“Are you sure, Doc?”
Dr. Kirkland caught the amusement that flitted momentarily across the man’s face. “She has always answered every question, even the ones that were private. She hasn’t objected to the lack of privacy and has forgone many things without complaint. It’s not every day we find a woman like that,” he pointed out, and hastily added, “or a man.”
The amusement was now evident in the man’s voice. “I know you like her, Kirkland, no need to get so defensive. GEM operatives are very professional. The few I’ve seen and worked with have always been exceptional when it came to adapting to extreme environments. Hell’s exceptionally good at her job.” The lips quirked. “She also has an exceptional way with men, as you noticed.”
So it was Hell, the nickname her friends used. That was quick progress. It was very good that the two of them were getting along.
“Yes, it’ll probably help speed our synchronization,” the man agreed.
Kirkland rubbed his nose, trying to hide his surprise. How did he always read his mind at the oddest moment? It was unsettling, even after all these years. “Yes, of course.”
“You’re probably going to stay up all night wondering which came first, the synchronization of brain waves or the ease with which we’re relating to each other.”
Kirkland silently agreed, although the chicken or egg question wouldn’t worry the people who were going to watch the test tonight. Some of them hated what they mocked as ‘woo-woo’ stuff. But with nine department heads sitting in—some of whom were already miffed that their candidates didn’t get them the crown—this was a very important project for them. And it all rested on one woman’s shoulders right now. He wondered whether she understood the importance.
He looked at the worn book opened on the kitchen table, glancing down at the page quickly. “E, huh? What’s today’s word?” He’d recently become aware of the other man’s strange habit of thumbing through the dictionary. “Is it a difficult one?”
“Exceptionally hard.” There was that small quirk of lips again, as if something was privately amusing him.
Oh…exceptional. Kirkland looked down at the page again. “Constituting, or occurring as, an exception; not ordinary or average,” he read out loud, “needing special attention or presenting a special problem.” He glanced up and quizzically asked, “Which meaning?”
The quirk became even more mocking. “Both.”
He was missing a joke here somewhere; he was sure of it, but then he was slow to catch them. Following the man out, Kirkland watched him pick a set of keys from a panel that had dozens of sets hanging there. “You’re dividing your time with too many operations,” he observed. “Consolidate and give someone else more responsibilities.”
“We all have to do our assignments, Doc, but Miss Roston will get my top priority, don’t worry. Now I have to get going.” He pocketed the keys. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Kirkland sighed. Mind games, that was what they were all trained for. He was just a poor scientist trying to get some results in a controlled environment. Needless to say, COMCEN wasn’t a good place for scientists.
“You’re fifteen minutes late,” Helen announced as Flyboy hurried down the stairway to her, his long limbs in crisp white pants.
“You’re a tough woman,” he said when he reached her at the bottom. “I told you I’d be ten minutes later than you, and that makes me five minutes late.”
“What were you doing, beautifying that perfect coif?” she mocked.
Flyboy laughed, his teeth perfectly straight and white, of course. He looked boyish in his cream T-shirt and pants, his hair flicked back carelessly. He tapped on his watch.
“How much time do we have before I have to get you back here?”
“We’re eating outside the Center?”
“What, you want to be cooped up in here all day? Want to come or not?”
“Yeah.” A breath of fresh air from everything would be welcome. “Where are we going? Not too fancy a place, I hope?”
Flyboy’s grin was devilish. “That’s for another date. Got to slowly work you up to fancy. Then you’ll appreciate me more and more.”
“Ah,” Helen said with a nod. They walked past security, then through the double doors. “It’s cheap hamburger and fries then.”
The weather was balmy outside, just turning a bit cool, especially in the shade. Flyboy put on his sunglasses as he pointed to the vehicle parked not too far away.
“My, my, Center must pay their commandos very, very well,” she murmured. This was an expensively-packaged European car, with the extra knobs and whistles under the hood, the kind one admired in a magazine with no hope of purchasing. She paused a few paces away to admire it. “Six hundred horsepower. Double overhead cams. Sixteen valves, supercharged. Top speed 180 miles an hour. Zero to sixty in five point five secs. Back to dead stop thirteen point five secs.”
Flyboy gave her a bemused look. “Not quite the typical girl talker, are you? Next you’ll tell me you’re a race freak.”
Helen stole a quick glance at Flyboy but he was just looking at her with open admiration. Strange coincidence that she had just passed on a certain image to Hades, and here was a race car. Still, they couldn’t have possibly produced the exact image in that quick a time.
“I like cars,” she said in an easy voice. “You must be superrich to own this one, sweetheart.”
