Free The Shadow by James Luceno

research, not weapons research. How many times do you have to be told that I’m not interested in discussing the potential military applications of our project?”
    Claymore planted his hands on his hips and barked a laugh. “Don’t kid yourself, Lane. This isn’t Consolidated Edison we’re working for, this is the War Department. They’re not interested in ‘viable’ energy. And once they get their hands on that precious implosion orb of yours, you can bet your life they’re going to find a military application for it. So all I’m saying is why not position ourselves to reap the financial benefits of our work by advising them of the potential?”
    Lane was a physicist and chemist. Claymore’s specialty was munitions, but he was also an engineer. He had a rectangular face, baggy though bulging eyes, a weak chin, and an unctuously ingratiating manner, well served by a mane of greasy black hair and a midnight-blue, single-breasted, wool serge suit with chalk stripes. The past five years had seen Lane and Claymore partnered on Lawrence’s cyclotron project, Sherrington’s research into subatomic particles, and Fermi’s investigation of quantum states.
    Claymore had lifted one of the plugs from their test tube-like rack and was fiddling with it. Lane wrenched it out of his hands and set to work cleaning it. “What the War Department does with the device is their business. I’m certain, however, that once they realize its potential for deriving useable energy from implosion that they’ll do what’s right. All that’s required is a suitable fuel source.”
    Farley looked imploringly at the ceiling. “How naïve you are, Doctor.”
    Lane bridled. “I would have gone to the private sector for funding if you hadn’t convinced me that working for the government was the answer to our prayers. Who’s to blame for that, Farley? Certainly not me.”
    A crazed grin split Claymore’s face. “But the government could be the answer to our prayers if you’d only listen to reason. Your problem is that you don’t think big enough. If you’d only let me handle things, the world could be our oyster.”
    Lane put his glasses on to examine one of the orb’s threaded seatings. “Oysters give me a rash,” he said, returning to his work.
    “Ten -hut!” Farley barked, with a crisp salute for one of the Marines stationed in the corridor. The pair of them, in green woolens and white leggings, snapped to, straightening their shoulders and bringing their hands smartly to their sides.
    Farley moved down the long corridor, a spring to his step, beaming in self-amusement. He wasn’t halfway along when the elevator doors at the end of the hallway opened, revealing Margo Lane, wearing the same crisscross, cream satin gown she had worn to the Cobalt Club.
    Farley sucked in his breath at the sight of her, practically gagging himself, and threw his arms wide as he hastened toward her. “Oooh, Margo . . . What a beautiful dress,” he said, standing in her way. His eyes went straight to her cleavage, and he forced two short, lecherous exhales. “And s-such a clever neckline.” He made that ga-ga sound again.
    Margo smiled tightly. “Excuse me, Mr. Claymore, but I’d like to see my father.”
    She stepped around him and continued toward the office, but he wasn’t long in catching up. He moved past her and leaned an arm against the wall, preventing her from passing.
    “Uh, uh, Margo, authorized personnel only. But I suppose we can make an exception in your case.” He was the would-be suave playboy now. “But first, tell me, when are you going to come down and see my beryIlium sphere?” He cut his eyes to the dress, then showed her a dopey grin.
    “I’m not interested in your . . . spheres, Mr. Claymore.”
    Once more she stepped around him, and, undaunted, he pulled exactly the same move, playfully wagging his forefinger in front of her. “Margo, you don’t return my calls anymore.”
    “That’s not true,” she said,