He was wearing his white medic's smock, stained yellow and red by reagents and coagulants. He was lounging against the curving plastine corridor wall, hands jammed deep into his pockets. His thick-featured, broad face wore an expression of elaborate casualness.
"Hello, Roy. Fancy finding you here!"
"How did you know I'd be coming this way?"
"I called your office. They told me you were on your way to the lift tubes. Why so jumpy, brother? Have a tough morning?"
"I've had worse," Walton said. He was tense, guarded. He pushed the stud beckoning the lift tube.
"Where you off to?" Fred asked.
"Confidential. Top-level powwow with Fitz, if you have to know."
Fred's eyes narrowed. "Strictly upper-echelon, aren't you? Do you have a minute to talk to a mere mortal?"
"Fred, don't make unnecessary trouble. You know—"
"Can it. I've only got a minute or two left of my lunch hour. I want to make myself perfectly plain with you. Are there any spy pickups in this corridor?"