“I guess you didn’t run into this problem at Crossbank, but it’s part of the security regs. If there’s any kind of threat against the facility, no traffic is allowed in or out until it’s cleared up.”

“There’s been a threat?”

“I’m assuming so. They don’t tell me these things. But I’m sure it’s nothing.”

He was probably right, Chris thought. Both Crossbank and Blind Lake were designated National Laboratories, operated under security protocols that dated back to the Terror Wars. Even idle threats were taken terribly seriously. One of the drawbacks of Blind Lake’s high media profile was that it had attracted the attention of a broad spectrum of lunatics and ideologues.

“Can you tell us the nature of the threat?”

“Honestly, I don’t know myself. But this isn’t the first time this has happened. If experience is any guide it will all be cleared up by morning.”

Sebastian Vogel stirred from the chair where he had been sitting in sphinxlike repose for the last hour. “And in the meantime,” he said, “where do we sleep?”

“Well, we’ve set up — cots.”

“Cots?”

“In the gymnasium at the recreation facility. I know. I’m terribly sorry. It’s the best we can do on short notice. As I said, I’m sure we’ll have it all sorted out by morning.”

Weingart frowned into his clipboard as if it might contain a last-minute reprieve. Elaine looked primed to explode, but Chris preempted her: “We’re journalists. I’m sure we’ve all slept rough one time or another.” Well, maybe not Vogel. “Right, Elaine?”

Weingart looked at her hopefully.

She bit back whatever she had been about to say. “I’ve slept in a tent on the Gobi Plateau. I suppose I can sleep in a fucking gym.”

There were ranks of cots in the gym, some already occupied by displaced day workers overflowing from guest housing. Chris, Elaine, and Vogel staked out three cots under the basketball hoop and claimed them with their luggage. The pillows on the beds looked like deflated marshmallows. The blankets were Red Cross surplus.