"Dr. Raymond's busy in the hormone lab," Klaus said sharply. "Try again in an hour or so." Harker frowned impatiently; he had taken an immediate dislike to this jittery little enzyme researcher. He said, "You tell Raymond--" "Just a minute," a new voice said. There was confusion on the screen for an instant; then Klaus' face disappeared and the precise, tranquil features of Martin Raymond took their place. "I thought you were busy in the hormone lab," Harker said. "Klaus told me so." Raymond laughed without much humor behind it. "Klaus is frequently inaccurate, Mr. Harker. What's on your mind?" "Thought I'd let you know that I'm getting down to immediate operation. I'm lining up interviews with key people for today and tomorrow as a preliminary investigation of your legal situation." "Good. By the way--Mitchison's prepared some publicity handouts on the process. He wants you to okay them before we send them to the papers." Harker repressed a strangled cough. "Okay them? Listen, Mart, that's exactly why I called. My first official instruction is that the present wrap of ultra-security is to continue unabated until I'm ready to lift it. Tell that to Mitchison and tell him in spades." Raymond smiled evenly. "Of course--Jim. All secrecy wraps on until you give the word. I'll let Mitchison know." "Good. I'll be out at the lab sometime between here and Wednesday to find out some further information. I'll keep in touch whenever I can." "Right." Harker broke contact and stared puzzledly at the tips of his fingers for a moment. His uneasiness widened. His original suspicion that behind the smooth facade of the Beller Research Laboratories lay possible dissension was heightened by Klaus' peculiar behavior on the phone--and the idea of Mitchison doing anything as premature as sending out press handouts now, before the ground had been surveyed and the ice broken, gave him the cold running shudders. It was going to be enough of a job putting this thing across as it was--without tripping over the outstretched toes of his employers. CHAPTER V Monseigneur Carteret's private office reminded Harker of Mart Raymond's. Like Raymond's, it was small, and like Raymond's it was ringed with jammed bookshelves. The furniture was unostentatious, old and well-worn. As a concession to the 21st century Carteret had installed a video pickup and a telescreen attachment to go with his phone. A small crucifix hung on the one wall not encumbered with books. Carteret leaned forward and peered curiously at Harker. The priest, Harker knew, suffered from presbyopia. He was a lean man with the sharp facial contours of an ascetic: upthrust cheekbones, lowering brows, grizzled close-cropped hair turning gray. His lips were fleshless, pale. Harker said, "I have to apologize for insisting on such a prompt audience, Father."