The associates who'd dared to slack off by leaving for the short holiday break returned with a vengeance early Saturday morning. The time away was refreshing, though the strain of frenzied travel left them even more exhausted. And time off also meant no billing.

Kyle punched his clock at 8:00 a.m. sharp when he entered the secret room on the eighteenth floor and settled himself at one of the workstations. Four other members of Team Trylon were there, lost in a virtual world of endless research. He nodded to a couple, but no one spoke. He wore jeans and a wool sport coat, and he hauled in his black Bally briefcase, six inches thick and showing some wear. He'd bought it at a shop on Fifth Avenue a week before orientation. All briefcases at the firm were black.

He placed it on the floor beside him, partially under the table, directly under the plain-vanilla computer that had so captivated dear Nigel. He withdrew a legal pad, then a file, and before long his workstation looked authentic. After a few minutes, he took off his jacket, hung it on the back of his chair, and rolled up his sleeves. Trylon was now paying old Scully an additional four hundred bucks an hour.

A quick look around the room revealed one other briefcase. All other jackets and coats had been left upstairs in the offices. The hours began to drag by as Kyle lost himself in the futuristic world of the B-10 HyperSonic Bomber and the people who designed it.

The only good thing about the secret room was the prohibition against cell phones. After a few hours, Kyle needed a break, and he wanted to check his messages. Specifically, he was waiting to hear from Dale, who hadn't bothered to show up on such a beautiful morning. He walked to his office, closed the door, which was a minor violation of firm policy, and called her private cell phone. As a refuge from the much-hated FirmFone, every associate carried a private one as well.

"Yes," she answered.

"Where are you?"

"I'm still in Providence."

"Are you coming back to New York?"

"I'm not sure."

"Need I remind you, young lady, that this is the third consecutive day in which you have not billed a single hour."

"I take it you're at the office."

"Yes, racking up hours along with every other first-year grunt. Everyone's here but you."

"Fire me. Sue me. I don't care."

"You'll never make partner with that attitude."

"Promise?"

"I was thinking about dinner tonight. There's a new restaurant in the East Village that just got two stars from Frank Bruni."

"Are you asking me out for a date?"

"Please. We can split the check since we work for a gender-neutral firm."

"You're so romantic."

"We could do the romance later."

"So that's what you're really after."

"Always."

"I get in around seven. I'll call you then."

KYLE CLIPPED TRYLON for twelve hours, then called a sedan for the ride to dinner. The restaurant had twenty tables, a Turkish menu, and no dress requirement, though jeans were preferred. After the two-star review by the Times the place was crowded. Kyle got a table only because there had been a cancellation.

Dale was at the bar sipping white wine and looking almost serene. They kissed, a peck on each cheek, then squeezed together and started talking about their Thanksgiving holidays as if they'd just had a month at the beach. Both of her parents taught mathematics at Providence College, and, though wonderful people, they had a rather dull existence. Dale's gift for math led to a relatively quick Ph.D., but she began to fear she'd wind up much like her parents. The law beckoned her. The law, as portrayed in film and on television as nonstop excitement. The law, as the cornerstone of democracy and the front lines for so many social conflicts. She had excelled at law school, received offers from the top firms, and now, after three months of practice, she sorely missed mathematics.

Later, at their table and still sipping wine, she was quick to confess some exciting news. "I had a job interview this morning."

"I thought you had a job."

"Yes, but it sucks. There's a boutique firm in Providence, downtown in a beautiful old building. I got a job there one summer when I was in college, making copies and coffee and doing the general gofer routine. About twenty lawyers, half women, a general practice. I talked them into an interview on a Saturday morning."

"But you have a cherished associate's position with the largest firm in the world. What more could you want?"

"A life. The same thing you want."

"I want to be a partner so I can sleep until 5:00 a.m. every day until I die at fifty. That's what I want."

"Look around, Kyle. Very few stay more than three years. The smart ones are gone after two. The crazy ones make a career out of it."

"So you're leaving?"

"I'm not cut out for this. I thought I was pretty tough, but you can have it."

The waiter took their orders and poured more wine. They were side by side, in a narrow half booth with a view of the restaurant. Kyle's hand was between her knees under the table.

"When are you leaving?" he asked.

