Ashley was sure however that NSA was not about to do some dumbass thing like let the cover know what it was covering. Still, it was disconcerting to see it there, disconcerting to just entertain the possibility that the director of a sanitarium might have access to highly classified secrets, information so sensitive that no single programmer had access to work outside of his own, and no two were allowed to socialize.

"So you wish to take a vacation?" said Smith. "Early, I see."

"A bit. I feel I could use it, sir."

"I see. And where are you and your wife going?"

"Well, I sort of thought I'd go alone this time. A real vacation. I need it."

"I see. Do you often take vacations alone?"

"Sometimes."

"Oh. When was your last vacation alone?"

"In 1962, sir."

"You were a bachelor then, weren't you?"

"Yes. If you must know, sir, I'm having trouble with my wife and I just want to get away from her. I've got to get away for a little while."

"Do you think your work will suffer if you don't?" asked Smith.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I see no reason why you shouldn't get a rest. Let's say at the end of the month."

"Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome, Ashley. You're a good man."

Bill Ashley smiled when he shook hands, for how would Smith know if he were a good man or an atrocious misfit? Peculiar fellow, that Smith, with his fear of the sun. The only other one-way windows Ashley knew of were at the Langley headquarters of the CIA and Washington headquarters of NSA.

With the Smith formality taken care of, Ashley put in the proper forms to his real boss in Washington. The answer was yes.

As was custom, he was taken off sensitive matters right away and just did garbage work waiting for his vacation.