n the Crypto floor, the shadows were growing long and faint.Overhead, the automatic lighting gradually increased to compensate.Susan was still at her terminal silently awaiting news from hertracer. It was taking longer than expected.

Her mind had been wandering—missing David and willing GregHale to go home. Although Hale hadn't budged, thankfullyhe'd been silent, engrossed in whatever he was doing at histerminal. Susan couldn't care less what Hale was doing, aslong as he didn't access the Run-Monitor. He obviouslyhadn't—sixteen hours would have brought an audible yelpof disbelief.

Susan was sipping her third cup of tea when it finallyhappened—her terminal beeped once. Her pulse quickened. Aflashing envelope icon appeared on her monitor announcing thearrival of E-mail. Susan shot a quick glance toward Hale. He wasabsorbed in his work. She held her breath and double-clicked theenvelope.

"North Dakota," she whispered to herself."Let's see who you are."

When the E-mail opened, it was a single line. Susan read it. Andthen she read it again.

DINNER AT ALFREDO'S? 8 PM?

Across the room, Hale muffled a chuckle. Susan checked themessage header.

FROM: GHALE@crypto.nsa.gov

Susan felt a surge of anger but fought it off. She deleted themessage. "Very mature, Greg."

"They make a great carpaccio." Hale smiled. "Whatdo you say? Afterward we could—"

"Forget it."

"Snob." Hale sighed and turned back to his terminal.That was strike eighty-nine with Susan Fletcher. The brilliantfemale cryptographer was a constant frustration to him. Hale hadoften fantasized about having sex with her—pinning her againstTRANSLTR's curved hull and taking her right there against thewarm black tile. But Susan would have nothing to do with him. InHale's mind, what made things worse was that she was in lovewith some university teacher who slaved for hours on end forpeanuts. It would be a pity for Susan to dilute her superior genepool procreating with some geek—particularly when she couldhave Greg. We'd have perfect children, he thought.

"What are you working on?" Hale asked, trying adifferent approach.

Susan said nothing.

"Some team player you are. Sure I can't have apeek?" Hale stood and started moving around the circle ofterminals toward her.

Susan sensed that Hale's curiosity had the potential tocause some serious problems today. She made a snap decision."It's a diagnostic," she offered, falling back onthe commander's lie.

Hale stopped in his tracks. "Diagnostic?" He soundeddoubtful. "You're spending Saturday running a diagnosticinstead of playing with the prof?"

"His name is David."

"Whatever."

Susan glared at him. "Haven't you got anything betterto do?"

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" Hale pouted.

"Actually, yes."

"Gee, Sue, I'm hurt."

Susan Fletcher's eyes narrowed. She hated being called Sue.She had nothing against the nickname, but Hale was the only onewho'd ever used it.

"Why don't I help you?" Hale offered. He wassuddenly circling toward her again. "I'm great withdiagnostics. Besides, I'm dying to see what diagnostic couldmake the mighty Susan Fletcher come to work on aSaturday."

Susan felt a surge of adrenaline. She glanced down at the traceron her screen. She knew she couldn't let Hale seeit—he'd have too many questions. "I've got itcovered, Greg," she said.

But Hale kept coming. As he circled toward her terminal, Susanknew she had to act fast. Hale was only a few yards away when shemade her move. She stood to meet his towering frame, blocking hisway. His cologne was overpowering.

She looked him straight in the eye. "I said no."

Hale cocked his head, apparently intrigued by her odd display ofsecrecy. He playfully stepped closer. Greg Hale was not ready forwhat happened next.

With unwavering cool, Susan pressed a single index fingeragainst his rock-hard chest, stopping his forward motion.

Hale halted and stepped back in shock. Apparently Susan Fletcherwas serious; she had never touched him before, ever. Itwasn't quite what Hale had had in mind for their firstcontact, but it was a start. He gave her a long puzzled look andslowly returned to his terminal. As he sat back down, one thingbecame perfectly clear: The lovely Susan Fletcher was working onsomething important, and it sure as hell wasn't anydiagnostic.