"All right, then—"
"I didn't think he'd care to have me give my reasons over a radio. This is confidential and urgent."
The men hesitated, uncertain before such an outrageous violation of all civilized canons. "I dunno, friend ... he's busy ... if you want to see Dr. McCormick—"
"Dr. Lang. Ask him if I may. Tell him I have news about his longevity process."
"His what?"
Radek spelled it out and watched the man go. Another one made some ungracious remark and frisked him with needless ostentation. A third was more urbane: "Sorry to do this, but you understand we've got important work going on. Can't have just anybody busting in."
"Sure, that's all right." Radek shivered in the thin chill air and pulled his cloak tighter about him.
"Viruses and stuff around. If any of that got loose—You understand."
Well, it wasn't a bad cover-up. None of these fellows looked very bright. IQ treatments could do only so much, thereafter you got down to the limitations of basic and unalterable brain microstructure. And even among the more intellectual workers ... how many Barwells were there, handling semi-routine tasks but not permitted to know what really went on under their feet? Radek had a brief irrational wish that he'd worn boots instead of sandals.
The first guard returned. "He'll see you," he grunted. "And you better make it good, because he's one mad doctor."