Gina walked over to the chef and picked up her own drink, which was still standing untouched on the dispenser tray. She took a sip and stood with her back to the room, staring at the cover panels of the units as if hoping they would open up and swallow her. “I feel dumb, stupid, and when you boil it all down, not an especially nice person to know,” she said without moving her head. “I’m not used to feeling that way. I never thought I’d have reason to. I don’t like it.”
“That happens to everyone at some time or other,” Hunt said. He sat forward and topped up his glass. His voice was easygoing and natural, not lecturing. “I remember once when I was a kid in London, a friend of mine lent me his new bike. I crashed it and bent it
up, and then just left it outside his house and walked away. Didn’t have the nerve to tell him, let alone think about how to put it right. It bothered me for years afterwards, that did. Sometimes it still does.”
“We’re talking about something a bit more serious than kids’ bikes,” Gina said, and instantly wished she hadn’t; it sounded as if she were fishing for sympathy.
Hunt’s voice took on an edge of impatience. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Come down and join the real, pretty-shitty world. Sometimes you look back at something and you find you don’t like what you did.” He paused in the middle of taking a swig and looked at her over his glass pointedly. “And sometimes, if the truth were known, you’re kicking yourself over nothing because things didn’t seem the way you see them later. You find out new things, and it clouds your recollection of how much you didn’t know before.”
“Thanks for giving me the benefit of the doubt, but I don’t need charity.”
“Maybe it’s not charity. Maybe we know something that you don’t.” Although she still had her back turned, Hunt could sense her wrestling with her conscience. She really had no corner to run to. It was only a matter of not being seen to cave in too easily. He gave her a few seconds.
“So.. . how far back were you recruited, and who was behind it?” he asked again.
Gina sighed, took a hurried gulp, and turned to stand facing him across the room. “This isn’t easy,” she said.
“No one’s expecting it to be.”
She came over to the lounge area and perched herself on the edge of one of the chairs. “From the beginning—back on Earth. It was your boss, Caldwell, and some branch of—oh, I don’t know, some kind of security agency somewhere. They think there’s a Jevlenese operation that has an informer in PAC somewhere.”
Hunt shook his head without a moment’s hesitation. “Not Gregg. He doesn’t work that way. Try another one.”
“I’m telling you, that’s what happened.”
“Baloney.”
“Okay, okay.” Gina held up a hand. “Not Caldwell exactly. There was another guy with him, from the military. His name was General Shaw—I don’t know which department or whatever. But Caldwell introduced him, and he was there the whole time that Shaw was talking. . .“ Gina shook her head and raised the fingers of her free
hand defensively. “He made it sound crucially important. I didn’t know you guys then. To tell you the truth it’s been bothering the hell out of me inside for days now. But I’d agreed to do it. It was classified, and I couldn’t talk to anyone here. What else could I do but go with it?’’
Hunt looked at her without any change of expression. He didn’t believe that version any more than the previous one, but this track had the promise of being fruitful. “You met this general before we left Earth, with Gregg?” he repeated.
“Yes. At Goddard. In Caldwell’s office.”
“Before you came out to my place?”
“Yes . . . maybe not.” Gina massaged her brow. “I’m not sure.”
“Describe him.”
“Oh. . . biggish kind of guy, pink face, blue eyes, ginger mustache—typical clipped military style. He wore a grayish uniform, maybe light blue, with a lot of ribbons and braid.”