Lash-Up

9 Skunk Works

The list of potential locations for the U.S. Space Force headquarters had been short to begin with. Only a handful of military and civilian facilities met even the minimum requirements. In reality, the massive Edwards Air Force Base complex was the only viable option. The second largest air force base in the United States, it sprawled over slightly more than three hundred thousand acres of the western Mojave Desert. Named in honor of Captain Glen Edwards, a decorated World War II bomber and air force test pilot, it was the home of the 412th Test Wing, along with a host of advanced research and development organizations, many of them space-oriented.

The team’s choice of Edwards was also logical from a practical point of view. The full-scale VentureStar prototype was stored in an unused hangar on the base, the launch complex at Area 1-54 was virtually complete, and there were plenty of runways available for recovery. The base was also conveniently close to Air Force Plant 42 in Palmdale, thirty-three miles away, where Lockheed Martin’s Advanced Development Programs Division was located.

Formerly known as the Skunk Works, the ADP had developed and fielded some of the most advanced aircraft in the U.S. inventory. But more important, the ADP had been the Lockheed Martin lead contractor in the VentureStar program, and any residual expertise would be found there.

The problem was that in the Pentagon, politics could easily trump logic. And making a land grab in someone else’s backyard was a surefire way to get the hackles up on another service chief’s neck. In this case, the U.S. Air Force.

During their flight, Schultz made and received a number of phone calls. One was from General Warner, and it was clear from what Ray heard that while the conversation was friendly, there was a hint of strain in the admiral’s voice.

“No, Mike,” Schultz said patiently, “I don’t need or want the whole base. The Space Force will be just another tenant command on Edwards; I have no desire to build a huge empire at your expense. We just need a large hangar with secure office space close by.”

Ray could hear the air force general on the other end of the line laugh, and the wrinkles on Schultz’s face seemed to ease.

“The old airborne laser hangar will be just fine, Mike. I appreciate your help on this.” Schultz jotted the numbers 151 on his notepad. “Yes, of course I’ll let you know if we need anything else, but I promise not to be too much of a nuisance. Thanks, we’ll need it. Out here.”

As he hung up the phone, Schultz let out a heavy sigh. Turning to Ray, he explained. “General Warner is giving us the hangar that was used by the canceled Airborne Laser Program, Building 151. It’s big enough to hold a 747, so Defender will fit without any problem. And the chemical storage tanks for the laser system are still good. We’ll need to get them recertified, of course, but that’s a hell of a lot easier than building a new storage system.”

“It sounds like the general is being very cooperative,” Ray remarked carefully.

Schultz chuckled. “Mike doesn’t want to be seen as an obstructionist, not with a presidential mandate staring him in the face, so he’s being helpful, for now. He’s also a very experienced Pentagon insider, and he knows that it will be easier for him to take over the Space Force’s mission if our assets and facilities are already on an air force installation. He’s just doubling down on his bet that we’ll fail.”

Ray felt a sudden chill. “Nice to know we engender such confidence,” he said sarcastically.

“Get used to it, son. We have a tremendous task ahead of us, and the odds aren’t exactly in our favor. I can’t fault General Warner for being pragmatic. At least he’s cooperating. There will be others who will do everything in their power to ensure we fall flat on our faces.”

Disturbed by Schultz’s blunt prediction, Ray leaned back in his seat and wondered whether he’d made the right decision to sign on. It was one thing to fall short due to insurmountable technical issues, but quite another to fail because of political infighting and backstabbing.

Glancing over at Schultz, Ray saw the admiral staring at the impressive to-do list on his tablet PC. He looked calm and composed. Well, if the boss could be at peace with their situation, then Ray needed to at least try. Looking out his window, Ray watched as white puffy cumulus clouds passed slowly by, piled up into fantastic shapes. The peaceful scene, combined with an adrenaline letdown and sheer exhaustion, caused Ray’s eyelids to drift downward. Within moments, he fell into a deep sleep.

It was early afternoon when they landed. The skies were clear, and the temperature was on the warm side. Even in autumn the Mojave Desert can get into the mideighties. The bright sun tormented Ray’s eyes as he stepped out of the plane and onto the tarmac. He’d been to Edwards once before, years ago on a space shuttle — orientation trip sponsored by NASA. From what he remembered, it looked like nothing had changed.

