped for yet another debutante making her entry into high society, then the door closed behind him.