The agent smiled at her. “That’s right.”

“Your name’s… Noora?” Pryce went for it.

The agent smiled wider, finishing the pat down.

“You have a good memory, Dr Pryce.”

Pryce smiled.

“You have to in this job.”

“Clear,” Noora said into her throat mike. Then to Pryce, “I’ll have your things waiting for you here when you’re done with the President, Dr.”

They led her to a large library, with a peaked, two-story ceiling. Sliding double doors graced one wall. A gas fire was burning in the fireplace. Decadent. Jameson wasn’t here. No one was. But her skin tingled. She was certain she was being observed, being recorded, having every aspect of her physiology measured and analyzed.

Pryce walked to soothe herself, studying the books on the shelves, looking for a copy of Machiavelli’s The Prince or some such.

She found Dostoevsky and Solzhenitsyn, instead, Mark Twain and Herman Melville. Classics, mostly. Expensive editions. Shelves and shelves of them. Not a speck of dust to be seen.

And then there, one short shelf of the early authors who’d warned of the perils of transhumanism. Fukuyama, a paper copy of Our Posthuman Future. Kass, the man they’d called “The President’s Philosopher” back at the turn of the century; a leather-bound edition of Life, Liberty, and the Defense of Dignity; Barrat’s warning tome on sentient AI, Our Final Invention; even a copy of McKibben’s naturalist’s argument against human augmentation, Enough. That one surprised her.

A sound caught her attention. She turned. The double doors had slid open, and there was Miles Jameson, looking remarkably composed in a red button down shirt and black slacks in his wheelchair, a gray-haired man in a jacket and open-collar shirt next to him, and a muscular dark-haired young man in shirt and slacks behind him.

“Carolyn,” Jameson said, his voice still rich and strong. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Mr President,” Pryce replied. “It’s nice to see you. I need to ask you some questions, sir. Alone.”

“You’ve come all this way?” Jameson asked. “Just to ask me a few questions?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Pryce replied.

Jameson smiled.

“Ask away,” he said. “But I’m afraid I need my physician and my assistant with me at all times these days. The ravages of aging.” He folded his hands on his lap.

No introductions, Pryce noticed. No names. So be it. She nodded.

“You’ve seen the leaked memos, Mr President?” Pryce asked. “The ones alleging that the PLF was created as a black op under your administration, with your approval?”

Jameson waved his hand dismissively, unruffled. “Of course,” he said. “Complete fabrications. Please don’t tell me you believe that claptrap, Carolyn?”

Pryce gave a small laugh. “Of course not, Mr President,” she said, still smiling. “In fact, we have solid evidence now that it’s a fake.”

Jameson nodded emphatically. “Good!”