Major General Baum and his deputy were waiting as the two new space force executives disembarked. After a quick exchange of salutes and handshakes, Ray and Schultz were whisked to the High Desert Inn to check in and dump their bags. Baum had offered to let the two get some rest, but both Schultz and Ray were insistent that they get to work immediately. They’d both had a few hours of sleep and were once again on an adrenaline high. After a quick lunch, Baum took them to Building 151 — the new U.S. Space Force Headquarters. Ray liked what he saw.

Although he’d expected the hangar to be large, it still impressed him: It was over seven stories tall and wide enough not only to hold a jumbo jet but also to allow enough room to take it apart, if needed. Sounds echoed off the metal surfaces and the concrete floor. It was hot and humid inside, with the ventilation systems still turned off. Ray half-expected to see a local thunderstorm building at the apex of the domed roof.

A four-story office structure was grafted onto one side of the structure. That looked good to him. People wouldn’t have to waste time traveling from one building to another. It was still dusty — much of the building had been unused for years — but Baum promised to have people there within the hour to begin cleaning.

The day flew by in a blur, and, after a late dinner, Schultz turned in for the night. Ray sat in his room fidgeting. He tried reading, but his mind whirled with future tasks and potential difficulties. He tried making to-do lists, but, instead of clearing his mind, the now-organized tasks accused him of inaction.

Unable to sleep, he grabbed his jacket and went for a walk down to the massive Rogers Dry Lake. For most of the year, the lake bed was a bone-dry salt flat, although during the short rainy season some water would accumulate in its basin. This made the lake bed perfect for flight operations and a dozen of Edwards’s runways were little more than black lines painted on the hard ground.

With the sun down and the wind picking up, Ray headed back to his temporary quarters, zipping his jacket up as he went. The past forty-eight hours had been one hell of a roller-coaster ride, and he still had trouble wrapping his mind around everything that had occurred. He felt numb, unable to put into words the hodgepodge of emotions bouncing around in his head. Either that or the desert cold and fatigue were finally setting in.

But as he contemplated the enormity of their assignment, doubt crept back into his thoughts. Could they really pull this off? Or were the technical and political cards so stacked against them that failure was inevitable? He shook off the nagging worries as he got ready for bed. They might fail, but it wouldn’t be for a lack of trying. Come what may, Ray intended to give it his best shot. Satisfied, he laid down. He wouldn’t remember his head hitting the pillow.

The next morning marked their first full day at “Space HQ,” which had taught Ray more about logistics and people than he’d ever thought there was to learn.

A hot breakfast at zero six-thirty had been a good start, but it was constantly interrupted by phone calls or urgent e-mails. It seemed to Ray that he had to answer either his cell phone or tablet PC, or both, after every bite. Schultz actually turned his off to “finish his meal in peace.” The arrival of their car found them dashing off after taking one last hurried bite. Waiting for them at the inn’s entrance was the base operations officer and a tech sergeant. As the car turned onto the road, the ops officer gave Schultz a quick rundown.

“We’ve gotten most of the current occupants out of the hangar. The stragglers will be gone by noon. We’ve pulled in as many of the custodial service people as we can to do a thorough cleaning. Oh, that reminds me, sir. I’ll need your signature to authorize the overtime if we’re to get the building cleaned by tonight.”

Schultz reached for the clipboard, scanned the form, and signed it. Handing the clipboard back, he said, “I appreciate you efforts, Colonel. Thank you. And while a clean building is a nice start, I’m more concerned with how we’re going to take care of my people. The first batch should be arriving by this afternoon, and they’ll already be confused after being summarily summoned on extremely short notice. I need help in getting them corralled, lodged, and processed as quickly as possible and with minimal chain jerking.”

“Yes, sir. Tech Sergeant Klein will see to getting your personnel checked in and shown their accommodations. Unfortunately, we had to go with double occupancy in all the rooms. We just don’t have space.”

“That’ll work for now, Colonel. Next subject. What about the SCIF?”

Ray watched as Schultz quickly nailed all the big-ticket items during the short ride to Building 151. He was certainly efficient, but what struck Ray as odd, as well as refreshing, was the admiral’s focus on his people. They hadn’t even shown up, and already he was intent on easing their transition into his command. It was unusual for such a senior officer to be so concerned about his subordinates’ well-being. Ray didn’t need all the fingers on one hand to count the number of flag officers he served under at SPAWAR who shared Schultz’s philosophy. No wonder Jenny thought highly of the man.

