She smiles brightly as she drops it on my desk, right on top of the archive box full of dusty paperwork that I've just signed for, care of the wee man with the handcart who does the twice-daily run to the stacks: "There will be an exam. On the upside, I've given your structured cabling files to Peter-Fred and the departmental email security awareness committee meeting for Wednesday is canceled due to illness—Jackie and Vic are spouting from both ends, apparently, and aren't expected in until next week—so you've got some breathing space."

"Thanks." I try not to groan. "I'll try not to obsess about Peter-Fred fucking up the wiring loom too much."

"Don't worry." She waves a hand vaguely: "The cabling's all going to be outsourced from next year anyhow."

That gets my attention. "Outsourced?" I realize that shouting might deliver entirely the wrong message about my suitability for return to work and moderate my voice: "There are four, no, five, no—several, very good reasons why we do our own cabling, starting with security and ending with security. I really don't think outsourcing it is a very good idea at all, unless it's the kind of outsourcing which is actually insourcing to F Division via a subcontractor arrangement to satisfy our PPP quota requirements . . ."

And that's another ten minutes wasted, bringing Iris up to speed on one of the minutiae of my job. It's not her fault she doesn't know where the dividing line between IT support scut-work and OPSEC protocol lies, although she catches on fast when I explain the predilection of class G3 abominations for traveling down Cat 5e cables and eating clerical staff, not to say anything about the ease with which a bad guy could stick a network sniffer on our backbone and do a man-in-the-middle attack on our authentication server if we let random cable installers loose under the floor tiles in the new building.

Finally she leaves me alone, and I open the cover on BLOODY BARON and start reading.

AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER I'M THOROUGHLY SPOOKED BY MY reading—so much so that I've had to put the file down a couple of times when I caught myself scanning the same sentence over and over again with increasing disbelief. It comes as something of a relief when Iris knocks on my door again. "Showtime," she says. "You coming?"

I shake the folder at her. "This is nuts!"

"Welcome to the monkey house, and have a banana." She taps her wristwatch. "Room 206 in four minutes."

I lock up carefully—the files I requisitioned from the stacks aren't secret or above, but it'd still be professionally embarrassing if anyone walked in on them—and sketch a brief ward over the door. It flickers violet, then fades, plugging into the departmental security parasphere. I hurry towards the stairs.