She changed the setting on the all-terrain treadmill from gravel to the far less noisy soft sand. The pliable surface forced her to cut her speed in half. “Better?”

“Yes.”

“Six weeks and our future will be resolved. These days, six weeks to you is like six days, the way you hibernate inside your head like a Shaolin monk.”

“I didn’t realize I’d become that bad.”

“Face it, Ike, you’re addicted to your own brain device.”

“Tell you what, while I’m in DC, I promise not to access ABE.”

Andria smiled. “I’ll bet you your collector-edition Stones CDs you can’t do it.”

“And if I win, we get married when I return?”

“No deal. Anyway, I already took the discs. Ike … you never told me, what’s this meeting with your uncle all about? And why DC? The city’s barely juiced.”

“Uncle David told me our agenda’s strictly on a need-to-know basis, and I never argue with a three-star general. Now, if we were married—”

“Fine. Don’t tell.”

“I don’t know why he wants to see me. These days, the Pentagon has more to do with tracking power surges and estimating crop returns than security measures.”

“When will you be back in Florida?”

“Miss me already?”

“Actually, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Is this business or personal?”

“Both, and I’d rather not do it over the phone.”

That gave me a moment’s pause. “The weather forecast from Orlando to Washington calls for overcast skies. My travel time could be anywhere from thirteen to eighteen hours, depending on how well the train’s backup batteries are working.”

As if on cue, the air-conditioning in my cabin shut down, the lights dimming. “Here we go again. Computer, reduce window tint by seventy-five percent.” The window, which had been a darkened rectangle, brightened to reveal a gray countryside, blurred by the bullet train’s 264-mile-an-hour velocity.

“Don’t worry, Ike. In a few more years we’ll have mined enough helium-3 to keep the world running twenty-four/seven.”

“Andie, talk to me. What’s so important—”

“Gotta go, baby. Call me after your meeting, okay?”

The call powered off before I could respond.

With no sun to energize its solar-paneled roof, the bullet train gradually shed its forward inertia until it rolled to an annoying, schedule-busting, perspiration-inducing stop. Outside my private compartment, I could hear a knocking make its way toward my cabin, eventually striking my door.

“It’s open.”

The conductor poked his head inside my first-class berth. “Sorry for the delay, Dr. Eisenbraun. Backup batteries didn’t have a chance to charge with the brownout in Charlotte. Forecasters are predicting a delay anywhere from one to three hours. Those windows go down if it gets too hot. Can I bring you a cold beverage?”