The morning blew by in a frenzy of activity. Movers, cleaners, and building-management personnel swarmed about the office spaces. Ray surveyed every nook and cranny, marking possible functional areas on a digital copy of the plans. Schultz had directed him to “put the organizational spaces together” while the admiral tackled the higher-level stuff that required his four stars.

Dodging in and out of the organized chaos, Ray frowned as he saw unassembled cubicle sections lining the walls. Disdainful of the traditional Dilbert “cube village,” Ray drew out a notional plan, based on the same arrangement as the functional Defender design teams back in his house. If there was a secret to their initial success, it was collaboration, the effective melding of a lot of smart people’s efforts toward a common goal. He’d have to kick that collaboration up a notch if they were to get Defender into orbit in sixty-nine days.

Ray firmly believed that old-fashioned face-to-face interaction was severely underappreciated. Most business gurus pushed the concept of lean, dispersed working groups that linked together “virtually” through e-mail and videoconferencing. While this did have some fiscal advantages, Ray was convinced that face-to-face collaboration was more effective at sharing knowledge and creating an atmosphere that encouraged rapid innovation — qualities they’d need in abundance.

He also knew the command would have to provide some amenities if they were to keep the soon-to-be overstressed workforce sane. Ray wrote down a quick note to talk to Schultz about a “morale officer.” Armed with his crude workplace strategy, Ray set off in search of the base facility manager.

The office looked like it had been a storage closet in a former life and was filled with a couple of portable tables and folding chairs. Detailed building plans were stacked on one table, while a laptop, briefcase, and an open jar of peanut butter adorned the other. Curious, Ray stepped in and took a closer look at the well-worn briefcase; it was covered with scratches and scuff marks along with two slightly faded stickers. One said USAF RETIRED. The other had a cartoon of a collapsing building with the phrase FIRST LAW OF CIVIL ENGINEERING: IF IT MOVES, IT’S BROKE. Ray chuckled quietly; the facility manager seemed to have a decent sense of humor — that was a good omen.

“Excuse me,” came a voice from behind him. “I was looking for the facility manager’s office.”

Ray turned and saw a tall, lean man standing in the doorway. He was wearing a hard hat and carrying a tablet PC and what looked like a laser distance measurer.

“I’m sorry,” said Ray as he scooted over to make way. “This is the place, but I don’t know where the facility manager is.”

“Well, it’s good to know I’m not lost,” replied the man as he pushed his way by and placed the hard hat, tablet, and laser measurer on the plans. Turning back toward Ray, he asked, “So what can I do for you, Mister…?”

It suddenly dawned on Ray that the man in front of him was the Edwards AFB facility manager. Embarrassed, Ray offered his hand and replied, “Ray McConnell. I’m the technical director for the new U.S. Space Force.”

“Robert Ardery, at your service. So how can I assist you in your struggle for excellence, Mr. Technical Director?”

What the…? thought Ray. Ardery’s introduction was certainly bizarre, but while the man may have been a tad eccentric, he did seem willing to help. Ray mentally shrugged past the strangeness and began his pitch. “I need some help in laying out the office arrangement to make efficient use of what space we have and to maximize personal interaction.”

“All right,” Ardery responded. “Show me what you have in mind and I’ll see what I can do.”

Ray put his tablet on the desk and started explaining his roughed-out plan, pointing toward the display screen as needed to emphasize a particular point. Ardery stood silently, his arms crossed, cradling his chin in one hand. Occasionally he would mumble a low, “Uh-huh,” but more often than not he would just nod.

As Ray wrapped up his explanation, Ardery silently reached for the jar of peanut butter, scooped up a large spoonful, and placed it in his mouth. Taken aback, Ray’s voice trailed off, his expression one of confusion. Ardery looked up, the spoon still protruding from his lips, waiting for Ray to finish his train of thought. But as the pause continued, the civil engineer caught on, rolled his eyes, and pulled the utensil form his mouth. Raising the peanut butter jar, Ardery grumbled, “It’s either this or doughnuts, Mr. McConnell, and I don’t see any doughnuts! So, is that it?”

Still a bit off balance from Ardery’s unorthodox behavior, Ray uttered, “Uh, yeah.”

“Then let me summarize your requirements,” said Ardery curtly. “You want to bring about two hundred and fifty people into this building, provide them with full connectivity, across all classification levels — you do realize that means three separate networks — heavy-duty engineering computing capability, and at the same time reserve room for interactive spaces and basic amenities, correct?”

“Yes, exactly, Mr. Ardery. You got it.”

