Frozen Solid A Novel

30




WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, THREE P.M. SHARP, SIXTH FLOOR OF THE National Science Foundation headquarters, new and gleaming, lush with huge potted plants and bright with vast expanses of glass. Not having to keep secrets has its advantages, Barnard thought.

“Dr. Donald Barnard. I have an appointment with the director.” Barnard was surprised to see a young man of East Indian descent behind the executive assistant’s desk in the director’s anteroom. When he had come up, executive assistants were secretaries, and secretaries were women. Like Carol, who was about his age, in his own office. But these were different times, even in Washington—perhaps especially in Washington, where failure to be politically correct could scuttle careers.

“Dr. Barnard, of course. Just give me one moment, please.”

The young man’s voice made Barnard think of soft chimes. He passed through the door behind him, reappeared in less than a minute. “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, sir. Please go in.”

He held the door for Barnard and closed it behind him. A short, trim man with dark skin and close-cut black hair—another East Indian, Barnard guessed—came toward him, hand extended.

“David Gerrin. So pleased to meet you.”