Bug Park by James P. Hogan

“I don’t think the husband in this case is in much danger of going crazy, Noah,” Michelle said. Although she had described the situation, she hadn’t mentioned names. If Fozworth had made any connections of his own, he hadn’t mentioned them.

The tape stopped. Fozworth ejected it and turned to face her. “No, he sounds pretty solid: intelligent, independent, trusts his own judgment. A good self-image.” He held out the cartridge. The face in the moon was serious. “It’s the kid that I’d be worrying more about,” he said.

On the way out of the building half an hour later, Michelle called into the office for any messages. There were several routine items. Doug Corfe had called, wanting her to get in touch. The people she was due to meet at three o’clock wanted to know if she could make it for two-thirty instead. The other meeting for four o’clock across town was confirmed. That evening she was due to have dinner with an old girlfriend from New York who was visiting Seattle. Corfe would have to wait until tomorrow, she decided. She had meant to call him then, anyway. Nothing drastic was going to happen before the weekend.

Martin Payne, looking casually suave in black blazer and fawn slacks, white shirt worn open with blue silk cravat, stood with his hands on the rail of the after deck on the Princess Dolores. The waters of the lake stretching across to Seattle, and the sky, were gray. White gulls coasted and swooped around the dock extending from the lawns at the rear of the house.

There could be no doubt that he was the kind of man who was born to win. The twelve-million-dollar boat beneath him, the house, the company that he had built from nothing—they were surely testimony as tangible as anyone could ask for of that. He won because he knew the difference between an acceptable risk and a reckless gamble, and when having assessed the acceptable, having the nerve to see it through. And from knowing, when the signs were otherwise, that the moment was not yet right.

For three years he had been biding his time for the present situation to ripen. Now, all of a sudden, the pieces seemed to be coming together of their own accord. Jack Anastole’s sudden reappearance, which had seemed a problem at the time, had turned out to be the fortuitous event needed to set long-laid plans moving. And two months later, as if on cue, the meddling lawyer arrives on the scene like an essential catalyst to precipitate the final action involving Heber and ensure a speedy resolution to the whole business.

He had no qualms as far as Heber was concerned. DNC had been born at Microbotics before Heber even had thoughts of getting restless. Payne had paid for every step of acquiring the knowledge that Heber had stolen, from breaking dirt at the lab-block sites to buying the equipment and providing the research teams. It was his technology—Payne’s! Any law that gave somebody like Heber any rights to it was a travesty—contrived by sheep to ensnare wolves and put them in harness for the service of all.

Payne rather liked the wolf metaphor. Wolves lived and survived by their own law. Those who couldn’t run with wolves shouldn’t mess with them. Heber had made his choice. Now came the consequences.

The sound of feet climbing steps came from behind. Payne turned from the rail, and Andy Finnion appeared from the aft fishing cockpit. Andy was ex-PD narcotics section, which was a sure indicator of “liberal” morality—the payoff scale made it certain that nobody was going to bring in any potential wrench throwers. A police background that entailed knowing where every wire in the city and state machinery led made him an ideal lieutenant on Payne’s staff, and running Microbotics’s security operation provided the perfect front.

“Mike’s checked over the systems. Everything’s okay except a switch for a pump that he’ll get replaced today. Restocking for the bar and galley stores will be delivered by noon tomorrow. He plans moving the boat across to Fox Landing tomorrow evening.”

“Let’s hope the weather holds out.”

Apart from the gloomy skies, Providence must have been smiling at him, Payne thought. He’d planned the Memorial Day weekend Saturday-night party on the yacht weeks ago, turning into a cruise that would last through the next day to let the guests recuperate—or relive their favorite parts of whatever transpired; whichever. Fox Landing was the name of a dock at the back of the exclusive “Shoals,” a marine club on the shore of Lake Union in the middle of Seattle, which formed part of the Ship Canal connecting Lake Washington to Puget Sound. The Dolores would be moved across to there late on Friday to take the guests aboard on Saturday. Payne really didn’t want them swarming around his home in Medina, getting the idea that it was open house. People came there only by specific invitation.

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