Solomon flung her a two-fingered salute, unplugged his laptop, and hurried to his office. He shut the door behind him.

"I think that just about covers what Paul wanted," Liz said. She drew hard on her cigarette while Sheryl closed her computer and unplugged the cable. Liz watched her carefully. "What've we got here, Sheryl-- seventy-eight people?"

"You mean at Op-Center?"

"Yes. There are seventy-eight here, plus another forty-two support personnel we share with DOD and the CIA, and the twelve Striker team members and the people they borrow from Andrews. Figure a hundred forty in all. So why, with all those people-- so many of whom are friendly and open-minded and very, very good at what they do-- why do I give a fig what Paul Hood thinks about us? Why can't I just do my job, give him what he asks for, and go have a double espresso?"

"Because we seek the truth for its own sake, and he looks for ways to manage it, use it for control."

"You think so, huh?"

"That's part of it. You're also frustrated by that male mindset of his. You remember his psych profile. Atheist, hates opera, never did mind-expanding drugs in the sixties. If he can't touch it, assimilate it in his day-to-day productivity, it's not worth the effort. Though that is a saving grace in one respect."

"How's that?" Liz seemed tired as her computer beeped for attention.

"Mike Rodgers is the same way. If they didn't have that in common, they'd maul each other to death with looks and innuendo-- worse than they do now."

"The Bligh and Christian of Op-Center."

The rail-thin blonde pointed a finger. "I like it."

"But you know, Dr. Shade, I think it's something else--"

Shade looked interested. "Really? What?"

Liz smiled. "Sorry, Sheryl. Thanks to the magic of E-mail, I see that I'm wanted at once by Ann Farris and Lowell Coffey II. Maybe we'll finish this later."

With that, the Staff Psychologist turned the key in her computer, dropped it in her pocket, and walked out the door-- leaving a confused assistant behind her.

As she walked briskly down the corridor to the press office, folding more gum, more pure chewing satisfaction, into her mouth, Liz had to suppress a smile. It wasn't fair to have done what she did to Sheryl, but it was a good exercise. Sheryl was new, fresh out of NYU and brimming with book learning-- kilobytes more than Liz had had at her age, ten years before. Yet she didn't have very much life experience, and her thinking was much too linear. She needed to explore some mental territory without a roadmap, discover routes of her own. And a puzzle like Liz left her with-- why does my boss care so much what her boss thinks-- will help take her there, make her go through the process of "Does she have a crush on him? Is she unhappy with her husband? Does she want a promotion, and if so how will that affect me?" A trail like that could take her to any number of interesting places, all of which would be beneficial to her.