NOTE: Title from "It Doesn't Matter Any More" © Buddy Holly, 1959.

PROLOGUE

The chemical laboratories where coolants for the accelerators were developed formed one of the three hubs of research activity in the Starbright compound. The other hubs were the acceleration booths on Sub-Floor 6, where physicists and aerospace engineers experimented with the propelling of macro objects to unprecedented speeds; and the synchrotron chamber itself, Code Name: Omega, where the most labor-intensive and top-secret research of the laborious and top secret Project took place. All three areas were heavily policed by the finest security the Marines could provide, and all three were centers of mature thought and scientific innovation. All three aspired to provide an atmosphere of grave consideration, professional gravity, and carefully modulated efficiency at all times.

Almost all times.

Putting up a fight worthy of a recalcitrant slave about to be thrown to the lions, a man dressed in a brilliant scarlet suit offset by the electric blue of his shirt and tie, fought the arms dragging him across the crowded floor of G-lab, spouting vibrant insults and still more creative protestations. The crowd of scientists, military personnel and civilian support crew roared with laughter second only to the cheer that they let up as the nexus of color was deposited on top of one of the benches, swaying a little as the support of his abductors' arms was withdrawn. He flailed his arms for a moment, spilling some of the martini he carried, the fluid sloshing over the side of the Erlenmeyer flask that held it. The he regained his balance and grinned rakishly at the crowd.

"Sorry, gentlemen and—er—gentlemen!" he called out, garnering some appreciative chuckles with his clownish frown of bemusement as he scanned the testosterone-laced crowd in search of a little progesterone. Recovering very deliberately from the gaff, he smoothed the front of his gold lamé waistcoat and took a cultured sip out of the piece of Pyrex glassware. Then he smirked viciously. "You want to hear that story again, you'll have to ask Sharon!"

There were protestations and groans of disappointment. A fresh-faced new graduate from Caltech piped up, "C'mon! I bet she can't tell it like you tell it!"

The man with his feet planted between two Bunsen burners took an extravagant bow, ostensibly respectful but clearly full of subversive mockery—a bow that he had developed under far less pleasant circumstance a dozen or more years ago. "Sir, I cannot deny that! Beautiful she is, and talented she one day may be, but my blushing bride—"

The eyebrow-wiggling that accompanied this adjective brought another roar of tipsy laughter.

"—is certainly not an orator!"

There was more chuckling and some good-natured joshing that wasn't quite audible throughout the room. Then Doctor Kostky, the bespectacled philosopher who was the chair of the Project's Research Ethics Council and provided the voice of the Humanities in a compound full of scientists, cleared his throat.

"That is all very well," he said. "But when we add the fact that Ms. Quinn is not present…"

"Oh! There's a good point!" someone called. "Aristotle's got a good point!"

"Yeah!" the young graduate piped up. "Yeah, he's got a point! Sharon's not here. In her absence, I move that Captain Calavicci tell the story!"

Taking another swig of his martini, Calavicci scratched his head. "Pluck out my eyeballs and fry them in ginger," he said; "but for the life of me I can't remember how that story starts…"

A clutch of guys from the Motor Pool piped up in stereo. "We had just ironed out that bug on Sub-Level Omega," they recited; "and everything was going so well at the Project that I decided…"

Calavicci clapped his hands and spread them, palms up, the Erlenmeyer flask dangling between the first two fingers of his left hand as its contents roiled in an internal tempest. "See!" he cried triumphantly. "Everybody's heard it!"

This was true, but the giddy crowd wasn't going to be denied the enjoyment of an encore.

"C'mon, sir!" a young Marine cried. "Tell it!"

The hoots of agreement brought a pleased grin to the lips of the man who was the center of this attention. Calavicci drew upon the flask again and brushed his forehead with his fingertips in a gesture typical of the Project Administrator.

"Well," he declaimed. "I don't know if this is a comedy or a tragedy, but I'm going to need a chorus!" He gestured broadly at the next bench and his voice boomed through the room, the strong, imperious voice of an actor turned military commander. "Assemble a chorus!"