“Well, I might be able to accommodate you if you give me a year and several million dollars to reconfigure the building.”

Stunned by the facility manager’s blunt response, Ray started to argue. “There’s plenty of space. I’ve gone over the plans myself!”

Rolling his eyes again, Ardery shot back. “Why does everyone think volume is the be-all, end-all of a building’s capacity? Yes, Mr. McConnell, the building has the physical volume to contain that many people, if you think a gerbil cage provides an adequate work area.”

“I admit it’s a bit tight…”

“Tight!?! A submarine offers more room per person! Regardless, space is not the only consideration!” snapped Ardery. “First off, three networks and engineering-level processing power means almost a thousand workstations, then add upgraded lighting, copiers, secure and open phones, and God knows what in the galley. Where do you think you’re going to get all the electrons to run this gear? As Scotty so quaintly put it, ‘Ye canna’ do it, Captain, ye donna’ have the power!’

“And even if I could somehow route that kind of electrical power throughout the building, the air-conditioning and ventilation system would choke on the heat generated by all those bodies, computers, and the other pieces of equipment, probably including several dozen coffeepots. This place will be hot and muggy even in winter, and come summer it will be completely uninhabitable. And then there’s this minor detail called restrooms — you’re not even close to having enough for that many people. I can go on if you’re feeling masochistic, but I think you get my point.”

Ray stood wide-eyed and shocked, feeling like a student that had just been chewed out by a professor for not thinking through a problem clearly enough. He knew there would be some problems with the electrical requirements, but the air-conditioning overload and the insufficient number of bathrooms had completely escaped him.

Ardery sensed that he had Ray’s undivided attention. “I’ll do what I can, Mr. McConnell, but I wouldn’t get my hopes too high if I were you. I might be able to squeeze in most of your people, perhaps a hundred and seventy-five, but I’ll have to bend some rules to even get that many. If your workforce is going to be larger than that, then I’d strongly recommend that you find some additional space.”

A vibrating smartphone with a text from Schultz was just the distraction Ray needed to disengage from Ardery’s scathing evaluation of his office plan. After promising to get back to the civil engineer, Ray bolted for the stairwell. As he wound down the stairs, Ray realized that he had just come away easy from a hard lesson. Yes, they were under a severe time constraint, but that was no excuse to rush things and do a sloppy job. This time it was only his ego that was bruised.

Hugh Dawson stared at the e-mail in disbelief; the Baseboard program had been suspended. Until further notice, funding authorization would be withheld, and all work was to cease immediately. Only maintenance and other caretaker activity would be allowed for the foreseeable future. But I was on schedule, on budget, and the Milestone C review is in six months. Dawson groaned to himself. A sharp knock on the door broke his depressed train of thought.

George Romans burst into Dawson’s office. “I just got off the phone with Hank Weber. He’s en route from Fort Worth! He confirmed the e-mail is valid. As of last night, Baseboard is formally on hold!”

“But why, George?” lamented Dawson. “We are smack on the glide path — we’ll be ready for the Defense Acquisition Board review in March!”

“It must have been Schultz,” fumed Romans. “He wanted you badly for this Defender program, but Hank and I wouldn’t give in. We told him you were critical for Baseboard’s upcoming milestone review and couldn’t be spared. It appears Admiral Schultz doesn’t take no for an answer. The man has serious stones, as well as significant top cover. You’d better find all those old VentureStar design files, Hugh. We leave for Edwards as soon as Hank gets here.”

Weber, Romans, and Dawson were escorted to the wing’s main conference room by a pair of air force security guards. Already seated at the table were Schultz, Ray, and the two air force generals. No one else was in the room. As the trio approached the table, Schultz rose from his chair.

“Good morning, gentlemen. I’m pleased to see you made it.” Schultz offered his hand to Weber, who accepted it hesitantly, his face still hard from the morning’s unpleasant news.

“That was dirty pool, Admiral, turning off Baseboard’s funding like that.” Weber’s voice was measured, but Ray heard the underlying anger. No doubt about it, the man was severely pissed off.

“Was it, Mr. Weber?” replied Schultz just as forcefully. “You made it clear during yesterday’s VTC that Mr. Dawson could not be made available due to contractual responsibilities your company had with DoD. I simply had Lockheed Martin relieved, temporarily, of those responsibilities. I told you, Defender is currently the Department of Defense’s number one priority. I trust that I’ve provided ample proof of that claim.”