"As soon as humanly possible. I practically begged for a job this morning. If I don't get an offer, I'll keep knocking. This is madness, Kyle, and I'm checking out."

"Congratulations. You'll be the envy of our class."

"What about you?"

"I have no idea. I feel as though I just got here. We're all in shock, but it'll wear off. It's boot camp, and we're still sore from the initial bruising."

"No more bruises for me. I've collapsed once. It won't happen again. I'm slacking off to fifty hours a week and I dare them to say something."

"Go, girl."

A platter of olives and goat cheese arrived, and they toyed with it. "How was York?" she asked.

"The same. I had lunch with my real mother and dinner with my next one, a quick deer hunt that killed nothing, and some long talks with my dad."

"About what?"

"The usual. Life. The past. The future."

NIGEL WAS PRESENT for the second meeting in a row, and long before Kyle arrived in the hotel suite, preparations had been under way. On a small desk, Nigel had set up a computer that looked very similar to those on the eighteenth floor. Next to it was a monitor that was identical to the one Kyle had stared at for twelve hours the day before.

"Are we close here, Kyle?" Nigel was singing away as he proudly revealed his copycat workstation. "Please have a seat."

Kyle sat at the desk, with Bennie and Nigel watching every move.

"It looks very similar," Kyle said.

"Just the hardware here, Kyle, as you know. Not crucial, but we're trying to pinpoint the manufacturer, that's all. Only the software matters, we know that. Are we off the mark?"

Neither the computer nor the monitor had markings or names or models or makers. They were as blandly generic as the ones they were trying to imitate.

"These are very close," Kyle said.

"Look hard, man, and find something different," Nigel pressed. He was beside Kyle, bent and staring at the screen.

"The computer is slightly darker in color, almost a gray, and it's sixteen inches wide and twenty inches tall."

"You measured, Kyle?"

"Obviously. I used a fifteen-inch legal pad."

"Bloody brilliant," Nigel exclaimed and seemed ready to hug Kyle. Bennie couldn't hide a smile.

"It has to be a Fargo," Nigel said.

"A what?"

"Fargo, Kyle, a specialty computer company in San Diego, big on government and military machines, tons of work for the CIA, big stout computers with more security and more gadgets than you can believe, I assure you of that. You won't see one at the local mall, no sir. And Fargo is owned by Deene, a client of you know who. Old Scully protects its ass at a thousand bucks an hour."

As Nigel chirped away, he hit a button on the keyboard. The screen became a page unlike any Kyle had ever seen. Nothing from Microsoft or Apple.

"Now, Kyle, tell me what the first page looks like. Anything remotely similar here?"

"No, not even close. The home page has one icon for the tutorial, but that's it  -  no other icons, message boards, edit bands, format options, nothing but an index to the documents. You turn the computer on, get through the pass codes and passwords, then wait about ten seconds, and, presto, you're into the library. No system profiles, no spec sheets, no home page."

"Fascinating," Nigel said, still staring at the monitor. "And the index, Kyle?"

"The index is a real challenge. It starts with broad divisions of documents, then it breaks down into subcategories and subgroups and sub-this and sub-that. It takes some work to find the batch of documents you're looking for."

Nigel took a step back and stretched. Bennie moved closer and said, "Suppose you wanted to locate the research materials relating to the B-10's air-breathing engines and the various types of hydrogen fuel that were tested. How would you get there?"

"I don't know. I haven't been there yet. I've seen nothing about air-breathing engines." The statement was true, but Kyle decided to draw a line at this point. With over four million documents in play, he could easily claim he had not seen whatever they were curious about.

"But you could find these materials?"

"I could find them quickly, once I knew where to look. The Sonic program is pretty fast, but there's a ton of paper to sift through."

Bennie's movements were quick, his words a little more urgent than usual. Nigel was downright giddy with Kyle's information. It was obvious that his progress had them agitated.

"You were in the room yesterday?" Bennie asked.

"Yes, all day."

"With a briefcase and a jacket?"

"Yes, both, no problem. There was one other briefcase. No one checks them."

"When will you return to the room?" Bennie asked.

"The team meets in the morning, and there's a good chance I'll get another assignment. Monday or Tuesday for sure."

"Let's meet Tuesday night."

"Can't wait."