Cyclops One - Страница 63

“It’s the end that counts.”

“Uh-huh. You were almost right about the Russians.”

“So you’re saying I’m not a nincompoop, huh?” Gorman folded her arms.

“Seventy percent of intelligence is genetic,” said Fisher.

“What’s your excuse, then?”

“Touché.” He reached into his pocket and pounded on the new pack of smokes.

“No comeback? No repartee? What happened? Somebody put decaf in your coffee?” asked Gorman.

Fisher opened the pack and pulled out a cigarette. A whiff of butane, a hint of smoke, a hit of nicotine — his fatigue vanished.

“So, you going to Mom’s for Thanksgiving?” asked Gorman.

“Yeah, I guess,” Fisher said. “You?”

“Uh-huh. I’m coming in the Sunday before.”

“My flight’s Saturday. I’ll pick you up.”

“Thanks.” Gorman smiled at him, then took a step to leave. “See you there.”

“Not if I see you first.”

“Very funny, little brother. You ought to be a comedian.”

“You do it so well I’d never want to compete,” said Fisher, blowing a perfect ring of smoke into the air.