The HuntM
y brain is cramping as I walk out of the headquarters building. I’m in one of those damned if I do, damned if I don’t situations and it’s hard to think straight. I need to call Woods Hole and let them know about all this. No matter what I say or how fast a replacement officer can get his butt—and his family and his gear—down here to take over, I’m gonna be on active duty longer than I expected. Maybe I can talk to Linda Carlson and get her to goose one of the grumps on the research team in Boston to kick up a storm about Art Dacey and his demanding girlfriend. That’s a crappy thing to do, but it might come to that if I’m stuck here through performance reviews at the Institute. There’s no such thing as tenure, and there’s always a long line of candidates gasping for a job at Wood
