Grumman Gulf Stream jet. Red letters on the fuselage spelled FUTUREX INTERNATIONAL.
  Fifteen minutes later they were airborne, on their way to an exclusive landing strip 
near Lake Tahoe.
  Klinger unbuckled his seat belt and said, "I understand you're to give me a briefing."
  "That's right. We've got two hours for it." He put his briefcase on his lap. "Have you 
ever heard of subliminal-"
  "Before we get going, I'd like a Scotch on the rocks."
  "I believe there's a bar aboard." "Fine. Just fine."
  "It's back there." Salsbury gestured over his shoulder.
  Klinger said, "Make mine four ounces of Scotch and four ice cubes in an eight-ounce 
glass."
  At first Salsbury gazed at him uncomprehendingly. Then he got it: generals didn't mix 
their own drinks. Don't let him intimidate you, he thought. Against his will, however, he 
found himself getting up and moving toward the back of the plane. It was as if he were 
not in control of his body. When he returned with the drink, Klinger didn't even thank 
him.
  "You say you're one of Leonard's partners?"
  Salsbury realized that, by acting more like a waiter than like a host, he had only 
reinforced the general's conviction that the word "partner" did not fit him. The bastard 
had been testing him.
  He began to wonder if Dawson and Klinger were too much for him. Was he a bantam in a 
ring with heavyweights? He might be setting himself up for a knockout punch.
  He quickly dismissed that thought. Without Dawson and the general, he could not keep 
his discoveries from the government, which had financed them and owned them and would be 
jealous of them if it knew that they existed. He had no choice but to associate with 
these people; and he knew he would have to be cautious, suspicious, and watchful. But a 
man could safely make his bed with the devil so long as he slept with a loaded gun under 
his pillow.
  Couldn't he?
  Pine House, the twenty-five-room Dawson mansion that overlooked Lake Tahoe, Nevada, had 
won two design awards for its architect and been featured in House Beautiful. It stood at 
the water's edge on a five-acre estate, with a backdrop of more than one hundred towering 
pine trees; and it seemed to rise naturally from the landscape rather than intrude upon 
it, even though its lines were quite modern. The first level was large, circular, of 
stone and without windows. The second story-a
  circle the same size as but not concentric to the first level- was a step up from the 
ground floor. Lakeside, at the back of the house, the second story overhung the first, 
sheltering a small boat dock; and here there was a twelve-foot-long window that provided 
a magnificent view of the water and the distant pine-covered slopes. The dome-shaped, 
black slate roof was crowned with a slender, needlelike eight-foot spire.
  When he first saw the place, Salsbury thought that it was a cousin to those futuristic 
churches that had been rising in wealthy and progressive parishes over the last ten or 
fifteen years. Without a thought for tact, he had said as much-and Leonard had taken the 
comment as a compliment. Having been refamiliarized with his host's eccentricities during 
their weekly meetings over the past three months, Ogden was fairly certain that the house 
was supposed to resemble a church, that Dawson meant for it to be a temple, a holy 
monument to wealth and power.
  Pine House had cost nearly as much as a church: one and a half million dollars, 
including the price of the land. Nevertheless, it was only one of five houses and three 
large apartments that Dawson and his wife maintained in the United States, Jamaica, 
England, and Europe.
  After dinner the three men reclined in easy chairs in the living room, a few feet from 
the picture window. Tahoe, one of the highest and deepest lakes in the world, shimmered 
with light and shadow as the last rays of the sun, already gone behind the mountains, 
drained from the sky. In the morning the water had a clear, greenish cast. By afternoon 
it was a pure, crystalline blue. Now, soon to be as black as a vast spill of oil, it was 
like purple velvet folded softly against the shoreline. For five or ten minutes they 
enjoyed the view, speaking only to remark on the meal they had just finished and on the 
brandy they were sipping.
  At last Dawson turned to the general and said, "Ernst, what do you think of subliminal 
advertising?"
  The general had anticipated this abrupt shift from relaxation to business. "Fascinating 
stuff."
  "You have no doubts?"
  "That it exists? None whatsoever. Your man here has the
  proof. But he didn't explain what subliminal advertising has to do with me."
  Sipping brandy, savoring it, Dawson nodded toward Salsbury. Putting down his own drink, 
angry with Klinger for referring to him as Dawson's man and angry with Dawson for not 
correcting the general, reminding himself not to address Klinger by his military title, 
Ogden said, "Ernst, we never met until this morning. I've never told you where I work-but 
I'm sure you know."
  "The Brockert Institute," Klinger said without hesitation.
  General Ernst Klinger supervised a division of the Pentagon's vitally important 
Department of Security for Weapons Research. His authority within the department extended 
to the states of Ohio, West Virginia, Virginia, Maryland, Delaware, Pennsylvania, New 
Jersey, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Vermont, New Hampshire, and 
Maine. It was his responsibility to choose, oversee the installation of, and regularly 
inspect the traditional and electronic systems that protected all laboratories, 
factories, and test sites where weapons research was conducted within those fourteen 
states. Several laboratories belonging to Creative Development Associates, including the 
Brockert facility in Connecticut, came under his jurisdiction; and Salsbury would have 
been surprised if the general had not known the name of the scientist in charge of the 
work at Brockert.
  "Do you know what sort of research we're conducting up there?" Salsbury asked.
  "I'm responsible for the security, not the research," Klinger said. "I only know what I 
need to know. Like the backgrounds of the people who work there, the layout of the 
buildings, and the nature of the surrounding countryside. I don't need to know about your 
work."
  "It has to do with subliminals."
  Stiffening as if he had sensed stealthy movement behind him, Some of the 
brandy-inspired color seeping from his face, Klinger said, "I believe you've signed a 
secrecy pledge like everyone else at Brockert."
  "Yes, I have."
  "You just now violated it."
  "I am aware of that."
  "Are you aware of the penalty?" "Yes. But I'll never suffer it."
  "You're sure of yourself, aren't you?"
  "Damned sure," Salsbury said.
  "It makes no difference, you know, that I'm a general in the United States Army or that 
Leonard is a loyal and trusted citizen. You've still broken the pledge. Maybe they can't