a glass and indicated that they should sit down. 'I've learned quite a bit about you, Mr McAuliff. Rather fascinating.'
'I heard someone was asking around.'
They were across from one another, in armchairs. At McAuliff's statement, Warfield took his eyes off his glass and looked sharply, almost angrily, at Alex. 'I find that hard to believe.'
'Names weren't used, but the information reached me. Eight sources. Five American, two Canadian, one French.'
'Not traceable to Dunstone.' Warfield's short body seemed to stiffen; McAuliff understood that he had touched an exposed nerve.
'I said names weren't mentioned.'
'Did you use the Dunstone name in any ensuing conversations? Tell me the truth, Mr McAuliff.'
'There'd be no reason not to tell the truth,' answered Alex, a touch disagreeably. 'No, I did not.'
'I believe you.'
'You should.'
'If I didn't, I'd pay you handsomely for your time and suggest you return to America and take up with ITT.'
'I may do that anyway, mightn't I? I do have that option.'
'You like money.'
'Very much.'
Julian Warfield placed his glass down and brought his thin, small hands together. 'Alexander T. McAuliff. The "T" is for Tarquin, rarely, if ever, used. It's not even on your stationery; rumour is you don't care for it...'
'True. I'm not violent about it.'
'Alexander Tarquin McAuliff, thirty-eight years old. BS, MS, PhD, but the title of Doctor is used as rarely as his middle name. The geology departments of several leading American universities, including California Tech and Columbia, lost an excellent research fellow when Dr McAuliff decided to put his expertise to more commercial pursuits.' The man smiled, his expression one of how-am-I-doing; but, again, not a question.
'Faculty and laboratory pressures are no less aggravating than those outside. Why not get paid for them?'
'Yes. We agreed you like money?'
'Don't you?'
Warfield laughed, and his laugh was genuine and loud. His thin, short body fairly shook with pleasure as he brought Alex his glass. 'Excellent reply. Really quite fine.'
'It wasn't that good...'
'But you're interrupting me,' said Warfield as he returned to his chair. 'It's my intention to impress you.'
'Not about myself, I hope.'
'No. Our thoroughness... You are from a close-knit family, secure academic surroundings - '
'Is this necessary?' asked McAuliff, fingering his glass, interrupting the old man.
'Yes, it is,' replied Warfield simply, continuing as though his line of thought was unbroken. 'Your father was - and is, in retirement - a highly regarded agro-scientist; your mother, unfortunately deceased, a delightfully romantic soul adored by all. It was she who gave you the "Tarquin," and until she died you never denied the initial or the name. You had an older brother, a pilot, shot down in the last days of the World War; you yourself made a splendid record in Korea... Upon receipt of your doctorate, it was assumed that you would continue the family's academic tradition. Until personal tragedy propelled you out of the laboratory. A young woman - your fiancee - was killed on the streets of New York. At night. You blamed yourself... and others. You were to have met her. Instead, a hastily called, quite unnecessary research meeting prohibited it... Alexander Tarquin McAuliff fled the university. Am I drawing an accurate picture?'
'You're invading my privacy. You're repeating information that may be personal but hardly... classified. Easy to piece together. You're also extremely obnoxious. I don't think I want to have lunch with you.'
'A few more minutes. Then - it is your decision.'
'It's my decision right now.'
'Of course. Just a bit more... Dr McAuliff embarked on a new career with extraordinary precision. He hired out to several established geological-survey firms, where his work was outstanding; then left the companies and underbid them on upcoming contracts. Industrial construction knows no national boundaries: Fiat builds in Moscow; Moscow in Cairo; General Motors in Berlin; British Petroleum in Buenos Aires; Volkswagen in New Jersey, USA; Renault in Madrid - I could go on for hours. And everything begins with a single file folder profuse with complicated technical paragraphs describing what is and what is not possible in terms of construction upon the land. Such a simple, taken-for-granted exercise. But without that file, nothing else is possible.'
'Your few minutes are about up, Warfield. And, speaking for the community of surveyors, we thank you for acknowledging our necessity. As you say, we're so often taken for granted.' McAuliff put his glass down on the table next to his armchair and started to get up.
Warfield spoke quietly, precisely. 'You have twenty-three bank accounts, including four in Switzerland; I can supply the code numbers if you like. Others