His feet made not a scuff nor a sound. Before entering through the sliding door, Whitehall and the rest had pulled special clear boots over their shoes. The booties were required as a precaution to keep visitors from losing their footing on the slippery surface of the deck.

Even wearing the special shoes, Whitehall felt uneasy stepping along the deck. He had been present for some of the more recent tests. Although a chainlink fence had been set up around the very edge of the pit to prevent anyone from falling in, it didn't help him forget the very near danger. Whenever he ventured out on the deck, he felt as if he were climbing down into a massive garbage disposal unit to retrieve a wayward spoon that had fallen down the drain.

The waiting men gave only quick glances as Whitehall and his entourage approached. While irritating, their lack of deference wasn't a surprise. There was already a preening rooster in the henhouse.

Executive President Blythe Curry-Hume stood at the center of the crowd of men at the edge of the pit. If his close proximity to the Vaporizer caused him any concern, it didn't show. His blandly handsome face was drawn into something that might have been a smile or a grimace of pain.

The president of Mayana seemed to have only one facial expression. For the hundredth time since election day, Carlos Whitehall strained to see a hint of the alleged magnetism that had propelled this political neophyte to his nation's top elected office. As always in Whitehall's critical eye, Executive President Curry-Hume came up lacking.

"I'm glad you could finally make it," the president said thinly as Whitehall stopped before him.

"Yes, Mr. President," Whitehall said tightly. "You do understand that we are not scheduled to begin until two." He made a show of checking his watch. It was barely past ten.