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The Department of Energy wanted sensitive infrared film for its heat-conservation studies. Defense wanted it for night reconnaissance.

Gateway bought a small company next door, Baeder Chemical, in late 1979 and set up the project there.

Dolarhyde walked across to Baeder on his lunch hour under a scrubbed blue sky, carefully avoiding the reflecting puddles on the asphalt. Lounds’s death had put him in an excellent humor.

Everyone at Baeder seemed to be out for lunch.

He found the door he wanted at the end of a labyrinth of halls. The sign beside the door said “Infrared Sensitive Materials in Use. NO Safelights, NO Smoking, NO hot beverages.” The red light was on above the sign.

Dolarhyde pushed a button and, in a moment, the light turned green. He entered the light trap and rapped on the inner door.

“Come.” A woman’s voice.

Cool, absolute darkness. The gurgle of water, the familiar smell of D-76 developer, and a trace of perfume.

“I’m Francis Dolarhyde. I came about the dryer.”

“Oh, good. Excuse me, my mouth’s full. I was just finishing lunch.”

He heard papers wadded and dropped in a wastebasket.

“Actually, Ferguson wanted the dryer,” said the voice in the dark. “He’s on vacation, but I know where it goes. You have one over at Gateway?”

“I have two. One is larger. He didn’t say how much room he has.” Dolarhyde had seen a memo about the dryer problem weeks ago.

“I’ll show you, if you don’t mind a short wait.”

“All right.”

“Put your back against the door”—her voice took on a touch of the lecturer’s practiced tone—“come forward three steps, until you feel the tile under your feet, and there’ll be a stool just to your left.”

He found it. He was closer to her now. He could hear the rustle of her lab apron.

“Thanks for coming down,” she said. Her voice was clear, with a faint ring of iron in it. “You’re head of processing over in the big building, right?”

“Um-humm.”

“The same ‘Mr. D.’ who sends the rockets when the requisitions are filed wrong?”

“The very one.”

“I’m Reba McClane. Hope there’s nothing wrong over here.”

“Not my project anymore. I just planned the darkroom construction when we bought this place. I haven’t been over here in six months.” A long speech for him, easier in the dark.

“Just a minute more and we’ll get you some light. Do you need a tape measure?”

“I have one.”

Dolarhyde found it rather pleasant, talking to the woman in the dark. He heard the rattle of a purse being rummaged, the click of a compact.

He was sorry when the timer rang.

“There we go. I’ll put this stuff in the Black Hole,” she said.

He felt a breath of cold air, heard a cabinet close on rubber seals and the hiss of a vacuum lock. A puff of air, and fragrance touched him as she passed.

Dolarhyde pressed his knuckle under his nose, put on his thoughtful expression and waited for the light.