Resigned, Weber nodded curtly and then introduced Dawson to Ray and the others. After taking their seats, coffee was served and the meeting began in earnest. Schultz wasted little time and went straight to the heart of the matter.

“Mr. Dawson, I’m assuming you’ve read the Defender concept paper that was e-mailed to your company?”

“I read it just a few hours ago, Admiral, but you can’t be serious. This is the same thing that was circulating on the SIPRNET. I thought it was just another cover story.”

Schultz said calmly, “It’s not a cover story, and, yes, we’re serious. Dead serious.”

Dawson’s face went blank with confusion. Schultz didn’t give him any time to respond.

“Mr. Ray McConnell here is the technical director for the project, and for the U.S. Space Force. He led the team that did the initial Defender design.”

Dawson looked at Ray, but he was still reacting to Schultz’s words. “There’s a U.S. Space Force?”

Schultz smiled proudly. “As of yesterday morning there is, and you and VentureStar are going to be a big part of it. Did you start the preparations to move her?”

Dawson nodded, replying mechanically. “Yes, we’ve started. I understand you’re in a hurry. My engineers are inspecting the landing gear, tires, and brakes as we speak. The rest of the preps will be done by the time the carrier plane arrives. Figure two days to make her safe and preflight the carrier and a day to mate the two…”

Ray abruptly interrupted, cutting Dawson off. “What’s this about a carrier aircraft? Where are you expecting to move VentureStar to?”

Puzzled, Dawson froze. Romans jumped in and answered. “We assumed we’d be moving the vehicle to the Space Shuttle Refurbishment Facility over at Plant 42. It’s the best location to finish assembly and conduct the initial tests.”

“And how long will it take to get her into the refurbishment building?” asked Ray.

“About a week. We’ll need to rebuild the mating-demating gantry, and it will take a couple of days to get one of the shuttle-capable 747s out here.”

Ray shook his head vigorously. “Too long. We need to begin work sooner. We’ll tow her to Building 151, the old ABL hangar. It has most of the equipment you’ll need. The rest can be trucked over from Plant 42.”

“What if we need to manufacture components? Or make adjustments to existing ones? We won’t have that type of production capability in a hangar,” pleaded Dawson.

“Any component that requires precision machining can be done at Plant 42 and shipped here. It’ll be faster.”

“I just don’t see how this is even possible.” Dawson was almost groaning.

“Mr. Dawson, the design is sound. We’re going to improvise and find new approaches.” Ray pushed. “The Joint Chiefs, even the president, have signed off on this. I know it can work.”

Dawson sat, impassive. He still wasn’t convinced.

Damn it, Ray realized he knew nothing about this man. What did he care about? There had to be one thing.

He tried again. “The Chinese are shooting down our GPS satellites, Mr. Dawson. VentureStar can stop that. She’s the only platform with the space and payload to carry all the equipment we need. In sixty-eight days, we’ll have her flying and doing things nobody ever imagined her doing when she was designed, and you’ll be the one making the changes. She’ll still be your baby.”

Dawson responded angrily. “But the time, sixty-eight days! We can’t possibly do it!”

“We can if we decide we can, Hugh.” Ray was getting motivated himself. “No paperwork, no bureaucracy, no congressional briefings. Just results.”

“Some of that paperwork is necessary,” Dawson reminded him. “They laid out the P-51 Mustang on the floor of a barn, but that doesn’t work anymore.”

“We’ll keep some, of course, but how much of that paper is needed to do the actual work? The vast majority is to meet government reporting requirements on how you’re doing, how you’re spending the money, and that you are properly dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s on all the forms. A lot of it takes the place of good supervision. I’m not here to document a failure.”

Ray sensed he was getting through and he pressed his point. “The rules will be different here. We’re going back to the Kelly Johnson basics. We’re going to keep this group small. And I’m the government, as far as Defender goes. You won’t have to write a memo to me because I’ll be there on the floor with you.”

Dawson sat, considering for a moment. “Marilyn’s going to think I’ve taken up with another woman,” he observed, smiling. “What about security?” Dawson asked. “Our PR people will want to know…”

Ray smiled. One down.

By late afternoon, enough people had arrived and been settled in so that they could start preparations to receive the vehicle. Or rather, to prepare to prepare.

The hangar at Building 151 was big enough but required modifications to finish assembling the VentureStar prototype. The launchpad at Area 1-54 had to be inspected and brought back to life. A new computer hub, independent from the Internet, needed to be installed, and the building hadn’t been wired for all the classified networks. They still had to decide where to put launch control. Housing on Edwards was insufficient for the number of semipermanent residents that were arriving and needed to be expanded. The galley had to be built from scratch. And what about recreation?

