“None taken,” the scientist who hadn’t published in seven years said. “What is his background Mr. Secretary?”

“NASA, then defense contractors,” the secretary said, smiling faintly. “Ph.D.s in physics, aeronautical engineering, optics, electronic engineering and some other stuff. Smart guy. Very bright, very sharp, high watt.”

“Fifty-ish, balding,” the Homeland Security director added, chuckling. “Fifty pounds overweight, pocket protector, five colors of pens, HP calculator on his hip.”

The defense secretary just smiled.

The man who entered, passed by the Secret Service, was just below normal height. He had brownish-blond hair that was slightly tousled and lightly receding on both sides. He walked like a gymnast or a martial artist and if there was an ounce of fat on his body it wasn’t apparent; his arms, which had strangely smooth skin, were corded with muscles. He had light blue eyes and a face that was chiseled and movie star handsome. He was wearing a light green silk shirt and well-worn blue jeans over cowboy boots.

“Gentlemen and ladies, Dr. William Weaver,” the defense secretary said, lightly with some humor in his voice. “Senior scientist of Columbia Defense.”

“I’m sorry about how I’m dressed, Mr. President,” the scientist said, sliding into a chair at a gesture from the President. “I didn’t think I was going to need a suit this weekend; they’re all at home.” He had a slight, but noticeable, deep south accent. “Ahm sorry ’bout how Ahm dressed, Mister Pres’dent.”

“Not a problem,” the President said, waving his hand. Unlike his predecessor he insisted on suit and tie in the nation’s work and never took his off when he was in the office. He had changed as soon as he got back from Camp David and all the senior staff were in suits or dresses. “Where’s home? You don’t live in Washington?”