He gathers himself, looks at McPherson sharply. “It’s like this. If we win this one—force the Air Force to take back their award, and win the contract ourselves—then we’ve got the Stormbee system, sure. But we’ve also embarrassed the Air Force in front of the whole industry, the whole country. And if we do that, then Stormbee is the last program we can ever expect to get from the Air Force again. Because they’ll remember. They’ll do their best to bankrupt us. Already they’ve got our balls in a vise with this Ball Lightning program going bad on us. That’s bad enough, but beyond that—no more black programs, no more superblack programs, no more early warnings on RFPs, no more awards in close bidding competitions, consistent screwings on the MPCs—my God, they can do it to us! It’s a buyer’s market! There’s only one buyer for space defense systems, and that’s the United States Air Force. They’ve got the power.”

Lemon’s face twists bitterly as he acknowledges this. “I hate it, but that’s the case. We’ve got to be agreeable, and stand up for our rights when we have to, but without really beating them, see. So Hereford is right, even though I hate to say it. We can’t afford to win this one. So we’re giving up. The law firm will be called off.”

McPherson can barely think. But he remembers something: “What about the investigation in Congress?”

“That’s their doing. We won’t cooperate any further. It’s belly-up time—bare the throat to the top dog, goddamn it.” Lemon gets up, goes to the window. “I’m sorry, Mac. Go home, why don’t you. Take the rest of the day off.”

McPherson finds he is already standing. When did that happen? He’s at the door when Lemon says, perhaps to himself, “That’s the way the system works.”