Ray’s “to do” list made him wish for a tablet with a bigger screen. He had one idea and ran it past Schultz. “I love it,’’ the admiral said. “I’ll have one of my staff get right on it.”

At Ray’s suggestion, the evening meal was held outside. Even in the fall, the weather was excellent, warm and dry, and the people at the Edwards AFB Oasis Community Center fixed an impromptu barbecue.

It was an important occasion. Almost everyone was a stranger to each other, and a lot of ice needed to be broken. Doubts about the feasibility of the mission, combined with being thrown together on very short notice, had ramped up the stress level throughout the last two days. Ray realized he needed to get these people together, make them one team, with one mission. Schultz wholeheartedly agreed.

Ray waited just long enough for everyone to be served. It was nothing special, just burgers, fries, mixed salad greens, and soft drinks. Ray himself was too nervous to eat. He’d tried to eat something, at Schultz’s urging, but the first two bites started circling each other in his stomach, like angry roosters squaring off.

The time had finally come, though, and Ray had climbed up on an improvised stage. The portable amplifier gave its customary squeal as he adjusted the volume, and suddenly everyone’s eyes were on him.

“Welcome to the United States Space Force HQ.” He paused for a moment and heard a few snickers, mostly from the civilians. He smiled broadly, so he could be seen in the back. “I like the sound of it. The good news is you are all founding members of America’s newest and most modern military service.”

He made the smile go away. “The bad news is, we’re at war. The Chinese are taking out our satellites, denying us the use of space, for both military and civilian use. Defender is going to regain control of space for us, for our use.

“You all understand the danger we face. They aren’t on our shores, or bombing our cities, but they are overhead. And we all know about the value of holding the high ground.

“I’m expecting each of you, once you’re settled, to take your job and run with it. More than that, though, if you see something that needs doing, don’t wait for someone else to notice.

“There are going to be a lot more people coming in over the next few weeks. By the time the last of them arrives, you’ll be the old hands, and I want you to tell them what I’m telling you now.

“You’ll soon wish we were twice as big. It’s not for lack of resources. We’ve got a blank check from the president himself for anything or anyone we need. You’re here because you’re some of the best. I could have asked for more, but I didn’t. A small organization can think faster and move faster.

“Some of you may think that this is an impossible task, or that even if it’s possible, we don’t have enough time to do it. It’s just a matter of adjusting your thinking. The question to ask is not ‘Can this be done in time?’ but ‘What needs to be done to finish in time?’”

Ray got down quickly, to a gratifying applause. Schultz nodded approvingly, and Ray noticed someone standing next to him, still holding an overnight bag. Jenny’s faced beamed with excitement.

The outside line rang, and Geoffrey picked up the phone. “Good Morning, Staybridge Suites concierge desk. Geoffrey Lewes speaking.”

“Mr. Lewes? This is Captain Munson, United States Navy. I’m sorry to call you at work, but we couldn’t reach you before you left your home.”

“The navy?” Lewes was a little confused. He’d served in the navy ten years earlier, as a storekeeper. That was before he’d gotten his hotel-management degree, before he started working in the accommodations and food-services industry.

“I’ll be brief, Mr. Lewes. I need someone to take care of a large group of people. They’re very busy and have little time for the basic amenities. You will manage a staff that will see to their needs while they work on other matters.”

“Captain Munson, I’m not sure I understand. I’m quite happy…”

Munson interrupted and named a salary figure over twice what Lewes made as a junior concierge. He wasn’t sure a senior concierge made that much.

“The position is a temporary one, at least six months, but there is a very good chance it will become permanent. You’ll work hard for that money, and you’ll have to live on site.”

“And where is that site, exactly?” Lewes asked. The mystery of it was as intriguing as the generous salary.

“Not too far,” answered Munson carefully. “Your quarters will be quite comfortable. What’s your decision?”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that,” replied Munson. “I apologize for the hard sales pitch, but we’re a little pressed for time.”

“The money’s good,” Lewes admitted. “But you don’t know enough about me.”

“We know quite a bit about you, Mr. Lewes. Please, if you don’t want the job, I have other calls to make.”

Lewes looked at the next thing on his list — tickets to the Palmdale Playhouse for a couple from Kansas. Whoopee.