This morning he’s Mr. Charm again, ushering McPherson in, calling him “Mac,” sitting casually on the edge of his desk. Doesn’t he realize that the charmer routine means nothing when combined with the tantrums? Worse than that—the two-facedness turns him into a slimy hypocrite, a manic-depressive, an actor. It would be easier to take if he just did the screaming tyrant thing all the time, really it would.

“So, how’s Stormbee coming along, Mac?”

“We’ve manufactured a prototype pod that is within the specs set by Feldkirk. The lab tests went okay and we’re scheduled to test it on one of Northrop’s RPVs out at White Sands this afternoon. If those go well we can either run it through some envelope testing or give to the Air Force and let them go at it.”

“We’ll give it to the Air Force. The sooner the better.” Of course. “They’ll be testing it anyway.”

That’s true, but it would be a lot safer for LSR if they found out about any performance problems before they let the Air Force see it. McPherson doesn’t say this, although he should. This abrogation of his responsibility to the program irritates him, but he’s sick of the tantrums.

Lemon is going on as if the matter is settled. That’s the trouble with superblack programs; the contractor tends to do less testing than any competition for a white program could possibly get away with. And yet there’s no good reason for it; they don’t have a deadline. Feldkirk just said they should get back to him as soon as they could. So the haste is just Lemon’s obsession; he’s weakening the strength of their proposal by a completely irrational sense that they have to hurry.…

“We’re going as fast as we can,” McPherson allows himself to say. It’s risking another outburst, but to hell with it.

“Oh I know you are, I know.” A dangerous gleam appears in Lemon’s eye, he’s about to press home the point of how he knows—because he’s the boss here, he’s in charge, he knows all. But McPherson deadpans his way through the moment, passes through unscathed. Lemon trots out some more of his führer encouragements, then says, “Okay, get yourself out to White Sands,” with a very good imitation of a smile. McPherson doesn’t attempt to reciprocate.

He tracks to San Clemente and takes the superconductor to El Paso. Fired like a bullet in an electromagnetic gun.