There was a mad scramble as a dozen men hoisted themselves onto the bench, sitting with their legs swinging above the linoleum floor. Apparently satisfied, Calavicci cleared his throat.

"We had just ironed out that bug on Sub-Level Omega," he said; "and everything was going so well at the Project that I decided it was time for…"

He paused pointedly.

"A little Me time!" the chorus supplied.

Calavicci grinned salaciously. "So I hustled my tushie down to the Community Center to pick up an activities calendar. But…"

"I didn't have time for sports, and I didn't think it'd be a good idea to take a singing class!"

"Right, exactly," Calavicci acknowledged, ignoring the good-natured impression of his gravelly voice that someone offered, rendering the opening phrase of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" in a very off-key manner. "So I started thumbing through the art pages. There were plenty of courses to choose from, but there was this one that caught my eye—"

The chorus didn't wait for a cue. " 'Painting with Your Inner Harlot!' " they crowed.

There was a roar of laughter as Calavicci took another bow. "So of course I had to sign up for that one!" he said. "And when I got there, whaddaya know, I'm the only guy, and there's a room full of beautiful women! Full of 'em!" He gestured enormously, rocking back on his heels a little. "And then the instructor comes in, and she's got the biggest, softest pair of…" His hands worked suggestively in front of him, finger and thumb clutching his drink.

"Kneaded erasers that you ever saw!" almost everyone in the room roared together, and the laughter seemed to shake the lab.

"Well, I sat down at an easel like everybody else, waiting for my instructions just like everybody else, and over comes the teacher, frowning at me," Calavicci continued. "And she says, 'Mister, you do realize this is a class for women, right?'. And then I said…"

" 'Yes, ma'am, and I'm lesson one!' " the crowd shouted.

The uproarious ululations of mirth were unequalled on heaven or earth, and could probably be heard up on the surface. Calavicci chortled right along with the rest, and as the laughter started to die down, winked lecherously, and took yet another bow. "And the rest, as they say, is history!" he said. "So let's drink to my last night of freedom!"

"Last night of freedom 'til the next divorce!" one of Calavicci's fellow Naval officers piped up. The Administrator's track record was well known: three wives under the belt already, and less than a year after the collapse of the last marriage he would be wedding the fourth in the morning. Assuming he would be capable of climbing the steps of Wickenburg City Hall after a night of copious liquor consumption and hedonistic partying.

"I'll drink to that!" Calavicci cried, quaffing back the rest of his martini. He tossed the empty flask into the fray, and it was caught by one of the technicians from Sub-Level Omega. "Barkeep, fix me another!" shouted Calavicci, addressing the head of Chemical Research, who had set up a wetbar in one of the fume hoods. "Put 'er in a half-pint beaker this time!"

Tony Wendell from Above-Ground Development climbed onto the workbench next to his boss, gesturing emphatically for silence. It fell, and Calavicci looked Wendell up and down. "Look what the dog dragged in," he commented dryly.

Wendell cleared his throat. "We realize Sharon's not going to tolerate any hanky-panky," he announced. "So… we thought you'd better cram it in beforehand!"

Someone started up the hi-fi brought in for the occasion. Some kind of vulgar disco racket echoed through the room as the double doors opened and two girls with long, silky hair, wearing the slinkiest lab coats ever to insinuate their way out of a fantasy brothel and into the real world, came sauntering into the room. The crowd parted for them, and a couple of Calavicci's administrative staff knelt to provide human steps so that the leggy beauties could climb up beside the groom-to-be.

Calavicci cast his eyes heavenwards as if in a prayer of thanks, then laughed as he curled one arm around each lissome waist. "Well, well, well," he said. "Looks like the cat has better taste than the dog!" He nipped one girl's earlobe.

Dan Penvenen had seen enough. Frowning in disapproval at the decidedly unprofessional scene before him, he slipped through the throng of happy people and left the lab far behind.